Archive of Our Own ^beta

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.

Chapter Text

With trembling hands and an anxious heart, I picked up the note, slightly creasing the ends of the paper with my fingers.

“My dear, Watson, upon keeping your best safety in mind, I decided to go first, for this way we will have lesser chances of being spotted. I am quite sorry for any worries I might've caused you with this decision, but it was the best and only one. Below are instructions on how to meet me on the train. I will be waiting for you.”

I couldn't tell if I should be relieved or disappointed by these words, but I promptly chose to ignore the lump on my throat that told me Holmes should’ve waited for me.

This was, after all, planned by him, and, knowing that, it was painfully obvious that it was the best option for both of us. Still, breakfast tasted sour in my tongue as I read the extensive list Holmes had left for me, and the suitcase I quickly prepared, heavy on my hands as I got out the door, telling mrs. Hudson not to worry, that we both were to be back very soon. Phrases that I very much hoped would turn out true — phrases I thoroughly repeated to myself in vain.

The way to the train station was excruciatingly long, but I was able to get to the right train, at the right time. I wasn’t, though, able to find Holmes: The seat to the window — the one he so enjoyed having — was painfully empty, devoid of anyone. 

Not on his seat, nor on any other: Holmes was not here. It was not an unusual occurrence, him not showing up like this, following, maybe, smarter plans that involved my ignorance of the situation, although I couldn’t, and can’t, get used to it. It felt wrong.

Like betrayal.

**

Eerie as that place was, the Baskervilles’ surroundings were not welcoming. I found myself looking for a man I had no idea who could be, whose only information I had was that he lived — or at least, was living — in some sort of stone formation. 

My last letters to Holmes had gotten no replies, so it was, really, just me and whoever this might be, enemy or friend, in the middle of the moor; the best I could hope was that he had no weapon, or that he wished no harm.

The only time I saw him was at night, when the moon had shined just the right way to highlight his back, and nothing else, giving me as little as his silhouette to go from: a tall, thin man watched me from the edge of a hill. If only Holmes would answer my letters… Behind all the fog, I could almost pass unnoticed to anyone inside the formation, and, with luck, find out who this was.

It was void of any souls, but that did not mean that no one lived there. clothing and food was thrown about, water and paper displayed messy on the floor. I gingerly took the sheets and was surprised to see my own miserable calligraphy — years of writing prescriptions did no good to my writing. 

Was this why Holmes wouldn’t answer me? Was it possible that someone from outside was diverting my letters? My heart dropped at this, but it dropped further when I heard the sounds of footsteps just outside the structure. My gun was ready to shoot in a matter of seconds.

“It’s a gorgeous afternoon, Watson-”

“Holmes!” I almost yelled, wondering quickly if perhaps I wasn’t seeing things, but his touch to my shoulder felt very real. I moved away from him and snatched his hand off with a single gesture. “Why are you here!?” 

“Doing my own investigation.”

“You told me you wouldn’t come!”

“I couldn’t have you knowing about it, my dear Watson,” Holmes started, approaching me again with the ‘I-did-something-smart-be-proud-please’ tone, “the secret would be out too soon and I wouldn’t be able to do what I needed to. See, I-”

“You lied to me, Holmes. I’ve been here, alone, when I could’ve had the certainty that you would be by my side!! Did you even read the letters I sent your way?”

“Of course I did.”

“But you didn't answer them?”

“Haven't had the time.”

“Maybe you would have had it if you'd been in London! As you had told me!”

We discussed for a long time, words flowing out my mouth quicker than I could think of them. Holmes kept saying that it was necessary, I thought not, and said not. In the end, he came with me to Henry's mansion and acted as if nothing happened, but my head kept going back to his actions. For some months, I could not trust him.

…Like betrayal, yes.

**

I sat down, having no other option other than waiting. A pang, though, hung heavy on my heart as I stared at the window, lost in reminiscence.

Harsh breathing came to my ears from the train’s bathroom — worried as I am, I felt the need to check. There could ever be the possibility of someone feeling ill. 

So I checked, asked if whoever was inside was okay, and when I got no coherent answer, I gently pried the door open to no resistance, coming to see the last person I’d expect to be there: Holmes, sat with his head propped upon bandaged hands and shoulders shaking with each tattered breath. A sigh escaped me, both of surprise and a sick kind of relief.

Holmes’ head hit the wall with a thud when he frantically moved it up to face me — quite like a deer caught in the headlights. Quickly, I entered the small space and closed the door behind me shut, enclosing us both in that small space, in which a person barely fit, much less two, our legs close and touching. 

I took his hands into mine and held them close to my chest. We stayed, both, like that until Holmes calmed down, reducing his uncontrollable breathing to the eventual sob. “Holmes?”

“Watson!” Holmes started, weak words stated between shallow breathing, “I… was wrong, I shouldn't have brought you with me.”

“...Why do you say that?”

Holmes looked to the door behind me, and then to my eyes. And I have seen him afraid many times, but not trembling so much, haven't ever seen tears form beneath his eyes with such intensity, haven't ever seen him hold my hands so desperately tight.

“He's here. There. I saw him.”

“Who?”

Holmes slowly placed his head against me, resting it beneath my face and against my neck.

A muffled sob.

“Moriarty.” He said the name as if it was a curse, as if it meant death, or something worse. And maybe it was, I supposed. 

“You'll get out the next stop.” He looked up, towards me, eyes red and full of despair.

“I'm not getting out of here without you, Holmes,” I whispered, tightening my grip to his hands and then releasing them to put mine tangled deep into his hair — length longer than usual, without me to cut it — a gesture I found, over time, that Holmes seemed to quite enjoy. “It’ll all turn out well, if we're together. I'm sure, Holmes; I really am.”

Holmes did nothing, the only sound inside the enclosed space being his irregular breathing, humid against my collar. He seemed to be deep in thought now; I really wish I could see inside his head in these moments, for I, for sure, would find whatever is inside to be absolutely interesting, and a matter to be thought of for a long while, his functioning. Maybe, though, it's better as is.

“I think we must go… the next station must be very close by now.” I said in low tone, my fingers still working themselves through Holmes’ head of hair, inciting him to come closer in response. He did not cry anymore, nor did he shake, but his cheeks still had water on them and his mind still seemed to run anxious. 

Holmes held the position, gripping me tight until his hold faltered, and his breathing had gone to normalcy. I let go, and, with some difficulty, opened the door to the outside.

We must have passed a long while inside the bathroom, because when we came out, Holmes lightly trailing behind me, not having his full confidence yet, the train had just stopped, and we didn't miss the station by a hair.

Chapter Text

It seems Holmes had it all arranged: a room in a quaint house, at quite an isolated location, only a small village, ten minutes away. The view was splendid, the sun blaring at the walls of the house, a white thing in the middle of the greens and browns of the landscape.

The small group that lived there had been clients to Holmes, long ago, and had promised hospitality as payment — I wasn't Holmes' partner yet when he was of help to them, but he had told me about it in a pleasant march afternoon. They were happy to see us, the two english women, one with a hand on the waist of the other, greeting Holmes with intensity.

That's just the effect he has on people.

I was offered breakfast and promptly accepted it, for the travel was long and void of rest to both me and Holmes. We were sat in a small table in the kitchen area, the younger woman, Janine, heating water for tea. I could almost forget the view of Holmes in his former state; yet, it was etched into my mind, his panicked face against the close walls of the train’s restroom, the sweat on his forehead...

“..wasn't it rather good? …Watson?” Holmes’ voice had brought me over to reality, in which there was no trace that that had even happened — his expression was lax, and his eyes closed as he took a sip of the hot tea. My face snapped up from where I had it fixed, trying in vain to infer the topic of conversation.

The whole morning was spent like this, a slow thing, like we had no worries at all. There were times in which sounds would make Holmes flinch, or that he'd look just a little bit too much to the sides, obviously — to me, at least — looking for something, or, worse, someone. He was uneasy, of course. I was, too. But we stayed on a silent threshold of normalcy that posed as comfortable enough for both of us, and that was sufficient for a good day; we, then, explored the small village by foot, stopping to sightsee or to eat once in a while.

It was rather good.

…

It was late in the afternoon when we reached the house again, only to sit at the nice balcony just outside our bedroom.

The sun was soft on our eyes as it descended through the blues and oranges and purples that the sky held with so much pride — it sent shadows that danced neatly against the tiled floor, the world reflected in such a small surface, and, most importantly, in such a pretty manner. It glowed against Holmes' skin, highlighting the crook of his nose, delimiting an array of expressions I hadn't seen in a while on that face: peace, settlement, tranquil… A vision that, if I had to choose, I wouldn't trade for any natural paradise, ever.

It all fit in. The smell of earth and the knowledge that we could choose to be here forever if we wanted to. Maybe, Holmes would like to retire soon, I thought to myself — with all the Moriarty business done as it is — and this could be just another day, life as normal as one can be, away from the cities and from the constant fight or flight that it so demands from its inhabitants. Maybe, that's why he called me, so we could experiment first. Maybe…

“... This is nice, Holmes.”

I broke the constant rhythm of crickets and whatnot as the sun finally crossed the line of the horizon, all dotted with impressive lakes and mountains; a painting-worthy landscape. Holmes silently took my hand and pointed it to a particularly singular one, that stood out among the others, both for its eerie beauty and its height.

“Do you see that one?”

“hmhm ”

“I talked with some people. They say we must visit it; the Reichenbach Falls. Beautiful, aren’t they?”

“It surely seems like it.”

“Tomorrow morning?”

“Tomorrow morning, old chap.”

Holmes smiled. I did, too.

The moon was high in the sky when we got up, only because the cold was biting and we hadn’t brought any coats on our outings. We had dinner with the pair that hosted us, and went to our rooms for the night.

…

I felt one, two hands coming from behind and slowly making their way until they met at my front, and then a head, propped on my shoulder. Holmes’ arms brought me to the present as I looked out the window, staring at constellations and thinking about the tomorrow that awaited for us.

I looked down: his hands were bandaged at the knuckles, still, the gauze starting to wear down from his constant picking; and his arms were nude except for the thin robe I once gifted him. A hand of mine trailed down to meet with the bandaging, relishing the moment of closeness between us, our bodies pressed flush. And as he breathed, I could feel it, and proceeded in the same rhythm with ease.

“We’ve got to change these, Holmes.” I started, unmoving.

“Hm?” He didn’t move, either.

“Yes, old chap. Come on, or you will get yourself an infection.”

We stood there, unmoving, for a while, before he retreated and sat on the single bed behind me. There were two, one in each corner of the room, separated by a sad, small nightstand — on top of it laid my small bag, and on the floor, Holmes'. I walked up to it, feeling Holmes' gaze following me through the small room. A small smile came to my lips.

With the gauze and disinfectant taken, I kneeled before him and took his hands into mine, slowly taking the bandages off and getting to work in the wounds that adorned his knuckles: it wasn't anything too big or profound, but still, it quite worried me as would any other lesion.

Holmes looked down at me with eyes that said “thank you, dear,” and I answered, when I finished, getting up, with a brush of fingers to his thigh and then to his waist and shoulder, with eyes that intended to say “you're more than welcome.”

As I made to walk away, a hand, his hand, stopped me with a soft touch. He had a hold of my waistcoat, bringing me closer with the same tenderness Holmes always had with me. I let myself go with no resistance, and I’d say, even, that I wanted to be maneuvered by him, yes, and never by anyone else.

“Sherlock.”

I saw his face with all the details I’ve grown used to seeing — and which I've grown to love so much — from the skew bridge of his nose to the small jut of his lips and to everything that made Holmes, Holmes.

A hand of mine came to rest on his cheek as I lowered myself to kiss him. His lips met mine in a single movement, and we were quickly intertwined in that embrace, only to, as quick as we got into it, part again.

“We must sleep, Watson, or we won't wake up in time to get out tomorrow.” Holmes broke the kiss and smiled at me, getting up to change clothes. I did the same.

Although the events of earlier weighed in my mind, I went to sleep with a light heart, knowing Holmes was safe in here.

…

Turned out, even with a light heart, I couldn’t sleep. After a few minutes staring at Holmes' laid silhouette in the dark, I silently got up and moved to his bed, making space for myself beside him on the small surface. He let me with a smile, my mattress rendered useless where it lay.

We lied together, and Holmes’ heart beating beneath his skin was never so important than in this moment. And the moment was warm and everything anyone could ever desire, so good it might as well be a dream, of which I could wake up disappointed at any moment, but I never did, because that was as real as anything else.

Nothing mattered more to me than the fall and the rise of the chest that laid beside mine, our breathing synchronized; more than his hands, deep in my flesh, so full of want and need, just like my own; more than his life, now so interlaced with mine as was destined to be. I could live in that moment forever, beside that body of his that so well completed my own.

And that was it, me and Holmes, as one, for life and beyond that. I smiled against his skin and let my eyes close against the already dark room, against the rest of the world, with the certainty that this was as right as a thing could be.