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Chapter Text

The buzz of anxiety had started a few hours ago, and showed no sign of letting up anytime soon. Holmes had attempted all of his usual methods of settling his nerves with no success. At this point, he was beginning to crave the cocaine bottle, and that was not a habit that he wished to return to.

He took a few deep breaths, trying to settle himself, and briefly considered going to look out the window into the misty night. But that too made his chest tight, and the old fear of air guns worsened until he was shivering so convulsively that his teeth chattered.

Tugging his blanket tighter around his shoulders, he huddled up in his armchair. There was little point in trying to go to bed when he was so tense. He would only suffer from nightmares again, as he had for the previous few nights.

Not that nightmares were ever unusual for him. But they had become increasingly intense of late, and his sensitivity to stress much worse. Even the slightest annoyance put him on edge, and he could not seem to find a way to calm himself once the agitation began. Even working on a case yesterday had not wholly soothed his nerves.

He wanted Watson. Tears stung his eyes at the thought, and he huddled even tighter. It would be absurd to interrupt Watson’s sleep for this, for something that he could not change or even truly help with. Watson’s presence could not undo the past.

But the longer Holmes remained curled up in his armchair, the more he longed for Watson, until the distress was utterly unbearable. His breaths came too quickly, and the chill only worsened. If he could not calm himself, he would soon go into a full panic, and would almost certainly reach for the emergency bottle of cocaine still stashed in his bedroom.

Or, possibly, a knife. In the past, he had found pain exceedingly helpful in bringing himself out of a hysterical state. It was an option.

He tried another large brandy and several more cigarettes instead, and found that it only made him dizzy without calming him at all. The agitation was too severe. He had no hope of managing it on his own, not unless he was willing to indulge in self-destruction in one form or another. But turning to cocaine or a bloodier form of self-injury would worry Watson much more than waking him.

That made the decision for him, at least, and he rushed upstairs with considerable guilt and even more relief. Being with Watson made everything much, much better, even if it was absurd not to be able to handle this on his own.

He stole into Watson’s room as quietly as possible and lightly touched his shoulder. “Watson.”

Watson stirred, groaning, and looked up with considerable confusion. “Holmes? What time is it?”

“The middle of the night.”

“Is it a case?”

“No, it…” Holmes’ breath caught, and when he tried to inhale, the pressure on his chest only worsened. His next attempt to breathe came as a ragged, wheezing gasp, and he swayed.

“Holmes?” Sitting up, Watson caught him by the arm. “Gently, old man. What’s wrong?”

“I… I am not certain.” Now he was breathing too quickly, shallow jerky inhales that did not seem to bring any air. The shivering grew even more violent, and tears threatened to overwhelm him. “Watson.”

“I’m right here. Come on, sit down, sit down.” Watson tugged him down to the edge of the bed, steadying him. “You’re all right. We’re at Baker Street.”

“I know we are at Baker Street!” Holmes snapped. “I am still…”

He felt vaguely as if he might faint. He still could not breathe, or even remotely calm himself. In fact, it was becoming more and more difficult to breathe each second.

“Is this all right?” Watson asked, wrapping an arm around his shoulders. It was almost overwhelming, but Holmes nodded. “Just try to breathe. I know you do not feel well, but you’re safe.”

He was fully aware of that. His physical safety was not in question, even if it felt as if he might be murdered at any second. Moriarty’s gang was long gone, his compatriots dead or imprisoned. There were no air guns, or any waterfalls nearby. And he certainly could not be run over by a carriage while indoors.

So it was his mind that caused the danger, and that was not something he seemed to be able to control. His best efforts failed him at once, even while he huddled against Watson’s side.

Perhaps something had gone horribly wrong with him. Perhaps he was going mad. Perhaps—

No, he was merely being overdramatic. Hysterical. Having a complete breakdown for no apparent reason.

He still could not stop shivering, which was utterly absurd as Watson was remarkably warm. Watson had also already drawn the covers across him, and was holding him closely. He ought to have been perfectly comfortable.

Instead, his teeth chattered, and waves of chills swept across him. His entire body shuddered. It felt as if he was lost in a snowstorm rather than being comfortably ensconced in bed with his companion’s body heat at his disposal.

“Is there anything else I can do?” Watson asked softly, pulling the blankets higher. “Any way I can help?”

“You are helping.” It was difficult to say even that much, the words sticking to Holmes’ tongue. He had another, almost panicked urge to curl into a ball under the covers. “I do not know what’s wrong with me, Watson.”

Watson let out a long, uneven breath. “Well, you haven’t been sleeping. Or eating.”

Holmes managed a dismissive flick of the hand. “Symptoms, not the cause.”

“Well, it is…” Watson exhaled slowly again, and a shiver rippled through him as well. “It is nearly the anniversary. It is troubling me as well. I have not been able to sleep without bad dreams.”

He did not have to specify which anniversary, although they had both suffered the effects of many different horrible experiences. But there was only one that affected both of them to such an extent.

“That is perhaps it,” Holmes admitted, grudging. His chest was still tight, and thinking of such things did not ease the distress. “It has been nearly five years since that day at the Reichenbach Falls, Watson.”

“I know. And last year, you were similarly affected.” Gently, Watson rubbed his arm. “It was a horrible experience.”

“Still. I ought to be stronger.”

“Would you say as much to me?”

Holmes waved a dismissive hand again, then shivered and huddled against Watson. His heart beat too quickly even now, and it was becoming even more difficult to breathe. “It is different. I am supposed to be… I should…”

He began to hyperventilate, and could not bring himself back under control. And then, to his utmost shame, tears escaped down his cheeks.

“My dear Holmes.” Watson simply held him, steady and reliable as ever. “It’s all right.”

“It is not all right! Why do I feel as if Moriarty is still grappling with me even now?” Hands seizing his arms, the two of them struggling together, sliding closer and closer to the edge. “He had me, Watson. It could have so easily… I could have fallen instead of him, all so easily.”

Everything spun, and Holmes pressed a hand to his brow with a groan. He still could not stop shaking, could not settle his nerves even slightly. It was all too much, too difficult. Moriarty still had far too much power over him. Might as well still be holding onto him, trapping him.

“Gently, Holmes, gently. Try to breathe.” Watson wasn’t moving at all now, aside from very slight twitches of his hands that said he was longing to draw Holmes closer, to rub his arm, to stroke his hair. But it would all be too overwhelming, and he seemed to know it. “Moriarty is not here. You’re with Watson, only Watson. And I will not let anyone or anything hurt you. If you require it, I will even let go.”

“No. No. I do not wish you to let go.” Holmes curled up, this time allowing himself to twist his fingers on Watson’s nightshirt. “I know your touch, Watson. Without it, I would only have him.”

“All right, old man. But if you do need something different…”

“I do not.” And it was helping now, at least somewhat. The most immediate wave of distress had died down. There was still distress, immense distress, but not so much as to make life unbearable.

At least, not for the moment. But Holmes suspected it would become much, much worse when the actual anniversary of his near-death arrived.

---

Watson held Holmes as carefully as possible, not daring to move. Holmes had flinched at even slight shifts, although in his current state, he might not have even noticed that he was flinching. He just trembled, trembled so badly that it made Watson dizzy to hold onto him.

Watson’s own mind was not in as severe of turmoil, but it was bad enough that he had not remotely looked forward to sleep. His dreams thus far had been restless, haunted. Dreams of being unable to find Holmes, of being alone, of waiting for assassins around every corner.

It was no hardship to be woken from such dreams. It would not have been a hardship even if he had been sleeping soundly. Holmes needed him, and that was reason enough to be awake.

And Holmes did need him, badly. It was not unusual for Holmes to seek his company when in need of soothing. Even a middle of the night awakening was not completely unprecedented, particularly in the past two years.

But it was very, very unlike Holmes to want to be held for this long, to cling to Watson as if the contact was the only thing keeping him together. And Holmes did weep sometimes—Watson had heard him weep, when under too much strain—but he preferred to do so in solitude. He had only cried in Watson’s arms on the very rarest of occasions.

This was one of those occasions, and still ongoing. Holmes shivered violently, his teeth chattering, and tears still dripped to Watson’s nightshirt. How long had this been building up? Days, at least, and Watson had not realized the severity of it.

He had known that Holmes was tense and stressed, of course, but Holmes was often tense and stressed. Holmes had long suffered from bouts of depression, the melancholy that alternated with his furious activity. Watson was used to the occasional explosion of frustration and snappishness, and merely accepted it.

It seemed that this time, he should have worried. Holmes had struggled the year prior, growing increasingly irritable and on edge the closer they drew to the end of April. Last year, though, it had not resulted in such a severe bout of panic and tears. Or rather, perhaps Watson simply hadn’t been present for it.

He let out a long breath, keeping himself calm and steady, and pulled the blanket back up. It was sliding down as Holmes shook, and the last thing he needed was to develop a chill.

The action seemed to interrupt something, though. Holmes finally ceased crying, and patted Watson on the chest. “My apologies, Watson,” he mumbled. “I fear I became a little more hysterical than expected.”

“It’s all right. I wish I had realized you were having such a difficult time.” Gently, Watson drew him closer. “Have you managed any sleep at all tonight?”

“None. It would not have been a success.”

“No, I suppose not.”

Holmes gave a heavy sigh. He still had not stopped shivering, and his teeth occasionally chattered. “I feel so very cold, Watson. It is absurd.”

“Well, you are very easily chilled even at the best of times,” Watson murmured. It was part of why they had such a massive collection of blankets, and why even when Holmes had gone, Watson remained in the habit of purchasing additional ones whenever he saw one that appealed.

Or rather, one that would have appealed to Holmes. It had been a strange habit, but a harmless one. There were certainly worse ways to cope with the “death” of one’s best friend than by storing up a collection of blankets as an odd sort of memorial.

And it had paid off, in the end. The grey and brown one currently wrapped around Holmes—the one that had become his favorite—was one that Watson had purchased in his memory. Once Holmes returned, alive, those blankets had become a very welcome gift, if an awkward one at the time.

With Holmes still shivering, more blankets were clearly required. Watson reached down beside the bed, picking up two more. They had blankets virtually everywhere. “Here, old man. Let’s try to get you warmed up, at least.”

“I fear it will not do very much good, Watson.” Holmes sighed, curling tighter against him. “This chill does not seem tied to the actual temperature.”

“Well, there’s still no harm in trying. And I am your doctor.” Keeping one arm around Holmes, Watson shook out the plaid fabric and pulled it across him. “And as your doctor, I prescribe blankets.”

Holmes snorted, but relaxed slightly. “Thank you, Watson.”

“Of course. I am very glad to help however I can.”

“And what of you?” Adjusting so that they might see each other, Holmes searched his face. “I am fully aware that you are affected by this as well. So is Mrs. Hudson, no doubt. I do not have the vaguest idea how I might aid either of you.”

Watson had to smile at that. Holmes cared deeply and could be quite sweet, but he was often extremely awkward when it came to interpersonal matters. “Well, so long as you do not vanish again, I think we’ll be all right.”

He had intended it as a joke, but his voice cracked, and a shiver rushed through him. Those horrible, horrible years after Reichenbach had drowned him in the utmost despair. If he ever lost Holmes again…

“I have no intention of going anywhere, my dear Watson.” Holmes caught his hand and squeezed, the grip shaky but still reassuring. “It may perhaps be for the best for all of us if you did not visit your consulting room tomorrow, or at least not on the following day. I believe it would be exceedingly difficult for us to be apart on the anniversary.”

“Oh, I have no intention of going anywhere near my consulting room all week,” Watson said with some fervor. “I would be completely useless as a doctor.”

“Well, then. We shall fortify ourselves in our rooms.” Closing his eyes, Holmes snuggled under the blankets. “Perhaps we may manage to get some sleep.”

Watson very much doubted that they would manage any sleep. Or if they did, it would be full of nightmares, of rushing water and Moriarty looming. No matter what they did, these next days would not be easy.

Chapter Text

Holmes lounged at the breakfast table, gazing vaguely towards the picture of Reichenbach Falls that hung over the mantelpiece. It was perhaps not particularly healthy to have kept that picture, but he had not been able to bear parting with it. And so, there it hung, a reminder of both triumph and great pain.

At the moment, the triumph seemed far distant, veiled by mists of trauma and anguish and the most horrible loneliness. He glanced at Watson, needing to reassure himself. And indeed, Watson was there. Neither of them was alone.

Neither of them was particularly awake, granted. They had not managed any sleep, aside from Watson dozing briefly just before dawn. He had jolted awake out of a nightmare before long, tears in his eyes and his lip trembling. Holmes had held and soothed him, and then escorted him down to the breakfast table.

Holmes entirely lacked an appetite, and had only drank his coffee. Watson was making a valiant effort to eat, but without his usual enthusiasm. This was already proving an immense strain, the memories leeching away joy. A cloud hung across Baker Street, and it would not lift until these days had passed and old memory stopped resonating so strongly.

“Does the anniversary of your injuries still trouble you as much as it once did?” Holmes asked, picking up his coffee without much actual interest. It would provide some little stimulation, at least. “Or has it subsided somewhat? I know it has not entirely abated.”

Watson gave him a startled look, then a small shrug. “Well, I wouldn’t say it troubles me quite as much, at least most years. It was…”

He cut off, expression pained, and guilt wrenched at Holmes. “It was more difficult while you believed me to be dead?”

Nodding, Watson put his fork down. It likely would have been better to have waited until later for this conversation, when he had finished eating. “I was grieving, and that made it harder to tolerate everything else. Especially other painful memories.”

“Yes. I imagine so.” Letting out a long breath, Holmes opened his cigarette case and readied himself to smoke. He certainly needed it. “I really am extremely sorry to have left you for so long, Watson. I know I have apologized before, but it still grieves me immensely that you suffered so.”

Watson’s expression softened. “Thank you, old man. But I would have suffered far, far worse if Moran had shot and killed you.”

“Be that as it may, I still wish…” Holmes cut off, shook his head, and lit his cigarette. It would do little good to delve into wishes. If he had done anything differently, he might not have survived.

“I know.” Reaching out, Watson gently touched his arm. “It’s all right. I know.”

Holmes let out a long, shaky breath and managed the briefest twitch of a smile. Then, desperate, he turned to his cigarette.

Yes, he very much wished that everything had gone differently, even if wishing did little good. The memory of those years away still haunted him, much as he attempted not to think of it. He had been horribly lonely, more lonely than he had been since he was a young man. Before he had met his Watson.

“I hesitate to ask, as I know you do not like discussing those years away,” Watson said slowly. “But I was wondering…”

He paused again, expression tight. Holmes waved a hand for him to proceed.

“What was it like while you were away?” A shiver went through Watson, and he gestured with his fork. “The anniversary of that day at the Falls, I mean. What did you do?”

“A great deal of cocaine,” Holmes said wryly. “I had something of a horrible time with it as well. I fear I was a little bitter, Watson.”

“Bitter about needing to remain in hiding?”

“Yes, although a great deal of my bitterness was directed towards myself. Perhaps even more than I directed towards Moriarty, Moran, and all the rest.” This time, Holmes was the one who shivered. He wrapped his blanket tighter around himself. “I missed you horribly. That was certainly nothing unusual, but it was far more unbearable in those moments.”

Watson nodded, expression compassionate. “You wished to come home.”

“Very much so.” Pressure was building on Holmes’ chest again, and he looked around to reassure himself. Yes, everything was precisely where it should be, including himself, and including Watson. “Oh, Watson. I…”

He shook his head and waved off the look of concern. No, he could not talk of such things without weeping. Nor could he discuss the other way in which he had coped with his pain, his grief. That too would result in weeping, and he already felt miserable enough.

“I am glad you’ve come home, old man,” Watson murmured. “I am always glad of it. I know you still experience guilt over staying away, but I hope you truly do know that I am not angry.”

“Nor bitter?”

“I am not bitter.” Once again, Watson reached out, this time taking Holmes’ hand in a careful grasp. “I simply rejoice to see you. Every time I look at you, especially on these days, I am overwhelmed with joy.”

Joy was not something that Holmes was experiencing at this moment, not when he was so shaky, so haunted. But there was certainly great relief in Watson’s presence. “It makes a considerable difference to me to have you at my side, Watson.”

The corners of Watson’s eyes crinkled as he smiled. “It does to me as well, Holmes.”

---

Watson was not used to struggling to eat, but every bite had been difficult today. It was as if he had to force himself into it, practically to bully himself. And even still, it was a struggle.

Was this how Holmes felt nearly all the time? He did not, as a rule, have an appetite at all. It seemed as if he always had to convince himself to eat.

Today, he did not seem to be having any luck convincing himself. Watson had managed to choke down both breakfast and lunch, but Holmes had hardly touched his food at all. He’d nibbled on some toast, and had eaten a little chicken at lunch, but that was all.

He was certainly drinking a great deal of coffee, though. He sat in his armchair with the coffee pot on the small table, pouring cup after cup and drinking them with the utmost determination.

For most men, Watson would have protested that such a large quantity of caffeine was unlikely to help with anxiety and tension. Holmes, however, became more relaxed with caffeine, just as he did with cocaine. Something about stimulants helped him.

Still, Watson had concerns. “That’s not good for your heart, old man.”

Holmes flicked a hand. “I have little care for my heart.”

Sudden heat flushed through Watson, and he slapped his hand down on his thigh. “I have a great deal of care for your heart, damn it! I know you have an utter disregard for your own safety, but I do not. Your safety is of the utmost importance to me, and—”

“Watson,” Holmes interrupted, almost in a sing-song tone.

Watson abruptly realized that he was shaking, his own breaths coming too quickly. He’d braced to stand, too, all without realizing it. His vision blurred with tears, and he wiped them away. “I’m sorry, Holmes. I… I suppose I’m a little anxious myself.”

“It is quite understandable.” Gently, Holmes set down the most recent cup of coffee without drinking it. “I may be a little careless in regard to myself, but I have no wish to cause you harm.”

“I still don’t know why I became so anxious. It feels absurd.”

Holmes raised an eyebrow and ruffled his short hair with one hand. “My dear fellow, I believe the cause is somewhat obvious.”

“Of course. The anniversary.” Watson let out a humorless chuckle. “It feels even more absurd to have forgotten that’s likely the cause of every problem we’re having this week.”

“Yes, the brain is a little odd in that respect.” Holmes cast a longing look towards his cup of coffee, then turned his attention back to his cigarette. He had been smoking those rather than his pipe for most of the day, and flicking them with unnecessary force into the fireplace.

Watson picked up his notebook again, stared at his halfhearted attempts at writing, and put it back down. He had not been managing to focus in the slightest, but sitting around being miserable was not working particularly well either.

“I wish we had something to do,” he finally said. “I almost wish we had a case, even though I don’t like the thought of going near anyone today.”

“A case would be very pleasant.” Holmes gave a wistful sigh. “We could perhaps organize my files. I have been neglecting it a little of late.”

Watson glanced at the piles of paper near the settee and smiled. “Just a little.”

“I very much dislike these sorts of days.” With a snarl, Holmes shoved out of his seat. He snatched up papers and shuffled through them, discarding them in a hail of clippings. “It feels as if we are simply waiting eternally for things to get worse, Watson. I cannot abide waiting.”

“I am aware, old man.” Despite his own anxiety, Watson watched with amusement as Holmes scattered papers all over the floor. “It seems to me that you’re doing the opposite of organizing right now.”

“Well, that is because I cannot find anything.” Holmes cast the remaining papers to the ground and seized another stack. He rifled through those in a similar fashion, then cast a confused look at the floor. “Watson, this place is a mess.”

Watson chuckled and rose. His shoulder and leg throbbed at the motion, worsened by stress, but he ignored it. “Here, let me help.”

Organizing did at least give them something to do, but the anxiety refused to fade. Watson found it increasingly difficult to breathe, and his heart raced more quickly as the day went on.

It really did feel absurd to be so affected. Tomorrow ought to be a day just like any other. And yet, the next day, the anniversary of their trip to the Falls, loomed larger every second.

“I think the waiting is the worst,” Watson finally said, putting down another now-organized stack of newspaper clippings. “Just… waiting for it to get here. I think the waiting is worse than the day itself.”

Holmes gave a soft, humorless laugh. “That was the case last year. It may not be this year.”

Watson shuddered and glanced at the picture above the mantelpiece, of that hateful place that still so often haunted his dreams. “That’s very encouraging, Holmes.”

“Yes, I fear I am not in a particularly bright mood today.” Just as suddenly as he had risen earlier, Holmes sprang up from the floor. “Watson, would you object to my playing the violin? I shall endeavor to perform something you’ll enjoy.”

He thrust his hand down in an offer of help to rise. Watson took it, gritting his teeth against the worsening pain in his leg. “Of course I do not object. I’ll see what I can do with these telegrams while you play for me.”

Still eager for a distraction, Watson dove into sorting out the old telegrams as Holmes took out his violin. Holmes did indeed play songs that he liked—but none of them were very uplifting, either.

---

It was nearly dark. Holmes alternated between bursts of organizing, playing his violin, and simply pacing. None of it, not even Watson’s presence, could alleviate the growing tension and fear.

He paused near the windows, shuddered, and drew the curtains. Air guns were unlikely, but he was too anxious to bear even the possibility. He was very nearly too anxious to bear sobriety.

“Watson, I am considering getting exceedingly drunk,” he finally said, pacing past the good doctor, who was organizing the index and files with a sort of desperate focus. “It is either that, or I shall fall back into certain bad habits that I should much prefer to avoid.”

Watson glanced up, studied him, and then nodded. “Well, brandy is certainly better for you than cocaine.”

“I suspected you would be more likely to approve.”

“But I do not know if getting exceedingly drunk is the best idea.” Carefully, Watson finished clipping out a newspaper article. “Will you only be more worried about our safety if your focus is impaired?”

“I am not truly worried about our safety. Although granted, I did have rather a lot of brandy yesterday without it easing my anxiety at all.” Holmes gave a heavy sigh and ran a hand across his hair, which was currently sticking out in a rather untidy fashion. “I simply do not know what to do, Watson. I would like to sleep, but…”

Watson set the article aside and gave him a worried look. “Perhaps you should try to sleep. You must be exhausted, old man.”

“I am. And ordinarily, I would indulge in that exhaustion as I have no cases to keep me awake.”

“But you don’t think you can sleep?”

Holmes shrugged. “I think I should be excellent at having further nightmares, but I rate my chances of restful sleep rather lower.”

The sitting room door pushed open, and Mrs. Hudson came in with a tray. She looked exceedingly tired, but gave them both warm smiles. “Good evening, sirs. I’ve brought your dinner.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Hudson,” Watson said with less than his usual enthusiasm. “We shall eat soon.”

“Quite a mess you two have made in here,” she murmured, looking around at the room. “You’ll be sure to clean a walkway from your desks to the door? If you should need to get out in a hurry, Mr. Holmes, I think you’d break your neck!”

“I shall take care.” He gave her a searching look. She was indeed pale, her shoulders tight, and did not quite have the usual spring in her step. “Are you all right, Mrs. Hudson?”

“Oh, more or less. I just get a bit gloomy this time of year.” She swallowed hard, not quite meeting his gaze. “I’ll be fine so long as you two are all right.”

“We certainly shall be.” Delicately, Holmes stepped across the papers and held out his arms. “And you will tell us if we may aid you?”

For a moment, Mrs. Hudson just gave him a confused look. Then, she smiled a little and stepped closer, slipping almost shyly into the embrace. “Thank you, Mr. Holmes. I just…”

Her breath caught, and she pressed her face into his chest. She was shaking slightly, and he hugged her closer. “It’s all right, Mrs. Hudson. I am aware that I caused a great deal of damage those years ago.”

Sniffing, she patted his chest just as she had when he first returned to Baker Street. “Well, you’re back now, and that’s what matters. It’s just a bit hard to remember you’ve made it home at this time of year.”

“I know.” He rubbed her back, hopefully somewhat more efficiently than he had managed two years ago. “I am here, and I shall not disappear.”

“You had better not, or I’d have to come look for you.” She drew back and gave him a teary smile. Before leaving, she patted Watson’s shoulder very gently. “You two enjoy your dinner.”

Holmes had absolutely no wish for dinner, and no appetite. The extra physical contact of the hug had not helped either, and he found himself increasingly agitated. It had been necessary to offer some comfort, yes, but he had not been able to afford the additional strain.

Perhaps Watson was right, and waiting for tomorrow really was worse than the actual anniversary. But then, they had not reached the actual anniversary yet. There was always a chance that the entire day would be full of horrible memories of weeping.

Or perhaps someone would try to murder him yet again.

Desperate not to think of that, Holmes picked up his violin again, and attempted to sink into the music. Watson moved to the dinner table, but did not eat. Outside, darkness had fallen, and the long night began.

Chapter Text

Watson found it increasingly difficult to keep his eyes off Holmes, even for a minute. All he wished to do was to sit and stare at his companion, to be certain that he was still there and had not vanished again. Or that his return had been real, and was not merely the hallucination of a grief-addled mind.

“I wore mourning for you,” Watson murmured, yet another thing he had not intended to say. It seemed that the strain of waiting for some catastrophe was doing horrible things to his self-control. “I’m sorry, old man. I do not intend to keep bringing it up.”

“No, no. It’s quite all right.” Holmes was curled up tight in his chair again, blanket around his shoulders. He flashed a quick, pained smile. “I most certainly deserve any recriminations.”

“Holmes, I do not mean it as a recrimination. I just…” Watson let out a long breath. “We have hardly talked about those years. It was too painful.”

Holmes ground his teeth, gaze dropping to the now clean carpet. After dinner, at which neither of them managed more than a few bites, they had moved enough of the clutter to have clear walkways. “Yes. Yes, it was. Is it not now?”

It was painful. Even thinking of those lonely years made Watson’s stomach twist. “Yes, but in some ways, I feel as if I might lose my mind if I don’t get it all out. I have no wish to upset you, however.”

“My dear Watson.” With a hard swallow, Holmes hopped up to sit cross-legged in his seat, then drew his blanket even tighter around his shoulders. “I shall gladly be upset if it helps you. You are free to unleash any anger at me, and I will not protest. I am all attention.”

Watson frowned, tilting his head. “I don’t quite follow.”

“We have not talked about those years. You must have a great deal of anger stored up which you have never expressed.” Holmes raised his chin, expression stubbornly stoic. “Whatever you must do, I will not object. Although I must ask that if you decide I deserve something of a thrashing, which I likely do, that you keep the noise down so as not to upset Mrs. Hudson.”

“A thrashing?”

“Yes, Watson. You are surely familiar with the concept?” Holmes’ voice had taken on a sharp sarcasm now, almost goading. “You have mentioned occasionally being something of a bully at school. Surely it is not difficult to comprehend what I am offering?”

“Holmes!” Heart racing, Watson shoved out of his seat.

Holmes jerked in an immediate flinch, as if expecting Watson to fly at him, and clutched the arms of his chair. His expression had gone horribly still, his eyes wide and locked on Watson. If he was attacked, he would never fight back.

“My dear, dear Holmes.” Slowly, Watson approached. He sank down to his knees beside the chair, pried one of Holmes’ hands off the arm of the chair, and simply held it. “That is not what I meant. I have no desire at all to hit you.”

Holmes swallowed hard again, then gave the briefest, saddest smile. “Not even a single jab or straight left?”

“Certainly not.”

“I might feel better if you did.”

“Well, I would not. I have never wished to hurt you, old man. I wish you to be safe.” Slowly, Watson reached up and cupped Holmes’ cheek. Holmes gave a small flinch, then leaned into the touch. “I have only ever wished you to be safe.”

Holmes let out a shaky breath. His lip trembled, and tears clung to his lashes. “Oh, Watson. Forgive me. I… I fear I am angry with myself even now. I believe I assumed you must be as well. That you would wish to punish me for causing you such pain.”

There was an odd note in his tone, one that Watson recognized. “Holmes, have you been hurting yourself? I-I know it is something you’ve done in the past.”

“Pain brings a certain clarity of mind in much the same way as cocaine.” Holmes gave another tiny, pained smile. “No, I have not given in to that particular habit either. Not since I returned.”

He glanced up, meeting Watson’s gaze for a brief moment. Watson nodded, understanding. “You did while you were away?”

“While I was away, yes.” One of the tears slipped loose, and Holmes closed his eyes. “While I was running for my life. In hiding. Expecting to be murdered at any moment.”

Watson’s heart wrenched. He brushed away the tear with his thumb, then rose before his bad leg trapped him on the floor. “Would you like to come sit on the settee?”

Instead, Holmes pushed his left sleeve back and held his arm out for Watson’s inspection. “I was careful,” he said, indicating the small clusters of scars. Cuts, and of course the countless puncture wounds from his years of cocaine use, along with the occasional morphine. “I refined my use of pain as I had my other habits. I could not afford to go to any extremes that compromised my condition, for it would have meant death.”

Aching, Watson examined the cuts. “They’re very clean, and it does not appear that you suffered from any infections.”

“I was exceedingly careful with that as well.” Holmes let out a long sigh. “I wished to return to you more or less whole.”

“I would have gladly taken you back in any condition.” Watson stroked his fingers across the raised scars, then bent and pressed a careful kiss to one of the deeper, less cautious patches. “Oh, Sherlock. I am sorry you were in such pain.”

Lip trembling, Holmes looked up at him. “I am continually astounded by your graciousness and care, John.”

He began to weep then, much as he had the previous night. It seemed that Watson was not the only one who had been keeping his emotions deeply, and perhaps too tightly, contained these past years.

“Come here, old man,” he murmured, holding out his hand. “Let’s move to the settee.”

Trembling, Holmes took his hand, and they crossed the sitting room together. Once on the settee, Watson pulled him into a tight embrace, pressing his face into Holmes’ dressing gown. He breathed in deeply, savoring the familiar smell of tobacco, along with a whiff of several chemicals that were probably not advisable to inhale.

He smiled a little, tears slipping down his own cheeks. All he had wanted for so long was to have Holmes back, and he did now. He’d had Holmes back for two years, and even if that horrible day at the Falls seemed closer than usual, it was in the past.

Holmes didn’t continue to sob for very long this time, his breaths quickly slowing and deepening as they held each other. He made no move to pull away, and Watson had no wish to let him go. To hold him forever seemed the best possible solution to all their ills, and certainly the best way to keep the memories at bay.

“Dear me,” Holmes finally said, voice thick. “I seem to be a little emotionally unstable of late.”

Still teary, Watson chuckled. “That’s all right, old man. So am I.”

“Well, as that is unlikely to change anytime soon, I do believe that more brandy would be advantageous.” Holmes still didn’t let go. “And I wonder… Would it help you to discuss what happened that day, Watson? Well, not that day specifically, but I do have…”

Holmes let out a long, frustrated sigh. Unsure what he meant, Watson patted his back. “It’s all right. Take your time.”

“It is difficult to explain.” At last, Holmes drew back. He caught Watson’s hand again, however, and gazed down as their fingers tangled together. “Or perhaps it is not. The question is straightforward, yet I find the emotions involved difficult.”

That came as no surprise at all. Watson was not terribly comfortable with some emotions himself, and Holmes was much, much worse at both tolerating and understanding them. “Well, why don’t you start with the question?”

“Entirely logical.” Holmes flicked a faint smile at him, avoiding his gaze. “I have a letter that I wrote to you. Several letters, in fact. I often picked up my pen, as I said.”

Watson stared at him, astonished. “I had assumed that you immediately put that pen down!”

“Not always. I have often wondered whether to offer to hand the letters over to you now, and yet I feared…”

“You feared that it would only cause more pain now?”

“Mm. To revisit such memories is not always wise, and I had hoped that they would fade for us both.” After squeezing Watson’s hand once more, Holmes rose. He padded over to the brandy decanter, still avoiding Watson’s gaze. “However, as it has now been five years to the day—if you observe the time—and the memories have yet to fade despite a lack of discussion, I believe it may be advisable for us to attempt something new.”

Watson glanced at the clock. It was indeed past midnight now, and although it was indeed the day of the anniversary, he found himself feeling better rather than worse. Perhaps it really was helping to talk about it, at least a little. “Yes, I think I should very much like to read those letters. I… have something of the kind, as a matter of fact.”

Now, Holmes looked at him, expression full of confusion. “But did you not believe me to be dead?”

“I did, yes.” And it had broken his heart. Sometimes, when he woke up, having momentarily forgotten that Holmes returned, his heart was still broken. “I still wrote to you.”

“Dear me. I am again outdone by your faithfulness, my dear Watson.” A brief smile twitched onto Holmes’ face. He set down the two glasses of brandy, then rested his hand on Watson’s shoulder. “I shall retrieve the letters. Would you like to do the same?”

In truth, Watson had little wish to ascend the stairs with how much he ached, and even less to let Holmes out of his sight for even a moment. And yet, reading those letters might help them both. “I shall indeed do so.”

“I notice that is not the same as liking the idea.” A little glimmer of mischief came to Holmes’ eyes, more than he had shown recently. “Please do not feel obligated.”

“I don’t. I just…” Watson sighed, frustrated with himself. It was ridiculous to be so clingy. “I don’t want to let you out of my sight, old man. I know, I know, it’s absurd.”

“Not in the least.” Holmes offered his hand. “Come, Watson. We shall go together.”

Watson certainly wasn’t about to argue with that idea. He took Holmes’ hand, and they went first to Holmes’ room, then upstairs. It was certainly easier to do so together, rather than trying to split up right now. Perhaps they would stay close all night, and indeed day.

Once they’d retrieved the letters, they returned to the settee. Holmes took a drink of brandy as if his life depended on it, then selected one of the letters and thrust it out. “It is perhaps excessive to read them all tonight, but I would advise you to start with this one. It is the first that I penned, almost immediately after my somewhat arduous journey across the Continent.”

“Well, it certainly looks like the first,” Watson said, his voice shaking a little despite his best efforts at control. His hands shook too as he accepted the crumpled paper. “You carried this with you for three years?”

Holmes gave a quick, curt nod. “Some of the others I forwarded to Mycroft for safe keeping, but this I could not quite bear to part with, as it was something of a postscript to my previous missive, the one which you have so lovingly framed. This letter seemed something of a connection to you, a hope of being able to survive long enough to deliver it.”

Tears stung Watson’s eyes again, and he smiled as he rubbed Holmes’ arm. “And you did, Holmes. You did.”

“A little late of a delivery, perhaps.” Holmes gave a low laugh that was almost amused. “I still will not blame you if you wish to give me a thrashing.”

“I most certainly do not wish to give you a thrashing, or even a single lab.” Leaning over, Watson kissed Holmes’ cheek, then selected the first of his own letters. “I do wish to give you this, however.”

Holmes flicked a smile at him again, taking the paper. It was not so crumpled, although it had in fact been written on nearly the same day, a week after the Falls. “Thank you, Watson.”

“You’re welcome, Holmes,” Watson said softly. He took a deep breath, then turned his attention to the first letter that Holmes had written him.

It was in Holmes’ familiar handwriting and with his familiar pen, albeit shakier than usual and occasionally smudged. It was not the paper he ordinarily used, instead a thin, low quality paper of the sort commonly found in the cheapest and worst hotels. Not English paper, either, which made sense if he had written it upon his arrival in Florence.

Watson read it slowly, lingering over every word, basking in the longing that so resonated with his own. Then, tearing up again, he pulled Holmes into another tight embrace.

---

My dear, dear Watson,

I write to you at the first possible opportunity, for I have not had the chance to slow down until now. Indeed, I have only just collapsed at a desk in my hotel room, although “hotel” is something of a generous term, as is “room”, and indeed “desk”. Disregard all that I said in my last note. I wish you to come to me at once, and together—

No. No, I cannot ask that of you, nor would it be safe for either of us. Together, we should be easily caught and killed, and I cannot bear your loss.

I know that I have asked you to bear mine, and for that I am immensely sorry. With luck, you need only bear it for a little. I shall return to London the instant my opportunity presents itself. I hope to see a chance by the end of the month, or if not, certainly by the end of the year.

Regardless, I am alive, and I swear that I shall return to you. It is tempting to post this letter to you at once, and yet I fear it should be intercepted, or that you would indeed try to join me. You cannot, nor can I join you. We must be apart for a little.

I can see the Duomo from here, the… I have clearly gone without sleep for too long, for I find that I cannot recall the proper name of the grand cathedral that rises above the city. It was the site of another famous assassination, and although I have escaped my own for the present, I feel a sudden strange kinship with Giuliano de' Medici. Perhaps I shall pay the cathedral a little visit tomorrow, although I should much prefer to be on my way back to London—and to you, my dearest, most beloved friend.

Yours,
Sherlock Holmes

---

My dear Holmes, wonderful man who saved my life in so many ways,

I could not save yours. I know that. Every time I close my eyes, I see it, see that empty ledge and your alpine-stock. I can see it even now, as if it is reflected in the silver cigarette case that I cannot help but clutch in my hand. I know that you are dead.

And yet, I find myself writing to you regardless. The impulse—the craving—is so very strong, and I cannot possibly fight it any longer. I nearly wrote to you the very night that you died, but had I done so, the paper would have been far too drenched with tears to even take my ink.

Even now, I can hardly manage to write this, for I cannot stop weeping. Weeping, and wishing for things that I cannot have. Or rather, one thing that I cannot have.

I want you back, Holmes. More than anything, I want you back. If I had you back, there is nothing else that I would ever truly desire out of life. To be with you again, to hear your voice and see your face, that would be enough to sustain me forever.

Every night, I have dreamed about you. About your death, yes, but also simply about your presence, about being at your side. To be by your side has always been the greatest joy, and…

I cannot find the words. I do not even know what to say, how to express this desperate, hopeless longings. I know that I cannot get you back, but it is all I want out of life. I just want you. I want you to come back to me.

I need you. Perhaps I will go back to sleep. At least there, I have you in dreams, at least for a little while.

Always yours, even if you are gone,
John Watson

---

Holmes hastily wiped his cheeks, for he had no wish to add more tear stains to the letter that Watson had given him. The old tears—five years old—had clearly been dabbed away as soon as they fell, and yet they had left their mark. He would not add his own.

Beside him, Watson was wiping his own cheeks too, still holding that old, crumpled letter. “Good heavens. One would think I’d cried enough for one day.”

“Mm. I fear that I, too, am still capable of tears.” Albeit quite relieved, in a way. Even after reading that letter, Watson showed no signs of being furious with him. It really was remarkable. “I suppose it is a little early to know if reading these had helped.”

“Just a bit,” Watson said fondly, gazing at him with nothing but love. “And yet, I am glad to have read the first one, at least. I knew you missed me, but to actually read it like this, to know how badly you wished to return home…”

“Very, very badly.” Holmes shivered, suddenly terribly chilled by memory. The loneliness of those years had often been so intense that it was all he could do not to scream with the agony of it. “You see, no doubt, that I was a little too optimistic in my assessment of when I should be able to return home to you.”

“Yes, you were. But you did return home, old man.” Brief hesitation tugged at Watson’s face, and then he chuckled. “I think I may have had too much to drink. I’m starting to get strange ideas.”

Curious, Holmes raised an eyebrow. “Strange ideas sound like an excellent distraction from unpleasant emotions. What is it?”

“Well, I know that you’re not interested in… people,” Watson said in an oddly awkward tone.

Holmes blinked at him. “On the contrary, I think it is fairly evident from my work that I find people quite interesting.”

“That’s not what I mean. I mean…” Watson’s cheeks were going red now, and Holmes began to understand. “Intimacies of any kind.”

“Ah. Yes, that is quite true, although I do enjoy the occasional embrace or to lie beside you in a chaste manner.” Perhaps it was best to be direct rather than to force Watson to say it. “If you are hoping to seduce me, I fear you shall be disappointed.”

Watson let out a snort of laughter, shaking his head. “No, I know better. And although I do think many people are quite striking, that’s as far as it goes. I’m not really interested in doing anything about it.”

“I see,” Holmes said, not seeing the point of this conversation. But it was Watson, and so he would be patient.

“That’s why it’s a strange idea.” Watson chuckled, shaking his head. “For some reason, after reading this, I want to kiss you.”

Holmes tilted his head. Watson was not the sort of person who would use such a request in order to lure him into something he wished no part of, so it was surely meant in earnest. “Well, I see no reason that friends cannot kiss one another, at least in private. I have never done such a thing, but I do not think I would mind if it was you.”

Watson smiled, corners of his eyes crinkling. “You’re sure?”

“Entirely. Anything for my Watson.” Holmes set the letter aside and turned to face his companion. “Feel free to initiate the kiss whenever you desire.”

With another chuckle, Watson cupped his cheek, then leaned in and pressed their lips together. It was not a deep, passionate kiss, not like the kind that Holmes found disturbing to even watch. Yet there was an immense amount of feeling in it somehow, as if the simple touch was expressing things that Watson could not find the words for. Perhaps the very things that he had not been able to determine how to express in his letter.

When he drew back, there were tears on his cheeks again. He tried to smile, but his lip trembled. “Thank you, Holmes. I cannot tell you how happy I still am to have you back.”

“There is no need to tell me,” Holmes murmured, choked up as he gazed at his dearest friend. “I know. I feel exceedingly fortunate to be home, and to have you.”

Tentative, he initiated another, briefer kiss. It was not unpleasant, and did seem a good way of expressing a certain depth of care.

On the whole, however, he preferred embraces, and wrapped Watson in one next. They huddled against each other on the settee, both sniffling somewhat.

And yet, Holmes no longer felt quite as weighed down by the past. It had been five years since that day at Reichenbach Falls, three of which had been spent in an agony of loneliness for both of them. And yet, Watson had forgiven him long ago, and still rejoiced at his homecoming. Perhaps now, at last, Holmes could forgive himself too.

Chapter Text

It had been a long, surprisingly peaceful night and early morning. Emotional, yes, for there had been no way to escape that. On this day of all days, everything was heightened, grief stronger than usual.

And yet, despite the old pain stirred up by reading those lonely letters, Holmes found that there was immense joy to be found in doing so together. Not all of the letters they had written to one another fixated on that horrible day at the Reichenbach Falls, or on the grief of the aftermath. Many of the letters and notes simply related daily events, things they wished to be able to tell one another but couldn’t at the time.

Now, safe at Baker Street, they could. They laughed and joked, relating stories that neither of them had thought of for a long time. Occasionally, they wept again, when they ran across a letter that was particularly full of pain and loneliness. But on the whole, they simply enjoyed being together.

It was morning when Holmes’ nervous energy at last failed him, and not even the fear of nightmares could keep him awake. Exhaustion wore him down, the emotions of these past days draining him until his eyes closed of their own accord.

He was not entirely surprised when Watson covered him with a blanket and drew him to snuggle up. Holmes surrendered to the coaxing, relaxing against Watson. The steady rise and fall of his chest was further reassurance that all was well.

At least, all was well until the dreams returned. They were precisely the sort of dreams to be expected under the circumstances, the sort that he had been suffering for the past weeks.

The spray of the Falls on his face, the endless roar of it drowning out all else. Moriarty’s crushing grip on his upper arms, his wild look of rage, his scream echoing out of the abyss.

And then slipping in the mud, tumbling over the edge, hurtling down to the depths—

“Holmes. Holmes, wake up.”

Holmes jolted awake, looked around wildly, and let out a snarl of annoyance at himself. “Damn! Will these nightmares not let up even now? I have discussed my troubles, Watson!”

Watson, who was blinking away sleep now, gave him a sympathetic smile. “I’m afraid that’s not enough to guarantee a lack of nightmares, Holmes.”

“Well, they are exceedingly irritating. Five years of dreaming about the same incident cannot possibly be of the slightest use.” Heart still beating too quickly, Holmes glanced around again. Based on the brightness behind the curtains, he had managed at least a couple of hours sleep, which was an improvement. “Were you able to rest at all?”

“Some, yes. I’m still tired, but not falling asleep sitting up anymore.” Wincing, Watson straightened up as Holmes adjusted. He rolled his shoulder, then rubbed it gingerly. “I wonder whether Mrs. Hudson will be up with breakfast soon.”

“Ah, you have an appetite. Splendid!” Holmes stretched as well, unsurprised to find that he was also exceedingly sore. Sleeping in awkward positions was never helpful, and tension often caused him pain.

His head also hurt, a steady throbbing in his temples. Not yet a migraine, but certainly threatening. A common enough occurrence both when he was without a case and when he was under stress.

Pulling his blanket more tightly around himself, he rose and went in search of a cigarette and a match. Once he found the necessary items, he lit his cigarette and took a long pull on it, eager for the tobacco.

The familiar cloud of smoke soon soothed his rattled nerves, as did merely being able to see Watson. Watson hadn’t yet gotten up yet, but was in the process of gathering up their old letters to each other, which were rather scattered around the settee. Holmes watched him, basking in the familiarity of being together.

“I could use a shave,” Watson said at last, rubbing his cheek. “Would you like to stick close to each other today too? I still don’t particularly feel like splitting up.”

“I believe that sticking close is advisable.” Holmes finished his cigarette and flicked it into the fireplace. “Come, Watson. Let us prepare for our day.”

---

It was odd to feel so much better on the actual anniversary of losing Holmes, but Watson did feel much better than he had for some time. They’d prepared for their day slowly, in an almost lazy manner that would have felt like a holiday if not for the lingering cloud. Even with everything a bit raw and a little dark, it was a relief to be together.

“Well, I suppose the anticipation really is the worst,” he said as Holmes helped him back into his dressing gown. “I’m certainly less tense than I was yesterday.”

“Mm, as am I. Although, I am admittedly unlikely to venture near the windows today. There remains a certain fear of air guns.” Holmes gave him a brief flick of a smile in the mirror, smoothing his dressing gown. Then he waltzed off across the room to steal a match from Watson’s bedside table and lit another cigarette. “I believe Mrs. Hudson ought to be up soon. A bit of breakfast, and then what?”

“Hmm. That’s a good question, old man.” Watson yawned, stretching, and then headed out of the bedroom. Holmes tagged after him. “I suppose neither of us is going to want to go anywhere.”

“Air guns,” Holmes said grimly.

“Yes, I agree. So, we’ll stay in.” Sleeping more was tempting, but Watson had little wish for more nightmares unless he got too tired to stay awake. “I would say that I’d like to get some writing done, but that’s a bit too solitary perhaps.”

“No, no! Writing would be excellent, Watson.” As they went downstairs, Holmes took his arm. Grateful for the support, Watson leaned on him. “I could devote some work to one of my monographs, or perhaps a composition. And serenade you as you write.”

Watson smiled at the teasing tone. “You just want to distract me so I don’t “romanticize” your work too much.”

“On the contrary, Watson. Your usual florid emphasis on the least essential details will provide an abundance of valid criticisms.” Holmes twitched a smile at him. “It will be a splendid diversion for us both.”

“Oh, yes. There’s nothing I enjoy more than being told everything I’ve done wrong,” Watson said fondly.

Holmes glanced at him, still amused but with a tinge of something else underneath it. “You are, of course, welcome to tell me everything that I’ve done wrong. I believe it would even be entirely on topic for today if you were to berate me.”

“I’m not thrashing you with words either, old man.” Once they stepped into the sitting room, Watson paused and simply held onto Holmes’ arm for a moment longer than necessary. “I understand why you feel as if you need to be punished. I felt the same way for leaving you alone that day, as if I deserved to suffer.”

Holmes sighed. “I know. It was evident from your letters.”

“I don’t feel that way any more.”

“Of course not! I am alive.”

“Yes, you are, and I’m glad of it. More than glad.” Watson could always weep for joy to have him back. “You know, there’s a part of me that still feels like I ought to have stayed that day, that if I had stayed, you might not have had to run. But I have accepted what happened. I’m not blaming myself, or you.”

He had expected a protest. Instead, Holmes brushed a light kiss to his cheek. “I know, Watson. And although I am having limited success, I am attempting to escape my self-recriminations.”

“Oh!” The worry lifted, at least a bit, and Watson smiled. “Well, good. You deserve a bit of peace, my dear fellow.”

“And you deserve a good breakfast.” Holmes tilted his head, listening. “Fortunately, I believe Mrs. Hudson is ascending now.”

She was indeed, and beamed when she saw them, the tightness in her shoulders relaxing. “Oh, sirs! It’s awfully good to see you. You both look well, and even ready for your days.”

“Mm, essentially.” Holmes opened his arms. “Why don’t you set down the tray and then permit me to administer another hug?”

“Oh, yes. I’d like that an awful lot.” Mrs. Hudson blinked a few times, sniffling, and set the breakfast tray down. She went to Holmes, and he wrapped her in a slightly awkward but sweet embrace. “Thank you, Mr. Holmes. It’s so good to have you here.”

Holmes gave her a careful squeeze, relaxing into the embrace now. “It is exceedingly good to be here, Mrs. Hudson.”

Watson smiled as he watched them, then opened his own arms once Holmes extracted himself. “Mrs. Hudson.”

“Oh, Doctor.” She hugged him too, squeezing much harder than she had with Holmes. Watson hugged her back with equal enthusiasm. “Thank you, sir.”

“Of course, and thank you for breakfast.” Stomach growling, Watson eyed the tray. He wasn’t quite as hungry as usual, but almost. “And how are you doing today? All right?”

“Oh, yes. A bit silly, perhaps, but quite well.” As she drew back, Mrs. Hudson wiped her eyes again. “At least, now that I’ve seen you two dears. I was a bit tense before.”

“We’re quite well, thank you.” Holmes sat, eyeing the breakfast tray with disdain. “Mrs. Hudson, where is my coffee? I shall not continue to be well should you deprive me of my coffee.”

She chuckled, giving him a fond look. “I’ll bring it right up, sir. You just be patient.”

Holmes gave a dismissive sniff. “It is impossible to be patient when one is in need of coffee.”

Smiling, Watson sank into his own seat and lifted the lid off the breakfast tray. It was quite a bit more food than usual, and all of their favorites. “Oh, Mrs. Hudson, this looks remarkable. Thank you.”

She patted him on the shoulder. “You’re most welcome, Doctor.”

Holmes cleared his throat impatiently.

“Coffee coming right up, Mr. Holmes.”

Chuckling, Watson began to dish up his own food as Mrs. Hudson bustled off to fetch the coffee. “You’re a little demanding, old man.”

“Yes,” Holmes agreed cheerfully, a twinkle in his eye. “And neither of you would have me any other way, my dear friend.”

“Well, I’m afraid I can’t argue with that.” Watson gazed at Holmes, heart aching with affection. “I am glad to have you at all.”

Holmes flicked a quick smile at him, and Watson returned it. Yes, it was wonderful to have Holmes here, to be able to simply look up and know that he was home, and this was now. Today might still have hard moments, but they would certainly make it through together.

---

Breakfast was adequate, if not something that Holmes had any interest in. It was certainly easier to eat today, when he was less on edge. It was pleasant to no longer be desperately concerned about what might happen. Now that the day was here, they could simply handle any troubles that arose rather than tumbling into the agonies of conjecture.

Coffee was far superior to breakfast, and Holmes dove into that with enthusiasm. He very much needed it, for although he was so longer horribly anxious, he was still somewhat rattled and exceedingly unfocused. It would be a relief to have this in the past, although last year it had taken perhaps a week after the date to subside.

It was far easier to tolerate now than when he had been on the run. In those years, he had already been in such a constant heightened state of awareness and indeed fear that any increase made it nearly impossible to function at all. At least here, he could sleep, even if only for a little while.

After breakfast, he and Watson settled into their own tasks, remaining together in the same room yet occupying themselves. It was advantageous to have so many years of comfortable experience doing precisely that, and the familiarity soothed much of the remaining agitation.

Not all of it, though, and Holmes found himself again craving just a little cocaine, enough to sand down the rough edges of existence. He did still have an emergency supply, just in case it should prove necessary, if his self-destructive tendencies careened in a direction that would cause still more harm.

This was not one of those days, however, and although the urges remained, he focused instead on his music. He had been working out a composition of late, something that started off melancholy and yet ended on a more triumphant note. To work through feelings via music was certainly healthier than taking either a knife or a needle to his arm.

Even playing his violin for a while and exploring the composition thus far was not entirely enough to distract him from a rising sense of dread, however, and his chest tightened with increasing anxiety again. He couldn’t quite catch his breath, or decide whether it would be more helpful to spring up and pace or huddle in his blanket and never move again.

Instead of doing either, he gazed up at his picture of the Reichenbach Falls, letting his gaze track downward, following the descent that he had so nearly taken. Ridiculous to still be so under the shadow of that place, even now, when he had everything he had wanted for so long.

Watson was beside him, and that ought to be enough. Interrupting his writing would be absurd. And besides, after everything that Holmes had done, he deserved…

He took a deep breath, releasing the rest of that thought and directing his energy elsewhere as he pulled his blanket back around his shoulders. No, he did not deserve punishment, nor did Watson wish him to suffer. Watson wished for him to be happy, and to ask for help when needed.

“Watson,” he ventured, only a little guilty.

Watson looked up at once, pen hovering over his notebook. “Yes, old man?”

“I fear that our current activities are not quite enough stimulation at present, and I crave a little more conversation.” Holmes cast a curious glance at Watson’s notebook. “Would you be willing to read me what you have there so that I might critique your inevitable romanticism and focus on drama, Watson?”

Laughing, Watson leaned their shoulders together and turned back to the first page of his current account. “I should be delighted, Holmes.”

Pleased, Holmes wrapped the blanket more snugly around himself and cuddled against Watson to listen to more pleasant reminiscing about the past. The shadow of Reichenbach Falls still loomed over them, and perhaps always would. But it was only a shadow, and the future would always be bright with Watson at his side.