Dr. John H. Watson, M.D. (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
lightconductor) wrote2010-09-26 04:49 pm
lightconductor) wrote2010-09-26 04:49 pm
Entry tags:
The Actual Return, Post-Resort
This is a follow-up to this thing Rachelle and I have been carried away by which follows the return of Holmes and Watson to their own time after having escaped/released/whatever from the resort. Big chunks of what happens here is pretty much what happens in The Adventure of the Empty House, including the Catallus (idek), but hey, why mess with a classic?
He thought it must be the Catallus that kept that chance encounter in his mind.
It had been two years. Two years, and there had been no further word, and if Mycroft Holmes had heard any rumours of interest, he had not passed them along. John Watson was relatively certain that any sane man would have long since given up, but he was clearly not sane, at least in this respect. He had, years ago, compared himself to Penelope waiting for Odysseus; that had quickly become far more apt than he liked to admit. Sherlock Holmes was, in all probability, dead. He would not come home. If Watson had any sense, he would try to get on with his life, stop living in the past, perhaps remarry.
Perhaps not. It was painful to think very hard about marriage again, at this point. He was just grateful that his acquaintances concluded that reluctance on his part was due to his very great love for Mary. A more apt comparison, if one kept to the Greeks, was perhaps Achilles after the death of Patroclus.
As it was, he found himself reading over the headlines in the newspaper, thinking of how much Holmes would have loved this Adair murder, were he here. It had every peculiarity and impossibility that would have attracted his attention. Even a moderately sane man would have left that thought and not followed up on it, but no, Watson had found himself hanging about outside the crime scene, listening to some foolish amateur spout off some utterly ridiculous explanation, and wishing he could have seen inside for himself.
And that had been when he'd realised how pathetic he was being.
But the man he had bumped into as he turned away, that gnarled old book-collector who had snarled and snapped at him as they both stooped to pick up the dropped and scattered books he had been carrying, that stayed in his mind. There was no reason for him to spend any particular thought on it at all. It had been the Catallus, Watson thought, that was the reason for his preoccupation.
He knew Catallus, after all. And who in the world could be prepared to face a book of Latin romantic poetry, which was often lewd and often involved two men, dropped nearly on one's feet when not moments before one was musing melancholically on a very similar illegal liason which may or may not still even be relevant?
It was nothing but coincidence, of course, but it shook him just the same.
Trying to forget the entire incident, Watson made his way back to his home, feeling haggard and tired, and for the moment glad that his practice was relatively quiet. As he sank down into the chair in his office, he pressed his hands against his face, telling himself that he felt nothing, because that was easier. He would spent the afternoon there, perhaps doing some writing -- he hadn't decided -- perhaps just trying to clear his mind.
Watson sighed, and reached for his pen, and some foolscap, and began scratch away.
He thought it must be the Catallus that kept that chance encounter in his mind.
It had been two years. Two years, and there had been no further word, and if Mycroft Holmes had heard any rumours of interest, he had not passed them along. John Watson was relatively certain that any sane man would have long since given up, but he was clearly not sane, at least in this respect. He had, years ago, compared himself to Penelope waiting for Odysseus; that had quickly become far more apt than he liked to admit. Sherlock Holmes was, in all probability, dead. He would not come home. If Watson had any sense, he would try to get on with his life, stop living in the past, perhaps remarry.
Perhaps not. It was painful to think very hard about marriage again, at this point. He was just grateful that his acquaintances concluded that reluctance on his part was due to his very great love for Mary. A more apt comparison, if one kept to the Greeks, was perhaps Achilles after the death of Patroclus.
As it was, he found himself reading over the headlines in the newspaper, thinking of how much Holmes would have loved this Adair murder, were he here. It had every peculiarity and impossibility that would have attracted his attention. Even a moderately sane man would have left that thought and not followed up on it, but no, Watson had found himself hanging about outside the crime scene, listening to some foolish amateur spout off some utterly ridiculous explanation, and wishing he could have seen inside for himself.
And that had been when he'd realised how pathetic he was being.
But the man he had bumped into as he turned away, that gnarled old book-collector who had snarled and snapped at him as they both stooped to pick up the dropped and scattered books he had been carrying, that stayed in his mind. There was no reason for him to spend any particular thought on it at all. It had been the Catallus, Watson thought, that was the reason for his preoccupation.
He knew Catallus, after all. And who in the world could be prepared to face a book of Latin romantic poetry, which was often lewd and often involved two men, dropped nearly on one's feet when not moments before one was musing melancholically on a very similar illegal liason which may or may not still even be relevant?
It was nothing but coincidence, of course, but it shook him just the same.
Trying to forget the entire incident, Watson made his way back to his home, feeling haggard and tired, and for the moment glad that his practice was relatively quiet. As he sank down into the chair in his office, he pressed his hands against his face, telling himself that he felt nothing, because that was easier. He would spent the afternoon there, perhaps doing some writing -- he hadn't decided -- perhaps just trying to clear his mind.
Watson sighed, and reached for his pen, and some foolscap, and began scratch away.
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He exhaled, trying to think how to explain it. "It was, on the outside, a box perhaps four square feet, and taller than a man. On the inside a was a great room, many times larger. And I'm led to understand that there was more, but access to the other rooms of the machine had been blocked."
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There really is something thrilling in discussing this, and he finds himself growing reminiscent for the island; it wouldn't be the first time he missed it, and he doubts it will be the last, but it's very strange to be missing it while he's sitting here with his brother at long last.
"For all its frustrating constraints, it was really a very remarkable learning experience." He shoots Watson a very small smile. "Most of the people there were from our future, and so we saw many differences in the way people conducted themselves. The future accepts quite a bit more freedom. I'm not entirely certain how the women manage to keep from catching cold."
He isn't talking about women -- really he could hardly care less about what they wear or don't wear, but of course he is attempting to tell his brother about the freedom he and Watson experienced.
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"And since when do you, Sherlock, of all people, pay attention to what women wear beyond what you can deduce from it?" Mycroft quirked an eyebrow, although he could hardly say he looked much beyond that, himself. He had a notion of what his brother actually meant by 'freedom,' with that reference to changing social mores, and that... well, if it was what he deduced, it was very interesting indeed, and encouraging. It would also go a long way towards explaining why they had finally been able to work out their feelings for each other. "But I suppose that social change is inevitable, and probably extends far beyond the sort of clothing that is socially acceptable. Our own time must seem rather... backward to you, now."
His smile was grim. "I do hope it's not too much of a struggle for you to avoid scandalising your peers, now that you're in this environment again."
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Instead, he looked at Holmes, attempting to somehow wordlessly communicate both that this troubled him, and that he would not let it affect anything between them if he could help it. He was not in the least sure how successful this was; it was rather a complicated message to be conveyed without speech.
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It's their public conduct that will be more difficult. Not being outwardly affectionate is one thing, but he is aware that there is a certain level of closeness that is, eventually, impossible to avoid demonstrating in public. He's seen it far too often in old couples, or couples who are particularly well-matched. As he considers himself and Watson well-matched men who will stay together until they are old, this will be quite a challenge.
He returns his brother's grim expression, glancing down at the table.
"I have a scandalous nature, my dear brother. I am prone to sitting about in my dressing gown in front of company, and I have no qualms about being rude, or taking the law into my own hands." He flicks his gaze up. "The time I have spent on that island has changed me, opened my mind to greater possibilities, things that I cannot have in the time in which I live. It will be difficult for me to resign myself to letting go of the freedoms I am used to having, but..." He shifts in his seat, now desperately wanting to touch Watson, but resisting.
"But, after having spent some time with the Buddhist monks who saved my life, I think I have more control over my own mind and my own impulses. I will do my best to live the life that I want to live, which means that I will still sit about in my dressing gown when company is over, but I am much more interested in maintaining my happiness for the long haul. I recognize this requires me to don a jacket in my own sitting room occasionally. You have my promise that I will do my best, Mycroft."
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In all honesty, for all of Sherlock's eccentricities and peculiarities and downright dangerous lifestyle (in more than one way), Mycroft doubted that much would change, and wouldn't have greatly wanted his younger brother to Completely change. Not, especially, when he and Dr. Watson were sitting there looking so absolutely desperate for each other. It was dangerous, it could ruin them, the scandal would likely touch Mycroft himself if he could not prevent it, but he also couldn't wish it away.
He could not recall seeing Sherlock looking so happy, not in some time, and he could not have wanted to alter that, not for anything. He loved his brother far too much.
"I hope you will," he said at last, and he was smiling. "I have no desire to see you in a cell for any reason."
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He cast a small smile in Holmes's direction, very fond, slightly teasing.
"I think we shall manage to stay safe, regardless."
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"I haven't come all the way back from Tibet merely to spend my life in a cell," he offers, returning to his food. He is worried for their future, though he knows exactly what he wants it to be. "And if that requires me to pay some attention to the two of you, then so be it."
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Really, though, he didn't mind, not when it was Sherlock.
He consulted his watch momentarily, before tucking it back inside his pocket, and pushed himself back from the table. "Well, I have to admit that I have greatly enjoyed dining with the pair of you, and I look forward to future occassions, but for now? I really must be getting back to work." He gave a rueful sort of smile, not entirely serious. "They are rather lost without me, after all. I shudder to think what sort of crises have arisen in my absence."
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"Thank you very much for lunch, Mr. Holmes." He was thankful for more than that, for the acceptance and the support and for being far more understanding than many another brother would have been. "It's been a great pleasure."
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He warns Mycroft of this with a look as he rounds the table.
"A very great pleasure. I have missed you. And I have little doubt that the British government is currently feeling your loss as well. Thank you for lunch."
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"I will. I'm sure he'll use his good influence on me to convince me to pay my brother a visit now and then. Do try to keep the country in one piece, Mycroft. I'd hate to see it fall apart now that I'm finally here again."
He steps away, setting a hand on Watson's arm.
"Come along, my dear Watson. Parliament may crumble if we wait longer, and we may have a war with Poland."