Archive of Our Own

Sherlock had always been different. He’d learned that early in life. Superior intellect, a hyperfocus on the strange, the mysterious, a disinterest in any ordinary task or future his brother Mycroft had handed him on a silver platter. 

And Jon. 

Yes, if the rest of those things hadn’t sold one on the idea that Sherlock Holmes was anything outside the realm of normal, that last one would solidify it. 

At the age of six, he’d never heard of other children having random boys materialize out of thin air inside their bedroom. He’d never heard of other people growing well into adulthood with that same boy at their side all the time. 

All things considered, he’d never really minded being different. 

He’d actually fallen into the rhythm of different. Of Jon beside him. He’d gotten used to it.

Until the need to understand the strange and mysterious turned inward on himself. And his mother. His family. Cordona. 

He’d never even considered, not with all his knowledge, that the mind could create a defense mechanism so well-secured it locked away the memories of his mother attempting to drown him. 

A defense mechanism in the form of the best friend and companion he’d ever had. 

Jon. 

When he’d gone back to Cordona to learn about his mother, Sherlock hadn’t thought that he’d also learn about Jon. 

At first slowly, and then all at once, the memories had flooded into him in such a fashion that he’d actually needed to cover his ears. As if that would stop all the voices flooding into his head. 

For all intents and purposes, his mind had just sort of spilled open.

The good memories of his mother filled him first. The first person he’d had a kinship with. The similarity between them. The way she had encouraged him to be himself, embraced his individuality, his different in a way that no one ever had. Him, and her, and Jon. A trio of different. 

It was the bad memories that broke him. 

The unpredictability. The heaviness. 

The pond. His mother’s hands on his throat. Anger in her eyes.

And he saw Jon, shielding him from it all. Hiding his pain with games and jokes and laughter. Saving it all for this moment, when his heart felt like it might burst in an attempt to sort out all of the emotions that coursed throughout it. 

If it were anyone else, Sherlock would have seen it coming. 

If anyone else had come to him and told him about the boy in their bedroom, their fuzzy motherly memories and how different they felt, he would have been able to put the pieces together. 

Of course, the boy had been created to protect you. 

Of course, your mother wasn’t who you thought she was. Neither was your brother. Or your father. Or your home town. 

Sherlock could have predicted it all. 

But he never would have predicted that the boy, the protector, would leave. 

Two years later and he still wouldn’t have predicted that Jon would leave him. 

But he had. 

And it left Sherlock with nothing but the knowledge which everyone had tried so hard to keep from him. The pain that had been lying just underneath the surface the whole time was fresh as it would have been 13 years ago when it happened. 

His mother had tried to kill him. 

The worst part was, he still saw himself in her. 

Even after those two years had passed, that little thought wormed its way into his head.

It was doing so now as he found himself in the London mortuary, nearly breaking his knuckles while he drove his hand into the most dead body he had ever seen. 

Who else would go to such lengths in the name of research? 

Who else would do it in a way that would make others squirm, or look at him funny? 

He supposed his mother would have. 

Sherlock had heard the footsteps long before they’d entered the room, but he was glad for the distraction from his thoughts for once. He turned from his cadaver to face another man, years older than him. His hair was not quite sandy, but lighter than his own, and groomed to perfection, along with the mustache settled on his upper lip.

A doctor. Sherlock surmised inwardly, from the sharpness of his dress and the prescription pad in his right breast pocket. His eyes trailed to the paleness peaking out from the man’s jacket cuffs, and the stiffness in his leg, 

Out of practice. Military. 

“Old habits die hard, indeed.” Sherlock muttered, glancing once again to the prescription pad. Of course, this got the man’s attention, if the staring hadn’t already. 

“I’m sorry?” He said, perplexed. Sherlock shook his head, 

“Nevermind, who are you?” He asked quickly. Despite a welcome distraction, he was eager to continue his experiments as soon as possible. 

“I heard there was a lad who was looking for a roommate. A flat in London. Is that you?” 

“It is. You wish to take up the room, then?”

“Absolutely.” 

“Having just returned from Afghanistan, I can imagine you’re eager to find lodgings.” 

“Rightly so!” The chap agreed with vigor. It made Sherlock grin imperceptibly, and then again when his eyebrows furrowed in confusion. 

“How did you know?” He was once again astounded. 

“Don’t worry yourself, sir. Can I ask, are you okay with tobacco?” 

“I smoke.” 

“That you do. Let’s see, what else? I am often preoccupied with chemistry experiments, I awake and sleep at odd hours, I isolate myself in my room when I get too sullen, and I am a modest violin player.” Sherlock listed off his vices carelessly, as he had to a few other potential roommates. He thought it best to get it out of the way. After all, if they couldn’t handle him at his most… well… different, they most likely wouldn’t be able to handle him at all.

Predictably, all had tilted their heads and politely declined. He didn’t expect anything else from this pristine man of medicine, who most likely retired at early evening and needed peace and quiet to cope with the rows of war-

But the man just smiled. It was an odd sort of smile, Sherlock didn’t understand the emotion hidden behind it. He took a few steps further into the mortuary, his cane rapping against the linoleum,

“They’d told me you were eccentric.” He said. He almost sounded impressed, but Sherlock couldn’t pin that on him just yet. Then he noticed the man glancing toward the body, 

“What is this? What are you doing here?” 

The questions roused Sherlock out of his concentrated staring of the doctor’s face. He turned his attention to the cadaver as well,

“Research. I’m investigating rates of bruising in relation to stages of death and decay in human anatomy.” 

“That’s certainly one way to do it.” The man muttered, taking his thumbnail in his mouth as he looked over the scene, and Sherlock, once more. When their gazes met the man had an intrigued twinkle in his eye. Again, Sherlock felt something akin to confusion in his chest. 

“The leg often keeps me up at night, and awake early in the morning. My nerves are shot, but I can handle sulking. And I may very well sit over your shoulder during those experiments. As for the violin..?” He paused, his finger moving to his chin as he thought, “...So long as you’re telling the truth about modesty, I’d say we have a deal.” 

He said it all with a casual air Sherlock hadn’t expected. So, he smiled openly this time as the two of them shook hands and he thought to himself, 

Perhaps you are more interesting than I thought, Doctor. 

“Oh, that reminds me. I’ve yet to introduce myself.” Sherlock said, “I am Mr. Sherlock Holmes.” 

“Doctor John Watson.” He’d swiftly followed with. Sherlock would’ve attributed the shock to the electricity of their touch, but he knew better.

“Jon?” He’d uttered accidentally, fully dumbfounded. He almost kicked himself for sounding so. Though, the more he looked at Watson, the more he could attribute similarities between the two of them. 

Similarities? They couldn’t be more different. He chided himself, his hand going limp in Watson’s as he let go and turned to face his cadaver once more. He began to pound his fist into it again. He wasn’t sure if the doctor had spoken because he was too wrapped up in his own thoughts. 

If he reminds you of Jon, it’s only because you want him to. 

The idea struck fear into his chest and his eyebrows furrowed, and he continued his experiments after the sound of the doctor’s footsteps left the building. 

***

Sherlock had, evidently, been correct in his assumption that John Watson was more interesting than he’d pinned him. Despite his odd behavior in the mortuary a week before, he still moved his things into Apartment 221B on Baker Street on the agreed upon day and time. 

And then, the day to day set in. Sherlock had had an initial feeling that the doctor was exaggerating his agreeable nature. He intended to test him, and had done so with multiple chemistry experiments well into the witching hour, papers strewn about the apartment and giving Watson the most trivial, the most boring of tasks for his clients. Once, he’d even pushed the couch up against Watson’s bedroom door with the excuse that it helped him think better. The doctor only looked at him with intrigue, and kept to his room until he’d removed it. 

After a good two weeks or so, Sherlock began to question himself. 

It was the reason (and the outcome, for Watson had only occasionally batted an eye of annoyance at his habits, and when he did it wasn’t enough to drive him away. Never enough.), for these tests that troubled him. He hadn’t stopped to think about what he was doing, or why he appeared so desperate to get Watson out of the apartment. He could just as easily, if not more so, evict him. 

Sherlock wasn’t sure why he did it. 

Maybe it had something to do with another person occupying his space.

Maybe it was because Watson was too agreeable, was he hiding something? 

Maybe it was because he looked a little too much like Jon. 

That he hadn’t been close to anyone except Jon in years. 

… Huh.

Well, all he really knew was he was inclined to keep his new roommate at a distance. 

So he did. 

He didn’t speak to Watson, outside of meals. Even when Watson sat with him during his chemistry experiments, it was without words. Most of the time Sherlock opted to spend the days in the police archives, or working on cases. 

Then, one day, when he returned from a particularly thrilling and satisfying mystery, he’d burst into the apartment and just started talking. 

He hadn’t seen the surprise on Watson’s face, in fact he didn’t really see anything except the floor as his vision and his words tunneled in on the case. 

He’d given Watson everything: the crime, the suspects, every detail that Watson asked for because boy did he ask. They’d peripherally known each other's passions for crime-solving and writing, but it was the first time that Sherlock had loosened up enough for them to immerse in both, together. 

By the time that Sherlock had finished explaining, and Watson had run out of questions, it was well into evening, and the two of them had settled into the most comfortable silence they’d experienced thus far. 

It was kind of thrilling to Sherlock, until the pit in his stomach began to settle and he remembered. 

Arms length. 

Disturbingly, a similar incident occurred again when Sherlock had been scouring his personal library one morning during breakfast. He was acutely aware of Watson at the dining table behind him, though ignored him in favor of trying to figure out the origins of a medication that seemed to be having ill effects on a client. The solution was on the tip of Sherlock’s tongue, but he was unable to pinpoint what to look for. Did that have something to do with Watson’s obvious interest in what he was doing? Probably. 

And of course, Watson asked, and Sherlock had told because he sounded so excited and eager to be of assistance. 

And Botany, of course it was botany, Sherlock honestly had been kicking himself for not connecting medicine with plant-bases. 

He was way too excited, muttering to himself, that it wasn’t until he’d contacted his client with the information he’d dug up, informed Watson and fallen into another oh-so comfortable silence that he’d realized he’d done it again. He’d been so excited discussing with Watson that he’d forgotten himself. 

Arms length, arms length, arms length, you absolute buffoon. 

Why was he doing this again? 

When he glanced over at Watson, reading his novel with his leg propped up on the coffee table, the unfortunate tug at his heart once again told him. 

He’s not Jon. And you’re silly for thinking so. 

***

“Have you any friends in town, Holmes?” 

The question nearly sent Sherlock careening out their second story window as he stared out of his telescope. Not only had it surprised him, but it was his first real conversation with Watson in a week or so. He’d been keeping his cases to himself and so their discussion remained at the breakfast and dinner table. 

Until now, of course. And what a question, it was. Sherlock didn’t bother to look back at him as he responded, 

“I do not need friends, Watson. My only desire is to solve that which plagues this city so.” 

“Crime?” Watson asked. Sherlock thought that needed a few sub-headings, what with all the other issues he’d run into when it came to solving cases. So he shrugged, 

“Among other things.” 

There was a pause. Sherlock felt like he was glued to the telescope. It wasn’t even that interesting today, men and women walking, dogs, the little boy selling copies of The Strand. No reason to keep his back to Watson, and yet he did. 

“Anyhow, I did not ask if you needed friends, I asked if you had any.” 

Oh good, an easy one. 

“That I don’t.” 

When he’d moved back to London after Cordona, he’d filled his life with people. Just not in the traditional sense. His clients exposed him to a realm of individuals. Odd people, amusing people, infuriating people. People he’d helped and people he’d foiled, people he waved to in the streets occasionally and people he’d never see again. 

But he’d never had friends. Not after Jon.

“It seems solitary.” 

Don’t I know it. 

One would be surprised at just how empty his apartment used to be on the regular. 

He was, irrefutably and undeniably, alone. 

“It is the very definition of the word.” Sherlock answered. 

“Solitary is… sad.” 

“To you, it is. To me, it is usual.” He could sense the tension in his own voice, unsure if Watson could do the same. His body showed it too. He was no longer focusing on the street, just staring at the telescope itself, which, if it had been a person he was holding, probably would’ve choked out by then. 

“Your whole life, then?” 

Pray tell why it is any of your business. Sherlock thought. When he finally faced Watson, it was with a thin, grim, smile, 

“You crave to know me, Watson?” 

“Pleasantries between roommates.” 

Quick. 

I don’t believe him. 

“Ah.” 

“Still, you evade me.” 

Sherlock chuckled, he actually did, as he faced the telescope once more. He was amazingly impressed, and he told Watson so. He hoped the doctor would take the win and move on, but he pressed on anyway. 

“So?” 

Sherlock felt his stature stiffen. In all his time of knowing John Watson, he’d never been frustrated with him. Not even when he was agreeable to a fault. But this was different. 

Why must he go there? 

Why must he push me? 

I don’t want to talk about him. 

About Jon. 

Perhaps this was what it felt like to be a suspect in an investigation. They never want to answer the questions, but they always do. So Sherlock did, 

“There was someone. A childhood friend. The best friend one could ask for. And…” He chose his words carefully. He didn’t want to reveal too much. What he had with Jon was for them and them alone. Not even a pushy roommate could get it out of him. 

“What happened?” Watson’s voice was quiet now. Sherlock wondered if he’d regretted speaking up. 

“He is no longer of this world. I’m uncertain he ever was. But he was real to me.” He replied, a sadness that he had locked away a long time ago resurfacing. There was another brief silence before Watson tried, 

“...A real friend?” 

That time Sherlock really wanted to laugh. He was done with this conversation. 

He liked Watson, he really did. But Watson didn’t understand him. Sherlock was unsure if he was capable of understanding someone like Jon. Someone like himself. Despite Watson’s apparent interest in him and his habits, Sherlock was unsure that he wouldn’t just get up and leave if he told him the truth about Jon. 

Jon understood him. Jon had resided in his subconscious, so he had a couple points on Watson, but still. 

Sherlock missed what it was like to have that. Someone who had no chance of misunderstanding him. Someone who was safe. 

Even if the safety was a little misguided at times. 

“Sure.” 

Dismissive enough to end any conversation, he hoped. 

When the quiet lasted a little longer, Sherlock thought he was in the clear. He’d say he couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so mentally exhausted, but he could. Ironically, it had everything to do with the topic at hand. 

“Holmes…” Watson’s voice actually would have made him jump, if his white-knuckled grip on the telescope wasn’t keeping him steady. 

His heart wrenched, hard in his chest. 

The sound of his last name was actually grating. 

Mr. Holmes this, and Mr. Holmes that.

He couldn’t remember the last time someone had called him Sherlock.

Or-

“Such a cold way to address me.” He was deflated. He needed to leave. He couldn’t face Watson again. 

“Sherlock-” The doctor had started, and then he heard it, bouncing around inside his skull, 

Sherry. 

His voice. Jon’s voice.

The warmth in it felt so close and familiar it actually made Sherlock whip his head around to see if he was there. 

But he only saw Watson, staring at him with a concerned, wide-eyed expression. 

The heart-wrenching feeling twisted around into humiliation. 

“Perhaps you’re right, doctor.” He said, his voice teetering on too much emotion. He rushed to collect his coat, putting it on with fumbling hands. He could no longer see Watson’s face, but he didn’t want to. 

“Despondent it is, that I shall never meet another like him again.” Sherlock picked up his hat from the rack as well and left the room. 

The door slammed behind him, his heart beating in his ears as he ran down the stairs to the London streets. 

The clouds turned the whole sky grey, which just about matched Sherlock’s insides. He trailed down the cobbled sidewalk until he turned the corner. Out of sight from Watson’s eye up in their second story window, and alone in a dark, pathetic alleyway, he finally let himself lean against the wall and whisper, 

“...Jon?” 

He glanced around, squinting in the shadows to see if he would appear. 

He didn’t. 

“What…?” Sherlock let out in a similar hushed tone, the back of his head hitting the wall. 

God, he missed him. 

***

Sherlock had fully expected Watson to bring up what had happened. The doctor seemed sentimental enough to check up on him, and Sherlock was even preparing what to say if he did ask. But after a couple weeks and not a word from him, Sherlock felt it was safe to stop avoiding him. They settled back into their routine of breakfast and dinner talks, and Sherlock even continued to enlist Watson with some trivial help on cases. 

But something still felt… off. 

Sherlock couldn’t place it. 

Right. Sure.

He knew. 

The day that he and Watson had had.. The argument? Disagreement? The instance where Sherlock had stormed out of the room for seemingly no reason? Whatever it was. He’d heard Jon’s… voice. It had seemed so real, like his friend had really come back to him. But as much as he began to refill his head with thoughts of Jon, perhaps in a vain attempt to reanimate him, all he was doing was reopening past wounds. 

Exhibit A: 

Sherlock found himself sitting in his bay window more than he had in years. He remembered being there with Jon before they’d gone to Cordona. 

“Are you sure you want to go?”

“Want to, no. It’s more like I have to.” 

“Nothing is a have-to, Sherry. I wouldn’t blame you if you didn’t go.” 

“I know you wouldn’t. I think I would, though. Blame myself.” 

“Well, I’m with you.” 

“Thank you, Jon.” 

Sherlock recollected it so well it felt like Jon really was sitting two feet from him once again. Like he really was holding his hand. And Sherlock became lost in it. For hours. Picturing Jon sitting in front of that window and remembering every detail of his face. 

Exhibit B:

At his lab station, he’d mutter. 

After Cordona, he’d often do that when he had no one to talk to. But before, he’d talk to Jon. Nowadays, the line between talking to himself and talking to Jon was blurred. 

His science on imaginary friends and defense mechanisms was spotty, and yet he still had reason to believe the muttering was doing nothing but concerning his roommate. 

Exhibit C:

The dreams. 

Those which he had for nights on end when he’d returned from Cordona were back at full force.

Him and Jon in childhood, in Cordona, in London, in places they’d never been. 

Always Jon. 

And he’d wake up saying his name, wondering how long he’d been uttering it in his sleep. 

***
Months passed, and thinking of nothing but Jon had begun to impede his work. 

So Sherlock found other things to focus on. 

A string of burglaries. One that was so big he was certain it would shake the foundations of London if he broke it open. One that, if it involved the people that he believed it did, would put him in a crazy amount of danger. 

Absolutely thrilling. And, standing in front of the crime board that only he could follow, he knew he was so close to figuring it out. 

He just needed his morning copy of The Strand. 

The front door suddenly opened, the wind from its motion threatening to send half of his papers to the ground. He held them steady with his free hand, the other housing one of the doctor’s syringes. 

He’d run out of tacks, plain and simple. It wasn’t rocket science, but it apparently mattered just as much to Watson, who was upset. About having to close the door, about the syringes, and the messy state of the apartment. 

Watson could sleep in the living room, for all he cared, he just needed that damn paper. 

It was actually all he could think about. It was all he had thought about in weeks, whether his theory would come to fruition. No, it was more like he was desperate to prove it correct. Sherlock couldn’t remember the last time he was this thrilled about a case, the last time his heart and his head raced a thousand miles a minute at the thought of what could come of it. 

Sherlock heard Watson’s voice bouncing around somewhere inside his head, unable to place its location. Until he heard the doctor say his name and it was louder, at the forefront of his attention,

“Holmes?”

“What?” Sherlock stabbed the syringe into the crime board and faced Watson with an air of irritation. Sure enough, he had been lingering behind him. 

“I don’t know. You were the one who was speaking.” 

“Was I?” Sherlock replied boredly. 

“Just your muttering again, then.”  

Watson should have been used to it. One couldn’t solve anything without a little under-the-breath discussion. 

Oh, yes.

“And what of The Strand?” 

Watson took a seat at the dining table, slightly askew with a few chairs missing, and he huffed, 

“Well I told you, if you would have cared to listen.” 

“The paper, Watson.” 

“Dear me!” Watson exclaimed as he opened up a different newspaper to read, “It’s in the waste bin. The thing was practically soiled when I found it, after all.” 

Sherlock was out the door before he’d finished his sentence. 

“Coming, doctor?” 

He’d barely heard another sigh and the sound of the newspaper folding by the time he’d made it down the stairs and out onto the street. 

Sherlock reached down into the bin as soon as he’d spotted it. Watson had followed him and was uneasily eyeing the road, as if he was fearful someone would catch them snooping through their own garbage. 

“Aha!” Sherlock exclaimed suddenly. He picked a long, green and red spine off of the pile of dirt smothering the newspaper. 

“I thought you wanted the paper.” Watson said, 

“I’ve come across something much more pressing.” Sherlock’s eyes were shining with concerning excitement, “What is it you see here, Watson?” 

Watson eyed the spine for half a second, 

“Must be part of a cactus-” 

“-A cactus, exactly! As a man of medicine you must know that certain species can be poisonous. Deadly. Obviously someone has caught onto what I know about these burglaries and wants to be rid of me.” 

Watson’s expression grew more surprised with every word, 

“Assassination-?” He began, before earning a shush or two from Sherlock, 

“Not another word. There may be spies. We must find out where this originated. Did you see anything outside before you came in today?” 

Watson crossed his arms, but considered the question. Sherlock was bursting at the seams with anticipation. 

“Well, Barnes dropped off a couple of books you’d ordered. But that’s all I can think of.” 

“Then off to Barnes we go, come on.” 

Sherlock once again drowned out the sounds of Watson’s complaints as he fled down the street. 

***

“A romance!” Sherlock proclaimed as they exited Barnes’ bookshop. All his investigation had led to was the uncovering of a mutual affection between Barnes and the flower shop woman across the street, and a harmless cactus clumsily spilled onto the newspaper from the former. 

Sherlock hardly ever felt embarrassment, but he recognized the sensation in his chest as Watson followed him down the cobbled street. He was all but crushing a new copy of The Strand, which he’d picked up in the store before leaving. Watson started speaking, compelling Sherlock to slow down just a little, 

“So they’re not trying to kill you. I personally think that’s lovely. What does the paper say?” He asked. Sherlock stood a little straighter. 

Right. I can still crack this case.

Sherlock unfolded the newspaper and ran his gaze over the front page. He saw nothing of note and began to flip through it, hoping he’d missed something. 

But of course, there wasn’t anything. 

His shoulders fell, and he closed the paper with a sheepish glance to Watson. His roommate was giving him a pitiful look. He said, 

“Again?” 

The single word struck a different chord in Sherlock’s chest. Yet another fabricated string of crimes. Another world-ending conspiracy without a shred of credibility to it. He was crashing down from his high rather fast and it was humiliating. 

“You’re attuned to patterns. I assume you must come across them a lot in your profession. It’s helpful, I’m sure. But sometimes a pattern is just that. And sometimes…” 

“I see things that aren’t there.” Sherlock muttered. It had just sort of slipped out. Watson couldn’t have truly understood the weight that came with that statement, but he was still staring at Sherlock with those eyes. A miserable expression. Oddly, it reminded him of his brother. Not oddly, that idea made his blood feel cold in his veins. 

He turned, trying not to let his dejection show, and began to walk back toward their apartment. When he didn’t hear Watson following, he faced the doctor once more. 

“What?” 

Watson’s eyes had brightened up some,

“...I might have a case for you.” 

Sherlock’s eyebrows raised halfway off his forehead. He hadn’t expected that. At his astonished look, Watson grinned, 

“Well don’t look so surprised. I did try to tell you earlier.” 

Sherlock rolled his eyes and took a step closer, 

“The details?” 

“It’s nothing special, and there aren’t many. Captain Stenwick down the road, his servant has gone missing.” 

“Oh, Watson.” Sherlock practically swooned. 

“It might not amount to anything. I wouldn’t get your hopes up-” 

Sherlock interrupted him with an excited smile, 

“It’s brilliant!” 

It’s real. 

He grabbed Watson by the wrist and started dragging him toward the Stenwick estate. 

***

He hadn’t even realized he’d been doing it. 

The minute he’d brought up the idea for the case, he’d just instinctually waved Watson with him. 

They’d made it all the way to Stenwick manor, gotten all the information they could, and had practically figured out where the clues lead next before it’d slapped him in the face. 

That he was sitting, with Watson, in a carriage, on their way to the Port of London to investigate a missing person.

Together. 

They’d slipped into a content silence in that carriage. At least, Sherlock had perceived it that way. Now he was beginning to wonder just why it felt so much like that. 

He could think of a million reasons he had brought Watson along thus far. None of them were correct. In truth, he’d forgotten what it was like to have someone by his side in these investigative moments. Someone to explain things to, bounce ideas off of. It was comforting, and oddly nostalgic. 

The content feeling soured slightly, uncertainty rising in his throat like it had all the other times he’d let himself get a little too close to Watson.  

What are you doing to yourself? 

Sherlock wasn’t sure he knew the answer. He wasn’t even confident he knew what his own question meant. He just knew that the appearance he was desperate to keep up was cracking, and it made him so uncomfortable he could hardly breathe by the time the carriage pulled up to the Port. 

The sound of the wheels on the cobbled road were suddenly a thousand times louder, drowning out his thoughts. The door beside him was also opening, its hinges squeaking. Watson was waiting for him to get out first. 

He could no longer think. He could no longer feel. He had a missing person to find, after all. That required his utmost concentration and focus. So he swallowed, hoping his brains and his heart would go down with his saliva and went out into the rain. 

***
The port was decrepit that time of night. Sherlock and Watson had stopped at the apartment just long enough to don overcoats and hats, things which the former had neglected on his original escapade that morning. The weather was worse now, the dim lights from the buildings showcasing the way the rain was creating a glossy look on Sherlock’s ulster, and soaked into Watson’s cotton number. Sherlock almost felt the need to shelter his roommate, due to his clear lack of proper rain attire, but he was to think of nothing except the case, so he did not even broach the subject. 

Eventually, the investigation took them to an abandoned warehouse, which they managed to infiltrate without too much struggling. Sherlock hardly batted an eye at the contraption necessary to expose the staircase leading underground, and soon he and Watson were standing at its mouth. 

Sherlock had experienced a trove of cases that he knew at the very least were risky endeavors. But he’d always gone it alone, handled it himself, and it was not as if he had had to worry about Jon’s safety during those times. 

So the fact that, at the sight of this daunting staircase, his arm had shot out to the side almost immediately, blocking Watson’s path, probably surprised him more than it did the doctor. 

And the words Sherlock spoke, 

“Stay here. I’ll go.” 

It was as if the hairs on his skin had sensed the danger before his brain had caught up. Before it had a minute to comprehend that if anyone should get hurt on this mission, it would be him, and not Watson. 

He could feel the way the doctor had tensed against his arm. He didn’t want to look at him. He only hoped he wouldn’t be followed as he began to trek down the stairs. 

Luckily, Watson stayed put. 

The staircase felt like it went forever, getting darker with every step. That was, until he made it to the bottom, where he found a long narrow hallway lit with lanterns. Sherlock heard his own footsteps bouncing off the walls when he made it off the stairs. The farther he walked the more the cobbled walls and flooring appeared to be… wet? Indeed, glistening with moisture they were. Sherlock could have believed it was just because he was underground, near a big body of water, and yet, there was something wrong about the whole thing. 

And then suddenly he saw some dust fall from the ceiling. He thought nothing of it at first, until the dust turned to crumbling, and soon the whole place was coming down. 

Sherlock froze. 

What is happening? 

He wasn’t sure what to do, which was rarely the case. But his feet were stuck to the ground, and his vision started to play tricks on him. It was blurring in and out, to the point where he could see colors around every object in the room. Red, green, blue, like if he pressed too hard on his eyes. He felt dizzy, head spinning a mile a minute and hearing ringing until finally-

It stopped. 

When Sherlock opened his eyes he thought he must have been dreaming, for he was atop a large pit. Very large, for he couldn’t see the bottom of it, with his platform of safety extending like a long bridge to nowhere. Nowhere? 

An uneasy feeling settled at the bottom of Sherlock’s ribcage as he took a step forward. 

What is this place? Where am I? 

Above his walkway were a bunch of smaller platforms, with chains and cages in the… sky? But the sky was gray and he couldn’t see anything else beyond its foggy hue. 

His head ached. Pounded with every uncertain movement he made toward the center of the bridge. He was trying to make it make sense. 

So the mysterious passageway underneath the Port of London collapses and now you’re in… hell? 

It wouldn’t have made sense coming out of anyone’s mouth, but especially not his. 

Somewhere between his throbbing brain and confused heart, Sherlock fought the urge to panic. Another feeling he wasn’t quite accustomed to. There was usually a reasonable explanation for everything, and even when there wasn’t, his sense of fight or flight was really quite tame. That was, he had never run into a situation he couldn’t out-think. 

And now this. 

Anyway he spun it, and it just didn’t make sense. 

The uncertainty in his chest was swung out by fear.

An illusion. It must be… but how? Sherlock tried to reason with himself. He’d heard of and witnessed the ‘talents’ of many magicians, and this was well beyond their capabilities. 

Regardless, he needed to escape. Then he could spend all night debating just what the hell he had escaped from. 

Was there a way to escape? 

Doubt clawed against his rationality in a way he had never experienced before. 

He pressed on. 

In the middle of the walkway there was a pillar. He dared to touch it. It was nearly frozen underneath the tips of his fingers. There was a hole awaiting something square to be placed inside it. Sherlock looked up and across at the blank wall a good 10 feet away. If he squinted, he would have sworn he could make out the faint outline of a door. Sherlock decided to confirm it, so he made his way over, without enough gall to peek over the edge on his way. 

Upon closer inspection Sherlock saw that there was some sort of door at the end of the line. Light was piercing through the cracks in the stone just barely, which gave him some semblance of hope. He glanced down at the ground and saw white words written under his feet. He took a step back. 

The only way forward is the abyss. 

Instantly, Sherlock’s eye was drawn over the edge of the bridge, down into the pit below. 

His brows furrowed, 

No. 

“Long way down.” 

Sherlock heard the voice behind him and he whipped his head around to see who it was before he put the pieces together. 

Jon. 

Sure enough, it was him. Looking as he had the day he’d left him back in the garden of Stonewood Manor. 

Sherlock must have looked bewildered, because Jon gave him a chiding smile, 

“What is it? Something on my face?” 

“It’s your face- I mean. It’s… you! Is it really you?” 

“Don’t say it all at once, Sherry-” Jon said teasingly, taking a step toward him. 

Sherry. 

It was all that he had heard. 

“It is you. You’re back. Where have you been, you son of a bitch?” Sherlock approached him and smacked him upside the shoulder. Jon held his hands up in mock protection, 

“Let’s not sort out all the gory details this instant! There’s more important things to deal with. For one, where the hell are we?” 

Sherlock’s heart sunk, 

“I thought you knew.” 

“I know as much as you do, Sherry. That’s never changed.” 

Sherlock thought he could’ve argued. He didn’t. 

“We need to get out of here.” 

“Damn right. It’s pretty self-explanatory. You’ve already figured it out, haven’t you?” 

Again, Sherlock looked to the edge of the walkway. He glanced back at Jon, confused, 

“Even if this is some kind of illusion, I doubt I could survive a plummet that far down.” He said, watching his companion wander over to the abyss as well. 

“Do you have any other options?” 

Surely he had plenty. He supposed they were all risky, without knowing the ins and outs of such an illusion, but why would he choose the riskiest of them all? 

Was jumping off a cliff not certain death? 

Sherlock stared idly at the edge of the walkway. He could feel Jon’s eyes on him. 

“Sherry. Do you trust me?” 

If it’s really you. 

“Depends what you’re about to say next.” 

Jon laughed. Sherlock had almost forgotten the sound of it. 

“Then I won’t say anything.” 

Jon faced away from the abyss, before leaning back and allowing himself to fall right into it. Sherlock’s eyes widened, 

“Jon!” He cried, rushing for him and reaching out to grab him. He slipped right out of his grasp and Sherlock fell to his hands and knees. Jon disappeared into the darkness. 

Sherlock was also not the type of person to rely on blind faith, or a suspicious message carved into the ground. 

But this was Jon. His Jon. Wasn’t it? Could he not rely on him?

In a way, he needed to, in order to still his heart threatening to beat out of his chest. 

Sherlock stood, toes of his shoes nearly tipping over the edge before he had fully committed. 

Then he jumped. 

He resisted the scream rising rapidly in his throat as he was met with nothing but dead air. Wind lashed at his skin and he honestly thought he might cough up his heart when all of the sudden his feet hit the ground. Hard. His knees buckled and he caught himself on his hands before his face did. His head snapped up when he realized he had landed on another smaller platform with a similar pillar in the center. Sherlock let out a relieved laugh, staring down at his hands against solid ground.

“I…I didn’t die!” He was incredulous as he began to sit up onto his knees, “Jon, we-” He glanced over to where his friend might have landed too. He saw him, lying there on his stomach with his head turned to face Sherlock. His eyes were wide and his head smashed open. Blood coated the ground where his skull had exploded. Sherlock put a hand over his mouth and gagged. 

This cannot be happening. 

He couldn’t even approach the body. He didn’t want to see Jon like that, up close. 

Sherlock glanced up at the sky as he stood. He didn’t see the long bridge he had come from, but he ignored that for a moment in favor of the pillar. 

He walked slowly over to it. It housed a long rectangular prism on top of it, beneath a small cage. The cage had a padlock on it, which needed a key. 

Both the pillar and the rectangle had jagged lines running down them, appearing as though they were emitting light. 

Strange. Sherlock thought, but he put two and two together immediately. 

He needed that object to move forward. He just had to find the key. 

But the platform he found himself on was desolate, the only things there were the pillar and- 

Jon’s body. 

Sherlock took a deep breath and turned. He approached the body once more. There was no key sitting in the blood that had come from Jon’s head. Sherlock swallowed thickly,

God help me. He thought as he kneeled down beside him. He brought his head down to the ground and forced himself to look inside the skull. Inside was a mess of brain matter and blood, but there was something shiny inside. 

The key. Of course. 

Sherlock screwed his eyes shut and inched in his fingers inside until he felt the key. When he pulled it out he wiped it off on his trousers, as well as his hand. 

Revolting. Absolutely despicable- 

He couldn’t stop his thoughts from turning around in his head as he approached the pillar again. 

When he picked up the stone rectangle, he almost dropped it. He wasn’t sure if it was because it was freezing, or because the thing was alive. Pulsating, anyway. Like a heartbeat. It made the funny feeling in his chest grow louder and yet, he was also kind of drawn to it. 

If this was an illusion, it was a damn good one. Picking up objects that felt alive? It was all too… real. 

The whole setup reminded him of Jon, in a way. 

Wholly in his head, and so absolute. 

Sherlock fought not to look at the corpse behind him as he planned his next move.

No where else to go but back over the edge. So he did. He didn’t have much else to lose. 

He braced himself this time, but still struggled with his footing when he landed back on his original walkway. Luckily, he didn’t drop the stone piece. He strode over to the pillar and placed the rectangle inside it. The door opened, and he raced for it. 

He was hoping for an exit. Instead he found another area of stone. The door behind him had disappeared, and he wasn’t quite sure the progression of these ‘rooms’ was right. How could all this be behind such a door? It was like he had teleported, staring at walkways of stone going in every direction. 

It was harder to breathe, too. Made worse by the sound of growling from the corner. 

Sherlock approached it. A giant.. Mouth? Akin to the kraken. Leading right down to nowhere once again. He recoiled at the sight of it, 

“Nasty, ain’t it?” 

Sherlock sprang up in surprise, nearly teetering right off the edge. He turned and saw him perfectly well. 

“Jon? You’re alive.” 

“So are you, despite it all.” He replied with a grin. Sherlock grimaced and rolled his eyes, 

“This isn’t a joke. I saw you die-” 

“You need to get out of here, don’t you? That’s what you wanted?” 

“Well… Yes.” 

“There are things that are necessary to sacrifice in order to get what you want. It’s right simple when you think about it.” Jon crossed his arms as he spoke. Sherlock’s brows furrowed while he listened. This man looked like Jon, and he sounded like Jon, but the words were not Jon’s. Jon wouldn’t be so matter of fact. Sherlock hated that he was still drawn to him. 

His head was beginning to throb. Whoever had created this place knew him too well. 

Place? Illusion. 

He might have been crazier to believe it was so. 

The air was so thick, the scenery too vivid. 

And Jon was right in front of him. 

Sherlock smiled. 

“So…” He replied, gesturing to the mouth at his feet. Jon nodded, and his eyes drifted downward, 

“Look down.” He said. Sherlock did so without thinking. 

There were footprints, no, bootprints in the dust coating the stone floor. 

Someone else had been there. 

“...Huh.” Sherlock uttered, kneeling beside them and consequently getting closer to the mouth. It emitted a foul odor and was twitching with every move he made. Still, Sherlock held steadfast as he considered the meaning of the footprints. 

If someone else had been inside this place, then it was real. 

So this Jon… 

You need to get out of here. 

That’s what you wanted? 

Sherlock felt another pang of pressure inside his skull. He rested his hand on the ground and held his forehead. 

“Sherry…” Jon said, his touch on his shoulder instant. 

Stay. 

The word was bouncing around inside him, growing louder with every passing minute. 

“Ugh.. Jon.” Sherlock groaned as he fought to stand, “Must I jump inside…?” 

Jon didn’t respond. It was answer enough. 

Sherlock tried to steel his resolve. There were more pressing things at hand. In the real world. Watson was waiting for him. 

The grip on his shoulder tightened. It uneased him. More than his current prospects. 

If you can jump off a cliff, you can do this. 

Not exactly the natural order of events, but he still took a step off the side. 

For a moment, all of the pain in his head was gone. Jon’s hand slipped away as he tumbled down the throat of a monster. 

And then it all came rushing back.

He felt the slickness, and the teeth nicking, soon tearing at his clothes. His skin. The gullet he was sliding through was everlasting and he felt bile rising in his own throat. He could take almost no more before he felt blinding pain in his shoulder and the side of his head. A collision with the ground. 

When he opened his eyes, he saw a key level with them, sitting nicely for the taking. 

“Oh, god…” Sherlock whimpered, reaching for his own head with a bewildered expression. He expected to feel the wetness of blood at his fingertips, expected to see a piece of his skull a couple feet from him. He thought for sure when he looked down at himself he’d see his body torn to shreds

But he didn’t. 

Not a scratch.

He stared up at the sky. 

“...Jon?” He uttered weakly. But his friend didn’t appear for the moment. 

Sherlock took only another couple seconds before forcing himself upright and grabbing the key. 

He was getting all kinds of turned around in this place, as he realized he was actually higher up than he’d started. 

He saw the door, its doormat a large, strange, decorative circle. A head of tentacles at its forefront. Almost like an octopus. He made a mental note of it and shoved the key in the lock. He was eager to leave. 

He wasn’t granted that luxury. 

Another non sequitur room. A round room with doors every which way. There was another pillar in the center of the room, similar to the first. Its recession made Sherlock sigh, but he knew what to do. He only prayed he didn’t have to crack anymore skulls. 

He approached the doorway farthest to the left. He pushed it open and was instantly assaulted with another putrid scent. He covered his nose with his sleeve and closed it. When he turned to try another, Jon was there, leaning his elbow suavely against the pillar. 

“What are you running from?” 

Sherlock put a hand over his chest and sighed, 

“You need to learn to announce yourself.” 

“Dodging the question award goes to Mr. Sherlock Holmes!” Jon cheered as he held up a fake trophy. Sherlock huffed, 

“Just checking the other doors.” 

Jon only sighed, 

“Thought you knew what to do? I told you, you can’t avoid what you don’t want to see. Especially not here.” 

“And I thought you said you didn’t know where we were.” 

“I don’t. But haven’t you learned well enough?” 

Sherlock wasn’t stupid. Of course he had. He was becoming unnerved at his familiarity with this hellscape. Despite its lack of sense, it had been fairly straightforward in its approach of making him do the unthinkable in order to move on. 

“...Indeed.” 

“Let’s finish it out together.” 

Those words mixed confusing emotions in Sherlock’s chest. Comforting and warm, and yet, uncertain. 

He allowed Jon to open the door and lead him down the hallway anyway.

At the end of it they found an octopus, dead as could be, its tentacles chopped off and strewn about. Blood splattered the walls and the floor, but there was another pulsating rectangle amidst the chaos. 

Sherlock knelt down and picked it up, excitement rising in his chest. He ran back the other way, shoved the rectangle into its pillar and tripped over himself to get through yet another door. 

The light of his one was much brighter than those before it. 

Then it was dark. 

There was weight in his hand. A lantern he didn’t remember carrying when he entered that hallway. 

The hallway. 

He was at the end of it. It opened up into a large room. He was reminded of a temple, but he didn’t really care to think about it. The important thing was that he escaped. 

Sherlock started to laugh. 

He hustled inside the room, away from that godforsaken hallway. The laughter was coming out of him in droves. 

“I.. I did it! I got out!” Sherlock announced, spinning around as he approached the altar in the middle of the room. He set his lantern down on the edge of it, leaning his hands on the stone as he glanced about the room for his friend,

“Jon! We did it! We-” 

His finger brushed up against something cold. Freezing. Sherlock whipped his head down to see a dead body upon the altar. 

The light joy drained out of him, filling him up with dread instead. Exhaustion poured into his limbs and his forehead. 

The man, the cadaver on the altar looked just like-

“...Jon?” He whispered. The name caught in his throat. Was he really dead this time? What could have happened to him? Why was Sherlock still alive? 

He reached out to touch him again, as if that would confirm anything, when suddenly the man sat up. 

Sherlock stumbled backwards from pure shock. He tripped over his own feet and landed on his behind. The man who looked a lot like his best friend began to speak in words he didn’t understand, his eyes glazed over in white, skin pale like a ghost. 

He was a ghost. 

“Jon!” He shouted. He didn’t understand what he was seeing. He was scared. He wanted to help him, but all he could do was scramble away. His hands scraped the ground underneath him as he watched the body contort and yell nonsense. 

Sherlock’s head was pounding. His eyes darted all over the place, something lurking in every corner of his sight. The colors were back, worse this time, and the ringing in his ears was so bad he couldn’t hear his own screaming. But he knew he was screaming, his throat was dry and raw. 

Then suddenly everything stopped. The body was silent and still. Somehow Sherlock had found a pillar to cling to, and he heard a voice calling out his name, 

“Holmes!” It cried. 

“...Watson?” Sherlock managed to speak. He didn’t recognize his own voice. All of his senses were returning to him one by one, until everything felt like too much. The pillar against his cheek, his raw hands burning, a dastardly headache. Sherlock slumped, his body far too tired to hold him up, and when Watson kneeled in front of him, he could hardly glance to look, 

“I’m here.” He said. As if that made a difference. He didn’t want to move. He just wanted to go to sleep. Something in the back of his head told him maybe he shouldn’t. 

“What the devil happened?” Watson asked. 

The devil indeed. Sherlock thought. And then it hit him. He forced his head to look up at Watson, whose expression shifted to worry. But that was it. There was only concern for him in that look. He didn’t seem as wrecked as Sherlock felt. His eyes blew wide open and he suddenly reached for Watson’s arms, 

“How did you get out?” He exclaimed. He’d been stuck in there for what felt like forever. He didn’t exactly trust Watson’s-

“Get out?” 

What? 

“..Didn’t you see it? Feel it?” 

Please tell me I’m not- 

“Holmes-” 

“How did you do it?!” Sherlock yelled , his voice reaching a crescendo along with his hold on Watson. 

Crazy. 

“Holmes.” Watson said again, his voice steady. He held Sherlock by the shoulders, “What did you see?” 

Sherlock’s urgency was quickly losing to embarrassment. He couldn’t respond. If Watson hadn’t seen it, what was he to say? How was he to explain? 

“You should’ve heard the way you called my name.” 

Sherlock froze.

Called his name? 

Surely I hadn’t- 

Heat crept up his face at the remembrance of the corpse on the table. He’d called Jon’s name. And now Watson was giving him that pitiful gaze again. Like he was one of his patients. Like the difference between them was finally catching up to him. Like he might leave him in this cave just as soon as he could walk again- 

“Nevermind.” Sherlock found himself saying before his thoughts were fully formed, “I’m fine.” He put a hand on Watson’s shoulder, the other on the pillar and stood, before bringing his roommate’s attention toward the altar, 

“Our friend over there is in much greater need of attention.” He muttered. He began to walk away, his back to an astonished Watson. 

“I believe he’s dead.” Sherlock continued, “Give him a thorough look over. I’ll check around elsewhere.” 

I’d like another look at him too. He thought, though he doubted he’d see the same thing twice. 

“..Okay.” Watson answered, his footsteps moving toward the body. Sherlock began absently examining the room. There were a lot of connections to their missing servant, that much was clear, but he wasn’t exactly soaking in the clues. His head felt like it might explode, thoughts darting by so rapidly he wasn’t sure he could even comprehend them. 

He stopped by a collection of boxes in the corner of the room. Wetness soaked into his shoe, which brought his attention to the puddle he was standing in. He lifted his foot and shook it dry, only pausing when he saw himself in the water’s reflection. 

No wonder Watson had been staring him down. He looked like hell, which correlated very well with how he felt. His bones were so tired he thought he might drop at any moment, and the facial hair was curious. As if he really had spent ages inside that place. 

But he hadn’t. Right? Watson would have mentioned it. 

What is happening to me? It was the first thought Sherlock could understand since he’d come back to reality. It scared him. His heart leaping out of his throat wasn’t helping either. 

Why do I feel like this? Where have I gone? If it wasn’t Jon on the altar, or even if it was, then I must be-

Relax. You are not crazy. Someone is playing tricks on you. Focus on the case, and everything else will fall into place. 

Sherlock took a deep breath, shoving Jon into the back of his mind and hoping Watson wasn’t watching. 

***

Sherlock stood in the small bathroom aboard the train bound for their next destination. 

All signs had led to Switzerland. Specifically, the Black Edelweiss, an insane asylum that seemed to have direct ties to not only their missing person, but several others. Not to mention they seem to be involved in the occult. Sherlock had put that much together upon inspecting the depths of the Port of London. A body on an altar, all the strange insignias and statues (very similar to the ones Sherlock had seen on his trip to hell), and a bunch more evidence that had been scattered about the place. 

Sherlock splashed water on his face before turning off the sink and looking at himself in the mirror. He hadn’t been able to sleep yet, but he didn’t look as tired. Interestingly, he also hadn’t had time to shave, but his facial hair was shy once more. Sherlock took a hand to his jaw and turned his face back and forth in the mirror. 

“Curious…” He mumbled to himself. He could still remember that place, with its deep grey fog and its monsters with sharp teeth. 

Jon. 

Watson hadn’t been there. Watson hadn’t needed to go through a painful, nonsensical trial to get down below.

So why him? 

Was it because he had been the first one down in the hellhole back at the Port? Had something otherworldly attached itself to him? 

Was it because of Jon? 

After all his years of knowing him he’d never really considered Jon to be supernatural. A manifestation of his own creation, sure. But never of the same world as whatever it was that was torturing his mind. 

Maybe it was simply Sherlock’s capability that made this thing so happy. 

That he had been able to see, and talk to and touch something, someone, that no one else could. 

That he was already a step closer to insanity than the average person. 

He instantly thought of his mother.

They’d all used that word about her, so he recalled in Cordona, with Jon. 

They’d all painted that picture of her. Unstable. Crazy. Incredibly like him. 

Those feelings of different filled him up to the brim. 

Did relating to a person who was deemed mad make him so? 

Was it creating Jon that had made him crazy? Or was it the other way around? 

That one felt right. He had been so crazy he’d needed Jon just to cope with it. 

But he’d never felt crazy with Jon. In fact he felt crazier without him. He felt crazy missing him. 

Why would he want to hallucinate? 

That’s what Mycroft would always say if he’d even mentioned the subject. 

But it was different for him. 

He remembered that afternoon in the garden of Stonewood Manor so well. Sometimes, when he thought about it, it felt like he was really returning. 

Jon’s grim smile. And his cruel words.

You don’t need me anymore. 

He’d wanted to bash his fists against Jon’s chest and yell at him, but he’d simply said,

“I don’t want you to go.” 

The smile, grim as it was, remained. 

“Yes, you do.” 

“Jon-” 

“I’ve caused you pain. More than if I had never existed.” 

Sherlock had thought about it all for only a second, about being different, about his mother, how Jon had been severely misunderstanding him. 

None of it seemed to alter the way Jon had flickered in the light. 

Then he was gone. 

Sherlock stood, alone in the train bathroom, with the words bouncing around in his skull, 

You don’t need me anymore. 

Sherlock simply couldn’t see how that was true. If Jon had been his protector (as he’d come to understand it over the years), his shield for when things got a little too unruly in his head, Sherlock believed there was still plenty for him to do. 

Besides, Jon was more than that, too. 

He hadn’t just shielded him. He hadn’t just kept the truth from him. 

He supported him. Talked to him. Gave him company when no one else would. Understood him. He was his friend, companion, his- 

Other half? 

As Sherlock stared at himself in the mirror, a scary thought popped into his head. 

That place he’d gone to, it was starting to make sense. 

Every time he had thought something impossible, it wasn’t. Every time he thought he couldn’t do it, he could. That place had consistently proven him wrong. 

That place had even shown him Jon.

Had it really been him?  

He remembered the way that that Jon had scared him. But he had also helped him. Made him feel as he had all those years ago. 

If he had the capability of going to other worlds, and could be torn to shreds without so much as a scratch on him. Was that not enough to bring him back to him full time?

Maybe if he indulged this thing just a little more. Maybe he would come back. 

How cruel it was that to feel real and true connection, he’d have to drive himself insane.

***

Still slightly unnerved, but a little excited, Sherlock smoothed out his green vest, fixed the tie around his neck, and stepped out into the hallway. He was to meet Watson in the dining car, but he wasn’t in a hurry. He needed to think his next move out carefully, so he wandered lazily down the hall in the general direction he was supposed to be going. 

If the Edelweiss Institute was up to something, it would be difficult to infiltrate. He could probably conjure up some sort of disguise, but it would be more helpful if he had a distraction. Someone who was unassuming at an establishment like that. A man of medicine. 

Sherlock sighed. 

Of course. 

He should have just sent Watson home already. Sherlock was realizing there were many ‘should haves’ when it came to the good doctor. He wasn’t doing a very good job at sticking to them. 

Eventually, he made it out to the dining car, where he found Watson sipping tea at one of the tables. Sherlock had stopped by their sleeping compartment to grab a book, and so he sat across from his roommate and opened it up without much fanfare. They sat in silence for some time, which seemed rather painful for Watson. In Sherlock’s peripherals he observed hands twittering with his teacup, and he could hear the way his leg bounced up and down. Finally, he glanced up at him, 

“Watson.” Sherlock said. 

“Yes?” Watson replied quickly, with a sheepish smile. Sherlock suppressed one of his own. Sometimes he found his oafish personality endearing, but he simply went on without mentioning it, 

“I’m afraid you’ll have to investigate the Black Edelweiss yourself.” 

“What?” Another immediate response. One of complete surprise. Sherlock had expected it. He’d never asked him to be this involved in an investigation. Sure, Watson was inexperienced and at times nervous, but he wasn’t stupid. In fact, in recent days he had seen him handle much more than he’d ever thought an almost-retired doctor with a limp could. He could handle this. 

“The institute is highly secure so I’ve been reading. They wouldn’t let me in for any purpose. Unless I was a patient.” Sherlock grinned. 

And I will be. He added to himself. 

“But you figure they’ll allow me in?” 

“Someone of your medical standing? Why not?” Sherlock shrugged and began reading once more. Watson hadn’t denied a request thus far, and all he had to do was come up with an excuse to get in. He’d even coach him, it wasn’t a big-

“It’s out of the question.” 

Sherlock paused. He looked up from his book again, at a loss for words. The expression on Watson’s face was no longer surprise, but stern, and rapidly transitioning into dejection, 

“I’m not… like you, Holmes. I am not the type of man to brave-face in the name of justice.” Watson was the one to look away this time, staring down at his hands on the table. He missed the way Sherlock’s eyebrows had risen. 

Watson had begun to spout tales of his cowardice, in life and in war. Sherlock watched him practically cave in on himself in shame. It was nothing like the bold-faced, blunt, assertive physician who he’d come to know, and in many ways respect. 

And his final words came like a blow to the chest, 

“I do not wish to impede your investigation in the way I know you think I would.” 

Sherlock’s eyebrow twitched in annoyance. Where was this lack of confidence coming from? 

A coward wouldn’t have survived a war. 

A coward wouldn’t follow him down into the dungeon of the occult to find a simple servant. Or jetset to another country just to follow up on a lead. 

A coward wouldn’t have moved in with him in the first place.

That last thought made Sherlock smile, 

“You sell yourself so short, doctor.” He said, “The way you know I think you would? A mouthful, Watson, and incredibly untrue.” 

Not to mention insulting. Have I really been so cold to him? 

“Tell me, have I once been wrong in the deduction of a man’s character?” He added. 

“Not since I’ve known you, Holmes.” Watson replied, his shoulders hunching in on themselves. Sherlock smiled again at the compliment, and his embarrassment. He closed his book and leaned back in his seat, 

“I’ve never been to war, but I have read about it plenty.” He began, enjoying the confusion on Watson’s face, “Specific battles, tactical strategies, winners, losers, you name it.” 

“Uh huh.” 

Sherlock almost laughed, but on he went, 

“In a majority of conflict there are situations much like the one you described. Most of the time there is no large benefit from sacrificing yourself for the masses. And to think, if you had lost your life that day I wouldn’t-” 

He caught himself. He’d been rambling again. 

What exactly had he been going to say? 

He wasn’t sure, but Watson was staring so curiously at him it made it hard to think. Sherlock turned to look out the window, and prayed his face didn’t look as hot as it felt, 

“I wouldn’t have your help. And your skill. These are things which I admit with no small amount of modesty that I have needed thus far.” 

It was silent. Sherlock wondered if Watson could see right through him. It would have actually been nice if he could, because then he could tell Sherlock what was going on inside his own head. He had no idea. He just knew he either needed to change the subject or leave and never come back. But then, mercifully, just as Sherlock turned to face him once more, Watson spoke, 

“...Okay. I’ll go.” 

Relief flooded Sherlock’s senses. He didn’t have the energy to understand why. 

***

The plan to get inside the Edelweiss had gone off with only a small hitch. Or two. Had he been found out immediately? Yes. Had he managed to weasel his way out of it? Of course. Sherlock had escaped, and… borrowed the uniform from a very helpful and unconscious orderly. 

And the evidence he’d found that the Edelweiss was kidnapping and trafficking innocent people was staggering. In fact, he had reason to believe those people may still be in the building. So he trudged through puzzles and patients who reminded him a little too much of himself before he found a stairway down into another basement. 

Seems to be the theme of discoveries thus far. 

And terrifying unknowns. 

He set foot at the bottom of the stairs, and the minute he saw the circular room a high pitched ringing sound filled his ears. Entirely similar to what he had experienced at the Port. 

“Fuck!” He cried out, stumbling to his knees instantly at the sound in his head, which had begun to throb so heavily. 

Then, all of the sudden he couldn’t see, as if his eyes had cataracts, and he heard a powerful voice, 

“Come and invoke the great lord!” It yelled. Sherlock tried to stand, to no avail, and he clapped his hands over his ears, 

“My head…” 

The voice went on and on, about reverence, souls, “the one”. Sherlock saw flashes in his cloudy vision of the illusory place, the “other” world, with its stone and grey fog. He saw a man the size of the sky with his compelling words about how freeing it would be to give up his mind and become a servant of madness. 

The minute he considered it, his body felt fuzzy, like he had been thrown into a vat of cotton. Sherlock fell from his knees and rolled onto his back, staring up at the sky, which was swirling with colors. It was changing, from cobbled ceiling to dark clouds, Jon’s face above him. 

“...You’re back…” Sherlock smiled. His words were clear amongst the loud tornado of chaos around him. He lifted his arm into the air in an attempt to touch his face. 

Was he real? Was any of this? 

Sherlock didn’t care. There Jon was, standing above him, placing his hand against his cheek. And it all felt so good. If he just let it in, the great one, into his mind, and his body, he could have this until he wreaked havoc on their tiny, irrelevant world. 

Jon flickered slightly in the fog. His eyebrows suddenly furrowed, as if he himself were scared, 

“Sherry.” He said, sounding so far away. He was almost translucent. Sherlock couldn’t feel his touch anymore, 

“No… Come back…” Sherlock mumbled, the ringing becoming louder once more. 

A minute later he was weakly yelling, as if it had all become too much, 

“Please… No more.. Watson- Jon?” 

And the voice above him in the sky told him not to fear. To let him rupture the world into something anew. 

But without Jon he was afraid. He closed his eyes, wishing and hoping that his head would stop pounding long enough for him to think, when suddenly he heard, 

“Awaken!” 

Silence. Finally. 

Sherlock opened his eyes slowly. He was indeed flat on the floor, and the ceiling above him was spinning. His arms were out in front of him. He was unsure of who had said the final word. He let his limbs drop to the floor on either side of him and he tried to still his breathing. 

When he finally sat up, he saw that the room was covered in green, glowing snakelike patterns on the walls and ceiling, the floor beneath him donning that insignia from before. 

The voice had said that he would rupture the world into something new. Who exactly was he? What had Sherlock found himself in the middle of? 

The words, the chant were still floating around in his mind, like a parasite invading a host. 

“Get out of my head…” He muttered as he stood. He wasn’t sure if he meant it. What had scared Jon away? 

I must keep going. Just a little farther. 

He began to leave the room. It led nowhere anyway. 

***

Sherlock stood in an elevator he had found on his way out. He shucked off the coat he had borrowed, leaving him only in his white shirt, which was anything but crisp, and his trousers. He could hardly hold himself up against the wall, and when the elevator opened, the only thing that encouraged him to leave was that he saw Watson standing in the room beyond. 

It must have been the office of Gygax, the asylum’s proprietor. Watson was going through papers on her desk. Gygax, however, was dead. Slumped against a pillar in the middle of the room. 

She was responsible for the nefarious schemes behind Edelweiss. He had intended to ask where the kidnapped were, what they were planning on doing with them, whether she was aware of the cult room downstairs, but now it was all impossible. 

Despite what he had just gone through, and his body, which felt like it might drop, a wild anger rose up in him so fast it overcame everything else. 

“Holmes!” Watson said in surprise. 

“Watson. What happened?” 

“She was dead when I arrived.” He was told. Sherlock didn’t care. He could have guessed that himself. As if Watson was even capable of carrying out such a thing. He couldn’t even keep her alive-

“She was our biggest lead.” Sherlock found himself saying as he paced the room, staring down the body, “One slip-up and we could have cracked this case wide open.” 

He gripped at his hair, his mind clawing over whatever was trying to get his attention in the back of his head. 

“What do we do now?” He grumbled, “Where are we to go? God, I need to think!” Sherlock ran his hands down his face and nearly tripped over Gygax’s outstretched leg. 

“Holmes. Are you okay?” 

Sherlock whipped his head in Watson’s direction. He’d almost forgotten he was there. 

“Okay?” He asked, a disbelieving smile creeping onto his face, “Watson, I am fine.” 

“Oh, you’re fine.” Watson replied, and the tone he put on spiked the anger inside Sherlock, “You look like you’re at death’s door, practically crawled out of hell itself, you smell like chemicals. What did you see down there?” 

Every word Watson spoke was like a tick on the rage-meter Sherlock hadn’t realized was inside him. 

“It’s none of your concern.” Sherlock said, trying to keep his cool. He stared at Gygax’s body. He wasn’t sure what he would do if he looked at Watson. 

“You must know that sounds ridiculous.” 

The final tick and the meter exploded, 

“Shut up, Watson! What are you even still doing here?” He burst out with a heated glare at his roommate, who bore wide, astonished eyes, 

“Trying to help you! Find more information. Did you think I would just sit in the waiting room, biding my time?” 

I wished it. 

“I have it handled. I don’t need your help.” 

You’re in danger with me.

The surprise in Watson turned to his own form of animosity, 

“You brought me here.” 

I never should have.

“You needed my skills, and my help. Medical advice, examinations of bodies just like the one in front of us, someone to hold your goddamn coat when you’re down, hands and knees staring at floorboards for hours-” 

I don’t.

Watson paused only to breathe and gesture pointedly at him, 

“You told me yourself that you need me.” 

I wish I hadn’t. 

“Don’t pretend like you have it handled, and then bring me along and rely on what I give you.” 

I’m sorry. 

Sherlock stared at Watson in stunned silence. He’d beaten his thoughts into submission.

He wanted to yell. He wanted to yell and scream and tell Watson to get out of his face forever. The only reason he didn’t was because the thing in the back of his brain was begging him to do it too. That, and his heart hurt desperately at the thought of it. 

Where had his reason gone? 

What was it about this stupid doctor, this stupid case, that made him unable to think? 

People were too complicated. 

But he was scared. And he could admit that the last thing he wanted was to be alone. The last thing he wanted was to keep Watson at arms length. 

Even if it put them both in danger. 

Sherlock sheepishly smoothed out his shirt and glanced at the ceiling, 

“I… Apologize, Doctor.” He said, stiltedly. He watched Watson do the same as he put his hand back at his side, 

“Makes us even, I suppose.” 

Sherlock hummed. He had a feeling he knew what Watson was alluding to. God knew he wouldn’t acknowledge that fact. 

“Just… give me a moment to think.” 

He’d figured out their next destination. The United States. He’d also figured out that there was an underlying need to keep this case going for himself, as well as to keep Watson with him. 

He’d be damned if he scared him away. 

***

Sherlock sat across from Watson once again in the dining car of their train to New Orleans. He was well on his way to accepting that there was something otherworldly, or at the very least unnatural happening with the entire case. There was still a part of him, however, that refused to let go of a mantra he’d kept in his mind since adolescence: 

There is nothing that cannot be explained with logic or reason. 

It was exhausting. Voices in the back of his head, both his own and not, begging him to accept this… thing, some higher power, he assumed, that would reshape the human race. It sounded absolutely insane. If it was real, however…? 

He didn’t love how he was absolutely intrigued by the idea. His habit of needing to understand the mysterious was going to get him in trouble. 

He’d seemed to have attracted Watson’s attention somehow, when he realized the doctor eyes had widened, 

Did I speak? Sherlock wondered, mortified at the idea that he’d been muttering again.

“So you did see something fantastical at the Edelweiss?” Watson asked, bewildered. Sherlock cringed internally. He hoped he hadn’t said anything too embarrassing. But if he wanted to keep Watson at his side, he supposed it would be better to begin to let him in on what was going on. He nodded slightly in response.

“The Port too, I’ll bet.” 

Sherlock’s eyes widened this time. He shouldn’t have been surprised, but he hadn’t expected Watson to catch on so quickly, 

“How did you know?” 

Watson scoffed amusedly, 

“Physicality is my specialty, Holmes. You’ve never looked worse for wear. Even now I can see it… whatever it is. Its dastardly effect on you.” 

Sherlock could’ve laughed. He agreed with all of it wholeheartedly. The last time he’d looked in a mirror, even after a decent couple hours of sleep he still would’ve preferred a mask over showing his face to the world. 

Still, when he glanced over Watson’s face, there was nothing but some tiredness from their long travel in his eyes. 

“But you haven’t seen it. Been there.” Sherlock said after a moment. With their finally being on the same page, he’d almost been tricked to believe he wasn’t alone. 

“Well… No, but-” 

“Of course not.” Sherlock interrupted, bitterness rising in his throat, “I see things that aren’t there, after all.” And he grimaced. Watson looked as if he didn’t disagree. When would he stop receiving pity? It rubbed Sherlock in all the wrong ways. Especially when Watson said, 

“But this is different. I mean, just because I can’t see it-” 

“I don’t know. I am unable to trust my own mind. What if-” 

What if it’s all made up? 

What if I put you in danger? 

What if I hurt you? 

“Holmes, if you just told me what happened-” 

No. 

I won’t hurt you. 

I can’t-

“Thank you Watson. But I am uncertain any more discussion would aid me. Nothing feels certain, actually.” Sherlock interrupted him, and they both went silent. 

Watson was waiting. That much was obvious. Sherlock wondered for what. Some big revelation? Something that would pull them together amongst these trying times? Sherlock wondered how worth it it was. 

Would it be better to send him away and go it alone? 

His heart screamed at that thought. He wanted nothing but the opposite. In fact, he’d tried so hard to keep Watson away, but the man was too persistent and Sherlock too.. malleable. 

But he also wanted to protect Watson. He wasn’t sure he could do that when he was slipping further and further into the unknown. If he didn’t know what was going on in his own mind. If he was stepping off a ledge into believing the impossible. If he went off the deep end like… like his mother, he wasn’t sure what would happen.

Maybe Watson wouldn’t understand. Maybe he would walk away on his own accord. 

Still, he deserved to know. 

“...My mother was the same.” He began. Quieter, he added, “She was ill. Pushed and pushed by her psychiatrist in the name of treatment.” 

Watson didn’t answer. Sherlock couldn’t look. 

“It was what killed her. She was pushed until she cracked.” Sherlock continued. He awkwardly linked his fingers together and rested his hands on the table. He glanced at Watson for a second before his eyes lingered on the table. 

He didn’t see pity. 

He saw a look that he knew all too well. Sherlock was too scared to admit it was so. 

I must be seeing things. 

But he looks so much like him. 

“...Jon.” Sherlock stammered. His heart was bursting. He wasn’t sure who he was speaking to. He wasn’t sure if it mattered. 

“If you see me cracking. I must ask you to intervene. I fear I will push myself until it is too late.” 

He would. He knew he would. He always did. 

“Nothing compels us to pursue this matter further.” Watson finally spoke.  

And here it comes. The moment where being different was to shoot himself in the foot. Sherlock stared at his own hands. He was sure the pity had returned, and the bold, confident doctor, who was thrilled with every twist and turn thus far, would retreat. 

It’s fine. 

It’s for the best. 

He is better off-

“Sherlock.” Watson said, as if trying to get his attention. And then, when he didn’t answer, he heard a tut from Watson’s tongue, his hands encasing Sherlock’s in a way that made him jump. He had to look up. It wasn’t what he was expecting. 

Then again, Watson had always surprised him. And his words continued to do so, 

“We can return to London and report what we have discovered. Let more capable hands take over.” 

There was that look again. A certain, soft expression, and those words. Protective words. Like nothing mattered more than Sherlock’s safety. He couldn’t help but smile, 

“Who more capable to track down some madmen than one of their own?” 

“You are not mad, Sherlock. Not to me.” 

Immediate. 

“Funny…” Sherlock said, and he glanced down at his hands, which Watson was still holding. 

Somehow, he didn’t feel the need to pull away, despite the fact that the very full train car could actually see this Jon-

He really sounded just like him, didn't he?

He’d said some semblance of those words out loud, he was sure of it. He was familiar with fear at this point, and he knew it jumped down his throat, so he hurriedly changed the subject. 

“I must do this.” Sherlock told him, “No, it is more like I will not be satisfied until I do this.” 

Now, with it all on the table, the hard part, 

“..But I will not force you to stay. As much as I would appreciate your company.” The last part slipped out incidentally. Just as the discussion on botany had, and the morning of the Strand fiasco, and their whole investigation thus far. 

Despite the fear burrowing a nest inside him, regardless of the response, and the reason for his own words, he was learning that he really had no choice with John Watson. 

“You couldn’t tear me away from your side in this moment.” 

Another compulsory grin from Sherlock. As if he’d known all along that Watson was just as compelled to see the end of this as he was. He’d wished he could be as confident in his knowledge of this man as he was everything else. But the voices were so loud he could hardly hear himself speak. Still, he said, 

“You might just write that novel someday, after all.”

Watson turned red. Sherlock hoped he hadn’t too. 

Then an idea popped into his head, 

“If you do, I must ask that you omit my mother and her suffering from your tales.” He requested. 

“Of course.” Was the instant response. Sherlock squeezed his hand once and forced himself to pull away, before he leaned back in his seat. He looked toward the countryside out the window and smiled, 

“Thank you, John.” 

***

Sherlock was caught trying to break into an auction in New Orleans. Not his finest moment, but he could possibly blame the extraterrestrials occupying his brain space. Still, it was necessary they made it inside. Somehow, the jewels that were being sold had to do with their missing people and the great lord. 

Just the people. Forget the great lord. 

He focused his attention on Watson instead. He needed to convince him to pretend to be Frank Barnaby, one of the guests that was to attend the auction. 

“The man is a drunkard. He will be dead to the world. All you have to do is steal his coat and his hat, and if no one looks too closely, you can gain access to the auction and take a look around-” Sherlock caught a breath only because Watson had scoffed in reply, 

“Oh sure, it’s just a little impersonation and B&E. Nothing to it. Pah! If you could not gain entry, how am I to do it?” Watson was waving his hands in distaste. Sherlock had to smile, 

“You did great at the Edelweiss. This will be even easier. Plus, I’ll buy you dinner. You like seafood, don’t you Jon?” He asked, a little too cheerfully for the situation. Watson seemed taken aback, but he huffed, 

“Tell me, where is this ‘Barnaby’?” He asked. Sherlock’s smile grew and he hooked an arm around Watson’s shoulder before leading him down the dirt road. 

***

Watson emerged from an alleyway where he had changed his jacket and hat. Sherlock was leaning against a wagon, and when he spotted him in the bright green jacket and yellow bowler hat he pushed off of it and chuckled, 

“Mr. Barnaby awakens!” He joked. Watson rolled his eyes, 

“Get the punches out now, Holmes.” 

Sherlock shook his head and pat him on the back, 

“Now, now. I think the jacket looks rather good on you, actually.” He said with another smile, and a laugh when Watson shrugged him away and walked toward the auction. 

Once he was sure he’d gotten inside, Sherlock took up post behind the wagon. He’d barely had time to light a cigarette before Watson was speed-walking in his direction with the air of a man who’d gotten caught. 

“Do not tell me-” 

“The sheriff around here does not play games. He saw through me completely.” Watson spoke quietly as they hid behind the wagon. Despite Sherlock’s disappointed sigh, Watson did manage to figure out their next destination. The mansion of yet another missing person. 

***

Sherlock was watching Watson fuss about with his new, frankly, just as ugly jacket to replace his green one. They hopped out of their carriage into the French Quarter, where the Arneson Mansion was located. 

“To care so much about your looks.” Sherlock said with a grin, although somewhat incredulous as they walked down the dirt path, “And I thought I was the vain one.” 

Watson seemed once again perplexed at the idea that Sherlock could tell a joke. It brought out a smile in both of them. Sherlock couldn’t remember the last time he had smiled so much, especially over the last couple of months during this investigation. 

“Is that what you are? Remind me again why you used to wear just one sleeve rolled up?” 

Sherlock rolled his eyes at that. He could be reminded of his youth (though it was only two years ago), and Cordona, but of his questionable fashion choices he preferred to go without, 

“Ah, my days in Cordona. I suppose I was trying to find myself.” Sherlock could almost get lost in those memories, if only his head wasn’t so loud. They stopped in front of a large tree, oak, he noted as he leaned against it. 

“And you’ve accomplished that in the last two years?” Watson asked. He appeared just as curious as he had months ago in their living room. It didn’t bother Sherlock so much this time. In fact, it almost felt like he was talking with an old friend. He chuckled again and looked down at his shoes, but his hands, which were picking at his nails, were in the way. 

“No, if anything I feel more and more lost. Not that I ever wasn’t.” He glanced up at Watson purposefully, “But at least I had company.” 

Something about those words brushed disquiet over Watson’s whole being. 

“Apologies, Watson…” Sherlock began. He almost had the sense to think he’d gone too far. But his head was too loud, and in the shadow of the oak he wasn’t sure who he saw, 

“You’ve lent more than a couple ears to me in the past few days. It has been… invaluable.” He was being bold, he knew. He also knew Watson enough to understand he wasn’t afraid of that. Of him. The doctor stepped closer, 

“Do you miss it? Cordona, I mean?” 

Sherlock found the space between them thick. He glanced up at the trees as if breaking surface tension for a breath, 

“This place reminds me of it, a bit. It’s nice, but suffice to say I have no interest in returning.” 

I don’t need to. 

He’ll come back to me. 

Maybe he already has. 

“Poor memories?” Watson asked. He was really digging now. Sherlock still didn’t mind. 

“Good memories. The best. But some of my lowest moments. There is so much sadness there. And loss. I think returning would only send me backwards. I’m halfway there as it is.” Sherlock grinned, despite the desolation encroaching on his psyche. The voices were getting louder back there. 

“Well.” Watson interrupted, “We’re not at rock bottom yet.” 

If only he knew. 

“Let us finish this quest before we get there, hm?” 

Watson winked at him, elbowing him in the arm and Sherlock felt so warm. 

“Right.” 

***

“If these strange goings-on don’t kill us first, the alligators surely will.” Watson noted as he paddled their small rowboat through the New Orleans swamp. Sherlock was equally surprised at the twists the case had presented them with thus far, and though a quick examination of the Arneson estate easily showed him that their missing person had traversed to the swamp against his will, he wasn’t exactly thrilled about it. 

After navigating the gators, and the Sheriff, who wanted them off this investigation more than the cosmos, they found themselves on a small island at the center of the swamp. Watson parked the boat, struggling some as Sherlock rocked it getting out. It didn’t take long to figure out that a dastardly ritual took place there, and that humans were being trafficked for this purpose. Sherlock followed the clues to a cave, which opened up with a blood offering of all things. It didn’t shock him as much as it should have, though he heard Watson groan at the idea. 

The two of them walked down into the cave together. When it opened up into a bigger chamber, Watson suddenly stopped, announcing that the lantern had begun to malfunction. 

Sherlock grimaced in annoyance. The more they stood in one place, the more the voices in the back of his head got louder. They wanted him to leave. Beckoned him further into the cave. Sherlock’s gaze darted toward the next hall, and then to Watson. His feet began to move before he knew what he was doing, 

“I won’t wait for you. I’m going in.” He said softly. Watson’s protests were null amidst the voices. 

Sherlock walked, and then staggered down the tunnel for the ramblings in his head were nearly too much. Finally, though, he found a chamber, which he hopped down a small ledge to get to. 

The place looked very similar to the depths of the Port of London. 

Excitement beat his heart against his ribcage as he began to search. He didn’t know what he was looking for, he just knew he needed to find it. 

And then he saw the book. Large and old, sitting upon a stone pedestal. Sherlock eagerly approached it. 

His forehead throbbed. A voice from nowhere said, 

“Woe betide those who take it.” 

Sherlock took another step forward before it had even finished, 

“Walk. Away.” It said. The voices were screaming. They wanted that book. Sherlock wanted it too. 

“Let the unknown be.” 

He couldn’t. Not even if his head was clear and silent. Not even if he hadn’t ulterior motives for going this far already. He needed to know. He needed to understand. 

He touched the book. Picked it up and stared down at it. 

Its cover was flesh and it was warm. It was almost as startling as the pulsating rectangles from the other world. The voices stopped for an instant before returning in full force. 

The colors and the ringing were back, and though Sherlock was dismayed, he wasn’t nearly as put off by their arrival as he once had been. And when he turned and saw behind him a doorway of light he had no choice but to walk through it. 

The other world, with its grey fog and thick air, gave him deja vu when he was once again trapped. It was an unpleasant, twisting sensation in his stomach, yet he found himself searching for something once more. For Jon. 

He came across a daunting puzzle. Three pillars in the center of an open room, each with a strange symbol that Sherlock did not recognize. Two walkways on either side wrought with swinging axe blades. Sherlock drew near the pillars and saw the dried blood on the floor. 

“It wants me to cut myself…” Sherlock muttered, ambling toward the row of axes. 

He remembered what Jon had said before. 

There are things that are necessary to sacrifice in order to get what you want. 

“...Jon.” Sherlock called, “Are you hiding somewhere?” 

No answer. No appearance. 

This thing wants more than just a cut. It wants me to sacrifice myself. Hand myself over to it. 

I suppose I have no choice. 

Sherlock glanced at the first axe. Beside it was a symbol that matched one of the pillars. 

Elementary. 

He sucked in his breath, closed his eyes, and took a step forward. 

He’d been cut before, but he’d never been sliced in half. 

It was a searing pain that blinded him behind his eyelids, and he found himself crying out for Jon. John? 

Then he tumbled to the floor in front of the pillars. One of them glowed. Sherlock reached for his midsection with dread, and then relief, the pain in the back of his mind. 

He heard footsteps, and then Jon was looking down at him. 

“You’re looking worse for wear, Sherry.” 

He could imagine. He gave Jon a weak smile, 

“Help me up.” 

Jon did so. 

The two of them stared down the next axe blade. Jon grinned at him, 

“Need I give you a push?” 

Sherlock glared and elbowed him in the ribs. He took a step forward, bracing harder for the feeling than he had before. Not that it made it any better. His skin felt like it was made of paper as the sharp axe tore through him. 

Jon just kept smiling, and somehow that made it worse. 

Back to the pillars. Sherlock helped himself up this time. He was beginning to feel worn out. Jon stood at the next blade, hands behind his back and ready as ever. Sherlock walked over, eyed the axe, and then turned to him. 

“Jon.” 

Jon raised his eyebrows, “Hm?” 

“Can’t I take you out of here with me?” 

The smile on Jon’s face finally started to waver until it was grim. Stonewood Manor grim. 

“Sherry…” He began, but Sherlock shook his head, 

“I was so eager to leave last time, I didn’t think to bring you with me. But that must be it, right? If we leave together, we can be together. Like we were before.” 

“Sherry.” Jon interrupted, his eyes somber. Sherlock furrowed his brows. Pity looked strange on him. 

“I’m not.. This isn’t what you think it is.” 

“What is it then?” Sherlock felt emotion rising in his chest. Jon put his hands out, as if to soothe him, 

“The Jon you knew is gone-” 

“Don’t say that! You’re right in front of me!”

“It’s this place, Sherry-”

“I am throwing myself into blades for you, Jon! I am falling faster into a pit that I cannot get out of, or, I fear, I do not want to get out of. It is ruining me and the people around me, is that not enough for you? Do you not care about me?” 

“I. Am not. Him.” 

Sherlock put his hands to his head. He was clawing at his hair and his vision was spinning. The longer he stayed there, the less things made sense. Why was Jon saying this? Why could he not listen to reason? 

“...So you will not come?” 

“...No, Sherry. I won’t.” 

“I don’t believe you!” 

You’re scaring me, Sherlock. 

Another voice, one of the many voices inside his skull whispered at him. It held everything the Jon in front of him was missing. 

Then two hands pushed him roughly from behind, into the blades. The Jon in front of him still had his arms behind his back. 

Pain took over once more. Sherlock landed on the floor just in time for the third pillar to glow. The cracks in the ground began to shine light from underneath them, opening up until they swallowed him and everything was white. 

***

When Sherlock came to, he was back in the cave’s chamber, with the book in his lap and someone kneeling in front of him. Sherlock’s vision was hazy, but the someone had his hands on his shoulders and was speaking to him, 

“Holmes. Sherlock. Are you okay? What’s happened?” He asked. He sounded very concerned, and very familiar. 

“How… How did you get here?” Sherlock reached up and touched his face. Smooth, for the most part. John..? Was it-? 

“I walked down the tunnel. Right up to you. You saw me.” 

“I saw you?”

“I should think so.” 

“You liar. You said you wouldn’t come. How did you get out?” 

Sherlock felt water on his face as one hand held him still. The other lightly smacked him, 

“You’re talking nonsense…” He muttered. There was a penlight in his eyes and he saw Watson clear as day, before blackness encroached on his vision and he lost consciousness once more. 

***

Sherlock hardly spoke on their entire journey back to London. When they returned to Baker Street, he tossed the wretched book onto their dining table and locked himself inside his room. 

He collapsed into the chair in front of his makeshift vanity he used for makeup and disguises. He looked absolutely wrecked. 

Sherlock tried to make sense of what had happened between retrieving the book and waking up in a carriage on their way back from the French Quarter. It was all very fuzzy, but it also left a sour taste in his mouth, like he’d shoved a battery in there and sucked on it. 

He only remembered Jon… no, Watson, waking him up and dragging him out of that cave. A faint conversation that stirred his stomach around in knots with… someone. And a voice in the back of his head, 

You’re scaring me, Sherlock. 

That one was Jon, he knew. 

So that meant he had to stop. Right? If even Jon could sense the evil curling in on him, then maybe the book and its contents were better left unread. 

Then again, Sherlock had heard him, clear as day. 

That was progress, wasn’t it? Jon was hiding somewhere within him. 

The idea was interrupted by Watson’s loud voice from the living room, 

“Let it be known that I am handy with this revolver!” 

An intruder? 

Sherlock huffed and forced himself out of his seat. He concealed a letter opener in his sleeve before he opened the door. He saw his brother, hands held lazily halfway in the air while Watson kept him at gunpoint. Sherlock's arms fell to his sides and the letter opener fell out of his shirt cuff, clattering onto the ground and gaining the attention of both men. 

“Sherlock! Kindly tell your doctor to get this gun out of my face before I press charges. Not that he would do anything with it, he fled at the first hint of danger during the war, am I correct?” Mycroft told him, unconcerned but annoyed. Sherlock saw Watson’s grip on the gun falter. 

“Down, Watson. This is my brother. Mycroft, what are you doing here? Another errand for the queen?” Sherlock reached for his tobacco and sat down by the fireplace. Watson looked shocked, at both the revelation and the fact that Sherlock had spoken. Mycroft wandered toward him, 

“Do you have any idea what you’ve disrupted?” 

Watson had put his gun away at this point and was approaching them both, 

“You work for the government?” He asked, astonished. Mycroft and Sherlock ignored him, 

“No, pray tell what have I disrupted, brother dearest?” Sherlock asked sarcastically as he lit his pipe. Mycroft snatched it away, 

“Your antics in Edelweiss have jeopardized one of the crown’s richest relationships.” 

“Oh dear.” Sherlock’s carelessness juxtaposed his brother’s high-strung nature. Watson interrupted them, 

“Mycroft was it? It stands to reason that we need your help.” 

Both Holmes brothers looked over at him, 

“What?” They asked in tandem. 

“You must help us, in fact. In the last few months we have begun to uncover a plot no less than pure evil. Something otherworldly, which defies explanation, mystic forces, magic-” 

Mycroft laughed in Watson’s face. 

“The British government does not invest its resources in the insane or intoxicated. Pull yourselves together!” He exclaimed, taking his own smoke out of Sherlock’s pipe. Sherlock watched Watson step closer to his brother, and his eyebrows rose halfway up his forehead, 

“I know men like you. You sit up in your tower, whispering orders and starting wars. You send men like me to die in them, and then laugh when we do. As we come back from months of grueling labor, in the trenches of evil, you look at us and say that we are crazy? I should spit in your face.” Despite his need to tilt his head slightly to meet Mycroft’s gaze he held it steadfast. Sherlock saw his brother gape in surprise for only a second before he chuckled again. He glanced over at Sherlock, 

“Interesting, Sherlock. You found yourself another Jon.” He said before looking at Watson once more, “Has he dragged you into another one of his fantasies? Forget seeing the fantastical, my brother was about as sane as those down in Switzerland before he met you.” 

Watson didn’t seem to hear him. He walked to the door and opened it swiftly, 

“If you’ll see yourself out.” 

Sherlock stood as he watched his brother leave with a sigh and an eye roll. When he witnessed Watson slam the door and dust off his clothes, it was with surprise. 

“John..” 

“There is only us, Sherlock. Even if your brother thinks you crazy, I know what you have seen. And I will be at your side as we see it out.” 

You’ll protect me?

“Whatever you need me to do, I’ll do it.” 

Sherlock’s eye was instantly drawn to the book. 

“Then.. Take it down to Barnes. I’m sure our friend will have something to say about it. I need a moment. Just to think.” He said, before he dropped onto their couch and closed his eyes. 

What am I doing? Yanking him around like he’s Jon. He’s not Jon, he isn’t, so why do I like him so for what he did back there? 

I’m so tired.

He expected Watson to carry out his order swiftly. Instead he sat down beside him. 

No no no, don’t sit next to me, you fool, not when my head is swimming so. 

“I gave you a task, did I not?” Sherlock told him as he pried his eyes open. Watson smiled at him. 

Just like- No, stop it-

“You’re not the only one who needs a break.” 

“I’m not breaking, I’m thinking.” 

“Well, stop-” 

“Barnes will-”

“-Be there til close like he always is. We have time, Sherlock.” 

Why do you treat me this way? When I’ve been cold, and confusing, and crazy? 

Why do you protect me? 

I don’t understand it. 

“No surprise. It’s raining…” Watson interrupted his thoughts. Sherlock saw him staring out the window. His side profile was delightful, he regularly thought so. He remembered having days like this, and he breathed out a laugh. 

“What?” Watson was sheepish. 

Watson. Of course. He’d never had a lazy day with him. Never thought a single thing about his side profile. 

Get a grip. 

“Small talk feels silly after everything we’ve been through.” Sherlock moved until he was more comfortable on the couch. Watson did so as well, his eyes trained on him. 

No matter what, you’re still here. 

Are you here just for me? 

What a selfish thought. 

“I suppose you’re right. I’m about to go get a mystical artefact translated-” 

“I’m seeing cosmic entities-” 

“We’re regular loonies, that’s for sure.” 

We. 

“I kind of wish I really was only going crazy.” 

He wished Mycroft had been right. He wished, whatever he had seen, that it was all fake. Then the only one in danger would be him, and he could still have Jon. All he cared about was Jon. 

There was a John right in front of him, wasn’t there? 

One that he had no choice but to spill himself into, even if it was only obvious to him. 

“If I’ve made this all up, or even if I haven’t. I sometimes hope that it might be enough.” 

You’re doing it again. 

Saying too much. 

His eyes trailed over every inch of Watson’s face. What was he thinking? What would he do? Usually he knew, and now he hadn’t a clue. 

“Enough for what?” 

“...The return of a looming shadow.” 

Stop it, stop it, stop it… 

He was leaning in, he wasn’t sure he had a say in it anymore. 

“To crawl back into a place where being known was comfortable…” He whispered. Watson was closer now. Inches away. Sherlock wasn’t sure he was the only one who was moving. 

“You still crave to know me?” Sherlock asked. Now Watson.. Or was it Jon? appeared entranced. 

“If you’ll permit me.” 

Of course I will.

“How could I?” 

“I don’t know..” There was a beat. Sherlock reached for his leg. Caressed his thigh. He always used to like that. 

“I suppose if you want something bad enough.. You’ll get there.” 

Like a sacrifice. 

You’re right, Jon…

And the Jon in front of him asked him what he craved. What he missed. 

You, obviously. 

“Light.” He murmured. “Warmth.” 

He felt the other’s forehead on his own. 

“It’s been so cold since…” 

Since I lost you.

Let me hold you. 

One more time…

“Sherlock…” It was Watson this time. Was he holding Watson? 

“Yes, John.” Sherlock’s voice was barely there. His arm snaking around the shoulder of the body that was keeping him safe, 

“Am I warm?” 

So very warm and-

“Just enough…” 

Sherlock pulled him down until their mouths found each other. His fists were bunching up the fabric in his grasp and it wasn’t enough. His lips parted, tongues tasting each other and behind Sherlock’s closed eyelids he saw him, 

“Jon…” He sighed, the pleasure shooting through him like an arrow to his core. The room was golden, flecks of sunlight bouncing in the air. 

He didn’t feel crazy. He didn’t feel different. He was connected to him. He couldn’t wait to see him again. 

A hand on his own thigh made his eyes shoot open and he pulled away from the heated kiss with a bewildered expression when he saw Watson in front of him. 

The light and the warmth were gone. He was once again in Baker Street. The lights were off, the rain beating against the window. Watson’s hand was still on Sherlock’s leg, but he wrenched it away as if it were a hot flame. 

Oh my god. What have I done?

“Jon, I-” 

God, my head. 

It felt like it was splitting open. 

“Watson.” He stammered, correcting himself, “I’ve forgotten myself- I just-”

He stood. He needed to leave. Get out of there. Find his composure that he’d left long behind at the Port. 

“Nevermind. See to the book.” His voice cracked and he spun on his heels, barricading himself inside his room. 

His cheeks were stained with tears as he slid down the door onto the floor. 

You’re scaring me, Sherry.

“I’m scaring myself.”