lightconductor | The Actual Return, Post-Resort

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.

Threaded | Top-Level Comments Only

Holmes does not actually intend to run into Watson.

He's just left the telegram office, actually, and is canvassing the scene of the crime that he knows was conducted by Moran. It's sheer chance that as he glances over the building, his eyes fall on a solitary figure, standing still and staring up at the very same thing. He is not prepared.

He knows Watson instantly. He knows Watson from all angles, every angle, has memorized him, and has even memorized his clothes. He's obtained some new articles, but they're nonetheless so clearly Watson that it's like they're not new at all. He is not prepared. He almost feels struck, either across the face or in the gut, maybe both, and suddenly his lungs constrict and it's like he's lying on a scratchy bed in Tibet with bandages wrapped around his middle.

He has been dreaming of this moment, to be sure, but he's gearing up to it, planning to drop in on Watson at his office, and not to run into him in the street. They can't reunite in the street, not when Holmes's first impulse will be to take him and kiss him until they must steal the air from each other's lungs to avoid passing out. But he cannot simply walk away and pretend as if he has not seen him, cannot merely step away from Watson and carry on about his day, or even tail him to his office.

He has to go up to him.

There is but one acceptable way to do it.

It's easier to avoid embracing Watson and getting them both thrown in jail when he's in the character of this old bookseller, though he is rather grateful for the books he's carrying; they were an assortment of books that merely amused him, but as Watson hands him Catallus, he's struck by the coincidence. He has to remind himself not to smile, not to give himself away, which ends in him scowling and snapping at Watson as he shuffles away.

Holmes tarries; he goes to Baker Street, gives Mrs. Hudson a heart attack. It's good preparation, a dress rehearsal for Watson, and he allows himself time in his old rooms to collect himself, to gather his strength, to quiet the questions in his mind.

What if he doesn't love you anymore? What if he's married again? What if he doesn't remember at all?

It's too dangerous to walk about the streets without a disguise, so Holmes dons the old bookseller getup again as he sets out, and he uses that time to make his plan. He's so nervous he nearly feels ill, nearly wants to eject the tea Mrs. Hudson so excitedly made for him. It's then that he decides.

He will make this into a performance. He will make this into the big reveal of the final act, and he will turn his nerves into stage fright. He knows how to handle stage fright.

He knocks on the door, passes his word on to Watson's maid about his business, and he whispers to himself advice from the stage. Head up, project, don't forget to breathe. The maid steps away and Holmes steps in, hunched, cradling the books in his arms, and he tries not to allow his emotion to show on his face.

"You're surprised to see me, sir," he says, half to play his part and half to diminish some of his nerves by having a little joke with himself.

In all honesty, Watson had been hoping for a quiet day, without interruptions, without patients, but he set aside his writing intent upon giving his guest his full attention.

Of all the people who might have stepped into his office just then, he would not have expected the old man he'd collided with in Park Lane. His first thought was to wonder if he'd somehow damaged one of the books, and if the man had followed him back here to demand recompense. The man had clearly followed him, that much was clear, and that was more than a little unnerving.

His guest was still carrying the volume of Catallus. Watson was doing his best to not look at it.

"I am extremely surprised," Watson said, rising from his chair, an eyebrow raised. "What is it that I can do for you?"

Of course Watson is so interested. Of course Watson immediately abandons his work. He loves Watson so fiercely in this moment that it makes it difficult to continue; he steps forward, throwing himself into the role, forcing his words to come out in a rush. He's impatient, but the scene must be carried out.

"But you see, sir, that is exactly it. You have already paid me a kindness today, and I was not very kind in return, and when I chanced to see you step in here, I thought I should drop by and apologize for my gruffness earlier. I was thinking, you see, and then your shoulder interrupted my thoughts, and I don't take kindly to having my thoughts interrupted. That is a personal defect of mine, sir, and something that such a kind gentleman as yourself should not have to suffer for."

His throat is getting a bit tired of this act; soon, soon, his entire body seems to be screaming, and he steps closer still, reshuffling his books in his arms.

Watson was on guard, and also trying not to look like he was on guard, but he gave this stranger in his office a puzzled, evaluative look. "You make far too much of what was a very small thing, I promise you," he said slowly, attempting not to frown. "You are quite forgiven, although I promise you your trip here was unnecessary." It made no sense; why follow a man back to his home merely to apologise for a chance meeting in the street?

And why were the Fates apparently centered on making everything on this day remind him of Holmes? Why was there a man in his office who had followed him from a crime scene, carrying Greek love poetry, speaking of how much he hated having his thoughts interrupted? That, too, reminded him of Holmes.

His own dark memories would have to wait. There was a more severe question at hand, and the answer could mean any number of things. He wondered, in fact, if he ought to be supremely concerned. "May I ask," Watson said, "how it was that you knew who I was, and how to find me?"

"Do you know, sir, that we are neighbors?" He gives a funny little laugh to ease his tension. "Yes, I have a little bookshop at the corner of Church Street, and you can be certain that you are welcome at any time. Oh yes, sir. Do you collect? I have in my hands some volumes that may serve you very well, yes, let's see..." He sets his books down on Watson's desk and glances at the titles. He plucks one from the pile to press it into Watson's hands, his blood rising as he gets closer to what he knows will be the big reveal. Lights up; the music slightly louder.

"Here's British Birds, and Catallus, and The Holy War -- yes, I believe with these and a couple more, you could fill up that gap in your bookshelf, just there. It does look a bit untidy, as it is, a bit empty."

This is it. He fears he was nearly shaking as he passes Catallus to Watson -- how could he resist? -- and now he definitely fears he'll mess up the removal of his costume in the interval he will have very shortly. His arms are empty now of books, which is convenient, and he must be as quick as he can.

He can't breathe.

Neighbours. Watson thought he remembered the bookshop, although he could not swear to the owner one way or the other. It was something, although he was still faintly on his guard, even if this unannounced visit seemed to be turning into a salespitch.

To have Catallus in his own hands, now, was just one of those ridiculous moments. There was a part of him that wanted very badly to purchase it, and another that did not dare to do such a thing. But then, not all of that Roman gentleman's poetry was completely inappropriate, completely questionable.

He looked at the shelf automatically -- and the gap was not so untidy as all that, he thought, but perhaps it was as good excuse to buy this damnable book as any -- and he turned back, half in a mind to send the man on his way, because really, what sort of salespitch was it to barge your way into a man's office under the flimsiest excuse and then sell him books? Was he supposed to buy them out of guilt for colliding with the bookseller in the street?

When he discovered that the bookseller had vanished, Waston forgot this criticism, for the stranger had been replaced by Sherlock Holmes, in the remains of the bookseller's clothing. This remarkable sight, the last thing he'd expected to ever see again, the first thing he'd always hoped for, after such a day as this, was just slightly too much.

He staggered back into his chair, and as a familiar grey mist seemed to swirl across his eyes, his last thought before becoming entirely insensible was an incongruous and entirely false I am not swooning over this, not again.

As soon as Watson turns his head, Holmes is quick to do away with his disguise; thankfully it's a fairly simple one, and despite his fear, he even has a moment to smooth his hand over his hair, and then Watson is turning around again and then their eyes are meeting, and this time Watson is seeing him and not some decrepit bookseller--

And then Watson faints.

Holmes stands still a moment longer, drinking in the sight of Watson perhaps a little selfishly, and then he launches into action retrieving brandy and kneeling before Watson in his chair. All the while, however, he can't help but field a small amount of satisfaction. He's made Watson faint twice. There has to be some kind of twisted honor in that.

These thoughts dissipate, however, as he settles in front of Watson, when he can begin to feel the warmth of his legs press against his chest, and he gingerly reaches a hand up to Watson's face. Gently, reverently, he draws his fingers along Watson's jawline, tracing fingertips down his neck, settling down on his shoulder. Fear seizes his stomach once again.

What if he doesn't remember?

"Watson," he says, his voice tight and dry; he tries again. "Watson, my dear boy, my dear... Watson, really, you do make a scene."

He recovered quickly from his unwanted fit, thankfully, and as he came to himself again, Watson automatically clamped his hand over Holmes's on his shoulder, treasuring, savouring the familiar feel of those fingers under his. He thought he'd never hold that hand in his again.

"I make a scene?" he said, trying not to sound hysterical. "You come in here in disguise and jump out at me like a... like a common thief, and I'm the one who makes a scene. You're really too much. After two years--"

He trailed off, looking at Holmes properly now, drinking in his face and his features and the way he was pressed up against Watson's legs. Two years. It had been two years? It was one thing to stubbornly believe in an impossible love affair in an even more impossible setting when that was the only thing that gave him any comfort. It was a little harder to act on it. There had been the telegram to Mycroft, he was sure of that. The mention of the island had to have meant what he thought, didn't it? What other possibility was there?

He thought he felt a tingling in the skin of his face, as though someone had touched him there, but that meant nothing, and he could not remember the touch in any event, not reliably.

Watson leaned forward in his chair, not trembling although he could not think why, and brought his face very close to Holmes's. He slid his hand over Holmes's shoulder, just at the crook of the neck -- justifiably a casual touch if he had to defend himself, he thought desperately as he did it, but far more appropriately intimate if he was not completely mad, if he was not imagining things that had never happened.

But then, would Holmes be sitting like this, pressed against him, if it was all a lie?

Watson let his forehead come to rest against Holmes's, and it was all so familiar, so right, even after these long two years and all the doubt and fears that he was losing his mind.

"Where have you been?"

Dear God, Watson remembers. Uncertainty still festers in his mind, but he can read the hesitation, the pent-up feeling in the hand at his neck, and it's all that he can do to keep from pressing Watson to his body and holding him there until he chases away those two years alone by attempting to meld their bodies together into one now. He draws a shaky breath when their foreheads touch, and he closes his eyes, his other hand seeking out Watson's arm and clutching it.

"Tibet, and everywhere in between." He exhales, a bit shakily, and he grips Watson tighter. "Watson, I would be more than willing to describe my activities of these past two years, if you would only permit me a little thing first. If you would -- If you wouldn't mind -- " He finds himself afraid to say it, afraid to suggest it, knowing that Watson may just push him away, may accuse him of being an invert and stomp out.

Fears be damned; he brings his mouth closer to Watson's, not touching yet, hovering, seeking permission, seeking confirmation that Watson is still his, in every sense of the word.

Watson reacted immediately, far too quick for conscious thought, his hand on Holmes's neck suddenly tightening, pulling him closer as pressed his mouth down into Holmes's to close the very small gap between them. It was a hungry kiss, a desperate kiss, full of longing and relief and intensity.

It was real. It was all real, and they were both home in London, and all would be well, all would be just as it was supposed to be. He was, he thought ridiculously, Penelope and not Achilles, and that should not have made him nearly as happy as it did. He was just glad he didn't have to wait twenty years.

"Oh, my love." He whispered it, keenly aware of the fact that there were servants in his household. He would not have kept any girl on who had a habit of listening at doors, not when he had patients with confidential troubles, but there was still no point in tempting fate with being obvious. It wasn't fair, not after the freedom they had known, and Watson wanted to shout it from the rooftops. Instead, he whispered. "I thought... I was afraid that you..."

He couldn't finish the thought. Instead, he kissed him again.

This is impossible. Impossible, but then it has happened, and just now Holmes can't bother himself with actually being able to care about how or why or how they've managed to come through it and still be here, clutching each other in Watson's study, breathing hotly in each other's faces. His heart is racing with the proof, the taste of Watson on his lips, and the knowledge that they are, indeed, married.

"My dear Watson," he says breathily as he breaks from the kiss, pushing his face into Watson's neck to breathe him in, sliding his arms around his back, holding him close. "I was so afraid -- I was half expecting you to push me away." He turns his face, pressing kisses to his neck and up to his jaw.

"Never," Watson breathed. "I never could do that." There was a strong temptation to close his eyes as he savoured the moment, the closeness despite their awkward position, Holmes's arms around him, the kisses. At the same time, he could not seem to stop looking. After so long doubting he would ever see this man, his husband, ever again, it was difficult to take the fact that he now could for granted.

"We thought -- your brother and I, that is, do you realise he knows, about us I mean -- we thought you were probably dead." His thoughts seemed to be coming out all tangled, but it was hard to care too much about that. Watson clung to Holmes, kissing him on his face at random. "Why did you not send word? What happened?"

This is the part he doesn't want to talk about, but it's okay when he has Watson in his arms, Watson's moustache tickling his face, Watson's skin beneath his mouth. It's proving more and more difficult at this angle, but he doesn't know where else to take them, except to the floor, and that requires moving, and right now he can't entertain any thought that might require him losing contact with Watson.

"I almost died," he breathes in answer, following it with a succession of kisses along Watson's jaw, ending in his lips; he presses their foreheads together briefly. "And then when I knew Moran believed me dead... It was too risky, my dear. My love. I am sorry." He whispers this last part fiercely and presses their lips together in a hard kiss, his fingers twisting in Watson's sleeve.

This was like having his soul returned to him, after having been without it for so long, for too long. Holmes belonged with him, and he with Holmes, and now all he could do was just cling to Holmes, still in the ridiculous clothes of that damned bookseller -- what a ridiculous farce that had been, of all the places to encounter Holmes, and he hadn't even realised! He hadn't realised. He'd collided with his husband in the street and not known.

The insanity of that made him want to laugh, more than anything else.

Watson smoothed his fingers over Holmes's neck and kissed him. He would never be tired of kissing him, not ever. "I forgive you," he said, too full of joy and relief to have room for resentment. The thought of Holmes coming to a near end, half a world away, gave him a sharp twist of agony. He would never have known, in all likelihood. That was precisely why they belonged side by side, so that they could keep each other safe from all the danger in their lives.

"I said I would wait, and I have," he said. "Of all the places to run into you."

He smiles, happy to have forgiveness granted to him so easily, and he presses a few quick, brief kisses to Watson's lips, each one meant to be the last, but he cannot seem to keep his mouth from doing what it has been yearning to do for far too long.

"That was an accident. I saw you from across the street, and I could not turn and walk away as if you were not just across the street from me. Revealing myself on the street could've had us both killed, and so..." He smiles again, drawing back slightly to be able to see Watson's face, and he reaches up to smooth his fingers through Watson's hair.

"And, by the way, I'm certain Mycroft has known of my feelings for you for as long as I have, if not longer. I knew the telegram -- if, that is, you responded to it as I hoped you would -- would only confirm that for him." Tenderly he drops his hand to the side of Watson's neck, thumbing his jaw. "How did he take the news?"

"He did say he had known for a long time, actually." Watson leaned into Holmes's hand, wondering vaguely if there were some way they could crawl into bed together, skin against skin, and have this lazy, slightly-disjointed conversation over the course of the next week. It wasn't even the more intimate relations he was thinking of; he just wanted to be able to hold and touch Holmes properly.

"I find it very hard to read your brother," he confessed. "But I believe he gave us his blessing." Watson smiled; he caught Holmes's hand in his and turned his head to kiss it, tenderly. "He spoke of 'encouraging' my regard for you. As if I need any encouraging."

He smiles again, a genuine one, and he keeps his hand against Watson's face. His heart no longer beats with such a fevered rush, and he can now catch his breath; he finds all he wishes to do now is tangle himself in a bed with Watson -- not just any bed, but one of their beds in Baker street -- and not leave until he can leave the room alone and still smell Watson on him.

"He was no doubt looking out for my interest. He knows -- as only a Holmes must -- how deep my regard for you runs." Though his sentence is innocent, the tone makes his true meaning of the word 'regard' clear, and he leans in again to kiss Watson, this time slow, and passionate, and tender.

"Tell me something, Watson," he murmurs as the kiss ends, though he doesn't pull very far away from Watson's face. "Are we mad?"

"We are very mad," Watson said, speaking almost into Holmes's mouth, his voice low. "Time travel is impossible, and men from other planets highly improbable, and islands populated by impossibilities equally so, as is the idea that you love me and could marry me, and the idea that we could ever hope to do this without meeting our ruin."

He leaned forward to rest his head against Holmes's shoulder, closing his eyes briefly, as long as he could bear to. "But I believe all those things anyway, so we must be very mad." He turned his head and kissed the side of his jaw. He was trying to catalogue all the little ways Holmes had changed over the years, but couldn't trust his memory enough to be sure of any of it.

He lets the silence find them for a few sweet moments, closing his eyes, treasuring the feel of Watson in his arms, solid and warm and alive and real, oh so real, and that is more important than the reality of any island or men from the future or strange time travel. No matter what happened or didn't happen, it brought Watson into his arms. The rest is trivial.

Finally he speaks, lightly cradling the back of Watson's neck.

"If we do meet our ruin, I have some experience in changing one's identity traveling incognito."

Watson laughed, quietly and a little sadly. "Perhaps you do. Oh, my dear. My dear Holmes."

This was ridiculous. He was sitting in the chair leaning down over Holmes on the floor, and while he was sure it had made for a very interesting tableau at first, had there been anyone to see, at this point it was mostly becoming very awkward, and he wished to be able to press himself against Holmes properly, to hold him close. Bringing Holmes up to join him was impossible -- there was nowhere for him -- so Watson took the only other option available to him. Reluctantly, he detached himself, and slipped down onto the floor, and immediately moved to wrap his arms around Holmes tightly, chest to chest, while he buried his face in Holmes's shoulder.

It was ridiculous, he felt ridiculous, sprawled on the floor behind his desk like a pair of naughty schoolboys. He didn't care.

"You nearly died," he said, moving through the paces of the question as gradually as he could, "and you could not send word for fear of Moran. I understand this. Is that no longer the case, if you are here? Is it finished?"

He nearly laughs himself when Watson pulls himself to the floor, though the moment is only ridiculous to look at. Two grown men clutching at each other as if they were each other's husband, huddled underneath a desk, desperately trying to reclaim two lost years. Holmes also thinks, though he doesn't say, that this is a much better idea. It would be difficult for Moran to shoot them with airguns now.

"Not quite," he murmurs into Watson's neck, trailing his fingers up Watson's back. "Not quite, but nearly. Actually, my darling, we shall have to leave our romantic embrace beneath your desk very shortly as there are some very serious matters we'll need to attend to. Your pistol will be required."

But he doesn't want to think of tracking down Moran, luring him into a dark house so that he may once again kill Sherlock Holmes -- though this one will be decidedly less animate. He'll have to think of that very soon, but right now he doesn't have to, and would rather tarry in Watson's arms, breathing in his scent.

"And then I shall have to see Mycroft. Tomorrow, though. Not tonight. He knows I am alive; we can visit him tomorrow, after we have had all evening to learn what these past two years have done to us."

Watson let out a very soft sigh; as much as he was reluctant to move far enough away from Holmes that he would be unable to smell and taste him, much less hold him and touch him, to hear the pound of his heart in his chest, there was something altogether perfect about hearing this plan from Holmes now. Of course they would soon be stepping out together, arm-in-arm and into danger, because that was the perfect reunion for them. It was like old times, but better, because at the end of the night when they had come through in one piece, together, they could fall into each other's arms again, and that had never been possible in the past. And he was glad that he would get to play a part in the resolution. He had been there for the beginning, after all. He would help end it.

The idea of their facing Mycroft Holmes, side-by-side, now... that was more than a little unnerving, for all the unconcerned blessing he had given.

"My pistol has seen very little action lately," Watson said, ruefully, "but it and I are at your disposal."

"Mm, truly? Should you tend to it, do you think?" he asks teasingly, smiling against Watson's neck. "Perhaps it needs some attention."

It's silly, foolish, that he's making innuendo about the object that may be used later in the evening to, seriously, save his life, and Watson's, and Mycroft's, but it's remarkably easy now that he has Watson in his arms to forget about how serious all that is. He dips his mouth to the tip of Watson's ear, placing a small kiss there.

Watson grinned, suddenly. It was ridiculous, to joke about this sort of thing, but he didn't care. Everything was going to be all right, now. His life had been boring to the point of desperation, but that was going to change. He turned his head and kissed Holmes with a sudden insistence.

"I'm sure it will have all the attention it shall desire later," Watson said, still grinning, when he managed to break off the kiss. "At least, I certainly hope it will. It had better."

"Oh, it will," he promises, smiling in return, and that's when Holmes realizes he has neglected what is perhaps the second most important piece of information he is to deliver today, behind the fact that he is alive.

"Watson, do you think you could easily pack yourself an overnight bag?" he asks, drawing back slightly, keeping his face clear of mischief.

Threaded | Top-Level Comments Only

Page 1 of 6

The Actual Return, Post-Resort

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject