Fic: Broken Substitutes (1/4) (Holmes/Watson)

[zarah5]

This story was written for help_haiti, although I guess that help_chile would be just as appropriate. However, I think that most of the Haiti donations were not tied to a specific cause, so I’m convinced that Chile will profit just as much from the amazing, incredible result of the fandom fundraising for Haiti. As such, this solely and entirely belongs to purelyironic. It is, ah, slightly longer than the 5’000 words I offered, but hey.

While the story is written, the edits are a work in progress, so those of you who prefer digesting stories in palatable bites can start right away. If you have a preference for full-sized meals, however, you might want to wait until the fourth (and last) part is up. It shouldn’t take long!

Pairing: Holmes/Watson (past Watson/Mary)
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 9’756 for this part, about 33’000 for all four
Warnings: Nothing you don’t see in the movie or the books.
Betas: My gratitude goes to inderpal (plotting is no fun without you), msilverstar (historical accuracy for the win) and my resident Brit-picker torakowalski (thank you for never turning me and my stupidly epic stories away, not even when we bother you twice). A very special thank you must also go to impasto and her hacksaw, a combination that considerably improved this entire thing, oh yes.

Summary: Death and loss, hurt and comfort, Moriarty, drugs, addictions and sex that is a means to an end, until it isn’t anymore. Also: a couple of scientific details that might require a suspension of disbelief. (Post-movie, with several elements stolen from the books.)

“I never said I didn’t find it difficult to stay away.” Holmes laid the violin bow across the table, one end dipping into the marmalade. “I considered it a wise decision. However, as soon as I heard of your loss, I couldn’t-I wouldn’t, that is. Leave you alone in these hard times.”

Disclaimer: Not mine, just playing.

[Part 1] - [ Part 2] - [ Part 3] - [ Part 4] - [Soundtrack]

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Broken Substitutes
Part 1
____________________________

Watson’s fingertips left dark trails in the pale dust that had gathered on Holmes’ violin.  Absently, he noticed the particles that his steps had stirred up, dancing in the thin cone light of his lantern. It was the only source of brightness in the room, and as such, it made his eyes sting. He exhaled slowly until there was no more air in his lungs, chest constricting, and held his breath until the need for oxygen became overwhelming. His gasp was loud in the silent room. Straightening, he wiped his hand off on a newspaper dated nearly a year ago.

For long moments, he stood motionless in the centre of Holmes’ room. It felt like a vast, empty space. Whenever he wasn't looking, the furniture seemed to be retreating, crawling away from him just like the rest of his life. He didn't remember his limbs to be this heavy.

He couldn't abandon hope. He couldn't, he wouldn't allow himself to give up just because everyone else had long since written Holmes off. It didn't matter what they believed. There were already too many ghosts that vanished from the periphery of Watson's vision the moment he turned his head; comrades and strangers he'd left behind in Afghanistan, patients he'd failed. If he closed his eyes, he could still hear Mary's soft laugh and see the shock of copper hair when she shook it loose in the evening, could smell the light perfume she wore.

The perfume she'd worn.

Watson wasn't certain whether it was the walls that were shaking, or whether it was his own body. His steps echoed hollowly when he fled into the hallway, leaving the lantern behind as a bright spot that uselessly fought against the darkness that crept up all around it. He caught a last glimpse of it when he slammed the door shut and leaned back against the wood, every breath he took resonating in his head, rattling his thoughts. His fingers closed around Mary’s wedding ring, on a chain around his neck, and the solid metal helped him focus, easing the tightness of his chest just slightly.

It was the 6th of January. Holmes would have turned-Holmes had turned thirty-six today. Watson took another difficult breath that left him struggling for air even with his lungs filled. He needed to get out of here, away from these rooms that had become an alien being.

Barely remembering to grab his coat and wallet, he left the house quietly, striving not to disturb Mrs Hudson so he wouldn’t risk a conversation that forced him to keep up appearances. In the faint drizzle of snow, his boots left soft-contoured imprints on the footpath. The street was deserted and he walked quickly, away from the black windows that stared down at him, a near-imperceptible flicker of light in only one of them. Cold snow was prickling on his skin; he’d forgotten his gloves, and he could have turned around to fetch them, but the thought of returning to the empty rooms wasn’t one that appealed to him.

As if by accident, his feet took him towards a place where he knew warmth and excitement would greet him, envelope him in their momentary comfort.

--

“Gentleman,” the cashier called out, holding up a sheet. “Place your bets now!” Over the racket of drunken calls and music, the words were barely understandable. The place reeked of alcohol and sweat, dingy lamps bathing it in sickly light, glass panes tinted yellow by decades-long exposure to smoke.

The last round, Watson told himself. This was his last round for the night; it had to be. Already, he’d lost more money than he could afford given his outstanding debts to Mrs Hudson. Paying both his and Holmes’ shares of the rent was a stretch for his budget, even more so as he’d refused the help of Holmes’ brother, had been too stubborn and determined that it was his responsibility, his duty to care for Holmes’ rooms until Holmes returned, and while none of that had changed, he’d made too many trips to the Punchbowl since moving back to Baker Street. He never felt more alive than when the rush of a fight swept him up and made him forget.

Watson was about to push his way through the crowd when he was held back by a hand on his shoulder. He shook it off irritably; he was surrounded by too many drunks incapable of maintaining balance without a solid object to cling to. He didn’t belong with this crowd.

The hand made contact again, fingers gripping his bicep. Watson ducked and twisted free, glancing back to evaluate the drunken fellow who was so desperately clinging to him, and-

No.

It wasn't possible.

It was not-It couldn’t be, it wasn’t even a possibility and Holmes wouldn’t, not after having been gone for nearly a year. He wouldn’t… He wouldn’t just show up from one minute to the next. It had to be Watson’s feverish brain playing tricks on him, the thick air and alcoholic fumes taking their toll, eyes burning from the smoke, this had to be a product of his imagination, wishful thinking projected onto a man looking vaguely like Holmes because if Holmes were alive, able to walk wherever he pleased, surely he would have sent a note at the very least; he wouldn’t have kept Watson waiting, hoping, he wouldn’t have.

A smile crinkled the corners of the man’s eyes, glittering and alert and painfully familiar.

Holmes? Watson asked, only his throat refused to work, so he mouthed the name into the space between them.

Holmes’ smile widened, and something in Watson broke, his vision narrowing. He threw his entire weight around, fist connecting with Holmes’ jaw. The impact was deeply satisfying, calmed the rush of blood in his ears and the chaos in his mind, his knuckles aching as Holmes reeled back, surprise plain on his face for only one preciously short moment. Watson grabbed a fistful of Holmes’ shirt, but the resistance he expected never came. Holmes hung limply in his grasp, watching him with clear eyes, a trickle of blood on the corner of his mouth from where Watson’s knuckles had connected with Holmes’ bottom lip. Watson swung once more, but it was half-hearted, Holmes’ acquiescence robbing him of his fury. His hand barely even grazed Holmes’ shoulder before he dropped it, swaying for a moment.

Then he fell forward, into Holmes, pulling him closer even as he took a stumbling step forward himself.

The ice in his chest burst to make room for a warmth he hadn’t felt in months. He was still gripping Holmes’ shirt, and a moment’s hesitation was all it took before Holmes’ arms came up around him, loosely, almost helplessly curling around his waist. All it did was make Watson cling tighter, the smoky air burning in his throat and eyes while the crowd, having lost interest, closed back in, pressing them even closer together.

“Happy birthday,” Watson murmured eventually, straight into Holmes’ ear.

“Thank you,” Holmes replied. One of his hands was resting on Watson’s waist, hot through two layers of clothing. The sensible, the proper thing would have been to take a step back now, but Watson found it impossible to let go just yet. The noise that raged around them seemed to come from a far distance, all that mattered was that Holmes’ body felt fragile and sinewy against Watson’s, as if the time away had made him lose more weight than he could afford.

Away, Watson’s brain repeated, the time Holmes had spent away, wherever he’d gone. A tiny thrill of anger swelled up once more, but it was overwhelmed by the immense, staggering gratitude that came just from having Holmes here.

“I’m so glad you’re back,” Watson said. It didn’t sound like his own voice, was barely louder than a whisper, but as Holmes’ eyes were focused on him, Watson was certain the message came across. At the corner of Holmes’ mouth, blood was drying to a near-black, the dingy light painting his face in shadows. He leaned forward to place his mouth near Watson’s ear, his voice just loud enough to be heard over the racket, the cashier calling for more bets, more participants, take a step, today might be your lucky day!

“I,” Holmes said, “am deeply sorry for your loss, Watson. Truly, I am.”

A punch to the stomach could not have been more effective. Watson staggered a step back, his arms dropping to his sides. “You know.”

Holmes angled himself away slightly. “It’s what brought me back.”

It’s been two months since she died, Watson wanted to say, but even the thought squeezed down on his chest. “How did you learn of it?” was what he asked instead, fumes clouding up his head, the stench of alcohol sour in his nose.

Holmes shook his head. When he reached for Watson’s elbow, Watson didn’t resist the gentle force that steered him towards the exit, Holmes leaning in to say, “Not here, Watson. This is the wrong sort of place for discussions. Let us go home.”

What home?

It was another question Watson didn’t voice out loud, and maybe, with Holmes back and spreading out all over the rooms, with Holmes’ personality occupying more space than it should in their flat and in Watson’s life, maybe it wasn’t a question quite as pressing as it had been when Watson had left Holmes’ dusty violin behind.

With a nod, a placeholder for all the words he couldn’t quite say, Watson retrieved his coat and hat before they stepped out into the quiet street. In the curtain of falling snow, the light of the streetlamps was blurred, a hazy glow. Holmes was walking along quietly, hands in his pockets and seeming lost in his own thoughts, but his eyes were alert. Controlled by an irrational fear that the moment he lost sight of Holmes, Holmes would blink out of existence, Watson found it hard to look away.

Just as he remembered, Holmes’ profile was sharp-cut, but Watson’s memory didn’t quite agree with the sunken state of Holmes’ cheeks, the dark circles underneath Holmes’ eyes and the way the clothes sagged on his lean frame. He’d always been slender; now, he appeared to be wasting away. The light of the streetlamps revealed that his skin was lightly tanned. His shoes were made of fine Italian leather, his hat of a style that wasn’t found in London.

“How was Italy?” Watson ventured.

Holmes showed no open surprise, but his lips twitched briefly. “Very good, Watson. I see your skills of deduction haven’t suffered too badly in my absence.”

“No,” Watson said sharply, and maybe the dark thread of anger hadn’t quite unwound itself just yet. “My skills of deduction haven’t.”

There was no doubt in his mind that Holmes understood perfectly, but Holmes’ reaction consisted of no more than a faint sigh, followed by a low, calm, “Do not begrudge me, Watson. Trust me, it wasn’t an easy decision I made at the time, and I would have returned sooner, had Wiggins’ first telegraph informing me of your wife’s death not been lost.”

Her death.

Despite the weeks that had passed, hearing the truth out loud still robbed Watson of breath, and he needed a moment to process Holmes’ words. Then he stopped, icy night air chilling him to the bone. “You mean to tell me that all along, the little street Arab knew where you were, yet I wasn’t privy to that information?”

Snow was melting on Holmes’ skin, his bare hands haggard. “It was a necessity.”

“It was a necessity?” Watson’s hand clenched around his walking stick, the snow-covered ground slippery underneath his shoes. Even though he hadn’t had so much as one drink at the tavern, his balance was precarious.

“I’m sorry,” Holmes said quietly. “I promise that I will explain.”

“I wish you would.”

“I will.”

“When? In a week? A month? Or a year, possibly?” Watson resumed walking, his pace much brisker than before. He derived a small sense of satisfaction from Holmes scurrying after him, snow crunching under his quick steps.

“Tomorrow,” Holmes said. It sounded like a promise. “I will answer any questions you may have tomorrow, but I came straight from the station, following your steps with only a short stop to leave what little baggage I brought at 221B.”

It was only when Watson glanced back at his friend that he noticed Holmes was shivering, mild tremors running through his limbs and reaching the very tips of his fingers. In Watson’s memory, Holmes’ energy had been limitless, and what little anger Watson had been nurturing burned out.

“Tomorrow,” he repeated.

Holmes met his eyes and smiled, but it was a shadow of the smiles Watson knew. A deep sense of unease settled in the pit of his stomach, a weight that made him want to press for immediate answers. Instead, he nodded, tightened the grip on his walking stick and slowed his steps slightly.

Tomorrow, then.

--

After a rare night of deep, untroubled sleep, it was the dissonant scratching of Holmes’ bow over the strings of the violin that woke Watson. He lay frozen in bed for long moments, listening to the familiar sound while his heart rate gradually slowed. Once he could work up the strength to move, he rolled out of bed. He dressed while Holmes’ tune changed to a sad, wistful progression of notes.

Breakfast was already waiting for Watson when he left his bedroom, set out on the table with Holmes seated on the other side, his plate barely touched. Watson pulled out his chair, Holmes’ bow stilling on the strings before he laid it aside. The circles underneath his eyes hadn’t faded, resembling dark bruises.

“Good morning,” Watson said for lack of a better greeting, because he couldn’t very well say, So it was more than a dream, you are here, and you aren’t dead. And you didn’t bother to tell me.

“Good morning.” Holmes steepled his fingers together, a restlessness in the gesture that Watson remembered from times when there was nothing to engage Holmes’ mind. “I hope you slept well.”

“I did, thank you.”

“Ah, well.” Holmes’ shirt was gaping open, done up in a thoughtless manner with the top three buttons undone. It drew Watson’s gaze and sparked something in his gut that he didn’t want to analyse. He must be mad to forgive so easily, to let Holmes back into his life without a second thought when his absence had nearly-Watson cut the thought off before it could fully manifest.

Holmes gave him a quick, searching look. “How come you didn’t bring the dog when you moved back in? It seems there is a particular stench missing in here.”

“Old age and the after-effects of too many experiments finally got the better of Gladstone.” Watson turned away.

“Oh. I’m sorry to hear that.”

“No, you aren’t.” Despite himself, Watson found himself smiling faintly at fond memories of Holmes’ innocent face and Gladstone waking up from whatever substance had been tested on him, groggy and disoriented. Gladstone had often repaid Holmes by chewing on his shoes

“Are you planning to get a new dog? ”

“I thought it was you who would be answering questions, this morning.” Watson reached for the napkin before he helped himself to a slice of toast, buttering it with a precision he didn’t normally devote to the task. In the periphery of his vision, he observed the nervous twitching of Holmes’ feet, the way Holmes kept tugging at his neckerchief.

“Can’t you,” Holmes sounded amused and strangely melancholic, “appreciate the art of easing into more serious matters?”

Watson gave him a narrow glance. “You have always been more gifted at jumping the gun, Holmes.”

There came no reply. Instead, Holmes picked up the bow once more but didn’t begin to play. His eyes had a faraway look in them, gazing at a point somewhere beyond Watson’s shoulder. “So you want answers?”

“You did promise me some, if I remember correctly.”

“Yes.” The word was followed by yet another long moment of silence, but this time, Watson contented himself to finish a slice of toast and was reaching for another one when Holmes finally spoke again. “Well, yes. Answers, then. What would you like to know?”

Where have you been all this time? Why are you this thin? Why did you not trust me with the truth? Why Wiggins instead of me, and why did you not return earlier when I needed you all along?

Placing the toast back on his plate, Watson inhaled, holding the air in his lungs for a moment. “You said that it was the little street Arab who informed you of-who wired you about the accident. Why? What instructions did you leave with him? And why did you return?”

“Now, Watson.” Holmes leaned back and crossed one leg over the other, his expression shrewd. “You already worked out that Italy was where I spent some time. Therefore, I’m certain that if you look at the facts I gave you, this is a riddle you can-”

“I’m not in the mood for a lecture,” Watson interrupted, rather rudely. He softened it with a, “Please.”

Holmes balanced the bow between thumb and forefinger, his lashes hiding his eyes. In plain daylight, the alarming thinness of his face was even more prominent, sharp angles and the small cut from Watson’s last night. The humorous tilt to his mouth had disappeared entirely when he finally spoke. “Wiggins was instructed to inform me should anything be amiss with you.”

“There was something amiss when you failed to return for months on end,” Watson said harshly. The memory of those days was still fresh - Mary’s sympathetic voice trying to ease his mind; passing by Baker Street several times a day, just in case, until his visits had decreased in frequency, his hope of finding a note amongst the post slowly dwindling away. And then Mary had died.

Watson pushed his plate away and sat back. “Why didn’t you come then? Or send a note, at the very least?”

“I’m sorry.” It was, apparently, all Holmes had to say on the matter, and Watson gritted his teeth, blinked rapidly against the red heat of anger and fear and disappointment, a tangled knot he didn’t know how to unravel. He pushed his plate away and sat back.

“Why didn’t you send a note, at the very least?”

Holmes’ gaze was cryptic. “You had your wife.”

The completely illogical argument pulled Watson up short, the word wife echoing in his head, a dull ache. He searched for words, any words at all, but Holmes was already continuing. “In any case, Wiggins’ first message never reached me. The second one did, albeit with another delay. I made arrangements for travel as soon as I’d read it.”

“Why?” Watson stared at Holmes’ restless fingers dancing along the bow, as jittery as Watson felt. “You’d successfully ended our-You don’t seem to have had much trouble staying away. Why come back now?”

“I never said I didn’t find it difficult to stay away.” Holmes laid the bow across the table, one end dipping into the marmalade. He rose to cross over to the window, a tense air about his posture. His clothes were the same he’d worn last night. He turned his back to Watson, surveying the road from behind the curtain while grey light outlined his silhouette. “I considered it a wise decision. However, as soon as I heard of your loss, I couldn’t-I wouldn’t, that is. Leave you alone in these hard times.”

Watson glanced at the straight line of Holmes’ back before he cleared his throat so the words would come out. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” Holmes’ voice was uncommonly rough. They remained in silence while time seemed to stretch impossibly. Eventually, Watson reached for his breakfast again, but his distraction made him misjudge the distance, knife clattering down on the plate. Holmes startled, his entire body straining before he turned around. His muscles were coiled tightly, and in a man more ordinary, it might have been the brief materialisation of an underlying fear whereas in Holmes, Watson had no idea what to make of it. He wasn’t certain he knew this man as well as he’d once thought he did, but it didn’t stop him from wanting to touch, only to reassure himself that Holmes was there.

There was a fair chance he was going mad. If he was, he was grateful that at least he’d be in the company of Holmes’ ghost.

He inhaled as calmly as he managed, lowering his eyes. In the warmth of the room, the butter had melted, knife spreading it easily over the toast. “Did you catch the infamous Professor Moriarty whom Miss Adler warned you about?”

“I regained the red-headed midget’s device,” Holmes said. “I destroyed it. I don’t think humanity is ready for the possibilities it offers.”

“So the Professor got away.”

“I’m afraid he did.” Holmes’ admission was succeeded by a weighty pause that caught Watson’s attention. He raised his gaze to find Holmes’ eyes trained on him. “And,” Holmes added, a quick succession of words, “I am even more afraid that he might have taken to curious ways to lure me out of my self-imposed hiatus, for once the device had been destroyed, I no longer felt inclined to continue chasing him across the entire continent. I think he might have taken offence to this unspectacular ending of our acquaintance. Either that, or he believes that I made myself familiar with the device before melting it. That would be a correct assumption.”

Watson frowned. “Holmes.”

“Yes?” Holmes’ face was blank.

“You appear to forget that not everyone is up to your level of pulling clues out of thin air. You may stop speaking in riddles anytime now.”

“Of course, yes. Forgive me.” The smile Holmes gave Watson was overly bright, set off by his tanned face. He crossed back over to the chair and plunked down, drawing one leg up and wrapping both hands around his ankle. “Well, as I said, I don’t think Professor Moriarty appreciated the way our ways parted. I think he’s been trying to lure me out of hiding. Unfortunately, he knows me rather well.”

Against the buzzing background of his thoughts, Watson couldn’t work out the meaning of Holmes’ statement. He shook his head, but that didn’t help him clear it. “What are you saying?”

Holmes’ tone was uncharacteristically stilted. “He knows that a friend in need is certain to bring me back. And he knows that there is no one on earth closer to me than you are.”

“I still don’t-”

“Moriarty specialises in arranging deaths.”

For just a second, Watson was back on that blasted road, crouched over Mary’s twisted body with her skin growing cold in his arms, was thrown back into the darkest hour of his life when everything was lost. Then he dug his nails into his palm, the sharp pain providing just enough distraction that he managed to protest, “It was an accident.” The words sounded as if someone else had spoken them. His thoughts, the dull ache in his chest, everything whitened out for a moment, left him short of breath and darkened his vision. “Holmes, it was an accident. The cab driver was drunk, and his horses bolted. He’s in gaol.”

Holmes pushed himself to his feet. He crossed over to the book shelf in quick strides and came to a halt with his face turned away. “Moriarty has a special gift for arranging accidents.”

“You are wrong.” Watson jumped up, following Holmes. In the silence in the room, Watson’s thoughts were screaming at him, and he gripped Holmes by the shoulder, forcing him to turn in a half-formed attempt to shake sense into Holmes. “It isn’t true, Holmes. It can’t be. I…” …won’t allow it.

It didn’t matter whether he allowed it.

Watson slumped, and tentatively, Holmes brought up his arms to steady and pull him closer. “I’m hoping you are right,” Holmes murmured into Watson’s ear. “I really do hope so.” His voice was low, palm warm on Watson’s shoulder blade, but despite the words, there wasn’t much confidence in Holmes’ tone.

--

They arrived separately at the prison; Watson hailing a cab for himself while Holmes was still in the process of changing his appearance, claiming that there were too many familiar faces amongst the inmates to show himself openly. It was a quarter of an hour before Holmes joined Watson in the tavern just around the corner from the police station, and Watson himself barely recognised Holmes.

The highest ranking guard was someone Watson vaguely remembered from a case, an enthusiastic officer who was full of admiration for Holmes and, by extension, Watson. He readily made arrangements for Watson to talk to the man responsible for Mary’s death, showing no objection to Holmes’ presence after Watson had introduced him as a friend who’d recommended a direct meeting with the culprit to achieve some sense of understanding.

While they waited for a guard to take them to the cell, Watson balled his hand in the pocket of his coat, the chain that held Mary’s wedding ring biting into his neck. At the time, he’d chosen not to get involved in the investigation; the case had seemed clear enough and he’d felt incapable of forming a coherent thought, anyway. It meant that he hadn’t met the cab driver yet, a drunken cretin who was to blame for the accident, a man who’d caused Mary’s death because his judgement had been clouded by alcohol.

It had been an accident, Watson repeated silently, to himself. Because if it hadn’t been-

“Come, now,” Holmes murmured to him, leaning into Watson’s space. His hand briefly settled on Watson’s elbow. “Let us clear the matter up once and for all. It may very well turn out that I was wrong.”

“I’ve never known you to be wrong,” Watson replied in an undertone, avoiding the curious eyes of the officer. Holmes flushed in pleasure, and while he was clearly trying to hide his delight, he’d always been rather responsive to compliments concerning his skills. A vague, distant sense of gratitude that some things didn’t change crept into the cloud of trepidation that weighed on Watson’s mind.

The guard who showed them to the cell was young and bumbling. Upon a request from Holmes, he waited at a polite distance while they proceeded towards the isolated cell where the cab driver was waiting to talk to them.

Watson drew a deep, harsh breath when he caught sight of the man’s stocky figure. Once more, Holmes’ supportive touch was consolation and encouragement at once, giving Watson the strength it required to take another step forward, bringing him up to the bars of the cell. “Mr. Randy Norton?”

“That’s me, aye.” The man came closer, the features of his round face obscured by the shadows inside the cell. His red, protruding nose was a prominent mark, and absently, automatically, the doctor in Watson filed it away as a side effect of regular alcohol consumption. “Heard you wanted to talk to me?”

“Why yes, indeed we did.” It was Holmes who replied while Watson was gripping his walking stick tightly, thinking of the blade concealed within. He startled when Holmes stepped up beside him, parting the lapels of his coat. A glimmer of glass was all Watson caught, the man in the cell drew forward eagerly, greed shining in his beady eyes.

“Is that what I think it is, sir?”

“A fine drink. The right thing to keep you warm for a week, at least.” Holmes nodded sagely. “And all it would cost you are the answers to a number of questions I have.” Focusing on Holmes’ steady presence was all that kept Watson from attacking the alcoholic man - the cell was small and left little room for retreat; it would be easy to knife Norton before the guard came running. As if by chance, Holmes’ knuckles pressed to Watson’s leg.

“Ask away,” Norton declared. “I have nothing to hide.” His eager eyes were fixed on Holmes’ waist.

“Well, then.” Holmes crossed his arms. “At the time of the accident, was there a guest in your cab?”

“That’s what you came to ask me?” The man shrugged his shoulders, gaze flickering up to Holmes’ face before he focused back on the area where the bottle was hidden. “You could’ve read in the report that there was no passenger. I’d just dropped one off.”

“Really.” Holmes’ bony shoulder pressed to Watson’s. “Tell me about that passenger.”

“Ah, funny you should ask.” This time, Norton’s gaze rested on Holmes’ face for a moment longer. “Odd fellow, that man was. Had this air of a professor about him, a bit like you.”

It took a second for the statement to sink in. Then everything in Watson’s body clenched, fingers contracting around his stick, the wedding ring icy against his chest. His mind was still blank and white when Holmes fired off the next question. Everything seemed to move at a speed that was beyond Watson.

“A professor, really? What made you think so?”

“Just something about him.” While Norton frowned, , clearly in an attempt to retrieve knowledge that had been lost in a haze of drink, Holmes took a half-step to the side which brought his body closer to Watson’s, warm and solid all along Watson’s side. The contact helped Watson regain at least a semblance of balance. He inhaled, deliberately relaxing his fingers while Norton added, “The way he spoke, it was all big words, scholarly. High forehead.”

“He wouldn’t have happened to carry a cane with him?” Holmes asked.

Norton shrugged, then paused and nodded. “Now that you mention it. Yes. Carried a stick with him.”

“You said he struck you as odd,” Watson cut in. His voice wasn’t quite controlled, but he didn’t care, it didn’t matter. “How so?”

“Well.” Norton drew the word out, a clever look coming over his face. “See, it’s not every day a passenger lets you have a drink while you wait for him. Not that I’m complaining, mind you. Some of the best ale I’ve had, that.”

Holmes leaned forward. “He bought you a drink?”

“Aye. Told me it would shorten the wait.”

“So he bought you a drink, and you drank it while he was taking care of some business. And then, when he came back out?” The look in Holmes’ eyes told Watson that Holmes’ mind was processing everything, and he fought to order his own thoughts, make sense of Norton’s words despite the gaping hole in his chest. He hardly even managed to keep himself upright.

Norton crossed his arms. “Look, I answered a lot of questions already.”

“Just two more,” Holmes said. “What happened when he came back outside?”

“Took the glass from me and told me to hop on up. So I did.” Norton’s voice came out with a sullen edge now, his gaze never straying from Holmes’ waist. Once more, Watson’s fingers itched for the blade in his stick, but it wouldn’t serve anyone. It wouldn’t bring Mary back.

Oh God. Nothing would bring her back, nothing.

Watson barely heard Holmes’ next question, something about the horses pulling the cab, about their reins, and whatever it was, it didn’t matter because it wouldn’t bring her back. Leaning heavily into Holmes’ side, Watson forced himself to listen in time for Norton’s reply. “Yes, was examining the harness, told me he had a special interest in those. And then he turned and the horses jumped all of a sudden, and the young lady had just stepped out on the street.” For the first time, something like remorse showed on Norton’s face.

“And you were so drunk you couldn’t control them,” Holmes said sharply.

Norton’s petulant eyes fixed on him. “I’d only had that one ale, Sir. I don’t drink during my shift, usually, but I could hardly refuse a customer, could I?”

“And yet,” Holmes put in, “the police said you were staggeringly drunk when they brought you in, hardly able to walk straight.”

“It was potent ale,” Norton said. His face darkened, expression closing off, and Watson had participated in enough examinations to know that this was all the information they would get from Norton. It was enough, more than that, and still it would be easy to knife Norton, so easy - only it would punish the wrong man.

Holmes had been right.

Watson fought for breath while Holmes passed the bottle through the bars, instructing Norton to put his jacket over it. Vaguely, Watson hoped Norton wouldn’t be found with the bottle, but even if that were the case, Watson couldn’t particularly bring himself to care. It made no difference to him.

They left the prison in silence, side by side, Holmes quiet and serious even as he stayed close enough for their shoulders to touch. Watson’s mind was a maze of thoughts chasing each other, nothing he could really focus on - he should have become involved in the investigation, but even more, he should never have put Mary in such a position, should have ensured that Moriarty was no longer a threat to consider. Why had Holmes let the man get away?

It was only when they climbed into a waiting cab that Watson was pulled back into the present. The motion made Holmes’ sleeve slide back, revealing a glimpse of his wrist which was marred by puncture marks.

Watson leaned forward to snatch Holmes’ hand, holding it in a tight grip while the cab jerked forward, wheels clattering over the cobblestones. Holmes sat quietly, tensely. He made no attempt to twist free when Watson pushed his sleeve up further, leaning forward to examine his arm in the dim light inside the cab. Holmes’ skin was peppered with little marks where a needle had sunk in, and Watson trailed his fingers over the miniature bumps, needing to confirm by touch what he could easily tell just from looking. Holmes’ alarming thinness, his lack of appetite and the nervous twitch of his limbs were three more pieces in the mosaic.

He was a doctor. How had he failed to notice until now? How had he failed to notice that Holmes, for all that he had returned, was systematically destroying himself, was committing a slow version of egotistical suicide that would remove him from Watson’s life again in a way that was more final, more definite; how had Watson missed this?

Slowly, he raised his gaze. He found Holmes’ eyes focused on him already, something dark and helpless in them. Watson dropped Holmes’ wrist. “Am I,” he said roughly, “correct in my guess that this is why you lost the taste for the hunt? Why you couldn’t be bothered to return?”

“Wrong on both accounts, Watson.” Holmes’ voice was even, and for a brief moment, unfocused hatred flared up in Watson’s stomach. “In fact,” Holmes continued, “this is how I made myself stay away.”

“That makes no sense.” Watson gave him a hard look, taking in the gaunt appearance of Holmes’ face. Holmes had been at this point before, had been further, even, his entire strength deteriorating, and Watson remembered that it had taken him weeks to make Holmes see sense and accept help. “You look dreadful.”

The ghost of a smile, nearly hidden behind the fake beard, flitted over Holmes’ face before he averted his eyes. “Why thank you. I must say, though, that there are worse kinds of addiction.”

“I thought you'd stopped. At least...” Leaning forward, Watson tried to catch Holmes’ eyes again. “At least, I thought you'd stopped taking it intravenously. You did stop once, remember? Why did you-What made you start again? It’s destroying you.”

Holmes lifted one shoulder in a gesture of careless dismissal. “So be it. Surely you know that it was your continuous implorations that made me stop once; it wasn’t a great feat of self-discipline. I claim no credit in the matter.”

“I will not allow you to destroy yourself,” Watson told him quietly. “I won’t, Holmes.” He’d failed in protecting Mary; he would not make the same mistake with Holmes, not while he still stood a chance, not while he could make Holmes listen. Not while Holmes was alive.

“Shouldn’t we concentrate on hunting the man who killed your wife?” Holmes asked. His gaze posed a clear challenge, and the urge to hit him once more was almost overwhelming. Watson fought to control himself.

“Don’t change the topic.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.” Holmes leaned back, looking perfectly at ease. Only the twitch of his leg spoke a different language.

Watson sighed; he knew Holmes well enough to recognise when he was coming up against a brick wall, but just because he’d lost this round didn’t mean he was about to give up. He couldn’t, he wouldn’t. “You were right,” he said quietly.

“Yes.” The faint traces of humour faded from Holmes’ face. “I’m sorry. I wish I hadn’t been.”

“Yet you always are.” A pause followed while houses swam by outside the window, the high construction of Tower Bridge looming in the distance. Watson glanced at Holmes’ wrist, covered by fabric again, before he forced his mind on a logical track. “You believe that Moriarty spooked the horses just as Mary stepped onto the street.”

“His cane hides a revolver that makes hardly a noise. A bullet might have grazed the flank of a horse. I doubt our police force was alert enough to examine the horses for wounds, not with a case seeming that clear.” Holmes’ gaze grew absent for long moments, his brows drawn together, profile too sharp and angular. “It was no uncommon occurrence for her to be there at that time, was it?”

“No. Once a week, she had tea with a dear friend. It was a regular occurrence for her to be there, and to leave at that time.” Watson clenched down on the sweltering pain in his chest; it wouldn’t serve anyone if his control failed him now. “If Moriarty arranged… arranged for Mary’s death to lure you back to London,” he began slowly. Holmes shot him a quick look, a hint of panic in it that Watson didn’t know how to interpret, so he continued, undeterred. “Then it means he’s awaiting you. He might have sentries outside our home.”

“Oh, yes. He does.” The assertion was followed by a quick grin that didn’t reach Holmes’ eyes. “There was no guard last night, but the one who held watch over the house this morning was easy enough to overpower. Fortunately, he carried no less than three stolen wallets with him, so the officer I called for help was so friendly as to escort him to the nearest police station.”

“Which means they know you’re back.”

“No, they don’t.” Holmes’ shook his head and touched a hand to his beard. “As far as they are concerned, I’m just a professor who had a stroke of luck when defending himself against a criminal.”

“Clever.”

“I thought so.”

“And yet it will only be a matter of time until Mrs Hudson spreads the word.”

“I asked her not to because, otherwise, an old enemy might consider blowing up the house as a means to get rid of me.”

“That’s very close to the truth, actually.”

Holmes grinned, more broadly now. “The best stories are the ones that stick close to the truth, my dear Watson. However, I’m afraid that Mrs Hudson’s badly hidden delight to at seeing me alive and well may have faded already. It is quite possible we will need to find new lodgings eventually.”

It required some effort for Watson to shape his lips into the curve of a smile, but he managed. If it turned out less than convincing, Holmes was polite enough not to remark on it.

--

Watson kept a close watch over Holmes for the entirety of the day, assisting Holmes in his efforts to build a device similar to the one he’d destroyed and which would, according to Holmes, give them a range of possibilities for their encounter with Moriarty. However, the complex working of it seemed to pose a challenge even for Holmes. He lined up the pieces that would be needed with a slow and careful hand, clearly intent not to forget even one tiny detail. Not once over the course of those long hours did he reach for the needle Watson had located in a drawer of Holmes’ desk, yet the occasional, amused glances Holmes shot at him proved that he was well aware he was under observation. As the day wore on, Holmes’ moves grew mildly skittish around the edges, his touches not as precise as they’d been earlier.

It had long since grown dark by the time Holmes tired, and no visible progress had been made on the device.

When Mrs Hudson brought their dinner, her mouth pinched tightly at the chaos that already crept up on the room, and yet she selected the finest pieces of meat to transfer onto Holmes’ plate. The familiar ritual soothed Watson’s errant thoughts; he sank into its comfort as they ate, Holmes holding a monologue on Italian wine. He eventually sat back with a groan, holding his stomach.

“That was barely enough,” Watson told him. “You can’t be satisfied already.”

Holmes’ bright gaze rested on him for a second, a spark in it that Watson couldn’t quite explain. Then Holmes sobered, lifting one shoulder. “I am not in the habit of eating much anymore, Watson.”

“Well, then that will have to change.”

“Are you trying to fatten me up?” Holmes grinned across the table, yet Watson didn’t bat an eye.

“I am, yes. I won’t stand by and watch you waste away just because you prefer opium or morphine or some other chemical substance over food.”

“Now, Watson.” Holmes leaned back in his armchair, reaching blindly behind himself to obtain his pipe from where he’d left it on the shelf. He stuffed it even as his voice dipped into the lecturing tone he sometimes assumed. “As a doctor, you really should know that morphine is a derivative of opium. It is-”

“As your friend,” Watson interrupted harshly, “all I care about is that it will kill you, whatever it is.”

Holmes stared at him for a long, intense moment. Then he lowered his gaze, devoting an undue amount of attention to lighting his pipe with fingers that were slightly twitchy, and Watson felt a glimmer of hope in his stomach. Maybe this was one task where he wouldn’t fail.

Once Mrs Hudson had cleared the table, Watson selected a book from the shelf. It was one that belonged to Holmes’ collection, dealing with plants and their various poisonous characteristics, but Watson found his gaze straying away from the pages more and more frequently as the evening progressed. Holmes was reclined in an armchair near the window, studying a volume on electricity while taking notes. His pipe filled the room with the sweet tang of vanilla, fingers tapping a silent, incessant beat on his thigh, and the only reminder that there might be danger lurking outside was in the way he rose now and again to peer out at the street from behind the curtains.

When the clock struck nine, Watson found that the anxiety building up within him was growing too strong to ignore. He set the book aside and said, his voice deliberately off-handed, “I think I shall take a walk. Some fresh air would do me good after the meal, and maybe I can find out whether they really leave the house unguarded at night.”

Holmes took the pipe from his mouth, scowling. “So you mean to tell me that you will indulge in your gambling habits?”

The question pulled Watson up short. He should have known Holmes would see right through him, and yet he’d been hoping for an easy escape. With a dark knot of unjust resentment in his chest, he sunk back into his chair. “I was really just going for a walk, but I can just as well stay here, if it pleases you.” The note of hurt pride didn’t sound convincing even to his own ears.

Holmes shot him a quick, brilliant smile. “As a matter of fact,” he said, “it would.”

--

Watson had several patients scheduled for the morning, the first arriving just after Holmes had slipped outside to buy a different type of wire that might be useful to rebuild the device. During the appointments, Watson forced his mind to stay focused on his patients; he didn’t allow himself to dwell on Norton’s revelations about the accident, on memories of Mary’s smile or on Holmes’ needle marks and curious evasiveness concerning the time he’d spent in Italy.

Within Watson’s practice, none of it was allowed to matter.

He removed his stethoscope, straightened and instructed the retired Colonel to lower his shirt back down. He crossed over to the shelf where his medications were lined up, and for the third time today, compulsory, he noted that the Paracelsus solution had not been touched. Selecting a mild cough syrup, he turned around with a reassuring smile. “There is a slightly rattling sound when you inhale, yes. It is not a cause for concern, but I advise you to take two spoons of this every morning and evening until your breathing is no longer restricted. If you have still troubles in a week, you should return.”

“Thank you, Doctor.” The old man rose with a groan, accepting the bottle and slipping it into the pocket of his worn coat. His condition had gradually worsened over the years that Watson had been treating him, age and the strain of military battles fought in foreign countries taking their toll, yet his gift for telling fascinating stories remained and had prolonged their appointments more than once.

“You look better,” the Colonel remarked suddenly, his wrinkled face folding into a smile. “It is amazing how quickly the human mind can recover from tragedies, again and again.”

Watson didn’t know how to reply because, in a way, he’d always been aware that he owed his recovery from the war to Holmes rather than his own mind. Was it ironic that yet again, it was Holmes to whom he owed a new sense of direction when it was Holmes’ initial disappearance that had started the entire downward slope of events? Could Watson even tell irony from tragedy anymore?

As he couldn’t very well burden the Colonel with these thoughts, his only reply consisted of what Holmes would call an omission of facts. “I have been sleeping more easily these last couple of nights.”

The Colonel nodded, patting Watson’s elbow before he slid his arms into his coat, the act clearly an effort for him. He was in the habit of refusing any help, so Watson didn’t offer. He accompanied the Colonel down the stairs and to the front door, closing it firmly after an unobtrusive glance up and down the road. Apart from a young newspaper boy, he didn’t spot a living soul.

When he turned around, someone was standing in the middle of the entrance hall, revolver drawn.

Watson backed against the door, sparing a regretful thought for the stick he’d left upstairs. Then the thin silhouette and the familiar curve of the intruder’s ears made him exhale in a rush. “What was that for?”

“That,” Holmes said, pocketing the weapon, “was to keep you on your guard, old boy. I’m afraid you might have grown soft in my absence.”

“You could always sneak up on me, Holmes. It’s probably just in your memory that my skills were any better than they are today.”

Holmes shook his head with an indulgent look at Watson, but didn’t reply. When Watson advanced to snatch Holmes’ wrist, sliding the sleeve back to search for new marks, Holmes didn’t protest. His hands were remarkably dirt-stained, but there were no additional marks on the left arm, so Watson moved on to the right.

Holmes’ expression was faintly contrite when Watson touched his index finger to the new, reddened puncture and looked up with a glare. “Stop that.”

Retracting his arm, Holmes covered the marks up with the sleeve of a jacket with patched elbows, the bottom stained with dirt. A stripe of coal was smeared across his forehead. “I am not yet clear as to why I should want to stop.”

“Oh, I don’t know.” Watson took a step back, voice laced with acid. “Possibly because you will die if you continue like this?”

Holmes tilted his head. “It is a sad truth that we must all die eventually, Watson.”

“You are choosing an indirect way of committing suicide,” Watson hissed when what he really wanted to say was, Don’t you dare leave me.

“And you are spending money you don’t have,” Holmes replied evenly. His gaze was straight. “Tell me. If I hadn’t returned, how much longer would you have been able to cover the rent?”

Watson opened his mouth, but a second ticked by before he came up with a suitable rebuttal. “Difficult to say, seeing as how I was obliged to pay both your part of the rent and mine.”

Shadows shifted on Holmes’ face. “True. Yet it is a feat you could have accomplished easily enough if you hadn’t gambled a good part of your income away. Therefore, your argument is irrelevant to our conversation, although I will compensate you for the sum as soon as I can be sure it won’t end up in the pockets of a greedy boxing ring owner.”

Watson felt his shoulders sag, turning towards the stairs. Without much hope, he asked, “How did we move from discussing your dangerous addiction to chemical substances to my vices?”

“Because I don’t see why it is only I who should be put to the test, here.” Holmes’ feet were light on the steps, his shoes made of worn leather. “Anyway. I managed to find the wire I think we need, and unless I’m very much mistaken, the flat that used to be vacant, across the road and two houses down, now comes with a new tenant who spends a lot of his time spying out of windows. The apprehension of their other man might have attracted their attention.”

Watson wasn’t even aware there’d been a vacant flat. He nodded once, curtly, and led the way into the sitting room. Through the open door to Holmes’ study, he could spot Holmes’ efforts from yesterday lined up on the desk, looking very different to the device Watson vaguely remembered. While Watson selected an armchair to rest for a moment, strangely exhausted, Holmes stepped up to the collection of mechanical parts. There was a nervous energy in his motions that was at least partly the result of chemical influence. Watching him made Watson itch with the need to do something, anything, because if he didn’t…

If he didn’t, he’d lose Holmes again.

Watson tipped his head back, tracking Holmes’ progress from underneath his lashes, and didn’t even notice when he slipped into sleep. He dreamed of wheels rattling over cobblestones, of running horses and Mary’s pale, delicate hands, the skin of her arms marred with dozens of tiny puncture marks. When he woke, there was a blanket draped over his body and Holmes was nowhere to be found.

--

It was nearly time for dinner when Holmes came back in the guise of a construction worker. The coal dust that darkened the legs of his trousers proved he had once again taken advantage of the connecting door between the cellars of this house and the next. “Getting closer and closer, Watson,” he announced, rubbing at his scruffy beard in a most self-satisfied manner. “It turns out that Moriarty has returned to his teaching post and clearly intends to uphold his reputation while his criminal organisation keeps growing. It is a shame that uniquely talented minds like his or Irene Adler’s consider crime their primary purpose in life.”

“I’ve often thought that you would make quite the fine criminal yourself.” Watson set the revolver he’d been polishing down on the table, crossing his legs as he watched Holmes go through the routine of removing his disguise. He didn’t know what propelled him to ask, “You do know that Miss Adler escaped, don’t you?”

“Oh, yes. She waited until the carriage was delayed by a thick throng of people before she unlocked her handcuffs and disappeared. Clever girl.”

“You gave her the key,” Watson said sharply. It hadn’t occurred to him until now, but it should have crossed his mind sooner - of course Holmes wouldn’t have thrown Irene Adler to the guards.

“Obviously.” Holmes turned his head, leaning closer to the mirror as he wiped off some paint. “Even if I hadn’t, she wouldn’t have accepted imprisonment for very long; she is too fond of luxuries and her freedom.”

Watson scowled. “Have you seen her since?”

The scruffy, brown-haired wig had come off before Holmes replied. “No, my dear Watson, I have not. The last crime that bore her handwriting was set in France. Why this inquisition?”

“She knows the Professor, so she might have been of some assistance to us,” Watson said, although he wasn’t certain it was quite what he’d meant. He rose from the armchair, crossing over to the window. The road lay deserted. “I was thinking,” he began slowly.

“Always a dangerous course of action,” Holmes interrupted. He sounded overly energetic, and Watson had no doubt he would find a fresh puncture mark, should he search for it. He turned around, hands in the pockets of his trousers, voice serious.

“We should move. The house is already under observation, and if Moriarty comes looking for you, this would be his first, logical choice.”

“We?” Holmes repeated. “I don’t think so. It would only draw their attention if you moved.”

“Then you must rent rooms somewhere else, alone.” Even as Watson said it, the mere idea of letting Holmes go, again, made him falter.

“No,” Holmes said. He was crossing the room, pulling off the stained working shirt as he went, then crouched down to rustle through a drawer which should hold documents, yet what he retrieved was a shirt. The ripples of his spine stood out sharply, bumps that Watson could have counted blindly if he’d run his palm down Holmes’ back. He watched the shift of muscles when Holmes pulled on the new shirt that, upon closer inspection, turned out to belong to Watson.

“Why not?” Watson stepped away from the window, hoping that frustration rather than relief coloured his voice.

“Don’t you think it would attract attention if you spent more time elsewhere than in here? Besides,” Holmes shook his head, something deeply serious in his features, “I will not risk leaving you alone here.”

“I can take care of myself,” Watson protested.

A small smile flickered over Holmes’ face, gone almost as soon as it appeared. “Quite so. But there is no need for it when I am here.”

By the time Watson had come up with a decent reply, the right moment had passed and Holmes was already back at his desk, sorting through pieces of metal with a frown of deep concentration on his face. Watson studied Holmes’ profile before he returned to his armchair, picking up the book on plants that he’d started the day before.

--

This time, Watson hadn’t announced his intentions to Holmes before he’d left the house, although he didn’t fool himself into thinking his departure would go undetected. He walked down the road quickly, everything in him pulling him towards a place where bets and alcohol ran freely, where the noise numbed his thoughts and the excitement of the match overwhelmed all other considerations.

Foresight had made him bring only a small part of his income today, but when he left the Punchbowl, stepping out into the deserted street that was still powdered with a thin layer of white, he had lost everything, down to the last shilling. The temporary relief was already fading.

The house lay in darkness when Watson returned, but there was no doubt in his mind that Holmes would still be awake and rather infuriated with him. He made an effort to unlock the front door quietly, taking the stairs with silent steps, and yet he wasn’t surprised when Holmes awaited him with crossed arms and a dark expression.

“Do you mind?” His body heavy, Watson stepped past Holmes into his study, draping his coat over the back of a chair. “I am rather tired right now.”

“You reek of alcohol and smoke.” Holmes had followed him, his voice a low hiss. “It rather makes you a hypocrite, don’t you think so?”

Watson whirled around to scowl at Holmes’ shadow. “Well, at least this isn’t going to kill me.”

“That depends.” Holmes gave a derisive snort. He took an inaudible step forward, fingers closing around Watson’s arm and squeezing down. “You are aware that the house is under the surveillance of a greedy murderer who might run out of patience anytime, are you not?”

“Let go.” Watson attempted to shake his arm free, but despite the poor state of Holmes’ body, his strength had not declined. In fact, the grip tightened for a brief moment, pain flaring up, and Watson had almost forgotten what it was like, to feel physical pain rather than that which sat in his chest and lurked at the back of his head.

“I hope you enjoyed tonight,” Holmes said calmly, dangerously quiet. “Because I will not let you do this to yourself any longer.” He dropped Watson’s arm without warning, walking past him towards the door while Watson was still seething.

“Do you enjoy the chemical rush?” he asked Holmes’ back. “Do you enjoy destroying yourself? Because that’s exactly what you are doing.”

Holmes paused, his hand already on the door handle. “It soothes the mind,” he replied, and then he slipped away into the darkness. Watson stood still for what felt like a very long time before he finally moved, tearing his clothes off, shoving them into the laundry basket with an almost violent desire to rid himself of their stench.

Sleep didn’t come as easily that night.

=========

>> Part 2