Chapter Text
The door to my consulting office was shut with a loud blam, sending me wincing with the violence in which Holmes entered the room and walked along the wall, directing himself to the window — not violent in the I-have-a-very-anxiety-inducing-case way I am so used to, but in another, that I hadn’t ever seen. Worry, I quickly deduced.
Holmes had been absent for a few weeks: the french government had found him useful in solving important matters, but my presence was not required. A shame, really, as I’d do anything to escape this clinic in favour of running alongside Holmes towards answers no one else could get, towards anything, as long as we were together. The lack of him in my routine was evident; I now had no other thing to busy myself with other than the clinic work and writing other small novels I had in mind. Way too much time was now free, and instead of freeing, it was making me anxious and lonesome.
Holmes looked gaunt and pale; even more than usual. “Goodnight,” I started, tone light. Holmes gave me no answer except the fumbling of his long hands against the blinds, peering through before swiftly closing them and putting his back against the nearest wall. “Did french food not appeal to you?” A part of the tension in his shoulders dissolved when hearing my voice, but it still lingered, something deeply affecting him.
“Not really, Watson,” he finally answered, seemingly comfortable enough to go off the wall. Holmes walked towards me, figure illuminated by the only lamp in my office. “but I doubt any kind of food would go down easily in my situation.”
Looking Holmes over, I quickly noticed blood running down his knuckles, which were tightly interwoven in a fist. It would not be the first time I came to see him hurt after a particularly difficult case; many times, Holmes would even be the one to inflict it on himself in moments of frustration. Not a habit I would encourage, if you were to ask me. “Let me see that.”
Holmes presented me the hand with a look akin to shame on his usually sharp eyes — the back of the appendage was bleeding slightly, but it wasn't anything that would debilitate him in any way. With some cotton and disinfectant that had laid static on my desk the whole slow day I had passed on this clinic, I started working on cleaning the wound.
Then, I noticed: Holmes’ hands were trembling. Actually, his whole figure seemed to sway in place, adding to the sick appearance he held today.
I paused. “You’re afraid of something, aren’t you?”
I finished bandaging his knuckles and stopped holding Holmes' hands, his warmth escaping me once again. He quickly retracted them to himself, taking off his long coat and placing it on its assigned rack, alongside mine.
“It is wiser to be afraid now, Watson, than to be dead later.”
“Dead!”
“Dead, yes.” Holmes' hands fumbled as he looked for something on my desk. From there, he retrieved matches and lighted himself a pipe, making a gesture as if to ask whether I’d want one or not. I didn’t. “Who wants you dead, Holmes?”
For a moment, the room was silent except for the sound of Holmes’ inconsistent breathing and the one from my heart — this insistent, tumbling thing that sets itself upon it every time I see this man.
“A man, no — more than a man. A fundamental link in the web we call England, the one behind everything, Watson. Absolutely everything.” Another drag in his pipe. How could he talk in such calm demeanor, I couldn’t decipher. But his body betrayed him in the way he held himself, in the silence of his voice and in the frantic look he gave the window now and then. “I was able to intercept him, Professor Moriarty. And I am rather sure he prefers my body to be stenched with the reek of death.”
“You can't die, Holmes.” With shallow breath, I continued, “if you do, take me with you. So we can rest, together.”
“I won't- I won't die. You needn't worry, my dear, Watson, for this I promise you with my heart whole.”
Holmes took my hand in his and closed the small distance we had from each other before. His thin lips pressed to mine, this time desperate from both our parts; to finally get ourselves together again, especially in such a situation, was relieving.
“I believe you,” I said, briefly disconnecting our bodies, words heavy and distasteful in my throat, because I shouldn't be saying this; this shouldn't be happening. Surely not. Our mouths interlock again and it's almost like I could forget everything for a moment, that the only thing that mattered was how my tongue slipped into Holmes; how we fit together like two pieces of the same puzzle. Holmes will not die, I reassured myself. He promised.
Holmes pulled himself away from me, grey eyes fixed upon mine.
“Come with me. Switzerland.”
A beat.
“What?” I said, voice merely a whisper.
“Believe me, Watson.”
“I do.” A deep breath from his part. “But don't think I didn't see how you entered my office, Holmes. You were trembling. I’m worried.”
“You don’t need to be.” Holmes sat on the sofa after pulling away from my figure, leaving me to myself. I quickly joined him. “Let me sleep with you, will you? I can't trust anyone — only you and my brother are left to lean myself on.”
“I think you to be the most brilliant man I've ever met; yet, how can you be possibly defeated by this… Moriarty?”
“I am aware of my potential, Watson, yet I worry, still. I fear we are on the same level when it comes to the use of the mind, my dear. I can only hope he does not have a trusty boswell by his side,” Holmes comments, a small but charming grin plastered on his face as if this wasn't a matter of life or death. I was not over this yet, body paralysed and mouth unable to conjure any more words. Not any that would serve useful to the moment, anyways.
“Then, Watson!” Holmes said, patting his thighs with newfound energy, “Let us dine and dissolve whatever tension it is that sets itself upon your shoulder.”
“Upon our shoulders, it seems.”
We got to 221b quicker than normal, thanks for a cab that Holmes had unsurprisingly already paid for before he’d gotten to my consulting office. He passed the whole time visibly tense, grabbing and crinkling the sleeves of my shirt with shaking hands — And I’ve got to confess that I, too, was nervous. But we soon arrived and ate and got to bed, as both of us were tired.
Holmes blew the candles beside us, setting the room so we could sleep, both of us already laid on my bed. With darkness, came the cold embrace of the night, a gentle reminder that life goes on, no matter the causes and consequences that we, such small beings — humans — have set upon us. A bandaged hand fell on mine; long, thin fingers carded alongside my palm, keeping me warm — a hand that traced circles on my skin, but also a hand that bore the marks of a fight I did not dare to know the circumstances of; A fight that very well could have been against his own self. It had been bandaged, yes, but it would hurt for a good while, I knew it. This vision, the thought of Holmes hurting always managed to squeeze my heart into mud.
“...Switzerland?” I broke the silence in a whisper, returning to the subject we had dropped a few hours ago. As an answer, Holmes' hand tensed beneath mine.
“It should be far enough that we are safe; I would never put you against such danger. You know it, John. All is arranged with the police.”
“At the very least, we’ll be together. That's enough.”
And with that I closed my eyes, for I expected no more answers, nor I needed any more. Holmes’ body close to mine was enough to soothe my nerves and lull me into sleep, knowing he would not leave me, and I would never leave him.
I dreamed pleasant dreams, featuring the normalcy I am used to: Holmes' dramatic retellings of cases that would get us laughing, mildly drunk, at unholy hours, when the rest of the world is supposed to be asleep, leaving us alone and pleased; his face, eyes seeking warmth in mine while we talk about nothing and everything and whatever we deem important over a train trip to somewhere important; just him, just Holmes and his voice and his body and his person, all over me.
But when the waking world greeted me and I greedily turned to look at the real Holmes and wrap my arms around him, the warmth fled, leaving nothing except cold, cold emptiness. The other side of the bed was empty, except for messy covers and clothing coating where he should be laid. My heart felt like it'd leap out my throat at any given moment, and uncomfortable heat rose up my neck, eyes darting around looking for anything at all that would hint at where he'd go. Or where he'd been taken.
My mind shot up to Moriarty. And his invisible menace suddenly became so, so tangible I could almost feel him on my fingertips — and if I could strangle him with them, I would. I got up the bed and looked around the room for any indication of him, finally finding a small note in Holmes' neat calligraphy, placed inconveniently on the table beside the door.