The Actual Return, Post-Resort

[lightconductor]

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.

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[mustbethetruth]

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.

[lightconductor]

"My word, Holmes, I don't know how you do it."

Watson laid his fingers over the back of Holmes's hand on his thigh. "My layers of respectibility are for the sake of my patients and my housekeeper, and other people who could not possibly handle bohemianism to any degree in a medical man," he said, dropping his thick irony to sound at least a little more serious. "You are not any of these things, and you see through my pretense, so I suppose that I may as well confess that it's all a farce."

He smoked silently for a moment. "Besides," he added, "respectable people generally do not hide out in abandoned houses at night with revolvers."

[thebritishgovt.livejournal.com]

Mycroft had been waiting, hoping that brother of his was not running too late, and passing the time by watching the traffic in the street from the window, amusing himself by working out what he could see about the pedestrians. He'd seen his guests arriving, of course, and was ready for them.

"Sherlock," he greeted them, coming away from the window. "Dr. Watson. Do come in, have a seat. Let's not wait for luncheon to get cold."

They both looked so nervous. Nervous, and exhausted, and... well. Fortunately, this amused him. He had every intention of demanding one or two answers from his brother over the course of the meal, but for now... he was mostly just amused at the state the two were in.

[lightconductor]

"We couldn't have that," Watson said, seriously.

By the time they reached home -- which was miraculously Baker street, of all the unlikely places -- he was finding himself extremely tired of having to restrain himself from all the ways he wanted to show his affection. It had felt like the longest cab ride of his life, but he had let his thigh rest alongside Holmes's leg all the way there, and had treasured that. He was both glad and reluctant to get out of that cab, actually, but comforted himself with the thought that once behind closed doors, he would, in all probability, be permitted more.

As Watson opened the door to their sitting room, holding it open for Holmes, he couldn't help but smile. It was still the most incredible sight, to be back here, with Holmes. Would it be selfish to wish for no cases to present themselves (surely there would be), at least not until Watson had managed to slake his thirst for Holmes's company? Not that he would ever tire of it, but he felt so desperate for it now.

"I had thought," he said quietly, "it might be difficult to come back here. Strange, at any rate. I'm not finding it to be."