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Walking home from the train station, having seen Watson off for a long journey away from me, was the most arduous walk of my life. Save perhaps the walk from Reichenbach Falls, no other walk in my life was so taxing. Both were movements away from all the light in my life. As I progressed closer to the ghastly digs I held in Berlin, the distance from Watson lengthened until I felt the thread between us once more break. Who knew if he would return to me? Who knew, if he did, when that would be?
Perhaps in a week’s time, Watson could comfortably clean up any loose ends at 221B. It would not do to fret over when, if, how long. He said he would return to me; I should keep him at his word.
But I am not the man I used to be. I am not the man I was when we met. I can offer him but half a life. Again I am faced with the same mystery which perplexed me those years ago in the warmth of our flat: John Watson stays with me. Why?
It was a conundrum I was never able to answer then, and it seems I’m just as in the dark now. The facts remain, but I cannot bundle them towards any solution. Watson stays. He loves me. I do know that; I do know that he loves me. But he stays. Can love forgive so much? Could I possibly be enough to keep him entertained for the rest of our lives in a country where no one knows us?
By the time I got back to the flat, I was spent. Mycroft had gifted more than enough money to go towards lunch, or tea, or even cigarettes, but my blasted leg hurt so damn much I knew I couldn’t go out again without risk of a collapse. I made it to the sofa and lay down there, and if I slept for the rest of the day, fitfully and anxiously, there was no one there to disprove.
—
Two weeks I waited for Watson to return. In that time I had found an apartment near a park, in the same vicinity that our London digs were to the park there. It came with a bigger bed and the stairs were sturdy and few; those were my only criteria.
With Watson about to join me, I knew I had to make sense of my life as it was. I could not find work with crime or the police again; that would bring up too much suspicion. If I had any ties to anyone in the city, I might find a job in chemist’s work, but I knew no one. I was a shadow. My brother sent me what allowance he could. I knew even Watson would struggle getting something.
I begged Watson to bring me my possessions from London, namely my scrapbooks and notebooks. With that, perhaps, I could write a short history of London crime and have Watson send it to Scotland Yard — as if I had written it before “death.”
Until then, I scoured the papers of Berlin. There were even — I shuddered to see them but could not help myself buying them — journals for inverts. I read these in full, raptly, as though I could gleam something from them. All I could gleam amounted merely to abashed delight and some unnamed relief.
I had met Magnus Hirschfeld once: he was a very busy man, and so understandably did not invest much in my time with him. He was stout, with a solid moustache, and reminded me of my Watson. He gave me a text to read by Herr Ulrichs. I have not yet read it; I put it in the wardrobe.
A life in Berlin seemed impossible. So nigh yet so distant. But of course a life not in London — that is what is impossible. Busy myself I am able, but finding a work while remaining anonymous I find distasteful. Even to work in a lab and run experiments — all to the aims of crime and detective work, truth be told. Without this, what was there? I must find something.
—
Day ten without Watson. I counted days like this after Reichenbach. I did not make it to one hundred before giving up the habit. I try now to remember my life before Watson: was there such a thing? It seems hollow, now, looking back on it. Hollow and somehow untrue. Half-realised.
Faking my death taught me two things: I am a sentimental old fool, and living without Watson does not amount to any sort of life I wish to lead. I kept on with the plan of returning to him. Now I wait for him to return to me. Time is endless.
To keep myself busy, and to accustom myself to the gait with which I had been blighted, I began taking walks. Jaunts, really, through the streets of this foreign city, which with every step began to feel more familiar. I took walks as far as I could to the east, the north, the west, the south. I circled buildings and dives and parks and leered down alleys. I memorised the city as I so long ago memorised London, but every step I took, I ensured that I would not replace any street. I did not want to forget London, even if I could not let myself yearn to return to it. The city was alive, I felt London in the breaths I took, in my fingers and legs. Berlin could not compare, but nothing could, and I would have to live with it.
All said, I found the map of Berlin a worthy adversary.
It twisted and turned, but all very neatly, with charming shapes and shops and plenty of people to inspect. I skipped breakfast for three days so I could afford a coat. It was charcoal grey instead of my prior black one, just as long but with better pockets and indigo-coloured lining. I could not walk as I used to, I had indeed lost most of my grace, but the coat covered a lot of it or at least gave me an air of intrigue which would distract — or perhaps highlight — a limp. I do not fancy myself vain, but I was tired of the looks from elder women as I limped by them.
Stairs haunted me. Tired as I was, after some walks the steps up to the flat were enough to put me sideways for the rest of the day. Even if I could walk further every day, the stairs always did me in. Watson would be livid at how I push myself when he is not here, but the truth is that I fear I will lose the ability to walk if I do not keep up the habit. The pain was unbearable at times, but it reminded me of all I had done.
On the morning of the twenty-first day after Watson left, I stayed in bed longer than I should have and only got up to relieve myself some hours later. But then I was up, and thinking of Mrs. Hudson, put the kettle on. She did like to have tea ready for Watson and me in the mornings. I barely appreciated it then, but now I regret not appreciating it more. I was about to take the first sip of the morning when a noise startled me and I dropped the cup. It shattered to the floor, and within moments someone had their arms around me.
I grappled with all the might I had, which admittedly was pitiable. With a great inhale to steel myself for blows from the stranger, I felt my mind slow to a halt.
Watson.
I would know that smell anywhere: it was the oil Watson put on his moustache which always trickled somehow under his jaw. I turned around as Watson turned me in his arms and in the next moment, we were wrapped around each other tight, and I heard one of us possibly sobbing.
The moment subsided, and when I straightened, I deduced I had been the one sobbing. My cheeks were wet and so was Watson’s shoulder, but not his face.
He took one of my shaking hands and kissed it, looking at me all the while.
“I did not mean to give you a fright,” he murmured in a gravelly voice, and I would have fainted if he had not caught me and led me to the soft chair in the kitchen.
“Holmes, are you alright?”
I held my head and tried to calm myself. “Of course, of course.” I had broken the cup. I only had two. Watson and I would have to share a mug. I smiled at the thought; it would not do.
“We will buy another one today, love,” Watson whispered. I opened my eyes (had I closed them?) to find him sitting next to me, his hand on my shoulder. Had he read my mind? I wouldn’t disbelieve it.
I took a breath and settled against the chair, which was oversized enough to fit both of us, albeit it a bit snugly. I might have been embarrassed at the reaction I gave Watson, but the relief I felt from seeing him next to me overshadowed all else.
“How did Mycroft give you a key already?” I muttered some minutes later, once my head stopped spinning.
“Your door was unlocked, Holmes.”
“Ah.” I blinked; my stomach growled. Had I had dinner last night? I could not remember. At this hour, I was late for my usual walk when I would pick up some bread or another little something to eat.
“When is the last time you ate, Holmes?”
I felt Watson’s finger on my pulse. He turned my head towards him by a hand on my cheek. I did feel foggy, foggier than usual. Or was this waking up after twenty-one days?
“Yesterday.”
I watched as my Watson, my beautiful, well-suffering Watson, huffed and squinted his eyes at me. “Let’s get you something to eat.”
I did not want to tell him that I had spent most of the money that Mycroft gave me on the bigger bed and the rest on tobacco and opera tickets. To my surprise, he looked at me with a glint in his eye as he added, “I’ll buy.”
—
Over coffee and sandwiches, Watson filled me in on our time apart. He had gone against my brother and told Mrs Hudson why he was leaving but no further details, he promised me. His practise had indeed been bought for a pretty penny, and all the packing was taken care of as well, save a few odds and ends.
“My violin?”
“In my suitcase.”
“Safe?”
“Yes, Holmes, I kept it safe. It’s all in one piece.”
I nodded. “My scrapbooks?”
Watson hesitated, and my heart dropped. He opened his mouth to say something then closed it again. I watched him until I realised.
“France?”
Watson nodded. “It was already done when I’d got there. Your brother sent me back to escort you immediately to your grandmother’s estate.”
“Posh!” I stood up, angry. “He thinks he knows what’s best—”
“Holmes, sit down,” Watson said in a low voice. With a huff I followed his command. “It just so happens that he is right.”
I willed myself to sit and listen to Watson, for I knew I could not make a scene here without attracting attention. The thought of the situation made me even more furious.
I stewed and steamed and realised Watson had been talking.
“… may be a lovely city with concerts, but Holmes, what sort of life can we have—?”
I stood and was several yards away before I realised I had begun walking.
—
I walked the city until my leg began to threaten to give out. It was well afternoon by the time I returned to the nicer flat. Watson was inside, as I knew he would be, sat on the edge of the chair in the kitchen, his back tense and the air still. As the door shut he stood and turned around. His face was ablaze with fury.
“How extremely childish of you, Holmes, to disappear in this damned city, I could not chase you down lest I cause a scene—”
By that time I had made it over to him and collapsed into his arms. He huffed a sigh of extreme annoyance but held my weight and steered us toward the couch.
“No,” I rasped, out of breath, “I need the bath.”
Watson stopped and stood straighter, still holding me. “Oh, a bath, you say? You need a bath?” His tone was icy but as he looked down at me his gaze softened. “You are absolutely incorrigible,” he huffed again, and led me to the bath.
The bathtub was, I admit, quite expensive but necessary for my bum leg. A good soak every night allowed me to walk the next day without terrible soreness and stiffness. I had bought it from an old woman who helped me up the stairs, once; she was selling it because it leaked a little, and I told her that was no bother and I’d take it. I paid extra to have her son move it and hook it up and had used it every night since, a bit over a week now.
Watson was well and angry this time, I knew; he cursed and huffed, red in the face, as he drew my bath. He gave me side glances that instilled an abyss in my heart, an aching depth that I had caused him pain. Again. I kept my gaze on the floor until he was finished.
“Thank you,” I murmured as he left the room. He paused at the doorway.
“I trust you can handle this on your own,” he said without looking back, and shut the door.
—
A bit over an hour later, I emerged from the bath, dressed myself robe-only, and set out to find Watson.
He was on the couch, sitting upright but his head tilted to the side. To my surprise he was dozing. How tiring must the trip have been?
Or how tiring have I been?
I made tea quiet as I could and brought his mug — the only mug I had — to him, sat beside him. He stirred a bit and woke a second later.
“I am sorry, John,” I murmured, giving him but a side glance. He sighed loudly and put his hand on my knee.
“Do not leave again.” His voice was iron.
“I swear to you I will not.”
“I cannot take it again, Holmes. I am serious.” He looked at me; I swallowed around a dry throat and nodded. He reached for his tea and sipped it, all the while my mind whirled.
What sort of life can we have? What sort of life indeed. Hiding constantly, looking over our shoulders, watching our shadows. What did this city provide me but anxiety? What could I provide Watson but anxiety?
Our lives before had anxiety, of course. There was fear. But it was our home, in a sense. The fear was always forgotten once we entered 221B. But the fear was also part of our lives; it was what made us us. The danger we put ourselves in, the safety we had in each other. There was a balance.
Could we find that balance again? If we could — how could we without the thrill of the chase?
“You wish to go to France?”
Watson hummed; I realised it had been quite some time since either of us had spoken. His mug was empty. “Are we going to France?”
“Answer the question, Watson.”
He looked at me, a smirk hinting at his mouth. “France would be interesting.”
I blinked. “You think?”
“Oh, yes. Wine and cheese. Nice weather.”
I hummed. “I am not sure it is so idyllic as you think.”
“Do you wish to go, Holmes?”
I sat and thought. No, I had no intention of going to France, because it was not Paris. It was the country air. The dull country folk with their dull crimes. Although if I were not to enter detective work, what would that matter? If I had to keep to myself, stay hidden, did it really matter where I was, as long as I was kept from anyone who might recognise me?
Regardless, I would be surprised if my celebrity stretched as far as France. And even if it did, to what extent had it reached the countryside? Doubtless my brother had already come to this conclusion and picked that area specifically. The thought of following my brother’s orders rankled me. But still, if that was what it took to keep Watson…
I stood up, having made a decision but not wanting to answer Watson’s question. “I wish to go to the concert tonight. If we leave now we will make it just in time.” I turned to Watson, who looked sheepish. I studied him. “I am sorry about this afternoon,” I said in a quieter voice. Regret shook in my ribcage, making my exhales shaky.
Watson remained sitting. Perhaps I had underestimated the journey he had been on. I sat next to him.
“Is all well in London?”
Watson set his hand on my knee, which I took to be a good sign. “Mrs Hudson knows, Sherlock.”
I nodded. “I had a hunch you would spill it to her.”
Watson sighed. “Your brother is a fool if he thought I wouldn’t tell her. She misses you so much, Holmes.” Watson’s voice fell off the end of his sentence; I covered his hand with mine. “It took all she had not to go with me, but she knows this is our adventure now.”
I hummed, looking at our hands. Adventure? That sounded like a dare.
“You have to promise me something, Holmes.” He pulled gently at my hand and I looked up at him. His face was earnest as he said, “You have to swear to me that you are sure.”
I swallowed, trying to grasp his meaning. “Sure?”
His gaze did not leave mine. “That you want me with you.”
“Yes, Watson, yes. Yes.” All the breath left me.
He sat silent for a moment, as though deciding. I began to panic. “I don’t know what sort of life—”
I made to stand up again, but Watson held my wrist and sat me back down.
“Let me finish.” I nodded, mute. His eyes were blue, bluer than the ocean, than they ever have been. “You are not the Sherlock Holmes I knew—” I tensed again, but he held my hand tighter. “And I am not the man you knew, either.” He took a breath; I was captivated. “We have to be sure of each other before we go off together.”
My voice was small when I asked, “Are you not sure of me?”
Watson grabbed both of my forearms. “You are the surest thing in the world to me.” I had begun to shake. “Holmes, I need to know if you are sure.”
“I’m sure, Watson,” I whispered, holding his forearms too. Our faces grew nearer. “I am sure.”
“I am an old man,” he said.
“I am crippled,” I replied.
Watson blinked; the beginning of a smirk was forming on his lips. “So was I, when we met.”
“You cannot fix a broken leg, John.”
“Nor did you fix my shoulder, Sherlock.” Our noses were touching. “You have to let me help you. You have to let me in. You cannot keep yourself from me like you did.” I nodded, beginning to understand. “The danger will lie in something completely unfamiliar, Holmes. It won’t be robbers and murderers. It’ll just be the two of us.”
The two of us against the world, I thought.
Watson continued, “The two of us together — in everything, Holmes. I cannot back down from this.” I looked at him, puzzled. “I mean— the floodgates are opened. I cannot go back to the way things were before…”
“Ah,” I said, understanding. “A relationship.”
“Yes,” he said with a smile. “A matrimony, for all intents and purposes.”
“A matrimony, Watson?”
He chuckled and pulled me closer, his hands moving to my shoulders. “In essence.” He moved closer; I shut my eyes as he kissed me softly.
“Watson, I am sure. I am sure of you,” I whispered against his lips. He kissed me once more, full-mouthed, and stood up.
“You spoke of a concert?” he asked over his shoulder as he brought his mug to the kitchen.
I nodded.
“I am tired, Holmes.” He turned to face me. “But I suppose if it is our last night in the city…”
I smiled, not wanting to push my luck more, and went to get my nicer coat.
—
The concert was divine. Even Watson was affected by the music; walking back to our flat he was almost jubilant. I had my arm in his and we were walking down the dark Berlin street, propped together against the chilly air, when we heard it.
Footsteps, two sets, following close behind. There were voices, two men speaking in accented German, not their native tongue. The lilt of one sounded almost Welsh. Without looking back, I estimated that they were several metres behind, and when I caught Watson’s eye, our plan was formed wordlessly.
There was a feeling of danger in the air. I was not sure if it was the darkness or the adrenaline, but Watson and I have had enough experience with villainy to know to trust our instincts. An alleyway came to our left and Watson veered us through the shadows and into it.
The wall was cold against my back as Watson pushed me against it. Our breaths were quiet but harsh, waiting for the men to pass the alleyway to hear what they were saying. We waited the span of two seconds before they walked by.
“That sodomite detective here in Berlin—”
It was no more than three seconds, but it was enough to make my blood run cold. Sodomite detective. An awful moniker. Truly detestable. Could be about anyone. But the doubt, the fear — were they referring to me?
I looked at Watson. Terror struck his face hideously. The two men walked with no notice of us, still talking. I made to follow them but Watson pushed me against the wall again.
‘Stay still.’
‘I need to know who—’
‘Sigerson,’ Watson whispered. The pseudonym made me stiffen.
I released the tension in my muscles. My leg ached. My mind was spinning a mile a minute.
Here? They had found me? How? If they found me, they’d find John. When had I left the trace? Was it the theatre? The concert? When I gave my surname to the landlady? When—
The thoughts came to a full stop as I felt lips pressed against my own.
John.
And just as I noticed, John pulled back.
‘You take the back way; I’ll continue on.’ He stepped back, leaving a cold presence. I realised then how close we had been standing.
I nodded. Split up. It’s what we used to do. Years ago, it meant we were both strong enough on our own, that we trusted each other wholly and implicitly. Now, instead of the thrill of a chase, I felt hollow, cold fear. John looked at me, waiting for my lead, and I gave it to him, turning left as he turned right.
I knew a back way to the flat which would put me there first. As fast as I could, which admittedly was nowhere as quick as I used to be, I made my way back to the flat to await Watson. The air was cooler around me without him.
Within ten minutes, I was making tea and trying to distract myself from the pit in my stomach. This turn of events of course would propel us to the countryside.