Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The gloom of London matched the black mood that had come upon Holmes for some time now. Having lived with him for so long, I was of course used to his shifting temperaments, but nothing had ever compared to this. As he further entangled himself in Professor Moriarty’s web, he fell deeper and deeper into self-isolation. Rarely, he would update me as to the goings-on of his crusade against the Napoleon of crime. But more often than not, he would spend his days silent and brooding, only speaking to me at meals to confirm I had not been attacked by any of the professor’s agents. 

To see the noble Sherlock Holmes in such a state was agonizing. I had asked countless times if there was any way I could assist him. Holmes always declined. I tried to circumvent him and assist through my contacts at Scotland Yard, but Lestrade and Gregson refused me as well. I began to wonder if they were right to do so. Perhaps I would only slow them down. Despite my long association with the great detective, my own deductive skills had always been lacking. 

I found myself spending more time at my practice than ever before. If I could not lend my services to Holmes, I could at least lend my skill as a doctor to those who needed me. In truth, it was not so selfless an act. I could not stand to see my dearest friend like this. He claimed he did not need me; what purpose would watching him suffer serve? But I could not keep myself away from Baker Street forever. I returned home each night in the vain hope that one day all would be well again. It was on one of my return trips to Baker Street that the fateful encounter occurred. 

I was walking by the road, mindful of any suspicious characters who may work for the mad professor. So focused on the task was I that I failed to notice a strange hansom approaching me. It only came to my attention when its unseen occupant called my name.

“Are you Dr. John H. Watson?”

I turned and saw the cab. It was a peculiar shade of blue, one that I had never seen on a hansom before or since. Emblazoned on the door was a golden “V” surrounded by similarly colored vines. The driver wore the same shade of blue as the cab, and appeared to be an albino of some kind. I was immediately wary of the strange vehicle. 

“To whom am I speaking?” I asked. It would be foolish to confirm my identity to a possible assailant. 

“Please come in, Doctor. I assure you that I mean no harm,” the unseen man said. I may not be a detective, but I could deduce one thing from his voice alone: the man was not English.

“I do not make it a habit to enter a cab with strangers.”

“A wise policy,” the man chuckled. “I am called Igor, caretaker of the Velvet Room.”

I was unfamiliar with such a place, nor had Holmes ever discussed it. Some unsavory club, I imagined.

“Whatever services you are offering, I am sure I am uninterested,” said I. 

“Not even to save your dear Holmes?”

I gripped the service revolver I held in my pocket. Whoever this man was, he was threatening Holmes. Perhaps “Igor” was a false name Professor Moriarty utilized. 

“Step inside, Doctor. It is not as bad as all that,” said the so-called Igor.

“I see no other choice.”

“Wonderful. I shall be delighted to make your acquaintance.”

I slowly opened the door and entered the cab, ready to defend myself if need be. 

Chapter Text

In all my years, I had never seen such a decadent interior to a hansom. The seats were made of a gorgeous blue velvet. The floor was carpeted with the same material. I had to admit that despite the circumstances, it was remarkably comfortable. I could almost hear the faint sound of a woman singing, but I dismissed it as my imagination. Though I could not discern a light source, the cab was bright as day. The light glistened off the bald head of whom I could only assume was this “Igor.”

“Please, Doctor, sit,” he said, gesturing toward the seat opposite his. 

I did as he asked. Though I was distinctly aware of my rude behavior, I could not help but stare. Such a strange man! His ears were large and pointed, and his eyes were bloodshot with pinpricked pupils. The most notable feature was his elongated nose. I can only compare it to that of Pinocchio, the protagonist of those charming little Italian children’s stories. Though on an elderly man’s face, it was disconcerting rather than charming. His limbs were similarly long and gangly. I wondered where he could’ve gotten a suit to fit such a strange body. 

“I beg your pardon,” I muttered. I did not wish to insult a possible threat.

“No need. I am aware my appearance can be a bit, shall we say, unusual,” Igor said. “We have more pressing matters to attend to.”

“We certainly do. What have you done with Holmes?!” I demanded.

“Nothing. Your friend remains in your rooms, physically unharmed.”

I let out a quick sigh. At least Holmes was not in any immediate danger.

“What must I do to ensure he remains that way?” I asked. “What is it you’re after? Money? Information?”

“You misunderstand. I have no wish to see harm done to Mr. Holmes. In fact, I wish to see him healed. And who better to call than a doctor?”

Suddenly, I was lost. The situation had entirely changed. I’d dealt with the criminal element before, but this was uncharted territory. 

“I thought you said he was unharmed,” said I.

“Physically, Dr. Watson. But his mind is another story,” Igor elaborated. “Would you agree, Doctor, that the world around us is shaped by our perceptions?”

“I am in no mood for philosophy, sir,” I insisted.

“This is not philosophy. This is fact. You found the appearance of this carriage rather peculiar, didn’t you?”

“Well, yes.”

“Yet not a single person in the whole of London stopped to stare at the big blue cab.”

I realized he was right. Most citizens of London would have gawked at the sight of the hansom, but save I, nobody had noticed it. 

“Explain.”

“Gladly,” Igor said. “This is no carriage. It is, itself, the Velvet Room.”

“You are the caretaker of a cab?” I laughed. 

“A cab. A prison. A train car. All these and more. The Velvet Room takes many forms. It exists in a place between dreams and reality. Between mind and matter.” 

“I’ve no time for riddles!” I shouted, growing rather impatient. “Just tell me what this all has to do with Holmes!”

“Straight to the point. I appreciate that,” Igor commended me. “Very well. Your friend Holmes’ view of reality has been distorted.”

“A man’s view of reality cannot be perfectly grounded,” I argued. “If anything, Holmes sees the world more truly than nearly any other.”

“That was once the case, yes. But something has happened. Haven’t you noticed any change in him?”

I was rendered speechless. Of course I had. I would have to be blind not to see it. 

“He has mired himself deep within this false reality. There is but one way to save him now,” Igor said.

“What?” I asked instantly. 

“You must venture into his heart. Deep within, you will find the source of the distortion. Remove it, and he will be free.”

I could not help but laugh. The entire situation was ridiculous, but this notion was what broke me. 

“Holmes’ heart? He never shows it to anyone. Even I have only caught glimpses of it,” said I.

“It is not a problem for me,” Igor assured me. “The only question is whether you will undertake such a task. Be warned: it is not without its dangers. Shadows lurk in the hearts of men.”

By now, I had already assumed this all to be some elaborate dream. Where else could such things happen? A cab whisking me away, a strange old man sending me on a quest! It almost sounded like a faerie story. But dream or no, my desire to help Holmes was very real. If I could do so in the land of slumber, perhaps I could assist in the waking world as well. 

“Take me there.”

Chapter Text

The cab came to a stop. Igor invited me to open the door. Once I did, I found we were in the same spot I had left.

“I thought you were taking me within Holmes’ heart,” said I. “But surely, this is still London?”

“Take a closer look, Doctor. All is not as it seems,” said he.

Upon closer inspection, he was right. The whole world had an eerie purple tint. The people of London had been replaced with what I can only describe as clockwork dolls. I was stunned silent. 

“This is how your Holmes sees the world around him,” Igor explained. “Your job is to change all that.”

“But how?” I wondered.

“That, I will leave to you. Surely his closest confidant can uncover where he’s hiding.” 

I stepped out of the “Velvet Room” and took in my surroundings. Such a morose, colorless environment. Was this truly how Holmes viewed his London?

“I don’t understand,” I admitted. 

I turned around to ask for further advice from Mr. Igor, and I found the cab had vanished. I was on my own. What would Holmes do in my shoes, I wondered? I recalled his habit of asking the locals questions and absorbing himself in their gossip. If this technique gave Holmes success, surely it would work for me. 

I approached one of the dolls with caution. Now that I had gotten a better look at it, I could see just how intricately it was designed. Countless clockwork gears turned in place, clicking and ticking as the doll moved. Admittedly, I found this disconcerting. How could anyone view their fellow man as such a lifeless thing? Perhaps it is hypocritical of me to say so. I have, in the past, referred to Holmes as a “reasoning machine.” After this dreadful encounter, I swore to never make such comparisons again. For the sake of my nerves, I decided to speak to the doll as if everything were perfectly normal.

“Excuse me! Have you seen Mr. Sherlock Holmes? I must find him,” I asked. 

The doll did not acknowledge me. I went off to try my luck with another of its kind. I found that every establishment in this false London matched its real-world counterpart exactly. This was not a terrible shock; Holmes’ knowledge of the city was exact, after all. I tried speaking to dolls in the garb of a baker, tobacconist, child, and even in police uniform, but none said a word in response. It was at this point I began to grow irritated. 

“Is this how you see the populous, Holmes?” I thought aloud. “Automatons with no purpose? I shudder to think what I must look like in this awful place.”

That had given me an idea. If this really was an exact replica of London, where else would Holmes be but Baker Street? Even if he had gone out on some case, he would surely return home soon enough. I steadied myself and began the walk toward 221B. 

Chapter Text

My skills in observation are not quite so honed as Holmes’. However, even I could not fail to mark the behavior of the clockwork dolls surrounding me. It took me some time to notice, but it became clear soon enough: Each of the dolls was performing a specific task, over and over again. The baker rolled the same dough infinitely, the policeman patrolled the same spot back and forth, the child handed out the same newspapers to the same exact people. It was as if they performed a delicate dance without even the slightest room for error. Perhaps this was why they were made of clockwork; their behavior certainly reminded me of wind-up toys. I tried not to linger on this discovery for too long, nor what this said about Holmes’ view of the public. Lord knows I had more than enough information to process for one day. 

For a time, I walked toward Baker Street undisturbed. Much like the dolls, I was entirely occupied with my task. I was not so many feet away from the flat when I was interrupted. 

“Where do you think you’re going?” a voice rang out.

A group of automatons started toward me. If the others were disturbing, then these were utterly monstrous. The gears that made them were sharper than the ones I’d seen before; almost blade-like. They were each as wide as a carriage, and they towered over the rest of this strange London’s inhabitants. I instinctively went for my revolver, but thought better of it. Would bullets even wound these creatures? My best chance would be to negotiate. After all, this was Holmes’ world. Surely his creations would be as reasonable as himself.

“Good afternoon,” said I, calmly as I could. “I was just heading home. If you would kindly move out of the way?”

The automaton closest to me appeared to be the ringleader. Though the others looked nearly identical, this one had an accessory unique to itself. In the spot I would venture to guess a left eye would be, there was something akin to a sniper’s scope.

“Home? Where would that be?”

“I don’t see how that’s any of your business,” I countered. 

“It’s ’our business’ if you’re planning to pass by the professor’s place,” said he. “He doesn’t like to be disturbed. So, I’ll ask you one more time. Where do you think you’re going?”

I could hardly believe my ears. Professor Moriarty? Had his web stretched so far that it even invaded Holmes’ very heart? 

“221B Baker Street,” I answered truthfully. “Now, if you will excuse me—”

“That’s far enough,” the automaton said. “Nobody gets to 221B. Not without an appointment.”

“Appointment?!” I sputtered. “Why should I need an appointment to enter my own lodgings?!” 

“Your lodgings? You’re mistaken, sir. Only Professor James Moriarty resides at Baker Street.”

Chapter Text

I stared blankly at the monstrous construct. What the devil was that supposed to mean? Professor Moriarty, living under our own roof? The idea was completely ridiculous. 

“It is you who are mistaken. 221B Baker Street is the residence of Mr. Sherlock Holmes,” I asserted. “Not to mention myself and our landlady. I know not where Professor Moriarty resides, but it is certainly not there.”

Due to their inhuman nature, it was difficult to tell, but I believe the brutes were somewhat perturbed by my statement. One clearly recognizable gesture was the leader nodding towards his subordinates.

“I take it you claim to be John H. Watson,” the scoped automaton said.

“Indeed I do.”

“Ah. Pity. We’ve got strict orders to keep John H. Waston out. And that’s by any means necessary.”

“By whose order? Moriarty’s?” 

“I’m afraid that’s none of your concern.”

Once again, my own lack of observational skill proved to be my undoing. I had concentrated all my energies on the conversation, thus I failed to notice the other mechanized creatures had begun to surround me. I attempted to pull out my revolver and fire upon the beasts, but their reflexes outmatched mine. They each began to strike me with their sharpened limbs, somehow stabbing and beating me at the same time. Had I been in reality, I would have certainly died from the first blow. My own fortitude must’ve increased a hundredfold the moment I entered this strange place. 

Despite the pain, I found my mind racing, countless thoughts forming and disappearing in mere moments.

Perhaps this is all a dream. Perhaps I will wake up back home, safe and sound. 

Holmes, please help me! Don’t let me die here! 

What are these monsters? Why are they so insistent I do not reach Baker Street? 

I’ll wake up in bed. Holmes will be waiting for me. I’ll tell him about this strange nightmare, and he will laugh.

God, please! Anyone! Help me!

Professor Moriarty? Within Holmes’ very heart? How could this have happened? 

But one, above all others, rang out the loudest.

Why am I so useless?

I could not help Holmes on his crusade against Moriarty. I could not keep him safe from the wretched man, for it seemed he had somehow invaded Holmes’ very soul. I could not even keep Holmes safe from himself; the puncture-marks adorning his arm were proof enough of that. Every plan, every mission, every vice, I had stood aside. Left Holmes to his own devices. Perhaps that had been feasible before, but not now. He was destroying himself, right before my very eyes, and all I’d ever done was watch. 

In what I believed could be my final moments, I made a vow.

If I escape this hell, I will stand by no longer. I will save you, Holmes. I swear it.

Suddenly, I felt a pulsing in my head. It was not the same pain I felt from the automatons’ bashing. The pulse came from within my skull, not without. A voice, both like and unlike my own, filled my mind.

Finally disobeying orders, are we? It was taking far too long.

Somehow, it did not seem odd to hear this voice calling to me. It sounded strangely familiar.

Unwilling to remain a bystander in a world full of pain? A noble ambition, and one not easily achieved. Are you truly willing to make the sacrifices necessary to grant your greatest desire?

“Yes,” I managed to choke out. The automatons did not acknowledge me.

Excellent. Your oath is broken, and a contract is forged in its place. 

I could feel something form upon my face. Though I could not see it, I knew what it was: a mask. 

I am thou, thou art I. Heal thyself and punish the blackguards standing in our way!

A gust of wind enveloped me, pushing my assailants back. I managed to find the strength to stand once more. Some form of blue energy pulsated around me, but I found I did not care. Despite the voice offering no instruction, I knew what I must do.

I ripped the mask from my face. A form emerged from the blue flames surrounding me. Though we had never met before, I knew what it was. My true self. My “Persona.” And I knew its name.

“I will warn you only once,” said I. “You will get out of my way, or I shall remove you.”

The automatons did not approach, but they stood firm. 

“Very well. Dupin?”

My other self stepped forward, appearing exactly as I had always imagined Poe’s detective to look. With a simultaneous snap of our fingers, the lesser automatons were set ablaze. Each of them vanished into puffs of smoke in an instant. Only the scoped leader remained. Perhaps my pride affected my judgment, but I had the distinct impression that the machine was frightened.

“You fiend!” he shouted. “You cunning, cunning fiend!”

I brandished my revolver and trained it on the automaton. I had a sense that it would be far more effective with the power I had gained. 

“I shall make things simple. Either you bring me to Holmes, or I fire,” I told him.

“Ha! Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t. The professor’s got his claws in him now.”

I pulled the trigger. Once the bullet made contact, he too vanished into thin air. 

Dupin’s awakening must have taken quite a toll on my constitution. Once the threat had past, a grey mist swirled before my eyes, and my legs fell out from out from under me. For a time, I would know nothing but darkness.

Chapter Text

Awareness returned to me slowly. I smelled strong tobacco, rubbing alcohol, and ink; the unmistakable scent of my room in Baker Street. I could feel my mattress beneath me and blankets above me. This was odd, as I had no recollection of tucking myself in. In fact, I had no memory of returning home at all. My mind was still in a haze of sleep. I tried to recall what I had been doing before I’d come back. 

I was on my way back from my practice. There was a blue cab. Then that strange man started talking about—

“Holmes!” I gasped. The events of the last few hours barreled through my mind like a wild horse. Had any of it been real? The Velvet Room, the altered London, the monsters?

“Watson!” a muffled voice called. I heard the tell-tale sound of a man rushing out of his seat, then footsteps approaching my room. The door was swiftly opened, and Sherlock Holmes rushed to my bedside.

Surely, his presence meant that none of my strange adventure had been real. The brute I’d dueled had said I would be unable to find Holmes, that the mad professor had gotten to him. Yet here he was, unharmed.

“Thank goodness you’re awake. For a moment, I feared…but, no, you look quite well. Do you know where you are, Watson? Do you remember anything?” he asked.

“It doesn’t take your observational skills to see that I’m in my room,” I replied. “As for what I remember, I was returning home from my practice when…”

I could not tell him. How could I? He would think me mad. 

“Perhaps I can fill in the gaps for you,” Holmes said. “You were, indeed, coming back to Baker Street. At some point on your walk, you were assailed by at least five men, and they left you unconscious on our doorstep. Mrs. Hudson had quite a shock when she saw you, dear boy.”

“I was attacked?” I sputtered. 

“Yes. You’ve been injured, my dear Watson. I found you covered in cuts and bruises. I’m afraid your coat’s been ruined.”

The remnants of my battle with the automatons? No, there had to be a more logical explanation. Maybe I had been whacked on the head, and what I saw was the hallucinations of a pain-addled mind.

“Watson? You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Sorry, Holmes,” said I. “I seem to recall something of that sort. I must’ve been knocked unconscious; my only memory of the event comes from a vivid dream.”

“Hmph!” snorted Holmes. It was the closest he’d come to laughing in a long while. “If your dreams take as many liberties as your writings, I doubt your memory is accurate.”

“It was rather absurd. London, full of life-size wind-up dolls. A strange, gangly man. I imagined my attackers as gearspring monsters, slashing and bludgeoning me,” I explained. 

I had expected Holmes to find all this foolish, but he seemed surprisingly invested. Certain that it was all nothing but an illusion, I continued my story with an air of humor about me.

“Silly, isn’t it, old chap? And that wasn’t even the strangest thing! Those brutes were insistent that the residence of Professor Moriarty was here, in our very rooms!”

I almost laughed, but Holmes’ reaction stayed my hand. His eyes had widened in abject horror. I could not recall the last time I had seen his lips quiver so.

“Holmes? Holmes, there is no truth to that statement, surely. I doubt even one as clever as Moriarty could hide right under our noses like that,” I reassured him.

“Yes. Yes, of course. A ridiculous theory,” said Holmes. There was no conviction in his voice.

To any other man, Holmes may have appeared as stolid as ever. But I, who knew him so well, recognized a familiar look in his eyes. I had seen it when we’d laid eyes upon the terrific hound sent after Sir Henry Baskerville. 

It was fear. Genuine, honest fear.

Chapter Text

I had spent a day or so recovering from my injuries. Though I insisted I would be right as rain soon enough, both Mrs. Hudson and, to my surprise, Holmes, spent much of the time fretting. There was rarely any moment where one or the other was not at my bedside, looking after me. Whilst I was alone, I used that time to think. I tried to reconcile what I’d experienced with what I had seen and heard from Holmes. 

I had been attacked. There was no doubt about it. But was it a group of ruffians, one of the many infesting the streets of London? Or was it the clockwork monsters of the fantastical London I had visited? The injuries matched with what I remembered from the brawl. Surely a hallucination could not be so specific. And what did it mean, “Only Professor James Moriarty resides at Baker Street?” The idea looked to have frozen Holmes to his very soul. Holmes was not the sort of man to take the contents of dreams very seriously, so what about this had shaken him so? 

The most compelling evidence of the reality of my experience was, ironically, Dupin. Of course, the man is fictitious. But this entity, this “Persona,” its words had a very real effect on me. The conviction that allowed me to summon it was still present, etched into my heart. My injuries had sidelined me for the moment, perhaps, but I would keep my promise. I would save Holmes, no matter the cost. And was it not its awakening that spurred me into action? That saved my life? I had already attempted to summon it forth in my rooms, to no avail. But if I could return to that strange London, could I do so there? 

I had resolved to find the blue cab again, the “Velvet Room.” If I could just find it again, I would know whether I had gone mad or not. And if somehow, by some miracle, it had all been real, then I would venture further into the realm of Holmes’ heart. I would heal him from within, just as Igor had entreated me to do. And if not, I would focus on assisting Holmes here, in the land of reality. It felt strange to hide all this from him. Not to mention difficult. He has always had the uncanny ability to read my thoughts just from a single glance at my face. But due to his preoccupation with Moriarty, I managed to keep my mission to myself. 

The morning after I made my decision, Holmes informed me he was called to assist Scotland Yard. This would usually mark the start of one of our cases, but he was adamant on my staying behind.

“Please, Holmes, I’ve fully recovered!” I said. “I’d be more than happy to accompany you.”

“I trust you are well, Watson. You are a physician, after all,” he responded. “It is not on account of your injuries that I request you stay. It’s the utter simplicity of the case those bunglers at the Yard have brought me! Sometimes I wonder if they ever manage to do a single thing right when I’m not there.”

“Alright, my dear fellow. If you insist,” I conceded. This would give me the opportunity I needed to search for the cab, after all. “Should I expect you back for dinner?”

“Yes, most likely. Oh, and Watson?”

“Yes, Holmes?”

The detective stared at me for a moment. He opened his mouth to speak, but reconsidered and closed it again. Then, he told me: 

“Be careful. We wouldn’t want to give poor Mrs. Hudson another shock.”

And with that, he left. 

Chapter Text

I waited about ten minutes until I went off to find the cab. I had to be sure Holmes was well on his way. Otherwise, he may have followed me. I began my walk to my practice, having no intention of going to work that day. Had I not found the cab on that route, I would have taken another one. Fortunately, I spotted it in about the same place I’d seen it the last time. With a quiet cry of triumph, I knocked on the door.

“Do come in, Doctor. The door is always open to you,” Igor called from inside.

I stepped into The Velvet Room. It looked no different than it had before, and neither did the old caretaker. This fully convinced me that all I was seeing was real. To my knowledge, I never had the same dream twice in such quick succession, let alone with this level of exact detail.

“Ah, I know that look. Do not be ashamed, Doctor. Most of my guests doubt the reality of this place at one time or another,” Igor smirked. “I’m pleased to see you’ve recovered from your ordeal.”

“Was it you who took me home, then?” I asked.

“I facilitated your return, yes.”

“Then I owe you my thanks.”

“No need. You may repay me by saving your dear Mr. Holmes,” said Igor. “And I can sense you’ve summoned forth the means to defend yourself.”

I assumed he meant Dupin, and I nodded. How he knew of its awakening, I did not know, but I did not inquire further. I somehow had the feeling that Igor knew far more than any man could ever explain. Even Holmes. 

“And you’re certain that if I return to that London, Holmes’ London, I can save him?” I entreated.

“Oh, yes. You’ve already cleared the path. All that remains is to walk it. Ah! We’ve arrived.”

Igor opened the door and gestured for me to step out. 

“How am I to leave this time? I would rather not be dragged out and dropped on my doorstep again,” said I.

“The cab shall await your return. Good luck, Doctor.”

I stepped out of The Velvet Room and into the purple-tinted realm of Holmes’ heart.

Chapter Text

The false London was just as I had left it. The clockwork citizens were still hard at work, clicking their way about the great city. No signs of my attackers, either, though I hardly expected to see them again. But there had been one significant change. It was not in London, but in me. Or, more aptly, on me. I had only noticed when I caught my reflection in a shop window.

My clothes had changed. Rather than my usual attire, I found myself wearing my dress-clothes. Something I would wear on a trip to the theatre, rather than a casual walk. My face was adorned with a mask made of black silk. Perhaps this was what I had torn away when I’d first summoned Dupin? Overall, my dress gave the impression of a criminal. A gentleman thief who makes off with treasure in the night.

I could not explain the change in my vestments, but they were the last thing on my mind. Igor had told me to walk the path I had cleared; he could have only meant the path to Baker Street. With renewed determination, I started in the direction of the flat. It was a less lengthy walk than before. Now that I was familiar with the strange dolls, I no longer stopped to stare at them. With no mechanical beasts to block the way, I arrived at my destination without further incident.

Most of Holmes’ London looked, more or less, identical to its real counterpart. I found that the exception was 221B Baker Street. Had it not been in the same position as the real building, I would not have recognized it. It was several shades darker than the actual flat and twice as large. There were also several spiderwebs strewn about. Perhaps there was no clockwork Mrs. Hudson to keep things tidy? Either way, my instincts were not pleasant ones. With a deep breath, I walked up to the door and knocked.

“Holmes?” I called. “Are you in there? Holmes!” 

No reply. The door was locked. Fortunately, my key to the true 221B worked just as well here as in reality, and I entered. 

“I say…” I whispered, astonished. 

There were two front halls standing side by side. One was the perfect mirror image of the other. If this was the realm of Holmes’ perception, what could this mean? What would make him perceive two different yet identical versions of Baker Street? 

Upon closer inspection, there was a way to tell the two apart. Visually, they were the same. But different sounds emanated from the door to the sitting room. To the right, I could hear the sound of a violin. I recognized the piece as one of Holmes’ favorites. To the left, there were the sounds of violence. Furniture being knocked over, glass shattering. I decided, naturally, to go to the one on the right.

Chapter Text

When I opened the door to the rightmost sitting room, I could hardly believe my eyes. I had been wrong; there was a clockwork counterpart to Mrs. Hudson. As well as Gregson, Lestrade, and myself. The other living dolls I’d seen were disturbing enough in their own right, but seeing these lifeless versions of my dearest friends was even more terrifying. It gave me the same sense of dread one has upon seeing a loved one’s corpse. They all stood in a circle, endlessly clapping for the figure in the center: Holmes. He, too, was a gearspring replica, stiffly moving his bow across the strings of his violin. There was none of the real Holmes’ grace or beauty in its movement. 

“I refuse to believe this is the Holmes I’ve come all this way to see,” said I. Like the other dolls, Holmes and his crowd did not react to my words. “There must be some clue as to his whereabouts here!”

I searched every room, each of which was remarkably accurate to its real counterpart. I could’ve smiled when I saw that every item in my room was in the exact location I’d left it this morning. Even my clothes were all present and accounted for. But, sadly, I found nothing of use. I had resolved to leave this room behind and go to the left when I heard a sudden crash. It had come from the sitting room.

I raced back to the room, and saw, to my horror, the same type of gearspring monstrosities that had attacked me those few days ago. They were attacking the clockwork residents! Each of the little dolls fought valiantly. The Scotland Yarders bashed the assailants with their batons, Mrs. Hudson was armed with a frying pan, Holmes had his hunting crop, and I had my service revolver. However, it was a losing battle. They could not compete with the automatons’ size and strength. 

But I could.

“Come forth, Dupin!” I declared. The Persona appeared from the aether to join my side. This caught the attention of the enemies. They ceased their attacks on the dolls and focused solely on me. 

“Who’s that?” one of them whispered.

“An intruder? Here? But how?” muttered another. 

“You will cease your transgressions, or I shall cease them for you,” said I. I took out my own service revolver as a warning. 

The bravest, or perhaps most foolish, of the automatons charged toward me. I shot it point blank. 

“You there!” one shouted. “Go tell the boss! We’ll take care of him ourselves.”

I let that one leave. I wanted their “boss” to know exactly what he was dealing with. I wished for him to know that I was coming for him. That way, when I finally exorcised the beast from Holmes’ psyche, he would know exactly who was responsible.

Chapter Text

I was able to make quick work of the automatons with Dupin’s help. A mixture of my firepower and his remarkable abilities were enough to strike them all down. How incredible, that a being of such strength could come from within me! I could only imagine how powerful a Persona could spawn from Holmes.

The assailants had been stopped, but the sitting room was a mess. Even without the capacity for speech, I could see distress in the clockwork Mrs. Hudson’s manner. She managed to rally the clockwork Lestrade and Gregson to assist her in cleaning up. I quietly debated whether I should join them or move on, but out of the corner of my eye I spotted the clockwork counterparts of myself and Holmes. 

My double was limping. Unlike myself, the fighting had aggravated its war wound. The doll of Holmes let his Watson lean upon him for support. Holmes led the doll to a chair and thoroughly examined it. Ensuring there were no further injuries, I imagined. The other Watson held Holmes’ shoulder firmly, assuring him of his safety. Holmes gripped my double’s hand, leaning into his touch. Their gazes never strayed from each other. We had never been so intimate with each other in reality. I had never dreamed that a man like Holmes would desire such closeness. What should have been a monstrous display put on by lifeless puppets gave me a glimpse into Holmes’ heart that even Igor could not provide. 

The touching scene steeled my own heart, pushing me to carry on. I could not stay here. My own Holmes needed me.

I quietly exited the sitting room and returned to the two front halls. If the rightmost provided no answers, I had no choice but to turn left. I knew not what hid behind this door, but I would not give into fear. I had survived the war in Afghanistan. I had survived countless encounters with armed criminals. And all of that had been before I had awakened to Dupin’s miraculous power. As I approached the door, the sounds of conflict only grew louder. I distinctly heard the sound of a fist connecting with a man’s face. 

“Imbeciles!” a voice cried from behind the door. “You had one task. One, simple task! Must I do everything myself?!”

I could not see the man speaking, but I knew who it must be. The vitriol in his words, the masterful tone. I had no doubt that this was Professor Moriarty himself. I tightened my grip on my gun and prepared to break the door down.

“I know you’re there, Doctor. I heard you walk up the steps,” he said. “Fifty-one total, since you went on one set of stairs twice.”

“How clever of you,” I remarked. I should have known he’d heard me. Holmes would have, and he had said more than once that their powers of observation were equal. 

“Do come in, Dr. Watson. We both know I’ve been expecting you.”

I did not dare take my hand away from my revolver. With an opponent such as this, I could not afford to be careless. I slowly opened the door, ready to outrun any possible booby traps he may have set. But the sight of the man who awaited me inside struck me harder than any bomb.

It was not the figure of Professor Moriarty, however he may have looked, inside this version of 221B’s sitting room. It was Sherlock Holmes.

Chapter Text

I could hardly believe it. I had never caught a glimpse of Moriarty before, but never in my wildest dreams had I expected this. I rubbed at my eyes, blinked over and over, as if his appearance would change through the act alone. Surely, I must be mistaken. There must be some feature present in Moriarty that was absent in Holmes. A mole, a scar, anything. To my horror, there was none. I knew every feature of Sherlock Holmes. I had dedicated so much of my life to studying it, memorizing every expression, movement, and tic. There was no doubt about it. Holmes and Moriarty were identical. 

“Surprised?” Moriarty chuckled. “To think, Holmes feared you’d caught on to our little ruse. He overestimated you. Then again, I have always thought so. Very interesting choice of clothing, I must say.”

I had not realized it until then, but he had Holmes’ voice as well. It was not Holmes’ usual manner of speech; it was the tone he reserved for his most loathed enemies. He rarely used it.

“Demonstrating that grand gift of silence, I see.”

“H…how?” was all I managed to say. I could not comprehend what I was seeing. Perhaps my mind simply refused to.

“You still haven’t figured it out yet? Even when the evidence is standing before you?” he asked. “Really, Doctor, I expected more from you. You cannot possibly be that dull.”

I couldn’t bring myself to say it. It was too terrible. Too fantastic. Even if all the evidence led me to this one, inexorable conclusion, I would not speak the words I knew to be true.

“Ah, forgive me. You have. I’ve simply stunned you into silence. Shall I say it for you?” he taunted.

“No. It cannot be. You are not Sherlock Holmes,” I stated. “This is some kind of trick. An illusion. You cannot fool me!”

“You’re fully capable of fooling yourself without my influence, Doctor. You know, I think you knew from the moment my little soldiers told you I was stationed here. It was only that blind faith in your dear friend that kept you from the truth.”

“Dupin!” I called. My Persona appeared beside me.

“Dear me, I’ve struck a nerve, haven’t I?”

I raised my revolver right between his eyes. 

“Go on, then. Shoot me,” Moriarty said. “Who am I to stop you from killing your dearest friend?”

“I swore I would free Holmes from you. I intend to keep my word.”

“I suppose killing him would be one way to do it,” he admitted. “You’ve often remarked that our cocaine usage would lead us to an early grave. You’d just be speeding things along, wouldn’t you?”

“Be quiet!” I growled.

“Or what? You’ll shoot? Oh, no, no, no. You wouldn’t dare, would you, my dear Watson?”

I silently cursed myself for flinching at the familiar phrase. 

“I can’t say I blame you for not trusting me. It’s a wise policy; I am not an honest man by any means. But when my life is at stake, I guarantee you I speak nothing but the truth. Kill me, and you kill Sherlock Holmes.”

“Sherlock Holmes does not condone wonton murder, nor organized crime. He does not condone you!” I protested.

“You’re right, of course. He doesn’t condone any of it. But he can hardly stop me now,” said he. “It was fun, for a time. A one man cat-and-mouse game. There had to be a victor, eventually. And, whether you like it or not, it shall be me.”

I snapped my fingers. A ball of fire flew right past the devil’s face. He remained as calm as ever.

“I do not miss twice, Professor,” said I.

“I am well aware.”

Moriarty snapped his own fingers. A blast of red and white flew past my face, hitting the floor. It was as if the souls of the damned were contained in that very attack.

“Nor do I,” said Professor Moriarty.

We were at an impasse. I would not strike him without further provocation, for Holmes’ sake. He would not strike me, though I could not imagine why.

The blow to the back of my head answered my question. One of the clockwork monsters had appeared behind me while I’d been focused on Moriarty. 

“Hardly a gentlemanly duel, I must admit, but I am no gentleman,” he taunted.

I tried to regain my balance, but the monster was too fast for me. One of its “feet” stood directly on my wounded leg. It grabbed at my bad shoulder. Sharp pain shot through my injuries, rendering me immobile.

“You’ve no clue just how long I’ve been waiting for this,” Moriarty said. He approached me, laying his hand across my cheek. “It was always you, standing in my way. Just when I’ve got him, when I know he’s within my grasp, his thoughts go mad with ‘Watson.’ ‘What would Watson think of me now?’ ‘How could I face Watson again?’ Watson, Watson, Watson! With you gone, there will be no more obstacles. No more tangles in my web.”

Moriarty gestured to the clockwork beast holding me captive, and I was released. I fell to the floor.

“Look at me. I am ordering you. Look at me!”

I managed to raise my head up enough to see Moriarty’s hated face. Yet how could I hate it? How could I loathe the face of Sherlock Holmes? 

“Any last words? I may be generous enough to tell them to your dear Holmes.”

I glowered at him. I would give him nothing. Not an inch of satisfaction. But as I looked past him, around the room I believed to be my final resting place, I saw a glint coming from the ceiling. It was an attic door, slightly ajar. I could see an eye poking out of it, staring intently at me. And it was one I would have known anywhere.

“Would you allow me the dignity of dying on my feet?” I requested.

Moriarty raised an eyebrow. 

“You wish to die like a soldier, even now? How quaint. Very well.”

I slowly stood up, trying my utmost to ignore the pain in my leg. 

“Thank you,” said I.

I punched him square in the jaw as hard as I could. Before he or his minion could act, I raced to the attic door. An arm reached out to me. I grabbed hold and it pulled me up.

“No. No! Not there!” Moriarty shouted.

As I unceremoniously lurched into the attic, I saw Moriarty attack again. Just as it was about to hit me, my savior slammed the door shut. 

“Thank God I found you. Are you alright?”

I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding. 

“Holmes,” said I. “It is you, isn’t it?”

He ventured a smile. 

“I must admit, I never expected to see you here,” said Sherlock Holmes.

Chapter Text

“You needn’t worry about him, here. This is the one place Professor Moriarty cannot reach.”

I took in my surroundings. It was, as I suspected, an attic. Yet what an attic! It was the largest one I’d ever clapped eyes on. It was filled to the brim with paraphernalia. I recognized some as souvenirs from previous cases, others as bits and bobs from our rooms. 

“You may recall I once compared a man’s mind to an attic. Well, this is mine,” Holmes explained. “It is my refuge. A sanctuary, hidden away from the madman below. You are safe, here. We both are.”

“Thank heaven for that,” said I. “At least there is one place he has yet to corrupt.”

“Quite,” Holmes muttered. “As pleased as I am to see you, my dear Watson, I must admit I am confused. How did you come to be here?”

“You may not believe me. It is, altogether, a rather improbable story.”

“Your being here is improbable enough on its own,” he pointed out.

So, I told him my story. Beginning to end, just as I knew it to be true. Holmes listened with rapt attention, as he did when a client came to him with a case. As it drew to a close, I detected a hint of gloom upon his features.

“I see,” said he. “So your dream was not as fanciful as we thought.”

“I’m grateful it wasn’t. My capabilities as your Boswell would be greatly diminished if I were mad.”

“Ha!” Holmes laughed. “A mad biographer would fit a raving detective. You’ve seen the depths of my own muddled mind, now.”

“I’ve seen it, but I fail to understand. You don’t expect me to believe that you and he are—”

“Believe it, Watson. We are. Or at least, it started that way.”

I stared at Holmes, uncomprehendingly. I had expected him to lose patience with me, as he always did with those who could not keep up with his line of thinking. Instead, he sighed with resignation.

“Yes, you do deserve an explanation. After all, you have been so kind as to enlighten me with yours.”

“Holmes, I will not force anything from you.”

“I know you wouldn’t. I know my Watson. But I shall tell you, all the same,” he said, patting the back of my hand. “Would it be too much to ask of you to save all questions until the end?”

“Not at all, my dear fellow.”

“Thank you. I suppose I should start with his creation. The concept of Professor James Moriarty came to me in the summer of ‘87. I had often wondered how I would fare as a criminal. If I could create a mastermind, a single man behind the whole of crime in London…how much more simple would it be to catch my prey? The flies, shaking about in my web?”

“Good lord, Holmes…”

“So my campaign began. With some help from my brother, I fell into the role of Moriarty. I even operated out of Baker Street. Hence his headquarters you saw beneath us.”

“‘Only Professor James Moriarty resides at Baker Street,’” I remembered.

“Indeed. His subordinates certainly thought so. No doubt their reflections believed the same thing. It was a simple matter, for a time. Switching back and forth, from Holmes to Moriarty, was as easy as a change of clothes, a lilt in my voice. But no longer. You saw him; he’s taken on a life of his own. If he had his way, I’d be dead, and he’d be the one walking about Baker Street. No doubt the rest of what you’ve termed ‘my’ London has been affected by his presence.”

“Holmes. May I ask my questions now?”

“I don’t see why not,” he acquiesced.

“You have told me, countless times, how many crimes have been committed in Moriarty’s name. How much property was destroyed and stolen. How many lives were lost,” I started.

Holmes stared at me impassively. 

“You mean to tell me that all of this can be traced back to you? That it is your fault?”

“I have done things in many areas of my life, Watson, which at the time I believed were for the greater good, but which may have taken some unfortunate victim along the way,” he said, evenly. “I trust you shall take me as you find me”

Needless to say, I was conflicted. Holmes was my dearest friend, and he needed me now more than ever. It was I who held the power to drive the mad professor from him. But to think that he could be responsible for such awful things! I could scarcely believe it. I knew he was far from saintly, but this? Could I truly forgive him? Then I remembered our clockwork counterparts; the tenderness they had displayed. I had no doubt in my mind that if the roles were reversed, Holmes would have forgiven me without question. 

“I need your word, Holmes, that once this is over, you will do everything in your power to fix this,” I decided. “Help the police capture Moriarty’s confederates. Tear down his web. Whatever it takes, just do it. For both our sakes.”

“If you truly have the ability to exorcise the devil, I will happily do so,” he replied. “Do you believe that? Even after all I’ve told you?”

“My dear fellow, I have always believed you.”

Others may believe me foolish or sentimental for taking him at his word. I am certainly one of those things. 

Chapter Text

Within the attic, Holmes and I developed a plan of attack. It was clear a frontal assault would end poorly. Holmes had created Moriarty as the perfect villain; it was only fitting he would not fight fairly. So, we decided, neither would we. Holmes would challenge Moriarty himself, on account of his attacking me. He would lie, saying that I had departed for my own safety. If anyone could fool Moriarty, it was Holmes. The two would engage in battle, and whilst the professor was distracted, I would attack him from behind. Together, we would overpower him, and rid Holmes’ heart of the monster forever.

“Are you sure about this, old man?” I asked him. “How do you know he won’t set his gearspring servants upon you, as he did me?”

“You forget that I am his origin. The machinations of his deranged mind spawned from my own,” Holmes answered. “He has berated me for my cowardice countless times. If I were to come out of hiding to face him, he would find no greater pleasure than destroying me for himself.”

“I hope you’re right. Holmes, if we fail…”

“We won’t,” said he. “We mustn’t. One way or another, I will rid this world of Professor Moriarty. I swear it.”

His eyes shone in that familiar way, like a bloodhound on a scent. He was far more confident than I. As I had countless times before, I chose to take him at his word and trust in his skill. 

“I shall exit through the same door I pulled you through. Keep near it, and listen with all your ears. At the proper time, it will open to where you need to be,” he explained.

“Can you be sure Moriarty will not—”

“I have already told you his influence does not reach here, Watson,” Holmes interrupted. “You know how I loathe to repeat myself.”

“And you know how I loathe terrible things happening to innocent people, yet you let Moriarty’s men get away with God knows what,” I retorted.

Mere days ago, I would have responded with nothing more than a meek apology. The impact Dupin’s awakening had on me was not so apparent to Holmes until that moment, it seemed, for he had raised his eyebrows in surprise.

“Yes, quite right,” said Holmes. He quickly changed the subject: “Of all the beings to represent your inner strength, your so-called spirit of rebellion, why is it that you picked Dupin? I have told you countless times how much of a bungler he is.”

“It was not a conscious choice, I assure you. Had I a say in the matter, I may have picked someone less subject to your ridicule,” I joked. “Regardless of its appearance, Dupin is a part of me, all the same. I believe it has been all along. It was only the attack I suffered which allowed me to awaken to it.”

“Do you, now? Intriguing…” Holmes mused. “We must make a study of this phenomena when this is all over. Perhaps that ‘Igor’ fellow would be willing to answer a few questions.”

“You are attempting to distract me, Holmes. It will not work.”

“I thought not,” he sighed. “Though it was more of a distraction for myself than you. But, again, you are right. This must be done. Are you prepared, Watson?”

“Frankly? No.”

“Nor am I. Still, when has that ever stopped us?” 

One need not be a detective to understand just how frightful the task ahead of us would be. And whether or not he chose to express it, Holmes was just as apprehensive as I. So, on a whim, I did something I’d seen my clockwork counterpart do: I put my hand on Holmes’ shoulder. He mimicked his own counterpart’s action, holding onto my hand, but he did not lean.

“You are right about the lives Moria—I—we have taken,” he began. “But I have always drawn the line here, at you. Had my actions lead to your death, I would never forgive myself. I never intended you to get so close to all of this.”

“Holmes, we will survive this. Both of us. I swear it.”

“You can’t be sure of that.”

“No, I cannot. But there are a great many things I can be sure of. I am sure that we can remove this parasite from you. I am sure that I will do anything in my power to keep us both safe. And I am sure that, despite it all, you are a good man.”

I removed my hand from his shoulder. He still held onto it.

“I swore I would save you, Holmes, and I will.”

If I hadn’t known any better, I would have thought Holmes was on the verge of tears. He nodded, gripping my hand tighter.

“I do not deserve your help, my dear Watson. But I am more than happy to accept it. I suppose we must both be careful, now. Where would poor Mrs. Hudson be without her two favorite tenants?”

With that, he exited the attic, and I waited for our plan to unfold.

Chapter Text

Though I could not see, I heard everything. Holmes’ dramatic declaration of challenge to Moriarty, Moriarty’s icy laugh as he accepted. Despite having the same voice, it was a simple matter to tell them apart. I somehow got the impression that the location had shifted, that we were no longer above 221B. Considering this was Holmes’ heart, perhaps he had some power over the realm’s appearance. 

“You must know there can be but one outcome to this affair,” Moriarty spat.

“Indeed, I do,” replied Holmes, calmly.

“You truly hope to beat me? Why, I am your magnum opus! I am everything you wanted me to be and more. Can you bring yourself to destroy it? Not just the individual, but the mighty organization that you, yourself have founded?”

“I must admit that, for too long, I was unable to. I was willing to let your madness run its course, hiding away in my attic. But at last, you have gone too far.”

“Ah, your precious doctor. How glad I was to finally meet him! Had it been up to you, I would have never seen his face for myself,” Moriarty said, petulantly. “His intelligence left something to be desired, I think. But I can see why you’re so drawn to him. He’s such an honest fellow. I haven’t a clue why he holds you in such high regard.”

I clenched my fists, but remained hidden. Moriarty was no fool; he must’ve had an inkling that I was still here. I would not let his insults draw me out. 

“That mystery will have to remain unsolved,” said Holmes. “You’re stalling.”

“Ha!” Moriarty laughed. “Perhaps I am. It has been an intellectual treat, dueling with you. I’m sad to see it end this way.”

“That makes one of us.”

I could practically hear the two staring at each other with those penetrating gazes, searching for any sign of weakness. With his focus on Holmes, now would be the perfect time to ambush the professor. I opened the attic door. As Holmes promised, it was right where I needed to be, just above Moriarty’s head. I aimed my revolver. 

“Tut, tut, Mr. Holmes,” Moriarty sighed. “We both know how much I loathe interlopers.”

Before I could fire, Moriarty snapped his fingers. The same attack he’d used before came barreling at me. I managed to dodge it, but lost my balance and fell from the attic. I now saw that we were, in fact, no longer in Baker Street, but in a grand arena of sorts. I landed face-first onto the ground.

“Watson!” Holmes shouted.

I got back on my feet as quickly as I could. Before me stood Moriarty, smiling like the devil himself.

“Welcome back, Doctor,” he greeted. 

“Dupin!” I called without hesitation. The Persona appeared by my side. 

In an instant, both Dupin and Moriarty attacked. The ball of fire and ball of souls were an exact match, fizzling out once they impacted each other.

“Fascinating,” Moriarty whispered. 

The two exchanged attacks, matching each other blow for blow. I attempted to take advantage of the opportunity and shoot Moriarty down, but he had planned for that. Instead of firing his attack at Dupin, he fired it at me, directly hitting my hand. The revolver fell to the floor, and with inhuman speed, Moriarty knocked me to the ground. Dupin disappeared.

“Not so powerful without your little detective, are you?” Moriarty taunted. 

He lifted me up by the shirt collar. I attempted to summon forth Dupin again, but my strength had been exhausted. Perhaps I had over exerted myself from utilizing his power so many times. 

“Release him!” I heard Holmes demand. I could hear his footsteps racing towards us.

I struggled under Moriarty’s grasp, and was rewarded with a blow to my bad shoulder. I resisted the urge to cry out in pain.

“Poor, poor Doctor,” Moriarty chuckled. “Oh, Holmes, look what you’ve done to the poor man!”

“Don’t listen to him!” I urged. I tried to land a hit on him, and failed. The professor struck my shoulder once more.

“This can all end in an instant, Holmes! Give in to me, and I promise, I will spare his life.”

“He’s lying!” I cried. 

“Are you willing to consign another man to death? Let alone your dearest friend?” Moriarty asked.

Holmes had been moving, attempting to reach us, but his footsteps came to a sudden halt.

“What did you say?” 

“What did I say?” Moriarty repeated. “I said either you let me live, or you let your Watson die! The clock’s ticking, old man.”

“You’re hesitating,” Holmes breathed.

“What?”

“I created you to be ruthless. As you separated from me, you practically became evil incarnate. You don’t negotiate. You destroy, without hesitation, without mercy,” said Holmes. “You have your chance to rid yourself not only of me, but of Watson. Yet you will not take it.”

“Of course I will!” Moriarty shouted. He threw me to the floor. It hurt like the blazes. “Do you mean to say you wish me to kill the good doctor?”

To my shock and horror, Holmes picked up my service revolver and handed it to his alter ego. 

“If you can.”

“Holmes!” I shouted.

“Calm yourself, Watson. Observe.”

I looked to Moriarty. He held my gun to my head. At any moment, his shaking finger could pull the trigger. But he remained still. I could hardly believe my eyes.

Chapter Text

“Why…?” Moriarty whispered, evidently as confused as I was. “Why can’t I rid myself of you?!”

“It is a simple fact. I am capable, evidently, of many heinous acts. You are proof enough of that. But there is one thing that I could never do, and that is kill John H. Watson,” Holmes stated.

“I am not you!” Moriarty growled. He was fixed like a statue, still ready to shoot me. 

“Yes, we both fell victim to that misconception,” said Holmes. “It was Watson’s description of his ‘Dupin’ that made me understand my mistake.”

Holmes held out his hand to me. With his help I stood, shakily, on my own two feet. Moriarty observed this, rage boiling in his features, but he did not move to stop me.

“I’m happy to have helped, but I’m afraid I’m a bit lost,” I admitted. 

“To put it in more familiar terms, I misdiagnosed myself,” Holmes began. “I fully believed that my creation had taken on a life of its own, entirely separate from me.”

“I have!” the professor protested.

“But when you told me that Dupin was not only a part of you, but one that had been there all along, I began to suspect the same was true of my mad professor.”

I can safely say both myself and Moriarty were equally surprised. Could it be true? 

“When he threatened to kill you, rather than executing you immediately, my theory was confirmed. Perhaps a part of me wished for Moriarty’s continued existence. The part that craves mental stimulation, a worthy opponent. But no part would wish for your death, let alone my causing it.”

“Be silent!” Moriarty demanded. He was beginning to sound less like the Napoleon of crime and more like an insolent child.

“That is why he cannot kill me,” I realized. “If he is a Persona, like Dupin, then he is subject to your will.”

“Exactly,” Holmes agreed. “And it is high time I subject him to it. If you would care to step back, Watson?”

I did as he asked. Moriarty’s anger had fizzled out, now, making way for a primal fear.

“No. No! You cannot rid yourself of me, Sherlock Holmes! We are inextricably bound!” Moriarty shrieked.

“You have run amok long enough, Professor,” Holmes said. 

His voice echoed around us. It almost reminded me of Dupin’s call. As he spoke, I saw blue chains burst out of the ground, encircling Moriarty.

“I will not let such base instincts control me ever again!”

The chains attached themselves to Moriarty’s arms and legs, like a prisoner in a dungeon. He struggled against them to no avail. 

“I reforge our contract. I am thou, thou art I. You are to return from whence you came, and act only as I see fit! From this moment forth, I am taking my life back!”

Holmes’ back was turned, but I could see a silk mask appear around his head. It was similar to my own. Moriarty was dragged toward Holmes, like a demon being forced into the pit. The moment Holmes ripped the mask from his face, Moriarty changed. He floated in the air, translucent, expression completely blank. In an instant, Holmes’ attire changed to something far more extravagant. I was reminded of our old client, the King of Bohemia. 

I abruptly realized I had not seen Holmes’ expression throughout his transformation. A chill ran down my spine as I considered what reclaiming Moriarty may do to my friend. Would he become violent, just as the professor had been? Could this power corrupt him in some way? 

“Holmes?” I called. 

I was in no state to defend myself should he choose violence. Drawing attention to myself may not have been the wisest decision, but I had to see his face. I had to know if my dearest friend, the greatest and wisest man I’ve ever known, still remained. 

Holmes turned around to look at me. His grey eyes flashed with triumph, and he had a proud smirk upon his face. 

“So this is how you felt when you unleashed your other self. I see what you mean; it is quite invigorating,” said Holmes.

“Are you…?” 

There were far too many endings to that sentence for me to pick just one. Are you hurt? Are you finally free of him? Are you aware of the terrible fright you’ve given me? Are you sorry for all you’ve done? Are you truly willing to repent? Are you, in fact, Sherlock Holmes?

Holmes scanned my features, and as always, divined my thoughts. His face fell, and he slowly came toward me. The figure of Moriarty disappeared.

“My dear man, do forgive me. I’ve forgotten myself. Despite his inability to kill you, Moriarty was able to do some damage. Are you quite alright?”

And in an instant, all my fears were dispelled.

Chapter Text

I could have spent an eternity in that moment. We had done it. Holmes was well again, finally free of the plague that was Professor Moriarty. He was safe. My body ached, but I had suffered no serious injury. Holmes and I were together, and I felt as if all was right with the world. 

Unfortunately, it would not last. The ground beneath us began to shake violently. Holmes managed to remain steady; I was not so lucky. Had he not been there to catch me, I would have fallen into a heap on the ground.

“What’s happening?” I questioned, getting back to my feet.

“I don’t know!” Holmes answered. “You’re more familiar with all of this than I. Surely you have some idea!”

I tried to recall what Igor had told me about this place, for he was my only other source of information. He had told me that this world was Holmes’ warped perception of reality, and that once I removed the source of the distortion, Holmes would be cured. 

“That’s it!” I cried. “With Moriarty gone, your view of the world is no longer distorted. This false reality has nothing left to stand upon; it is disappearing!”

“You said that ‘Velvet Room’ carriage is awaiting your return, yes? You must get to it, posthaste!” Holmes instructed.

“But what about you?”

“My body still remains at Baker Street,” said he. “I need only return to it through my attic, as I always have. I doubt this mode of transport will work for you, my dear Watson. Now, go! Go!”

With a nod and a quick pat on the back, I left Holmes to find Igor’s carriage. I ran as fast as I could, under the circumstances. Fortunately, I would not have to search long. The blue carriage raced toward me, stopping only to let me in.

“Do come in, Doctor,” rang Igor’s familiar voice. 

I accepted his invitation with pleasure. Once I sat down on the velvet cushions, all seemed calm again. No shaking, no sounds of the world crashing down around us. Just that same distant singing I’d heard since the first time I entered this strange carriage.

“I must congratulate you on a job well done,” said the long-nosed man. “You are a most worthy agent.”

“I did it for myself and for Holmes, not for you,” I admitted. 

“Even so, you have my gratitude,” Igor stated. He appeared to consider something before saying, “I may call upon your services again, if necessary. Considering Mr. Holmes’ awakening, you both may prove useful.”

“We are not pawns to be moved about at your convenience,” I growled. One mastermind was more than enough to deal with in my lifetime.

“No, no. Of course not. But there are others who, like Holmes, suffer from distorted perception. They, too, can be cured. Their hearts changed.”

That gave me pause. Were there truly others who could be saved, as Holmes had? Could we cure the insane? Reform the criminal? 

“You’ve gone through enough trials for one day, Doctor,” said Igor. “We have arrived at your Baker Street. Go, return home. When you and your Mr. Holmes are ready, I will be here.”

I could not help but chuckle. I had thought Holmes was the strangest man I’d ever meet, but Igor had easily proven me wrong. No matter how mysterious he was, I was certain of his benevolence. And, in a way, I owed him both my life and Holmes’.

“Till we meet again,” I said. I tipped my hat to him, which made me realize that my clothes had returned to normal. Igor bowed his head to me as I exited the cab.

True to his word, I found myself right at the door to 221B. Not the strange, altered building from Holmes’ heart, but the true one. I do believe that was the most happy I’d ever been to see Baker Street in my life. 

Chapter Text

I was met by Mrs. Hudson upon entering 221B. I was about to greet her jubilantly, but something in her manner made me hesitate.

“Thank goodness you’re here, Dr. Watson,” said she. “Not long after you left, Mr. Holmes came back from the Yard. Since then, he’s been cooped up in the sitting room all day, door locked shut. He wouldn’t even let me come in to bring him his tea! I’d unlock it myself, but you know how he gets when he’s disturbed.”

To my understanding, it takes Holmes a great deal of concentration to fuss about in his “brain attic.” It is why he sometimes asks me to leave him alone for certain lengths of time as he works out a particularly vexing problem. To have done as much as he had within the realm of his heart must have taken far more of his mental strength than usual. This was, in all likelihood, why he’d locked the door.

“He’ll be expecting me, I think,” I assured her. 

I walked up the seventeen steps, Mrs. Hudson following close behind. Once we reached the sitting room door, I knocked. 

“Ah! Mrs. Hudson!” Holmes exclaimed from behind the door. “If you could please prepare dinner for Watson and myself? He should be arriving soon, and I’m sure we’ve both had a very trying day.”

Mrs. Hudson sighed in relief. When Holmes, of all people, was requesting food, she knew he could not be using himself too freely behind that door. 

“I’ll get right on that, Mr. Holmes,” Mrs. Hudson said. “Doctor.”

Our landlady started down the stairs. Having heard her address me, I heard Holmes rush out of his chair and toward the door. With a click, the door to the room was unlocked. The great detective practically slammed it open.

“Watson!” cried Holmes. “Thank heavens you’re alright. For a moment I feared the worst.”

“I could say the same thing to you, Holmes. If you don’t mind, could I—”

“Take the settee?” he finished. “Yes, yes. You must still be weak from our…escapade.”

Holmes guided me to the settee, where I thankfully laid down. He was right, of course. I was terribly tired.

“You seem no worse for wear,” said I. 

“I am used to functioning while under exhaustion,” Holmes explained. “And though I may require as much sleep as you will, if not more, I’m afraid I could not manage it. Not before speaking with you.”

“You wanted to confirm all that happened was real, yes?” I suggested. That was my greatest desire upon waking up in my rooms those few days ago.

“No, I was certain of that. The effect of what we’d accomplished was instantly apparent to me. He is back where he belongs, Watson. Within me, but under my command, instead of mucking about in my heart and mind.”

I had not heard such happiness in Holmes’ voice in ages. I had no doubt that he was telling the truth. He was finally free. 

“I had spent some of the time devising a plan to take down Moriarty’s syndicates. It may take months, even years, but it can be done,” he told me.

“I should be honoured to help you,” I volunteered.

“Of course, Watson! Who else should be at my side but the man who defeated Moriarty, once and for all?” 

“No, no. I cannot take sole credit. It was our combined efforts that lead to his downfall,” I insisted.

“Very well, if you say so,” he said, brushing it off. “But that does dovetail nicely into what else I had occupied my mind with while you were gone.”

“You did say that was ‘some of the time,’ didn’t you?” I recalled. “Alright. What else were you thinking about?”

“You.”

I sat up at that, and turned to face Holmes. He had been sitting in the chair opposite to me. Only now did I realize how intently he stared at me.

“Me?” I repeated. 

“Yes, you. You see, I wished to thank you for all you’d done. Not just this, but everything. I know I am sometimes difficult to live with.”

“Holmes—”

“Let me finish,” he interrupted. “I tried to put my gratitude into words, but I am not so skilled in the arts of authorship as you. Your sentimentalism would be perfect for a heartfelt show of gratitude.”

I ignored his unintentional jab at my writing for the moment, and allowed him to continue.

“I cannot adequately express my thanks to you, perhaps. But I can, at the very least, verbalize what you’ve been for me. What you’ve meant to me. To my life,” Holmes stated.

“Holmes…” I whispered. I had tried to prepare myself for the possible effects his ‘change of heart’ (as Igor had put it) could have on him. I had never expected this. 

“From our first meeting, I enjoyed your company immensely. You were so easily impressed by the most simple of deductions. I suppose I have always enjoyed an audience. But as time passed, you became far more than that. You became my trusted associate. My biographer. My dearest friend. And once Moriarty began to plague my mind, you became my fixed point.”

“Fixed point?” I stammered, still taking in his previous words. I believe my face was turning red; I was not used to receiving such compliments.

“Yes, precisely. As my world changed, you remained the same. My stalwart, steady Watson. Whenever I found myself at the brink, you were there to pull me back. I gave into Moriarty’s incessant demands, sometimes far more than I should have, but I could not give in completely. Not if that meant leaving you to his mercy. Make no mistake; had he overtaken me he would have no qualms with murdering you. It was you who convinced me to fight back, not just now, but always. At the risk of sounding saccharine, I did not wish to live in a world without you in it.”

I stared at him in utter shock. To hear such a declaration from one’s dearest friend is incredible. To hear it from Sherlock Holmes, the man who I’d once believed to have no emotion at all, was a miracle. 

“Do you understand, Watson? Please, say you do.”

I realized just how out of his depth Holmes was when he asked this. His understanding of the softer emotions was limited, after all. I don’t think he realized just how meaningful his words were to me.

“I think I do, Holmes,” I replied. “I’m touched.”

“It was touching? Heartfelt?”

“Very much so.”

“Good!” Holmes sighed. “I must ask you to never ask this of me again. You’ve no idea how taxing it was to come up with all that.”

“This once was enough, I think,” I laughed. “And, Holmes?”

“Yes?”

“You must know I feel the same.”

We could discuss Igor’s proposal or Moriarty’s criminal empire another day. For now, all we needed was each other’s company. And, if we are both very lucky, we shall never experience life without it.