NB: Another fic, I hope I am getting better at writing the voice of both Holmes and Watson, they are an interesting challenge! I own no one, otherwise R D Jr. would be already chained up in my basement…Please Read and Review!
Five Times Holmes Visited Watson at 3am, and One Time Watson visited Holmes
He was running through a rain-splattered Baker Street, although it smelled and felt wrong - the paving stones were uneven - and he was looking for something, except he couldn't remember what it was, or why he was here, and the cold was closing in -
And then suddenly he wasn't in Baker Street anymore, but on that jetty on the Thames, where he had just saved Irene Adler from an unfortunate incident with a saw - and he was running down the jetty, and Watson was standing at the other end, he could see him clearly, looking down at his feet, then noticing Holmes, and thrusting a hand forward and shouting Holmes and then an explosion, white and red and blinding him, and he fell backwards, and all he could remember was thinking no -
Holmes jerked awake, so violently, that he fell out of the chair he had already been rather precariously perched upon, and crashed to the floor of his room in 221b Baker Street.
He waited, nose to the floorboards, until the echoes of his rather painful contact with the floor had faded away. From the silence outside, he judged it was still night, probably early morning. Any moment now, he thought cheerfully, he would hear Watson's door open, and his unsteady walk to Holmes' door - and then he would stumble in and say something like do you have any idea what the blasted time is? and everything would be fine again.
There was nothing but a further silence.
Despite his best attempts to forget, Holmes recalled his dream.
Holmes. And the explosion, and the look on Watson's face before it faded into white oblivion, and Holmes thinking no -
He scrambled to his feet. Why was Watson taking so long?
"Hmm," he said to the empty room, to fill it, then marched out of the room, along the hall and knocked on Watson's door.
The door swung open. Watson's room was empty - of everything.
Of course, said the logical part of Holmes' mind. He got married, he doesn't live here any longer. And then something else, something darker, something that was still attached to his dream whispered: or did he? Maybe that had been part of the dream - maybe Watson really had been killed by the blast, because of Holmes and his stupid, idiotic adventures, and Holmes had just been imagining a happier ending for him…Maybe the room was empty because he was -
Holmes. Ironic, that he would say his name, the name of the one who had got him into the situation, the name of the one who had killed him -
No, he thought firmly. He wasn't dead. Ridiculous, old boy. He is fine.
"Hmm," he said to the room. There was only one way to find out for sure.
Bang. Bang bang. Bangbangbang.
John Watson was dragged out of his rather muddled dreams with an unceremoniousness that he usually only attributed to Holmes, and was surprised to find himself in the bedroom of Cavendish Place, curled up with his wife Mary, who was also stirring.
"What the - ?" he mumbled.
Someone at the door. He glanced at the clock blearily - it was just past three o clock in the morning.
"John - " murmured Mary. "What's - ?"
"I," Watson said grimly, "Have no idea."
Groaning, he rolled out of bed, wrestled his nightgown on to the incessant melody of louder and louder knocks, then padded to the window and opened it, looking down to see who the intruder was.
It was Holmes. Of course it was Holmes, Watson thought ironically. He was bashing at the door as if it had insulted him, hair rumpled, wearing the barest minimum even though it was a cold winter's night, and looking as frenzied as he ever did.
"Holmes?" he said. Holmes glanced up and his face, which Watson hadn't noticed had been lined with worry until now, instantly broke into a broad smile that illuminated him from the inside out.
"What on earth are you doing?" Watson shouted.
"Watson! You're alive!" Holmes cheered, and did a little jump, with the sort of energy he usually only had when he had solved a case.
Watson rubbed his eyes - this was ridiculous.
"Well of course I'm - Holmes, you do realise it's the middle of night? And you're not even wearing a coat!"
Holmes glanced down at himself, as if he had only just realised this case.
"That's right!" he said brightly.
Watson put his head in his hands. It was far too late - or early - for this.
"Just - stay there," he mumbled, then closed the window and turned away. "Holmes," he said as way of an explanation to his wife, who groaned and buried her head in the pillow, murmuring very unladylike curses.
Watson stumbled downstairs, moaning, and ripped the door open brutally.
"Whatever it is, it had better be impor - " he started, and then stopped, because Holmes had flung his arms around him and was burying his head in his shoulder, as if he hadn't seen him in years.
"Er," Watson said. Holmes gripped him tighter, for all the world like a small boy who had just found his favourite possession.
Tentatively, Watson touched Holmes' bare shoulder. It was like touching ice, ice that was trembling.
"Holmes, you're freezing."
Silence. Holmes did not let go. Watson was starting to feel a little concerned. It was not like Holmes to be so quiet for this long. And he was showing no signs of releasing Watson, either.
"Holmes, old boy," he said, more gently. "Is everything all right?"
It was like he had pushed a lever. Holmes sprang back from him as if he had suddenly sprouted tusks.
"What? Fine!" he said cheerfully. "Absolutely fine, dear chap!" He was more wild-eyed than Watson had seen in some time. Watson frowned.
"Well then, would you please kindly explain why you decided to break down my door at three in the damn morning?!"
"Oh." Holmes blinked, as if he had forgotten, and for a moment his crazy liveliness faltered, and he simply looked haunted. Then he blinked again, and the joyousness had returned, and there was no trace of that moment. "Nothing. Nothing really. Sorry to disturb you, dear boy. Erm."
He scratched his head, momentarily somewhere else, then grinned lopsidedly at Watson again. "Well. I suppose I should be off."
Watson stared in confusion, but Holmes was already nodding at him and retreating as quickly as possible.
Watson watched as he trudged down the street, glared at the doorframe for a moment, then said, before Holmes was out of earshot, "Holmes."
Something in Holmes' shoulder blades twitched, but he turned back with a blank face. Watson sighed inwardly, wondering why he let himself constantly get caught up with this man's craziness, and then said, "Dinner tonight? The Royale."
Holmes hesitated. Watson added, diplomatically, "Mary will be out of town, visiting her brother. I thought maybe we could - catch up?"
Holmes' face twitched, like it did when he was trying to suppress a smile. "Wonderful. Eight thirty?"
"Eight thirty," affirmed Watson, then nodded and shut the door, leaving Holmes alone to carry on his rather brisker trot back to Baker Street and therefore missing his victorious grin completely.
Read? Review! New chapter when I get a flash of insight…