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Watson must have taken a wrong turn at some point in the dark tunnels below the warehouse. That was the only possibility he could think of. He had been behind Holmes, trying to keep up with him, and he must have taken a wrong turn.
There was another possibility, but he could not think of it. Not for a moment. To think of it might be to invite reality to latch onto the idea, to make it real. Watson had lost much of his certainty in the stable state of reality over this past year or so.
“Holmes, where are you?” he called again, desperate. “Holmes, please answer me!”
His lantern flame flickered, as if about to go out, then steadied. And for a moment, Watson could swear he had felt wind, a gust of air that did not smell as if it belonged in this world.
“I am getting paranoid, that is all,” he said to himself. “This is a manmade tunnel. A smuggling tunnel. Just find Holmes, finish investigating for strange artifacts, get out.”
He turned from side to side, trying to decide which branch of the tunnel to take, then looked down at the ground for footprints. There were many footprints, and he, unlike Holmes, was not a master of deciphering them.
“Holmes!” Watson paused, listening for some reply, as he had been forced to listen so many other times. But every other time, Holmes had answered him. “Holmes! Sherlock, can you hear me?”
There was still no reply. Heart racing, Watson picked out the footprints that he thought were the closest match to Holmes, and followed them.
Even with the lantern, the darkness of the tunnels pressed in close. It was as if the light didn’t travel as far as it should. A strange odor still hung in the air, metallic or mineral. Perhaps it was just some smell native to this jagged, northern coastline.
What if the movement of air earlier was truly a breeze, and one of these tunnels opened to the sea? They were smuggling tunnels, after all. What if Holmes had taken a wrong turn in the dark, and fallen into the water again, and—
“No, I cannot think that. Holmes is fine. Just… just lost. Or I am lost.” Breaths coming in too quickly, Watson paused at another junction and tried to calm himself, to focus. “Or we are both lost.”
He could not panic. Holmes must be in here somewhere, lost in this maze as well. Perhaps he had suffered one of his periodic disruptions of connection to this world, and had not heard Watson’s call.
Strange, that the thought of Holmes suffering a break with reality would be one of the less frightening options, and yet it was. Holmes’ grasp on sanity was fragile at best, even over a year after the ordeal at the lighthouse. And he had survived many such encounters with those realms.
But they had run into enemies on these expeditions many, many times, devotees of these strange gods. That too was a possibility. And so was the threat of water, no matter how much Watson tried not to think of it.
Holmes would say that it was pointless to speculate, that theorizing without data was dangerous. And so, Watson would not let himself speculate more. He would press on, into the darkness, until he had found his companion.
“Holmes!” he called again, rushing into the next tunnel. “Sherlock, shout out to me! Tell me where you are!”
Nothing answered him, except the distant echo of his own voice.
---
There was, perhaps, one decided advantage to having repeatedly faced off with dark forces, violent and arcane rituals, and monstrous gods from realms beyond the known world. After confronting such horrors, not to mention the crumbling ruins of his own sanity, Holmes found humans with guns to be rather less than intimidating.
He calmly wiped the blood from his lips, the result of a backhand blow that had caught him off guard as he rounded a corner. “Ah, gentlemen. I fear I took a wrong turn in your little smuggling route. Perhaps you could be so kind as to direct me to the exit?”
“Do not try that with me,” the man who seemed to be in charge snapped. “Answer the question. What are you doing here?”
Holmes glanced across him, taking in the clothes, which were of good quality. Not a sailor, nor a manual laborer of any kind based on his hands. Ink flecked the cuff of his right sleeve. “I presume you are an administrator of some sort, perhaps a secretary to Mr. Crompton? I have heard he’s the man to see if one has… shall we say, unique, artifacts that one wishes to—”
“Holmes!” The call echoed down the tunnels, and Holmes briefly closed his eyes in dismay. “Sherlock, where are you?”
It would be easy enough to dive back down the tunnel and call back without being promptly shot. But that would still leave him and Watson facing down four guns, in the unfamiliar dark tunnels. Not good odds, and so Holmes stayed quiet. He would not endanger Watson.
“Take him,” the secretary whispered, and two of the men stepped forward. They each seized an arm. Holmes did not resist. “Mr. Sherlock Holmes, is it? And so, that is Dr. Watson. Which one of you should we sacrifice to the Old Ones?”
“Me,” Holmes said at once. He could feel the whispers of power up ahead, the demands for blood and pain. It was what he had been following. “I am a far greater threat to your organization, and your so-called ‘Old Ones’ already have a taste for my blood. Therefore, I am the only logical option.”
The secretary’s eyes blazed with hunger for violence, that tinge of madness that Holmes had so often seen in the eyes of cultists. That tinge of madness that he feared was mirrored in his own gaze. “You will participate? You will submit?”
“I will submit to anything, yes. So long as you do not trouble Dr. Watson, and allow him to proceed out of these tunnels.” The alternative was the only thing Holmes feared in this situation. His own fate was inevitable. Was calling to him. But he could not allow Watson to fall with him. “Swear it.”
This last, he did not say in English. The ritual was already calling to him, beckoning him, and the boundaries between realms broke down.
“I swear,” the secretary said in the same otherworldly language, and shook his hand.
“Sherlock, if you can hear me, call out!” Watson’s voice seemed to echo from far, far away. Holmes was uncertain whether it truly was far away, or if he himself had merely slipped beyond Watson’s reach. “Sherlock!”
“I’m sorry, John,” Holmes murmured to the dark. And then, with only faint regret, he allowed the men to lead him down the tunnel.
The whispers had grown louder now, worming their way through his brain, wriggling under his skin. Or perhaps he was the worm, and those were hooks piercing him, preparing him to be cast into the sea, bait for some dark god to rise and consume…
A jolt of fear went through him. Not fear of the men with their guns, but of that. Of the sea. Had he perhaps discerned the path this ritual would take?
No. That was merely paranoia, and trauma. And they were very near the sea, after all. It was perfectly reasonable to have such thoughts, given his past experiences.
The rational explanation did not reassure him as much as it should, and a tiny flame of terror grew in his chest. But ultimately, his fate did not matter. Whatever he must endure to protect his poor Watson, he would. No one could have possibly been more devoted, and Holmes would not allow such a good man to be sacrificed to evil.
From time to time, he thought he heard Watson’s cries for him. He did not respond, could not respond.
The tunnel descended, seemingly becoming darker with every step. The ringing in Holmes’ ears was louder now, composed of voices that were not of this world.
His vision blurred, and for a moment he was not underground on Earth. He was in a chasm, with a grey sky stretching to infinity. Waters cascaded over the edges of the chasm, surging towards him, and he walked steadily onward—
Light glowed ahead, and Holmes attempted to focus on reality again as his fellow worshippers—no, as his captors—led him into a cave lit with torches. The light of the flames glittered on wet, jagged rock and strange statues carved from that same unfamiliar stone.
Other artifacts sat on pedestals all over the cave, arranged in some unknown way, and Holmes shivered as he looked at them. The artifacts were geometric, yes, but in a way that seemed wholly wrong. It was rather like looking at a visual representation of his own shattered mind, warped by pressures he could not comprehend.
A man in an extremely well-tailored suit of the most expensive material approached him, eyes lit with the same fire that spoke of contact with those strange forces. He cupped Holmes’ cheek, thumb sliding across his skin. “A beautiful sacrifice. You have done well, and back so quickly. You did not need to go into the village, then?”
“He was investigating the tunnels,” the secretary said, voice quiet and subservient. “This is Mr. Sherlock Holmes.”
Holmes attempted to pull himself together, although he was experiencing an increasing urge to hurl himself to his knees in front of one of the statues, open his wrists to the Old Ones, and surrender fully to their power. “Yes, that is correct. And you must be Mr. Crompton. I understand you are in need of a sacrifice.”
Crompton took off Holmes’ hat, and tossed it aside. “And you would volunteer?”
“With the understanding that my companion Dr. Watson will not be touched, yes.” A chill went through Holmes as he peered deeper into the cavern, and saw the glittering stars of the night sky. This was likely a sea cave, then. “You may do whatever you wish to me. Whatever the Old Ones require.”
Nodding, Crompton gestured to his men. They drew Holmes forward, towards the mouth of the cave.
Towards the sea, its rippled surface reflecting the light of the stars and moon.
Holmes’ legs went weak, and it became a struggle to breathe. The humid air stuck in his throat, filled his lungs. He quickly noted the water marks, far higher on the walls of the cave than the current position of the waves lapping at stone. It was not yet high tide.
And there, just in front of the waves, was a stone altar, and men waiting for him with rope. Water lapped at their boots.
Instinctively, Holmes resisted, pulling against the hands on his arms. Crompton, who had been conferring with his secretary, chuckled and came over. “Now, now. Mr. Holmes, you agreed to this ritual. But if you have changed your mind, I can certainly acquire Dr. Watson as a replacement. It seems he is still crying out for you, and will not be difficult to locate.”
“No, no,” Holmes said quickly, trying for calm and not entirely succeeding. “I have not changed my mind. So long as you do not harm Dr. Watson, I will continue to cooperate.”
And so long as Watson did not find his way here before the ritual was complete. If he did, the cultists would no doubt try to harm him regardless of their word, and Holmes would have to attempt to protect him.
The thought sparked a vague, hysterical sort of amusement deep inside him. He himself had done precious little protecting. It was Watson who had protected him, time and time again. Would Watson ever be able to forgive himself for not succeeding now?
Holmes pushed the question aside, stepped up to the altar, and took off his jacket. Regardless of the result, he must protect Watson this time, in the only way that he could. By offering his blood, and his life, to shield the man who was so desperately crying out his name.
Even now, Holmes could almost hear it, the familiar voice. Most likely he was merely imagining it, and yet he had no doubt that Watson was indeed calling to him, over and over, as he had done in the past when Holmes had gotten lost.
This time, Holmes would not be able to answer him. Perhaps not ever again.
He removed his gloves, yielding to the hooks of instruction that whispered in his brain. Interesting that this was always so instinctive. Had he not been about to die by drowning in rising tidewaters, he might have attempted to understand why it was that these forces seemed to have some resonance with him.
Perhaps it was merely his attention to detail, his pattern recognition. It had led him to conspiracies that did not exist before. Regrettably, these dark paths very much existed, stone paths worn down by both water and the tread of countless feet.
He rolled his sleeves up to the elbows, took a deep breath, and picked up the obsidian knife from the bloodstained altar. Words bubbled up from somewhere deep inside him, words that did not belong on this mortal plane and ought not to be spoken by mortal lips. And yet they came to him, out of the dark, and he spoke them as he put the blade to his left forearm.
Some more primal urge called to him, terror demanding that he plunge the blade into his forearm and slice neatly down to his wrist, that he might bleed out as quickly as possible. But this ritual did not call for a quick death, and the hand guiding the blade no longer seemed his own.
He scored across his forearm three times, shallow diagonal cuts. Blood welled, and began to trickle downward, towards the sea. Switching the knife to the other hand, he chanted the words again, and then repeated the process.
Tilting his head back, he closed his eyes and stood still, letting his blood paint the stone. Words escaped him again, a repetitive chant, and now his fellow worshippers joined in. The words rose and fell in waves, spoken over and over.
“Ph’nglui mglw’nafh Cthulhu R’lyeh wgah’nagl fhtagn.”
The chanting rose to a peak, and then ceased. And when Holmes opened his eyes, he no longer saw the sea cave, or not only the sea cave. It was still there, like an echo, an afterimage of a bright light.
But other realms opened up before him, stretching onwards into the vastness. Great expanses of space listened, their chant carried on the aether deep into the void. Other realms listened to, their geometry as twisted and warped and purely wrong as those statues just behind him. And then the too familiar space, the rough rocks and grey skies and glowing sigils of the strange places he so often wandered.
The altar remained before him in every realm, surrounded by pillars, the unusual markings upon two of them already glowing. Perhaps it had been primed by his first gift of blood.
He did not know what came next, except that he must lie upon the stone altar, with the waters rising, and allow his fellow worshippers to bind him. And although this was not part of the ritual, he knew one other thing, more deeply than anything else.
He must keep Watson safe, no matter the cost to himself. No matter what they might do to him next.
---
“Sherlock!” Tears escaped down Watson’s cheeks, and he wiped them away with a sob. His throat burned from yelling, and the pain in his leg had grown so severe that each step threatened to drop him to the floor of the damp passageway. “Sherlock, where are you?”
His heartbeat crashed in his chest, increasingly violent as his terror rose. He had tried his best to keep himself from panicking, tried to keep from imagining the worst. But how much longer could he keep pretending that any second now, Holmes would answer him?
Not much longer. Something had happened, surely. Something that had prevented Holmes from answering him. To imagine it was perhaps to make it reality, in this twisted world, but what else could he think?
More importantly, what else could he do?
His leg crumpled underneath him, and he sank to the ground of the tunnel with a groan. Hand shaking, he massaged the knot of damaged muscle, trying to coax it to relax. He had no concept of how long he’d been running through these tunnels now, or any idea of where he’d gone. For all he knew, he might have just been going in circles.
“Think, Watson, think!” he said to himself, pressing a hand to his brow. “There must be some way, some way to find him. He always seems to know exactly where to go. How does he do that?”
Because these Old Ones, or whatever they were, had some strange interest in him. Because he had performed their rituals. Because he had shed blood in their realms.
Was that where Holmes had gone? Had he been taken there again?
Watson looked around, half hoping to see the strange place that Holmes had so often babbled about while in the grip of delirium. After the lighthouse, when he had entirely broken down, he had spoken of it over and over. He had sobbed his story into Watson’s shoulder, begging to be allowed to remain on the Earthly plane rather than to be forced to harm himself again and again.
No matter what Watson might hope, he himself was not in those other realms. He was still stuck in dark tunnels near the sea, alone and unable to find his partner. But perhaps…
Watson didn’t have the same instinctive grasp of these awful rituals that Holmes did, but he had certainly seen enough of them, and the aftermaths of others. And it seemed they always called for one thing.
“Where is he?” he asked, unsure who he was asking, whether it be gods or monsters or some totally incomprehensible. “Please, let me find him. I… I offer a gift. I offer myself.”
Hands only steady through long practice as a doctor, Watson drew his pocketknife. He swallowed hard, pushed back his sleeve, and then cut into his forearm at a spot that would bleed well, but did not risk damaging veins. He cut twice more, and was unsure why.
As soon as the first offered drop of blood struck wet earth, something shifted in the world. As if it had become porous all around him. As if any second, he might fall straight through the tunnel floor and plummet into the abyss.
Watson gasped, suddenly dizzy, his ears ringing. He dug his fingers into the ground, seeking solidity. Wind gusted across him, and the strangely metallic smell from earlier flooded his senses.
And then the ringing became whispers, voices chanting in a strange language that he could almost grasp. He knew one of the voices, knew it intimately. More importantly, he knew where it was.
“Holmes!” Watson shoved to his feet, almost distracted from the agony in his leg and shoulder. “Sherlock, hold on, I’m coming!”
He ran through the tunnels, following each downward sloping turn. Other powers hovered just out of easy reach, other rituals calling him to join. If he reached out…
But he did not want any of those rituals, not even with the echoing promises of power. He wanted only Sherlock, to find Sherlock and to take him away from this horrible place before it was too late.
And then Watson heard the first scream, high and piercing and too familiar. The same screams he had heard over and over for months, whenever Holmes slept. Terror and pain and dread, all wrapped up together.
“Holmes! Holmes, I’m coming!” Watson charged forward with renewed purpose, following both the screams and the pull of his partner’s presence. “Damn it, just hold on!”
Blood ran down his arm and across his hand, and he had an impression of it being hungrily devoured by the very earth itself. Perhaps he and Holmes were both being devoured, and these tunnels were merely the digestive tract of some ancient god.
Holmes’ screams were louder now, and some sense told Watson to be quiet. He found himself surrounded by stone now, natural tunnels rather than those dug by man. The floor of each seemed strangely sloped, not quite at the right angle, and yet they funneled him in the right direction. Towards the screams, which grew ever louder.
Until at last, there was a jagged break in the stone, a window into a lit chamber. Watson pressed against the wall, and peered inside a wide cave.
The beacon that had become Holmes’ presence drew his attention immediately to the figure tied to the stone altar, wrists and ankles bound to either end. Holmes’ arms, outstretched in front of him, were bare and bloody, his shirtsleeves hanging in tatters. Blood stained the back of his shirt, too.
A whip wielded by a man in dark robes cracked down across his back, and he screamed again. Another man, this one in a stylish suit, bent over Holmes’s arms with a knife in hand.
But it did not seem to be the torture that consumed Holmes’ attention, that generated the fear in his cries. Rather, it was the sea, just in front of him, lapping at the altar and the legs of the men who were torturing him. Rising steadily, as the tide came in.
And based on the water marks all around the cave…
“My God,” Watson gasped, his legs going weak. “No. Oh, God, please no! Sherlock!”
Watson could not reach him from here. He could see, but not touch. As he reached out towards the whispers, he could sense the tunnels that might lead there. But there was not enough time for those routes, he must get there now, there had to be some other way—
The world shifted around him, the ground giving way, and he fell. For a moment, he was tumbling downwards, into the abyss.
And then he hit solid ground, dry rock. Grey sky loomed overhead, cut through by gigantic chains. There were pillars, and floating platforms of rock, and huge swinging axes. All the things that Holmes had told him about.
“All right, then,” Watson said, bracing himself. “I may not be Holmes, but I can certainly solve puzzles. Just hold on, Sherlock.”
With Holmes’ screams still echoing in his ears, Watson marched forward directly towards the swinging axes.
---
It had started with the whip, once they tied Holmes down. He was not surprised. Even now, the ritual sang out to him, like a lullaby coaxing him to submit and simply let it happen.
Regrettably, “it” seemed to be an immense amount of pain. Crompton had apologized for the pain, stroking Holmes hair before tearing his waistcoat open and proceeding to lash him until he was raw and bleeding and screaming.
The whispers rejoiced at Holmes’ suffering, and at his blood. The very earth hungered for it, delighting in his every scream. His pain fed it, fed these dark forces across many realms.
He could see into the other realms as the ritual continued, as Crompton carved sigils into the backs of his hands, across his arms. Each cut seemed to connect him more deeply to those places as his blood pumped out.
And he could see something else, too. The tide was coming in, seemingly rising more every minute now. Soon, it would reach the top of the altar.
Another wave of chanting rose all around, and Crompton straightened. He still held the obsidian knife, blood dripping from it to the waist-high water. “Your life shall please our Lords greatly, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, especially as it is freely given. A willing sacrifice is the sweetest, or so the old books say. Do you have any final words?”
Holmes could not get enough air to reply. His back and arms were agony, and each attempt to breathe sent a fresh wave of torment across his shredded back. Tears of pain escaped down his cheeks, and he sobbed weakly.
There was one thing he must say, though, no matter how difficult. “Watson,” he choked, hardly able to manage it. “John. Do not… hurt John.”
“It is understood. He is a lucky man, to have had such devotion.” Smiling beatifically, Crompton gestured to the man with the whip. “Be brave, Mr. Holmes. It is nearly over.”
But it was not over yet. The lash came down across his back at least a dozen times while Holmes screamed and his fellow worshippers chanted. He thought he might faint, but regrettably, the ritual seemed to have tethered him to consciousness.
When that part was done Crompton scooped up sea water in a bucket, apologized softly again, and poured it across Holmes. The deluge of salt across open wounds was like fire, and Holmes thrashed and shrieked at the burning torment that consumed him.
He came back to himself with the sick taste of vomit in his mouth. Water dripped from his fringe to the stone, spreading in a puddle with the watery vomit.
The sense of purpose was gone. The cultists were gone. The ritual, whatever it was, seemed to be complete.
Aside from one thing, at least. That much was clear as the waves of high tide reached his hands for the first time. As the water neared his face. He had been abandoned to this, left to drown.
“No,” Holmes gasped, his surroundings blurring even more. Not merely other realms now, but a garden, and a pond. “No…”
The next wave hit him in the face, and his mind snapped. He screamed and howled, wrenching wildly against the bonds on the altar. But he was tied too tightly, and could not get away.
Another wave struck. He breathed in water, then collapsed into desperate coughing. His pain seemed immaterial now, nothing compared to the sheer horror and terror.
“Watson!” he screamed as the next wave hurtled towards him. “John! John, help me!”
---
Once, Watson had thought of himself as a coward. During his military service, he had followed orders to run away from the threat of death. Even his own injuries, incurred while attempting to tend to the wounded, had not seemed enough to atone for his former cowardice.
Holmes had never seen him as a coward. And yet, no matter what horrors they had faced, somehow Watson could not banish that impression of himself. He could not stop feeling that when it came down to it, when he himself was in mortal peril, he would flee again.
Watson did not flee now. He never even considered fleeing. Again and again he walked into the slicing blades of great axes, flung himself off ledges to break apart on hard stone, even once was consumed by some monster. Again and again, he died and was reborn, and by doing so progressed through strange rituals.
Finally, breathless and aching, he found himself in front of a glowing doorway. He stumbled through it, and found Holmes tied down in the water.
“Holmes!” Watson ran forward to the edge of the stone and then dove into the water, tears stinging his eyes. “Oh God, Sherlock!”
The world was still warped and unreal, and deeply wrong. He could see both the seaside cave where Holmes had been tortured. But he could also see some twisted realm, with pillars and glowing sigils all around the altar, around Holmes.
Perhaps they were in both places at once. It did not matter, because there was water in each, rising above the edge of the altar. And although Holmes was still struggling with weak thrashes, he could not keep his head out of the water. The waves drenched him, drowned him.
“Sherlock, hold on!” Watson waded to him and drew out his knife. He sawed through first the ropes binding Holmes’ ankles, then those at his wrists. “Hold on, just hold on. I’m here.”
“N-no!” Holmes jerked weakly, trying to twist away from his touch. He sobbed, tears dripping to the water. His back and arms were a mess of injuries, blood everywhere, but Watson had no time to properly examine him. “No more, please, I can’t take any more!”
“Shh, it’s me. It’s only me.” Desperate, Watson climbed onto the submerged altar and cradled Holmes to his chest. Holmes was drenched, his skin like ice. He struggled to breathe, then coughed violently and vomited. Watson steadied him, heart racing. “You’re all right now. You’re going to be all right.”
Although Watson wasn’t certain what to do now. Get Holmes out of the water, yes. But he had certainly inhaled water—perhaps quite a bit—and he was in no shape for a long trek through the smuggling tunnels.
He tried to smooth Holmes’ dripping hair out of his face, but the contact drew a violent flinch. Holmes’ eyes rolled, wide and terrified as a frightened child’s. “I thought it was… over. Please…”
“Shh, it’s over. It’s all right now, Sherlock.” Watson tried to grasp his arm, to steady him as the next wave hit, but the produced the same panicked flinch and babbled plea. “Sherlock, don’t be frightened. I’m not going to hurt you.”
“Of course you are. Of course…” Vicious coughing wracked Holmes, wet hacking that shook his slender body. He slumped against Watson, wheezing, struggling for air. “I know I must… allow it. Pray proceed.”
“Proceed?”
“With the torture.” Holmes’ voice broke, and tears slid down his ashen cheeks. “I will not… resist. So long as you keep your word.”
Watson pressed his fingers to Holmes’ neck and frowned at the weak yet rapid pulse. He must get Holmes out of this water and into warm clothes, and tend to his injuries. “I am not going to torture you, Sherlock.”
“You must! That was…” Pale fingers clutched at Watson’s shirt, tugging. Holmes struggled to focus on him. “That was… the agreement. Do not harm John.”
The earnest, desperate plea struck Watson with all the force of a bullet. He reeled, tears flooding his eyes, and then cradled Holmes closer. “My God, Holmes, what have you done?”
“What I must.” Holmes shivered convulsively in Watson’s arms, gasping for breath. “Just… do not hurt…”
He began to cough again, and then retched weakly. He had not been eating again, too absorbed by their case, and nothing came up except watery fluid. And seawater, likely.
“No one will hurt Watson, I promise.” Guilt wrenching at him, Watson wrapped his arms around Holmes tightly, and slid off the altar. The water was above his waist now. “No one will hurt Watson if you do as I say.”
“Of course.” Another hitching sob struck Holmes, and he closed his eyes. “I am ready.”
“You must hold onto me.” Almost sick with horror at all of this, Watson guided Holmes’ wounded, bloody arms around him. “I am going to take you to shore, but we will have to go through the water.”
Holmes shivered, but did as he had been told. “I thought… I thought I was to be taken to R’lyeh, to the depths. Ph’nglui mglw’nafh Cthulhu R’lyeh wgah’nagl fhtagn.”
“No, no! I will not let that happen, not ever.” The thought of Holmes agreeing to this, agreeing to drown in order to protect him…
With all the strength as a doctor that Watson possessed, he shoved that thought away. He did not have time to think of any of that, to think of anything other than getting his patient to safety. Somehow.
He must start by getting Holmes out of this water and to the rocky shore. He looked up, and sudden vertigo struck. Reality was still blurred, both realms visible. Which one was he truly moving in?
“The shore is still our destination, either way,” Watson said with all the stubborn conviction he could manage. “Hold onto me, Holmes.”
Gasping for breath, Holmes obeyed. He gasped and cried out as Watson pulled him into the water, fingers digging into Watson’s back. With each wave that struck, he flinched and cried out again.
Watson waded back to the shore, his leg and shoulder on fire with pain as he half carried Holmes. There was no possible way that he could drag them both through the smuggling tunnels, out of the warehouse, and then to the hotel where they had been staying. Neither of them was strong enough to make the trip.
It took most of his remaining strength to scramble out onto the rock, pulling Holmes with him. Holmes collapsed across his lap, coughing violently again, and then clutched at him. “I’m s-sorry, I’m trying to hold on…”
“Shh, easy. It’s all right now. You’re doing so well.” Hand almost shaking, Watson smoothed Holmes’ damp hair. “Sherlock, look at me. Can you look at me?”
Grey eyes flicked to him, bleary and confused. “Of course. If… if it’s necessary for the ritual.”
“Not for the ritual. You’re not…” Watson fought back tears as Holmes looked up at him with not just fear, but terror. Still expecting to be tortured further. “I am not going to hurt you.”
“You must. I promised.” Eyes going even more fogged, Holmes struggled through a wheezing breath. “You may hurt me. Just do not… hurt my Watson.”
“Sherlock, it’s me. It’s Watson. John.” Nearly sobbing, Watson cupped his cheek. “Look at me, please. I need you help. We must go home. Do you know how to go home? To safety?”
“Watson…” But Holmes still wasn’t focusing, wasn’t lucid. He brought a hand to his bleeding arm and scratched at it, in a geometric sort of pattern. He traced it again and again, digging deep enough to leave red lines even on his grey-tinged skin. “Yes, if Watson needs to be safe, I will do it. Give me the knife.”
Watson hesitated. If he gave Holmes a knife, in his state, what might he do?
“Holmes. Sherlock!” He cradled Holmes’ shivering form closer, although with how drenched they both were, his body heat would not help much. “Please, you must focus on me. It’s Watson. I am right here. It’s John. You’re with John. Look at me.”
Holmes’ eyes flicked to him again, and then widened. A bloody hand came up, clutching at his jacket, fingers fumbling weakly across the fabric. “John?”
---
It was John, or so Holmes thought. He knew the face above him, knew it so well.
But perhaps he was hallucinating. He did that rather often, after all.
“Sherlock! Yes, it’s me. It’s your Watson.” The face above him broke into a smile, although tears slid down ashen cheeks. “Can you hear me?”
“Clearly, or else I would not be replying.” The words came with a struggle. There was such pain in Holmes’ chest, and each breath felt strange. Strange in a too familiar way, as if there was water in his lungs. “Watson? I do not… understand what’s happening. I—”
He tried to take a breath, and pain seized his abdomen. His stomach twisted horribly, and he doubled over, retching.
“Easy, Holmes. I am right here.” Watson—if it was Watson—steadied and held him. “Do not despair. We are going to get out of here, one way or the other, but I need your help. I came through a strange realm to find you, but I do not understand how to use it correctly. Is there a way to get to safety through this space?”
If Holmes had been capable, he would have laughed. His help? He could hardly think, let alone help someone else. His mind was fractured, coming apart, scattered across a dozen realms that seemed all equally real. He was broken, too broken to help anyone.
Perhaps he could still help, though. “You may… complete the ritual, if you need to. I wish for you to be safe, no matter the cost.”
“I want both of us to be safe!”
“It may… not be possible.” Even with his mind fractured, Holmes understood something of the dilemma. Watson needed to travel to safety by the warped, twisted space that might reach anywhere in the universe if properly appeased. That at least was simple. “The Old Ones have something of a taste for my blood. If you sacrifice me, spill the remainder of my blood—”
“No!” The cry burst from Watson, and Holmes flinched at the noise. “No,” Watson said again, more softly. “I will not. I will die here with you before I do such a thing.”
“That is very… magnanimous of you, but illogical.”
“I don’t give one single damn if it’s illogical, Sherlock! I am not sacrificing you, and I am not leaving you here.” For a moment, Watson looked as if he might break down sobbing. But then, he pulled himself together, and held up his arm. “Can we do it together? The Old Ones have a taste for my blood now, too.”
A jolt went through Holmes as he stared at the cuts on Watson’s arm. Clearly self-inflicted judging by the angle and depth. A mirror to the first three that Holmes had inflicted upon himself earlier.
“John, no, you didn’t!” he gasped, and then fell back as the world spiraled around him. “I… I came to an agreement with my captors specifically so that you would not…”
Tears overwhelmed him. He turned to hide his face in Watson’s shoulder, overwhelmed. Pain tore across his back, and he wept harder. He could not do this. He could not endure this.
“Shhh, it’s all right. Oh, Sherlock, it’s all right.” Watson held him gently, stroking his hair as he cried. “I love you. I would do anything for you.”
“I love you too, John.” Holmes could not endure this, could not endure the fear and pain and confusion. But if Watson had tied himself to these horrors, it was unthinkable not to try to make amends. “Give me a knife.”
With a sharp, fearful inhale, Watson drew back and searched his face. “Sherlock…”
“I promise, I will not use it to end myself.” No matter how much he might wish to. “I am going to send us to safety. Baker Street is too distant for a smaller offering to suffice, but given these surroundings, I can manage something nearer. To the hotel. I will need you to help me. Please trust me.”
“I do trust you, always.” Watson drew a knife and pressed it into Holmes’ trembling hand. “Although I do worry when it comes to your own safety.”
At the moment, Holmes lacked either the strength or the right to object to that. Even now, the urge remained to merely open his wrists and let it all be over. To use all that was left of himself to send Watson all the way back to Baker Street.
Unluckily—or luckily, depending on one’s point of view—he still possessed enough of a shred of sanity not to do such a thing. Instead, he reached out with his mind, opening himself to the whispers and power coursing through the artifacts all around him, and made the first cut in his arm with Watson helping him.
It was perhaps fortunate that he had a surgeon providing aid, and a surgeon with such steady hands. Watson gave a soft sob as he assisted Holmes with carving the geometric sigil, but his hand never shook.
Once it was complete, with more of Holmes’ blood running down to the stone, he gestured weakly to Watson’s arm. “I’m sorry, John.”
“No, no. Please, don’t be sorry.” A kiss brushed to Holmes’ brow, and Watson shifted the knife blade to his own arm. “I would have offered everything to save you.”
“It would be… somewhat hypocritical of me to chastise you now.” Holmes blinked a few times, his vision blurring. His head had started to roar again, the voices too loud to shut out. And he could feel himself detaching, his mind starting to come entirely apart. Soon, he would break.
But he could not break yet. He followed the voices, pressing down with the blade until it parted Watson’s skin. Blood welled in the trenches he carved, filling in the pattern, and then splashing against the stone. Holmes mumbled a chant, words of power in an otherworldly language that came to him far too easily.
Light blazed from additional sigils on all the pillars around this space, their shared sacrifice enough to satiate even these hungry gods for now. The lighted doorway changed somehow, as if singing in a new key, and Holmes pointed to it just before his mind shattered.
He was, in part, still aware of Watson. Watson was lifting him, carrying him towards the brilliant glow. It hurt Holmes’ eyes. Although granted, at this point, everything hurt so much that any additional pain seemed superfluous.
Hmm. He seemed to have become quite detached. In a way, it was rather pleasant.
Watson was talking to him, asking some question. The words buzzed vaguely, incomprehensible. But on a more positive note, Watson’s voice was always very pleasant. Holmes loved listening to it.
Ah. Watson had asked a question. Unfortunately, Holmes had not heard it, and he did not currently seem to be capable of speaking English. No comprehensible words would come to him.
And then they passed through the glowing doorway, and into somewhere much darker. Holmes did not entirely recognize it, but it was familiar. And Watson was there, so that meant that whatever was going on, everything would be all right.
Watson was speaking to him again, gently laying him down. There was an immense amount of pain, and rather a lot of contact on Holmes’ back, as if someone was peeling away his skin.
He became vaguely aware that he was screaming. For a moment, the fact that he was screaming alarmed him slightly. Then he reviewed the situation—at least, what he could remember of it—and concluded that screaming was an entirely reasonable course of action.
Then, quite blessedly, he fainted.
---
Watson could not allow himself to think. To think was to open a doorway to madness, and he had already opened plenty of mad doorways today. His work now called for both a steady mind and steady hands. There was no room for anything other than his professional skills.
Once he had removed the sodden, torn remains of Holmes’ shirt, he washed his own hands, then set about stopping the bleeding. Holmes had already lost too much blood for any further delay.
Thankfully, most of the lash wounds on Holmes’ back had not cut deeply enough to do serious damage. Still, there were many wounds, ranging from his neck to hips.
And then there were his arms, the backs of his hands. These cuts, carved in the shape of strange sigils, were thankfully shallow as well. They would scar, but none of them ought to be disabling.
As he raided his supply of bandages, he thanked his past self for packing so extensively. When he and Holmes had come north, pursing the reports of strange artifacts vanishing from private collections, he had suspected he might need to tend wounds. It was hardly uncommon.
He just had not expected quite this many wounds.
Still, he had dealt with much worse in war. Not to his partner, granted, but…
He pushed that thought away as well, and continued his work. Once the wounds were bandaged, he removed the remaining wet clothes and spread thick blankets across Holmes’ limp form. His shoulder and leg throbbed, but there was no time for that either.
“I will lie down and hold you soon,” he said softly, resting his hand on the side of Holmes’ head. “Just as I did after the lighthouse, and as I have often done since. But I must be sure we are safe first.”
Holmes was still unconscious, and looked as comfortable as he could be given his injuries. Watson had settled him in bed on his stomach, a pillow under his cheek. He looked small under the blankets, and broken.
But he had broken before, after the lighthouse, and he had recovered. He could do it again. And Watson certainly had no intention of giving up on him, especially since Holmes had sacrificed himself to protect—
Shoving that thought aside again, Watson took a deep breath and limped over to check the door. It was locked, and there were no sounds of suspicious activity in the hotel corridor. No one trying to break in to kill them, which was always a danger.
He dragged a desk in front of the door for extra security, then shook his head. Incredible that he had once believed Holmes to be paranoid for worrying about an assassination attempt, and now it had become their life. How many times had they nearly died now?
After a quick look outside the window, which showed only the usual nightly activity in this town, Watson returned to his patient. “Well, there’s no signs of the cultists coming to massacre us,” he said, exhausted. “Hopefully, they don’t realize you escaped. Maybe they think you were transported to Rye… Ryl… whatever that godforsaken underwater place is called.”
Voices whispered in his head, wanting to tell him exactly what it was called, and exactly what he might expect from those submerged depths if he would offer himself. As far as Watson was concerned, he and Holmes had done enough offering for one day. He got himself a brandy.
It wasn’t until he had finished his drink that the deferred horror struck, the sudden shakes and gasping and crying. Tears rained down Watson’s cheeks, dripping to his hands, and he didn’t bother fighting them. Breakdowns, like threats to murder them, had become a fact of life.
For a time, he just marinated in the fear, in the deluge of memory. Holmes’ terrified screams, the sight of these men torturing him, the horrific realization that Holmes had tried to sacrifice himself. Had allowed himself to be torture and even drowned, all for Watson.
That was far, far more distressing than anything else Watson had gone through. Even his own experiences in that terrifying realm, all the axes and cliffs and such, merely felt like a bad dream. But Holmes nearly dying…
That was far too real. That, Watson could not so easily brush off. That was the fear that haunted him, every minute of every day. He had managed to save Holmes this time, yes.
But what about the next? And the next?
Watson was unsure how long, exactly, he spent crying. When he finally straightened up, he was so exhausted that he could have easily fallen asleep at once.
A long sleep would have to wait. Soon, he must clean Holmes’ wounds, and bandage them again. Stitches might be required for some of the deeper cuts. And as there was a considerable chance that Holmes would suffer pneumonia again, he must be closely monitored.
Gently, Watson touched Holmes’ cheek, and found it far too cold. First, then, he would lie down and warm Holmes up. Then he would see to the wounds.
He stripped out of his wet clothes and crawled into bed, trying to disturb Holmes as little as possible. But Holmes still stirred as Watson pressed close against him. Just a little at first, moaning, fingers flexing.
But then grey eyes flickered open, struggling to focus. “The water,” Holmes said plaintively, the tone too familiar. “It stretches on for all eternity. It wants to wash away everything.”
“It’s all right, Holmes,” Watson murmured. “We won’t let it wash away everything, I promise.”
“Calling, calling. It’s always calling. The song.” Again, Holmes moaned, and tried to raise a hand to his head. He let out a low whimper, shifting. “Where is John? I heard him. I want to hear him instead of the song.”
“I’m right here, Sherlock. Right here with you.” Watson tried to smooth back the damp fringe, but Holmes flinched again. He settled instead for a hand on Holmes’ shoulder. “Shh, it’s just me. Would you like me to talk to you?”
“I don’t like the abyss.” Whimpering again, Holmes tried to curl up. He was too tired to manage it. “I want to go home.”
“I’m afraid we cannot go home quite yet, but we’re in that nice hotel. You got us here safely.” In truth, it didn’t really matter what Watson said. Holmes was delirious, and quite possibly hallucinating. It was a familiar state now, one that he had collapsed into after the lighthouse and had suffered from on occasion since then. “We are safe. You’re with Watson, and everything will be all right.”
“Watson was calling,” Holmes said vaguely. He was shivering, but his pulse had calmed considerably. Being out of the water and his wet clothes was helping. “I heard. But they heard too.”
Guilt wrenched at Watson’s stomach, twisting painfully until he could hardly breathe. If he had been more careful, might they have avoided this?
But if he had not called to Holmes, and Holmes had fallen in water again without cultists involved, he might have drowned anyway. All roads seemed to lead to drowning, as if it was fate.
“They are not here now,” Watson said stubbornly, holding Holmes close. “We’re safe, and I will not let anyone harm you again. I will not let fate win, no matter how hard it tries.”
After a time, Watson fell asleep with Holmes mumbling about the abyss, about water, about the whispers. His own dreams were full of such things, and of that horrible realm he had seen. Of giant axes, and his own body broken on hard stone.
More than that, though, he dreamed of Holmes. Holmes with a knife to his wrist, Holmes screaming, Holmes sinking into the depth of the cruel sea.
When Watson awoke after a brief nap, Holmes was asleep and much warmer. Watson cleaned and rebandaged the wounds, administered morphine, and bathed away as much of the dried blood and muck as he could. With far more reluctance than usual, he rang for food for himself. It was important to keep up his own strength for the ordeal ahead.
And then, keeping an ear out for danger, he settled into the too-familiar state of keeping vigil over his wounded, lost partner.
Apart from being in a new hotel, it was very much like the other vigils. Watson tended to Holmes’ needs, both mental and physical. He administered medication as needed, and watched with worry as pneumonia set in. He slept in brief, stolen moments, and often awoke to Holmes crying out or babbling.
And that was one area in which things were, at last, quite different. Because now, Watson understood what Holmes had seen, what he had experienced. He might not have nearly as strong of a connection to those realms, but he had seen them. He had walked them, and bled in them.
His knowledge didn’t change much about what must be done. He murmured soothing words, comforted Holmes as best he could. Called his name softly, beckoning him back.
And sometimes, Holmes even answered him. Not fully lucid, no, but with a smile of recognition, a mumble of his name.
It was several days before Holmes’ eyes cleared, and he looked up at Watson with a sharpness. “Watson. Have you barricaded the door?”
There was still a slight slur to the words, likely thanks to the drugs, but Watson almost sobbed with relief at the increased clarity. “I have, Holmes. It makes it quite a pain to get in and out for food.”
“Is there any indication that the food is poisoned?”
“No.” Watson had always eaten some himself first, before trying his best to coax Holmes into accepting it. “We’ve been very safe. I saw a few familiar figures on the street, but no one has come after us.”
“Excellent. I really am very sorry that I’ve left you alone for so long.” Shivering, Holmes tried to adjust and winced. “I fear I have not been myself for some time.”
“You do not need to be sorry. You have been with me as much as you can.” Gently, Watson helped Holmes move, so that he was resting on his side rather than his stomach. “How do you feel?”
“As if I have been used as a worm on a hook, dangled into a stream to catch a trout.” With difficulty, Holmes drew a breath, then coughed hard. He gasped in pain, fingers digging into the blanket. “Ah. Pneumonia?”
“I’m afraid so, yes, but it is not as serious as your last bout so far. Mild fever, coughing, shortness of breath.” Watson put on a reassuring smile and adjusted the blankets to cover Holmes’ bare shoulder. “You have been very cooperative about drinking fluids, at least.”
“One would think I would have been… more resistant, given recent events.”
Sighing, Watson gave a small shrug. “Well, you seemed to know me, even when you were delirious”.
“Yes. That does help.” For a moment, Holmes was quiet again, his breaths shallow and labored. Then he looked up, and there was immense distress on his face. “Forgive me, John. I ought to have taken better care of you.”
“Better care of me? What do you mean?”
“The… realms. The rituals.” Coughing tore at Holmes again, and tears escaped down his cheeks. Were they the result of pain, or grief? “I wished to keep you from those horrific, gruesome…”
He began to cough again. Watson moved closer, shushing his gently, and rubbed his upper arm in an uninjured around. “It’s all right, it’s all right. Do not tax yourself, Sherlock. And do not feel guilty. I don’t regret what I did.”
“I regret… very deeply that you were put in such a position. I had hoped you would be spared from that place.” After another ragged, labored breath, Holmes inched out a bandaged hand. He touched Watson’s leg, fingers brushing unsteadily against the material. “They will not stop. They know you now.”
“I know. I knew that offering my blood would tie me to this.” Careful not to use too much pressure, Watson took his hand and held it loosely. “But I was already tied to this. I have sworn myself to fight these enemies by your side. I would not have left you for anything.”
Holmes looked up at him, expression still full of pain, tears in his eyes. But he gave a small nod, resigned if not reassured. “You were very brave, John. Exceedingly so.”
Blinking away his own tears, Watson laid down. He rested his own head on the pillow, and gazed into the keen grey eyes. “I was, wasn’t I?” he said softly. “It was because you needed me, Sherlock. I was afraid, but not for myself. I did not fail.”
“I knew you would not fail, my dear fellow.” Another tear slipped down Holmes’ cheek. He moved in, gasping in pain, and touched their brows together. “You have never failed me, not once. I owe you a great debt.”
“No. No, you do not.” Watson held him as best he could, although it was difficult with so many bandages concealing wounds. He pressed a kiss to Holmes’ cheek, and closed his own eyes against tears. “No more than I owe you for believing in me.”
More tears came then, and they held onto each other gently as they both wept. And then the crying triggered a coughing fit for Holmes, and Watson at once returned to his role as the doctor. He still had work to do, so much work.
But although it grieved him terribly to see Holmes so wounded, he couldn’t deny a certain lightness in his chest. As if a crushing weight had finally lifted from him.
He was not a coward. He had faced death, and triumphed over fear. And although the Old Ones knew the taste of his blood now, he was not afraid of that, either. If they tried to take Sherlock away from him in the future, now he could follow. He would never let Sherlock be lost in the dark again.
---
All in all, it had been something of a horrible few weeks. Holmes could only remember bits and pieces of them, snatches of clarity interspersed with a terrifying sense of having dissolved completely. In the moments when he was lost, he had feared he might never find his way back.
Although at the worst times, even “fear” seemed like something of an abstract concept, something that did not truly exist in reality. Other realms, with their incomprehensible geometry and mercilessly hard stone, were far more real to him than Earth and all its joys. It was as if he had merely hallucinated fear, and warmth, and even love.
But he did find his way back, or rather was coaxed back each time. No matter how lost he became, no matter how badly he shattered, Watson always found him and drew him out.
At first, not for very long. Mere minutes, although it was hard to tell the precise length of time. Still, it was clear that he could not hold himself together for long. A mere few sentences exchanged or gentle touches shared, and then he slid back into the darkness.
Gradually, the awareness became more extensive. He was not wholly himself even when he was aware, in those early days. Although he had some recollection of Watson helping him to eat, helping him to drink, bathing him, so on. But he was powerless to act on his own, to do more than yield to instruction. His mind was too broken, disconnected, and he had very little control over his own body.
Still, the periods of awareness grew longer, and so did his bouts of lucidity. Or at least, something near to lucidity. At all times, the world remained fractured and distant, like something merely glimpsed through a shattered mirror. Even Watson, his anchor, seemed so far away that it broke Holmes’ heart.
And then, one day, he awoke feeling almost alive again. Still fragile, as if he might crumble to dust at the slightest prod. But alive, and more importantly himself.
“Watson?” he called, and then promptly coughed. Breathing still hurt, although less than it had in the past weeks. “Watson?”
The bed shifted, and for a brief moment Holmes was confused. But then Watson sat up, rubbing his eyes, and smiled. “My dear Holmes. How do you feel today?”
“Ah. My apologies for having woken you.” After another labored breath, Holmes stretched. He was somewhat surprised to find that he was no longer entirely bandaged. The injuries on his arms, at least, seemed well in the process of healing. “I am a little tired, but I feel more myself.”
“Good, good. Hopefully, that is a sign that you’re well on the mend.” Gently, Watson took his arm as he struggled to sit. “Here, let me help you. If your back is not too painful, you could recline against the pillows.”
“Yes. Thank you, Watson.” Speaking seemed to take far too much air, and merely sitting up left Holmes dizzy and exhausted. He almost felt as if he could immediately fall back asleep, and he certainly lacked the energy to speak more at the moment.
Watson, however, chattered happily as he arranged pillows, spread the blanket across Holmes’ lap, and fussed over him. Although it went against Holmes’ nature to accept such fussing when there was work to be done, he had little choice in the matter. His work, which had already waited for some weeks, must wait a little longer.
He waited at least until he had caught his breath, and until Watson had helped him to take a drink of brandy to steady him. Then he pushed on. “So, it seems we have located the destination of all those stolen artifacts. I fear we shall need to take drastic measures in order to recover them from that cave.”
Watson’s eyes widened. “What? Holmes, you are in absolutely no shape to go anywhere near—”
“Calm yourself, Doctor. I do not mean that we ought to delve into those depths again. I am certainly too ill, and I would not send you there for anything.”
“What do you mean, then?”
“Please pass me the files.” It took a great deal of strength merely to raise his hand, but he flipped a folder open when Watson placed the stack in his lap. Breathless, he tapped the name of the client. “This man, and all the others whose collections were plundered, are influential within the British government. As little as I wish to do so, I believe it would be best to forward this information to Mycroft.”
“To Mycroft?” A frown tugged at Watson’s expression. “Do you think he would listen to you?”
“My brother and I have a… somewhat fraught relationship, it’s true. But judging by his dedication to his own work and the chance to deepen his own connection with our clients, I believe he would organize a little raid if he knew that I had located their priceless…”
Coughing took Holmes again, and he slid sideways. A wave of shivering went through him, as if he had plunged back into the water.
“It’s all right, I’ve got you.” Watson caught him, and gently wrapped an arm around his shoulders. Relieved, Holmes slumped against him, against his warmth. “We’ll send all this to Mycroft soon. But I care more about you than stolen artifacts.”
“That’s very sweet of you, John, but we all ought to be concerned about those artifacts. That is an extremely concentrated collection of eldritch power.”
For a moment, Watson was silent. “Is that why you were able to send us back here? I still don’t quite understand how all that worked.”
“I fear my memory is a little foggy. But essentially, yes. I could call on the power of all those artifacts combined, and in conjunction with our blood…” Stomach twisting, Holmes looked at Watson’s arm. At the scarring geometric pattern, a match to his own.
“Enough about that,” Watson said softly, smoothing his hair back. And although the touch still brought to mind the ritual, and the torture, Holmes did not flinch. He was not afraid of his Watson. “Work must wait. You need rest.”
“Regrettably, I fear you are correct. I dislike resting, but in this instance…” A few more coughs wrenched through him, and he winced. His chest hurt terribly, and each cough pulled at the still healing wounds on his back. “Oh, John. I truly am sorry you saw everything they did to me.”
He had managed enough conversation with Watson to know that by now. Watson had seen the torture, and it had driven him to offer his own blood. It must have been horrific for him.
Just as horrific as it was for Holmes to think of Watson completing rituals.
“I am only sorry I was not more careful. I lost you, Sherlock.” Terrible pain wrenched at Watson’s expression, and he shuddered. “If I had stayed closer—”
“No, no. My dear fellow, I will not have you blame yourself.” Although he very much wished to never move again, Holmes shifted enough to take Watson’s hand. “I ran ahead of you, again. It was my fault.”
“Perhaps we ought to set aside questions of blame, and be glad we are together.”
Holmes considered that. Blaming himself felt right, especially given all that his carelessness had inflicted, but Watson was correct as well. They were together, and it was far more logical to rest and recover than to engage in endless self reproach. “I will limit the amount of time indulge in guilt, then, especially as guilt contributes little to my work. But are you all right, John? I know what those rituals would have demanded of you.”
He had almost expected Watson to cry. To repeatedly offer oneself to those gruesome deaths was a scarring experience.
Instead, Watson smiled. “It was painful, I admit, but I made it through. And I found you. That makes it all worth it.”
“Very touching, but not entirely what I meant.”
Watson’s smile only broadened. He slid his thumb in gentle strokes across the back of Holmes’ hand, careful to avoid the still healing wounds. “I am having some nightmares, but hardly more intense than the dreams I had after the war. And these are not the worst of the dreams that I have. There are others that are so much more awful.”
Although the smile remained, it faltered somewhat, and there was terrible pain in his voice. Holmes understood without trying. “Dreams of losing me, I presume?”
“I’m afraid so. That is the worst. And…” For a moment, Watson hesitated, then pressed on. “Darn it, Sherlock, it makes me so angry when you devalue yourself. I know how readily you would have sacrificed your life for me, but it is not what I want. And it scares me to know how readily you would do it again.”
“I know, and I owe you a thousand apologies for all of that.” Wincing, Holmes snuggled closer to the warm, solid body against his side. Even in his distress, Watson was a bulwark against the darkness. “I cannot promise I will never attempt something similar, but I will try. I am not always in control. I simply… lose myself.”
Tears rose, and Holmes closed his eyes again them. But in closing his eyes, he could once again see the abyss. He opened them, and let the tears slide down his cheeks.
“Easy, Sherlock.” Leaning in, Watson kissed his temple, then did it again. Light, tender brushes of lips, traveling down the side of his face all the way to his jaw. “I am here. You are here.”
“Yes. We are.” Trying to smile, Holmes glanced at his partner. Watson was gazing at him with so much worry, and yet so much love. Each emotion intensified the other. “My dearest John.”
“Hmm?”
“I am aware that I am still rather ill. And as such, you might prefer not to risk it.” Holmes managed to raise one hand, brushing it against Watson’s cheek. “I should like to kiss you, but I have no desire to expose you to contagion. It is bad enough that you have been caring for me while I am so sick.”
“Good heavens, Holmes! Do you suppose that such a consideration weighs with me for an instant?” Watson smiled again, just a little, and then leaned in. Their lips met, a slow, gentle press, and then he withdrew. “My only concern is that I do not deprive you of air for too long.”
Holmes chuckled, and then coughed. “Thank you, my dear fellow. You may be right. Perhaps one kiss is enough.”
“I believe it is, yes.” Watson settled both arms around him again, holding him close. Each touch was so careful, managing to avoid any of his injuries. “I do worry about you, especially on these cases. They so often go badly.”
“Sometimes, they do not,” Holmes said. It was a somewhat weak argument. “We have done an immense amount of good.”
“I know. I also know you are not always in control of yourself, and that some ritual or impulse may once again compel you to try sacrificing yourself.” With a heavy sigh, Watson brushed another kiss to his temple. “But if you do, I shall not give up.”
Holmes couldn’t help smiling at that. “Good old Watson. But I fear there are some things that even your skill cannot mend.”
“I will not accept that.” Adjusting position slightly, Watson met his gaze. There was a fire in his eyes, utterly captivating. “Sherlock, no matter how lost you become, I will always follow you. Even if you pass beyond the threshold of life, I will follow you, and I will drag you back with me. I refuse to lose you.”
The passionate statement, so fierce in its loyalty, moved Holmes to tears. They were the pleasant sort of tears this time, and he nodded as he gazed at his partner. “I was sure that I might rely on you. I do love you so, John.”
“And I, you.” Watson caressed his cheek, stroking away the tears with his thumb. “Is there anything I can do for you right now?”
“Another kiss, perhaps?” Holmes asked hopefully. “We shall keep it brief. I have very little wish to be deprived of air for long, even for something so much more pleasant than drowning.”
He managed a light, teasing tone, and Watson rolled his eyes at the absolutely awful joke before kissing him. They did indeed keep it brief, and then merely curled up together and held each other close. And at last, safe in his partner’s arms, Holmes finally felt that this world was real, and indeed the only one that mattered.