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Chapter Text

How these volumes have been placed in sequence will be made manifest in the reading of them. In the interest of transparency, no changes have been made that would alter these documents from their original form, though as a result these histories often appear at variance with themselves. However, this decision does provide another singular benefit—in spite of the difficulties in this realm which you will soon discover, there is no statement of events where memory may err, for the records are all contemporary and relay the feelings and suspicions of the moment they occur. 

I regret that I can provide no further defence of this work, but my particular knowledge of its author proves him to be a most prolific liar. In that regard, this story is the truest possible representation of both the events described and the man who wrote them.

Yours sincerely,

JHW

Chapter Text

Being a classified reprint of the reminiscences of John H. Watson, M.D. written between the months of May and August, 1887.

NOT TO BE REMOVED FROM THE PREMISES OF THE SHERRINFORD INSTITUTE

I confess—when I set out on this journey I had perhaps taken an over-romantic notion of what my travels would entail. Here in this carriage careening towards an uncertain future with all the speed and fervour of a raven in flight, I cannot but question the decisions that have led me to this moment. I remember with chagrin the bout of fancy that possessed me when, that last sunlit morning in London, I stopped inside a quaint stationary shop and selected this particular leather-bound journal on a whim, dreaming of how I might fill these pages with my thoughts as I took in the stunning vistas from the window of my train carriage.

The landscapes have indeed been spectacular—glorious mountains and lush forests which to call to mind the setting of a Grimm’s Fairy Tale—the people here every bit as welcoming as any weary traveller might hope, and my mind most certainly teeming over with thoughts, but they are of a sort which tend to drive one to abstraction rather than creation. A sense of foreboding akin to stage fright has prickled at the edges of my consciousness since I first left England and now threatens to overwhelm me. What should happen if I find myself unable to play the role I hope to inhabit? Such an outcome is unthinkable, and I feel my sense of resolve twisting into something darker and more desperate as I determine myself to avoid it.

The matter has not been helped by the dread my prospective host inspires in this land’s countrymen. How often have I spoken with them—entertaining them with stories of my previous adventures—and watched as their smiling faces and warm regard paled over into wide eyed terror at the mention of his name? It is evident that I am not the first traveller to walk this path in pursuit of the impossible, and equally simple to surmise that the fate that befell my predecessors was not the one they had sought. 

I knew something of this before I left, of course; indeed, it is that great man’s enigmatical reputation that has driven me to this far flung place. An influence as far reaching as his is bound to rouse with it some degree of suspicion in those who fear what they do not understand. No doubt too that others have attempted to court his favour and fallen short of the mark. I had accounted for these factors and was determined to overcome them. 

However, now that the hour of crisis is close at hand, I am not so certain of my success as I was surrounded by the comforts of home. Were it in my power to do so, I might have already abandoned this ill-starred voyage and made my return to London. But such a thing is impossible; to leave now before my task has begun would be to betray the confidence that has been placed in me by the one whose life I hold far more dear to me than my own. 

And so I draw strength from thoughts of my beloved, Miss Mary Morstan, and cheer myself with fond memories of her presence—the warmth of her hand stealing into mine, the golden sound of her quiet laughter in my ear, the charm of her quick wit, and above all, the constancy of her gentle heart. I go now for her sake as much as my own, and I must not fail her. It would be foolish to give in to my doubts now as the madman at the reins drives me ever closer to my destination; I will need my courage and my wits about me for the trial ahead. In that vein, I will here endeavour to recount the events that have led me to this moment, in the hopes that doing so will return to me some of that resolution with which I first set out on this errand. 

In the year 1878, I took my degree of Doctor of Medicine of the University of London, proceeded through the further courses prescribed for surgeons in the army, and was from there ultimately attached to the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. The second Afghan war brought honour and promotion to many, but for me it meant nothing but misfortune and disaster. I was not long into that campaign when I was struck on the left shoulder by a jezail bullet, shattering the bone and grazing the subclavian artery. I should have died there and then had it not been for the devotion and courage of another medical officer who happened across my path at the right moment—he alone is the reason I survived to tell the tale.

Worn with pain and weak from prolonged hardships, I was removed with a great train of sufferers to the base hospital at Peshawar, where I was struck yet further down by enteric fever. For some months my life was despaired of, and when at last I returned to myself, I was so weak and emaciated that I was sent back to England without delay. And so I went, with my health irretrievably ruined and no relations in the world to rely upon. Under my circumstances I naturally gravitated to London, that great cesspool into which all the loungers and idlers of the Empire are irresistibly drained. 

There I stayed for some time at a private hotel in the Strand, leading a meaningless existence and spending what money I had more freely than I ought. So alarming did the state of my finances become that I soon realised I must either leave the metropolis or else make a complete alteration in my style of living and take up a less pretentious domicile. On the very day I had come to this conclusion, my path happened to cross that of young Stamford who had been a dresser under me at Barts. 

After reminiscing on the misadventures of our youth, I gave him a brief sketch of the past years of my life. When I mentioned to him my resolution to find somewhere I might make a living for myself, he replied with a surprised laugh, “Why, you are the second man today to present me with such a problem.”

“Who was the first?” I had asked, my curiosity piqued.

Stamford described to me an elderly doctor in his acquaintance by the name of Sigerson who had expressed to him that same morning his hopes of retiring to the countryside by the end of the decade if he could but find another doctor who he could train to take over his practice in the interim.

“By jove!” I cried. “If he wants someone to share in his work, I am the very man for him. I should prefer having a partner to being alone.”

I remember that Stamford had given me a strange glance over his wine glass at this pronouncement, but he arranged the meeting all the same. 

Sigerson was an eccentric—a bit queer in his ideas—but we got on well enough. Indeed, he seemed quite delighted to have himself a companion after so many years of solitude. My career since joining him has been singular, for Sigerson’s studies took an unusual direction and I was often introduced to new methods of treatment and colourful clientele.

I ought to have been satisfied; a young doctor could not ask for more. Yet in spite of the conviction that a better man would have been happy in my situation, I was plagued by a continual sense of discontentment—I could not reconcile my life with the desires that had driven me in my youth, the boyish dreams of glory, honour, and adventure. The one bright spark in those years came to me in the spring of 1883, when a young woman stepped into our practice. She was blonde, small, and dainty, and in an experience of women which extends over many nations and three separate continents, I had never looked upon a face which gave a clearer promise of a refined and sensitive nature. 

This was my Mary Morstan. Through a series of events which are of no great consequence, we came to understand that we loved one another. Yet in spite of the joy which accompanied this revelation, she remained out of my reach; my half of the practice, which provided comfortable salary for one, would not support a family.  Unwilling to take advantage of our intimacy, I urged her more than once to seek another man more worthy of her affections, but she would not abandon me. And so my quiet longing to improve my station turned into something more definite.

My chance came in an unexpected fashion. I had been sitting in Sigerson’s parlour as he pontificated upon the finer points of one of his theorems. His remarks could hardly be said to be made to me—many of them would have been as appropriately addressed to his bedstead—but he had formed a habit of thinking aloud in my presence, my own lack of comprehension often seeming to inspire in him new lines of thought. Such was my humble role in our alliance. Any latent vexation I harboured at being so used dissipated as my companion turned to a topic that at once captured my wandering interest.

“—The whole thing was sponsored by the Professor himself, of course. That is his way—always around to provide his guiding hand to promising young talent.”

“Who is this?” I had interjected.

“Professor Moriarty,” Sigerson replied beatifically, “Can’t remember his Christian name, John or James or something along those lines—wouldn’t be proper to address him with it regardless. You mean to tell me you’ve never heard of him?” Then before I could respond, he continued on in his stream of thought, as was often his habit. “Ah, but I suppose that is the wonder of the thing! The man pervades London, and no one has heard of him. It is that ineliminable air of mystery which puts him on the pinnacle.”

“What has he done?” 

“His career has been an extraordinary one. He is a man of good birth and excellent education, endowed by nature with a phenomenal mathematical faculty. I believe he published a well renowned theory at a rather precocious age, and on the strength of it he won the mathematical chair at one of our smaller universities. One would think he would be content with a brilliant career in academics, but a singular strain ran in his blood, which was rendered more potent by his extraordinary mental powers. Over the course of his long life, he has established so wide an array connections and so respected an influence amongst them that it would be easier to name a sphere where he doesn’t have some significant pull. His presence can be felt in the realms of governance, medicine, the arts, theology—”

Here I interrupted again, knowing that if allowed to do so my colleague would lose the thread that had captured my interest. “And he takes on aspiring talent?”

“It is a particular pet project of his. I call him a Professor. In truth, he is a nobleman by birth—which everyone in these circles knows—but he insists on being referred to by that title. He says it is the one he worked for, you see. Fascinating notions this man has. Wouldn’t be surprised if other nobility take to finding some occupation or other and declaring themselves self made. But as I say, this educational bent has continued; he regards the world as under his tutelage and is always eager to take on new students, loving above all else to help mould those young minds. I suspect he also relishes having some influence over whose stars rise and fall—but who in his position would not?”

“He sounds like a fascinating man!” I declared. “Someone ought to present a record of his life before the public. I’m sure it would make a most thrilling story.”

“Thrilling it may be, but you may as well try to grasp at smoke as get a hold of him. The Professor does little himself, he prefers to keep himself apart.”

“Have you any way of contacting him?”

“Yes,” old Sigerson said, regarding me with a curious gaze. “We share a mutual acquaintance, young Porlock at the Diogenes Club. Not that I have ever sought to make use of the connection—I am old, and my little experiments would be of no interest to Professor Moriarty. I say, Watson, are you quite alright?”

“Yes,” I answered, though I could hear the weight of emotion pressing itself upon me in my voice. The hope which had sprung up in my heart was not the sudden, changeable fancy of a boy, but rather the wild, fierce passion of a man of strong will and imperious temper. My thoughts were far away—to my early days in the army. There had once been a time when I had been accustomed to succeeding in all which I undertook and that old determination stirred within me like the rousing of a lion. With so dear a motive to compel me, I swore in my heart that I would not fail in this if human effort and human perseverance could render me successful.

Sigerson was already off on another tangent and so I held my tongue until our conversation had drawn to a close.

“Sigerson, I have a favour to ask of you.”

“Name it, my boy!”

“You know,” I began with some emotion, “that I’ve had a mind towards matrimony, if I could but arrange the necessary circumstances. I wonder whether this Professor Moriarty may not be just the man I have been waiting for. I’ve told you in the past some of my ideas for a little creative project of mine; I think I should like to present it to him, and see if he finds any potential in it. Of course, I would only do so if you would be amenable.”

It was clear that Sigerson was taken aback by my proposal. But such was his good will towards me that he gave me his immediate assent. He did mention that if my petition to the Professor was successful—of which he, in his fondness for me, claimed to have no doubt—the practice would be some time without an overseer with my attention otherwise absorbed, for he himself had plans for some travel abroad in the coming months at a conference in Vienna. “Ah but there’s always Jackson, I have no doubt he will take over for us.”

I gave Sigerson my heartfelt thanks before returning home. That night, I shut myself in my room and began crafting my petition to the man who, without knowing it, held my entire future in the balance. I must have written and rewritten the letter a dozen times, each new effort crumpled and thrown into the fire in their turn. At last, I resolved that a finished letter was better than no letter at all and forced myself to present my thoughts in as clear a manner as I was able.  The following are the contents of that message as best as I can recall them. 

Professor Moriarty,

I pray that you will overlook my impertinence in writing to you without an introduction and only the tenuous connection of mutual acquaintances to recommend me. I have no great talents worthy to command your attention—I can only hope that my candour in this regard may set me apart. What I lack in skill and experience, I hope to compensate for by an ardent desire to prove myself.

You will already know by the means through which you have received this letter that I work as a medical practitioner under Dr. Hamlet Sigerson, a man of rare intelligence and ability. However, it has long been my aspiration to turn my attention outside the medical profession. 

There is a certain futility to medicine. Even our successful efforts are but for a moment; for all our striving, we ultimately fail to produce true and lasting life. For some time now, the thought of a more permanent solution has occupied my mind. Of course, such a thing is not possible for the physical body, but there remains the soul—or the likeness of it. What if that essential essence could be captured and refined, moulded into a form which would outlast the frail shell? If one captured in words the best and brightest of a man in order that his memory might spark the public imagination for decades or centuries to come—in making the man into a myth, he could change from corruption to incorruption, and the mortal would become immortal.

It is rather a theoretical notion, one which I have not dared yet to share in full with another living soul. But if there is any promise in the idea, I trust a man of your refined sensibilities will see it. Doubtless you could select from the most prestigious writers to test it, but they would inevitably bring their own flair to the project, which may compromise the integrity of what you would hope to preserve. I—on the other hand—would dedicate myself wholeheartedly to the task while relying solely upon the influence of your guiding hand, should you be willing to accept so unremarkable a vessel.

Your most humble servant,

Dr. John H. Watson

It was with great trepidation that I sent the sealed envelope off through Sigerson, feeling that with it I was banishing all hopes for my present and future happiness. I despaired of ever receiving a reply and so I was quite taken aback when one came not a full week later. The envelope was addressed in a flourishing hand, and bore a wax seal impressed with the figure of a sea serpent. I tore into it with unrestrained eagerness.

To Dr. John H. Watson

Your proposal intrigues me. I regret that it is reaching me just as I am to leave London with no date of return planned at present. However, I invite you to make the journey to meet me in my home in Romania, the address of which is enclosed. This is quite an inconvenience on your part, for I guarantee nothing and—in all likelihood—will send you home no sooner than you arrive. However, I should like to speak to you, if you consider the opportunity worth the risk. 

Best regards,

—JM

I read through the letter a second time, then a third, to ensure that I had not misunderstood its meaning. A breathless laugh escaped me at the thrill of my success, and I jotted down a message communicating my eager consent, then went to Sigerson to inform him of my departure.

He was not surprised, but seemed disappointed all the same. So great was my loyalty to him that I at once resolved to forget all my plans. 

“I will not go if it makes you unhappy, Sigerson.”

“No!” he protested. “No, you must go, I can see that. I am being sentimental—one does like things to remain as they were. It would seem that we’ve come to the end of an era.”

“We have,” I agreed. “But I trust the new chapter will mark an improvement for us both—I shall return to you a better man.”

My travels thus far have passed without incident with two exceptions. The happier of these occurred when I first arrived on the continent, where I happened to come across the very same man who had saved my life all those years prior. He has since been promoted from serving as his ship’s medical officer to his own captaincy and now works for Morrison, Morrison, & Dodd, primarily in the transportation of sugar and tea. However, he has informed me that his ship does often ferry passengers to and from England and he will be an easy distance away from me in Port Constanța in mid-July. If all goes well, I shall be relieved to be able to make the journey home amongst such friendly company.

The other occurrence of note is that peculiarity to which I have already alluded—the further into this Transylvanian country I venture, the more prevalent the frightened stares that follow my back at the whisper of the name Moriarty. It would seem he is not without honour in this country—though perhaps honour is the wrong word to describe the phenomena; indeed the manner in which these people cross themselves at the mention of him leads me to think that they believe him to be some sort of demon. 

Ridiculous notions. But even in this age of reason, being so surrounded by superstition on all sides is enough to put a shiver of fear into any man’s heart. It is perhaps for this reason that, when the woman seeing me off lifted the crucifix from her neck and placed it around my own with a whispered blessing before gathering both of my hands in hers to place a fervent kiss to my knuckles, I did not protest. In any case, the favour of Providence would not go amiss now.

Coming to the end of my tale, I am relieved to discover that in recounting my journey, some of my courage has returned to me. It is well timed, for Professor Moriarty’s home is now in view—a lone castle, built not on a hilltop, but in a hollow carved into the earth by aeons of erosion, the land sloping downwards through a thick forest on the side from which we now approach—the other dropping off a sheer cliff face. From behind the castle, the roar of the waterfall echoes forward, blurring its silhouette in a constant churn of mist. There is a melancholic sort of beauty in the sight of so desolate a place.

The carriage rattles now into the courtyard, the grand archway wrought of magnificent brick and ironwork. This must be Professor Moriarty's touch—the graceful blend of old and the new woven together, a motto in some foreign tongue etched into the stone. I shall have to ask the Professor of its meaning.

The dramatic moment of my fate is at hand. So I leave this for now, praying that I might return with news of my success. Here in the present, all that remains is to gather my courage and step out into the night.

Chapter Text

It is paradoxical that the entire course of a man’s life should be determined by events that span only minutes. How many years are spent yearning after that one moment upon which so much depends, and how soon it becomes past—a moment of time set forever in stone, inalterable? The weight of such instances linger upon the soul, causing the mind to wander those paths forever barred to the physical form. I am reminded of the platitudes which warn that those objects a man pursues will not bring with them the happiness he truly seeks. I find I heed these words too late—at present my soul is shadowed over with a sense of loss, the precise source of which remains inexplicable to me.

As I have been encouraged to continue this diary by one whom I have no wish to defy, I will take up my narrative from that point which I left: outside, in the chill courtyard over which this castle looms like a daunting foe. From the writing desk where I now sit, I can see it beneath me—the pale stones glowing in the moonlight. I imagine that former version of myself standing there again and wonder what he would think of me now. What do I think of him?

I can picture this silent exchange only too easily, for as I stood there, peering up at the tower, I saw someone standing at one of the windows, gazing back down at me. He was too far away for me to make out his pale features in the fading light, but the sight of him struck a peculiar emotion into my heart—too pleasant to be foreboding, too uneasy to be hope. When I blinked to clear my vision, he had vanished, and I was left alone once more, wondering whether he had ever been there at all.

I shook off the impression and turned my attention to the great door before me. It was furnished of rich, dark wood and had an ornate bronze knocker fashioned into the figure of a sea serpent with its jaws stretched wide—the warm metal gleaming in the dying light. Feeling as though I were preparing myself to step one more into the torrent of gunfire and blood that had met me on the battlefields of Afghanistan, I came forward and gripped the knocker by the dragon’s lower teeth, pounding it once. The booming sound of it seemed to resonate through the very stones beneath my feet, up through the soles of my shoes, humming through my bones. I had scarcely a moment to compose myself before I heard the sound of the latch opening and the door creaked open.

As my eyes adjusted to the darkness inside, I took in the appearance of the man standing with one hand still resting on the door.  The images my mind had conjured to match the terror and dread which swirled around my prospective host caused the man before me to appear almost comically ordinary in comparison. He was a short yet stately older gentleman—an observer would have a difficult time determining whether he was nearer in age to sixty or eighty; there was a frailness about his carriage, in the way he held his shoulders and in the curve of his spine, which suggested more advanced years—however, his hair, though receded so that the prominent dome of his skull shone like a crown above his features, was still dark grey, and the smooth planes of his face spoke of a much younger man—or at least one who had lived a life free from cares.

This peculiar contradiction, along with the proud tilt of his chin, the decisive, refined frown faintly marring the thin line of his mouth, the strong features which spoke of noble breeding, and the gleam of urbane sensibility which seemed to dance in his black, undimmed eyes, persuaded me that I was not standing before a mere servant, but the Lord of the castle himself. 

In my eagerness to impress him, I hastened to act upon this insight. I swept my hat from my head and held it before my heart, bowing my head and keeping my eyes lowered in a show of deference. As I did so my gaze was drawn to his shoes, which were notable both in the vibrancy of their crimson hue and in the reptilian quality of the material. 

“Professor Moriarty,” I began, infusing all my respect and admiration into the words.  “It is an honour to meet you, sir. Thank you again for extending your hospitality. It is a kindness that I know I can never hope to repay, but I—”

“Oh, no,” my host interjected, and I at once fell silent. He spoke in an airy whisper which I had to strain to make out.  “I am not involved in the business of charity—you are here on your own merits. If you stay, I assure you, you will be earning your keep. Now let me look at you, son.”

There was an enigmatical quality to his address—a mingling of warmth and superiority—which set me off kilter. Had he been the hard and exacting character I had been expecting, I would have at least known where I stood—the element of charm was much more difficult to read. I met his gaze with some trepidation, feeling as though he was gaining far more from his study than I could imagine. I did not allow myself to flinch under his scrutiny, instead fixing my mind upon my determination to succeed in the hopes that he might be won by my resolve.

After a lengthy pause, he hummed absently. “Yes, you are much as I expected.” 

His quiet voice was all the more commanding for its evident meekness—there was beneath it a presumption that the responsibility of comprehension belonged to the listener. 

He stepped aside in the doorway, leaving a space for me. “Please do come in, Dr. Watson. Enter my home freely of your own will, and leave something here of that happiness you bring.” 

With one final glance to the tower above me, I obeyed the request. I had for an instant imagined that when I crossed the threshold, I might feel a sensation akin to ghostly fetters closing around my ankles. Of course, no such thing occurred. 

On instinct, my eyes scanned the room in which I found myself. The foyer was recessed, centring around an elegant stairway with railings of intricately wrought serpents swimming above and below the surface of the sea on either side. To our right and left were a series of hallways, all leading upwards and inwards further into the castle. 

There was a familiarity to the shape of the room—almost reminiscent of the operating theatres of my medical studies. Even as the thought occurred to me, I was struck with the impression that the suits of armour standing against the walls were a sort of audience watching the Professor and myself—waiting for one of us to vivisect the other. Fighting to keep my imagination under control, I returned my attention to my host who was watching me with concern evident on his features. 

“You have come a long way, you must be exhausted from your travels,” Professor Moriarty said, his tone not unkind. “I have had my servants keep your dinner warm. You will forgive me, I have already dined.” He gave me a sheepish grin. “I do not have the patience I once possessed. But that, I hope, does not diminish my generosity towards my guests. I always see to it that their needs are met, if they will but help themselves to what is offered.” 

He laughed at this, as if he had made a joke I had not quite managed to catch. I laughed along with him for the sake of politeness.

With a beckoning gesture of his bony hand, he turned on his heel and began leading me down one of the halls to our right, not waiting to see whether I would follow. He moved with a rapidity which I would not have anticipated for a man of his age; I myself had to hurry to keep pace with him. I thought of broaching some topic of conversation as we went, but judged it would be wiser to hold my tongue until I had a fuller understanding of his character.

The path through which he led me was labyrinthian, twisting and turning, rising and falling in no pattern which I could discern. The halls were dim, illuminated only by the flickering light of the bronze candle stands mounted to the walls every few metres. From them I could make out the shadowy outlines of objects hanging between them but could not see what they were. I thought we had perhaps made one large circle and was anticipating stepping into the entry hall from the opposite side, but instead Professor Moriarty eased open a door to his right, leading us into a spacious chamber with its high walls set with breathtaking stained glass windows. The room could have held fifty men but the sprawling table at its centre was set only for one.

Professor Moriarty swept ahead of me and pulled back the chair at the head of the table, his frame silhouetted by the warm light of the fire blazing in the magnificent hearth behind him. 

“Thank you,” I said, hastening to take my place. It was disquieting to be waited upon by so renowned a man, and I would have refused had I not feared that to do so would be by far the greater faux pas. 

With a wry grin that seemed to suggest he knew the source of my discomfort, he pulled the cover off my dish with a flourish. The food looked delectable—choice meats, roasted vegetables, freshly baked rolls that were still steaming. The Professor opened the bottle of wine waiting beside my setting and filled my glass to the very point of overflowing. He then crossed the room to take his seat at the opposing end of the table.

“May I pour you some wine, at least?” I offered.

“I never drink wine.” He had raised his voice, but only barely enough for it to reach my ears across the large room. “But please, eat, drink. I assure you that seeing my guests partake in my hospitality brings me more joy than you can imagine.” He flashed me another wide smile, the firelight glinting off his teeth.

“In that case, to your hospitality,” I said as I raised my glass. He inclined his chin in acknowledgement.

The food was prepared almost exactly to my tastes—little surprise, for he was no doubt able to employ the most talented chefs on offer. It had been too long since my last proper meal and I made an effort to restrain myself so that I would not devour the food in seconds. Professor Moriarty however did not appear perturbed by my voracity. Quite the contrary, whenever I paused, he encouraged me to keep eating. As often as I drained my glass to the halfway point, he rose to his feet and filled it once more to the brim. By the time my plate was empty, I had begun to feel the effects of the wine—the warmth of it radiating through my limbs, softening the edges of my nervous thoughts.

Rising to his feet one final time, Professor Moriarty took my plate, covering it after he had set it aside. His eyes gleamed with catlike amusement as he emptied the last of the wine into my glass.

“So. You wish to write the story of my life?” he asked, his head swaying almost imperceptibly from side to side, and I knew that my interview had begun.

The atmosphere of the room grew heavy with all that was at stake. I had the impression of sitting at a chessboard opposite a master—against so skilled an opponent, one blunder would cost me everything while there could be no such easy victory on my side; success would only be possible if I proceeded with the greatest of care.

I met his gaze with an affectation of perfect confidence. “Yes, I do. I will not waste your time by repeating the contents of my letter, only to reiterate that the idea I expressed there—creating, through words, a legacy which would extend the life of its subject—has long captured my imagination. I cannot tell you how it began, nor whether such an endeavour could ever be successful, but I am at present possessed by a renewed sense of hope. For many years my greatest obstacle has been the absence of a suitable subject, a problem which vanished the day I first heard of you.”

“Yes, I had hoped you might touch on that,” Professor Moriarty said, his hand coming to rest on the table before me. “Do you mean to tell me that you did not think your old mentor was worthy of the honour?”

“As fond of him as I am—”

“What was the old man’s name again? S—something, wasn’t it?”

“Dr. Hamlet Sigerson.” 

“Ah, yes. That was it. I believe I have come across that name once or twice.” His grin widened. “Pray, continue.”

It was not until that moment that I understood that his congenial attitude was not kindness, but condescension. He was laughing at me—mocking me. The instant I knew it, I felt an obstinate determination to sway his opinion of me.

“There is, for one, the matter of willingness,” I said. “Sigerson would never volunteer himself to be such a subject. Of course, I think that in itself reveals something of his character—a flaw which shows him to be unsuitable for the work. You on the other hand—the connections you’ve managed to form in every sphere of society, the influence you hold over trends of the day, over politics, all with only a whisper—”

“I know of my own accomplishments,” he interrupted. 

“Just so,” I said, feeling rather wrong-footed. Steeling myself, I decided to risk a more unorthodox method of garnering his interest. “Sigerson is brilliant in his way, but he has no great ambitions and as a result can only accomplish so much, whereas you and I are similar, I think.” 

Professor Moriarty’s dark eyes glinted, his nostrils flaring, and I felt a small thrill of satisfaction that so slight a provocation had proven so effective.

“I do not say that to elevate myself,” I clarified. “Far from it—I know only too well that there are worlds between your standing and my own. I only speak to the sense of recognition I felt when I heard of your accomplishments, suspecting that behind them lay the same sort of hunger which I myself have so long felt. You do not need me—you have at your disposal countless means of securing for yourself a legacy that would outlive either of us upon this Earth. I, on the other hand… the instant I heard your name, I knew that the only way I might ever attain what I’ve so long desired—”

“—Was to align yourself with me,” he finished for me. “Yes, this makes perfect sense to me now, Dr. Watson. I believe I have made an accurate judgement of your character from the first. You are of the sort which seeks to improve your station by tying your reputation to one of more brilliance than yourself.” A flush crept over my features, but he reached out and placed a reassuring hand on my shoulder. “This is not shameful. It is the way of the world. Think of pilot fish and the shark, the jackal with the lion. It is the instinct of the insignificant to seek out the remarkable. At your best, you fulfil the necessary function of a carrion bird, finishing off the work of a better predator.”

I bristled at the latent accusation in his words. “I suppose I cannot deny your interpretation of my motives, though I perhaps would not have phrased it thus.”

“Of course you wouldn’t have—you’re a writer, and there is no deception more insidious than the story a writer spins around himself.”

“Meaning that I lie.”

“Well, I was trying to express it as delicately as I could, but if you insist upon the word I will not contradict you. I assure you, it is not an indictment, but rather the recognition of a necessary skill. Se non è vero, è ben trovato.”

I recognised the words. “That was etched above your gate, was it not?”

“Your observational faculties are in order, though you seem to be wanting confidence in your conclusions. Yes, it’s an Italian expression, around three centuries old now. It translates to something like ‘if it’s not true, it’s a good story.’ That is the great trick of human nature—regardless of what they might tell you, people are little interested in truth. What they want is something that confirms to them what they already believe. It is in the shaded valley between what a man will acknowledge to himself in the light of day and those things he fears and longs for in secret where the artist can exert his influence. Brilliance lies in the ability to disguise even the slightest trace of that guiding hand.”

A small smile pulled at the corner of my mouth. “I disagree.”

“Do you?”

“As you have proven, a writer may attempt to deceive others—even to deceive himself—but the truth is not so easily suppressed. All attempts at concealment are as revealing of a man’s character as his confession may be. It takes a particular sort of talent to use that to one’s advantage. People invariably resist manipulation, but if you offer yourself along with your ideals they are often willing to meet you halfway.”

“An interesting theory.”

“You may put it to the test. I believe the result may yet surprise you.” I stood to my feet, placing us on level footing. “You hold my fate in your hands, Professor. I’ve been told I can be quite single-minded—I am slow to trust but once I’ve committed myself to a pursuit, I am steadfast in the extreme. I give you my word that if you permit me to stay, I will put myself wholeheartedly into the endeavour, and I will not relent until I am successful. Will you agree to let me act as your storyteller under those terms?”

I offered him my left hand and waited. The silence that followed seemed to stretch on an age, the suspense weighing heavy on my heart.

It was at last broken by Professor Moriarty bursting out into a deep, hearty fit of laughter, one which shook his thin frame, his face brightening with genuine delight as he placed his hand in mine in a sure, deliberate gesture, his fingers gripping around mine like a vice—his skin, while smooth, had a delicate texture like parchment and was cool to the touch.

“Dr. Watson, you have earned your chance. Yes, you have my consent.” Another laugh escaped him before his expression turned more dry in its amusement. “I suppose you’ll be needing to make use of my literary connections.”

I could not contain my excitement, and was happy to be able to correct him on that score. “No, I have made some arrangements already; I have an acquaintance working with one of the London serials who had previously agreed to reserve a place for—well it is of no consequence what my original intent was. I am sure he will have no objections to this much more fascinating subject. If you are agreeable, our story will be in this year’s Beeton's Christmas Annual.”

“Not a particularly prestigious publication.”

“No, but I think that will prove to be part of its advantage. The spread of this work must appear organic rather than manufactured.”

The Professor chuckled again as he clasped his other hand over mine; I had to suppress a shudder at the chill. “The press is a valuable tool if one knows how to use it. Having grasped the elementals you may yet learn more under my care. I daresay you are more clever than you first appear.”

“Thank you,” I answered, choosing to focus on the compliment rather than the insult it implied. 

“Thank you,” he insisted. “Your enthusiasm is contagious. I am looking forward to having you at my side a while longer so that I might absorb some of it for myself.” 

As he said this, he brought one of his hands to cup my cheek. He exerted the slightest of pressure, urging me to keep my chin up, his dark eyes once more boring into mine as he came close enough to rest our foreheads together. I kept myself still, feeling rather like a specimen pinned for examination.

At last, he smiled and patted my cheek before releasing me with a sigh. “You must forgive me, I am so used to solitude, my manners are out of practice. I’ve kept you waiting too long—I will show you to your rooms and there you may rest.”

Chapter Text

As Professor Moriarty led me through the spiralling halls of his castle, I gradually became aware that a singular collection of artefacts adorned the walls on either side of me, illuminated by the flickering light of the candelabra the Professor held aloft. It was such a cumulation as I had never seen before—appearing more a museum than a home. There were a thousand strange relics from Europe, Africa, and the East. I tried in vain to find some unifying theme—a tapestry woven into a pattern resembling an intricate knot twisting in on itself in complex patterns that nonetheless suggested some underlying symmetry; a grand oil painting of a proud ship sailing off towards the setting sun on the horizon, dark roiling clouds following the wind at its back; a stuffed raven kept beneath the glass dome of a bell jar posed so that its beak was hidden beneath its wing…

“Remarkable!” I declared in hushed astonishment as we passed by a dagger, the golden hilt of which had been crafted with such care that it was difficult to believe it had been fashioned by human hands. It was not until I heard an airy laugh that I realised I had spoken aloud. I turned in time to catch the Professor peering back at me in amusement.  

“I should hope so. It is the work of millennia, when one considers all the combined time and effort required to create and procure such an array. I suppose you could consider these to be my trophies, a visual representation of the lives I have had the opportunity to sample, if you will excuse the metaphor.”

“Extraordinary, it’s unlike anything I’ve ever—”

The words died on my tongue—we had come to landing between two flights of stairs and my eyes had fallen on a piece that so entirely beguiled my senses that I found myself rooted where I stood, having lost the capacity for all other thought.

The wall before me was dominated by a life-sized portrait, hung within a gilded frame that would have been exceptional on its own, but was rendered almost plain by the mesmerising piece it contained. Its subject was a young man who could scarcely have been older than thirty and whose countenance and bearing would have made him most appealing to the fair sex. If the portrait were true to scale, the man was rather over six feet, and so excessively lean that he seemed to be considerably taller. Beneath a dark shock of Byronic curls, his face had been recreated by the painter with painstaking care. He had a thin, hawk-like nose that gave his whole expression an air of alertness and decision, and his chin had the prominence and squareness which mark the man of determination. Most remarkable of all was the quality the artist had captured in the grey eyes—sharp and piercing and so full of intelligent speculation that one might easily imagine that the living man himself was standing there within the frame, gazing back at him.

I am ashamed to confess how vividly the appearance of this man stimulated my curiosity. Worse still was my mortification when I regained the presence of mind to recall that I was not alone.

The Professor’s dark eyes seemed almost to glow with satisfaction as he watched me, inclining his head towards the portrait. “Do you like him?”

It took me a moment to collect myself sufficiently to make my reply; when I did, I noted with chagrin that I sounded almost winded. “It is a captivating piece.”

“Quite.” He returned to my side to join me in gazing at the portrait. “He is my most recent acquisition. It is too early to judge such things, but I daresay he may very well turn out to be the crowning jewel of my collection.”

I caught the possessive edge in Professor Moriarty’s tone, and the way he referred to the portrait as he. “Did you know him?”

“Oh, yes. Quite well.” His quiet voice wrapped around the words like a caress.

We stood there in silence for some minutes as I wrestled against the tumult emotions coursing through me; I wanted to beg the Professor to tell me more—how they had met, how he had come to have this portrait, what had become of the man himself. It was only the knowledge that acting upon such an urge was unlikely to garner me any of the answers I sought that allowed me to hold my tongue. I fought to regain command of myself, aware of the importance of maintaining his good esteem.

Professor Moriarty at last let out a contented sigh. “Perhaps I’ll tell you his story one day. I suspect it would be to your tastes, but you look rather dead on your feet at present. Come, just a little farther.”

He held out his arm towards the staircase onward and waited for me to move. I did so with considerable effort, meeting his eyes with what I hoped to be a grateful smile and climbed the final set of stairs to my bedroom, feeling as though I was leaving some part of my soul behind on that landing. 

My thoughts were so consumed that I hardly noticed the furnishing of my room, though I had enough awareness to recognise my new lodgings would have been more appropriate for some visiting member of nobility than an old campaigner like myself. My luggage sat waiting for me at the foot of the four poster bed and I surmised that one of the servants must have carried it up while I dined.

I retrieved my travelling case and walked over to the dark wooden desk by the window. A fly crawled upon the surface, and I made to swat at it but was stopped by the Professor’s cool hand wrapping around my wrist—I had not noticed him crossing the room.

“Ah, do not mind these little creatures,” he said with a gentle smile. “They mean no harm.”

“Harm, no, but irritation, perhaps,” I replied as he freed my hand. I left the fly alone and began unpacking, placing my writing kit and a folding mirror onto the desk. I surreptitiously reached into my breast pocket for this diary and set it onto the stack of other journals—hoping to avoid his detection—in the looking glass I saw the Professor’s eyes follow the motion with clear interest. 

“They have their purpose,” he remarked as I turned back to him, his expression set once more with that enigmatic blend of superiority and charm which was so unique to him. His eyes roamed the walls, searching for something, before he pointed one thin finger upward. “See here. It would appear my servants have been a little lax with the tending of this room. Already a friend has made its home here, taking its part in that ancient dance.”

The delicate web of a spider clung to the corner, a fly caught in the outer threads, struggling to free itself, the web shaking from its efforts. As if aware she possessed an audience, the spider made her nimble way across the strands with practised grace, descending upon the poor insect and beginning to feed.  

I averted my eyes with a mild sense of revulsion but Professor Moriarty seemed almost comforted by the little scene, watching with an expression of rapt interest. “I do not abide waste. Everything must have a greater purpose to serve, else we are worse than the beasts. The life of the fly is sacrosanct until it is required by the spider.”

He flashed me a quick smile, then rested his hand on the stack of notebooks, picking up my diary. “I imagine this is the most important to you, given that you keep it so close to your chest.”

“Ah!” I made an aborted effort to snatch it out of his hand. “That is private.”

The Professor arched a single eyebrow. “You wish to know my story but I cannot have yours?”

“Of course,” I answered, abashed. “You are welcome to read it, if you like. Though I’ve only just begun and I feel I should warn you that you do feature.”

“All the better. I can get a sense for how you shall portray me to the public.”

I cleared my throat. “Obviously, it was written before I met you. I am afraid it is not yet an accurate sketch of your character. I am open to any suggestions you may have for how to improve it…”

 I trailed off, aware I was rambling. I clasped my hands together to keep them still as I watched him read, feeling rather exposed. The Professor hummed to himself as he flicked through the pages, chuckling once or twice. He was a quick reader, and it was only a minute or two later that he closed the book and held it out to me. I snapped it up the instant it was proffered with my gaze still averted in embarrassment.

“Well, Dr. Watson, your secret is out,” Professor Moriarty announced. I risked a glance up at him, and was relieved to be met with a fond smile. “You’ve been downplaying your capabilities. Many of your observations are indeed prosaic but the way you convey them… I recognise talent when I see it. I think you should keep writing here. This—it is not nothing.”

I bowed my head in acknowledgement.

“Of course, we shall have to endeavour to curb that strain of romanticism. As it is now, anything you wrote of my life would have an incurable element of incongruity, as if you had worked an elopement into the fifth proposition of Euclid.”

I smiled in spite of myself. “In my experience, a touch of romanticism can be rather persuasive.”

Moriarty laughed. “Yes, I imagine your efforts do not go unappreciated by your Miss Morstan.”

I flushed. “She would be more inclined to agree with you, I think. She has told me in the past that my one fatal habit is that I look at everything from the point of view of a story. She believes I would do better to constrain myself to the facts.”

“That is a rare woman. We will have to ensure your work here is successful so that you may provide for her a future worthy of her.”

“I sincerely hope so,” I said, my voice thick with emotion. Embarrassed, I cleared my throat. “I thank you again for the opportunity, for her sake as much as mine.”

He rested his hand on my shoulder. “I’ve told you, you are here by your own merits.  Now, I must leave you. I regret that I have a prior engagement which demands my attention tomorrow. You will not see me until evening, but I insist that you treat this castle as if it were your own home until I return. And now, I bid you goodnight, Dr. Watson. May you have pleasant dreams.”

With one final chuckle he swept out of the room. Acting on some instinct, I sat down to continue this account as soon as I was alone, beset even then by the sorrow which still pervades my heart, one that is accompanied by the remembrance of those piercing grey eyes.

Weariness is making me nonsensical. No doubt I will feel myself again in the clear light of the morning.

—

Dear God. To what abominable forces have I consigned myself? It is only by sheer force of will that I steady my hand to form these words—visions of that unearthly scene yet cause my limbs to tremble and my pulse to thunder in my ears. It is almost reminiscent of the miserable months in Peshawar swallowed up by that delirious fever—never knowing for certain where dreams ended or wakefulness began. My present affliction may be worse still, for it does not originate in the body, but in the soul. I am sick with longing—overcome with desires for which there are no name, and I fear that I am in danger of losing myself to their sway. Even now, those haunting echoes ensnare my imagination, causing me to doubt the evidence of my senses and the limits of that which I know to be possible. I find myself compelled towards actions I know not how to take.

This sickness—if indeed, it is a sickness—came upon me in the night. I had been lying awake, thinking of Mary, hoping that through such meditations I might float away peacefully into dreamland. Gradually, I became aware of a soft strain of sound, like that of a lone violin, played low and sweet to the ear—the melancholy beauty of it piercing through me. Half in dream, I opened my eyes, and discovered I was not alone. The room was illuminated by the gentle glow of the moonlight and by it I saw the figure standing beside the window—the weight of his gaze lingering upon me like a physical touch. 

It was the very man whose portrait had so enraptured me. 

I drank in the sight of him—the painter had exactly captured his likeness—the gaunt limbs, his earnest face—but when his eyes met mine, I saw that rather than possessing the thoughtful serenity of his portrait, the man before me was in the throes of some unspeakable agony.

My heart leapt within me and I bolted upright, reaching for him without a conscious thought. As if he had only been waiting for some invitation from me, he crossed the room in the same instant, moving in quick graceful strides till he came to perch on the edge of my bed, his long, slender fingers entwined with mine.

I opened my mouth to speak, to offer my assistance, to declare I would do anything—move Heaven and Earth if required—to put an end to his suffering. Before I could utter a word, he gently freed one of his hands, placing a finger against my lips, silencing me. His eyes, turned silver by the moonlight, pierced through to my very soul. In that moment, I never wanted to gaze upon anything but him again.

He moved then with exaggerated care. The hand resting on my mouth grazing over my cheek with so little pressure that I almost could not feel the touch. His thumb caught on the edge of my jaw as his palm shaped itself against the side of my neck. There his fingers spasmed against my skin, as if he were fighting against some impulse. His lips parted as if to speak, but no sound escaped them.

Mirroring the caution he had taken with me, I raised my free hand, giving him ample time to notice so that he might stop me if he so wished. When he did not protest, I allowed myself to caress the sharp line of his cheekbone, my hand coming to rest against the side of his face. I had hoped the gesture might comfort him, but he sucked in a gasp through his teeth like I had wounded him as his eyes squeezed shut.

Again I was on the cusp of asking what troubled him, and again, he prevented me by shaking his head once. And so I sat with my heart throbbing in my chest, quietly thrilling in anticipation—though I could not articulate to myself what it was that I wanted. When his eyes at last reopened, the turmoil raging within them set my stomach into a hard knot. I watched him take a deep breath, then another, before he began leaning towards me with that same agonising care. He paused when his face was only a few inches from mine. The fingers against my neck tapped once as his eyebrows pulled together—a request. 

Is this alright? 

I inclined my face in answer, my gaze falling to the sensuous line of his mouth. Rather bringing his lips to meet mine, he bent his head lower, under my raised chin, and brought his face to rest in the crook of my neck. He took another deep breath, and electricity skittered up my spine at the sound of pure longing which escaped him. Where our hands were still joined in my lap, his fingers squeezed around mine—I returned the gesture. 

His lips parted against my throat and I felt the barest scrape of his teeth. I closed my eyes and waited—for pleasure, for pain, for anything he saw fit to offer me—I would have welcomed anything from him.

The next instant, the dreamlike trance around me shattered at the sound of a quiet laugh coming from the direction of the door. My companion stiffened and pulled away from me—feeling an acute pang of loss as his lips parted with my skin—and a sound like a hiss rose from his throat, low and menacing. 

I wrenched my eyes open and was wholly disoriented to find that the moonlit scene from a moment earlier had vanished—the morning sun now streaming in through the open window. I was utterly alone and there was nothing—not a footstep on the carpet nor an indentation on the bed beside me—to indicate there had ever been another presence in the room. The only traces were in my mind—the memory of his ethereal face, the ghostly echo of his touch, and another, much stranger effect, for which I have no rational way to account. 

As I gazed about me in bewilderment, I became aware of an odd sensation on my tongue, somewhere between pressure and taste. I had brushed my hand against my lips, trying to dispel the feeling. When it would not lessen, I allowed myself to whisper the words which rose unbidden from my heart—the reverberation of them even now swirling in the air around me.

I am adrift in a sea of wonders. I doubt; I fear; I think strange things which I dare not confess to my own soul. I know without knowing how that the words are a name—his name. I say it again with the hesitating reverence of a prayer.

“Sherlock Holmes.”

Chapter Text

A man who possessed any sense to speak of would have already thrown this diary into the fire—as I myself have been on the brink of doing half a dozen times now. The mere thought of Professor Moriarty reading the contents of my last entry causes a cold sweat to break out over the surface of my skin—though whether this dread is born of my rational conviction that the events that have so disturbed me were nothing but a dream or of a delusional fear that they were real, I cannot determine. Neither case provides much assurance for what is to become of me now. Either my host is keeping another living soul captive here and my knowledge of this fact will not only place me in greater peril but will also hinder my ability to assist the man in need of rescue, or else he is not, and I have just committed the most shameful imaginings of my unconscious mind to paper with no just cause.

I have, of course, developed a plausible explanation should I be called to account for myself. After a day of such incident and colour as I experienced yesterday, any man would have dreamed. Any man too could understand that securing even the slightest attention from a man as well-renowned as Professor Moriarty along with the peculiar affection he has bestowed upon me would have impressed themselves on my mind, warping and twisting into something else altogether under the cover of darkness. The matter of the man in the painting—it was a sublimation, that is all.

I may be able to explain away my dream, but for the fact that I have incriminated myself, recognise I have done so, and yet remain incapable of destroying the sole evidence against me, I have no justification—only a fear that to do so would be to forfeit any chance I have of ever again seeing Sherlock Holmes.

It is utter madness. I know that. I cannot see Sherlock Holmes—he is not here. So why then can I not act upon that knowledge? I have often prided myself on my decisiveness, and yet now in this hour of crisis, it fails me. No, not failed; it has turned against me, bidding me down a path that I fear will only end in ruin.

More than the censure of my host, I shudder to imagine what Mary would think of me were she ever to find me out. I must abandon this, before it proves the destruction of all I hold dear. Yet even as I write these words with conviction, I know that it is too late. Until I can prove to myself—with absolute certainty—that there is not a prisoner in this castle, one who has requested my assistance, in actions if not in words, I am powerless to leave. 

But the longer I dwell upon that scene, the more I am persuaded there must be some truth to it. There is, for one, the matter of the man at the window who I saw upon my arrival. He could not have been The Professor, for, unless he was possessed of some inhuman speed, there is no way he could have passed through the winding halls and arrived at the front door only seconds later. It might have been a servant, but as I recall that moment, there seems to be something familiar to me now in the shape of that silhouette.

If Professor Moriarty was being truthful, I will be alone in this castle until nightfall and so will be able to make a covert search unimpeded. Perhaps in that time I will be able to assuage my own fears. If not…

There is nothing I would not risk to find him, even if it costs me my very soul.

—

These are deep waters indeed; the more determined my efforts to chart a clear course through them, the more I find I never knew my way to begin with. I am now persuaded that I should have never come to this place, but it is too late for such thoughts. The road I’ve chosen has locked round my feet—there remains only for me to walk along it to its end.

My own investigations were at best inconclusive, but the manner of my host is so altered towards me that I cannot but suspect his behaviour the evening prior to have been a ruse. His words and actions have nearly persuaded me that not only is Sherlock Holmes being held prisoner here, but that the Professor has brought me here for the sole purpose of tormenting me with allusions to his existence. In truth, I know he must have some further end in mind—he has told me as much himself—but what his true motive may be is yet a mystery to me. 

Without Professor Moriarty at hand to guide me, I quickly came to learn that the structure of his castle was built to frustrate any effort made to understand it. The halls were a maze that lured and deflected, offering the promise of order before leading one astray once more with the confounding of symmetry. Every step I took, it seemed I made the wrong choice, spiralling round amongst the panelling and tapestry and half-effaced old pictures. I might have remained lost in this house of shadows and mystery indefinitely had it not been for the Professor’s vanity.

I came to devise a method of using the relics lining the walls as a series of landmarks, a pattern I could memorise in order to direct my path. It was a time consuming process—hours passed before I managed to retrace the steps that had taken mere minutes the night prior. At last, I opened what seemed to me the thousandth door I had come across that morning and found myself once more in the grand dining hall.

The late morning sun streamed in through the stained glass windows, setting intricate patterns of colour and light across the room. The seat I had occupied the previous night had been set once again. Crossing the room, I picked up the cover over the dish and found beneath it a full English Breakfast, the food still hot and steaming. I glanced back over my shoulder, wondering whether a servant might be at hand who I might converse with, but found no one.

With a mounting sense of foreboding, I sat down to eat. As had been the case the night before, the food seemed made to my specific tastes, though there was no way either the Professor or his cook could have known them. I hastened through my meal, anxious to resume my search. The food somewhat bolstered my spirits—at the very least my hands finally stopped shaking.

The journey to the foyer was far simpler than my wanderings of the morning, both because I had a better grasp on my system and because—as I had begun to suspect—many of the halls led in circles and so some of the incorrect paths were ones I had already traversed. I also discovered that my suspicion the night prior had been correct—through a second door in the dining hall there was a much more direct path to the front door than the one Professor Moriarty had led me through to start. I wondered at this and had to fight down a fresh wave of paranoia.

Outside, the late spring air was cool and crisp, and the light breeze carried with it the sound of birdsong. At the unlatching of the front door, a flock of starlings roused from their perch and flew overhead, their figures silhouetted by the sun. 

Out of military habit, I tested the gate to the courtyard and was relieved to find it unlocked. I had known it would be—even in the scenario I most feared, I was not the prisoner. But out in that peaceful atmosphere I could forget, or remember only as some fantastic nightmare, the moonlit vision which had so haunted me. Yet as I strolled the length of the courtyard, steeping my soul in the balm of sunlight and fresh air, a strange incident occurred which brought back to me all my earlier unease and left a most sinister impression in my mind.

Glancing up at the tower where I knew my room to be, I found that my initial impression had not been accurate: there was not one window in that part of the castle but two aligned with one directly above the other. I supposed the lower of these to be my own room, for I had left my curtains drawn and could see their outline even from a distance. The curtains of the window above mine on the other hand remained closed, and the window itself was caged in by thick bars of iron—I was certain I had seen no such instalment the night before. 

My blood turned to ice in my veins, and an instant later that I had crossed back through the front door, plunging myself once more into the dark and winding halls. I set about finding my way to the room above mine, confident at first that the experience I had gained over the course of the morning would make it a simple task. 

All my efforts were thwarted. Time and again I found myself certain that I had at last discovered the correct path, only to turn the corner and find myself on the landing below my own room. Each time, the picture of Sherlock Holmes regarded me with a chilly indifference, admonishing me for my failure. His reproval was certainly my imagination, but as I became more familiar with his portrait with each successive visit, I found that another detail I had dismissed as pure fancy had at least some basis in reality. In the lower corner of the portrait, the artist had written the name of its subject, which was indeed Sherlock Holmes. I supposed it might be possible that I had read the name the night prior and only registered the detail unconsciously, but I found this explanation lacking. 

When the shadows grew long and the sun sat low and red on the horizon, I was forced to abandon my search for the time being. I made the climb to my room to gather some of my effects, then returned to the dining hall, noting with a flash of irritation how simple it was to find my way there now when the true object of my search remained so fixedly beyond my reach. On the table, some invisible servant had cleared away the remnants of my late breakfast and had laid out a fresh setting for dinner. 

“Hello? Is anyone there?” I called out to the empty room, but there was neither a stir of movement nor any other evidence but the food itself that anyone else had been here. 

As I ate, I made my preparations for the evening in a frenzy; in my desperate attempt to find proof of Sherlock Holmes' existence, I had neglected my purpose here. I composed some questions for the Professor which I hoped might prove instructive for my work while also leading him to reveal some scraps of information regarding the subject which had come to capture my true interest. The sound of pen against paper was comforting in its familiarity and I quickly lost myself in the flow of words. 

I was startled out of my absorption when I heard footsteps approaching and hastened to organise my papers just as Professor Moriarty stepped into the room. Again, I was struck by the stark contrast between his appearance and the frightful terrors swirling around me. His noble proportions, his fine features, and his frank bearing all fitted in with that jovial, man-to-man manner which he affected. It was only when he turned those dead, dark eyes upon me, deep and remorseless, that I felt I was face to face with an infinite possibility of latent evil, with a strength and courage and cunning behind it which made it a thousand times more deadly. It was a horrific impression, one which coloured my perception of all he said and did. Every gesture, every word, seemed laced with some hidden meaning—an allusion to this shameful secret which he dangled over me.

“Good evening, Dr. Watson,” he said in his quiet way as he took his seat at the far end of the table. He carried a bag slung over his shoulder and unsaddled himself as he sat, placing the satchel on the table before him before settling his elbows on the surface and folded his hands to cradle his chin. His head tilted low, examining me with unearthly intensity. “I am pleased to see that you’ve already eaten. I trust your accommodations have been to your liking.”

“Extraordinarily so,” I replied with a careful smile.

“I am delighted to hear it. And how did you sleep?”

A flicker of suspicion crossed my face before I could contain it. “Well, thank you. It is rare for me to sleep through the night but I did not wake until well after dawn. I am perfectly fresh, if you would like to begin our work tonight.”

He hummed. “Perhaps. I’ve brought something which I would like for you to examine for me first. Your performance will help me determine how best to frame my own approach going forward.”

Here he gave the satchel a little shove across the polished surface—the fabric creating a soft wailing sound as it slid to a stop within my reach. With some small trepidation, I undid the fastenings and found within a pair of black leather shoes which I set on the table before me. I looked back to the Professor who nodded in encouragement.

“Off you go.”

“You want me to describe them to you?”

“No, I want you to demonstrate what you can determine of their owner. You’d be amazed at the traces people leave behind in their possessions; an aspiring storyteller ought to be able to draw out such details. Who knows, maybe you will see something that I myself have missed.”

I cleared my throat and turned my attention to the task. I was sure he wanted me to make some particular discovery, though I could not imagine what it might be. I rattled out my observations as I made them. “They appear to be in good condition. I’d say they were new if it weren’t for the degree of wear on the sole, which suggests the owner had them for quite a while. Made in the current style—this sort of detailing around the laces never appeared before the eighties. A bit ostentatious perhaps—the sort of fashion a younger man might wear.” I glanced up at him. “You are in possession of them, which would suggest you knew the owner. So perhaps one of your pupils?”

“Excellent! What else?”

“That is all I can see. I did not miss anything of consequence, I trust.”

“On the contrary, you have overlooked the central feature of interest.”

“That being?”

“The name of their owner.”

I examined the shoes once more, checking the inside of the soles for some inscription. “There is no name written here.”

“No. That would have been too obvious. I was rather hoping you might be able to apply some deductive reasoning to identify him, but I see I was expecting too much of you. It is a pity, for if you had gotten it right, I might have told you more about the man. You did seem so fascinated by his portrait yesterday evening.”

It felt as if a leaden weight dropped into my stomach. “These belonged to Sherlock Holmes?”

“Very good. However, I fear you are just too late in arriving at the correct conclusion.”

We sat in silence for some time, the hypnotic swaying of his head the only movement either of us made.  

With effort, I kept my reply cordial. “I shall look forward to hearing his story, whenever you deem me worthy.”

“Perhaps I could be persuaded to tell you now, if you would do something for me in exchange.”

“I am at your disposal.”

He ran one of his pointed nails along the corner of his mouth, his sinister mirth radiating out from him, permeating the room with tangible malice. “Tell me, what did you dream of last night?”

The blood drained from my face. “Why would you wish to know that?”

“Solely for my own amusement. Dreams are a haven where we sin without consequence—I would like to know what manner of desires you indulge yourself in when you are not constrained by propriety. If you answer me honestly, I will tell you where Sherlock Holmes is now. But believe me, I will know if you are lying.”

I could not but admire the efficiency with which he had cornered me. Providing an honest answer was out of the question and yet my frustration at being unable to do so would be just as revealing. I determined to attempt to outmanoeuvre him by somehow deceiving him in spite of his threats, knowing even as I made the effort that it would be in vain.

It was easy enough to feign reluctance, mortification. “I dreamt of my fiancée. When travelling, one longs for the solace of home.”

The Professor arched a single eyebrow, his tone low and suggestive. “One longs certainly. Tell me, were you and Miss Morstan together in your dream?” 

The memory seemed to play again in the air before me—the moonlit eyes, the delicacy of that cool touch, the soft press of lips to my skin—the airy sound of Professor Moriarty’s laughter at the door.

My temper flared white hot within me as I sprung from my chair. “Have you invited me here just to humiliate me?”

“Yes,” he said with a laugh. “No, of course not, Dr. Watson. I am doing as you requested and putting you to the test.”

“I have not come to be examined as if I were a schoolboy.”

“No I daresay you haven’t. So what is your game?” He looked at me steadily, the languor had gone from his eyes, and there was a gleam of teeth from between those cruel lips. “It has not escaped my notice that you are under the misapprehension that this is an equal partnership. Nothing could be further from the truth. There is never an instant when you have any degree of control over the proceedings where I am concerned. Have I made my point, or will further elaboration be required?”

I swallowed down a wave of loathing. “You have been quite transparent.”

“Temper, Dr. Watson,” he chided. “Do try to manage that. I will not tolerate being addressed in that manner. Of course, if my terms are disagreeable you are welcome to leave whenever you like—nothing is keeping you here. Shall I summon the coachman now?”

“No,” was my instantaneous refusal. I wrestled with myself, fighting back my anger and shame. “No. I will stay. Forgive me. I appear to have forgotten myself. It will not happen again.”

“See to it that it does not.” The Professor eased himself back to his feet with a drawn out sigh. “I am afraid that is all the time I can spare for you this evening. We will resume this conversation tomorrow at the same hour.”

I found this flippant disregard for my time irritating, but endeavoured not to let it show.

“Better,” the Professor praised as he turned and made his way back to the door. He paused near the doorway but did not turn back to look at me. “Oh, and do be careful where you wander. This castle is old and contains many memories, and there are consequences for those who awaken them. I would not venture too far if I were you.”

“Is there someone else living here with you?” I asked before I could think better of it.

“No, Dr. Watson, there is no one living here.”

“Not even your servants?”

“What?”

“Your servants. You must have them. Someone has made my bed, cooked my meals. I saw the driver myself last night.”

He peered back at me with a coy smile. “Yes, of course, the servants. One does tend to forget about them. As it should be—one ought to know their presence only by the traces they leave behind. Good night, Dr. Watson.”

His coat swirled behind him as he swept out of the room and I barked out an incredulous laugh when he was gone. His defence had been so feeble that it was apparent he either thought me a complete imbecile or else did not care whether I knew he was lying. The exchange was enough to assure me that what I had seen was not a vision. He had watched that scene unfold—knew not just what I had permitted, but what I had longed for.

The Professor's cavalier manner towards me causes me to doubt whether he has any intention of allowing me to leave this place alive. I must find a way to subvert whatever he has planned. It remains possible that this castle’s other prisoner might yet seek me out himself and make all clear to me—but I cannot rely upon it. I must act as if I were alone, though it is his presence alone that compels me to stay. There can be no victory for me now unless I leave this place with Sherlock Holmes by my side—to forget his existence in order to save myself would be unacceptable.

Chapter Text

I have played and been played for a fool. I must begrudgingly acknowledge the genius of it—that devil is a master of his craft if he is nothing else. With cunning hands he has unspun the very fibres of my being and fashioned them into a net tailored to ensnare me. I, however, have no intention of remaining in his web to be devoured—I will fight against him until the last of my strength has been drained from my flesh, till the only sure thought remaining to my mind is one of ensuring his destruction. He may tamper with facts as he pleases, but he cannot alter that.

I am forced to abandon my former strategy altogether and how ironic that now that I am only too willing to plainly lay out all the facts of my narrative, I am incapable of doing so. I reach for the memories only for them to scuttle away from my probing thoughts. I am reminded of that myth of Tantalus—the refreshing pool of water ever receding from the touch of his parched lips. I know the truth remains within me, I can feel it nagging at the edges of my consciousness, but I cannot glimpse it in full. All that remains to me is an echo, like the last fleeting impressions of a dream. A tenuous connection to be sure, but it will have to suffice. I picture it now, a lone scarlet thread tying me to the life I led before I came to this place—the life we shared, before he snatched it all away.

I cannot begin there, for those impressions of my past, hazy and ever-shifting as they are, will convince no one, not even myself. I must lay my story upon more solid ground—with those events for which I have some small proofs. 

Having revealed my cards to my adversary has one advantage at least—I shall no longer have to feign deference for that miserable creature. James Moriarty does not deserve the respect of men, for he is the lowest, most reprehensible abomination to tread upon the face of the Earth. I do wonder that he has not attempted to steal my knowledge of his true nature away from me along with the rest, but I suspect that he harbours the belief that he has so utterly defeated me that it does not matter what I know—he supposes that there is nothing I can do now which would interfere with his purposes. There, he has made a grave error in judgement, one which may prove every bit as disastrous for him as my own blunders have been to me.

I will attempt to relay the truth of my situation in as coherent a manner as I am able under these fraught circumstances, and so will resume where the last entry concluded. Had there been any question remaining to me of Moriarty’s intention, his actions that night made them plain. As I had feared, he knew who I was from the first but had invited me here all the same either as an amusing diversion for himself or—as I am inclined to suspect—to use me as an instrument of torture against the true object of his interest.

I have lost track of how much time has passed since I’ve arrived—the days and nights running together in their monotony. It has been akin to that nightmare in which you feel that there is some all-important thing for which you search—which you know is there, though it remains forever just beyond your reach. I was already perfectly convinced that Sherlock Holmes was hiding somewhere near, but where and why remained to be solved. The house was so large and so rambling that a regiment might be hid away in it and no one the wiser, its secrets so obscured that it was impossible to penetrate them. As more and more time passed without any sign of him, I felt a mounting sense of dread that I was approaching some impending moment which would make all further effort futile, though I must admit that I failed to suspect the true nature of the danger. More irony—I of all people ought to have known how a man’s story may be twisted against him.

My wanderings led me deeper and deeper into the depths of the castle, till at last I found a path which seemed to lead downward into the very heart of the Earth. I seized a torch from the wall and kept my other hand on my service pistol—the fact it has never left my person from the moment I arrived, that I brought it with me at all, would seem to serve as evidence that I was aware of some danger from the beginning. I did not know whether such a precaution would have any effect against my foe, but I had erred—in this respect alone—on the side of caution.

Holding the light before me, I began my descent. The air around me grew as cold and stale as the grave, till it was almost suffocating. I heard a pattering behind me, the scurrying of a rat, but still glanced back over my shoulder to ensure I was not being followed. To my dismay, I found that I could no longer see the light of the door above. After what seemed an age, the floor levelled off and I found myself in the castle dungeons.

Peering into the closest cell I was met by the sight of the withered eyes of a desiccated corpse staring back at me, his hand stretched out towards the pitcher just out of reach on the floor beside him. I started backward, my pulse hammering.

“Sherlock!” I hissed out. It was the first time I had hoped not to receive an answer, for I could not bear to imagine him in such a place. Of course it would be there that I at last found him; his quiet reply came not from one of the cells, but from the path behind me.

“John.”

I whirled about, brandishing my pistol on instinct knowing even as I did that my fear was unnecessary, for there could be no mistaking that voice. 

At the sight of him, I let out a cry of relief and closed the distance between us, wrapping my arms tight about his frame, crushing him to me. 

He did not return my embrace. Instead, his hands came up to my shoulders and pushed me back, extricating himself from my grasp. Examining him in confusion, I found to my distress that he was excessively thin—thinner even than in his portrait—with dark circles that spoke of many sleepless nights etched beneath his eyes. His posture was as rigid and careful as if he were treading barefoot over broken glass. 

He was in pain—I felt that agony as if it were my own.

Before I could utter a word, he interrupted me. “You need to leave, John. Now.”

“Yes,” I agreed. “Are you ready?”

“I cannot accompany you.”

“I will not go anywhere without you,” I vowed.

He shook his head in frustration. “If I remain I may yet be able to free society of any further effect of Moriarty’s influence. But I fear the cost…” His hand hovered in the air between us, as if he were unable to bring himself to touch me.

I caught his hand and held it to the side of my throat.

“I know the cost,” I answered, my voice steady and sure. “And if you imagine it is a burden I would ask you to bear alone, you do not know me at all.”

Before he could make any reply, a hand appeared on his shoulder, pulling him back to the boundary of the small circle of light cast by the torch where it lay on the ground beside us, his hand slipping from mine.

“Oh, he’s sweet isn’t he?” came Moriarty’s loathsome voice from the darkness—I could just make out the shadowy outline of his face as he stretched up onto his toes to murmur into Sherlock’s ear. “I see now why you like having him around. His loyalty is quite touching.”

Sherlock’s grey eyes flashed dangerously, though he did not pull away. “This matter remains between you and myself. Dr. Watson has nothing at all to do with it; I trust you have not failed to take that into consideration.”

Moriarty tutted in disapproval. “You’re the one who led your little pet here. Though perhaps the word livestock would be more apt. Do you imagine I can’t feel you trembling? I know that agony well, the irresistible craving gnawing through your veins—it will only get worse with time. I don’t know why you try to resist. He would gladly let you have him if you asked, wouldn’t you Dr. Watson?”

His smile twisted wider, his eyes never leaving Sherlock’s face.

I drew my gun, aiming it square between Moriarty’s eyes. “Step away from him.”

“Why?”

I clicked the chamber into place. “I think he finds your attention a shade annoying.”

Moriarty laughed. “Oh that’s not quite fair. I haven’t done anything to him for which he has not explicitly asked. Though you are welcome to try your weapon and give me the excuse for retribution—it’s been ages since I’ve had the opportunity to get my hands dirty.” 

“That wasn’t our agreement,” Sherlock insisted through his teeth.

“Ah, but you forget that Dr. Watson has a will of his own and is perfectly capable of making his own mistakes.” His dark eyes flashed to mine, mesmerising in the flickering light. “And what would you give in exchange for Sherlock’s freedom, I wonder?”

“Don’t answer that, John.” 

I ignored the imperative in favour of assessing how genuine Moriarty’s offer might be. “You would let him go so easily?” 

“Oh, I never said it would be easy,” was his melodious reply; his head beginning to take up that characteristic sway.

I did not hesitate. “Anything.”

“How predictable.” He moved then with unnatural speed; one moment he stood behind Sherlock, the next I was off the ground, my back hitting the wall, my feet kicking against the stone as Moriarty held me in the air with a single hand wrapped around my throat. I clawed at it, fighting for breath.

“So, Sherlock,” Moriarty said, raising his voice to be made out over my ineffectual struggling. “Shall I give Dr. Watson the heroic death he’s all but begged me for or would you care to renegotiate?”

Sherlock lunged for Moriarty’s throat, but Moriarty batted him away with a sweep of his free hand. Sherlock fell to the stone floor with a resounding crash—I flinched at the snap of bone breaking. Moriarty’s grin was devilish as he gazed down and the crumpled form at his feet. 

“Oh, think you’re so strong now, do you? Not with me, I’m afraid.”

Spots had begun to form before my eyes, a dull ringing sounding in my ears. Moriarty lifted me higher still, revelling in my helplessness. “Just one twitch of the fingers to snap that little soldier’s neck…” 

Contrary to his words, his grip eased off my windpipe. I sucked in one ragged breath before he again cut off my airflow. 

“...That would be too easy. I think I’d prefer to draw this out, much more fun that way. Unless you have any objections.”

“Let him go,” Sherlock pleaded, the sharp lines of his face drawn in anguish.

“I could, if you agree to give me what I want in return.”

A lengthy silence followed. When my awareness began to slip away from me once more, Moriarty allowed me another lungful of air, keeping me conscious with unerring precision. 

“What’s it to be, man of reason?” Moriarty asked, his voice as pleasant as if he had been asking Sherlock how he took his tea. “Alive or dead?”

The hand at my throat loosened its grip again—this time the relief lasting only a fraction of a second. The strangled gasping sound I emitted as a result echoed off the stone walls.

“Alive!” Sherlock begged, his voice low and ragged. “Do what you like with me so long as John leaves unharmed.”

My stomach turned with revulsion at Moriarty’s answering sneer of triumph. His hand left my throat in the same instant and I slid down the wall, scrambling to land on my feet.

“No,” I choked out as soon as I had enough air to speak.

“Too late,” Moriarty answered. He turned his eyes back to mine, their inky depths drawing me in with irresistible force. “Don’t be afraid—I’m a man of my word. You are in no danger, and I promise you this will all be over soon. Do try not to struggle too much in the meantime, spoils it for both of us.” 

He was leaning against me then, crowding me against the wall. I felt the briefest brush of his cold lips against my throat before I was consumed by a tearing agony. A thick, black cloud swirled before my eyes within which it seemed to me lurked all that was monstrous and inconceivably wicked in the universe. Vague shapes swirled and swam amid the dark cloud-bank and a freezing horror took possession of me. I tried to scream and was vaguely aware of some hoarse croak which was my own voice, but distant and detached from myself. 

My eyes whirled about wildly as I tried to meet Sherlock’s gaze, but I could no longer see him. The turmoil raged in my mind till it was too much for me to bear and at last I was overcome. Unconsciousness brought no relief—even when the nightmares abated, there remained a terrible aching in my head, a dull lethargy in my limbs and the lingering impression of Moriarty’s touch on my throat, in my veins, in my mind, round my soul.

My clothes clung to my damp skin when I awoke; my throat felt dry as bone and I was ravenously hungry. I strained to bring my surroundings into focus and found that I was laying not in my bed, but on the fur rug in the dining hall, shivering in spite of my proximity to the blazing fire. I felt a moment of total disorientation, unable at first to recall why I was there, till a cool hand touched my shoulder.

“Ah, Johnny, there you are,” the monster whispered, soft and delicate as a lover’s sigh. “Thought we’d lost you.”

I recoiled—the remembrance of what had transpired returning to me in a rush. I attempted to pull myself to my feet, but even raising my head caused the room to spin around me. I automatically catalogued my symptoms and knew they were typical for someone who had suffered significant blood loss. I brought a hand to my throat, and let out a small cry of horror when I felt the gash where his teeth had torn into me.

“No, no,” he soothed.  “You’re alright now, perfectly safe. I think you were having a nightmare. To be expected, the fever you’ve been running. I’m just glad I found you before you injured yourself more seriously.”

“Where is he?” I demanded.

“Who?” Moriarty asked, his face a perfect mask of innocence.

“Sherlock.” 

I managed to bring myself to a sitting position and dragged myself away from him, closer to the fire. I saw my gun lying on the floor beside me and snatched it up. I knew it was pointless—he wouldn’t have left it for me if it posed any real threat to him, but having the familiar weight of it in my hand brought me some comfort.

“Sherlock Holmes? Oh, I imagine he’s where he always is—hanging in the landing. You’re welcome to go and see for yourself. Though you may want to wait a few minutes first, you seem rather… drained.” He smiled. “Come. I have your dinner ready for you, you’ll need to eat to regain your strength.”

I would not be distracted. “What have you done to him?” 

“Johnny, you have become so obsessed with that painting.” He held up the book which had been laying open in his lap—my diary. He licked his index finger and began flipping through the pages. “I suppose it’s natural, in a way. It is quite a fine piece, and some people are predisposed to developing an idée fixe. Yet some of these descriptions you’ve written might lead one to conclude that your obsession has taken a most unnatural turn.”

He looked up at me with evident glee, causing an impotent rage to swell within me. I struggled again to rise to my feet. He took pity on me, effortlessly dragging me to my feet before setting me in my usual dining chair, his own pulled close to mine. 

 “Do be careful, Johnny. I need to see you home safely. I’ve given my word.” 

The burst of laughter that escaped me then bordered on hysterical. Seeing the futility in continuing to ask about Sherlock, I tried a different, more trivial question in the hope that it might distract him enough that he might give me some clue to go on. 

“Why do you keep calling me that? No one calls me Johnny.”

His dark eyes sparkled with delight and I knew I had landed upon the wrong question—the one he had wanted me to ask. “No one?”

I thought of a long, cool hand wrapping around mine, his lips pressed fervently to my ear as he whispered some secret to me in the cover of night, of the brilliant eyes I knew better than my own. The pounding in my head intensified as I called these memories to mind and I did not yet comprehend why. My thoughts turned sluggish but I pressed on. John, he had always called me when we were alone— my John.

“No one.” 

His grin widened and I could not contain my shudder at the sight of his teeth as he set down the goblet he had been holding.

“You don’t drink,” I said.

“Wine,” he corrected as he reached into his breast pocket. He pulled out a little folded case and set it on the table before me next to my plate, opening the little doors to reveal a small photograph of a young woman—pretty and blonde with kind blue eyes.

“Company for you, while you recover.”

“Who is she?”

“Don’t you recognize her?”

“Why would I?” 

Moriarty regarded me with exaggerated concern as he placed a hand on my shoulder. “Johnny, I took this from your room. This is your fiancée, Mary Morstan.”

“I don’t have a fiancée.”

My hand flew up to my mouth to smother the fatal words an instant too late, but I rationalised to myself that it did not matter now what I told him, for it was evident that he had known the truth long before I set foot in this place. 

The throbbing behind my temples had grown almost unbearable and I rubbed my hand over my forehead in an attempt to quell it as Moriarty’s dark eyes bored deep into mine, his nails lightly digging into my flesh. 

“Concentrate for me, Johnny. You remember Mary.”

For one blinding instant, the pain seared white hot as a branding iron. When it receded, I was sickened to discover that he had spoken the truth. Where an instant before there had been the clear memory of Sherlock Holmes, those thoughts shimmered away like a mirage, in their place the woman in the photograph.

“No!” I protested, finding the strength at last to get to my feet. “There is no Mary Morstan. You know that perfectly well, I invented her so that I could—”

The words faded away as I realised I could no longer remember why I had come here, the plans that had been forged in secret—the solemn oaths I had taken. 

Moriarty’s head tilted to the side as he relished in my distress. “You’ll want to be more careful than that, Johnny. You are lucky that I have spent many years on this continent—I pride myself on having a rather broad palette. But if you go back to England and begin telling people that you created a fiancée for yourself in order to express your affections for another man…” He arched a single eyebrow. “You could get arrested for less than that." 

I lunged at him, my hands making it to his throat—I may as well have beat against a stone wall for all the good it did. His cold hands locked around mine and with a patient sigh he set me back in my chair. 

“Now, now. I know this is all coming as a shock to you, but do try to be reasonable. I think we can call this little arrangement of ours complete. I’ve responded to Miss Morstan’s latest letter, asking her to come here to collect you at her earliest convenience. If my estimations are correct—and I am rarely wrong—she should be here no later than the twenty-ninth.”

“The twenty-ninth?”

“As good a day as any, Johnny.”

“But,” I protested, “how can you have written to her when I tell you that she does not exist?”

“I suppose you will just have to wait to find out. Of course, you are free to leave now—you may yet meet her on the way. Whatever your decision, rest assured that I will compensate you for your efforts, as we have agreed. I will be sending you some small trivial matters to publish as you see fit while continuing to pay you what I daresay is a very generous retainer. You should be happy, Johnny, you’ve gotten everything you hoped for.”  

He drained the rest of the goblet, his tongue running across the seam of his mouth to catch the last traces of blood—I wondered whether it was mine or Sherlock’s.

“And if I stay?” I asked with considerable bitterness.

“You are more than welcome, though I would suggest you try to forget this interest in Sherlock Holmes. It’s not good for you, Johnny, and if I may speak to you as one storyteller to another, the entire business is terribly unoriginal. A fair youth locked in a castle? Doesn’t that remind you of something you’ve heard before a thousand times? There may be nothing new under the sun, but that is perhaps the most derivative narrative I have come across. Now come, eat.”

But his wicked grin as he pushed the food towards me aroused my suspicion. It must have shown on my face, for he laughed. 

“This isn’t a Shakespearean tragedy. I haven’t cooked a baby into the stew. Use your reason, Johnny. If I had such a delicacy, would I really share it with you?”

“Monster,” I spat out.

“I do think they will say so. But I have been more than fair in my dealings with you. You would do well to remember that.” He stood to his feet and headed towards the door. “Enjoy your supper. I will see you again tomorrow evening if you decide to stay.”

“I cannot leave,” I said with a hard laugh. “I swear to you, I shall never abandon my efforts to save him, and I shall certainly not allow myself to be intimidated or persuaded by anything which you may say or do.”

“I know,” Moriarty answered with a slow shake of his head. “It seems a pity, but I’ve done what I could. Mary will set you right when she arrives, you’ll see.”

The door swung shut behind him with the resounding thud of a stone sealing over a tomb. As soon as I was alone, I took up my pen to write these words while it remained yet in my power to do so. And so it is that I find myself enfeebled and trapped, and yet in spite of these dire circumstances I feel a defiant swell of triumph—for I know now that in one respect, this diary has proven a resounding success. It is clear to me that James Moriarty does not consider me a threat, and as a consequence, I believe he has told me all I need to know.

Chapter Text

I am inclined to think that if there were some supernatural force—be he good or evil—who had set his mind to punishing me for my many indiscretions, he could hardly do better than to replicate my present circumstances. I believe that I am one of the most long-suffering of mortals, but this exceeds all limits of endurance. To have succeeded in the one goal which mattered to me and with that victory to have brought all else into question—I fear that I have escaped the devil only to plunge myself headfirst into the sea.

This account, which I believed intended for subterfuge, has become my last, best hope of saving myself. I’ve endeavoured to draw my conclusions from it, attempting to surmise the character of the man who wrote those words. I can find evidence of either the naive fantasist or the conniving schemer, but both cannot be true. The rest of the facts laid before me would seem to support only one conclusion, but to accept this would be unendurable. I tell myself that it is not for my sake alone that I yet hope there may be some elaborate deception at play—more lives than mine have been torn asunder. Yet it is this, the unquestioning devotion that even now compels me to trust a man who insists upon his own unscrupulousness, that most unsettles me. To accept his words as truth would be to admit that the foundations of my soul are built upon nothing but shifting air.

As I had feared, the conviction I felt when I wrote my last entry was passing away. Every minute seemed to steal with it more of the memories of that past to which I clung, till it seemed more like a story I had once heard than a life I had ever lived. This progressive erosion filled me with urgency but I forced myself to have caution, to wait, to prepare, knowing I would need my strength for the journey ahead of me if all went well. I ate—my appetite flaring to life at the first taste of red meat—and attempted to snatch a few hours of sleep there in the dining hall. 

I woke feeling somewhat refreshed, but yet more severed from the events of mere hours prior. I fought to hold onto the most vivid of the details—the expression on Sherlock Holmes’ face as he laid on the cold stone watching the life being squeezed out of me inch by inch, the grim resolution in his eyes as he pledged his life in place of mine. The unspeakable horror which these images inspired within me—the impossibility of allowing him to suffer in my stead—was sufficient to sustain me. 

As I made the long, winding climb up the castle’s highest turret, I called to mind all my previous interactions with Moriarty—the wicked glee which had radiated from him when he first led me past Sherlock Holmes’ portrait, his most recent reassurance that I would find him hanging there still. How many times had I wandered those halls, sure I was at last on the path to the room above mine, only to be met again with that most ostentatious of taunts? Again and again I was faced with the likeness of the man kept ever out of my reach.

The conclusion now seemed inescapable. I berated myself for not having considered it sooner but I had never dreamed my adversary would do something so obvious. It was an insult that he had expected that such a farcical ruse would deceive me, worse still that it had worked for any length of time. That portrait, the rendering of that man so dear to us both, stood guard at his door, the barrier of imitation which must be surpassed to reach the living truth.

So I reasoned must be the case as I made my way, and yet when I at last stood again before that painting with my pulse hammering in my ears, I hesitated. My eyes traced over the familiar lines of the face I knew so well, and found with a wave of horror that even that was fading away from me. I could no longer remember how his eyes creased when he smiled, only this thoughtful indifference and the agony and horror of my nightmares. For a brief moment I was forced to consider what I would do if Moriarty had told me the truth, if all the rest existed only in my imagination. I brought my hand up to my throat drawing reassurance from the only evidence that that which I hoped for and feared in equal measure had any foundation in reality.

I hefted the frame off its hangings, resting it against the opposite wall. I mustered my courage and turned back to look at the bare wall, feeling that if I was proven wrong in that instant I would be forever lost. 

My heart sank within me at the sight of the smooth stone where the painting had hung. I ran my hand over the surface, not wanting to believe the evidence of my eyes. Finding it to be real, I slumped against the wall, letting out a defeated groan. 

It was just as well that I did, for my weight caused the stones to give way, the false wall folding in on itself and revealing behind it a narrow hallway, dim but for the thin tall windows through which I could see the darkening sky.

Invigorated, I rushed on. The path ran parallel to the familiar slope up to my own room and I counted off the steps, anticipating the moment when they would level off, almost running in my eagerness as I followed the slanting beams of light till I was at last at the door I had so long sought, the only obstacle between myself and my salvation. I threw it open the instant it was within my reach.

Far from either the dismal cells of the dungeons or the more elaborate chamber of tortures I had feared, I found the room very much like my own. The windows were covered in thick drapes and the dim room was in an intense state of disarray. The four-poster bed had been shoved into the corner to make way for the large table in the middle of the room which bristled with retorts, test-tubes, and little Bunsen lamps with their blue flickering flames. The bright colours and noxious smells set my head pounding, as did the elusive sense that something about the scene was familiar to me.

My surroundings became irrelevant the instant I perceived I was not alone. Bending over the table sat a tall, thin man absorbed in his work. At the sound of my steps he glanced round, and sprang to his feet with a cry of delight.

“Excellent timing, Dr. Watson!” said Sherlock Holmes with a brilliant smile. Had he announced he had discovered a gold mine, greater delight could not have shone upon his features.

 I stared at him for some seconds in utter amazement. Then, to my chagrin, I found myself again on the verge of fainting; a grey mist swirled before my eyes and all the air seemed to have gone out of the room.

He rushed forward at once, stopping some few feet away from me but extending his left hand—which was wrapped in a thick white bandage—towards me with his palm up. His gaunt face was softened with compassion.

“You’ve not gone mad,” he reassured me in a low voice. “I am neither a dream nor a ghost. Touch and see—I’m flesh and blood, just like you.”

Hesitatingly, for I feared in spite of his assurance that he would vanish if I made too sudden a movement, I reached out to him, pausing an inch before our hands met. My eyes darted back up to his, seeking permission. He nodded once more with a gentle smile, and I closed the remaining distance.

When the tips of my fingers touched his, a jolt of electricity coursed through me, chasing away all my doubts. A relieved sob escaped my throat as I ran my hand up the length of his sinewy arm, luxuriating in the real and solid feel of him under my fingers.

“Sherlock! Thank God! I had nearly thought—”

My words trailed off as I became aware of his expression—he did not share in my relief, rather was regarding me with what appeared to be genuine pity.  

“I’m afraid, Dr. Watson, that there has been a slight misunderstanding,” he murmured, no longer able to meet my eyes.

“A misunderstanding?” I echoed.

“Yes, with regards to the degree of our acquaintance. The fault is mine. I was in dire need of assistance and so I solicited yours—rather more persuasively than I had intended.”

I laughed once, a small nervous sound which reminded me of the bleating of a helpless animal. “What on Earth are you talking about, Sherlock?” 

He eased his arm out from my grasp, crossing back to the table and perched himself atop it, fiddling with some wooden object he’d left laying on the surface. “I will explain the matter to you in its entirety, but you must allow me to do so in my own way, without interruption.”

“Alright,” I said, a renewed sense of dread beginning to overshadow me.

“I am aware you are at present disposed towards a misreading of what has occurred here; I shall endeavour to make plain to you both the true order of events and the means by which you have been so abominably misled.”

“Sherlock—” I began.

“Hush! No interruptions. Now, the facts are these,” he began in a cadence so familiar to me that in that instant I would have sworn against the penalty of death that I had heard him say those exact words a thousand times before. “Since you have arrived in this castle there has been a marked shift in your manner, habits, and disposition—apparent from both your physical state and the accounts of multiple witnesses, including yourself. While you made no reference to me when you arrived, you are now under the impression that you and I knew one another long before you came to this place. Finally, on the night you arrived here, an event took place which accounts for both of the previous discrepancies, but you do not yet comprehend its significance. That is to be expected, for there was no way you could have known at the time what had happened to you, but given what has since transpired, you must have begun to suspect it.”

His eyes pleaded with me to understand some hidden meaning in his words.

“I’m afraid I don’t follow.”

He sighed. “Let us approach the issue from another angle and see if I can lead you towards the correct conclusion by it. You’re a medical man, how do you account for your present physical and mental degradation?”

“I presume both are a result of Moriarty drinking my blood.” I thought I at last understood what he was attempting to tell me. “Has he done the same to you? Rewritten your memories?”

“Moriarty did not rewrite your memories,” Sherlock Holmes snapped, his lip curling up in disdain. “I did.”

It seemed to me that the very turn of the Earth halted its course at his words. “What?”

“The night you arrived here I came to your room. Do you remember?”

“Yes, of course I do—”

“And do you remember what I was doing before Moriarty found us?”

Again that moonlit scene seemed to hover before my eyes—the chill touch of his skin, the anticipation thrumming through my veins as the soft skin of his lips brushed against my throat.

Seeing the comprehension dawn on my features, he continued, his voice becoming more gentle still, as if he could somehow spare me from the impact of his words.

“The kiss of a vampire is an opiate. He possesses the ability to dispel all pain associated with the act of feeding, if he so desires. It is only the sadistic that relish the pain they inflict as they drink. Yes, you have reason to know that now,” he said, for I had again brought my hand up to my throat to pass over my wound. “That too is my fault. Moriarty meant to avert my plans by undoing the damage I had caused you. Please, believe me when I tell you that I intended you no harm—I only meant to convey the urgency of my plight and was rather… overcome by your proximity. As a result I was perhaps more heavy-handed in my efforts than was required and so…” His words, which had grown stilted, now trailed off altogether.

“You drank my blood?” My voice was thick with emotion.

“Yes,” he confessed.

“So what is it you’re telling me? That you… insinuated yourself into my mind somehow?”

“Yes, precisely.”

“But you’re wrong!” I protested. “I know you.”

“Do you?” His keen eyes flashed to mine. “Can you remember me? Clearly?”

To this I could say nothing.

“It is logical that in so intimate an act something of both parties would be transferred,” he allowed. “All the more because it was my express intent to make myself known to you.”

“Do you know me similarly?” 

He gave me a small, sad smile. “I do, yes. Though I did not need to drink your blood to know that you were just the sort of man I had long hoped might arrive—that if persuaded to take up a cause there would be no lengths you would not take to see it was successful.”

“Yes,” I agreed, some small spark of hope igniting in me at his words. “Yes, that's why I came here. I knew what Moriarty would do to you—I knew what had become of you the instant I saw you. I could not allow him to keep you prisoner forever.”

“Let us for a moment follow your version of events, in order that we might draw out the inconsistencies in your reasoning. If we had known one another as you believe and you were aware of what peril awaited me in this castle, would you ever have consented to let me come here alone? Or is it more likely that you would have insisted on remaining at my side, no matter the danger we might face?”

His argument caught me off guard, because his judgement of my character was correct—or I would have liked to believe it was—and yet it still struck me as somehow false. I strained once more to pierce through the veil which wrapped about my soul.

“I might have,” I said, but I could hear my own lack of resolve. “If the cause was just.”

“You give me too much credit. Even if I accepted the compliment for myself, I would never have permitted you to take such lengths on my behalf.”

“You would be mistaken in presuming to permit me to do anything.” 

“Quite so,” he said, his eyes creasing with affection. 

Paradoxically, it was this show of warmth which at last tipped the scales against me, for I could see in it the depth of his concern for me and there was nothing in his manner to suggest any sentiment resembling the crushing weight of devotion I felt for him. It was sobering to realise my affections for him might be unwelcome, the thought opening a gulf between us that I had no way to cross. With one small gesture, I lost all my will to persuade him.

Sherlock Holmes stood to his feet and approached me where I stood reeling from his words. He reached out and rested his hand upon my shoulder. I froze, internally recoiling at the profound effect such simple contact had upon me.

“I owe you a thousand apologies,” said the well-remembered voice, the familiar grey eyes creased with concern. “I had no idea you would be so affected.”

I had no answer. Shame burned hot within me, and I felt at once defiled and defiling. I wanted to step away from him, to shield him from the depth of emotion coursing through me, while my rational mind berated me for the perversity of that impulse—if his words were to be believed, he was the one who had injured me. Yet I was incapable of doubting him, even as he insisted that I must. 

It was a contradiction I could not hope to resolve. Instead I clung to the prospect of taking some useful action which might keep the sensations rioting through me at bay.

“You need my help?” 

“Yes.” He seemed to be as eager for another topic of conversation as I was. “I have been preparing for our escape. Experimenting, testing the limits of my capability.”

“Why?”

“Because I presume any weakness I possess is a trait I have inherited from my maker.” His face flushed and darkened, his brows drawing together while his eyes shone out from beneath them with a steely glimmer. “I cannot leave this place until Moriarty is destroyed. If I can ensure that eventuality, I will accept the rest.”

“How do you do it then? Kill a vampire?”

“I have been able to discover two potential methods. Only one of them I have been able to positively confirm—the other is more conditional and so remains inconclusive. However, this fact may prove advantageous to us.”

“How so?”

“You need not concern yourself with that. There is only one thing I need from you.”

“Name it,” I declared.

He opened his mouth to speak, but as I watched his eyes flitted somewhere over my shoulder and he stiffened. Then his arm was wrapped about my waist, pulling me with him as he sprang to the far wall, snatching down the thin curtain in the same lithe gesture, causing a shaft of light to enter the room, separating us from where Moriarty stood leaning against the wall.

“How—” I began.

Moriarty sighed. “If you imagine there are not ways of navigating my castle which have eluded your efforts, you are a greater fool than I supposed.”

“Yet even you have your limitations,” Sherlock Holmes remarked, stepping ahead of me.

Moriarty mirrored the movement, leaving a distance of some feet between them. “Limitations which you now share.”

They stood there in a sort of silent stalemate. My eyes flashed to the ground at their feet, to the bright rectangle light which was the only barrier between them. I realised that my companion had arranged this intentionally and had one of my own suspicions confirmed—Moriarty, out of habit or some actual imperative, would not step into direct sunlight.

“Your visit comes at an opportune moment,” said Sherlock Holmes. “For I wanted to have a few minutes' chat with you. You see, I’ve at last found the flaw in your game.”

“Oh?” Moriarty asked, interested but not at all concerned.

“Yes. I understand that your unique position is built upon the fact that all you have even undertaken has succeeded. You cannot afford a single failure, yet you’ve made it your aim to master something as capricious as a human soul.”

“Not human,” Moriarty corrected. “Not anymore.”

“Yes, that would seem to be an advantage for you, wouldn't it? I’m as durable as you are now. You can imprison me, torture me, do anything you like with me and I am sure to survive it.” He lifted the wooden object he had held all the while, directing the sharpened end of it so that it rested just above his own heart. “As long as I’m alive, you can still win. Well, I wish you the best of luck with that.”

“Sherlock,” I warned.

Moriarty rolled his eyes. “Oh come now, Sherlock. Don’t be so dramatic.”

“I’m sorry, Dr. Watson,” Sherlock Holmes said without turning to face me. “I had rather hoped that we would have more time.”

“No!” 

I stepped forward, reaching out to seize the stake from his hands. But it was too late.

Sherlock Holmes plunged the weapon through his heart. He stood there for a moment, grinning at Moriarty with cruel satisfaction, before his grey eyes flashed to mine. A rush of memories flitted through my mind in that instant, all of which slipped through my grasping thoughts like sand through a sieve, leaving behind them a profound sense of loss. 

Then the brilliant eyes slid closed, and Sherlock Holmes collapsed lifeless onto the ground.

“No!” I repeated, falling onto my knees at his side. I was distantly aware of Moriarty’s scream of fury, but all my thoughts centred on the man bleeding out before me. I tore out of my jacket, pressing it to his chest, but I could see that it was a useless effort. He was not breathing and I touched two fingers to his neck, there was no pulse.

The sheer weight of opposing facts one after the other was too great a strain for my mind to bear—Sherlock Holmes was real and he was a dream, I knew him and I had never known him, he was alive and he was dead. I found was incapable of believing he was dead as I had been of either of the former propositions, yet there he lay. Pressed to the breaking point, I snapped. 

With an inarticulate cry, I wrenched the stake out of Sherlock Holmes' chest and hurled myself at my enemy, aiming for his heart, imagining for a wild instant that this was the true purpose behind his drastic act—that I might accomplish what he could not. 

But such an ill-planned attempt could not hope to succeed. The point barely grazed Moriarty's chest before he knocked me away. My head cracked against the floor—my ears rang from the force of the impact as the stake clattered away from me to the far corner of the room. As Moriarty stalked closer, I berated myself for having wasted my one clear opening. But I did not allow my determination to find another means of bringing about his demise to show upon my features, knowing his false perception of my character to be my one remaining advantage.

I peered up at him, quaking with fear I did not feel. “Are you going to kill me now?”

“Of course I’m going to kill you.” He gathered me up and held me cradled against his chest as if I were a child. “That’s the trouble with mortals, you never see your obvious end coming.”

Chapter Text

I had never known a greater determination than the one that possessed me as I lay limp and helpless in Moriarty’s arms, spiralling higher up the tower still. The sense of impending danger joined together with my desperation to blot out what I had just witnessed to sharpen my senses and hone my mind to an acute point. I knew that if I was to succeed in destroying Moriarty, I needed to gain myself more time, and so I baited him with the opportunity to play the gloating victor.

“You took everything from me,” I accused in a whisper.

“Truth be told, Johnny, if you’re looking for the guilty party, you need only look in a mirror.” 

“Only because you have used my own lies against me.”

“Well, you took that risk, I suppose. It is always best not to commit anything to paper that has not been thoroughly considered. Everything you say has a way of getting used against you.”

I felt a small thrill of triumph. “You admit to it then?”

“To what would you like me to confess? That I have known about the business between you and Sherlock Holmes from the beginning? Of course I have. That I coveted him more than any mortal I have encountered in centuries—could you judge me for that when your own desire rivalled my own? That I have taunted you with this difference—that I had access to him and you did not? Who in my position could have done otherwise? But this lunatic fantasy of yours wherein you have cast yourself as some sort of knight errant on a noble quest to save his beloved?” He looked down on me then with haughty contempt. “I believe I told you when we met that there is no deception so ineluctable as a storyteller’s understanding of himself. You appear to have taken that statement as a direct challenge. And look at the result—the writer was so carried away by his own story that he imagined himself at the supreme moment to be the hero. I applaud your commitment if nothing else.”

“You also claimed that in your estimation, the best stories are founded in lies.”

“Well, of course. Truth is just a failure of the imagination. But it would appear that you and I are similar in that regard after all.”

“I am nothing like you,” I answered with unrestrained loathing.

“No need to be offended, it was intended as a compliment. I would never have had to take such extreme measures with Sherlock if it hadn’t been for your meddling. It’s such a waste—it’s taken me ages to find a man like him and here you wander in and get in the way of the entire affair the moment you arrive. One can’t help but wonder what it is that sets you apart from all the rest.”

His dark eyes met mine as if searching for some secret. 

“Ah, well,” he said at last. “There will be others. There are always others—that’s the gift of immortality. All that remains is to end this little chapter with a flourish.”

We had come to a final landing and Moriarty pushed open the door before us with his shoulder, stepping out onto the top of the castle's tallest spire. We emerged facing the darkening sky in the east. As I gazed out at the rolling hills and verdant forests lining the road that had led me there, I could not but wonder for a brief moment what might have happened had I never ventured down it.

Moriarty carefully wrapped his cloak around me then set me on the ground, using the fabric to roll me out of the patch of shade cast by the entryway so that I was laying in the warm light of the setting sun. It shone low and vibrant in the west, shimmering off the surface of the rushing stream above the cliff face before it plunged downward into the foaming depths below. 

Wanting to maintain the pretence that I was more badly injured than was true, I struggled into a sitting position and dragged myself along till I was propped up against the low stone wall. I glanced back over my shoulder down into the roiling water. The sound and churn of it—the sheer distance between myself and the surface—made me giddy. Jumping to my freedom was out of the question.

I returned my attention to Moriarty and raised my chin with what I hoped appeared to be false bravado. I knew he would not expect me to give up so easily, but my attempt had to look feeble, predictable. 

“How are you going to kill me then?” 

“I’m not,” he said. He sank to the floor with his legs crossed beneath him and folded his hands as a resting place for his chin, leaning toward me in his eagerness.

“But you just said—”

“You must learn not to take me so literally. We’re going to have a nice, reasonable chat, and then you are going to do me a great favour and kill yourself.”

I laughed in disbelief. “Why would I want to do that?”

“For Sherlock, of course. Now that he’s dead, what do you have to live for? You will live the rest of your life haunted by the knowledge that your actions led to the death of the best man you will ever know, and you barely knew him.”

“By your account I have a very promising life awaiting me on my return to London and have lost nothing.”

“Ah, but we both know that’s not true, is it?” His dark eyes glimmered. “Do something for me now, Johnny. Describe her to me.”

“Who?”

“Mary Morstan, of course,” he answered, taking up that hypnotic, reptilian movement of his head. “Can you anymore? I did what I could for you, but Sherlock had been quite thorough; I don’t think even my skill could sever those ties.”

“Nothing could,” I swore, then berated myself for having spoken without thought.

“No, I imagine not. Not so long as you insist on clinging to the ropes that are binding you. And why is it that you are so determined to remain loyal to him? It’s not for his sake—he’s dead after all. No, it isn’t love, this is some other sickness altogether. This is hope.”

“Hope?” I scoffed, then thought better of it, contorting my face with feigned despair. “What is there to hope for now?”

“Only this: that you may die as something, anything, other than what you truly are. As long as you believe your heart was bound by duty and devotion to that man growing cold on the floor beneath our feet, then you at least had the potential to be meaningful, if only in your relation to him. If, however, all of that amounts to a matter of nearness and expediency, if you came here for reasons you now consider abhorrent—to profit yourself and a woman whose face you can no longer remember—if worse still you did truly love her but still abandoned her the instant some more interesting opportunity came before you… Could you live with yourself, I wonder? If every breath you took was a betrayal of the woman you once loved and the man you once were?”

I could not but admire how efficient, how subtle he was in his craft. In spite of all my efforts to deceive him, he had cut through to the heart of my fears, playing upon all the nagging doubts lurking in my mind. Had I not been so blinded by hatred, his ploy might even have been successful. As it was, he had given me an opening.

I sat up, widening my eyes with desperation. “Spare me!” 

Moriarty laughed. “How? Tell me, how do I spare you, Johnny? I am not your torturer, nor will I be your executioner. I cannot save you from yourself.”

“You can.” I dragged myself to my knees, then began crawling back towards where he sat behind the stark line of shadow. “You can make me forget, make me myself again.”

His expression turned thoughtful. “I cannot, not if you don’t want me to.”

I tamped down the flicker of confusion his words inspired before it could distract me.

“I want you to,” I lied.

In one spry movement he stood to his feet so that I was now kneeling before him. “Swear it to me then. Give me your word. Everything that’s happened here—the man you are now, the man you might become, every last remaining fragment of Sherlock Holmes that you hold so dear. You want me to take all of that from you forever.”

“Please!” I begged, reaching into the darkness to grasp at his legs. 

“Swear,” he repeated.

I buried my face in his hip. “It’s a trick, isn’t it? You’re going to kill me anyway.”

“Look me in the eye, Johnny, and give me your word.” His voice had taken on the same singular mixture of indulgence and disdain with which he had addressed me in our first encounter.

“Professor Moriarty.” Using my grip on his clothes, I pulled myself up his frame, till I stood leaning on him with all my weight, my hands securely fisted into the shoulders of his shirt. “If you’ll do this for me, if you’ll let me live, then I give you my word that I…” As I met his eyes I let the mask fall away, my voice turning steely with resolve. “I will do everything in my power to defeat you.”

His answering smile almost seemed genuine. He reached up to cup my cheek in his hand. “That’s my Johnny.”

I felt his other hand creeping up the back of my neck. I did not know what he intended—to snap my spine or hold me in place so he could drain the life out of me himself—I did not wait to find out. I thrust my weight backward, locking my arms around his throat, bringing him with me into the light. 

Moriarty let out an inhuman scream, clawing into the air with his bony hands. His mouth was open, and for the instant he looked like some horrible bird of prey, an impression only strengthened when he braced himself then shoved hard off the ground, launching us into the air.

We hovered in the sky for one breathless instant locked in a violent embrace as the golden rays shone down on us. In a flash I had a glimpse of the real James Moriarty, a misshapen demon with a soul as distorted as his body. His cries intensified then fell silent and I was left with nothing but his clothes and the smell of ash. 

Alone, gravity took hold of me once more and I began to plummet headlong towards the whirling cauldron below. My work complete, I greeted the thought of my death with peace, even joy, hoping I might soon be reunited with Sherlock Holmes in whatever world might lay beyond this life.

As I fell, I saw out of the corner of my eye a dark shape clinging to the tower. It stirred, then took to the air, soaring in a path that would collide with my own. Such was the state of my mind in that moment that my first instinct was to believe it was the shrouded figure of Death himself coming to collect me. He caught me then in his lean arms, securing me against his tall frame. 

Though he had lept at me with considerable force, we had no chance of making it to the surface—our path would inevitably set us crashing into the waterfall. He seemed to realise this the same instant I did, twisting himself so that he would take the brunt of the impact. As we passed through the curtain of water, I could see nothing but inky darkness—the world shrinking to only that cloaked figure’s cool embrace and the roar of the water. An instant later, we landed on a thin ledge concealed beneath the canopy and I heard my companion give a low groan at the impact. The wiry arms released me as my rescuer slumped against the cliff, the velvet drape which he had wrapped about himself slipping off his shoulders to reveal his face.

“Sherlock!” I cried in relief. 

My joy was somewhat tempered by his appearance—the grey pallor of his skin, how heavily he sagged against the jagged rocks, worst of all the shocking amount of blood that had soaked through his white shirt where I could see it peaking out beneath his overcoat. He slumped further down, then collapsed to the Earth, the effort of saving me having drained him of all his remaining strength. 

I knelt beside him and was relieved to find him unconscious but breathing—his pulse racing and stuttering in turns.

In retrospect, I realise that I had a choice in that moment. Helpless before me was the man who, according to all reasonable facts and by his own admission, was the true perpetrator of much of what I had suffered. If he was to be believed, I owed him nothing, less than nothing. I could have left him there with a clear conscience, or else heaved him over the precipice and finished the matter once and for all. 

Is it an admission of virtue or of sin that neither idea occurred to me at the time? Already I was hoisting him up, draping his long frame over my back, securing his arms around my neck and wrapping my own about his thighs. I realise now this was the most foolish thing I could have done, for in that position his face—his mouth—was pressed against my throat. At the time I never even thought of the danger.

I stood to my feet and examined the rocky wall behind me. The surface was not entirely sheer– there were some small footholds, but the cliff was so high and the uneven surface so slick with water that to climb it would be impossible, and the landing where we had landed spanned some twenty feet before ending in an abrupt drop-off. However, there was another outcropping like it separated from us by a gap of several feet. I estimated I would be able to cross it at a running leap. Beyond it I could see a trail of similar ledges, making a precarious but clear path out from beneath the roaring falls.

It is unnecessary to recount the details of that perilous journey, other than to say that it was not a pleasant business. More than once, as the eroding stones threatened to give way beneath the combined weight of two men, I thought we were lost. At times it seemed to me that I could still hear Moriarty screaming at me from the depths of that inky abyss. But I struggled onward round the curve of the valley till at last we reached a ledge which rejoined solid ground. I rushed forward and deposited myself and Sherlock Holmes on the soft moss with a sigh of relief. 

The sun had sunk behind the trees, painting the western sky a blazing scarlet but no longer posing any danger to my companion—though I had some small concerns about making my way in the dark, knowing I would need to find us shelter by daybreak. I instinctively rejected the most obvious option—even with its inhabitant destroyed I had no intention of setting foot in that wretched castle again.

I set about making an inventory of the tools and my disposal: I had my revolver still tucked into my trousers, along with the contents of my pockets—a watch, a pen knife, a folding mirror, a box of cigarettes with a box of matches, and my coin purse. I was somewhat bereft for having discarded my jacket and I cursed myself for having been so careless—though I could scarcely have done otherwise in the circumstances—when I happened to see an odd lump at my companion’s side. Inspecting it, I found that he had bundled my jacket into the inner lining of his own travelling coat. 

The corners of my mouth pulled up in a small smile as my eyes rose to the smooth lines of his unconscious face. From the folded garment, I recovered a pencil case, some of my papers which included both a pocket almanack and this diary, and—my true goal—the emergency medical kit I kept tucked in the inner pocket. With my tools in hand, I thought it best to utilise what little daylight I had remaining in treating my friend’s injuries. I hesitated a moment before unbuttoning his shirt—thinking of preserving his modesty—but the sight that awaited me had me fighting the impulse to avert my gaze for another reason altogether. 

It was what one might expect to find when one’s patient had driven a large wooden spike through his chest. The exception was that the punctured heart I could see through the layers of muscle and sinew still throbbed in an uneven rhythm. I had by necessity developed a strong stomach in my tenure as an army surgeon, but this rivalled the worst of the injuries I had seen even on the battlefield.

I did what I could for him, wondering all the while whether any of my efforts would make a difference for, by all accounts, he ought to have been dead already. In spite of my doubts, I was as thorough as I would have been with any other patient, disinfecting the wound with brandy before meticulously stitching together the mess of organ and tissue. It was a slow, painstaking process. I was grateful that he remained unconscious throughout, for, save the brandy, I had no means of dulling his pain, and did not know whether such a method would even prove effective for him. 

I was less than pleased with the final result. There had been too much of him missing to begin with and the skin above where I had patched him together dipped inward, showing the absence. However, with the puncture closed, his breath seemed to come to him more easily, steadying and deepening even as I watched. He remained grey in colouring, which was to be expected with the amount of blood he had lost. I thought of trying to resolve this—while I had not the tools necessary to perform a transfusion, such elaborate measures were not strictly necessary for my unique patient. But my companion showed no signs of waking and I judged it would be both ill-advised and ill-mannered to attempt to feed him without his consent—he had, after all, extended me the same courtesy.

Having done all I could, I gathered my belongings and hefted Sherlock Holmes once more onto my back. Scanning the lay of the land, I was relieved to discover that I remembered my way through this part of the country from the maps I had studied before I had embarked on my ill-starred voyage. I knew that if I followed the river away from the castle, it would eventually cross a railway line. I wondered that this knowledge remained intact but reasoned that Moriarty had never been attempting to thwart my escape—in fact he would have been only too happy for me to leave.

Fashioning a makeshift torch from a thick fallen branch and a strip of my undershirt, I made my way through the gnarled trees, using the constant rushing of the falls as a sort of compass—the terrain so winding and uneven that it necessitated a rather indirect path; it seemed to me hours had passed when we at last rejoined the stream. 

Emerging from the cover of the trees, I could just make out the dark, twisted shape of the castle which had been the scene of so many horrors by the silver light of the moon. The sight of that terrible place from a distance brought to my mind the carriage ride that had led me there, and with it Moriarty’s accusation that I was no longer the man who had first arrived. If that statement was true, I thought the fact that I had survived such an ordeal served as evidence that any transformation I had undergone could not have been entirely for ill. Still, I could not but wonder who it was I might have once been.

Having nothing else to do as I trekked along the river, I made a concerted effort to solve this mystery of myself, searching for consistencies in the gaps in my memory that might indicate some underlying pattern in what had been stolen from me. My childhood remained clear as day, as did my medical studies. The trouble appeared to begin after the war—I thought that the months I had spent suspended on the brink of death in India had always seemed indistinct to my recollections, but it was after that point that certain essential details—who I associated with outside of my alleged work with Sigerson, my interests, my own address—were conspicuously absent. It was rather like reading a book that had been too long submerged in water, the ink blurring in places, having been washed away altogether in others.

So engrossed was I in my thoughts that I lost track of the hours and miles disappearing beneath my feet. Eventually, we arrived to the place where a small stone bridge arced over the river, the rail line running above it. From there, I made my way northwest from there towards what I knew to be the closest station, but this proved to be an unnecessary precaution. The train moved slowly in that part of the country, and it was an easy matter to grab onto the steel ladder and climb aboard. Inside, I had the good fortune to stumble across an attendant who spoke English. I painted him a tragic story of a near fatal accident to explain my companion’s injuries, and begged that he let us stay, giving him fare enough to have covered three private cabins rather than the one I requested.

And so it was by the time the sky had begun to lighten with the first hints of dawn, Sherlock Holmes and I were situated opposite each other in a first-class carriage, the curtains securely shut. 

I checked his pulse out of medical habit when I laid him down on the suspended mattress, but the rhythm of his heart was so erratic that I could glean nothing of his condition. Full of restless energy and having nothing else productive to do, I began to record these most recent events. As I have sat here, he has stirred only once. I had been hunched over the surface of the folding table, lost in the outpouring of words, when I heard a sharp groan from the other side of the cabin and looked up with some alarm.

Sherlock Holmes peered back at me, his face tight with pain.

“Was it you or Moriarty who removed the stake from my heart?” he asked in a ragged whisper.

“That was my doing,” I answered with some chagrin. “Apologies, I don’t know what came over me.”

“No. Thank you. I don’t know whether I would have been able to get myself back onto my feet as quickly as the situation demanded if you hadn’t.”

My curiosity was roused, and I would have asked then whether he had known he was going to survive his suicide when he had attempted it, but I could see that his awareness was already beginning to fade.

His dreamy eyes scanned over our surroundings. “The eastbound line towards Port Constanța?”

“Yes.”

“You did remarkably well,” he murmured. “I knew you were capable, but I never intended for you to have gotten us so far on your own. In truth, I half expected to wake up to find myself alone under those dreadful falls.”

He gave me an apologetic smile.

“You saved my life,” I reminded him.

“It was the very least I could do.”

“Likewise.”

He was quiet for some time. His eyes slid shut and I wondered whether he had fallen back to sleep. 

“No,” he said at last. “Far from the least. Thank you.”

When I glanced over at him again, there was a small smile playing on his lips. 

“My pleasure,” I answered, taking up my pen once more.

Chapter Text

Sherlock Holmes– His Limits

Holmes is a man of peculiar habits. Had his manner not been so contrasted by the sole other member of his kind, I might have assumed his idiosyncrasies to be traits inherent to his nature. Some of them doubtless are. He does not eat, for instance. When— at my urging—he attempted some of the breakfast provided by the train, after a single bite he wrinkled his nose and declared that it was “entirely devoid of flavour,” before pushing the plate away. This may not have been the most reliable test—I myself found the fare quite bland. Still, he does not seem to need that manner of nourishment. On the other hand, when the waiter stepped back into the carriage to collect the two trays, I watched as my companion’s eyes slid over the man with an expression of clear interest which set my nerves on edge.

When we were alone he answered my unspoken question before I could utter it.

“He was in no danger from me,” he said with a serene expression which did more to calm my agitation than his words. “You may trust I would have already requested that you devise some manner of restraining me had I any concerns in that regard.”

“Then why—”

“It was an absence and not a presence which caught my attention. I am still coming to know myself and there are patterns I did not anticipate.”

He curled his legs up on the seat beneath him, leaning his head back against the headrest as his eyes slid closed. I would have come to the conclusion that he had nodded off had it not been for the occasional movement of his lips.

This, I would come to discover, was a common occurrence. The first time he came out of one of these trances and continued as if he were resuming the conversation moments later, I asked whether he was aware that in actuality some hours had passed since he had last spoken—I could not help but to laugh at the puzzled expression he gave in answer. A warm glow of familiarity suffused through my chest, setting my head pounding in turn. Whether I knew this detail from prior experience or from the unusual circumstances of our first meeting, it would seem this habit was unique to his personality.

In the same way, I knew before I had any apparent cause for the knowledge that his powers of perception had been refined to an extraordinary degree, a tool which he could wield with all the skill and delicacy of a surgical instrument. He often seems to know the turn of my thoughts before I speak them, which might be expected—if such a thing could ever be anticipated—by the nature of our acquaintance, but he is able to read every person he encounters with as little effort, grasping their entire life’s story with a single glance. And yet he will downplay this capability at every available turn.

One afternoon he mentioned to me how he wished our new attendant had been able to remain at home to tend to his sick daughter and asked if I happened to know anything about the treatment of scarlet fever.

“A combination of bloodletting and transfusion,” I rattled off before my brows pulled together.  “How on Earth did you know that?”

There was a gleam of amusement in those piercing eyes. “Have I amazed you?”

“You have.” 

The corners of his mouth turned up as he tilted his head back, closing his eyes and humming in satisfaction. “Allow me to savour that for a moment. After I’ve explained it you will say that the manner in which I obtained the knowledge was absurdly simple.”

“I will say no such thing.”

“We will see,” he answered with an air of mischief. “Did you make no observations yourself?”

“The dark circles beneath his eyes suggest some degree of weariness?” I offered.

“Yes, but there is no clue as to the source of his exhaustion there. There were countless other signs one might have observed, the size and shape of the wrinkle in his collar, where some small hand routinely fists around it, the little paper flower tucked into his trouser pocket. But I confess, the most telling bit of evidence was the conversation I overheard him having with the conductor earlier this morning.”

“You mean you were eavesdropping?”

“It could not be helped.” He raised his eyes heavenward in a dramatic fashion. “You would not believe how all the voices on this train clamour over one another demanding my attention. It is agony.”

I laughed. “You are right, that was quite simple. Impressive all the same. Shall I follow after him and see if he needs assistance?”

Holmes shook his head. “He will pass back this way after his rounds, you can catch him then. I would rather you remain here, if it is all the same to you.”

“Of course,” I agreed at once. “Do you require assistance?”

“Not as such, merely your presence will suffice at present. Thank you. I think you will be fascinated to hear though that while the woman in the compartment next to ours is believed to be on a visit to her sick mother, she is in fact travelling to reunite with the long lost love of her youth. It would seem that they were separated by a rather ironic twist of fate—”

Holmes is not an easy man to draw out, though he can be communicative enough when the fancy seizes him. Indeed, he is at times quite the brilliant conversationalist; I have never known anyone so charming in all my life.

When, after much trepidation, I inquired as to the progress of his recovery, I was relieved that he readily consented to an examination. I remained concerned that my patchwork attempt at surgery had done more harm than good, though he was in good spirits for a man who had recently been dead, however briefly. His eyes slid over to the door to our carriage before he began unfastening the buttons of his shirt then shrugged himself out of it, raising his undershirt above his head.

It was a shocking sight. Had I not seen the injury myself—fashioned those stitches with my own hands—I would never have believed the wound was as fresh as I knew it to be. Such progress would have taken weeks for a mortal man. This astonishing rapidity of his recovery was somewhat counterbalanced by the fact that the skin of his chest remained inflamed—the wound itself having turned a vivid maroon. Of greater concern, using my stethoscope I found the beating of his heart remained quite irregular.

“Well, Doctor, what is your verdict?” he asked as I removed the instrument from his skin.

“I believe this is beyond my capabilities. My professional assessment is at odds with the fact that you are presently both alive and conscious. I suppose we will have to take that as a good sign and pray the miracle continues.” 

“There is nothing miraculous about it. Indeed, one might argue it is the opposite—a lower rather than a higher power at work.”

“Did you know then?” I kept my gaze lowered as I set about trying to cool the skin on his chest with a damp cloth, tempering my own curiosity, prepared to offer some other subject should my questions prove unwelcome to him, but he did not appear to mind. 

He leaned his head back against the seat, his eyes sliding closed as I continued my ministrations. “I did not know for certain, no, but as I told you before, I had made some prior investigations which seemed to indicate that my survival would be the most probable outcome.”

“What sort of investigations?”

In answer, he began to unwind the bandage still wrapped around his left hand. The white cloth was stained rust closer to the surface of his skin.  He discarded the fabric on the seat beside him, then held out his palm, running the index finger of his other hand over the smooth surface. 

“There, you see? Good as new.” 

“You’ve been injuring yourself?” I demanded, snatching his palm and turning it over to verify for myself that there was no lasting damage—I could not even see a scar.

“A necessary evil,” he assured me. “Believe me, after this last attempt, I have no intention of a repeat performance. I do regret that there was not more time for me to warn you what was going to happen—I understand given the circumstances my apparent death may have been distressing for you to witness. Though I believe it may have proven a fortuitous turn of affairs; you may not have been quite so convincing as you needed to be had you been aware of my plans.”

I rankled at that.  “Let us assume in the future that I am equally capable of subterfuge as you may be.”

He chuckled once. “You certainly seem to think so.”

“You disagree?”

“If I do, it is not to insult to your own powers of deception, which I am sure are formidable, but rather as a reflection of the depths of depravity I know myself to possess.” His tone had turned biting, but he seemed to regain command of himself, directing another smile at me. “However, as I said, deceiving you was not my intention and it is all behind us now. All that remains now is to allow time to do its work.”

“How long did it take for your hand to heal?”

“Nine hours.”

“Nine hours?!” I repeated, my voice rising an octave in my astonishment, before fear took its place. “Why is this taking so much longer?”

“Well, there were multiple vital organs involved this time round, it seems only natural that the healing process would be somewhat more complex. Or perhaps I had already exhausted some of my body’s natural stores of energy in the rehearsals. Not to worry, I shall just have to take some care not to overexert myself until I have recovered.”

I watched his long, dexterous fingers doing up the buttons of his shirt as I gathered my courage.

“Is there anything else I might do to assist you?” I asked, my voice low and laden with meaning.

“That would make quite a scene for the staff to walk in on, wouldn’t it?” He scoffed and turned to look out the window. His hands curled into tight fists in his lap, the veins straining out from the flesh. I thought perhaps I had offended him and was prepared to make some apology, but when he spoke again his tone was gentle. “As much as I appreciate your generous offer, you have done quite enough already, Dr. Watson.”

“Are you certain?”

“Perfectly.” 

I could see from the strain in the line of his neck that pressing him on this would be unwise. I filed this observation away and let the silence fall between us once more. 

I woke the following morning to find my companion staring at me with some expectancy. As soon as he saw that I was awake, he asked whether I would care to take a walk with him at the next station.

“Is that possible?”

He sprung to his feet and held his hands out as if in demonstration. “I am feeling much recovered; I think a bit of exercise would do me good.”

“I was alluding to the time of day,” I retorted, rubbing my eyes and peeking out through the small gap in the curtain. It was a pleasant spring morning, the light rain casting our idyllic surroundings in a serene hush.

“It is overcast this morning, is it not?”

“Does that make a difference?”

“I believe it may.”

I recoiled from the prospect of witnessing another of his experiments, particularly with so visceral a memory of what had happened to the last vampire I had brought into the sunlight seared into my consciousness. He knew this, for I had already described to him some of what had transpired up on the roof.

“Holmes—”

He held up a finger. “If you determine, like a sensible man, to give up your part in the affair, I am willing to go alone.”

That would not do at all. “Of course, I will remain with you.”

He gave me another of his enchanting smiles. “You’ll see it out, will you? I thought I knew my Watson.”

I was unable to contain the emotion this declaration stirred within me and as a consequence he seemed to regret his words no sooner than he had uttered them.

We made our way down the cramped hall in silence, and I felt a surge of mingled pride and joy when he looped his arm through mine as we waited our turn to pass out onto the platform. I clapped my hand over his arm and affected a breezy confidence that I did not feel, still half expecting him to vanish into dust beside me as we passed through the little doorway into the grey morning.

I was overjoyed when our feet touched the ground and I heard beside me his triumphant exclamation of “Ha!”

I peered sideways at him as his arm tightened around mine. “Satisfied?”

“Delighted,” he answered with a brilliant smile. “I had been dreading the prospect of remaining confined to perpetual night. With one small step, I have just doubled my options.”

“When the weather is right,” I qualified.

“It is fortunate then that the weather in England is so reliably dismal.”

This caught my attention. I proceeded forth with care as we strolled down the quiet country lane. “You are from England then?”

“Surely my accent could have told you that much.”

“Under ordinary circumstances, it might have. Given that these are not ordinary circumstances, I wondered whether you had… acquired it through unconventional means.”

He tensed beside me—as I had expected, given his prior reactions to this subject—but he kept his tone light. “A fair conjecture, I suppose. I did not think my personal history would be of much interest to you else I would have cleared up the matter sooner.”

To this I could make no reply, for I knew him to be lying to spare my dignity. What could be of more interest to me than his past? Only his future.

“Will you return to London then?”

“I never said I was from London.” 

He hadn’t—I had assumed. “Are you not?”

His eyes fixed themselves on some point out on the horizon as he sighed. “I had rather hoped to avoid this.” 

All at once, my resolve wavered and I found myself retreating. “If I’ve overstepped—”

“Good God, man!” Sherlock Holmes exclaimed, wrenching himself away from me. “If you make any further attempt at reshaping yourself to better accommodate my wishes, you will be at risk of shattering.”

 I opened my mouth to correct my mistake but Holmes wheeled around to face me, his eyes sparking like flint as they flashed to mine.

“Do not think of apologising to me, I cannot bear it.”

I waited a moment for his temper to subside, then answered with steady calm. “Alright. I confess, I am curious. Perhaps I even feel that I am owed some explanation from you after what has transpired. But I do not insist upon it because I understand that my sentiments in this regard—”

“Your sentiments,” he echoed with evident disbelief. “I can never get your limits, Watson; there remain always unexplored possibilities about you. I have chosen not to take you into my confidence not because it would be a burden for me to do so, but because doing so only further injure you.”

“In what way?”

He seemed to wrestle with himself for a moment before a resigned determination came over him. “The truth of the matter, Dr. Watson, is that you could ask me any question you liked about my history without fear of impeding on my privacy, for I could not answer you.”

“Meaning that you do not remember it?”

“No, I do not.”

A fierce hope blazed to life within me, brilliant and irresistible. I had endeavoured to keep it from showing on my features, but I must have failed for Holmes’ eyes narrowed in on me.

“Your reaction now is precisely the reason why I did not wish to tell you. I know you are determined to find any alternative explanation for what happened to you rather than to believe that I have done you harm.”

“Did you?” I pressed. “Do you remember that night?”

“I do and I did. You may ask that same question a thousand times, you will always get the same answer.”

But there was a rigidness in his shoulders that told me he was concealing something from me.

“And your intention was to convince me to stay in order that I might assist you? Because you could not defeat Moriarty on your own?”

“Yes.”

“Then why,” I began, feeling as if I were on the verge of some vital discovery, “did you then make such a prolonged effort to conceal yourself from me? And why, when I at last succeeded in finding you, was your first instinct to insist that I leave you behind?”

I had hit the mark, that was clear enough from his expression.

“You don’t remember that, do you?”

“Dr. Watson…”

“And so it would follow that neither do you remember Moriarty using me as leverage in order that you would allow him to—” A triumphant laugh escaped me as all disparate pieces fell together before me. “It’s so obvious, Holmes! This cannot be a coincidence, can’t you see that?”

His expression had darkened as I spoke. “No I cannot, and neither should you. You are drawing conclusions from insufficient data—from a lack of data alone—and that is always dangerous, all the more so for you in this circumstance.”

Such was my determination in that moment that I would have continued to fight against him until he at last conceded my point, but we were then interrupted by the sound of rapid footsteps approaching. We were greeted with the most extraordinary sight of a nun in her habit running towards us at full speed. She stopped when she came close to us. 

“Englishmen?” she asked between laboured breaths.

“Yes,” Sherlock Holmes answered. “How did you know?”

“The inescapable air of mingled presumption and repression, never mind that. Are either of you a doctor? There is a woman in need of assistance.”

My companion turned to me.

“I am,” I answered.

“Thank God!” she exclaimed. “Will you come?”

I gave my assent, and the three of us rushed back the way she had come, the pace she set too fast to allow for speech. A short distance later, we arrived at a little stone church situated beside the sombre edifice of a convent, the grounds encircled by a low, cobblestone fence. To my confusion, Holmes came to a halt when the nun ducked through the gate—I stopped at his side on instinct.

“Come in!” the sister urged. “Quickly!”

Holmes obeyed the command and I followed behind him. At the door to the church, the nun paused to genuflect, then began to walk at a more reasonable pace so that I could at last question her.

“What has happened?”

“Sister Natalia and I were walking in the lane discussing the good news when a woman passing by us collapsed before our eyes.”

My brow furrowed. “The good news? Do you mean the gospel?”

“No, have you not heard? That evil abomination who has preyed upon the people of this land for centuries has at long last been destroyed.”

Holmes and I shared a silent exchange.

“Why did you need an English doctor?” I asked.

“The woman will only speak it. She’s almost incoherent, insisting again and again that she must find her fiancé. But I did not think it wise to allow her to leave until someone had checked on her condition. There, she’s resting in the room at the end of that hall.”

Before I had so much as turned in the direction the sister had indicated, Sherlock Holmes had bounded halfway down the hall. As he peered inside the room, I saw a flicker of horror and resignation pass over his features before he tempered it.

Fearing some grave injury, I rushed forward, wholly unprepared for the truth of what awaited me within. A slight, blonde woman sat upon the little bed, her posture taught with evident anxiety. The sound of footsteps roused her attention and her gaze flitted up from where it had been fixed unseeing to the floor at her feet. Our eyes met, and I found myself rooted to the spot where I stood, for I recognized her face.

“Johnny?” she asked, her soft, blue eyes widening with disbelief.

Her name escaped my lips in a strangled whisper. “Mary?”

Chapter Text

I had thought that perhaps in recounting these events I might find within them some deeper insight, that in describing what led to that critical moment I would be able to see the signs, to predict—as Holmes had—who and what was waiting for me in that fateful room. It has been a futile effort. There is no reconciling the depths of assurance I felt in the moments prior to Mary Morstan’s arrival with the clear, irrefutable proof that I must have been wrong. The appearance of the woman who—until the instant I saw her sitting before me—I yet believed to be my own fabrication has unmoored me in ways no preceding event had. It was not that her presence affected a change in me—quite the opposite. The fact of her existence changed nothing of consequence, save for at last impressing upon me the undeniable truth that I was a doomed man, had been fated for tragedy from the moment I set foot in that castle, perhaps from the first instant I heard Moriarty’s name. 

Mary Morstan flung herself across the room, throwing her arms about my waist, and there was a small part of me which felt genuine joy at our reunion. I felt stir within my heart an echo of care and devotion as my hands came to rest on her back, attempting to soothe her.

My eyes had flitted to Holmes then, searching the serene lines of his aquiline face for any hint of emotion, finding it only in the slight crease about his eyes which was soon likewise smoothed away. But my primary impression in that instant was not of his reaction, but my own. There was a profound disparity in the potency of feeling the two roused within me. The warmth of Mary’s embrace was like the last flickering light of a dying candle—warm, soft, and fading away. Gazing into Holmes' eyes was like being plunged once more beneath the torrent of the waterfall, the weight of emotion battering my senses, capturing every thought, singing in every beat of my heart. Overwhelming. All consuming. 

You’ve ruined me. 

The words flitted through my mind of their own accord and though I dismissed them as quickly as they came, I thought he must have known them all the same, for his mouth twisted into a hard line and he averted his eyes as if in shame.

I recalled the play of emotions that had passed over Holmes’ features when he had first seen Mary—as if, contrary to his words, he too had harboured some hope that we might have once known one another. If he had, Mary’s existence seemed to have decided the matter for him. It was, after all, the simplest explanation of the facts: if Mary Morstan was real, the past I imagined could not be. 

My stubborn heart will not believe it. Even the suspicion that my certainty in him is only a result of his insidious influence does nothing to dissuade me. If it is true, he has been so successful in altering me—in making an altar of me—that I have no wish to be unmade. In the inmost part of my soul, I belong to him utterly—hope yet that he may someday belong to me. I long for him as a man wandering the desert longs for water and until I can quench that thirst, I will never be free—I shall never want to be free. Not from him.

If I have found any resignation in the thought now, then I still rebelled against it, powerless to do anything else.

“How are you here?” I asked Mary, wishing that my suspicion was not quite so apparent.

She pulled back enough to gaze up at me with her wide trusting eyes—I felt a pang of guilt, knowing I was unworthy of that trust.

“I received a letter from Professor Moriarty telling me that you had fallen ill some time ago; I made the arrangements to come to you as soon as I could. I’ve been beside myself the whole of the journey, going mad at not being able to do anything useful. At the last station, I had taken a turn about the platform to compose myself when I heard two nuns mention Moriarty’s name and the word ‘moarte.’ I knew enough to recognise it as death. My only thought was of you and I was overcome with grief at the thought that I had arrived too late. But you’re here! Alive!”

I can acknowledge how backward it was that my first instinct was to doubt her when I had never once questioned the man I knew to be monstrous. But her story seemed to me to contain within it too many coincidences—both of us having been on the same line in opposing directions, stopping at precisely the same station. I thought it contrived. I wondered too at the speed with which she had arrived, suspecting that not enough time had passed for her version of events to be real.

“Do you happen to know the date today?” I asked her.

“The twenty-ninth of June,” she answered, her brows pulling up in confusion.

I was certain it had not been half so long since I had arrived in Transylvania. I turned to Holmes. “Is it?” 

“Yes,” he said. “They announced it at the station.”

“Oh!” Mary exclaimed, pulling away from me at once with her face flushing. She smoothed a hand over the front of her skirts. “Apologies, I thought we were alone.”

“Quite alright, Miss Morstan,” Holmes said, extending his hand toward her. When she had placed her hand into his, he leaned down to press a kiss to her skin—I had to suppress a flare of envy directed at the woman, rather than the man.

“You seem to have the advantage of me,” she said, smiling to hide her embarrassment. “You know who I am but I do not know you. Unless… Do I have the honour of speaking to Professor Moriarty?”

“No,” Holmes and I answered at the same instant. 

I cleared my throat. “I’m sorry, Mary. I ought to have introduced you at once; this is Mr. Sherlock Holmes. He is—”

The words died on my tongue as I realised I had no way to explain how I knew him. Holmes had pity on me—or perhaps he wanted to construct his own alibi before I decided to tell her the truth.

“I apologise, Miss Morstan. Dr. Watson has spoken of you so often I feel as if I knew you already. I am delighted to make your acquaintance. Your fiancé and I have recently met under rather unusual circumstances. In truth, I owe him both my freedom and my life.”

“Dear Lord! Whatever happened to you?” Her eyes flitted between us, creased with worry.

Again, Holmes answered before I could. “I fear the details of my story are not fit for a lady’s ears. Suffice it to say that Moriarty was far from the man of honour he professed to be in England. I became his prisoner some time ago. When Dr. Watson arrived, he became aware of my plight and risked life and limb to rescue me—you yourself can see yourself the physical toll those efforts have taken upon him. I might have remained there forever if not for his selfless courage; I shall forever be in his debt.”

He spoke with such conviction that had I not become so practised at reading him, had not known the many details he was glossing over, I might have believed him myself. As it was, I felt the need to clarify, for Mary Morstan was looking at me with admiration I had done nothing to earn.

“That is not quite an accurate description of what transpired,” I began. Holmes gave me a warning glance, and I directed a tight smile at him in return. “I did indeed attempt to save Mr. Holmes, but was thwarted by Moriarty myself. It was Holmes who rescued me from certain death in the end, and it was also he who facilitated our escape. So I believe by all accounts, that would make us even.”

His eyes narrowed at the thinly veiled accusation in my tone. “Dr. Watson is being too modest. You will have noticed his habit of ignoring his own admirable qualities in favour of praising whoever he happens to be near at the time.”

Mary let out another nervous laugh, perplexed by this most unusual argument. “I think I will err on the side of trusting my Johnny. If he says you’ve saved him, then you must have. I owe you my sincerest thanks for returning him to me, Mr. Holmes.”

“Not at all,” Holmes answered, his smile just a shade too bright, concealing some other emotion.

“Are you well, Mary?” I asked. “We had been told that you had fallen ill.”

“No, it was just the shock of what I had overheard—I am perfectly well now that you are here,” she answered with an expression of perfect contentment.

“I am relieved to hear it,” I said, giving her a warm smile in return. “Mary, I apologise for the horrendous timing, but Mr. Holmes and I were in the middle of discussing a most important matter when we were summoned to your aid. Would it be at all possible for you to excuse us, for a moment?”

“Of course,” was her immediate answer. “I had been wanting some fresh air. Shall I return to you after I’ve taken a turn about the garden?”

“No, I will come out to you. Thank you, Mary.”

She pressed up onto her toes to press a kiss to my cheek; the warmth of it spreading over my face as my insides burned with shame. Her light footsteps treaded out of the room and she shut the door quietly behind her.

I waited until a full minute had passed before I spoke again.

“Can she hear us?” I whispered, knowing Holmes would be able to make me out from across the room.

“No.” I was not surprised that all traces of warmth had vanished from his tone; I had known what I would find before I raised my eyes to look at him—his expression was every bit as impassive as the rendered likeness that had so tormented me. His shrewd eyes met mine and I knew there was nothing which I could say in that moment that he had not already considered and formed a counterargument against, even as he must have known that fact would do nothing to stop me. 

“Holmes.” I realised that I was begging and my pride momentarily rebelled, attempting to save me. I passed a hand over my forehead, struggling, more used to hiding my wounds than exposing them. Then, with a fierce gesture of my fist, I threw my reserve to the winds. “For heaven's sake, Holmes.”

He remained unmoved in the face of my agony. “What is it that you wish for me to say?”

“If you know the truth in this matter then please, do not keep me in suspense a moment longer. How do I stand? What shall I do?”

“I’ve told you the state of affairs between us from the beginning; you are now in possession of clear evidence that I have not lied to you. Do you still doubt it?”

He knew my answer; I gave it anyway. “Yes.”

“Then that would seem to suggest that what you want, Dr. Watson, is not the truth, but something which will confirm to you what you already believe. That I cannot give you. So I ask again, what do you want from me, barring that impossibility?”

What I wanted was to make a clean breast of myself, to tell him that I would let nothing—not even the truth—separate us, to declare that even in this dark hour, nothing would persuade me to abandon the man I loved. 

I watched him read these intentions in my features, observed the answering stillness, the weary patience. He would let me confess myself to him, if I wished. But he did not welcome it—the sentiments I longed to express would only be a test of his kindness, they would offer no relief to either of us. I loved him with all my soul, and that fact would only bring us to ruin. 

I was possessed by a feverish sense of desperation, feeling that I had to secure more time for myself, else he would disappear from my life and I would spend all my days haunted by the memory of him.

“What are you going to do now?” I asked.

“I don’t know.”

I nodded, a plan having begun to form in my mind. “You told Mary that you owe me a debt. Since I have done nothing to save you, I presume that you were alluding to some guilt you harbour over what you’ve done to me.” He flinched away from the words; it was the first time I had alluded to the event so plainly—done anything to indicate that he may have been at fault. “Did you mean that? If I asked a favour of you in exchange, would you do it for me?”

“That would depend upon the request,” he answered with some caution.

“Come back to London with me. With us.”

“Why?”

“You know why.”

Holmes’ keen eyes pierced through me. “And when we arrive and you discover all is as I have told you and your life has never once intersected with mine, will you believe even that? Or will you find some way of presuming that too is some elaborate ruse?”

I could not answer him, for we both knew his accusation to be correct.

“Come with me all the same,” I pleaded. “I should like to see the matter through with you, now that we have got so far. When the time comes, I shall find a way to face whatever awaits us there. But until then I cannot—” As I spoke, the shadowy doubts that I had not yet articulated even to myself rose to the surface, pouring forth from my lips. “Until I am persuaded that believing you would not be the greater betrayal, I am incapable of it. I fear that your estimation of our roles in this affair—casting yourself as the deceiver and myself as the victim—is the inverse of what has transpired, that you only think and believe what you do as a result of my own failures. If I am at all correct about your character, it should not be difficult for you to imagine how the thought of it torments me—I will not be able to rest until I know that it is not founded in reality. I might be persuaded by what we find in London. Regardless, I swear to you that I will not ask anything else of you after that.”

As I spoke, Holmes’ mask of cold indifference cracked apart, replaced by an expression of the deepest agony.

“Watson, forget your faith in me,” he urged. “It’s time you saw me as I really am—I am a vain man, and a selfish one. Do you wish to know my motivations in the moment that has proven so disastrous for you? I will tell you. I was alone and I wanted to be adored.”

“Adored?” I challenged, instinctively attempting to conceal that he had struck so close upon the mark. He must have seen through the effort, but he allowed me the polite fiction all the same.

“Perhaps that was poorly phrased. But if the thought of my egotism repels you, let it do so and leave now with Miss Morstan. You would do far better with her than you would with me.” A bitter smile crept over his features. “Do you imagine that I am being noble in asking you to leave me now? Far from it. I want you to remember me fondly and I know the more time you spend in my presence, the less secure my hold will be upon your esteem. I covet your admiration, even knowing what it costs you. I will drain you dry, if given the opportunity. Do not give it to me.”

I was taken aback by this outburst, for he spoke with more emotion than I had ever seen in him before. A smarter man might have heeded his warning—a better man might have agreed to part ways for the sole reason that it was so obviously what he wanted. 

I was neither.

“Will you come with me to England?” I asked one last time, bracing myself for his refusal.

“Yes,” he whispered back instead.

It should not have felt like a victory, not when I knew that the most probable outcome of this journey would be exactly what he had described, but I was overcome by joy and relief all the same.

“Thank you,” I said earnestly.

“Don’t thank me,” he pleaded. “Forgive me.” 

I could not resist the desire to approach him then, placing a careful hand on his shoulder. “I already have,” I assured him. “I will again.”

He let out a long sigh. “Miss Morstan will be wondering where you are. You shouldn’t keep her waiting.”

“Yes,” I agreed, but made no move to leave.

Holmes raised his eyes to mine and for one, breathless instant, I imagined that I at last glimpsed what I had so long sought—an intensity of feeling buried within the depths of his heart that mirrored my own. But the moment passed too soon for me to be certain of what I saw; before I had the time to wrap my mind around that small, revealing glance, he had shrugged out of my light hold and turned away to leave the room.

Even now I cannot be certain it was not wishful thinking alone that made it seem to me that all I desired might yet be possible. Might he be concealing some secret from me in an attempt to spare both of us from greater suffering? Surely he must know he need only give one word and I would abandon all else for his sake. Is that the precise reason he does not speak—believing himself to be unworthy of such sentiments?

However fleeting the sight, I took it as proof that I had yet some reason to hope, and yet the dilemma I had created for myself would prove to be a greater strain than I had anticipated. From the first, I had felt that any affection I bestowed upon Mary would be a betrayal to Holmes, but I had not yet fully reckoned with the fact that the opposite would also prove true.

Coming to the shaded garden outside the old church, I found Mary pacing the grounds. When she saw me, she rushed toward me with an expression of pure delight. 

“Johnny! I’ve spoken to the priest of this parish and explained to him all that has occurred. He has agreed to marry us as soon as we are ready.”

“Marry us?” I asked, recoiling from her.

She caught my hands in hers. “I have only waited this long at your insistence; I’ve told you countless times that I don’t care that you aren’t a wealthy man. You would not believe me and I have nearly lost you as a consequence. I do not wish to take such a risk again. Is there any reason we should not begin our life together on this very day, this very hour?”

I felt Holmes’ steady gaze upon me and I could not bring myself to look at him, uncertain of whether the sight of his pain or his indifference would have been the greater torment.

“Mary, I can’t.”

Her brow furrowed in momentary confusion before her face crumpled with genuine hurt. “You do not wish to marry me?”

My heart wrenched itself apart, torn between the conflicting desires to comfort her and to remain loyal to Holmes.

I deliberated for a moment, then decided the best course of action would be to offer her a sliver of the truth. “Mary, Professor Moriarty did not lie to you in his letter. I have been… ill. I am afraid that I am not quite myself at present. The man you promised yourself to… I am no longer that man.” Her distress only became more pronounced as I spoke and so I rearranged our hands so that I was holding hers, stretching the truth so far that it might as well have been a lie. “If you will wait until we return to London… In familiar surroundings I may come to know myself again. If I do, and if you still want me, I will marry you. Until then—I could not ask you to pledge yourself to me as I am now.”

With a woman’s keen intuition, her eyes flitted to Holmes before cutting back to mine, the first flicker of suspicion clouding her features.

“Of course,” she answered evenly. “We will wait until we have returned home, if that is what you wish.”

“I am sorry,” I offered, feeling wretched.

She gave me a small smile. “There is no need to apologise. The certainty of our coming wedding is all the consolation a young woman could require.”

She excused herself then. When I mustered the will to look at Holmes, his pity was unendurable. I busied myself at once with making arrangements for our transportation back to the station, then, when we were once more upon the eastbound train, immersed myself in planning how I would seek out my friend once we had arrived in Port Constanța, wanting to avoid any unnecessary delay. The sooner we arrive in London, the better, for I do not know how long I can bear the strain of two hearts tugging at my soul.

Chapter Text

At last, my companions and I have secured our promised passage aboard the Matilda Briggs. With a cabin to myself—at Holmes’ insistence—I have the privacy required to again take up this diary, though I do wonder whether the effort has any tangible benefit at this stage save driving me mad through an excess of introspection.

My remembrance of the remainder of our journey on land is not a pleasant one, for the weather was hot, the train slow, and my companions sullen and silent in their turn. Holmes would hardly speak at all, save to make an occasional sardonic remark that I understood to be aimed at the futility of our proceedings. These I ignored, even as I avoided speaking with Mary more than courtesy required. 

As a consequence, I have had little opportunity to speak with Holmes with any degree of candour since we secured our present arrangement, the nearest occasions having all been brief and obstructed by Mary’s presence. The most frustrating of these was the afternoon when Mary excused herself to talk a walk up and down the length of the train. I had inclined my head to offer her a polite smile before returning my attention to the novel she had given me some days back, my nerves thrilling to life the instant I was alone with Holmes. However, I resolutely kept my eyes fixed to the print before me till Holmes emitted a low groan.

He leaned against the headrest, his eyes closed in discomfort as he pressed one hand to the place above his heart.

“Is your wound still troubling you?” I asked, leaning forward instinctually.

His eyes snapped open. “It is nothing.”

“May I verify that for myself?”

He shot me a dubious glance. “You know there is no danger.”

“Consider it medical curiosity.”

Holmes barked out a quiet laugh which suggested he found my attempt at drawing him into conversation transparent, but he began undoing the buttons on his shirt all the same. 

I paled—the injury had not improved at all in the intervening days; rather it had grown worse– the skin around the wound inflamed, a yellowish puss seeping out from where I had stitched him together. I sprang to my feet, pulling out a small white cloth and the bottle of brandy from my medical kit. 

“Why did you not tell me it had become infected?” I demanded.

He winced at the sting of the alcohol soaked cloth, his answer coming out in a hiss. “As I said, I am in no danger. If the act of driving a stake through my heart could not kill me, neither will the process of healing from it.”

“You aren’t healing from it,” I stated. “Not even at the rate of an ordinary man—and you ought to be progressing much faster than that.”

“It will pass,” he insisted between his teeth.

An obstinate resolution stirred within me and I was on the cusp of ordering him to drink from me—would have made the incision myself if he had continued to insist on his self-denial—when Mary Morstan stepped back into the carriage.

“Good God!” she exclaimed, her hand flying up to cover her mouth.

I jerked my hands away from Holmes’ chest, preparing to explain myself, but Mary was not looking at me. She hastened forward and kneeled beside me, digging into my kit to pull out the bottle of iodine powder, twisting off the top.

“Here, you’ll need this.”

“How did you know that?”

Her eyes darted to my face and away. “You taught me.”

My brow furrowed but Mary had busied herself with attending to Holmes.

“You poor man,” she declared, cleaning the wound with the utmost care. “How did this happen to you?”

“I sustained the injury before Watson and I were able to escape Moriarty’s castle. It is not as serious as it appears, I assure you.”

“I should hope not; if it were you would be either unconscious or delirious.” She finished applying the powder, then rose to her feet. “I’ll just step out again for a moment. It will be easier to bandage him if he finishes undressing and my being here while he is in his current state would already appear improper should anyone happen to look in.”

“Thank you,” I said, somewhat taken aback.

She gave me a quick smile as she wiped her hands on a clean cloth. “I know you are chivalrous by nature but I am not so frail as you may imagine. We are to be married; part of my vows shall be to assist you in all matters—even those where your instinct may be to conceal the truth to protect me.” She turned her attention back to Holmes as she stood. “The same goes for you, Mr. Holmes. Any friend of Johnny’s is a friend of mine.”

“You are the soul of generosity, Miss Morstan,” Holmes answered, his eyes creasing with genuine affection. 

She patted his cheek, then stooped down to place a kiss to mine before she left the carriage.

I did not speak again as I finished dressing Holmes’ wound. I do not know whether he was seized with compunction at that moment for the part he was playing, but I know that I never felt more heartily ashamed of myself in my life than when I glimpsed the inner nature of the woman against whom I was conspiring, the grace and kindliness with which she waited upon my injured companion. For the first time, I was beset by a desire to abandon my plan, knowing the result could only hurt her, and yet it would have been equal treachery to draw back from Holmes. I hardened my heart.

Port Constanța was cloaked in a thick fog the afternoon we arrived. We wandered through the city in silence till we came to some respectable lodgings close to the waterfront. After seeing Holmes and Mary were safely situated, I took my leave of them to search the docks. It was with considerable relief that I stepped out into the cool and dreary afternoon alone.

I lost myself in the great tumult of humanity. The din of hundreds of voices all shouting over one another in more languages than I could recognise clamoured in my ears as I took in the sharp, musky smell rolling in off the sea and watched the workmen hoisting cargo and making their repairs, their muscles rippling and sweat dewing upon their brows. The bustle and brazenness brought to mind images of my military days and I found myself settling back into that younger version of myself.

Eventually, I came across a proud vessel adorned by a carving of a fair maiden holding a trumpet to her lips upon the bow, her hull inscribed with the name Matilda Briggs. In her shadow sat two men on either side of a large crate, playing cards and taking turns drawing long draughts of a dark bottle they passed between them.

“Beg your pardon,” I said as I approached.

“No need to beg,” answered one of the men, middle aged with a hat cocked low across his brow so that it concealed half of his face.

I hummed in amusement. “I was hoping one of you gentlemen might tell me where I might find the captain of this vessel.”

“Where the Captain goes on shore leave is the Captain’s business,” he answered, not looking up from his game.

“Of course. Do you know when he might return?”

“I do.”

“Could you tell me?” I asked with some impatience.

“I could but I won’t.”

The corner of my mouth quirked up as I took a moment to size up the pair of them, determining my best course of action. With a show of perfect ease I sat myself upon a nearby crate, taking off my jacket and hat before lighting a cigarette, settling in to wait as I whistled out a jaunty tune.

The other man—hawk-like, with a mouth that seemed permanently fixed in a half-wise smile—let out a heavy sigh. “Really, Billy?” he complained in a voice marked by a thick Scottish brogue. “Did you have to give him that much to go off of? You could have just told him he had the wrong ship.”

“It would not have been a convincing effort, given that the name is written just behind you,” I remarked.

“Who's to say you’re reading it right?” he answered with a smirk before laying down his hand. “And I win again. You sure you want to keep at this?”

The other man growled as he dug into his pocket and threw down another coin. “Again. Your luck’s bound to run out sooner or later.”

“Oi!” A tall, cadaverous man with a scraggly beard peered down over the railing, addressing the sailors in a secretive and mysterious manner which conveyed the idea that he knew or suspected a very great deal more than he dared say. “Grieff, Wilder, get back to work, these crates won’t load themselves. And who is this?” He jerked his head in my direction.

“Dunno,” said the Scotsman. “Just made himself at home there without introducing himself.”

“Dr. John Watson,” I supplied with a pleasant smile.

“Dr. Watson, you’re sitting on my cargo and distracting my men. I’ll have to ask you to leave.”

“Certainly,” I answered. “But perhaps you would have the goodness to tell me where I might find your captain. I arranged passage aboard his vessels some months ago but there have been one or two changes to my plans that I should like to discuss with him before we set out.”

My request seemed both to puzzle and irritate the man aboard the ship. His eyebrows came down over his eyes, and he tapped his fingers impatiently on the railing of the ship, looking down at me with the expression of one who has seen his adversary make a dangerous move at chess, and must decide how to meet it.

“The Captain's gone,” he said after a long pause. “He won’t be back till morning.”

“And you have no idea where I might find him?”

“Of course I have, but I won’t be telling you. Now if you’ll excuse us. Men, back to work, that’s an order.”

“That’s an order,” echoed the man in the hat under his breath.

“What was that, Wilder?” asked the man aboard the ship.

“Nothing, Mr. Anderson!” called Wilder.

Anderson gave a huff, then disappeared out of view.

“Arrogant sod. Never does a lick of work himself,” muttered Wilder as he stood to his feet, tucking the cards back into his pocket. “Help me with this will you?”

Grieff shot me an enigmatical glance before rising to his feet. As he stood, I saw for the first time that a young girl had been sitting tucked in his shadow. She swung her feet as she smiled to herself, staring out at the sea. Grieff ruffled her hair, causing her to look up at him with a bright smile. Her eyes then drifted to me, her head tilting in curiosity.

“Good evening, madame,” I said with a tilt of my hat.

“She can’t hear you,” barked Grieff as he and Wilder hefted up the crate and began walking towards the gangplank. “She’s deaf.”

“Oh!” I abandoned my makeshift seat and approached the girl, crouching down so I was eye level with her.

“Good evening, madame,” I signed. “My name is Dr. John Watson. What’s yours?”

The young girl’s eyes sparkled as she signed back her reply. “Icaria Grieff, but everyone calls me Cara.”

“Hello, Miss Cara Grieff, it’s wonderful to meet you.”

“It’s wonderful to meet you too. I never get to speak to anyone besides dad. No one else aboard knows how to sign besides the Captain, and he’s always busy.”

“That sounds dreadful, I’m sorry.”

“That’s alright, I’m used to it. But will you be coming with us? I’d love to have someone else to talk with.”

“I hope to, yes, but I need to find the captain first.”

The girl frowned and looked over at her father who—to Wilder’s exasperation—had halted in his tracks to watch our exchange.

“Dad, you’ll help him, won’t you? Please?”

“Cheeky bastard,” muttered Grieff, ignoring Wilder’s protest as he dropped his end of the crate to sign back. “Yes, dear, I will.”

Cara clapped in her excitement, running over to throw her arms about his waist in a tight hug. Grieff sighed as he returned her embrace, levelling a glare at me. 

“Well, you certainly know how to tug on a fellow’s heartstrings, don’t you?”

“I assure you that was not my intention.”

“Of course it wasn’t. The Captain never goes far, try the bars nearby first. If that doesn’t work, come back here and I’ll see to it that you find him.”

“Thank you, Mr. Grieff. It is greatly appreciated.” I signed my farewell to Cara and turned to gather my things.

“Now who’s telling him too much?” sniped Wilder once my back was turned.

“Shut it and be just glad Anderson interrupted our game before I won your entire month’s wages from you.”

“Keep talking like that and I’ll begin to suspect you’re cheating.”

The two men continued bickering as they took up their work and I chuckled to myself as I walked away. 

Being in no great hurry to return, I strolled down the crowded lane, venturing into the closest tavern and taking a seat at the bar. With a foaming mug of ale in hand, I began thumbing through the pages of this diary, still hoping I might be able to draw out some clue which might yet prove decisive in my favour. I must have become quite absorbed, for I did not register the sound of heavy footfalls approaching me till I was roused by the squealing of the stool next to mine scraping across the rough wooden floor.

“Can’t bear a bad book, can you?” asked the man in a warm, familiar voice as he took his seat beside me.

I snapped my diary shut and had been prepared to make a sarcastic retort when I looked up and found myself face to face with the very man for whom I had been searching.

“Doyle!” I jumped to my feet, offering him my free hand. 

“Good Lord!” Doyle exclaimed as he looked me over. “Whatever have you been doing with yourself, Watson? You are as thin as a lath and as pale as a ghost.”

I recalled that Holmes had made a similar remark to Mary when we had reunited, but had not realised until that moment the extent to which my diminishment was immediately apparent. I gave Doyle a halfhearted chuckle as I took my seat again. “That is a rather long and complex story.”

“I do enjoy those,” Doyle said with a twinkle in his eyes. “But perhaps we should save it for when we’re aboard Matilda; that is why you’ve been looking for me, yes?”

“Yes. I thought it prudent to warn you that I am no longer travelling alone, I hope that will not present an undue burden.”

His eyes narrowed. “I had planned upon it. You said you would have a companion if all went well, I’m relieved to hear that much has fallen in your favour.”

“I told you that?” I grabbed at his arm in my eagerness. “What else did I say? Did I mention whether I would be with a man or a woman?”

“Easy, Watson,” he soothed, looking over at the bartender and signalling for two fresh glasses. “Whatever has gotten into you?”

“I hardly know myself,” I answered, then huffed out a laugh as I realised the truth of the remark.

Doyle regarded me for a long moment. “No, you didn’t happen to mention who you were meeting. In fact you were more than characteristically reticent when last we met—and that is saying something. I could not coax a single detail about your business from you; believe me, I tried. Why? Who are you with now, a man or a woman?”

“Both. A close friend of mine and my fiancée.”

“Fiancée?”

“Does that surprise you?” I asked, watching his reaction with considerable interest.

“Given your reputation?” Doyle raised his eyebrows. “You were always a dangerous suitor—a glib tongue, pretty, coaxing ways, and that glamour of experience and mystery which attracts a woman's interest, or her love, depending on the circumstances. But that a woman has managed to tame you at last? Yes, I suppose that is a shock.”

“She hasn’t tamed me yet,” I remarked with some bitterness.

“Is that so?” he asked. “In that case, one would be curious to learn how it is that you’ve come to be engaged.”

I gave him a wry smile. “As I said, it’s a long and complex story, and one I would prefer not to discuss at present. Will there be room for the three of us aboard your vessel?”

“Yes,” he answered with an affectation of nonchalance. “I could give you either two cabins or three, depending on what your situation requires.”

The implication of his remark did not escape my notice. I drained the rest of my glass and rapped my knuckles on the counter as I stood to my feet, leaving some money on the surface. “That should be enough for you to have another on me. I have one more favour to ask of you. Would it be at all possible for us to board tonight? Perhaps after sundown?”

“We won’t shove off till midday and it will be three long weeks to England. Are you quite sure you want to spend more time aboard than is necessary?”

“Yes. My companion has a somewhat delicate constitution, it would be best if he had a chance to acclimate to the ship before we are out at sea.”

“And this would be your new friend. Mr…”

“Sherlock Holmes.”

“Sherlock Holmes,” he echoed. “A striking name. One must imagine the man himself to be equally compelling.”

I grinned at this thinly veiled effort to draw me out. “I’ll see you this evening, then?”

“This evening,” Doyle agreed with a laugh. “One of these days, Watson, I will get your secrets out of you. Mark my words.”

“The same day you reveal yours, I am sure,” I answered as I clapped him on the shoulder.

Our trio returned to the ship a few hours later, Mary with her arm looped through mine, Holmes meandering a few paces behind us with his hands stuffed into his pockets. Doyle stood waiting for us on the dock looking rather debonair in his uniform, the gangling Anderson standing in attention at his elbow.

“Captain Arthur Conan Doyle,” he said with a bow as we approached. “This is my first mate, Phillip Anderson. I believe you two have already met, Watson.”

“Yes, we have,” I said with a nod to Anderson who returned the gesture, his face set in a stoic mask. “This is Mr. Sherlock Holmes and Miss Mary Morstan.”

“The fabled fiancée,” Doyle said as he took her outstretched hand, his eyes sparkling. “You and I must have a chat some evening. I am most curious to learn all there is to know about you, but Watson will give nothing away”

Mary smiled up at him. “A gentleman always respects a lady’s privacy.”

“Quite right.” He released her hand and turned his attention to Holmes.

“Good evening, Captain,” said Holmes with a convivial smile but without offering his own hand, remaining some distance away from the rest of the party. “A pleasure to meet you.”

“Likewise,” said Doyle, evident curiosity written on his features. I cast him a hard look and he winked at me. “Shall I show you to your cabins then?”

“Please.”

He led us up the plank, speaking over his shoulder as he went. “This is a small vessel. You’ll get to know the crew by the time we’ve made it to England. They’re all good men, treat them fairly and they will return the courtesy. We don’t often get passengers—almost always travellers who have had some other arrangement fall through at the last minute. Must be a strain of bad luck in the air—there are six of you this time. Seven, including the second mate’s daughter.”

“Who are the other passengers?” Holmes asked.

“Another two gentlemen and a lady—a nice bit of symmetry there—though they are not all of one party like yourselves. The lady travels alone, the two gentlemen together. The American fellow is one of the most fascinating characters I have ever come across, you will like him, Watson, Mr— why is it that I can never remember his name?”

“Jack Croker,” Anderson piped in.

“Was that it? I was sure it was something else. No matter. I’ll have to ask him in the morning.” We had come by now to a hall wrapped around a set of steps leading down into the hold, circled about with a series of numbered doors. “Always more cabins than we need. I’ve allotted seven, eight, and nine for the three of you. Divy them up as you see fit. Now if you will excuse me, there is still much to be done in preparation for our departure. Apologies for any noise in the morning, I hope it will not disturb you.”

“Not at all,” I said. “Thank you again, Doyle.”

“Anything for an old friend and his new friends,” said Doyle, the mischievous glimmer returning to his eyes as he glanced at Holmes and Mary before he turned on his heel. “Come along, Anderson.” 

“Yes, Captain.”

Mary retired to cabin number eight at once; having been unable to sleep more than a few fitful hours for the duration of our journey on the train. I had intended to return to the deck to offer my assistance to Doyle, but was stopped by a cool hand wrapping around my elbow.

“Watson,” said Holmes in a low whisper. “Might I speak to you in private?”

I agreed without a thought.

He led me into number nine and closed the door behind us. When he turned to face me, his expression was grave. “Your friend Doyle knows.”

I frowned. “I assure you, he does not. I did not breathe a word myself, and in this case the truth is not the sort of thing one would easily guess.”

“He knows enough to be suspicious,” continued Holmes. “I think it would be wise if the two of us took some precautions. You and I should endeavour to avoid being seen together alone to the extent possible in such close quarters. I do not wish to chance either discovery or misinterpretation.” 

I felt a stab of annoyance at this turn of events—all the more so at myself for having anticipated anything different. “As you wish. I do find it curious that you requested to speak to me alone in order to tell me that you do not wish to be alone with me. But it is not my place to question you; I shall take my leave before anyone can get the wrong impression of what you might have wanted. Good evening.”

I emerged from the room only to walk headlong into a young man who screamed and dropped the pail he had been holding, splashing both of us with soapy water. He stared at me, his brown eyes round with terror, as frightened as he might have been had he seen a ghost.

“I’m sorry, sir,” he said; speaking with a heavy stammer beneath which I could hear the melodic lilt of an Irish accent. “I didn’t realise anyone was aboard yet, I was just going to give the cabins a final cleaning. Please don’t tell the captain, sir. I didn’t mean to cause any harm.”

“Quite alright,” I reassured him. “Back about your business.”

“Yes, sir! Thank you, sir.” The boy snatched up the bucket from the floor and scurried away, bumping into the wall in his haste.

My irritation with Holmes momentarily driven from my mind by this strange interaction, I shook my head with a fond smile, remembering the early days of my own career and finding some reassurance in such clear evidence that as far and strange as the world had proven itself to be, some things remained the same as ever.

Chapter Text

Having forfeited any right to voice my complaints when I requested—in fact begged for, as I recall—my present circumstances, it is a relief to have at my disposal some place to give vent to those thoughts that I dare not utter aloud. I saw neither Holmes nor Mary till the following evening. I attempted to find Holmes in his cabin that morning, harbouring some guilt over my shortness of temper the evening prior, but knocking on his door, I received no answer and testing the handle, I found it locked. Returning to my own cabin, I intended to wait until I heard his tread in the hall, but fell back into a deep sleep and did not stir again until late in the afternoon. 

I emerged somewhat disoriented and found myself entirely alone, the only indication of the presence of another living soul aboard the vessel being the smell of food wafting from a hall to my right. Following this, I overheard voices as I approached the galley, recognising both Wilder and the young crewman I had so startled the day before.

“I always wanted to go to sea!” the lad was saying, the words tumbling over each other in his eagerness.

“Boring,” said Wilder.

“I thought I would be stuck in that little town forever. Nothing ever happened, until now. And now here I am!” he finished with a giddy laugh.

“Yes, here you are. Boring me. Here,” I heard the sound of clinking glass. “Drink this. It will stop your mouth.”

“I don’t drink,” the boy protested.

“Start. Now.”

I peered into the room just as the young man was raising the bottle of clear liquid to his lips, his eyes fixed upon Wilder where he stood hovering over a steaming galley pot, as if he suspected some trick. When Wilder waved him on, the lad took a long swallow before lapsing into a coughing fit. 

“You like it?” Wilder asked with a grin.

“Needs red pepper,” the cabin boy sputtered.

Wilder stared at him in disbelief for a moment before bursting out into a deep peal of laughter.

“Red pepper!” Wilder echoed. “That’s a good one. You’re alright for an Irishman. Where did you say you were from again?”

“Limerick. But what do you mean alright for an Irishman?” he demanded with more fire than I would have thought him capable. “What’s wrong with being Irish?”

“I don’t know, I thought you’d all be like the second mate. He’s fine enough too, I suppose. Just a bit full of himself—imagine having the nerve to tell a man who's been a cook half his life that you have some suggestions for how to improve his recipes. And he cheats at cards—haven't been able to prove it yet but I will.”

“Mr. Grieff? Isn’t he from Paisley?”

“And?”

“That’s in Scotland.”

“Is there a difference?” Wilder asked with a dismissive shrug.

I scoffed at this remark and both men turned to look at me; I saw for the first time that beneath his hat, Wilder wore an eye patch over his right eye. His expression was stern, his square jaw had set hard as he spoke.

“You again,” Wilder groaned. “What are you doing skulking around here? No passengers in my kitchen.”

“Apologies, I was looking for the dining hall and I must have taken a wrong turn.”

“Down the hall to your left.”

“Thank you. That smells delightful, by the way.”

Wilder gave an unimpressed hum, but I could tell the compliment had mollified him, a fact for which I was grateful, for he struck me as the sort of person it would be better to have as a friend than as an enemy.

I was evidently the last passenger to find my way, for the little dining room was full when I arrived. Grieff and his daughter sat at the table against the wall, playing patience together. When I entered, Cara Grieff gave me a bright smile.

“Glad you could make it!” she signed.

“As am I, this is vastly preferable to swimming all the way to England,” I answered with a wink, causing her to giggle.

Two gentlemen sat at the table beside them. The first was a tall, loose jointed fellow with ebony skin who carried himself with an air perfect unaffected grace. He had a handsome, clean-shaved face and a pair of masterful dark eyes which would have subdued any who dared to challenge his position. He sipped at his wine glass with a small smile as he listened to his companion telling a story with sweeping, animated gestures. This latter man was strong-jawed with a rugged face, a grizzling moustache, piercing blue eyes, and a wiry, vigorous figure. He was cheery and genial but somewhat offhand in his manners, a fact which might have been explained by the fact that he spoke in a sly American drawl.

A woman with dark, elegant curls piled high atop her head stood along the far wall with her back to the room, gazing out the wide windows. I could not see her face but her willowy form and stately dress both spoke to a refined sensibility.

Between myself and the place where she stood, Holmes and Mary sat at a table set for three. Mary raised her eyes to me as I approached.

“Hello, Johnny,” she said as I took my seat.

Holmes had been sitting with his eyes closed and his head tilted back. I had imagined him in one of his despondent stupors, but at the sound of my name those two grey eyes, as bright and keen as rapiers, met my own and transfixed me with their searching glance. 

“Hello,” I said. “Apologies for my absence. Our travels must have taken a greater toll than I had realised—I slept the whole of the day away.”

“Good, you need your rest,” said Mary, placing her hand over mine on the table. “You’ve been through quite an ordeal, I could not bear for you to fall ill again because you would not take proper care of yourself.”

“You worry about me far too much,” I answered, patting my free hand over hers before drawing both away and turning my attention to Holmes. “How are you faring?”

“Well, thank you. The sea air seems to be just what I had required, even as it has unsettled my stomach. One can have too much of a good thing, I suppose.”

“On the contrary. Mary’s advice has some truth to it—gentlemen are often prone to avoiding those courses which will most benefit them, I daresay because they fear what lurks beneath their self denial. Weakness, need, desire, all of these are as frightening as they are inescapable. Confronting one’s frailty—admitting it to another—is like diving into a pool of water in a dark cave—swimming until you’ve reached the limit of your breath and you’ve arrived at that crucial moment where you must decide to either turn back or else dive on and trust there may be relief on the other side. Till you’ve chosen your course, the water floods you, consuming you utterly.”

“Cut out the poetry, Watson,” said Holmes severely.

Any further attempt at conversation was cut short by two crewmen coming into the room with a trolley of food. One of these was the young Irishman I had seen in the kitchen, the other a scrawny man sporting a horrendously patterned kerchief and draped in clothes that were far too large for his thin frame.  

At the sound of their entrance, the woman at the window turned and came to take her seat at a solitary table. Her face was as strikingly beautiful as the rest of her. She glanced round the room as took her place, a small smile playing at her lips as if she were entertaining some private joke. When the man in the kerchief came round to her table, he served her with almost reverent care. She flashed him a dazzling smile before turning her attention to her meal.

Holmes waved away his own plate as the other deckhand approached us. “Just more wine for me.”

“I didn’t know you drank,” I remarked as the lad barely avoided dropping my plate in my lap, muttering a frantic apology.

“Only on special occasions,” Holmes answered. “Leave the bottle, if you would be so kind, it is a fine vintage indeed, the best I’ve sampled in some time.” 

I scowled, certain that the comment was intended as a jibe at me. Our waiter emitted a nervous giggle as he topped off Holmes’ glass and set the bottle on our table before taking his exit. 

“Well—” Mary began, at a loss to account for the stormy mood surrounding her. Before she could determine some safer line of conversation, we were interrupted by the American sitting at the next table ostentatiously clearing his throat.

“Beg your pardon fellows and gentle lady,” he began. “How are you all doing this evening?”

“Quite well, thank you. And yourself?” I said with a polite smile. 

“I like this one,” he remarked to his companion. “Somehow manages to be straight and to the point while saying the precise opposite of what he means. Do you have a name, or can I just call you Mr. Ernest as a little joke between us.”

“Dr. John Watson,” I answered. “This is Miss Mary Morstan and Mr. Sherlock Holmes.

“Dr. John Watson,” he echoed with a chortle. “Well met indeed. Though I think I  still prefer Dr. Ernest myself. Name’s James McCarthy, this is my dear friend, Mr. Cecil Barker. And you?”

 He turned his attention to the woman sitting alone.

“Irene Adler,” she answered in a low, melodic voice, and I was surprised to hear in her accent that she too was American.

“The opera singer?” asked Cecil Barker with considerable interest.

“You’ve heard of me?” Irene Adler inquired with a twinkle in her eye.

“Madame, your work is phenomenal. I saw you perform at the Lyceum Theater in New York City three years ago and I’ve never been the same.”

“You’re too kind,” she answered with a warm smile.

“Well isn’t this more pleasant now?” said the American. “If we’re all going to be cooped up here, we might as well all be getting on with each other as soon as possible. Speaking of which,” he turned his attention to Holmes. “Pardon my asking, Mr. Holmes, but are you in this gentleman’s employ?” He nodded to me, raising a single eyebrow. 

“What? No he—” I began, but Holmes interrupted before I could get far in my response.

“I’m afraid you’ve come to the wrong end of it,” he said with an easy smile. “John is my man.”

If Holmes had struck me across the face it could not have produced so visceral and immediate a reaction. My blood turned hot as a disbelieving laugh escaped me; Holmes shot me a quick warning glance—everyone in the room was watching us with open interest now. I gritted my teeth and returned my attention to my meal. 

“I suppose you could say he deals my wages,” I said. “It’s not quite the same thing.”

“Ah, I see. Then you’ve settled a dispute!” answered the American with a hearty laugh, looking back at Barker with a conspiratorial wink.

“I am glad to have been able to set the matter straight. Speculations and gossip too often ruin friendships before they are given the chance to form. Il n’y a pas des sots si incommodes que ceux qui ont de l’esprit.”

“There are no fools so inconvenient as those who have wit,” translated the American with a wry grin. “You Englishmen always assume you are the only ones to have ever picked up a book.”

“Hardly. What would be the purpose of the remark if I did not intend for you to understand it?” He held the American’s gaze for a long moment, then let out a low chuckle the same instant the American broke into a guffaw. 

“Excuse me, for a moment,” I said, my chair scraping across the floor as I stood to my feet. “Holmes, would you be so kind as to join me for some air?”

“Of course,” he answered with an untroubled air as he set his glass upon the table.

“Be right back, dear,” I said with a perfunctory glance at Mary before storming out of the room. 

Outside, the air had grown warm, the fog choking the air with oppressive humidity.

“What was that?” I demanded.

“Playing my part. You might consider doing the same,” he replied with the same perfect calm he had displayed inside. A brief but compelling idea of whittling some loose bit of wood into a sharp point flitted through my mind.

“Since when do you call me John?”

“It seemed the most expedient explanation, given the circumstances. Does it really wound your pride that much to have people think you work for me?”

“You imagine that’s what’s bothering me?!”

“I warned you of the danger; it was well within your power to provide us with another alibi. With your natural advantages, every lady is your helper and accomplice. I can picture you whispering soft nothings with Miss Morstan and receiving hard somethings in exchange. Or you might have turned your attention to Miss Adler, that would doubtless rouse such a scandal that no one would give the two of us a second thought.”

“I refuse to involve Miss Morstan in this affair more than is necessary, or take any action that would injure her in such a way. I thought you would have been able to surmise that.”

“It’s a bit late to develop a conscience on that score, isn’t it? If you truly wanted to avoid causing her harm, you would never have asked me to accompany you. You must see how she suffers given that you invariably cause a scene whenever I’m present.” 

“I cause a scene?”

His silence was a greater reproach than any words could have been.

“Fine,” I answered with considerable bitterness. “Tell whatever story you like. You’re quite right; it’s of no consequence what people think as long as they do not discover the truth. I am happy to play the fool for you, if that’s what you desire. But dear God above—” My temper was so inflamed that I nearly lost command of myself entirely, and fought hard to regain my composure. When that failed, I restrained myself to speaking in a whisper. “Don’t call me your man. It hurts.”

For a single instant, Holmes’ impassivity wavered, but I turned away from him before I could be drawn in by whatever scraps of genuine emotion he saw fit to offer me. 

By the time I returned, Barker and McCarthy had taken up their conversation again, Miss Irene Adler watching them with some amusement, though she cast me a speculative glance as I stepped back into the room

“I hope I did not keep you waiting too long,” I said to Mary as I took my seat.

“Not at all.” She gazed at me with such compassion that it hurt to witness, knowing what I was doing to her. “Are you quite alright, Johnny?”

“No, I daresay that I’m not.”

“Is there anything I can do?”

Holmes strode back into the room then, ignoring our little table entirely, instead directing his steps to the corner where Miss Irene Adler sat. He offered her a grand, sweeping bow and when she held out her hand, he pressed a lingering kiss to her bare skin. 

“—I promise, dear lady, to be as familiar as you like,” he murmured as he took the seat opposite her.  There came a touch of colour in her cheeks, a spark of interest glimmering in the glance she turned upon him.

I felt an angry flush flaming my cheeks as I fixed my gaze upon Mary. “Not at present, I merely felt a bit overcrowded. It has already passed. But what of you?”

“Me?”

“I realise that I perhaps have not been as attentive towards you as a gentleman ought to be. There are some extenuating circumstances which have stayed my hand, but I do not wish for you to form from my behaviour the impression that I do not care for your well being. Far from it—if I have distanced myself from you it is because I recognise my current abstraction causes you pain and I have wished to spare you from it.”

Mary’s expression turned wistful. She laid her hand upon the table, and I accepted the invitation to take it in my own. “I wonder, would such a method prove effective with you if our roles were reversed? Or if it was Holmes expressing his care towards you in such an unorthodox fashion?”

Her clear blue eyes met mine, and I saw in that instant that she understood more of the truth than I had feared. There was no judgement in her gaze, only sorrow.

“No,” I answered. “I don’t believe I would.”

As if on cue, Holmes and Irene Adler burst out in a fit of mirth, Holmes quickly leaned forward to shush her, placing one finger to her lips. 

I brought my free hand up to cover my face, rubbing at my eyes till spots formed behind my lids. 

“Yet I must hope that is what he is doing, else I will go mad,” I muttered under my breath. 

Raising my head, I saw that while Mary had not heard this last, Holmes had. The lines of his back coiled with tension before he leapt to his feet and made his way towards the Grieffs, the elder of whom sat plucking at a fiddle.

“May I?” asked Holmes, holding out his hand.

“Do you play?” 

The now familiar pain stabbed at my temples as the answer supplied itself to my addled mind; Holmes was an enthusiastic musician, being himself not only a very capable performer but a composer of no ordinary merit. 

Without a word he took up the offered violin and began to play a low, languid air– his own, no doubt, for he could resist no opportunity to showcase the full force of his skill. 

Those keen eyes slid closed as a hush fell over the room, the aquiline lines of his face softened with rapt concentration. I was mesmerised by his gaunt limbs, his earnest face, and the rise and fall of his bow, struck by the dual nature of his singular character; in turns either extreme and exacting in his astuteness, or so profoundly lyrical and contemplative that it stole my breath away. On such rare instances, I could convince myself that I was glimpsing some deeper, truer part of his nature, one which seemed to answer all the yearnings tangled in my soul. 

The last, melancholy note lingered in the air, then faded into silence. A stunned burst of applause came from Barker and his American friend. Ignoring this, Holmes returned both the bow and instrument to their owner with an air of indifference.

“That was beautiful,” said Grieff, clearing away a lump in his throat. “That is my greatest regret for my daughter—she will never know music.”

“None of us can have all that we might wish for,” Holmes remarked. “She may know other joys of which the rest of us are ignorant.”

“True enough, I suppose,” Grieff said, though it was plain that he agreed only for the sake of politeness. He perched the violin on his own shoulder. “Well, it won’t quite be as eloquent as yours, but we could use something a little lighter to raise the spirits, eh?”

He began plucking out a jaunty tune, the American at once taking it upon himself to begin clapping and stomping along. Holmes swung once more from pensive stillness to devouring energy, bounding back to Irene Adler and held out his hand.

“Shall we dance?”

She took his hand and rose to her feet with a coy smile. They began to cut a lively waltz across the limited floor space, laughing all the while. I could not bear to watch.

“Would you care to dance?” I asked Mary.

“Some other time,” she answered. “At present I should like to retire to my cabin.”

“I’ll accompany you. I’ve had quite enough myself,” I said, throwing my napkin upon the table and pulling out Mary’s chair for her.

When we were alone in the hall, I reached out and looped her arm through mine. “I am sorry.”

“I know,” she answered. “I’m not angry with you. You must not imagine I would demand you turn away from your companion, if that is what it took to make you happy.”

“I could not ask that of you. Of either of you.”

“Then what exactly is it that you want, Johnny?”

I gave her a sad smile. “I am still determining that.”

 “Would you be so kind as to let me know when you’ve made up your mind?”

“As perceptive as you are Mary, you will no doubt intuit the outcome before I know it myself.”

“Yes, I imagine I will.” She gazed up at me, her honest face creased with tender concern. “I still love you, Johnny. In spite of all of it. Is that foolish?”

“No, it's beautiful. I am not worthy of it, of course, but I suppose that only enhances the beauty of the sentiment. However, in spite of it all, I do love you too. You do not know how much I wish that was enough.”

“You’ll pick him,” Mary said suddenly. “You have already, anyone could see that. If he lets you, you’ll follow him anywhere.”

“If he lets me,” I agreed as I bent down to press a kiss to her cheek. When I pulled away, her eyes were brimming with unshed tears.

Chapter Text

The position in which I find myself has deteriorated from bad to worse. I am ashamed to confess that even in my darkest imaginings, it never occurred to me that the presence of a vampire aboard this vessel might present a danger to any save soul myself. I hold some hope that this has not been a fatal lapse of judgement, for there remains some question as to whether a crime has been committed at all, and if so of what nature—such facile reassurances do little to assuage my growing doubts. 

It was another dismal morning but after the sweltering heat of the night, the cool misty air was almost refreshing. In the still quiet that falls upon the world the first hour of a new day, I stood upon the bow watching the pearly dawn break through a shroud of gauzy clouds. As the sky brightened, I caught sight of Cara Grieff up in the moonrakers, helping her father check the rigging, using an elegant system of tugging upon the ropes and sails to communicate with one another without words. The girl climbed with a speed and agility that her father could never hope to match and their laughter rang down on us, golden as the dawn. 

As they descended, Cara skipped over to me, having evidently seen me from above.

“Good morning, Dr. Watson!”

“Good morning, Ms. Grieff. I didn’t know you were such an excellent climber—I take it you have no fear of heights.”

“Dad would never let me fall.”

“Of course he wouldn’t.”

Grieff had joined us, handing his daughter a flask from his hip, which she drained in eager swallows.

“How are you this morning, Mr. Grieff?” I asked, signing along so that Cara could follow.

“Looking forward to a long day’s rest to be honest with you. I got called onto the night watch at the last minute and I'm afraid my age is catching up to me.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. What happened to the man assigned the watch to begin with?” 

“You don’t know?” When my brow furrowed in answer, he shot a nervous glance at his daughter. “There are some things that leave a shadow on your soul, best to remain ignorant of them if you can.”

As Grieff spoke, Doyle had emerged from the hold, glancing around then making a direct line to where the three of us stood. Doyle was by nature a very strong, self-contained man—I do not think that he would ever show his stronger emotions on the surface—but I, who knew him so well, could see that he was deeply concerned.

“Grieff, Little Grieff. "He offered Cara a salute, which she returned with enthusiasm before redirecting his attention to me. “Watson, might I have a word with you in my quarters?”

“Of course.” I agreed, at a complete loss for how to account for these abrupt summons. 

He kept a brisk pace all the way to his cabin, holding one side of the double door open for me when we arrived. His was a warm, stately chamber, adorned with various trinkets he accumulated in his travels. The young Irishman stood fiddling with something on the wide shelf along the wall to our left. I had assumed he too was there at Doyle’s request, but this was evidently not the case for when Doyle saw the lad, he grew irate.

“What are you doing in here? Get out.”

“Yes sir!” the lad squeaked, setting the ship in a bottle he held back from where he had gotten it—a miniature of the Matilda Briggs . “Sorry sir, I was just curious, was all. It won’t happen again, sir.”

Doyle waved him away, waiting until the door had shut behind the lad before sitting at his desk with a tired sigh. 

“These new crewmen will be the death of me,” he muttered. Doyle pushed aside a chess board that sat in the middle of the desk and fished into the bottom drawer to pull out a bottle of brandy. “Drink?”

“Not quite this early in the day for me, thank you.”

“Suit yourself,” he said as he took a glass from the same drawer and filled it up to the brim, draining it in a single swallow, then gestured to the chair opposite him.

“Perhaps I should reconsider,” I remarked as I took my seat. “Is everything alright?”

He barked out a laugh. “A difficult question to answer. All may be well, if a little inconvenient for myself—but this would hardly be the first time this sort of intrigue had transpired at sea—or the circumstances may be dire indeed. I am at a loss to know how to interpret it and was hoping you might be able to shed some light on the subject."

“I am happy to offer you whatever assistance I can.”

“You do not appear to be aware of what has occurred, that alone is suggestive.”

“Ought I to be?”

“No, not if you had no part in the matter. I apologise—I appear to be getting into your involved habit, Watson, of telling a story backward. Let me start from the beginning. I recently hired a young man by the name of Norton. He was assigned to dinner duty last night so I believe you will have seen him. Scrawny lead, poorly dressed.”

“Yes, I saw him.”

“He also had the first night watch. A quarter after two, I was roused by the ship tossing with the sea. Coming up to the deck, I found no one at the wheel. My men and I have searched this ship from prow to stern but there is no sign of him—however, one of the lifeboats is gone with him. I would presume this to be a most usual means of turning in his resignation, were it not for the fact that not one but two souls vanished from this vessel under the cover of night, and the other was—”

“The woman,” I guessed. “Irene Adler.”

He levelled the full force of his stormy gaze upon me. “The very same. How did you know?”

“You’ve summoned me, I think I can guess why.”

“It might have been Miss Morstan or Mr. Holmes who had gone missing.”

“You would not have behaved in such a manner if your concerns were of a personal nature.”

The corner of his mouth twitched up.  “You are correct. Grieff has told me all that occurred at dinner last night. It would seem that Miss Adler and Mr. Holmes became fast friends over the course of the evening. They were the last two in the dining hall when Grieff left, and as a consequence, Holmes was the last person to be seen with Miss Adler before her disappearance. I regret that I have to ask this, but duty is duty. Do you think it possible that Mr. Holmes had a hand in this?”

When my answer was not immediately forthcoming, Doyle adopted a more serious tone. “Watson, I insist upon your honesty. I know you well; you possess a degree of magnetism which draws good humour from all around you. If determined to do so you might charm away any hint of suspicion. But I also know you to be a man of honour and I am placing a great deal of faith in your better nature.”

“No,” I said, answering a different question than the one he had asked. “I do not believe Holmes had anything to do with the disappearance of either Norton or Adler.”

“And do you have any other reservations as to his character?”

“That is a separate question, and not one which is relevant to your inquiry,” I said with some irritation.

“Yet you would have given your answer readily had it been no.”

“You can hardly expect me to give a reliable accounting on that score; Holmes is my friend—of course I think well of him. He is not a killer, whatever else he may be. Will that suffice at present?”

“I suppose it will have to,” Doyle answered with some trepidation. “For now.”

“If you want my opinion Doyle, I think it more likely that Norton and Adler have fled together. I observed a certain intimacy between the two, the exchanging of some secret looks. I thought nothing of it at the time, but there may have been an understanding between them.”

“If they travelled together, why the elaborate deception?”

“That I cannot say other than to speculate that there may have been some other extenuating circumstance which necessitated it.”

Doyle folded his hands before him. “That was my own initial opinion of the matter, and it is the accounting I shall include in my reports, unless some other more decisive evidence is uncovered. That will be all at present. You are free to go.”

“Thank you, Doyle,” I said as I rose to my feet.

“You’re treading a dangerous road, Watson. Take care that you don’t fall from it.”

To this remark, I made no reply. 

When I returned to the deck, I found that the crew had dispersed with the exception of the young lad who had been thrown out of Doyle’s cabin. He stood beside a barrel of rum gripping onto it as if for dear life.

“I think I’ve provided a sufficient distraction,” I told him with a reassuring grin. “Doubtless he has forgotten all about the matter by now”

He let out a high nervous laugh. “Thank you, Dr. Watson. I’m still new to this. I—I don’t think I’m much use to anyone.”

“You’ll come into it soon enough. Not to worry.”

He gave me a tentative smile before squaring his shoulders and returning to his work.

Wandering back into the hold, I found the rest of the passengers once again assembled in the dining hall. Doyle stood near the windows with his hands clasped before him, addressing the rest with a sombre air. Holmes now sat at Miss Adler’s table alone. After wavering for a moment, I joined Mary.

“—A proper enquiry will, of course, be conducted when we reach England,” said Doyle. “I remain at your disposal at all times. Good day.”

When he had gone, Barker let out a low whistle. “Two people gone in one night. I thought I felt a patch of rough sailing, but I would not have imagined this to be the explanation for it.”

“I noticed nothing myself,” said the American. “But then I am a heavy sleeper. Now, Dr. Watson, word has it Captain Doyle requested a private audience with you this morning. May one ask why?”

I gave him an easy smile. “Doyle and I are old friends. He has been known to take me into his confidence from time to time.”

“My compliments upon another artfully meaningless answer,” said the American.

“Dr. Watson is the very soul of discretion,” remarked Holmes. “You would not ask him to cast aside the trust that has been placed in him.”

It was with some distress that I noted a marked alteration in Holmes’ demeanour. I had expected to find him in subdued spirits, but on the contrary his mood was bright and joyous with that somewhat sinister cheerfulness I had glimpsed in his lighter moments. A faint flush was evident in his cheeks, and his eyes shone with enthusiasm.

“I suppose not,” said the American. “Still there is something mysterious about the entire affair. I myself am inclined to suspect a romantic intrigue, but who knows? They may have been swallowed up by this infernal fog. It’s been following us in a most nefarious fashion.”

“Yes,” quipped Barker. “Nevermind rational explanations, let us progress straight to suspecting the involvement of the supernatural.”

“It passes the time,” replied the American with a wink. 

“I’d be curious to know your opinion on the matter, Mr. Holmes,” said Mary without looking up from her breakfast. “Have you developed any theory to account for it?”

Putting his hands into his pockets, Holmes stretched out his legs in front of the fire and laughed heartily. “I fear that if the matter is beyond humanity it is certainly beyond me. Concerning the parties in question, I confess that women have seldom been an attraction to me, for my brain has always governed my heart, but no man not could look upon Miss Adler’s perfect clear-cut face, with all the soft freshness of the downlands in her delicate colouring, and emerge unscathed. I found our intercourse most stimulating, I am sorry to have the acquaintance cut off in so sudden a manner.”

I was not the only one to cast a wary glance towards him in response to this dubious speech, delivered in such an impassioned air that it almost bordered on mania.

“Indeed?” said the American. “And did she say anything to you which might have suggested she planned her disappearance?”

“If she had, you could not expect me to answer the question honestly. But in truth, she mentioned nothing of the kind. Then again, our conversation did not stray to our plans for the future.”

“What did you discuss?”

Holmes offered an enigmatic smile over the rim of his teacup before standing to his feet. “If you will excuse me, I should like to take a turn about the deck before the weather gives out.”

Only my awareness that following after him would further rouse the suspicions of everyone else aboard kept me from acting upon the impulse. I finished my breakfast, attempting more than once to draw Mary into conversation, but she would only offer polite, one-word answers. I left as soon as I felt I could do so without adding to the dark drama encircling us, and found Holmes standing in the hall between our cabins.

“Was your walk refreshing?” I asked.

“Quite,” he answered, that same wild intensity in his eyes. I noted with some annoyance that he took a half step away from me as I leaned against the wall between our rooms.

“Your little speech just now has caused quite the commotion. Any man in his right mind would wonder whether you were the culprit.”

“Yes, that was rather the idea.”

I arched an eyebrow. “Attempting to hide in plain sight, are you?”

“Pardon?”

“You seem in good spirits today,” I remarked. “As if infused with new life. Quite the coincidence, is it not, that such a change would occur so soon after your liaisons with Miss Adler.”

“What a nonsensical conclusion to come to.”

“Is it?” I demanded.

“Have you no faith in me at all?”

I had to laugh, for he could have hardly asked a more fraught question. In spite of my better judgement, I found myself becoming persuaded by the absence of guilt in his countenance.

“You had nothing to do with her disappearance?” I asked.

“Not in that manner, no.”

“And you will not tell me what part you did play?”

“Would that it were in my power to do so, Watson, that I might set your mind at perfect ease, but it is not my secret to give,” was his earnest reply. I noted with some shock that my suspicion appeared to have unsettled him. I supposed he was a man of narrow and concentrated habits—perhaps I had become one of them, though I could not imagine what use I served him.

“Your word is enough for me,” I told him.

“I was sure that I might rely on you,” said he, and for a moment there was something in his eyes which was nearer to tenderness than I had ever seen. The next instant he was his masterful, practical self once more. “Now, one or both of us must leave before the others catch us here, else all my work shall be for nothing.”

He strode off, leaving me to ponder what he might have meant by this strange pronouncement, and whether the sliver of encouragement it seemed to offer was merely an attempt to placate me. If so, his ploy has not been entirely successful, but he may care little for what inner turmoil I suffer so long as I do not stand against him. This I know myself at present to be incapable of doing, and I pray that my divided resolve will not be tested in so cruel a manner.

—

I am relieved to say that little of importance has transpired since my last entry. Over the course of the afternoon, I spoke little, tormented as I was by gnawing suspicions. Mary’s attention had likewise turned inward—none of my tentative efforts proved sufficient to draw her from her reverie. She retired early, claiming seasickness and while I suppose her distance is to be expected given the circumstances, her obvious distress pricks my conscience.

After dinner, the rest of the passengers made their way out onto the deck to watch the crew as they sang a few shanties. Among these was Doyle and watching him then it was at once apparent why he inspired such steadfast loyalty in his crew. His joke was always the readiest, his conversation the brightest, and his song the best—he seemed to tower over the rest who sat almost in awe of him. The only crewman not to partake in the warm circle of mirth was the meek deckhand who had been assigned to the night-watch as a result of his infraction of the morning. He stood at the wheel some distance behind me where I leaned against the railing, looking down on the joyous scene. 

Holmes sat perched upon the bow, his legs folded under him so that he looked rather like a large bird with his eyes closed, gently waving his long, thin fingers in time to the music. The sound of approaching footsteps alerted me to the fact that I had been staring, and I forced myself to turn my attention elsewhere.

“Don’t dream,” I muttered to myself as I gazed up at the waxing moon. 

“Warm night, isn’t it?” I turned to find the American standing beside me, raising a cigarette to his lips, the burning end glowed bright red as he took in a breath before exhaling a long stream of smoke. He offered me a silver cigarette case as he settled against the railing.

“Smoke?” he asked.

“Yes, thank you.” Before I could fish my matches out of my pocket, he held out the end of his cigarette towards me—there was a careful sort of speculation in his eyes as he watched me press the end of a fresh cigarette to the burning embers of his own and take my first drag. It was the first time I had observed him with any degree of care, and I discerned a certain firmness of jaw and grim tightness about the lips which hinted at depths beyond the quick wit and ready smile. 

He was evidently analysing me in turn, for he suddenly broke out into a wide smile and held his free hand out towards mine. 

“Dr. John Hopley Neligan, pleased to make your acquaintance.” When I frowned, he let out a laugh, more subdued than the booming amusement he usually displayed. “Apologies, I couldn’t resist, it’s a little running joke of mine and you seemed the perfect audience for it.”

“I’m afraid I don’t follow.”

He leaned towards me in a conspiratorial manner. “It’s an ingenious sort of disguise, isn’t it? John, Jack, James, men so ordinary they all blend together. Jefferson, Joseph, Jonathan. We all know a hundred men with those names, a thousand. If people assume you’re just one more man in the crowd, it grants you quite a bit of freedom to get yourself into all sorts of trouble.”

“I haven’t given a false name,” I said, somewhat disgruntled by the accusation.

“Oh, I know you haven’t,” he answered in his mellow and pleasing way. “I’ve heard of you. Even in America there are whispers of your reputation, Dr. Watson. Those ladies have their stories about you…” He took another drag of his cigarette before his eyes flashed back to mine, continuing in a low murmur. “The gentlemen too, if one knows the right circles.”

I stiffened.

“Now, now, don’t go getting nervous. I have no intention of breathing a word of what I know—couldn’t do so without incriminating myself, could I?”

He glanced over his shoulder to Mr. Cecil Barker where he stood with his back to the centre mast. As we watched, Barker raised his own cigarette, a subtle smoke signal in the night.

“I guess most men have a little private reserve of their own in some corner of their souls where they don't welcome intruders,” continued the American. “Normally I wouldn’t have burst into yours, but I thought under the circumstances, you might appreciate a look in the mirror.”

“What mirror?”

“One can always find a mirror if one tries,” he said with a wink. “I’m settling down in England myself when we arrive, you see I’ll be getting married next month.”

“Does Mr. Barker know of your plans?”

“Oh, yes. Cecil and Ivy are quite as fond of each other as I am of them.”

“Ah,” I averted my gaze. “I’m afraid my own circumstances are not so congenial. In any case, Holmes does not—” My words caught in my throat, for I was unable to confess the thought to myself, let alone to a stranger.

The American barked out an incredulous laugh. “You must be having me on.”

I glanced over at him to find him staring down at something on the lower deck, his grin widening. I turned to follow his gaze, but only saw Holmes staring out at the water. 

“Then again, I suppose that I have the advantage of being able to see him when he knows you can’t.” 

His words stirred to life the hope I had been fighting to suppress; it must have shown on my features for he let out another laugh. 

“A word of advice, in that case. Decide what you want and go after it with all you have. Men like you and me, we’re running on borrowed time—we have to take what happiness we can while we still have the luxury of air in our lungs.”

“You have no idea,” I answered with some amusement.

“Oh, I do. My record rivals your own, in its way. We can’t all make a name for ourselves stitching up the wounded, some of us must get our hands dirty in the name of our causes. I have left my mark on society, though for good or evil it is harder to judge. My business was a hard game, and the weak went to the wall. But I played the game for all it was worth. Can’t say as I’ve always taken the right road, but I did what I thought best. If I were a betting man—and I am—I’d place good money on your odds if you do the same.”

“Thank you—” I began, then stopped short when I realised I did not know how to address him.

“John Douglas,” he supplied. “That’s the one I’ll be using in England, anyway. With any luck, I’ll be wearing it till the day I die.”

“Good evening then, Mr. Douglas.”

“Good evening, Dr. Watson.”

I returned then to my cabin, my spirits somewhat bolstered by the exchange. In spite of the dark circumstances surrounding me, I find myself tentatively hopeful of what the new day might bring.

—

I have not the time to write more than a few hasty words, for my services have been most urgently requested.

John Douglas has been found dead.

Chapter Text

It is with a heavy heart that I take up my pen to write these words, having resigned myself to the unlikelihood that both Sherlock Holmes and myself will survive a final discussion of those questions which lie between us. To whoever may find this volume in the event of my death—I have, in an incoherent and, as I deeply feel now, an entirely inadequate fashion, endeavoured to give some account of my strange experiences in his company from the chance which first brought us together until the present moment. If you have read this diary from the beginning, you know—even if you cannot understand—why I have been slow to accept the truth of what I have inadvertently wrought upon you. If urgency compels you to begin with the last entry, know that in the matter of destroying a vampire, sunlight presents your surest opportunity—if I have failed, a stake has proven insufficient for the task.

Against all reason, writing such clear instructions for his demise feels like a betrayal. If I am dead, Sherlock Holmes has lied to me in every conceivable way. I imagined for a time that all he did was for my own sake, but now I fear that I was never anything but a tool in his hands. Why should I preserve faith in him who never kept any in me? And yet even now I cannot relinquish that glimpse of what might have been. I hope—even knowing that foolish sentiment may be the death of me.

I shall know soon enough where I stand.

When I arrived upon the deck, a half circle of crewmen had formed around John Douglas’ corpse. Cecil Barker stood to the side, his hand pressed over his mouth as he stared out at the water with hollow, deadened eyes. Douglas lay on his back, his knees drawn up, his hands thrown out in agony. In the centre of his broad, tanned neck, a chunk of his flesh was missing, as if some beast had sunk its teeth into his neck and torn out his throat. Strong as he was, he must have gone down with a fight, and yet apart from the fatal injury, there were no traces of a struggle. His body was pale and ashen—drained of all blood.

Doyle glanced at me as I crouched down beside him. “Good, you’re here, Watson. I wanted a second opinion before I came to any conclusion myself. What do you think?”

“The wound on the neck seems definitive. Had you moved the body before I arrived?”

“No. I had the same thought—if he died here, where is all the blood?”

I grit my teeth together, scanning for any evidence that might support a conclusion other than the inevitable. Douglas’ had rolled his sleeves up to the elbows, and a strange mark shone on the paler skin of his forearm.

“What is that?” I asked, indicating it to Doyle.

He had already seen it. “It's not tattooed. I never saw anything like it on a man, it’s much like a cattle brand. I wonder what the meaning of it might be.”

“I don't profess to know the meaning of it,” said Cecil Barker in a hoarse whisper. “But I have seen the mark on Douglas many times this last ten years I have known him.”

“What else can you tell me of him? Did he have any enemies?

“Too many to count,” answered Barker. “That is little matter now, as none of them could have been behind this. That is not how I wish to remember him, I would rather preserve his better nature. He was fond of me—no man could be fonder of a friend, even as he was devoted to his fiancée. You can take it from me, gentlemen, if it was my last word, that no man would have had a more loving, faithful bride—and I can say also no friend could be more loyal than I.”

“Easy, man, no one has accused you,” said Anderson, for Barker had grown increasingly animated as he spoke.

Barker wheeled on Anderson, snatching him by the scruff of his collar. “Then you agree someone is guilty. What do you know? What has happened to my friend?”

Doyle rose and disengaged the two men, holding Barker in place as he looked him square in the eye. “You have my word, Mr. Barker, we will do everything we can to determine the answers to your questions, and if it lies within our power, his murderer will see justice.”

In the face of Doyle’s authority, Barker’s fury abated. He turned to hide his face as fresh tears sprung to his eyes. “Excuse me. I would like to return to my cabin.”

“Of course. If there is anything I can do, you need only say the word.” He turned his attention to his men. “Anderson, go below and explain to the passengers that they are not to come onto the deck until further notice. Then find Grieff and Wilder and have them find a suitable place to keep Mr. Douglas’ remains.”

“Yes, Captain.”

“And take the lad with you, he looks as if he is about to be sick.”

It was true, the cabin boy was panting from the effort of retaining his composure.

“Yes, Captain. Come along, boy.”

Doyle waited until their footsteps had faded away, then turned his attention to me. I wished to God I had been tasked with keeping my thoughts hidden from any other man.

“I will not demand you take me into your confidence,” he said. “But I ask as your friend and, for the moment, as your captain—do you consider Dr. Watson, that there is immediate danger?”

“Most certainly there is,” I answered.

“I concur. We are forced to assume there is a murderer among us, we can, I fear, place trust nowhere. But what normal man could have done this?”

“It was not a normal man,” I answered as I stared into the gaping wound in Douglas’ throat. I felt Doyle’s gaze upon me, but I could not bring myself to look at him. “You must double the watch. See to it that no one walks the decks alone.”

“Given the size of my crew, I don’t think that will be possible.”

“It will be if you give the order,” I insisted.

“And what would you have me do of the murderer aboard this vessel?”

A tumult of conflicting sentiments raged within my heart, but my determination blazed hotter still. “An investigation will be conducted. By me. You must allow me that, along with some little time to make the necessary preparations.”

“Watson—”

“Trust once lost cannot be easily restored, I know that,” I said, my eyes flashing to his as I spoke with all the strength of my conviction. “I have done nothing to break yours, nor do I intend to. Will you permit me to act as I see fit? I have some small insights into our circumstances which make me uniquely qualified to right them.”

He levelled his steady gaze upon me for some minutes, his jaw set in a hard line. “I will give you until nightfall. If there have been no developments by then—”

“There will be. You have my word.”

When he nodded his assent, I turned on my heel and marched away, making my way down to the hold in search of the supply of loose tinder. As I approached, I heard whispers before me.

“—never trusted that man from the beginning. There is something wrong about him. And his friend,” said Anderson.

“You think he brought the bad luck?” replied Wilder. “A Jonah?”

“Of course not. I’m just pointing out that it’s quite a coincidence, so many passengers on the one voyage he happened to arrange months in advance, and now they’re disappearing one by one.”

“What purpose could that possibly serve him?”

“No good one,” answered Anderson.

I cleared my throat as I stepped around the corner; Anderson startled and eyed me in a guilty manner, confirming that it was me to whom he had been referring. I quickly found what I had been looking for and picked up a piece of firewood about a foot in length and stepped back out of the hold without a word.

I made what farewell I could to Mary without rousing unnecessary concern. She remained as distant in her manner as ever, but I did not wish to leave her without any hint of what had occurred in the event of my disappearance. You will have found a sealed envelope alongside this volume. See to it that it makes its way to her, and tell her how deeply I regret involving her with forces so far beyond the mortal scope.

I have delayed all I reasonably may. God willing, this fatal hour shall either prove all my fears to be without foundation, or I myself shall vanish along with my hopes, for if my castle in the air should fall, I would prefer to be buried in the ruins.

—

For the man defined by his convictions, there could be no greater trial than to be bound by indecision, forced to doubt the instincts which have so long sustained him. Such circumstances as I have endured nearly split the soul, making the mind the enemy of the heart. For some time I have hung suspended between two irreconcilable understandings of myself and my fate. One of these was the purest truth, the other an absolute perversion of the facts. Till now, I have not been able to judge which was which—my reason and my desire being so at odds with one another.

At last, it lies with me to write for the first time what really took place between myself, Professor James Moriarty, and Mr. Sherlock Holmes.

I found the door to cabin nine unlocked and entered the room without knocking, pulling it shut behind me. Sherlock Holmes lay on his bed, fully clothed with a burgundy dressing gown wrapped about his shoulders. He laid with his hands folded beneath his chin, his face a mask of perfect serenity. As I turned to face him, his piercing grey eyes swept over me, lingering over my left pocket where I had placed my crude wooden stake without any attempt to conceal it.

He gave a sound of dry amusement. “So it has come to that, then? You have my congratulations, Dr. Watson; the entire business has been well stage-managed—and perfectly cast. Though if I may be allowed to offer some critique, you have gone rather far in securing your justification. You might have confronted me without such effort if that was what you desired.”

I could make no sense of this speech and so elected to ignore it. “Do you know why I’m here?”

“There can be little doubt on that score.”

“And will you confess?”

“To what crime? The death of Mr. Douglas or some other affair?”

I gripped the end of the stake where it rested against my thigh. “Three people in two nights, Holmes. I never would have believed you capable of it.”

Holmes scoffed. “I suppose I should not be surprised you intend to paint all of it with the same brush. You are nothing if not thorough.”

“Will you admit to it?” I asked again.

“What you do in this world is a matter of no consequence,” he said archly. “The question is, what can you make people believe that you have done?” 

“So you refuse to tell me the truth even now.” My grasp tightened around the stake, but to my dismay I found myself yet unwilling to draw my only weapon. “You use me and yet you do not trust me. I think I have deserved better at your hands, Holmes.”

“And what have I deserved at yours?” Holmes retorted, his eyes flashing with indignation. “I cannot deny that you have some right to take your vengeance upon me but is this a just punishment? Why involve others?”

“I have involved no one!” I insisted in a fervent whisper, striding across the room to tower over him. “I have remained loyal to you until the last. Even now, everything within me rebels against taking the only course I know to be right, but I cannot stand by and allow you to continue after what you’ve done. If there was some excuse for your actions, you forfeited it by my presence. You know full well that all you had to do was breathe one word—offer me a single glance—and I would have given you all you wanted, even my life had you requested it. That is the worst of it—why make me watch? Do you revel in my disillusionment? My depraved longing for you to have chosen me instead, even in this? Is it an experiment on what the human soul can endure? It may be a mere intellectual puzzle to you, but it is life and death to me and to everyone else aboard this ship.”

A singular intentness had come upon his features as I spoke, and he gazed at me with eager curiosity as his hands lowered to his sides. “You believe I’m guilty.”

“What else can I believe? Who else—what else—would have killed Douglas in such a manner? I am not a fool, I can recognise a vampire’s bite when I see it.”

“I know,” he said quietly. “I thought you had replicated it for that purpose.”

“What?”

“You have not framed me for Douglas’ murder,” he stated, his eyes full of some deep emotion.

“Why would I—”

“Because I did not kill him, and I made the error of assuming you had, for it seemed the most logical conclusion to me at the time.”

I stared at him in silence, my eyes scrutinising every inch of his face, searching for any hint of deception. 

“Don’t play with me, Holmes,” I implored.

“My word is not worth much, but I swear to you that you have not brought a murderer aboard this vessel.” A chagrined smile ghosted over his features. “Your distrust in me is understandable. Mine in you, on the other hand, was inexcusable. I should never have believed so ill of you. You have my sincerest apologies, I am afraid my mind is somewhat muddled at present.”

I was still rather raw from the strain of my suspicions, but the warmth of Holmes’s praise drove the turmoil from my mind. I gazed at him with fresh eyes, noting for the first time that he had not once raised his head since I had entered the room—saw too a pale sheen of sweat dewing across his brow. The glassy eyed abstraction I had noted the day prior had only intensified, and I at last comprehended it could be explained by fever as easily as a frenzy for blood.

“Show me,” I ordered. 

“No,” he answered.

“Why not?”

“Because it would test even your iron constitution, and as a result you would insist upon treating me, which I cannot allow. It's for your own sake, Watson.”

“In what regard?”

“I may be contagious,” he offered.

“Contagious,” I echoed, arching an eyebrow.

“Yes, that’s it—contagious by touch. Keep your distance and all is well.”

In other circumstances I might have deferred to his wishes, even when I least understood them, but all my professional instincts were aroused, along with a keener sense of what it was that he feared. I might let him be my master elsewhere—I at least was his in a sick room.

I closed the remaining distance between us and knelt on the floor beside him. All his muscles tensed at my proximity, and a smile pulled at the corner of my mouth at the evidence that my supposition had been correct.  

“Do you suppose that such a consideration weighs with me of an instant?” I asked softly. “It would not affect me in the case of a stranger. Do you imagine it would prevent me from doing my duty to so dear a friend?”

I reached out and took his right hand where it lay fisted at his side, uncurling his fingers and bringing it to rest against the side of my throat.

Holmes’ eyes squeezed shut as a shudder wracked his frame. 

“Watson,” he whispered, his voice full of barely suppressed longing.

“You might have allowed me to ease your suffering before now,” I said with quiet affection. 

He shook his head, as if trying to clear it. “You think you care for me, but do I not care for you? Would I not choose to sacrifice myself rather than risk your dear heart?”

He thought my heart dear to him. I swallowed as my pulse quickened, his fingers convulsing at the feeling of it.

“A man may find it difficult to understand denial as love,” I said carefully.

“No, he may not understand. But he should trust.”

A wordless cry of delight escaped me at this admission, so close to a confession of all I had so long hoped. I brought my free hand to his cheek, encouraging him to turn to face me, waiting until his eyes slid open before I spoke again.

“Suppose you and I had met as ordinary men,” I murmured. “Would I have had a chance?”

Holmes’ graceful hand came to rest over my own as he leaned into my caress, his flushed and handsome face marred by resigned sorrow. “I wish to Heaven that we had.”

“For God's sake, Sherlock, let it stand at that!” I cried. “Will you ruin your life and mine to spare me from what I freely lay down at your feet? Say that you will be mine, and we will face all else together.”

“To accept you would be reprehensible. You do not know your own mind.”

“As you do not know yours! Did you not just tell me that you believed that I had taken it upon myself to lie and kill in order to bring about your destruction? Don't you see that you alternately give me credit for having too much agency and too little?” When he remained unpersuaded, I tried another approach. “If the absence of my memory is all that constrains you, it is within your power to restore me.”

It was with considerable satisfaction that I saw the first signs of his restraint beginning to fail him. “I can discover facts, Watson, but I cannot change them.”

“I do not ask you to change them. Show me the truth and you will at last know that there is nothing that can remove your claim upon my heart.”

Holmes took in a shuddering breath. “I could try, but I cannot promise this will not wound you deeply in another direction.”

“Wound me,” I declared. “Whatever the price, I pay it gladly.”

I watched him struggle against himself in silence for some minutes, his hand squeezing around mine where it rested against his cheek. I steadied myself and waited, knowing that in the end, the decision was his alone.

At last, some final barrier within him seemed to give way—the sharp lines of his face folding in anguish, his eyes burning with terrible desire.

“Please,” Holmes begged in a broken whisper. “Let me.”

“It was always yours,” I told him. “You had only to ask.”

Helping him to prop himself onto his elbows, I cradled his face with gentle hands bringing him close to me. He let out a soft groan as he nestled into the crook where my neck met my shoulder. He placed a soft kiss to the sensitive skin there before his lips parted. I held my breath as he grazed his teeth across my throat.

Chapter Text

There are some experiences which are so transcendent that no words, no matter how carefully chosen, could ever hope to convey them. An act as intimate as the sharing of blood—two hearts coming together to beat as one—defies all attempts at description. In endeavouring to express the inexpressible, I could write of the softness of his lips, the tenderness with which held me as his hands came to grasp my shoulders, the back of my neck, the way my own hands tangled in his hair as the golden pleasure of his kiss radiated through me, banishing away even a hint of pain. All of this would be true, but none of these remarkable sensations were the greater part of that profound exchange. 

It was as if in breaking my skin he had torn aside a veil, revealing or creating a world beyond ordinary perception. In that misty realm, his soul met with mine, having attained a degree of intimacy to which two mortal men could never hope to aspire. I felt his devotion as if it were my own, experienced firsthand the love he had for me, and I knew him even as I was known. 

I had no time to revel in this divine communion, for no sooner had we entered that ethereal plane then Holmes was twining his fingers with mine and taking off, leading me by the hand as he chased after some nebulous strain he had sensed in his blood or mine. Joined as we were, my heart thrilled with his anticipation, though even allowing for the advantage of knowing his thoughts, I did not understand them; they flitted along like lightning, drawing connections between such disharmonious details that I had not the context to follow them.

The fog swirled around us, resolving into more definite shapes. Echoes of sound rang through the air as if from a great distance, the clopping of horse hooves and the clatter of carriage wheels, the clamour of teeming millions echoing down narrow city streets. Holmes’ eyes gleamed as he urged me forward with such swift and furtive enthusiasm that he reminded me of a blood-hound picking out a scent. He gave me a sardonic glance at the comparison, but I felt beneath it the hum of his radiant joy.

Turning a corner, we came to a familiar block of buildings. As we crossed the narrow street, a patch of fog passed over us, materialising into a hansom cab on our other side. Holmes led me on towards the black door before us, addressed number 221B, and I knew where we were—this was Baker Street.

A breathless laugh escaped me as I raced ahead of Holmes to throw open the door, though I already knew what we would find within—the seventeen steps up to the landing and then the old familiar sitting room that would be a disarray of test tubes and chemical samples, inkwells and discarded scraps of paper. The scent of Bradley’s cigarettes mingled with shag tobacco would linger in the air, and there would be two armchairs pulled close to the fire belonging to the two men who lived there, a small public display of the entangled nature of their private lives—his and mine.

The vision Holmes spun was as much memory as it was dream and so even as he and I stepped into the room, there we already sat, engaged in a heated debate—Holmes perched atop the back of his chair, hunched forward in his eagerness, I staring up at him, drawing from my pipe with an air of exasperation. It was a strange dual awareness, akin to seeing a play unfold from up in the box while standing myself as an actor upon the stage. I watched and partook in equal measure the scene which unfolded.

“What is the purpose of our work,” Holmes was saying, “if not to intercede in those matters where the official forces cannot or will not? I know you share my love of all that is bizarre and outside convention; will you not agree that this falls outside their purview?”

“Does it come within our purview either?” I answered with a disbelieving laugh. “What have we to do with vampires?”

His eyes narrowed. “You imagine I am in jest.”

“As well I should, for you cannot be serious, unless you have decided to abandon your career as the world’s only unofficial detective for the more reasonable aspiration of becoming a knight in a Grimm’s fairy tale.” I scoffed. “Imagine it—Sherlock Holmes prowling the streets of London, chasing after walking corpses who can only be held in their grave by stakes driven through their hearts. It’s pure lunacy! You of all people—”

“How often have I remarked to you, John, that life is infinitely stranger than anything the mind of men could invent? You must come round to my view on this matter, for otherwise I shall keep on piling fact upon fact on you, until your reason breaks down under them and acknowledge me to be right. Even as the highest assurance for the benevolence of Providence rests in those small, ordinary wonders of the world, so too can the traces of a more malevolent force be seen in the workings of the common criminal. You have heard me speak of Professor Moriarty—”

“No—I will not debate this again with you, Sherlock,” I protested. “I must urge you to abandon your fixation with that man. I have taken it upon myself to look into his history, at your behest. The professor does indeed have a scintillating reputation across Europe, but his life has been academic. There has never been a breath of scandal.”

“And so would be the truth, if one were to believe the papers. That is the genius of it. The man—if one can use such a term for him—pervades London, pervades the world, but no one has ever heard of him. So aloof is he from general suspicion, so immune from criticism, so admirable in his management and self-effacement, that any who would speak against him only incriminate themselves. Foul-mouthed detective and slandered professor—such would be our respective roles!”

“I am relieved to hear you acknowledge it.”

“Yet you will acknowledge that honour and virtue do not always keep company, will you not?”

“I concede it.”

“Then is it so very outlandish to suggest that Moriarty possesses two separate and distinct reputations? There is on the one hand the man of refined taste who glides through the spheres of the powerful and the privileged, but the sophistication of the gentleman is nothing more than a veneer. His true face is the abominable creature of horrors known to the criminal classes. Amongst these he is never named except in whispers, for his discipline is tremendous. It is a great stroke of luck that I have persuaded one of his emissaries to communicate with me, for Porlock is the only flaw in that great chain so far as I have been able to test it.”

“How do you know that you can trust this informant when he will not even tell you his real name?”

“Does that not that fact itself stand as evidence of the rod of iron Moriarty wields over his people? But I have further proofs—you ought to know that I do not permit myself to arrive at a conclusion without first gathering all the threads into my hands. I have myself verified each and every instance Porlock has described to me. The disappearance of Jefferson Hope mere hours before his trial, the maiming of Kitty Winter, the suicide of Colonel Dorking—in all these the fiend has had a hand, and these are but drops in his great sea of tragedies. Wherever Moriarty spins his web, death and destruction follow.”

I sighed. “If, if, you are correct and Professor Moriarty has enmeshed himself in some sort of criminal conspiracy, surely it does not follow that his actions signify a diabolical intrusion into the affairs of men. Let us begin by ruling that out of our minds. A living man might accomplish what you’ve described. I have even read of the old sucking the blood of the young to retain their youth if that is your evidence of his monstrous nature. If we are to continue this conversation, I will insist that this agency remain flat-footed upon the ground. The world is big enough for us—no ghosts need apply.”

Holmes dropped down into his own seat and leaned forward to place both his hands upon my knees. “John, please believe that I am perfectly serious. I understand your scepticism; I have hitherto confined my investigations to this world and in a modest way combated evil. But if you could but see what I see. The queer things that are going on, the strange coincidences…” his manner became steadily more impassioned as he went on. “The plannings, the cross purposes working through generations. I cannot speak to the existence of others, but I do know there is at least one vampire in this world—one lone king devil who has sunk his fangs into the beating heart of humanity. The old wheel turns, the same spoke comes up, and no matter the age, it is always him.”

The earnest way in which he delivered this speech along with my own unshakeable trust in him compelled me to heed his words, even as my rational mind rebelled against accepting so fanciful a notion. As a result, my reply came with greater sarcasm than I intended.

“Is that to be the culmination of your career, then? You will take on the Father of Evil himself?”

My retort, rather than calming his fervour, seemed to inflame it. Holmes’ eyes glistened, his pale cheeks taking a warmer hue, and his whole eager face shone with that inward light that arose whenever the call for work had reached him.

“It is a terrible thing, John, to see an atrocious situation, a reprehensible evil preparing itself before your eyes, to understand where it will lead and yet be unable to avert it. Can a human being be placed in a more trying position? I tell you, I will not sit down under this!”

“And what of the other good you may still accomplish, Sherlock? Would you cast aside your life’s work for this one pursuit?”

“I have no intention of failing, yet to deny the danger would be absurd. Even if I prove myself clever enough to ensure Moriarty’s destruction, in all probability he will try to do as much to me. But as a man of honour yourself, you will understand that if I could but be assured of the former, I would cheerfully accept the latter.”

“And what of me?” I asked bitingly. “Would you abandon me so readily?”

Holmes’ expression softened with compassion. He caught my face between his hands, holding my gaze as he spoke with great care. “My sense of duty in this matter outweighs even the greatest degree of personal happiness. Even the happiness of one as dear to me as you. I assure you again that I fully intend to return to you, but if I did not, could you understand that I would have fulfilled that highest call of love, to lay down my own life for my friends? Would you deny me that?”

I had stared at him in silence for some minutes, searching his features for any sign of uncertainty. Finding none, I caressed his cheek and pressed a soft kiss to his lips. When we parted, I rested my forehead against his.

“Well, I don’t like it,” I murmured. “But I suppose it must be. When do we start?” 

His brows shot up in alarm. “You are not coming.”

“Then you are not going,” I retorted with a hard smile.

“That is out of the question.”

“It is both or none,” I insisted. “Would you shirk the sacrifice you ask of me?”

“It is not a matter of sacrifice. My plan is already in motion and involving you within it would ruin the game entirely.”

“And what precisely is your game? What do you intend to accomplish in following him to Romania?”

Holmes' expression had darkened, a sinister smile creeping across his mouth. “Moriarty, like all creations, has certain limitations. Amongst the others, the one which will spell his downfall is his hubris. For too long he has felt so clever and so sure of himself that he imagines no one can touch him. It has made him susceptible to flattery.”

“You mean to use yourself as a lure,” I surmised with displeasure.

“A trap always needs honey.”

I drew back from him, frowning. “And I can imagine what manner of temptation you intend to offer, given that you want me nowhere near the matter.”

“Your jealousy is misplaced. His interest is not sexual in nature.”

I scoffed.

“Moriarty is neither a man nor does he possess the desires of one. His thoughts, his emotions, his passions, all are exaggerated and monstrous. He has the collection mania in its most acute form—not for his horde of treasures, which is considerable—but for lives. That is the source of his appetite for blood; it is not sustenance but an addiction. He’s a fool for brilliance and beauty. Above all, he thrills in laying claim to the remarkable. That is how I will tempt him—with the promise of ownership. It is not without risk, but the effort should gain me sufficient time to—John, are you alright?” 

My features had alighted with an expression of intense concentration. A slight tremor ran through my frame, the echo of it resonating through the entire room, causing the glassware on the table to emit a soft tinkling chime as my eyes snapped back to Holmes, a strange light glinting within them.

“Yes,” I answered, the weight of some deep emotion pressing itself upon my voice. “I’m listening, pray, continue.”

He had given me a quizzical glance but went on. “Moriarty is aware I have been prying into his affairs, but he does not yet know my motivations for doing so. He has chosen his guise of professor for the opportunity to mould young minds—impress them with his own character and ideals, and so it follows that he will not be able to resist the chance to do the same to the first person to discover his secret in centuries.”

“You have not counted the correct cost,” I answered with a hard laugh. “You imagine you risk your death when if you are at all correct about his character, it is far more likely that Moriarty will seek to make you a permanent fixture in his collection.”

“You flatter me, John, but what scant evidence I’ve found shows such cases to be extraordinarily rare. As intrigued as he might be in the novelty I present, he will have no such lasting interest in me.”

I had turned my face away from him, gazing for some time into the glowing embers of the fire. “And there is nothing I can say that would persuade you to abandon this scheme?”

“Nothing whatsoever.”

When I raised my eyes back to his, my face was set with granite firmness. “Then again, I tell you that I will only agree to your plan on the condition that you allow me to follow you to Transylvania.”

“John—”

“Not with you, Sherlock—after you. I will not interfere in your purposes, only request your leave to solicit Moriarty with a proposal of my own, so that if all goes awry, I might be at hand to assist you in whatever danger might arise.”

Holmes considered my offer. “If Moriarty has been at all thorough, he already knows who you are and that you are in league with me.” 

“Yes, if he has been thorough, but I suspect he will have overlooked me all the same.” A dangerous spark flashed in my eyes, the corner of my mouth quirking up. “Still, I will take care to craft my approach so that I might adapt it to either possibility, cast myself as either the self-serving and naive acolyte or a confederate so ill-adept at deception that I present no danger to his purposes.”

“And under what pretence will you approach him?”

I gave Holmes a devilish smile. “I will offer to be his biographer.”

He burst out laughing. “You’re abandoning me as the subject for your project before you’ve even begun? I see you’re attempting to rouse my jealousy now.”

“That may be one advantage, but that is not my purpose. If Moriarty is as vain and as concerned with his reputation as you say, this approach will stand the best chance of capturing his interest.”

“I daresay it would, but this is all hypothetical. I shall make it my aim to reunite with you before you’ve ever arrived.”

“I sincerely hope you do, but if not, I may yet prove myself an ideal companion for the undertaking. I think in this one instance, I may be better equipped to ensure our success than you.”

“We’ll see,” Holmes had said with an air of false scepticism that thawed into genuine affection.

With a sensation like waking from a dream, the rooms of 221B Baker Street faded away. My brief sense of confusion was consumed by molten desire as Sherlock’s tongue—warm with the heat of my blood—began to glide over my wound in languid licks, healing me over. 

I urged him backward till I was hovering over him on the narrow bed. Fire trailed down my spine at the wild hunger in his eyes, the way he tilted his chin in silent invitation. I closed the distance between us, pausing with my lips an inch away from his, hoping that if I waited—

He seized my face in both of his hands and kissed me—I lost myself at once in the exhilarating feeling of his lips on mine. It was a heady contradiction to know that we had been intimate a thousand times before while still feeling more like the man who had believed him forever out of my reach. My eager fingers traced over the lines of his face, his neck, his shoulders, his arms.

His lips parted, encouraging me to move my mouth with his, and I groaned at the lingering metallic traces of my blood on his tongue.

He pulled back at once, contrite. “Apologies, that was thoughtless.”

An incredulous laugh escaped me. “You ridiculous man!”

His grey eyes, gone stormy with passion, turned calculating, but he made no move to return to me. I kissed him again, darting my tongue into his mouth. He made a breathless sound deep in his throat and pulled me closer. My heart raced in my chest, thrilling with victory.

When I at last felt that I could part with his lips without losing my sanity, I began to ease away, placing one last kiss to the corner of his mouth when he made a faint sound in protest, then continued my path to his cheek, his jaw, down his throat as my fingers reached down to untie his cravat and undo the buttons of his shirt. 

When I reached the spot just beneath his collar, I sucked the delicate skin there into my mouth before catching it between my teeth and biting down. He made a sound somewhere between a laugh and a groan in response and the echo of it seemed to resonate through my bones.

I brought one of my hands down to tease the sensitive skin of his inner thighs. He stopped laughing then, slanting his hips, attempting to bring my hand into contact with where he was already hard and wanting. I drew out his anticipation till I knew that at the first brush of my fingers, he would give me what I had been longing for.

“John,” he sighed. “My John.”

My eyes fell closed as I trailed reverent kisses down the healed expanse of his chest. I had needed this, craved it, the feeling of his body, solid and shaking beneath me, to peel away the layers of pretence and reveal the human heart that beat beneath, to hold it exposed and throbbing before me, to have him not just allowing, but begging for me to touch him, to know at last that he was as desperate for me as I was for him, to have irrefutable proof that he was—

“Yours,” he gasped as if he had plucked my thoughts out of the air. I shuddered, burying my face in the crook where his hip met his thigh, remembering that being with him had never stopped feeling dangerous because I’d never been able to hide anything from him; he had always guessed what it was that I wanted with unerring precision, even when I was doing my best to distract him by taking him to pieces—especially then. 

“As soon as I saw you.” His voice was pitched so low I could feel the vibration of it where we touched. I gazed up at him, the unrestrained longing in his hooded eyes enthralling me. “Even when I didn't know you, I wanted—” He let out a bit off groan as I moved to nuzzle against the bulge in his trousers, breathing in the scent of him. “I wanted—” Another shuddering exhale as I opened my mouth to run my tongue up the length of him through the layers of cloth. “God, John! I wanted you. All along. I’m yours. Always yours.”

His words—his voice—were driving me mad with desire. “Ask me.” 

He did me one better, as he always did.

“Please touch me. Please. I’ve needed it for so long. You have no idea what it’s been like, the agony of having you so close but not allowing myself to—” The words died on his tongue, turning into a gratified moan as I undid his flies with practised hands and reached in to caress his bare skin. I felt a thrill of satisfaction to discover that he was already leaking.

“I have some notion,” I murmured as I extricated him from his clothes and placed a chaste kiss to the head of his cock before licking up the drop of moisture there with the tip of my tongue, causing him to quake beneath me.

“Not the same,” he insisted, his voice strained with pleasure. “You never believed that you were the danger to me.”

“I did,” I said, sobered for a moment by the memory. “You held yourself so detached. I thought—”

“Ridiculous man,” his eyes creased with tenderness as he echoed my words, his gaze moving slowly and lovingly over my face. “How could I know you without wanting you?” 

The depth of loyalty and love that shone in his eyes then was too much for me to bear. I fell upon him all at once. He let out a cry of surprise when I swallowed him down to the root in a single slide, his hands coming to card through my hair.

“John!” 

I was vaguely aware that he was making too much noise—that I ought to be worried about that fact—but at the time I could not find it within me to care. I wanted to make him say my name again. Deeper. Louder. More. I moved my mouth over him, applying deep pulls of suction, my tongue swirling around the head whenever I came up for air. 

“John!” 

I hummed in satisfaction, using both my hands to pin his writhing hips to the thin mattress. I could feel in the strain in his muscles, see in the arch in his back, that this was not going to last long. Another time, I might have sought to tease him—but I was far too eager to watch him fall to pieces beneath me.

I became single minded in my pursuit of his pleasure, lying humble and prostrated between his shaking thighs as I poured out all the depths of my devotion with my tongue and my lips. The urgency of his cries escalated, and I lifted my eyes to take in the breathtaking sight of the culminating moments of his ecstasy.

He threw his head back in rapture, the graceful curve of his neck arching back into his pillow, his eyes squeezed shut as if in concentration. When he shattered apart, it was with another blissful cry of my name that seemed to sing through my veins as I drank him down like a man dying of thirst.

I nursed him through the aftershocks, keeping him in my mouth until his thighs began to twitch with overstimulation. Leaving a parting kiss along his softening length, I tucked him back into his undergarments and did up his flies. 

I was surprised when, loose-limbed as he was, he managed to heft me up to kiss me full on the mouth once more. He rearranged us so that he now lay with his weight suspended over me, though I could feel his arms still trembling from the aftermath of his climax—I’d forgotten that he was stronger than I was now. 

He groaned at the taste of himself on my tongue, his kisses becoming frantic as his hand came down to cup me through my trousers. 

I broke away from his lips with a gasp. “Sherlock!”

He pressed his lips to the tender skin just below my jaw, and I could feel him smile against me before he began a sensuous trail of open mouth kisses along to my ear. I tilted my head to give him better access, and those long, graceful fingers began to tease over my clothed erection with agonising skill. 

“My turn,” he murmured in my ear, low with intent, causing a delighted shiver to pass over me.

As his lips ghosted down the column of my throat, I wanted to warn him that at the pace he was going this was going to be over before he had even touched me properly, but his fingers eased away even as I had the thought and I remembered too that he was a genius at making it last. Groaning, I brought both hands to tangle through his hair, bracing myself for an onslaught of exquisite torture.

He had just begun to unbutton my shirt and was mouthing along the length of my collarbone when our private heaven came crashing down around us.

The door to cabin number nine slammed open with such force that it hit the wall behind it with a second resounding bang.

Chapter Text

Passion iced over into terror as a dream spirals into a nightmare. My first instinct—to launch myself to my feet and fight—was tempered by Holmes’ hand on my shoulder, keeping me in place. Even as heavy footfalls stormed into the room, his eyes flashed to meet mine, blazing with fierce determination as he leaned up to whisper in my ear.

“Quick man, if you love me! Agree to follow my lead, whatever happens—whatever happens, do you hear?” 

“Yes,” I breathed back without hesitation. 

He bent his face back into the crook of my neck and bit me. Through that brief union, I caught a glimpse of the vaguest outline of his plan and gave a wordless cry of protest as he was wrenched away from me. Wilder dragged Holmes to his feet, pinning his arms behind his back even as Grieff did the same to me. Holmes let out a deranged hiss, thrashing against Wilder’s hold with what appeared to be all his strength—if one had not known that no mortal hands stood any chance of containing him had he wanted to be free.

“Good Lord!” Anderson sneered from the doorway, his face twisted with open revulsion.

Admittedly, Holmes and I made for quite the scene: there was our state of undress—Holmes’ bare chest still visible through the open flaps of his unbuttoned shirt—the compromising position in which they had discovered us, the suggestive noises they had doubtless overheard, but most damning of all was the blood drying on my throat, my chest, the sheets, painting a scarlet blot across Holmes’ mouth, the last traces of it staining his teeth. He looked more animal than man as he bared them in my direction with exaggerated ferality, putting on a show of attempting to get me back into his arms.  

I cast him an imploring glance, hoping to persuade him to take another course of action, but knew it was a futile effort. A single detail alone would have incriminated us—taken together we stood no chance. We had been caught in the act with no hope of concealment, but Holmes believed he could yet influence the crew’s interpretation of what they had seen—turn a moment of shameless debauchery into blackest villainy, forcing the conclusion that the only guilty party was himself. I could acknowledge the logic of it—he being so many times more durable than I was—but to allow him to secure my safety at his expense went against every instinct I possessed.

The bestial frenzy in his eyes dimmed as he raised his eyebrows in so slight a gesture none but myself could have noticed it.

Trust me.

Gritting my teeth together, my gaze flitted around the room, hoping to identify a potential ally. I could not see Grieff, only feel his hands locked around my wrists like iron fetters. When I fought against his hold, he twisted my arms further back till the old wound on my left shoulder began to protest. Ahead of me, Wilder eyed Holmes’ display with quiet disapproval. Out in the hall the cabin boy took one furtive glance into the room, meeting my eyes for a fleeting second before he dropped his gaze to the floorboards, a horrified shudder wracking his frame. Doyle stood in the centre of the room, looming over the rest of us, his arms crossed in front of his broad chest, his expression darkened by an intense scowl. I endeavoured to catch his eye, but he would not look at me.

“What have I told you?” demanded Anderson. “From the beginning I have warned you against this man. You would not hear me and look at the result. Three people are dead and we walk in on this ungodly display.”

“We do not know that Norton and Adler are dead,” answered Doyle.

“Fine, but Gibson?”

“Douglas.”

Anderson threw his hands in the air. “None of that matters! You cannot deny the clear evidence of our eyes, a raving lunatic and his accomplice indulging in their unholy appetites here in plain sight. Does not your sense of decency compel you to take action?”

Doyle at last turned his searching gaze to me.

“Arthur,” I whispered. “Please.”

“How dare you?!” Anderson snapped, crossing the room to strike me across the face, my head wheeling to the side with the force of the blow. I let out a quiet scoff as I raised my chin back up in defiance. “Do not address the Captain, you vile—”

“Enough, Anderson,” ordered Doyle. 

“You’re focusing on the wrong man,” said Grieff from behind me. “It’s him you should be most concerned with—look at him! I suspected deviltry, but not the devil himself.”

Holmes let out a dark chuckle and spoke in a low, melodic tone. “Not far from him at any rate.” 

“Look there,” continued Grieff. He must have nodded to the bureau, for the rest all turned towards it. Holmes stilled momentarily, surprise flickering across his features. Atop the polished surface lay several objects: a dazzling garnet necklace, a chartreuse square of cloth, and a silver cigarette case. “That’s Norton’s kerchief, I’d recognise it anywhere.”

“And Miss Adler’s necklace,” said Widler.

“And that was Douglas’ cigarette case,” came Cecil Barker’s quiet voice from the hall, staring in with open horror. “What are these? Trophies?”

“Trophies, yes,” echoed Grieff. “As if all of this was nothing more than a sick game. Is that proof enough for you, Captain? We’ve found the murderer in possession of clear evidence against him and wearing the blood of his latest victim. This fiend will take the rest of us in turn if he is not stopped. I respect your authority, but I will not allow my daughter to come to harm because of your indecision. If you cannot act out of your loyalty to your friend, stand aside and let us do what must be done.”

Holmes raised his eyes to Doyle, his expression as thoughtful as a master chess-player who meditates his crowning move. 

“Have you nothing to say in your defence?” asked Doyle.

Holmes gave a sinister smile. “No, I have a better advocate. Ask your friend; he’ll explain to you that I was not hurting him. Tell them, John.”

I felt a stab of irritation at this ploy. Holmes must have anticipated I would attempt to take matters into my own hands if I thought it required, and had with one move disarmed the only tool at my disposal. Still I kept my eyes locked with his as I spoke with all the conviction in my heart.

“Holmes has hurt no one, he is as innocent as I am.”

Widler scoffed. “Don’t listen to that man. There can be no doubt that this wretch has some sinister influence over him. It may be fear as easily as love, or both, since they are by no means incompatible emotions.”

“We must end this,” said Anderson. “All in favour?”

A chorus of ayes rang through the room.

Doyle’s eyes sparked with indignation. “This ship is not a democracy, you do not have the authority to decide the fate of these men.”

“Stand down, Captain,” said Anderson. “Unless your wish is to spur the men into full mutiny. Grieff, Wilder, bring them to the deck.”

As we were shoved from the room, my gaze fell on Mary standing beside the door to her own cabin. For a single instant, I had a brief idea of attempting to persuade her to intervene, but even as I opened my mouth to speak, the words died away. 

How long had I blinded myself to the impossibility of reconciling Mary’s presence with those circumstances I had most desired? Both versions of reality could not be true and her existence appeared to cement the one I had wished to avoid. But with the truth of my past with Holmes at last revealed, Mary Morstan became a glaring contradiction—a figment of a past that did not exist. My shock at this revelation was all the more considerable for, after the instance of our meeting, my suspicions had never once fallen upon her. She carried herself with such quiet grace that the idea of her being involved in any dark scheme seemed impossible. Mary met my gaze, and even in that moment there was a depth of concern in them that spoke to her kind and caring soul that was as plain as the guilt and resignation written across her features.

“Mary?” I breathed with a sense of betrayal. 

She turned away from me, her hand flying up to cover her mouth as a quiet cry rose up her throat.

“For God's sake, go back to your room!” said Doyle. “You can do nothing, Miss Morstan. Go back. You do not need to see this.”

“Doesn’t need to see it?” said Grieff. “She ought to know what kind of man she’s pledging herself to while there’s still time for her to change her mind.”

He gave me a hard jerk, forcing me onward out to the deck where the infernal mist still swirled about the perimeter of the ship.

As we approached the centre mast, Grieff waved over the terrified deckhand who obeyed the wordless order and came to grip my arms with a strength for which I should hardly have given him credit while Grieff wound a length of rope around my wrists. He then left me with the cabin boy as he fashioned a hangman’s knot, secured it to the mast, and placed it around Holmes’ neck. Holmes was perfectly tranquil as Grieff and Wilder hoisted him in the air and placed him atop a barrel Anderson had rolled into position.

“Wait,” said Cecil Barker.

Anderson turned on him. “This man has murdered your friend. You asked for justice, we are providing it.”

“Douglas would not have wanted this,” insisted Barker, his eyes flitting to mine.

Grieff tightened the rope till Holmes had to rise to his toes in order to breathe.

“You can’t hang him!” I protested.

“He’s right, you can’t,” said Holmes with some amusement, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

“Give me one reason why not,” said Wilder.

“Because I’m a vampire,” answered Holmes. At this declaration, all fell silent and still and I watched my friend with the interest which sprang from the conviction that every one of his actions was directed towards a definite end. 

After a moment, Wilder burst out laughing.

“Oh, think it’s funny, do you?” asked Holmes. “You may wish to reconsider. How else could I have overpowered Douglas given his degree of strength in comparison to how frail I appear to be? Or consider, Doyle, what I have done to your friend. You know him to be courageous—a man of such determination that he would let nothing stand in the way of what he wanted. Yet I have led him to abandon his lovely fiancée in favour of a far more unsavoury companion with admittedly dubious morals. It can only be that strongest of all holds—the hold of love, or an approximation of it. I am, as you may have noticed, extraordinarily handsome, and possess that air of romance and mystery which lures in my hapless prey. Say what you will—he will not hear one word against me, for he is helplessly in my thrall.”

I cast Holmes an exasperated glare, which he ignored.

“It is a talent I may turn against any of you at any moment I see fit,” he continued. “Who is to say I have not begun to exert my influence upon you already? Search your heart, you will find shadow lurking over it. How else could I know that Wilder lost his eye four months ago in a bar fight against a German miner or that Anderson nightly looks into the captain’s quarters precisely twenty-three minutes after midnight as part of his self appointed rounds?”

“This is absurd,” said Anderson, a faint flush colouring his cheeks. “We know he is guilty, just hang him already.”

“Wait,” said Doyle, stepping forward into the centre of the fray. “I have some experience in these matters.”

“You do?” I asked.

Doyle shot me a quick glance. “My interests have sometimes taken me down a dark path. The continuation of life beyond the grave. The undead. Spirits. There are such things.”

“For the love of—” began Barker.

“Listen to me,” insisted Doyle with an air of authority which commanded the attention of all around him. “I’m not telling you what I believe or what I think, I’m telling you what I know. These are things that I’ve handled, that I’ve seen, that I’ve heard with my own ears. The supernatural does dwell on this earth, and its presence among us would better explain what has unfolded here than other, more allegedly rational lines of reasoning. I know how it may seem to one unaware of these matters but once you’ve eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.”

“You should listen to your Captain,” said Holmes. “You may try to hang me but I will not be killed, and the one to attempt it will be the first I feed upon. I will take you one by one, preying upon all your fears until you’ve gone mad. I tell you, each of you is plate-glass to me; I see to the very back of your souls, and I will use all that I find there against you. So come, which of you has the courage to kick away the barrel?”

For a long moment, it appeared as if Holmes’ gambit had been successful. Then Grieff stepped forward.

“Me,” he answered. “You’re bluffing likely as not, and there’s one sure way for us to find out what you really are.”

“Wait!” I pleaded as Grieff closed the distance between himself and Holmes.

“Will someone gag that man?” said Wilder in exasperation. “That silver-tongue of yours will do you no good now, you’re dishonoured, disgraced.”

“If you hang him you will have innocent blood on your hands,” I continued, spurred onward by the idea which had presented itself fully formed to my mind. “He's not the vampire—I am.”

The cabin boy's hands spasmed where they still wrapped about my forearms and I could feel him quaking behind me. 

“More lies,” said Grieff with a dismissive shake of his head.

“Yes, lies,” I answered. “That is what met you at the threshold of the cabin, one great, obtrusive, uncompromising lie. That is your starting point and all you have seen has been coloured by it. Look back and think of how often I lingered in the periphery before tragedy struck, and you’ll see my work.”

“He’s not a vampire,” said Mary from where she stood some distance behind the others, as if she were torn between conflicting impulses to stay and help and to flee the scene. “You saw Holmes drinking his blood, surely that is proof enough.”

My eyes narrowed on her, for given how quickly she accepted this truth, I suspected that she had already known it.

“The blood of a vampire has certain restorative properties,” I continued; Holmes arched an eyebrow at this clear bluff. “Holmes was in danger of succumbing to an infection, and it rather spoiled his flavour. I offered him some of my own in order to sustain him.”

“You expect us to take your word for that, do you?” asked Wilder.

“Oh, I wouldn’t take my word for anything if I were you. That’s what’s gotten you into this mess to begin with.”

“It’s true,” offered Mary. “Holmes suffered a grave injury to the flesh nearest the heart. It was already showing signs of infection a week ago, no doubt it would have grown worse without further treatment.”

“Whose side are you on?” asked Anderson.

“Everyone’s! I wish to keep this situation from turning ugly.”

“He’s murdered three people, how much uglier can it get?” said Grieff.

“Which he?” said Wilder. “How do we know which of them to trust?”

“I don't trust either,” answered Grieff. “Hang them both and we’ll know soon enough which of them is a mortal man. All the same to me.”

“No, wait!” said Mary. “If you insist on taking some course of action, tie both of them to the mast. Dawn will prove which is the vampire and which is the man.”

Holmes let out a triumphant laugh, his two eyes shining like stars.

“That is true enough,” said he. “I do wonder though, Miss Morstan, how you came to be aware of that particular fact, for it is not a well known aspect of vampire mythology and I myself have only learned it at great personal cost.”

Mary paled. Her eyes darted toward me, cringing away before she could bring herself to meet my gaze. It was clear enough that she was no great liar. Whatever her role, I found myself convinced that she was as guiltless of the horrors which surrounded us as Holmes. As I tried to determine what her motivation might be, I was surprised to feel the old pain beginning to form at my temples.

“Miss Morstan,” said Doyle. “Will you answer the question?”

Mary shook her head. “No, I will not. But if Mr. Holmes is half as good as his reputation, he’ll be able to discover the truth of the mystery without my aid.”

“How do you know who he is?” I asked, flinching at the fresh stab of pain when the answer fought to free itself.

Doyle began to approach Mary then, his arms extended placatingly before him. With an expression of wide-eyed terror like that of a startled mare, Mary faltered backward before bolting out into a sprint. More than one set of arms dove to catch her, all of which she evaded. In the commotion, someone knocked the barrel out from Holmes’ feet, causing him to fall, choking on the rope wound around his neck. 

“Someone help him!” I shouted. Doyle and Wilder rushed forward, working together to undo Holmes’ bonds and lower him to the ground.

“Where is she?” Holmes gasped as soon as he was free, rubbing at his throat. “Miss Morstan. Did anyone see where she went?”

“We were helping you!” snapped Doyle.

“With all due respect, Captain, in future get your priorities in order. There is a murderer aboard this ship and I myself told you that I cannot be hanged.”

“So you were telling the truth?” demanded Anderson. “You’re the vampire? And the murderer?”

Holmes’ eyes twinkled with some amusement. “Ah. I confess I have lied to you, I am a vampire but the rest was a fabrication. My friend here will tell you that I have an impish habit of practical joking. Also that I can never resist a dramatic situation. I am not a murderer, I am—or was—a detective.” 

“You’re a vampire,” echoed Barker with clear scepticism.

“Yes.”

“And otherwise an abomination,” muttered Anderson.

“So you might describe me. My companion is also a liar and a dangerous ruffian, but I trust that with more pressing matters at hand you might overlook the minor offence of our presence.”

“Absolutely not,” said Grieff.

“Yes, you will, Daedalus,” commanded Doyle, the quiet steel in his voice brooking no argument. “And you Philip. If any of you take issue with either of my friends here, you shall have your own turn up on that barrel and we will see how you fare. As a matter of fact…” He turned toward me, then scowled when he found I still remained bound. “What are you waiting for? Release him!”

“Yes, sir!” piped the deckhand as he hastened to follow his orders.

Doyle approached me, his arms folded behind him. “Alright, Watson?”

“Yes, thank you,” I said as I rubbed at my wrists.

“Nerves in order?”

“Certainly.”

“Good.” With a deliberate gesture, he swept his cap off his head and fell into a military salute. “I relieve myself of duty. Captain Watson, the Matilda Briggs and her crew are at your command.”

Chapter Text

Perhaps the root of the tragedy is that I supposed too much. Any illusion I might have held that either the unveiling of our shared history or my position as captain—honorary though it was—would grant me any greater degree of influence over Holmes was shattered no sooner than it had chance to form. I had hoped that in some way I could coax my friend back into the shared quiet which had been intruded upon, but one glance at his intense face and contracted eyebrows told me how vain was now the expectation. I remained awake with him long into the night, writing all that had transpired and sharing with him my doubts and interpretations. When I could keep my eyes open no longer, I laid myself down while Holmes remained perched awake at the foot of our bed, absorbed in the strange drama which intervened in our peace. 

I awoke before dawn to find myself alone in the cabin. I made my way out onto the deck, where I found Holmes standing at the wheel. As impassive as ever to the casual observer, there was nonetheless a subdued eagerness and suggestion of tension in his brightened eyes which assured me that the game was afoot. After his habit he said nothing, and after mine I asked no questions as I settled myself at his side. 

A short while later, Grieff and his daughter emerged for their daily check of the rigging—their arrival stirring my friend from his reverie.

“You are an early bird, Mr. Grieff,” he said as they came up to the mizzenmast. “I wish you luck with your worm. I fear there may yet be some mischief afoot.”

“If you said ‘hope’ instead of ‘fear,’ it would be nearer the truth, I'm thinking, Mr. Holmes,” the sailor answered with a wry grin as he took back his flask from his daughter. “Up we go.”

Holmes chortled to himself when Grieff was out of earshot.

“Something amusing?” 

“In a manner of speaking,” he said in a low voice. “I do not mind admitting that this is a more serious matter than I had expected, Watson. It is fair to tell you so, though I know it will only be an additional reason to you for running headlong into danger—for I think I can safely say I know my Watson once more,” he turned then to flash me a fond smile. “But there is danger, and you should know it.”

“Well, it is not the first we have shared, I hope it may not be the last. What is the particular danger this time?”

“One of the most dangerous classes in the world—the drifting and friendless woman. Helpless, migratory—she is a stray chicken in a world of foxes.”

“You still believe she holds ill intentions, then?” I asked, for I had shared with him my own reservations.

“It is too early to state anything definitively. You know I do not waste time in forming suppositions when it may be better spent drawing closer to certainties. We have added one card to our hand, but it needs careful playing all the same.”

We fell back into silence till Anderson came to relieve Holmes of his post, appearing less than thrilled to find us together. I rose to my feet, preparing to leave Anderson in solitude if that was what he preferred, when a shrill scream sounded from above us. Cara Grieff clung to a frayed rope attached to the skysail, dangling in the open air.

“Cara!” Greiff cried from his perch in the crow’s nest below her.

“Stay where you are!” called Anderson, climbing up the mast with practised ease. I followed on instinct, Holmes quick on my heels. Grieff ignored the order, clambering higher still. “For God’s sake man, you’ll do more harm than good!”

Grieff had reached the top of the mizzenmast, leaning out as far as he dared, but his daughter remained out of his reach. His efforts jostled the rigging, and Cara slipped another foot downward, another piercing scream ringing through the air.

“No time to fashion a net,” said Anderson, looking about him for an alternative.

“Can you catch her, Holmes?”

“If he would stop causing her to sway about so much. As it is, it will be difficult to determine the necessary angle.”

“Grieff!” I shouted, but he had already laid himself down upon the beam. He hoisted up the portion of the rope still attached to the rigging, but the sudden motion caused the final threads joining it to the portion to which Cara clung to give way.

“No!” Grieff lunged to snatch at the frayed end, losing his own balance in the process so that both father and daughter plummeted together through the air. Holmes sprang out and caught Cara in the nick of time, landing on his feet with her caught securely in his arms on the deck below. Grieff grasped at the sail to slow his own fall and Anderson and I seized him about the middle—Anderson letting out a pained grunt at the impact.

“Alright?”

“Shoulder,” he answered. “It’s fine. Let’s get him down.”

When we’d made it to the deck, Grieff rushed to his daughter, snatching her out of Holmes’ arms and squeezing her tight to his chest, before shoving her back to sign in a fury. “How did you fall, Icaria? You of all people?”

“Grieff, go easy on her,” I reprimanded as I attended to Anderson, who had indeed sprained himself in the effort. Beside us, Holmes tore into a burlap sack, handing me a strip the correct size for a makeshift sling.

Cara wiped at the tears in her eyes, her cheeks flushed bright red in her distress. “I’m sorry, Dad. It’s the fog, it’s like breathing poison. I felt dizzy and lost my grip.”

“You must be more careful, Cara, I can’t afford to lose you.” He crushed her to him as she buried her face in his shirt. 

The commotion had roused the remaining crew and passengers, who now gathered round us with expressions ranging from concern to outright terror. Wilder was one of these latter, levelling a hard glare at Doyle. 

“The devil is aboard this ship!” he hissed. “We must do something in order to  avoid catastrophe.”

“As I have said once already, Wilder, if you take any issue with Mr. Holmes—”

“I don’t mean him. Look at this fog, he can’t control the weather can he? This is something far more nefarious—the Giant Rat of Sumatra!”

A moment of stunned silence fell over our little group.

“The… what?” asked Doyle at last.

“The Giant Rat of Sumatra,” Wilder repeated, enunciating each word. “The shape shifting demon that preys upon its victims by tkaing the form of whatever they fear most. As a spirit, it hovers in the air, waiting for its moment to strike.”

“If it conceals itself in the fog, why is it called a rat?” asked Anderson.

“Because it is stealthy as one, and as scheming.”

“How could a rat be giant?” demanded Barker.

“This wasn’t the work of a demon,” interrupted Greiff with a fierce expression. “It was an accident, that is all.”

“I am inclined to agree with Mr. Grieff,” answered Holmes. “And yet there is something strange at work here. I have, as my friend Watson may have remarked, an abnormally acute set of senses, and yet though I kept myself alert through the night, there was not a sign or stirring of Miss Morstan. Doyle, is there any place aboard this vessel where a woman might effectively conceal herself for such a length of time?”

“A few. The crow’s nest—but Grieff’s climbed to it since—down in the hold perhaps, one of the cabins, but those have all been searched. There is a compartment in my quarters, the precise location of which will remain with me alone, but you have my word she is not within it.”

“Precisely,” said Holmes coldly. It was one of the peculiarities of his proud, self-contained nature that though he docketed any fresh information very quietly and accurately in his brain, he seldom made any acknowledgment to the giver. “Of course, I can think of no less than nine similar intrigues, but then I am an omnivorous reader with a strangely retentive memory for trifles. There is one commonality: that she remains hidden indicates that she has some source of help.”

“But we are the only ones aboard,” said Barker

“Which means it’s one of us,” finished Doyle.

We all glanced round at each other, a sense of unease lingering in the air. 

“If we’re looking for a suspect, excepting the two obvious choices…” began Wilder, his eyes drifting to Barker. 

“Ah, now we come to it,” Barker said, rolling his eyes. “‘It’s the savage, he can blend into the shadows and see around corners.’”

“Well it’s true isn’t it? All that black magic your people get up to?” asked Wilder.

Barker scoffed. “My people.”

Holmes intervened before the exchange could deteriorate any further. “As there is not enough evidence to suspect any one individual at present, but we all remain obligated to suspect everyone, I suggest we break into groups. No man—or girl—goes alone until we have found Miss Morstan. Dr. Watson and myself will remain—”

“No,” protested Grieff. “If anyone is not to be trusted aboard this ship, it is the two of you.”

This remark sparked my temper and I might have reminded him who it was that had just saved he and his daughter, but as ever, Holmes was more even keeled than I. 

“In that case, myself, Doyle and Anderson shall remain here. Watson, Mr. Barker, and Wilder shall search the hold, and the rest will search the cabins. Is that agreeable?”

All assented. Before we dispersed, I pulled Holmes aside.

“You have a plan, Holmes?” 

“The faculty of deduction is certainly contagious. Yes, I have a plan.”

“Will you not share it with me?”

“You would be horribly in the way.” 

“In whose way?” 

“In mine, my dear fellow.” 

I let out a hard laugh. “If the danger is that pressing, I can't possibly leave you.” 

“Yes, you can, Watson. And you will, for you have never failed to play the game and I am sure you will play it to the end. This scheme has begun under another’s purposes, but it may yet be used for mine. There are two separate chains at work here—follow them and we will find the point of intersection which shall in turn lead us to the truth. Wilder is right in his way, there is a rat aboard this vessel. We start with the rat, rather than the lady, and see if he squeaks. But he must not suspect we are onto him.”

“Watson!” called Wilder. “Let’s go.”

“Please,” mouthed Barker from behind him with an imploring look.

“Yes, coming,” I sighed.

“Good man,” said Holmes, clapping me once upon the shoulder with a quick smile before striding away from me. “Doyle, do you happen to have a Bible aboard this ship? Preferably one to which you are not attached.”

The hold was, as expected, absent of any signs of Mary’s presence. Wilder let out a frustrated huff and cracked into one of the boxes of cargo, finding nothing but tea leaves.

“Maybe you can use those to divine which way your rat has gone,” commented Barker.

 I let out a laugh that I hastened to turn into a cough as I pried open another crate. We had nothing to show at the end of our lengthy search, and it was in ill spirits we followed Wilder towards the kitchen. As we passed through the square hall where the cabins were located, I noticed that while most of the doors remained ajar, the door to cabin four was shut. Something about it prickled my intuition.

“I’ll be with you in a moment,” I muttered as I halted in my tracks.

“Escape while you can,” said Barker with a sly grin.

I approached the door on tiptoe, straining to make out the whispers I could hear coming from within.

“You said this would heal her,” said Grieff. “But it’s not—it’s killing her. Why won’t it work?”

It was Mary that answered. “He’s fooled us both, can’t you see that? You must decide where you stand.”

“I stand with my daughter,” answered Grieff.

“This will not help her!” 

There was a brief silence, followed by an intense scuffle, then a single, muffled gunshot. I barged into the room in time to watch Grieff’s lifeless body collapsing to the ground across the young deckhand’s, blood seeping through the back of his shirt where the bullet had torn through his chest, more blood pooling beneath the young man’s head from the gash Grieff had carved into the side of his throat. 

I would have gone to them, had there not been others in more urgent need of my assistance. Cara Grieff laid unconscious upon the bed, her forehead beading with perspiration, feverish, but stable. On the floor between them lay Mary Morstan with her back propped up against the wall, a cobalt blue vial clutched in her fist.

“Mary!” I cried, falling to my knees at her side. I took the bottle, looking for a label and finding none. “What is this? What did you take?”

“Poison,” she gasped. “Grieff had been giving it to his daughter, I ensured he no longer could.”

“Why would he have been poisoning her? He loved her.”

She shook her head. “It doesn’t matter now. She’s safe, I could do that much, at least.” She stretched out one hand toward me. “Johnny, I wasn’t—I had no idea that—”

“I know,” I reassured her, taking her hand in both of mine. “I never believed that you had.”

“Always the good man,” Mary said with a small breathless laugh that turned into a groan of pain. “You really haven’t changed at all.”

The familiar pain constricted round my mind, and an almost wistful smile pulled at the corners of her mouth,

“You still don’t remember me, do you?”

“No,” I confessed. “But I feel as though I ought to.”

She choked out another laugh. “I don’t know, I think you had it right. It would have been better left forgotten.”

“I still want to know. Would you tell me?”

Her eyes drifted away from mine, going unfocused as she stared out at some distant scene.

“I was a nurse once,” she began. “I wasn’t meant to tell you that. My mother died when I was very young, my father was overseas serving as a military officer in India. When I was old enough, I began my training so that I might join him. That’s how I came to be stationed with him seven years ago on the British base in Peshawar.”

As she said the name of that faraway place, it felt as if a branding iron had been pressed to the tender flesh behind my eyes, the pain of it as blinding as had been in the instant Moriarty’s influence had taken hold. Then all at once it receded. I knew myself once more—and wished immediately that I had never resolved the mystery of my past, for there had been a reason I had unconsciously sought to avoid these memories.

It was as if her words flung me years back in time and thousands of miles eastward to that strange setting in which our fate was first cast.

It had been the summer of 1880. Amongst the sea of sufferers languishing in that humid air, there was a certain doctor who had been struck through the shoulder above his heart in the line of duty. He was somewhat embittered by his sudden departure from battle, till the day a young nurse happened to make her rounds in his ward—Rosamund Mary Morstan. She was beautiful and carried herself with quiet grace and he, lost and without purpose, fell in on old habits, making it evident by his open admiration that she had won his interest the instant he had set her eyes upon her. 

Each day, he would tell her stories of his adventures, always accompanied by that hint of romance so characteristic to him, the subtle idea that strange things invariably had a way of finding him, so bizarre and so intimate that they might not be spoken of. She listened, her blue eyes gleaming with pity and with sympathy—those two qualities which may turn so rapidly and so naturally to love.

What began as innocent flirtation blossomed into something more genuine. The man’s health rallied, the two often taking walks together about the grounds, till one day just after sunset, the wounded doctor dared to take the nurse by the hand and led her to the little verandah by the water, where he dropped to one knee. Though they had not yet known each other three weeks, the true length of their acquaintance spanning mere hours, she had given him her consent.

Such whirlwinds of emotion do not often stand the test of time. That very night the man fell ill with enteric fever and became despondent for some months. All the time, she waited upon him with tender care, never appearing to mind that in what fitful hours consciousness he had, he failed to recognise her more often than not. In his rare moments of lucidity, he was consumed with a profound sense of guilt for all she endured for his sake, knowing himself to be unworthy of such selfless devotion. This conviction of his heart only deepened when, at last recovered, he found himself to be but a shadow of his former self. 

“The man you promised yourself to… I am no longer that man,” he said in words he would unknowingly echo years later. “I could not ask you to pledge yourself to me as I am now.”

He had forced from her a promise that she would look elsewhere for her happiness, imagining that to be the end of their tale. He returned to London, his health ruined, all dreams of happiness abandoned. Till one day…

“You met him,” she said, brushing her clammy fingers over the side of my face.

“I met him,” I echoed with a soft smile.

“You thought me clever for perceiving it so quickly. In truth, I was very slow. I’d had years to consider it, and still the idea never occurred until that day in the church. It was then I knew I had no chance; you had chosen him once already, you would do it again. But I should have known it when I met you again in London and all you would speak of was having your friend Sherlock Holmes track down my father’s treasure, as if that was why I had come to you.”

“I thought it might go some way toward making amends.”

“It didn’t—I was furious with you. I prayed to God I would never see you again.”

“As well you should have,” I declared. “How ever did you come to be wrapped up in all of this again?”

She gave a feeble laugh. “You mustn’t think that I’ve been pining after you all this time. You were right—high society suited me well. I was quite at home in my new circle in Paris and was married by the end of that year. He was an actor, you would have liked him.”

Was. “What happened?”

“There was an accident in early April, the set collapsed on him, killing him instantly. I’ve wondered about the timing of it since… It was very the next day that I received the letter from Professor Moriarty.”  

A thrill of fear coursed through me—that date was before I had written to Moriarty myself. 

She continued on, oblivious to the dark turn of my thoughts. “In my hour of weakness, I could not resist the glimmer of hope he offered. He told me that if I did as he instructed, you and I might have another chance at a future together. He had enclosed some passages transcribed from your writings and I saw that you intended to tell the world that you had married a woman bearing a form of my name. How could I have failed to recognise it? And could I believe a gentleman would do such an act without some deeper motivation compelling him? It seemed to me that a good man would never risk a lady’s reputation in such a manner, unless… he was still in love. But you weren’t, were you?”

My sympathies and my affection went out to her, even as my hand once had in a faraway garden. I felt that years of the conventionalities of life could not teach me to know her sweet, brave nature as had this strange experience. 

“No. I have always held a certain fondness for you, I always shall. But I did not use your name because I wished for a life other than the one I had chosen.”

“Will you tell me why?” she gasped, clutching my hands with all her failing strength.

“You were not far from the truth,” I told her gently, my voice gone hoarse. “If I were a different man… a better one, maybe… had I chosen to marry a woman, it would have been you. I thought that if you happened across my writings, you might read that and know, and that the thought might bring you some comfort. That was foolish, I ought to have known it would only cause you pain. I’m so sorry, Rosamund.”

“Thank you,” she whispered as her eyes slid closed, her hands going limp in my grasp, the rose fading from her cheeks.

An anguished cry escaped me, and I lent forward to place a chaste kiss to her forehead, holding her lifeless frame against me as if I could somehow bring her back to life. I might have remained there indefinitely had not the suffering of another roused me from my self pity.

I heard a whimper, and turned to find the deckhand struggling beneath the weight of Grieff’s corpse. I sprung to my feet and helped him to free himself. At once the lad pulled himself upright and scurried to put his back to the wall, terrified and insensible. 

“Holmes!” I called, as I secured a bandage to the wound at his neck, which was less deep than it had first appeared. When I heard no answering footsteps, I rushed from the room, bursting out into the cool misty air outside. The small crowd gathered round the wheel went pale at the sight of me. Glancing down I found that I was drenched in fresh blood.

Holmes came forward to meet me, gripping both my arms as his grey eyes bored into mine—I found myself calming under the weight of his hands and his steady gaze.

“Where?” he asked.

“Cabin four,” I answered. “Grieff is dead. Mary—the others—”

My vision blurred with tears, and I found I could no longer speak. 

“Doyle? Anderson?” Holmes asked, not taking his eyes from me.

Doyle strode past us at once, Anderson quick on his heels. Holmes led me up behind the wheel to rest against the mizzenmast, his arms wrapped tight about my frame as he helped me lower myself to the floor. He continued to hold me as I shook with silent, uncontrollable sobs, certain I would never again shut my eyes without seeing Rosamund Morstan’s lifeless face staring back at me.

Chapter Text

It was nearer one than twelve in that wild, bleak night. The wind blew hard at our backs, ushering the Matilda Briggs ever westward. While the evening seemed long to me in my despondency, for Holmes, it was evidently endless. He could not sit still, but drummed with his long, sensitive fingers upon the rough wooden boards beside him or else paced the perimeter of torn, white pages which encircled us where we all sat huddled around the ship’s wheel, stirring the flames of the flickering lanterns littered around us.

“Deviltry, Watson!” he declared as he sank down beside me once more.

“You seem to think so,” said Cecil Barker, gesturing to the nailed down pages. “I still don’t understand the point of this.”

“The Holy Word of our Lord,” answered Doyle from where he stood at the wheel. “We must have faith. If this will not keep us safe, nothing will.”

“Keep us safe from what? Grieff is dead and the alleged vampire is in this ludicrous circle with the rest of us.”

“You may ask me to step outside it, if that would provide you greater ease,” offered Holmes demurely.

“That is not what I meant,” said Barker, throwing out his arms in frustration. “Is this all we have left? Superstition? Fairy tales? Tell a fiend he is permitted this far and no further and he listens? I wish all murderers were so accommodating. I am a man of reason—what faith I possess is founded in steel and powder. Even granting what is now self-evident, that there is some force at work here which defies ordinary description, all of this is straining the matter rather far.”

“I do agree with you, Barker, that for a mixture of the modern and the mediaeval, of the practical and of the wildly fanciful, this is surely the limit,” said Holmes. “What do you make of it, Watson?”

I gave no reply as I continued to stare down at Cara Grieff’s face made peaceful by unconsciousness—I had not spoken a word since I had told the others where they might find the bodies. 

Beside me, Wilder let out a weary sigh and pulled a bottle of amber liquid from an inner pocket of his coat, extending it toward me. 

“Here. I’m sorry about your fiancée.”

I raised the bottle to my lips and took a long draught, hoping I might scorch away the memories playing out again and again behind my eyes.

“She wasn’t my fiancée,” I whispered as I returned the bottle, my voice cracked and rough.

“I confess I’m at a loss myself,” said Doyle. “I still do not see how this could have happened. I’ve known Grieff for years, he was far from faultless, but he was an honourable man. How could he have done this?”

“You do occasionally find a carrion crow among the eagles,” replied Anderson with an affectation of superiority.

Holmes shook his head. “Doyle is right. Moments before he attacked, Grieff’s concern was the well-being of his daughter. Does that not strike you as a strange detail given the circumstances?”

“One must do something to ease a guilty conscience,” said Anderson.

“Guilt is easy to surmise, but that alone does not explain it. We can guess that he believed his actions in service of her, but how? Perhaps he thought my presence put her at risk, but if that was his motivation, why attack the others? He may have developed some form of mania in his concern for her—in truth I do not think that in our adventures we have ever come across a stranger example of what corrupted love can bring about. All this seems plain sailing and one would think that there was no more to be said—and yet! Why did he choose that moment to confront Miss Morstan? Did he scent a trap?” He sprung to his feet once more. “That’s the hand I play from. I put it all on the table, but one card is missing. The king of diamonds…” 

“You think Grieff did not work alone,” I muttered without raising my eyes, feeling still a sense of disconnection from my surroundings.

“It would have been impossible for him to have done so. Consider everything that has occurred—seven very different passengers aboard the Matilda Briggs, all of whom have had their part to play in this little drama, each act progressing as if the cues were called out by some director just off stage. There is a master hand here. You can tell an old master by the sweep of his brush, I can tell a Moriarty when I see one.” 

“You claim that Moriarty is dead,” said Barker.

“And so he must be. Yet somehow he accounted for all that has occurred since his death. To what end? If he saw his demise coming, why did he do nothing to avert it? What is the design of this posthumous game?”

“How many times do I have to tell you?” began Wilder. “It’s not this Moriarty fellow, it’s the—” 

Holmes whirled on him before he could finish his sentence.

“If you so much as breathe another word of that ridiculous—” All at once, Holmes halted in his tracks, the words dying on his tongue as he fixed his eyes on Wilder, mouthing the broken words “Rat—of—Sumatra—”

His pale, eager face had assumed that tense, far-away expression which I had learned to associate with the supreme manifestations of his genius. So evident was the crisis in his mind that none of us dared to speak.

“The Giant Rat of Sumatra,” Holmes repeated when he returned to himself, his entire frame now thrumming with intensity. “The shape-shifting demon. Who told you that story?”

“I don’t know,” said Wilder defensively. “Everyone’s heard it. I think Jim mentioned it to me a few days back.”

All eyes fell on the young, bloodstained man curled in on himself.

“Jim…” Holmes echoed, his lip twisting up in a snarl. The boy raised his head and looked blearily at my companion. “Of course short for James. The purpose of an alias seems to have eluded you. You entered the circle before it was complete, is that not so?” 

The boy shrugged in answer. “I think so. I didn’t really notice.”

“And where did you hear of this legend, then?

“I dunno. It’s just a story my gran told me,” he answered, his voice quavering.

“Holmes—” admonished Doyle.

But Holmes had undergone that transformation that transpired when he was hot upon a scent. His brows were drawn into two hard black lines, while his eyes shone out from beneath them with a steely glitter. 

“You have my warning, Captain, that what is about to occur will seem most strange to you,” said he. “But take my assurance that the clouds are lifting and that I have every hope that the light of truth is breaking through. Watson, if you would be so good as to bid me to exit the circle, the rest of you do likewise, one of you carrying Miss Grieff with you—not you!” he said to the lad, who had begun to rise to his feet. “You remain where you are till the rest have gone.” 

There was a moment of uneasy silence as we all stared at Holmes, indecision thick in the air. Holmes jerked his head. “Quickly!”

“That’s an order,” added Doyle, securing the wheel in place with a length of rope and tying off the end with a flourish before stepping away. Anderson and Wilder followed behind him, Cecil Barker stooped down to lift Cara Grieff into his arms before joining them, leaving only Jim, Holmes, and myself inside the ring.

“Holmes, come with me?” I requested. He walked backwards beside me, never taking his eyes off the meek lad trembling slightly with his arms wrapped tight around his knees, his dark brown eyes round with terror.

“What a fool I’ve been,” said Holmes, his expression twisted with mingled admiration and loathing.  “I have been sluggish in mind and wanting in that mixture of imagination and reality which is the basis of my art. I confess that there were sufficient clues to suggest the true solution. My mistake was placing too much faith in the fact that Watson could not have been mistaken in what he had seen. It never occurred to me that you might have survived using the very method I did. The man crumbled away, but a smaller creature might have hidden itself in your clothes till the sun had set. Something about the size of a rat would suit, would it not? No matter if you plunged into the falls below; you could not drown. You could have let the water carry you all the way out to sea, if you so desired.”

“What on Earth are you talking about?” asked Barker.

“There is a shapeshifter aboard this vessel. There he is, the Rat of Sumatra, living and breathing and quaking at our feet. Quite the show he’s put on for us, isn’t it?”

“This is ridiculous,” said Wilder. “Look at him, he could not have killed those people, he’s just a terrified child.”

“There’s one way to prove it,” I said, a hollow ringing in my ears as I gripped the handle of my revolver. “If he can step outside the circle without being invited, then he is what he claims to be.”

“And if not…” said Holmes, his voice laden with implication.

“Oh for the love of—” said Wilder. 

A chorus of protests rang out when Wilder stepped over the white line and held out his hand to the boy.

“Wilder! Get back out here at once,” ordered Doyle.

“I’m just helping him to his feet,” he said as he righted the boy, placing both hands on his shoulders and giving him a reassuring shake. “Go on Jim, prove them wrong.”

Jim stared at Wilder, silently pleading with him to intervene, before he turned his back to the rest of us and began to shuffle forward towards the ring of pages. He placed one foot over the boundary and half-turned back. 

“No. Both feet,” insisted Holmes.

“Wilder!” Jim begged.

“You can do it lad,” said Wilder. “I know you can. I'll stake my life on it.”

The lad raised his foot and dragged it by the toe to the very edge of the line. He held it there for an endless second, the very wind holding its breath as we all waited to see what would follow. 

Jim began to emit a small hitching sound, his shoulders shaking. I thought at first that he had fallen into a fit of panicked sobs, but as the sound went on I realised that it was laughter—high and airy as a whisper.

“It’s too easy,” he said as he drew both feet back into the circle. He turned to face us, and a subtle change had come over him. His eyes shone with a fierce excitement, his features still regular and pleasing, save his straight, thin-lipped mouth; if ever I saw a murderer's mouth it was there. He tilted his chin back at a proud angle, his head subtly moving in a serpentine sway.

“You’ll stake your life on it?” Jim asked Wilder with a soft smile, all traces of fear gone. “That’s a pity for you see, they’re right. I can’t.”

An instant later, the vile creature had Wilder by the throat, his fangs bitten deep. Holmes caught my arm as I instinctively lunged forward, knowing it was already too late. The sharp teeth had passed through the carotid artery; Wilder was dead before we could have reached them to drag the two apart.

“God protect us,” said Doyle, gripping tight the wooden stake in his hand, the other arm thrown out to keep Anderson back. Cecil Barker seemed torn between joining the fray and protecting his charge. Catching his eye, I nodded him away from the circle. He retreated another few steps, Cara slung tight across his back.

With an air of perfect ease, the monster began to pace the perimeter of his unorthodox cage, his black eyes scanning over each of us in turn. When he again spoke, his voice was engaging and his manners perfect, revealing himself at last to be the same man I had known in that castle of nightmares, grown bolder, more triumphant. Having completed a single lap around the circle, he held out his arms wide and gave a low, sweeping bow, remaining there, as if expecting applause.

“James Moriarty, at your service,” he sighed as he raised his head. “My sincerest thanks, gentlemen, for being such a delightful audience. I don’t make a practice of spending this much time and effort on a single soul—too messy under ordinary circumstances. But perhaps I should allow myself to indulge more often. I’ve so enjoyed this voyage—and the people—wandering around right under your noses playing timid little Jim. I confess, I never expected that to work half as long as it did. But what do you think, my darling?” He turned his eyes to Holmes as he ran his hand down the planes of his chest. “This is more to your taste, is it not? Short of stature, the deferential, charming facade, and of course that undeniable trace of menace lurking underneath. Perhaps I should have gone for the moustache but I thought that would be a bit on the nose.”

Moriarty’s dark eyes cut to mine as he flashed me a wink.

“You’re a vampire?” asked Anderson, craning his neck to stare at Moriarty from where he stood behind Doyle. “But you’re from Limerick.”

“Ah, yes, Limerick. Let me see, how did it go? 

There once was a man from London,

who believed his life’s calling lay undone. 

So he gambled it all, 

lost himself in the fall, 

now he’ll burn ere he ever sees the sun.”

“How prosaic,” said Holmes.

“Less so than you’d think. But do you know what wasn’t well considered? This little plan of yours. Very good, placing yourselves out of my reach, but you will notice that while all of you are safely out there, you’ve left me in here—all alone with the wheel.”

“Have we?” asked Doyle.

Moriarty frowned and turned to find that Doyle had slung his rosary over the wheel’s topmost spoke. He threw his head back and let out a raucous laugh. “Well played, Captain. Of course, none of that works for the reasons you’re thinking it does.”

“But it works all the same, which would seem to be the more important consideration,” said Barker from where he stood against the railing to the lower deck, Douglas’ gun drawn in his hand.

Moriarty regarded him with an assured smile. “Unfortunately, your life preserver there will not, though I always welcome any attempt to prove me wrong on that score.” His grin twisted wider. “Edwards took that challenge, that’s how I got him.”

“You—” Barker began, starting forward before catching himself and remaining in place where he stood.

“Edwards?” asked Anderson.

“Birdie,” whispered Cecil Barker as he glared at Moriarty, his voice thick with emotion. “The love of my life; you took him from me.”

“Oh, don’t be so melodramatic. You still have his lovely bride.”

Doyle had to catch Barker as he threw himself at Moriarty’s throat. “He’s baiting you, can’t you see that? Don’t play his games.”

Moriarty chuckled. “One of you will fall, there’s no question of that. But I wonder which of you it’s going to be. Who is the weakest?”

“Asks the man who cannot step over a line of paper,” quipped Doyle. 

“Every creature finds its limitations. Between us, I prefer it this way; immortality would be so boring without that element of challenge. I like to think it’s even become a sort of symbiotic relationship as a result. There, the teeming masses of mankind, drowning in all that lovely, delicious shame, and here a willing vessel eager to syphon it away and offer it back to you in more tolerable doses. And you thank me for the privilege, provided I spin you a good enough story.”

“You underplay your hand, Moriarty,” said Holmes. “You are not so weak as you would wish to make us believe. There must be exceptions to your rules, else I would not be standing here as I am now.”

Moriarty came to stand toe to toe with Holmes across the white line, his expression one of ravenous interest. “And here I thought that cocksure doctor had sewn you back together entire. It’s always that last piece that is the hardest to come to terms with, isn’t it?” He arched an eyebrow. “As much as I would love to tell you that I have an ace up my sleeve, the truth in this case is much more damning. You were made immortal at your own request.”

“I would never have asked for this,” Holmes insisted between his teeth.

“You underestimate me, Sherlock. Even your principles will give way to the right temptation. No sooner than you arrived did I demonstrate to you just how thoroughly you had been outmatched. And to be fair, even in light of your defeat, you were indeed resolute. Of course, I had known from the first that you would be persuaded neither by pain nor degradation—not you, you don’t regard your own suffering that highly. But these things do require careful timing, so I waited till your final moments to tell you what was going to happen to your John Watson when he came after you—that you’d led him to a slow and agonising demise and for what? The sake of your pride? Or… I could leave him be, even let you see him again. All you had to do was ask. And how you asked.” 

Moriarty’s tongue darted out to wet his lips before his face twisted in a mockery of pain, speaking in an imitation of Holmes’ voice. “‘Have me, then,’ you begged with your dying breaths. “Make me yours. If you leave it within my power to accomplish it, I swear that one day the last thing your eyes will ever see is the contempt in mine—but till then I will give you a diversion the likes of which even you have never known.’ I warned you that I could promise you one, but not the other, and you agreed to the terms. And now here we are, two men of our word.”

A shudder ran down Holmes’ spine, his hands curling into fists against the burning sensation of the memory searing itself back into place.

“Do you remember now, my dearest? Would you care to make good on the second half of our arrangement? Killing is after all the highest form of intimacy—you never know a man until you have his blood on your hands. Take your chances. Die fighting. Surely that would be more satisfying than this dreary stalemate.”

“It’s not a stalemate,” I said, stepping forward as a preternatural determination took possession of me. “We have an advantage over you. Or at least, I do.”

The black eyes met mine, a glimmer of satisfaction sparking within those bottomless depths. “John Watson. Now you interest me. It is funny to see you trying to play a hand with no cards in it. I don't think anyone could do it better, but it is rather pathetic, all the same.”

“Ironic, I was going to say the same of you.”

“We are so very similar in that regard. But go on, do tell me how you plan to triumph over me, for I think you will find that I know every move of your game.”

“As I know every move of yours. The same move, over and over again. What is it that you told me? The artist dwells in the shadows between what a man dreads and what he longs for? You gave yourself away from the first. Those are indeed the boundaries of your influence.”

Moriarty gave a contented hum. “Every man has his fatal flaw—he will do anything to avert that fate which he most fears, or to claw himself even an inch closer to that which he most desires. If it is to be called a weakness to be constrained to striking there, it is certainly a preferable one. My hold is as inescapable as the seeds of doubt in the human heart.”

“And as fragile. One word and it is unravelled.”

A strange fire glinted in his eyes as he cocked his head to the side. “Bold talk. Would you care to put it to the test?”

“I already have—I’ve beaten you once.”

“You’ve beaten nothing. You and Sherlock escaped because I allowed you to. From the beginning, the road you’ve walked has always led to this moment, fashioned by yourself one word at a time.”

“No. Yours, not mine. You allowed us to escape because you had given your word, and you were bound by it.”

A small smile twitched at the corner of his mouth as he reached into his breast pocket to pull out a diary very much like my own—I scoffed. “True enough. But speaking of my word, do you know what I keep in here, Dr. Watson? You, and the story I’ve been telling with your ill-fated and dangerous life. Let us follow the thread of tragedy from the beginning, shall we? I could regale you with the delightful details of all that Sherlock has suffered at my hands—it is not for the faint of heart, but that’s never been one of your failings has it? But so as not to bore you with what you already suspect I’ll skip ahead to what you don’t—the eastbound train that crossed your path at exactly the wrong moment, then the nuns of the St. Mary’s Convent where you reunited with Miss Morstan, whom you have likewise led to ruin. Then Miss Irene Adler and her companion Miss Godreya Norton, Birdie Edwards, Daedalus Grieff, ah, and now we have good old Wilder here. Dear me, this is getting to be quite a long list—one-hundred-seven souls in total. Tell me, how does it feel to be responsible for all that needless bloodshed?”

The words struck a terrible chill through my heart.

“You’re bluffing,” said Doyle with unwavering conviction. “Norton and Adler got away, I’m certain of it. Even with all your tricks, you never could have killed so many in so short a span of time with your constraints.”

“Wilder was willing to pledge his life for mine in exchange for a few days of meaningless flattery and you imagine I cannot talk a few dozen sheep to their own slaughter?”

“If you had, it would be only right that you be lured towards the same end,” I said, fighting back my emotions as I took another step closer. “Do you still fancy yourself untouchable or have you begun to sense the danger you face?”

“Believe me, Dr. Watson, if I came out of this circle it would not be danger, it would be inevitable destruction.”

“My thoughts exactly.”

“John,” Holmes cautioned. 

“Yes, John,” echoed Moriarty, his eyes sparkling. “Listen to him. Do as he tells you, as you always do. Because that’s what you’re good at, hm? Ever his willing servant. Try as you may, you will never amount to anything more than that.”

“You have not the first idea how much more than that I am,” I answered with steely malice. “But if you like, I’ll let you in on that secret. Step outside the circle and dance with me. Or are you too afraid you might lose?

“Oh, I never lose,” he said with a dazzling smile before lashing forward, seizing me by the collar of the shirt and holding me in the air with one hand.

“Now!” I gasped. 

Holmes lunged for Moriarty, knocking me to the floor as they went soaring forward, crashing through the railing to the lower deck and knocking over the barrel of rum, the amber liquid spilling over to the floor below. Doyle leapt down after them, Anderson at his heels.

“Keep him down! Keep him on the deck!” I shouted, scrambling to my feet and rushing to the railing. “Barker, the lantern!”

I heard a scream as I caught the lantern Cecil Barker tossed in my direction. Moriarty was splayed out, Holmes holding him down by the throat, the aquiline planes of his face set like flint as he glared down at our foe. One of Moriarty’s sleeves was pinned down to the deck with a wooden stake, the other by Doyle’s knife. They could not hope to hold him long—they did not need to.

“Professor Moriarty!” I called, and there was one moment of perfect calm as his dark eyes rose to meet mine.

I flashed him one last smile. “Go to hell.” 

I tossed the lantern onto the deck below, the flames licked up the trail of rum eagerly, making their way to where Moriarty lay as he too was consumed by the fire.

James Moriarty uttered a horrible cry which will ring always in my memory. With a burst of inhuman strength he sprung to his feet, beating at the flames to no effect. His features were then like some beautiful painting over which the artist has passed a wet and foul sponge—charred, discoloured, inhuman, terrible. He flailed towards the railing as if acting on some impulse to quench the fire and plunged overboard into the sea. 

Doyle, Holmes, and I ran after him, but the fiend was gone, swallowed up into the inky depths.

“It is finished,” declared Doyle as we stared out at the calm surrounding us.

Holmes’ answering expression was unreadable. We stood there together in silence til the first rays of dawn peeked over the horizon, driving my companion back into the shadows.

Chapter Text

And so, friend Arthur, we arrive at the present—or as near to it as I shall ever reach, so far as you are concerned. I had determined to let my last entry be the end of this strange and often grotesque narrative, but certain events have transpired in recent days which necessitate some further remarks on my part. After these, I shall take my last bow from the stage and lay the fate of Holmes and myself at your feet. I have every confidence in both your capabilities and your good will, both of which will doubtless be tested in the work ahead of you.

Since that night of horror and tragedy, a certain heaviness lingered in the air, as if each of us yet waited for the fall of the executioner’s axe. I confess that I myself harboured a premonition that I would not tread again upon English soil—I regret to have been proven right.

Such a journey as ours cannot but indelibly alter those who have had their part in it. I know I do not speak for myself alone when I declare I shall ever feel a certain spirit of kinship for the remaining crew—for crew we all have become—of this beloved and doomed vessel Matilda Briggs. Whether her story is fated for silence or glory, our hearts shall ever be joined and no time or distance shall ever tear them asunder, even after the ship herself is no more. 

I admit to you that I do not know what will happen when you reach England, nor can I imagine the world which will be born the instant you reach its shores. I pray that it will be a better one, that a cleaner, better, stronger land will lie in the sunshine when the storm has cleared. I have acted as if I knew this to be true, and have seen the effect my courage has had upon the men. Such is a captain’s duty—to assuage the fears of those around us through the calming influence of our presence, to absorb all doubts unto ourselves. Knowing this from experience as you surely must, will it come as any surprise to you that I have been plagued by my own trepidations all the while? Yet I hoped against hope, what more could I do?

It seemed fitting to me that I be the one to man the final nightwatch. The sun had long set, but one blood-red gash like an open wound lay low in the distant west. Above, the stars were shining brightly, and in the distance, I saw the lights of another ship passing by. I stood at the wheel, glancing back at Cara Grieff where she slept curled up beside the mast with my jacket draped over her small frame. 

Since the death of her father, she had become quite attached to me. Each night without fail she would ask me to stay with her till she fell asleep. I would oblige her, telling her stories, crafting with my hands worlds of adventure and mystery and romance, where evil was only fleeting and the sun would always rise to banish the darkness that had lurked in the night. She would watch with rapt attention until her eyes began to droop. 

It was not always enough; more often than not she still woke up panicked by the memory of those horrors that had befallen her. As he is so often at my side, Holmes has had more than one occasion to witness this tragic aftermath. 

One such night after she had fallen back asleep he remarked, “What object is served by this circle of misery and violence and fear? It must tend to some end, or else our universe is ruled by chance, which is unthinkable. But what end?” 

I could give him no answer.

Parting with her now is my deepest regret; were there not so strong a call upon my duty that demanded my absence, I could not bear to leave her. But I know Mr. Cecil Barker and the fiancée of the late Birdie Edwards will provide her with a better life than I could ever manage. She will be safe and she will be loved, and perhaps one day all of this will seem as nothing more than a dismal dream, myself included. I hope I do not ask too much to request that you do all you can for her when I am no longer able.

That final evening, she slept soundly. The sea was calm and still, and I stood lost in thought. My attention was roused by the sound of the door to the hold opening below me, followed by a familiar tread. Holmes stopped at the bottom of the steps, his hand resting on the railing.

“May I join you?” he asked with some hesitancy.

His reluctance was understandable. The death of Mary Morstan had intervened like an impassable barrier between us, drawing each of us into our separate reveries. I knew that he imagined I grieved her; I did grieve her, but not because I regretted my decision—only that the consequences of it had not fallen on myself alone. 

Gesturing to the space beside me I offered him a small smile and he came to stand at my side, staring out at the horizon. 

“I wonder,” he began, “whether beyond that line the red rim of the sun yet pushes itself over the London cloud-bank. It shines on a good many folk, but on none, I dare bet, who are on a stranger voyage than you and I. How small we feel with our petty ambitions and strivings in the presence of the great elemental forces of nature. I believe it was Jean Paul who remarked that the chief proof of man’s real greatness lies in his perception of his own smallness. It argues, you see, a power of comparison and of appreciation which is in itself a proof of nobility.”

His words did not seem to necessitate a reply on my part. There was a curious secretive streak in Holmes which often expressed itself in that charming dramatic flair I knew so well, but also made it difficult for even those closest to him to know what his exact plans might be. He pushed to an extreme the axiom that the only safe plotter was he who plotted alone. I was nearer to him than anyone else, yet I was always conscious of the gap between us, no more so than in those final days. There were sides to his character that I could never explore or understand, a fact which was the more painful to me after all that had transpired, the insufficiency of my own devotion to draw him to confide in me.

“So what is your verdict?” Holmes asked, lapsing abruptly at once into the half-humorous, half-cynical vein which was his common attitude as he lit a cigarette and passed it to me before drawing out another for himself.

I puffed at it to steady my nerves, but my hands were trembling with anxious excitement. I felt as if I stood on the threshold of a moment for which I had so long pined for.

“On?” I asked casually.

“Our first time at sea?” he offered.

I gave him a rueful smile. “The jury is still out on that matter. It may be a comedy as easily as a tragedy; I myself am drawn to the element of comedy, but you might call that my romanticism. I cannot deny that it has cost me more than one blood-letting, another man the penalties of the law, and both of us for a time our reason.”

He chuckled. “It would be superfluous to drive us mad. A candid observer would certainly declare that we were so already before we embarked upon such a foolish errand. I confess that I never imagined that Moriarty’s effect upon us would be so sudden or so severe.”

“Nor did I, but the result may yet justify our trials.”

“Moriarty is gone from this world. That alone is worth far more suffering than we have endured.”

I made no reply, only took a long drag at my cigarette.

He sighed. “Good old John, you are the one fixed point in a changing age. One may always rely upon you for a companionable silence. At present however I would be much obliged if you would converse with me upon one or two matters, for it may be the last quiet talk that we shall ever have.”

“Whatever do you mean?” I asked, turning my full attention upon him.

Holmes kept his eyes fixed out on the horizon. “There's an east wind blowing at our backs. Soon this ship will arrive at her destination, but will not bring all of us with her. The curse of the vampire lives in me. Under no circumstances can I come with you to England.”

“Sherlock—”

“I have given much thought to this matter, John. Nothing you say will change my mind. You are a doctor, consider this a plague ship—all precautions must be taken. When we have come close to London, the rest of you will take the remaining lifeboat, and I will remain here.”

“To do what?”

“I have everything I require—saltpetre, sulphur, charcoal.”

“Gunpowder,” I said, the blood draining from my face.

“There’s at least enough to blow a decent-sized hole in the hull, don’t you think?”

“Moriarty is dead!” I reminded him. “When will you accept that you’ve won?”

He flashed me a wry smile. “When I’m dead.”

“You know I cannot allow that. If you will insist upon such drastic measures then I will be obliged to do all I can to stop you. I shall tie you to the mast now if necessary.”

He gave me a dubious glance. “Your best friends would hardly call you a schemer, John, and yet I could not picture you doing anything so crude as that. You would inevitably have to free me come morning and then what?”

“Then I would persuade you to alter your course. Your life is not your own, keep your hands off it.”

“What use is it to anyone?” he asked, that mercurial disposition shifting once more, an abject hopelessness carved across the lines of his face.

I placed my hand over his where it rested upon the railing. “How can you tell? The example of patient hope is in itself the most precious of all lessons to an impatient world.” 

“I wonder if you would bear it,” Holmes said quietly, his penetrating gaze seeming to search out the innermost part of me.

My answer was slow in coming. “Why are you doing this?”

“As I said, no trace of Moriarty’s foul contagion can be allowed to reach England. You have often declared your undying loyalty to me, if that has ever been true, you will trust me in this matter. I know you do not consider me a danger, but you do not know the struggle it is to keep my appetites suppressed. How short a time has it been since I’ve fed from you? Already I grow ravenous—every day my heart longs for that which I cannot allow myself to take. If I return, I will be the destruction of all I hold dear.”

“No,” I said after a time. “That’s all very nice and logical, but that is not the reason. I know you, Sherlock, I know when you’re lying.”

He huffed out a humourless laugh. “Alright. You’ve found me out. The real cause lies with Grieff and that poisonous idea that through Moriarty he might gain his heart’s desire. He poisoned his only daughter with vampiric blood in the hopes it might heal her, yet look at the result. When one tries to rise above nature one is liable to fall below it.”

“Grieff is dead, his daughter is safe.”

“But it will recur. I am not so heartless as Moriarty—others may find a way to win my sympathy. There is danger there—a very real danger to humanity. Consider, John, the call to something higher would be drowned out by the material, the sensual, the worldly. What sort of cesspool may not our poor world become? I know firsthand that what awaits them will not satisfy, for it is a life of unending hunger. We must protect the curious from themselves.”

“You need not tell anyone what you are.”

“And imagine for a moment what that life would be. Really imagine it. A decade from now. Two. Twenty. Criminals ever declaring, ‘If it takes me all my life I shall get level with you,’ and I from on high in my ivory declaring, ‘That sweet old song, how often I have heard it in days gone by, the last to come close to finishing that ditty was the late lamented Professor Moriarty, yet I live on. And on. And on.’” He bitterly flicked the ash from the end of his cigarette. “How should I be any better than that which I set out to destroy?”

“You are a better man, Sherlock—in every conceivable regard. You would use your singular position for the betterment of mankind, of that I have no doubt. I can think of no man more worthy of the gift of immortality—I would be honoured to remain at your side for as much or as little of that great life as you wish to share with me.”

His eyes flashed to mine, sharp as steel. “I believe you were right in your estimation of the limits of Moriarty’s capabilities—he did not create the idea that my influence has been disastrous to you. You and I are men before our time and suffer the usual penalties. Had you never met me, you might have had a real future, perhaps with Miss Morstan. You abandoned all of that for my sake and to what end? A life consigned to the shadows? That is never what you wanted; I could not ask of you what you so freely give.”

“Don’t ask me then, permit me to make my own decisions. I do not regard what I have abandoned as a sacrifice—I love you too much to care for anything else. You cannot force me to abandon you; I swear to you, wherever you go, I will go. If you tell me you cannot return to England, I will be at your side wherever the wind takes us, and if you tell me this ship must sink with you aboard it, then I will join you in the depths. You must face that, Sherlock. Maybe it is the more painful because it is a distorted love—exaggerated, even maniacal—but it is true, and you shall never dissuade me from it. God put a curse upon me if I allow anything but death to part us.” 

“The nature of your regard for me borders on idolatrous,” he accused.

I met his gaze with perfect steadiness. “Is that not the purpose of love? To serve as a tangible mirror to a greater glory?”

At last, he sighed and placed his hand over mine. “You may yet change your mind.”

“I will not,” I swore. “I learned a long time ago that it is a captain’s duty to go down with his ship.”

“Then we remain at an impasse. But we may dwell in it together for as long as you wish. The sea air, sunshine, and patience—all else will come. Sufficient for tomorrow is the evil thereof.” 

Turning towards me, Holmes leaned in close and pressed his lips softly to mine.

“Come,” he whispered as he pulled away. “No more words on this matter. Let us talk of other things.”

All that night we sat together, our arms round each other as we fell into intimate conversation, recalling once again the days of the past, ignoring for a moment the bonds which yet held us in their grasp, each strengthening each for the troubles that lay before us. Holmes left me before sunrise, carrying Cara Grieff off to her bed and sequestering himself in his own cabin.

When dawn came, I stood upon the bow, savouring the cool breeze on my face and the warmth of the sun on my back. I heard footsteps approaching and was not surprised to hear your familiar voice at my elbow. 

“Abandoning your post, eh, Watson?” 

“The wheel is tied, we are safe,” I answered without turning back.

“What’s that?”

My eyes fell on the dark shape laying at my feet. “That is what drew me up here. It’s only a dead raven, it must have flown into the ship in the night. Where is Anderson? I thought he was to relieve me.”

“No, I've assigned him kitchen duty.”

“Just when you think you’re out of danger…” We shared a fleeting laugh but all too soon the oppressive weight swirling around me dampened my spirits once more. “I am glad it was you, Doyle. I hoped I might have a brief talk with you. Tell me, have I ever told you the story of the cutter Alicia?” 

“No, I don’t believe you have.”

“It is a short but remarkable tale. One spring morning she sailed into a small patch of mist from where she never again emerged, nor was anything further ever heard of herself and her crew. There are countless incidents like it, it is a wonder that any ship reaches its destination.”

“You’re commandeering my vessel.”  The words had come not as a question, but as a statement of fact.

“How did you know?”

“Holmes spoke to me about his plan days ago, I had assumed the two of you had already discussed it.”

“He had not breathed a word of his intentions to me till last night.”

“In that case, I regret my silence.”

“No, you did what was right, Holmes is not a man to be challenged without care. As it is, I have convinced him to abandon the worst of his scheme. He and I intend to sail off—God knows where—but at least we’ll be together. And what will you do now?”

“To be honest, I’m at a bit of a loss. I’ve been at sea for so long now it’s hard to imagine another life.”

“I was hoping you might say that. I have a proposal for you, if you are amenable.”

“Oh?”

I steepled my hands before me, bending down to rest my head in them as I spoke. “Somewhere in the vaults of the bank of Cox and Co., at Charing Cross, there is a travel-worn and battered tin dispatch-box in my name. It is crammed full with papers, nearly all of which are records of the cases I have undertaken with Sherlock Holmes, along with some of my drafts for how I planned to fictionalise them. You are welcome to them, you and the public. The arrangements have been made for the first story to be published by the end of the year. I could provide you with a written statement that would transfer the rights to all of it to your name. The work is not without risk, for my one condition is that you do what you can to preserve my original intent, but excepting that, you may tell it in your own way.”

“Does Holmes know of this?” 

“Of my writing, yes. That I hand it over to you, no, but I think that I am entitled to keep one or two secrets from him. I don’t believe he ever understood my purpose—to his sombre and cynical spirit all popular applause was always abhorrent. My participation in his adventures was always a privilege which entailed discretion and reticence. It has been a difficult line to walk, and I never even began to venture down it in full.”

A long silence followed.

“It would be a joy and a privilege to be entrusted with such dear work. I know of no better way to honour my friends than telling their story.” Glancing over then, the expression on your face made me wonder whether you had guessed far more than I ever dared to tell you. “The fates are against you, Watson. I daresay you are due a good turn. God will take care of you, if God knows what is good for Him.”

And now I come rapidly to the conclusion of this singular narrative. No more needs to be said, you yourself having taken part in those dark fears and vague surmises which clouded our lives so long and ended in so bittersweet a manner. You now have what you once wished for—you hold in your hands all my secrets laid bare. Perhaps you understand now why they remained so till I knew we had parted ways forever. I do not know how this incriminating book will be used, but I have no reservations trusting this delicate task to your care. I imagine these most recent events will be the most difficult to relay, in whole or in part. The world is not yet prepared to learn of the immense exertions which caused Sherlock Holmes such strain in the spring of ‘87, the whole question of the Matilda Briggs, the colossal schemes of Professor James Moriarty. But someday it might be. If you deem it right, the true story may yet be told.

Till then, go with all my wishes for your present and future health and happiness. May you know something of that divine satisfaction I myself have glimpsed but never tasted.

Your friend,

John H. Watson

—

Friend John,

After the work of decades I can at last say that I have done all I am able for you and Mr. Sherlock Holmes—I can only pray it was enough.

A. Conan Doyle

—

Chapter Text

The Private Diary of Dr. John H. Watson (hilarious)

Not to be read by anyone else. (That means you, Frank)

—

Nothing. 

Nothing.

—

Pointless.

What was that saying? There is nothing new under the sun? They had it right. Nothing new ever happens. Nothing ever will.

—

How?

Just when I think there’s an end in sight, they actually find something that seems to work and I’m given an official stay of execution instead. Not that it changes anything, it just means I’ll have to get creative about this. Though that’s not quite accurate is it? It’s kind of the opposite, actually. If I can’t make any of it right, I know one sure way of mitigating the damage.

That was a rhetorical question, for the record. I know how. For all their funding, the people working here are complete idiots. They somehow haven’t noticed that I still have my gun.

—

Happy now.

Christ—I’d forgotten how grim that had gotten—sorry you had to see that. Though I suppose you had to live it, but I tend to think the memory of something is worse than the thing itself. You only live a moment once, no matter how horrible, but in memory you can relive it forever, going over it and over it trying to find some other choice you might have made, as if that will change anything. It’s best not to let yourself dwell. 

I’m doing better now. That referral I received did help, mostly because it came along with a job. Can’t say more than that—quite literally—but it’s better than staring at a hospital ceiling all day. I like the routine. It’s nice—stable, predictable. I’m helping people at least. It’s better, I’m better. 

I’m happy.

—

Drinks

Met up with some of the other people from the lab last night. It wasn’t my idea, but I think it was good for me. Necessary in any case. Molly had started her nervous jokes again. 

“You need to get out more. When’s the last time you saw the sun?” 

“Care for a bite? You can’t live on just coffee, you know.” 

“Were you here all night again? You look like a dead man walking.” 

They’re not really jokes and we both know it, but she pretends for my sake. Molly’s good like that—one of the best people I know, and I’m lucky enough to have her put up with me. Thought the least I could do was return the favour and join my colleagues in the land of the living for a few hours.  

So I spent the evening watching them all down pints and taking the mick out of each other. I tried to join in but people tend to treat me with kids gloves. I guess it’s understandable—my jokes tend to be a bit on the morbid side. Maybe I should work on that. No one mentioned my leg at least, or the elephant in the room. I ended up calling it an early night. It won’t keep Molly satisfied for long, so I suppose I’ll be making this a habit. Fantastic.

—

The Serial Suicide

So. That thing I shouldn’t let myself think about. The one in the title. I don’t know why I’m dancing around the subject like this in my own diary, but I suppose you get paranoid working with the crowd I do—there’s always the chance you could get caught, no matter how careful you try to be.

No one else thinks it was a suicide, not the way I do. The few times I’ve mentioned it I got weird looks. Especially from Frank. 

“And what do you know about it?”   

Nothing, nothing at all. 

“I think we should leave speculations to the experts, don’t you?”

The way he talks to me would be infuriating, if I were allowed to get angry anymore. I don’t know why I care, it’s not like any of it is real anyway. 

I say that and yet…

It’s the fact that they’re all so certain, more than anything else. They must be—they wouldn’t be paying me such a ridiculous salary if they didn’t genuinely believe it. I’ve given up on attempting to assuage my conscience by telling them that they’re wrong. It doesn’t work anyway; no one listens to me—no one should. And it’s not as if I’m convinced myself, no matter what I pretend to be to everyone else. There are those dangerous nights when my control starts to waver and I have one too many to drink—I inevitably end up reading through it again and I can almost make myself believe that they’re right—it was all real.

The reaction to that thought is always the same—a fathomless, unspeakable fury. I want nothing more in that moment than to tear into something with my bare hands and I feel like I could—like I’d have the strength I needed to tear the world apart if I tried. I try to go to sleep around that point. I can’t indulge my anger like that—I’d prefer to avoid a repeat of what happened when I first joined on. Regardless, It’s just letting myself get worked up over nothing because it wasn’t real.

I’ve been fortunate in a lot of ways; I can’t let myself ruin the life I’ve managed to claw together for myself over this. All I need to do is keep my head down and take my ludicrously generous paychecks and attempt to do some small amount of good to counteract all the rest. 

It doesn’t help that they think they’re close to finding them now.

Not them. I want to say. Just him. The other one is long gone.

—

A Strange Meeting

I don’t know why I keep coming back to this. I’m not a writer—I never have been—and considering the circumstances you’d think I would be the last person on earth to want to keep a diary at all, let alone about this. Believe me, the irony is not lost on me. It’s like I can’t help myself. Maybe it's in my blood, like all the rest. Or maybe it’s just an elaborate way for me to indulge in my self-destructive tendencies. Because this is going to ruin me if I let this continue. I can see that plain as day. Yet here I am, like an idiot.

Sod the rules. Sod Frank. What’s he going to do, arrest me? Not now. I have fire insurance—they need me. Desperately. I suppose they could always tie me up in some complicated legal dispute after the dust has settled, but I don’t have anything I care about losing. I don’t know why I let their abstract threats put me off for so long; it was never them I was afraid of. Of course that’s the real problem—there’s nothing worse than that siren song beckoning you out into dark waters, beautifully compelling and dangerously consuming. You keep yourself in line because your self control is tenuous at best and you know that you can never trust a feeling like that. But you want to. God, how you want to.

I think that’s why I kept myself in denial for so long—I can see now that I wasn’t being rational, convincing myself everyone around me had gone mad; why would I ever trust myself to be the voice of reason? But I couldn’t let myself think about it, think about him. I’ve known all along what would happen if I let myself believe in him. That way madness lies.

But they wouldn’t ever let me forget altogether.

“The wheel turns…” Frank had said as he shook my hand the first day we met. It was a subtle enough reference that even as defensive as I am about the subject, it managed to go over my head. Of course, I didn’t have the full context then, didn’t know that they had sought me out with an ulterior motive in mind. In the beginning, all they told me was that they were interested in me for the unique combination of my blood and my medical expertise. I suppose that was even technically true. Always dangerous, that.

I’d thought it was a joke, when they first explained it to me. How could it not have been? I was even a little impressed—no one had tried a vampire spin on the punchline before. But they were serious. I’ve spent a lot of time and energy trying to pretend that they weren’t, that it was all a prank or the manifestation of the quirks of some eccentric billionaire funding the place—that one did always have a way of attracting deranged fans. I was deluding myself, but it was safer than the alternative. It’s bad enough feeling like a spectre haunting every room I step into, I couldn’t bear to think about the ghosts waiting in the wings for their chance to haunt me back.

I’ve now lost the luxury of that polite fiction.

As if I’d known it was coming, I hadn’t slept at all last night and as a result felt even worse than usual this morning. I came into the lab anyway for the sake of having a distraction.When I set Molly’s coffee and cranberry muffin at her station on the way in she took one look at me and got up to turn off the overhead lights without a word, knowing my tolerance for fluorescents to be minimal at the best of times. There’s always been something comforting about working by the warm light of the lamps—almost nostalgic—and a companionable silence fell between us in that soft glow. I’d just begun to lose myself in my work when the door screeched open and someone stepped into the room, flicking the light back on with an annoyed huff.

That one sound alone was enough to tell me it was Frank. I made a point of not looking up from what I was doing, not that he seemed to notice. As if he was intentionally doing all he could to irritate me, he began whistling an ear splitting tune as he strolled up to my work station, setting off my migraine. I surreptitiously glanced in his direction as I was changing slides, and felt a wave of dread at the smug smile on his face—that couldn’t mean anything good. Worse, he’d caught me looking at him. I considered continuing to pretend he wasn’t there anyway, but knew from experience that he wouldn’t leave me alone until he’d gotten what he wanted.

“You’re in a cheery mood today,” I remarked, making a concerted effort to sound as uninterested as humanly possible. I noticed that I had grabbed the wrong slide and returned to my samples to find the correct one.

“I am.” Frank was either oblivious to or ignoring my clear signs of disinterest. He spoke as if he was savouring the taste of each and every word on his tongue. “I thought you might be too, but it would seem the privilege of telling you the good news has fallen to me. You’re about to be put to good use at long last, Dr. Watson.”

He always calls me Dr. Watson, no matter how many times I’ve asked him to call me John. I know why he does it and so it’s more than a little grating.

“Forgive me for thinking our medical research is just slightly more important than you seem to.”

“Oh, that’s all well and good for the cameras, but that’s not why any of us are really here, is it? You in particular.”

I froze in place, my eyes darting up to his. He often implemented this odd, indirect sort of communication, relishing in implying meanings that I either had to pretend to be oblivious to—making myself look like an idiot—or else attempt to interpret as he wished—risking making myself look insane when I got it wrong.

My annoyance at this habit of his didn’t stop the impact of the news he wasn’t telling me from crashing into me with all the force of a freight train. I felt the edges of the slide I held balanced between my fingers digging into my flesh.

“You’ve found him.” My voice sounded strange, far away, like I was listening to it from underwater.

“Yes,” he agreed. “Just the one, as you always said. You’ll have to tell me how you intuited that one of these days. The main trouble was that we spent several decades looking in the wrong place entirely. Dr. Watson’s diary indicated that the ship had been intended for London, which matched Doyle’s own accounting, so we had no reason at all to search for it as far north as Whitby. One or both of them must have lied about the ship’s course. Little matter now that we’ve found the wreckage at long last. As we’d hoped, he was still inside, perfectly preserved. He’s responded well to being fed intravenously—it seems to have jump started his biological processes. We anticipate that he will awaken sometime this evening.”

“He’s alive?”

I heard the sound of glass shattering and looked down to see that the slide had slipped between my fingers onto the cold tile beneath me, the red blood shockingly vivid against the white. Not fully aware of what I was doing, I grabbed a kitchen roll and began sweeping up the pieces.

“Shouldn’t you leave that for the staff to take care of? Bloodborne pathogens?”

“Not necessary, it’s mine,” I answered, illogically hoping that restoring this small bit of order might make me feel less like I was standing in the middle of a hurricane, my thoughts racing and tearing themselves apart before they could fully form. Or maybe I thought that if I took long enough cleaning up, Frank would just leave. It didn’t work in either case. I felt hot and cold all over as I stood to my feet, having to lean on the counter for support.

“So, are you ready now or will you need a bit of time?” Frank asked.

“Ready?”

“You’re leaving for Whitby as soon as possible—you’ll need to be there when he resurfaces.”

The rioting torrent of indefinable emotion crystallised into raw panic. “That’s not a good idea.”

“Dr. Watson, that’s the entire reason you’re here,” Frank said with forced patience.

“But that won’t—” I’m still not sure how I meant to finish that sentence. 

“Are you going to do the job for which I hired you, or will I need to ask you to turn in your resignation?”

The thought of it, knowing that he was out there but never being able to see him— “No, I’ll go.”

“Good. I’ll be sending some files along with you, be sure to read them. We want this to go as smoothly as possible—no mishaps, no bloodshed, standard procedure.”

“Right.” The danger his words implied didn’t even register, my mind caught in a spiral around the same words again and again. He’s real. He’s alive.

“There’s that soldier’s bravery I’ve heard so much about, that will serve you well,” Frank said in a tone that was somehow at once both sarcastic and sincere. “And congratulations, by the way. It’s not every day you get the chance to finish your life’s work.”

The flash of irritation I felt at that remark managed to cut through the rest. I busied myself with clearing my station since I was done with my lab work for the day. To my great relief, Frank finally took the hint and left.

As soon as the door swung closed, I covered my face with my hands and squeezed my eyes shut, focusing on breathing in to the point that I could take in no more air before wringing it all from my lungs, repeating the process again and again until I felt like my head wasn’t about to explode at any moment. Scrubbing my fingers through my hair, I opened my eyes to find Molly watching me. She lowered her head to her own work at once, but I could feel the worry rolling off her in waves. She didn’t say anything though—one of Molly’s greatest strengths as a friend is knowing when not to pry. When my station was clear, I clicked off the lamp and picked up my cane from where it rested against the counter.

“Sorry, Molly. I’m going to have to take a rain check on the session this afternoon.”

“Nothing to apologise for,” she answered with a small smile.

“I’ll see you in the morning?”

“That’s the plan!”

I squeezed her shoulder as I walked past, thanking her for giving me room to breathe. She patted her hand over mine then let me go. As I made my way from the room, I thought I heard her whisper after me:

“Good luck.”

The long drive up to Whitby passed by in a blur. The beginning stretch was the easiest, when I could still distract myself by watching people walking along through the tinted windows. Most of them rushed along, trying to get out of the drizzle, but some of them didn’t. I tried to guess where each person I saw might be going based on how they were dressed, what they were carrying with them. The game ended when we pulled onto the motorway and I was left with nothing but thoughts I did not want to face.

I flicked through the files, but it may as well have been written in braille for how little of it I managed to absorb. After a while I gave up, leaning back against the headrest and closing my eyes, my fingers drumming against the seat as my left knee bounced in a quick, staccato beat. Part of me expected to wake up back in my flat, all of it nothing more than a strange dream. 

Please God, let it be a dream.

If it is one, I still haven’t woken up.

It seemed an eternity later that we arrived to that desolate shore, the ruins of the abbey looming on the hill above. The last of the daylight lingered in the sky, tinging the world in lilac. Someone was talking to me as I emerged from the car, putting a receiver in my ear, giving me instructions. I didn’t hear a word of it. Then I was being led down the path to the pebbled beach. I struggled from there—my cane kept sinking a few inches into the rocks, making it difficult to keep my balance, but I was grateful for that, because it gave me something to concentrate on. It wasn’t until I was standing in place, staring at the ebb and flow of the waves before me that I realised this was really happening. This was real. He was real. He was alive. I was going to see him again.

“—and remember we’ll be just behind that line of foliage, so give the signal if you feel like you are at risk and we’ll come forward. Otherwise we’ll stay out of your way.”

“Right. Good. Thank you,” I answered.

The armed guard who had been speaking to me gave me an incredulous look, but I couldn’t be bothered to work out how I’d offended her. I was alone then, waiting, my heart pounding in my chest.

Then Frank’s voice was in my ear, giving me updates. Movement from the wreckage. Making his way to shore. 500 metres out. 250. 100.

“Get ready, Dr. Watson.”

How could anyone ever be ready for something like this?

I saw him first as a dark shadow breaking across the waves, scattering the reflection of the moon across the water. Then a dark tangle of curls that I could almost convince myself was nothing more than seaweed before the rest of him followed.

I had never realised how much time I’d spent imagining what he looked like until I saw him and found that he was exactly as I had always pictured him—the tall, agile frame, his lean arms and chest visible through the white shirt which had turned translucent in the seawater, clinging to him like a second skin; his face, which would have been severe in its angularity, if it weren’t for the delicacy his eyes—turned upward then, gazing at the stars. A small smile played at the corners of his mouth, and something in my chest wrenched itself apart at the sight. I breathed in a gasp; a soft whisper of sound that would have been inaudible to anyone else over the rush of waves lapping at the shore, but it somehow reached him where he stood over fifty metres away.

His brilliant eyes, turned almost silver by the moonlight, flashed to meet mine and—

Chapter Text

I had to stop to at least try to collect myself before I could go on. I went for a long walk, ignoring the fact that it was about two in the morning by that point, hoping either the quiet of the city streets or the aching in my leg would serve to tether me to reality. While I was gone, I decided I ought to do away with the titles; they weren’t serving any real purpose and the more distance I can put between myself and—I’m done with the titles. I feel more like myself again for the moment, but suspect it won’t last. Every time my thoughts wander back to what happened on that beach, it’s like everything else fades away.

He looked at me. It sounds so ordinary, doesn’t it? How many people look at you every day? But it did something to me, that one small glance. I felt it crackling over my skin like the skittering fingers of a lightning strike, the base rumbling of thunder humming in my chest. His eyes met mine and everything was more than it had been a moment before. The wind had always been there but I was suddenly hyper-aware of it caressing my skin, could taste the salt air on my tongue, could see the fragments of light glistening on the innumerable pebbles making up that lonely shore, could feel each and every beat of my heart, imagined I could hear the echo of his in perfect synchrony. It felt like I was the one who had just come back to life after a century underwater. Like I had been drowning, and he was air.

Sherlock Holmes let out a small, choked off sound and then he was darting across the shore towards me like a speeding arrow. I wondered if he was about to kill me and decided that it would not be the worst way to go.

The next instant, his wiry arms had wrapped around me, holding me tight against his frame, cool and damp from the sea.

Before I knew what I was doing, my arms were around his waist, crushing him to me, the fingers of my left hand fisting into his shirt. He was just tall enough that my head could rest in the crook of his neck, and I breathed in the strange and familiar and wonderful smell of him—dark forests, strong black tea and tobacco. He let out another strangled sound, muffled by my skin, and I realised when his chest shook against me that he was crying. I didn’t know what to do but hold him, tracing one hand up and down his spine. An unspeakable sorrow rose within me and I wanted to cry with him.

I don’t know how long we stood wrapped in each other’s embrace. Eventually he pulled back and met my gaze again, one of his hands coming up to cradle my face.

“John,” he whispered, his voice so full of devotion that the weight of it seemed to land in my chest like a physical blow. “My John.”

Then, as if it was the most natural thing in the world, he angled his face to the side and began to lean down, intending to kiss me.

Reality came crashing down around me. I realised what was happening, why he was doing this, who he thought I was. Somehow, they must have known it, because it was the only way this plan ever would have worked. It wasn’t enough to have to share his name, share his blood—I even looked like him. Of course I did. It must have been a very close resemblance indeed, if it could fool even Sherlock Holmes. 

All at once, I was furious with him for not being able to tell the difference; I was certain there must be dozens of small details, maybe my eyes were a few shades darker blue or I was one inch shorter or my hair swirled in the opposite direction or anything else that he should have been able to see, facts that would have made it so that he never would have brought his lips so tantalisingly close to mine, thinking I was his John.

I flinched away and at once his hands loosened their hold. Grinding my teeth together, I mustered every ounce of will I possessed and took a step back, feeling an acute pang of loss as his arms fell away from me. Probably because of that, I extended my left hand out to him, eager to get back some form of contact. I was mortified to feel it shaking—there was no way he wouldn’t notice. I tried to offer him a polite smile, like he was a stranger on the street. He was a stranger. Why did I have to remind myself of that?

“Mr. Sherlock Holmes, I presume.” 

I had been aiming for professional and missed it by a mile. 

His brow furrowed and I could practically hear him trying to figure out what was going on with me. I pictured the inner workings of a clock, the gears spinning faster than I could think. How long would it take the greatest deductive mind in history to realise what had happened to him?

Less than five seconds.

“How long did we spend underwater?” He asked.

We. “You were underwater for just over one hundred and thirty six years.”

“One hundred and thirty six years…” he echoed, his eyes flitting around us, as if trying to find the evidence of so much time passing. He glanced down at my clothing, maybe the only indication he had. “I had thought a year, two, perhaps a decade… We slept for over a century?”

We again. He still didn’t see it. “You did, yes.”

“Why do you keep saying that?” Again, the care was written so plainly across his features—so much more expressive than I had ever let myself imagine he would be. “Did you surface before I did? Have you been alone for long?”

Longer than I can remember. The thought rose from some deep, desperate, part of me. Worse, the words almost made their way out of my mouth before I could tamp them back down. I swallowed, trying to regain control of myself.

“I’m afraid there’s been a misunderstanding, Mr. Holmes,” I said, relieved that my voice remained more or less even. “My name is Dr. John Watson, but I’m not the John Watson you knew.”

A flicker of confusion passed over his face, but it had cleared in the blink of an eye. 

“Ah,” he said, a little amused. “Well, this is a rather ironic turn of events, isn’t it?”

“No,” I said, because I knew what he was thinking, comparing this to what had been done to him all those years ago, assuming that the same had happened to me. Not me. “Mr. Holmes, I promise you, we have never met. Dr. Watson was my great-great uncle on my father’s side. I didn’t even know about him until a few years ago. Not properly anyway. I was born thirty-seven years ago in 1986. I can tell you my whole life’s story, if you like—I know you didn’t remember yours. But all of it is there, here, in the present. I’m not him.”

It was obvious that he didn’t believe me in the slightest. With a bit of distance I can see that his scepticism was understandable—from his perspective, all those faded words from a century past had happened only moments ago, the ink not yet dried, the memories as vibrant as fresh blood. In the moment though, I couldn’t bear it—the clear speculation written across his features, the calculations playing out behind his eyes—a man at work at a puzzle, his entire attention turned to solving it, to solving me.

Not me.

The fury spiked again and I felt compelled to prove to him that he was wrong—that he hadn’t figured me out with so little effort. I raised my left hand in the air and made a quick beckoning gesture.

A swirl of movement broke out around us, the sound of marching boots drowned out by the whirring of a helicopter overhead, the blinding searchlight beaming down on us, Sherlock bringing a hand up to shield his eyes from the light. He scanned our surroundings again, stiffening as he registered the dozens of firearms aimed in his direction—they couldn’t kill him of course, but I imagined one preferred to avoid being shot all the same. 

When Sherlock’s attention returned to me, his expression had taken on a careful sort of impassivity.

“Mr. Holmes, I am here on behalf of The Sherrinford Institute, one of the most preeminent medical organisations in Britain, and it is our hope that—”

“A medical organisation?” he scoffed, his eyes cutting back to the mercenaries surrounding us.

The corner of my mouth twitched upward. “Primarily, yes. However our founders stipulated that should you ever be found, we would have the facilities in place to ensure your transition to the present would be as painless as possible for all parties. I assure you that provided you pose no danger to the British public, you will be neither a prisoner nor a test subject. Even if we deem you a public health risk at present, all reasonable efforts at rehabilitation will be made with the goal of allowing you to resume your life in as short a span of time as circumstances allow.”

“I see. And while I have every confidence those arrangements have been made with the utmost of care, I have—rather understandably I feel—a few reservations about accepting your generous offer. What should happen, were I inclined to refuse?”

“Then I’d have to come after you,” I answered with a fervency that caught me off guard.

Sherlock’s eyes sparkled. “I shall look forward to it.”

He closed the distance between us then, one hand coming up to cup the back of my head, the other wrapping around my wrist, leaning close to press his cool lips to my ear.

“Allow me to assist you,” he whispered, bending down to press his lips to the hollow at the corner of my jaw. My eyes squeezed shut as I fought back a fresh wave of misplaced longing. When I opened them again, he was gone.

“Showoff,” I muttered to myself.

Chaos erupted around me, the mercenaries storming the beach as the spotlight roamed back and forth, attempting to locate him. Beneath the clamour, I could almost make out a sound like the padding of bare feet against smooth stone. I closed my eyes, concentrating. An image rose within my mind—the Whitby railway station, not as it was now but as it had been nearly one hundred and forty years ago.

The tenuous connection was severed by a hand coming down on my shoulder, shaking me.

“What on Earth was that?!” Frank demanded.

I felt a flash of annoyance at having been interrupted, then a wave of embarrassment for even entertaining the idea that I could somehow feel where he was going.

“What was what?”

“You, going completely off script.”

“There was a script?”

“It took us a century to find Sherlock Holmes, and you lost him in under ten minutes.”

“Did you see what just happened? Even if you had taken him to Sherrinford, you wouldn’t have been able to keep him there against his will.” 

“Yes, and the entire point of you being here was to ensure that he wouldn’t want to leave. You elected to bungle the entire operation by telling him the truth.”

I levelled a hard glare at Frank, satisfied to see him take a small step back in response. “I didn’t sign up to pretend to be some poor sod’s dead husband.”

“Husband?” 

“Close enough. Look, I kept my end of the bargain, he’s awake, he knows when and where he is, end of story. I’m going home.”

I turned and began walking back up towards the road. Slow as I was on the uneven terrain, Frank kept up with me without effort.

“Would that things were as simple as they are in your world. If you hear from him, or if you manage to track his whereabouts—if you come into contact with him in any way—you will notify me immediately. Understood?”

“What makes you think he’d reach out to me?”

“That wasn’t an answer, Dr. Watson.”

No, it hadn’t been. “Understood.”

He left me alone then, which under any other circumstances would have been a relief, but meant I had the five hour car ride back in solitude contending not only with the nuclear level fallout taking place in my head, but also with no distraction from the nebulous sensation of Sherlock Holmes following a path back to London parallel to my own

I had the driver drop me off at home, knowing he wouldn’t be there. That was normal, to be expected. The thing that has me feeling like a total lunatic is that I know exactly where he is. If I wanted to try to be rational, I could say that the key that went missing from my pocket was a fairly obvious clue. But that’s not the reason I’m so sure, and I know it. It’s almost dawn. I haven’t eaten, I haven’t slept, and I know in the same inherent way I know my own name that Sherlock Holmes is in a townhouse in Kensington with two cats and one endlessly patient scientist.

This is mad—I have gone mad. I should be running in the opposite direction as fast as possible, or calling Frank to have him check on the situation for me, never mind what he’ll think if this is all in my head. Or I could just text Molly and ask her if I’m right.

I’m not going to do any of that. What I’m going to do is get myself around and then go to where he’s waiting for me, as if pretending all of this is normal will make it any less insane. Because I can feel it already, like an itch somewhere beneath my skin, the restlessness that I know won’t fade until I see him again—like he’s a drug, and I’m already hooked after a single hit.

This is going to be the death of me. Here’s hoping I show up at Molly’s and find her there alone.

—

I was right.

I’ve sat here for at least a minute, wanting to delete that. It feels wrong, somehow, even though it’s true. But I was right, he was there. Without my spare key to Molly’s, I’d been worried about how I was going to get in, but I hadn’t needed to be—one of them had left the door ajar. I heard voices as I walked down the hall towards the flat and a small thrill shot through me as I recognised Sherlock’s deep baritone.

“I’m sure you have questions,” he was saying.

“One or two,” Molly answered. “I have an odd one first. Do you have a reflection? He—they never have them in the movies.”

I suppose I shouldn’t have been surprised to hear them talking about vampire mythology, but I was all the same—I hadn’t expected him to be so transparent about what he was.

“Do I look like someone who can’t see himself in a mirror?” asked Sherlock, and I could imagine his affronted expression almost too easily.

“No, I suppose not,” Molly said with a laugh.

“Most of the vampire legends are wrong or misunderstood, mirrors included. One imagines it to be a result of Moriarty’s influence, attempting to obscure his true weaknesses.”

“Some of them are true enough though,” I said as I pushed open the door.

Molly sat on her plush floral sofa with her feet tucked up beneath her, cradling a mug of coffee between her hands. One of her cats—Jester, the black one—was curled up beside her, purring softly. Sherlock Holmes was sitting in the little armchair by the fireplace, likewise holding a mug. I could see Knight’s eyes peeking out from beneath the chair, his tail twitching around Sherlock’s feet. 

“John!” Sherlock exclaimed, jumping to his feet, his face shining with excitement. He appeared to reconsider though and sat back down after a moment, his thumb rubbing over the side of his mug in a small nervous gesture. “Dr. Watson, rather. Excuse me, you caught me off guard and the resemblance is… uncanny.” His eyes darted back to Molly. “Though I understand that convention in this area has changed a bit while I was under. Isn’t that right… Molly?”

“Yes, that’s right!” she answered with a reassuring smile, then hastened to add, “As long as you don’t mind, of course.”

“Not at all.” His eyes drifted back to mine, questioning.

“John is fine,” I answered. “Preferable, to be honest.”

“Then thank you, John.” My name sounded different on his lips now, more formal. I wasn’t sure whether that was better or worse. 

Molly flashed me a sunny smile. “Fancy a cuppa, John? I’ve both tea and coffee on.”

“No thanks, I’m not thirsty.”

“Suit yourself,” answered Molly as she got up to refresh her own cup. “More tea for you, Sherlock?”

“No, thank you.”

“Easy guests I have this morning,” she remarked as she made her way to the little kitchen attached to the living space. “Don’t just stand there lurking in the doorway, John, make yourself at home.”

Sighing, I crossed the room and sat next to Jester on the sofa, scratching behind his ears. I felt Sherlock’s gaze lingering on me, my nerves zinging to life at the intangible touch. I looked back at him with what I hoped appeared to be nonchalance. “So, you were talking about vampire legends when I came in.”

“And you said that some of them are true. How do you know?”

I flashed him a grin. “I’ll make you a deal. If you agree to come back to Sherrinford with Dr. Hooper and I, I’ll tell you.”

“Doctor Hooper?” Sherlock asked, staring at her with his mouth agape as she came back into the room. “You’re a doctor? A real doctor?”

“No. We aren’t doing this,” I interjected before Molly had to defend herself. “I understand that there might be some adjustments given the time difference but I won’t let you antagonise my friend because you think women’s rights are some sort of—”

“Women’s rights?” Sherlock interrupted. “What does that entail? You can study medicine? Can you vote? Do you support yourself here alone, without a husband?”

“Husband,” Molly echoed with an eyeroll. “Yes, I can vote, and no, I’m not married. And before you make a comment about my age and how I’ve wasted my life prioritising my career before a relationship—”

“Wasted?” Sherlock asked with a laugh. “My good woman, nothing could be further from my mind. How often have I lamented the bright minds forced to dedicate themselves only to domestic matters? Never in my wildest dreams did I think I would live to see it otherwise.” He let out another laugh as his hand flew up to his mouth to stifle his delight. “I knew the future would bring wonders, but I did not know it would make them ordinary. What else has changed?”

His earnest joy was infectious, but something about it made me uneasy, like he was putting on an act—though I couldn’t imagine what motive he could possibly have for doing so. 

“I could tell you,” I said evenly. “If you come back to Sherrinford with us.”

“How about this?” he countered. “You seem to know a great deal about me, why don’t I give you a little test? My strengths you could have gathered at the shore, but if you can correctly identify my weaknesses, I’ll come with you.”

“You think I know them because I’m him,” I said. “But I’m not. Honestly, I’m surprised you haven’t worked that out already yourself—you’re overlooking the obvious.”

Sherlock arched an eyebrow. 

I stood to my feet with a small grimace, making my way towards the window. “There are either one or two ways of killing a vampire. I was never sure about the wooden stakes—”

“Conditional but effective under the right circumstances,” he supplied.

“But the other you’re certain of? Direct sunlight is deadly to you?”

“Yes.” 

“Well then,” I said, then pulled open the blinds, bathing the centre of the room with brilliant light.

Sherlock sprang to his feet, his arm extended out towards me, his eyes wide with fear. With a small, unamused smile, I held my hands out before me, letting the light fall on my bare skin. 

I had expected to feel some satisfaction as having one upped him in something, but in the face of his devastation, I felt only remorse. I had an impulse to cross the room and take him into my arms, to catch his face between my hands and—

That wouldn’t have helped anything.

“I’m sorry,” I offered instead as I turned to let the blind back down.

He was quiet for a long time, a heaviness settling itself on his shoulders.

“You have nothing to apologise for,” he said at last. “The misunderstanding was mine.”

It didn’t feel like enough. I wanted to make it right for him, which of course, was impossible. Still, I gave him what little I could. 

“Listen. I won’t hold you to any of that. You can leave, if you’d like. I won’t tell anyone that I’ve seen you, though I can’t speak for Molly—”

“Oh, I’m excellent at keeping secrets,” she interjected with a gentle smile as she took a sip of her drink.

“Well there you have it. You’re a free man, under no obligations to anyone. I’m sure you’ve had enough of… this.” 

“No,” Sherlock said after a moment. “I’m a man of my word. I said I would come with you, and I will. Will you be there when I arrive?”

“Do you want me to be?” I asked, my brows coming together.

“Yes, I think I do.”

“Of course,” I promised. “Whatever you want.”

“Thank you,” he answered, before he curled his legs up on the seat of the chair and closed his eyes, the sharp lines of his face creased in quiet anguish.

Molly and I exchanged a glance before the phone in my pocket let out a shrill ring.

“Frank,” I greeted without looking at the number. “You’re right, I’ve found him. Can you send someone round to come and get us?”

Chapter Text

Frank arrived to Molly's in an ominous, hearse-like vehicle. I glanced back in the rear view mirror as I slid into the passenger seat to the metal-lined box containing Sherlock and couldn’t help but wonder why they hadn’t devised a less horrific means of transportation given so much time to prepare. 

“So, tell me: how did you manage to track him down, precisely?” asked Frank as he pulled the car onto the road.

“Call it a hunch.”

He hummed in disapproval. “I suppose it makes no difference how you’ve done it, so long as he's been recovered. Well done, by the way.”

“Thank you,” I answered with some bewilderment—I think it was the first genuine compliment he’d ever given me. I thought it best to press my rare advantage while I still held it. “Listen, before you came I told Sherlock that I would be the one to conduct the orientation, I hope that won’t be a problem.”

“Odd, I had thought that you would want to step down at the earliest opportunity.”

So had I. I told myself that I was continuing on out of curiosity rather than sentiment, that it was natural to want to understand why I reacted to Sherlock the way I did, to study it, learn to control it. It had nothing at all to do with the fact that the process would necessitate being near him for longer and with him more prolonged exposure to the feeling that I was being simultaneously vivisected and electrified in ways that were not entirely unpleasant.

“It’s safer isn’t it?” is what I said to Frank. “You’ve already decided I’m a reasonable risk and I’m fairly certain that if Sherlock had wanted to kill me, he already would have, so it’s a win for everyone.”

“I suppose I don’t foresee any issue with that. Do keep in mind though that you are dealing with a unique subject—try not to cause any permanent damage with whatever it is you’re planning.”

“I thought the whole point was that he wasn’t a test subject,” I said with a frown.

“Slip of the tongue,” he answered with a sanguine smile. “Don’t tell me you’re actually worried about him now.”

“I’m a doctor, of course I’m worried about him.”

“This seems to extend a bit beyond professional concern though, doesn’t it?”

I gave no answer. When we arrived at Sherrinford, I’d wanted to follow after the group of guards carrying Sherlock’s box away, but Frank insisted I go through processing as normal to give him some time to adjust to his environment.

“I told him I’d be there,” I protested.

Frank arched a single eyebrow. “Getting a bit worked up, are we? I do hope you have that under control.”

The pointed reminder served its purpose—I didn’t complain again, but I was so preoccupied that when going through the metal detector, I forgot to put my phone on the conveyor belt. The guard made a show of patting me down after that. It felt like everyone was staring at me, scrutinising every move I made. I could feel myself growing restless, agitated, almost clawing out of my skin, but remained clear headed enough to recognise the beginnings of a flare up—I really shouldn’t have missed my transfusion the afternoon before.

“John, there you are!” 

I hadn’t seen Molly coming up behind me and tensed so severely I thought I might have pulled a muscle in my neck.

“Christ! Don’t sneak up on me like that.”

“Sorry, I wasn’t trying to startle you,” she answered with a giggle as she walked along beside me. “I guess it makes sense to be a little on edge with all these—with a vampire in the building. How are you holding up?”

“Me? Oh, I’m as happy as the pope would be if Jesus turned up, I imagine.”

“Oh, I don’t know, I thought it’d be a bit more like Bonnie and Clyde reuniting.”

“Molly…” I said with some annoyance—I had thought she would be the one person I could trust not to mock me.

She bumped her shoulder against mine. “I’m not making fun of you. It’s just… I wish you could see it, the way the two of you are when you’re together.”

“We’re not like anything when we’re together,” I dismissed, scanning my key card at the panel in front of us and holding the door open for her. “Anyway, Bonnie and Clyde is mixing up the metaphor a bit, isn’t it? Wrong side of the law.”

“Depends on how you look at it, which laws you’re considering,” she gave me a quick wink before changing the subject. “Heard you’re the one doing the interview. Best of luck!”

“Thank you, I’m sure I’ll need it.”

“Don’t worry so much, John. Just be yourself, you’ll say the right thing.”

I scoffed. “Yeah, look how well that’s gone so far.”

“He’s here, isn’t he?” she asked. When I made a face, Molly laughed again, then let out a wistful sigh. “It’s like I said, I wish you could see it happening. You two—it’s like magic.”

“Alright, someone needs to lay off the romance novels.”

“For the record, I wasn’t the one to say it was romantic, that was all you,” said Molly with a bright grin, ducking away from the playful shove I aimed in her direction. 

We’d come by then to the hall which shot off towards our offices. Molly continued on towards the lift, but turned back when she noticed I wasn’t walking beside her.

“I just need to grab a few things first. I’ll see you after.”

“Break a leg!” Molly called as I walked away.

“Already took care of that one,” I answered over my shoulder.

They’d taken Sherlock down to the lowest level, colloquially known as the Gallery—a vast empty room with a glass box set in the middle, about the size of a standard sitting room. It was decorated like one too—the sofa, the writing desk, the two armchairs near the false fireplace. It had always reminded me of the settings on a stage, the impression only strengthened by the one-way mirrors lining the outer walls of the room. It was surreal to be on the wrong side of those mirrors then; I imagined half the employees of Sherrinford were crammed into the observation rooms, waiting, watching.

The hydraulic door hissed open, my heart skipping a beat when I saw Sherlock again. He was sitting perched atop the black leather armchair, the one I had always unconsciously considered his. He was staring down at something he held in his lap, a scowl twisting his features.

“Hello, Sherlock, sorry for the delay,” I said as I approached, a polite smile in place. “How are you settling in?”

“Nevermind that, what on earth is this?!” He held up the tablet he'd been holding, but he was too far away from me to make out the text on the screen. 

Approaching the false room, I scanned my badge at the door, only to be denied entry. I raised my voice without turning my head. “Er, yeah, not really keen on doing this out here.”

There was a burst of static over the speakers that made Sherlock flinch, followed by Molly’s voice. “M is insisting on implementing the Apollo protocol.”

“Oh for God’s sake.”

“M?!” Sherlock said, launching himself to his feet and striding towards the wall of glass separating us, his eyes whirling about wildly, planning his escape.

“No, not that one,” I reassured him. “This one’s not a vampire, though he does somehow still manage to be a massive pain in the neck all the same.” I half turned to flash an ironic smile toward the wall of mirrors without raising my gaze, imagining Frank rolling his eyes.

I tried my card again, to no avail. I sighed. “I’m sorry about this, but you’ll want to sit back down.”

“Why?”

In answer, the room around us whirred to life, the floor spinning beneath our fat, the  layers of interlocking material on the roof expanding, hundreds of mirrors angling so that the midday sun shone bright all the way down to this underground facility. The light was blinding after the darkness which had preceded it. Sherlock kept himself in the shrinking square of shadow and sat back in his chair, which remained in the darkened portion of the room. His shrewd gaze turned skyward at the mechanisms above us.

“Ingenious,” he praised.

“Meretricious. There’s nothing clever about it, they just had a lot of money to throw at it.”

At last allowed entrance to the room, I still hesitated in the doorway, pointing with my cane at the chair opposite him.

“May I?”

“Is that meant to be a joke?”

“No. Real question. Thought I’d try to be as courteous as possible under the circumstances.”

“In that case, yes, you may.”

“Thank you.” I eased into the seat opposite him, setting the briefcase I’d brought with me at my side. As soon as my hands were free, I rubbed at my thigh, which was beginning to adamantly protest all the exertion of the last twenty-four hours. 

Sherlock noticed, of course. “How did that happen? If you don’t mind me asking.”

I would have evaded the question under any other circumstance; I never talked about what had happened—ever. With him…

“Yeah. I was shot while serving in Afghanistan, shattered my femur. I’m lucky to still be able to walk at all. Got me in the left shoulder too.” The corner of my mouth twitched upward in a grim imitation of a smile. “You can laugh, if you like. I know it’s an amusing coincidence. There’s nothing funny about the rest of it. I was arrogant back then—stupid; I thought I had found an opening my superiors had failed to see. When they ordered me to remain in place, I went off the books. I led my troops into a bloodbath—I was the only one to make it out alive.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Not as sorry as I am.”

“We used to have a term for that,” he said gently. “Traumatic neurosis. These days I think you call it survivor’s guilt, do you not?”

“I think that’s generally reserved for when the person wasn’t responsible for what happened. Though you have to wonder if it would have changed anything if I had gotten the go-ahead, whether there was any difference between serving my ego and serving Queen and Country. None of it justifies the loss of those lives.” I shook my head, attempting to clear it. “We’re off track. You were asking me something else when I came in. What was bothering you?”

He scoffed and tossed the tablet at me without regard for how fragile it was. I caught it then turned it over to power on the screen.

The Complete Works of Sherlock Holmes, written by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

I felt a flush creep onto my cheeks. “Ah. I didn’t realise they were giving that to you before I had the chance to explain.”

“They didn’t. I found it online.”

My brows furrowed. “They gave you the WiFi password?”

“It was my name.”

“For the love of—” I took a deep breath to steady myself before soldiering on. “Well, you’re in luck. You’ve met the one person on earth who hates those stories as much as you do, I imagine.”

“I didn’t say I hated them.”

“You liked them then?” I asked, my voice scaling up an octave—I cleared my throat in an attempt to cover it.

He let out a sardonic laugh. “That is a difficult question to answer. I suppose it depends on how one were to read them. It’s far from an objective study of my methods—any underlying factual details have been so entirely altered by their framing that no one but myself or John would be able to trace their origins.”

“Well you wouldn’t have gotten any more clients if everyone knew their personal affairs would become public knowledge in a few year’s time.”

“Practical enough. Having me retire to Sussex to become an apiarist though?”

“And then including a story called Sussex Vampire? I think Doyle got a bit tired of subtlety by the end there.”

“Perhaps he could have turned his attention to characterisation. I suppose there are some hints of truth here but someone could easily read this and come away with a complete misreading of both John and myself.”

“That wasn’t Doyle,” I corrected, reaching down to retrieve my briefcase. I snapped it open, angling the back so that the contents were concealed from him, and pulled out a worn leather notebook. As I closed the lid, I saw a flicker of suspicion in Sherlock’s eyes before he smoothed it away, and I knew he had either seen or guessed the rest of what it contained. I offered him the journal, thrilling when his fingers nearly brushed against mine as he took it from my outstretched hand.

“There. If I’d had my way, you would have been given that first—it puts the rest in context. That’s the last diary he kept, beginning on the road to Moriarty’s castle and ending just before Doyle and the others abandoned the Matilda Briggs. Doyle drew heavy inspiration from it when arranging the drafts he’d been given. All the key features were taken from one of the two—Arthur was quite dutiful in carrying out his charge. Though one could argue he took his loyalty a little too far; leaving in Rosamund Morstan after what happened to her seems in rather poor taste.”

“What happened to Miss Morstan?” Sherlock asked, his brow furrowing.

I wondered whether sleeping so long had affected his memory. “Er, she died drinking Moriarty’s blood to save Cara Grieff.”

“Did he write that?” he said incredulously.

“Pages 264 through 271.”

Sherlock opened the journal and flipped ahead to the correct section. As he read, his eyes creased in affection.

“Oh, John,” he whispered so softly that I suspected I wasn’t meant to hear.

“Is that not what happened?”

“No, most of it is,” he said as he continued to scan through the remaining pages to the end of the narrative. “Miss Morstan did drink the vial of blood and to my knowledge the recounting of their history is more or less accurate. But no, she didn’t die. John spent much of the remainder of the journey nursing her back to health. She left the ship with Doyle and the others and could have gone on to live a long, happy life so far as I know.”

“No, if that was true someone would have told—” But they wouldn’t have—up until the day prior I had been set on pretending the entire thing was fiction. Of course no one would have told me I had been assuming wrong. I was irritated by it all the same. “Why would he have lied about that?”

“Who’s to say he was lying? Perhaps this version is what seemed truest to him. I know he blamed himself for getting her involved—for the death of her late husband. Is the metaphor so far a leap from that view of reality?”

“Like giving her name to his fictional bride as a way of honouring some lingering misplaced sentiment? He shouldn’t have tried to weave her into your legacy to begin with.”

“My legacy?” Sherlock asked as he held up the diary. “This was never my legacy, it was always his. I suppose that fact gets a bit lost when it's no longer his name on the cover.”

“It was for you though. He ought to have done a better job remembering that.”

Sherlock let out a breathless laugh. “You are so much like him.”

“So I've gathered.”

He shook his head once. “The soul, not the aspect.” His eyes narrowed on me then, his head cocking to the side. “You don’t like to be compared to him, do you?”

“Good deduction, yeah.”

“May one ask why?”

“Best not to speak ill of the dead, particularly in the company of those grieving them. Suffice it to say you’re not the first person to make the comparison, or the thousandth.” I gave him a wry smile. “Maybe you’ll come to feel the same way, given that it’s a fate you’ll share. Out there in the world, everyone has heard of the great Sherlock Holmes. Those stories are your legacy, whether you wanted them to be or not. But we’re talking about me again. That’s not meant to be the point of this.”

“And pray tell, what is?”

“For starters, explaining to you your state of affairs, which I suppose we’ve covered now. Answering any questions you may have about the future you’ll be stepping into. Testing through proximity that you aren’t going to run out and start eating people. And we hoped you might be able to fill in one or two details that were a bit vague in the accounts we have, but that portion is strictly voluntary.”

“And at what point in the proceedings do you strap me down and begin running tests?” he asked with some amusement.

“You weren’t meant to see that.”

“If there is one thing with which I am intimately familiar, it is a needle kit.”

“I suppose I should have known that.” I held my hands out in apology. “That wasn’t their idea, it was mine. I wasn’t even going to mention it, I knew it was a long shot.”

“In that case, I think you should ask.”

“So you can turn me down?”

He laughed again. “Has anyone ever told you that you have a bit of a habit for assuming the worst?”

“Yeah, it’s a side effect of the traumatic neurosis.” We sat in a silent standoff for several moments before he raised his eyebrows, daring me. “Alright, have it your way then. May I take a blood sample?”

To my surprise, he at once began to unbutton his shirt cuff. “You may.”

“Really?”

“Yes,” he said with a small smile. “You see? Sometimes circumstances can turn out better than you feared.”

He rolled up his sleeve, revealing his pale, sinewy forearm, then stood to his feet and approached the dividing line between darkness and light, holding out his arm. I hastened to arrange my instruments. Leaving my cane aside, I came towards him, half expecting him to leap away, laughing at me for imagining he had been serious. He didn’t, just stood there, waiting for me with all the patience in the world.

With one hesitant hand, I reached into the shadow and wrapped my fingers around his wrist, gently turning his forearm so I would have a better angle for my needle. I’d been anticipating it this time—the electricity that jolted through me when our skin touched. Expecting it made the effect no less potent. My eyes ran over his forearm, looking for the best position for my needle, following the blueish lines of his veins. My brows pulled together at the puncture marks dotted along the skin there.

“Strange, I would’ve thought these would be healed over,” I remarked, tracing one finger over the silvery scars, noting the small tremor that ran through him as I did.

“It doesn’t work in that way,” he answered in a calm, steady tone that matched my own. “Your body isn’t transfigured into some incorruptible form; it’s more akin to being frozen in amber. Any injuries one sustains after that point can all be swept away as if they never occurred, but not what came before. That’s the curse of it—you will remain forever as you were.”

He gave me an inquisitive glance then, and I realised I was staring at him again. I brought the syringe to the crook of his elbow, tapping two fingers around the incision point, before effortlessly piercing the skin, his blood flowing into the syringe.

“So,” Sherlock began, his voice pitched lower now, as if we were sharing some secret, the intensity of his gaze overwhelming in such close proximity. “What did you want to know?”

Chapter Text

“We don’t have to do this,” I told Sherlock, feeling guilty of some offence I couldn’t quite articulate to myself, as if I had somehow tricked him into giving me what I wanted.

“I wouldn’t have offered if I wasn’t willing. It seemed appropriate to give you my testimony now while I’m giving you everything else.” He gestured his free hand toward his elbow, his hand hovering in the air there for a moment, like he had wanted to place it over mine, before he let it fall back to his side.

“Everything else?”

“If you know how to read it,” he answered with a dry smile. “Where did you want to begin?”

I lowered my eyes back to the vial, which was filling more slowly than it would have had I been drawing from a human circulatory system. 

“The big question, of course, is what happens after the ending?” I nodded over to where he’d left the diary on the armrest of his chair. “It was meant to be smooth sailing for you two when Doyle and the others left, and then not even an hour later, the ship goes up in flames.”

Sherlock let out a hum. “Starting at the end, not exactly traditional. I always preferred to consider all the evidence before arriving at the conclusion—though John did tend to disagree with my methods in that regard and seeing as he was the storyteller between us, perhaps I ought to take a page out of his book just this once.”

“We were discussing what really happened, why are you talking about stories now?”

“Because I want to tell you one, and I’d prefer to get it right. All accountings are narratives, in a way. That fact is crucial here, because I could not help but notice that John elected to omit one or two essential details of what transpired between us before the others left, and those details place what followed into proper context, to borrow your phrasing.”

“Your argument that night,” I guessed.

“Yes,” his eyes drifted away. “He did not lie altogether. We did discuss the fact that I did not wish to return to London—my plan to destroy the ship with myself aboard it—but neither of those issues were at the heart of the disagreement. We quarrelled because John asked me for an impossibility and was rather vexed when I would not give it to him.”

He fell silent, his mouth pressing into a hard line.

“He asked you to change him,” I said quietly.

Sherlock’s keen eyes cut back to mine. “How do you know that?”

I smiled without humour. “It was subtext, but fairly obvious subtext, wasn’t it?”

“I confess I did not see it myself until that night. It never occurred to me that his devotion would extend so far that he would willingly ask for his own damnation.”

“Is that how you see it?”

“He maketh His sun to rise on the evil and on the good; what do you imagine it reveals about the state of my soul that it cannot rise upon me?”

“That’s stretching the matter rather far.”

“John said something to a similar effect. To his mind, making him like myself would not have been an act of villainy, but proof of my affection. ‘Had you truly never considered it?’ he asked me. ‘Surely you must see that this is the best and only way for us—to stand at last as equal partners; as we always were. Sharing in all—the joy and the suffering, the health and the affliction—bound irrevocably by blood and by love, side by side forevermore.’ Such was his skill with words that on his lips the horrific idea sounded almost romantic—I might have been persuaded had I not known what would inevitably follow. He believed he knew the consequences of what he was asking, but he could not, else he would never have requested it.”

He trailed off again, the sharp angles of his face made starker still by the shadows. The vial was full of blood by that point, and I removed my needle, reaching into my pocket for a plaster and smoothing it over the faint puncture mark.

“He stayed with you anyway,” I said, hoping it might comfort him.

“He did,” Sherlock agreed. “And my own convictions could not have been so steadfast as I believed them to be, for they wavered at the first test. Not twenty-four hours had passed after I swore to him that he would never join me in the shadows before I attempted to drag him in after me.”

“What?!” I demanded, feeling abruptly off kilter. It wasn’t until my hands clenched around his forearm that I realised I had never let go of him. I fought to relax my grip and keep my breathing even as his words set off the same inexpressible fury that thoughts of his existence once had. “That’s not what happened.”

He offered me a soft smile. “Do you want my story or not?”

“I want you to tell me the truth.”

“For the crimson flower of our life is eaten by the cankerworm of truth,” he quoted. “I would prefer it if you would try to reserve your judgement till the conclusion, not give it in stages.”

He turned his wrist and caught the hand wrapped around it in his own, twining his fingers with mine—the contact calming me more effectively than any of my own efforts.

“Alright.” I agreed after a long moment. “What happened next?”

“Tragedy,” he declared. “I had been on the deck, watching Doyle and the others make their way westward. After they had disappeared beyond the horizon I remained there, waiting for John to return to me. I was not suspicious that he was so long in coming, knowing he was still angry with me—I worried that he wished to avoid my presence, that he regretted not having gone with the others, regardless of what he had so rashly promised. Such was the selfish turn of my thoughts when I heard a terrible scream from the hold.

“Rushing below, I found the door to Doyle’s cabin ajar. Inside, John lay on the floor in a broken heap, ashen and still, his throat torn open, his right leg badly broken. I fell to my knees at his side, so horrified by the sight of his lifeless body that I failed to notice Moriarty in the room until he spoke.

“‘Sorry about John, I fear I bolted him—starving. I believe the plan was for a drink on deck, I hope I’m a reasonable substitute.’ He strolled away, knowing I would follow in due course. I was still gathering the will to leave John’s side when his eyes snapped open, meeting mine.

“‘Keep him talking,’ he whispered, his features set with ironclad determination, and I knew by that one glance what he intended to do—destroying the ship was our last best chance of accomplishing our purpose.

“And so, I made my way to face Moriarty alone. He stood waiting for me at the wheel, the picture of perfect ease. 

“‘How are you feeling?’ he asked as I approached.

“‘Surprisingly mortal,’ I answered. ‘You?’

“‘Indestructible.’

“‘How did you do it?’ I asked, alluding to his escape from death.

“‘Ah, swam under the boat and climbed up the other side. As escapes go basic but effective. I knew all I had to do was bide my time and you’d send the others away. Pity you couldn’t persuade John to leave with the rest. That’s one more life added to my collection—blood is lives, as you ought to know.’

“‘But the others will live. One must learn to be content with small victories.’

“He shook his head in disapproval. ‘That is your greatest weakness. You can never hope to match me until you start playing to win. We’re alike in many other respects, but that is the most essential and there you always falter.’

“‘The only thing you and I have in common, Jim, is that we’re both about to die.’

“He laughed at that. ‘How do you imagine that’s going to happen?’

“‘To start, with my hands wrapped around your throat.’ 

“The next instant, as if John had been waiting for his cue, the explosion tore through the hall, setting the ship off kilter. Moriarty lost his focus, just for a moment, but that was all the opening I required. I made good on my word then: he saw the satisfaction in my eyes as I watched the life drain from his...”

“And then?” I prompted after another lengthy silence.

He seemed to recollect himself. “I returned below deck and found John in the cargo hold. He was gravely injured, but somehow still breathing. Had he already passed, I would have found some bit of detritus for us to float away on and so that I might remain with him till the sunrise. Given that he was still alive, I had intended to use his hand to drive the stake I had fashioned for Moriarty through my heart.”

“Would that have worked? I thought—”

“It’s the only way it would have. That’s the one condition; it has to be the hand of him that loves you best—the hand that of all you would have chosen.”

He brought his free hand to join the other in wrapping around mine, cradling it between us.

“All my resolve faded away to nothing when I was faced with the reality of allowing him to perish while it remained in my power to prevent it. I found that he had been right—I could not bear it. I abandoned the stake and instead sealed us inside one of the boxes of cargo so that the tide would not separate us. What Grieff had not known is that vampiric blood is poisonous to mortals unless it is shared through reciprocal exchange, in which case its alterations are total and permanent. I drank from him, just enough—I thought—for it to qualify him, then using his knife, I made an incision to my own throat, bringing him to drink from me.”

He guided my hand so that it was cupped against the side of his throat. Through my fingertips, I could feel the throbbing of his pulse—his grey eyes seemed to pierce  through me like I was made of glass. I froze, not allowing myself to so much as breathe as the moment stretched on, each of us waiting for the other to break the tender silence.

It was him, in the end, speaking so softly that I almost couldn’t make out the words, “I must have gotten it wrong.”

My lips parted as I struggled against the disparate emotions warring within me. I was saved by the sound of the door hissing open behind me. At the abrupt reminder of all the hundreds of eyes on us, I jerked my hands away from him, turning to retrieve my cane, my eyes fixed to the floor as I tried to steady my breathing, noticing for the first time that I was shaking all over, a clammy sweat having broken out over the surface of my skin.

“Mycroft?!” Sherlock asked in disbelief, but then corrected himself before either of us could speak a word. “No, you’re not him at all, are you? But his descendant, no doubt.”

I felt Sherlock’s eyes on me and caught a flicker of confusion there as he glanced between Frank and myself.

“How astute,” said Frank, coming forward and extending his hand to Sherlock. “Frank M. Holmes, the M being short for the name of my great grandfather. It is delightful to make your acquaintance, Uncle.”

“Uncle,” Sherlock echoed with a quiet scoff. “Of all the things I never thought I would live to be—vampire included—that may top the list.”

“What are you doing here, Frank? I thought we’d agreed I would handle this.”

“Yes, I have been letting you handle this,” Frank answered, arching an eyebrow. “You’ve been very thorough, so much so that we have already gathered all the necessary data. I apologise for the inconvenience, Mr. Holmes. You are at liberty to leave whenever you like, though I would suggest waiting another…” He paused to glance down at his watch, “…thirty-three minutes until the sun has set. There are just a few other arrangements to explain to you before your departure. Dr. Watson, I believe Dr. Hooper is expecting you up in Room 118.”

I grimaced.

“John doesn’t have to leave if he doesn’t wish to.”

“No, Sherlock, he’s—with everything happening yesterday I missed a treatment session, and I really shouldn’t let it go this long. Sorry if I’ve been a little… erratic. That’s one of the first signs, bit like a blood sugar drop, just more intense.”

“You’re ill?” Sherlock asked, his eyes sweeping over me, searching for the clues that he had somehow managed to miss up till that point, before they went wide with horror. “You’re dying.”

“We’re all dying,” I said with a wry smile. “Except for you, I suppose. But yes. I am.”

“What is it?”

“No one has managed to figure that out yet—they probably won’t in time to do anything about it. I imagine it will make for quite the riveting autopsy though, if the rest of the scans are anything to go by.”

“But you must have some way to treat it,” he protested. “With so many advancements over the past century.”

“Transfusion has proven effective, to an extent, but all anyone can do is buy me more time. I’ve gotten over six extra years already; that’s much more than anyone expected.”

Sherlock stared at me with his mouth agape, looking as though the world was falling apart around him. I couldn’t imagine why—we were strangers. I suppose that to him it was like losing the love of his life all over again, but he ought to have known it wasn’t the same.

“Dr. Watson…” Frank warned.

“Yes, going.” I stopped long enough to offer Sherlock my hand. “Thank you for taking the time to speak with me, Mr. Holmes. I’m very glad I had the chance to meet you.”

“The pleasure was all mine, John,” he answered as he took my hand in his, holding it so tightly that for a moment I thought he might not let me go. But then he was tucking his hands into his pockets and I turned on my heel and walked away, feeling as if I were tearing out a piece of myself and leaving it with him.

My head was swirling all the way up the lift, a resolute migraine battering at my temples, making it impossible to think. When I arrived to the treatment room, I found Molly likewise preoccupied; she didn’t so much as glance at me as I settled in the armchair beside her.

“Hi, Molly.”

“Hi, John,” she replied with an edge to her tone I couldn’t quite place.

“Can we get this over with?” I asked.

Molly let out an irritated huff, but finished setting up the IV and hooked me up to it. She could have left after that point, but she never did, always stayed with me until I was finished, trying to distract me from the unpleasantness of the procedure.

With the first drops of healthy, functioning blood, sanity returned to me and with it, a deep sense of shame for all I had done while in Sherlock’s presence. I had gone completely off the rails, letting myself blur the boundaries of what I knew to be true and what he seemed to hope for. I almost couldn’t believe I had let things spiral so far out of control, but of course I had—that was what I was like. Reckless, delusional, idiotic, destructive—

“So,” Molly said, settling down beside me and wrapping her hand around mine where it lay on the armrest. “Are you going to see him again after this?”

“No, I’m going back to get some actual work done.”

“Alright, and then after work are you going to see him again?”

“Definitely not.”

“Why?” Molly asked with a teasing smile. “I thought you two got on brilliantly.”

“Like a house on fire,” I said, wincing as the nausea began to set in.

“I don’t think it was that big of a disaster, or a disaster at all really. He’ll want to see you again, I’ll bet.”

“Why?” I demanded, the anger and disappointment boiling over to the surface. “Why would he want anything to do with me? He could spend time with anyone in London—anyone in the world—he wouldn’t choose me. I’m not interesting, just a dead man walking.”

“So is he.”

“Not like I am.”

Molly shook her head. “Well, you don’t have to decide anything now, you’ve got time. Just think it over. And try not to listen to the voice in your head telling you to believe the worst about yourself.”

“I haven’t begun hearing voices just yet,” I said, giving her a half smile as my eyes slid closed. 

She laughed and squeezed my hand in hers, waiting with me until the room stopped spinning and I could stand again.

By the time I returned to the lab, I had almost managed to cobble together some sense of normalcy for myself. As I sat down at my station, my phone pinged with an email notification. Checking it absently, I saw a name on the screen that sent me careening back into madness.

FROM: Sherlock Holmes

SUBJECT: The Parting Guest

After a brief hesitation, I tapped it open.

My dear John,

Thank you for being such a courteous host. However, I think you will understand why under these circumstances I have elected to leave Sherrinford at the earliest opportunity. I do regret forgoing the opportunity to say a final farewell to you in person, but being somewhat expert in reading others, I suspected this form of communication might be preferable to you—given the singular nature of the relations between us, my presence may be a reminder of things you would prefer to forget. I myself would welcome the opportunity to continue our acquaintance, but I understand that your sentiments in this regard may differ from my own.

I wish you very well in whatever time you have remaining. If I may observe, a man in your position has nothing to lose and would do well to consider where his loyalties lie. Please give my regards to Dr. Hooper and know regardless of your decision, I remain,

Very sincerely yours,

Sherlock Holmes

After wavering with my thumb over the delete button for at least half a minute, I sighed and locked the screen instead before putting the phone back into my pocket. As I did, my fingers happened to brush against the glass vial of Sherlock's blood I’d placed there earlier. Holding it in my palm, I found myself entranced by the swirling crimson depths, imagining for a moment I could hear echoes of sound emanating from within the glass—fragments of time from a century past. I shook myself and printed out a label before hiding the sample in the back of my fridge where there would be no danger of anyone else using it by mistake. 

I buried myself in work the rest of the day, trying and failing to keep from grieving the impossibility of allowing myself to see Sherlock Holmes again.

Chapter Text

How many times did I swear to myself that I would put a stop to this well before it got out of hand? I suppose just as often as I knew deep down I was only ever fooling myself—I’ve never had an ounce of self control when it comes to him. I almost wish it was like the stories, the sadistic creature of darkness using his seductive influence to rob me of my free will, leaving me no choice but to follow him, night after night. That I could understand, at least. That could be forgiven. The truth, meanwhile… 

My resolve held out for all of a week before the first concession—I would email Sherlock back, just to be polite, so he wouldn’t think I was angry with him—because I wasn’t—and if he responded then maybe he and I could just write letters to each other our entire lives. I could be satisfied with that. A very fine plan indeed, till the day he happened to mention he had gotten a mobile phone and would prefer to text—if I was amenable—sending me his number and setting off a new series of desperate rationalisations in the process.

It wasn’t so very different, was it? A bit more intimate, granted—there was something almost illicit about the mere idea of it, texting with a vampire at all hours of the night—but it was just texting. If it was what he wanted… I texted him back the same night. 

It didn’t take long from there for the whole affair to spiral out of control; clandestine meetings on remote benches in Hyde Park or furtive chats in cafes just outside of tube stations. I knew from the first night that I was playing with fire while doused in petrol, but I convinced myself I could be careful—I would be careful. I made argument upon argument on how I wasn’t even doing anything wrong really, how this might even be the best thing for both of us, all amounting to a futile clutching at straws. I knew why I was doing it; the ashen ruin I’m left with now is the only possible result of all that shameless wanting. 

But I was determined to avoid the inevitable. I had rules, I had a whole bloody system. I rationed out our meetings like a highly addictive substance—always the day I’d had a treatment session so I would be at my most rational, my most controlled. Always meet him in a neutral, public place, never at his place, never at mine. Always make your exit at the ninety minute mark, never mind the fact that it feels like ripping off a limb every time you have to leave—do you imagine that will get easier if you allow yourself to stay? And for the love of God, think and rethink every last individual word three times over before it comes out of your mouth so you don’t say anything that will bring the entire precarious arrangement crashing down around you.

It even worked—for a while. I’ve been told I can be quite charming. For him I was incandescent—an interested but respectful companion, always happy to offer a listening ear, to spin what amusement I could out of my own dreary existence outside of those precious neon hours. Almost the perfect gentleman. I sought to ensure all our encounters dazzled his memory, to the point where most of them would have bordered on romantic exchanges to anyone besides ourselves. It was decidedly too much effort, but necessary all the same. My most adamant rule was that if he didn’t extend an invitation, I wasn’t allowed to ask. I did all I could to keep him asking.

The trouble began innocently, as it so often does. I’d already made arrangements to meet with Sherlock tonight—had been looking forward to it all week—so when Molly mentioned wanting to leave work early to get ready for a date, I was met with a dilemma. I could have cancelled on him—he would have understood—or I could have asked someone else to run the transfusion for me—it didn’t strictly have to be Molly, it just made me feel better to have her there while I was suffering through them. 

Instead, I smiled and told her to enjoy herself and text me the updates and yes, of course I would be fine putting off treatment until next week, not breathing a word of the disastrous compromise I was making. 

The second misstep was a bit more intentional, but still harmless enough. I was tired—I’m always tired now—and texted Sherlock to ask whether he would mind coming round to my place to pick me up, just so I wouldn’t have to walk so far home afterward. I told myself I wasn’t technically breaking any rules because I had no conscious intentions of inviting him in, but it was flirting with something dangerous, having him so close to where I lived. Not that he couldn’t have worked it out ages ago, if he’d wanted to. There must have been signs—the mud on my soles, or the brand of aftershave I used, or the simplest deduction that I would have picked somewhere as far away from Baker Street as possible without actually inconveniencing myself.

Coming out onto the street, I found him leaning against a lamp post, waiting for me. It felt like releasing a held breath, seeing him. It always did. He glanced back at me, his eyes brightening, and shoved off the lamp post with his shoulder to meet me at the door, extending his arm.

“May I?”

I realised my mistake at once—and it had been a mistake; in my eagerness to see him, I’d forgotten to take my cane from where it rested beside my front door. The trip to the street was fine, but I wouldn’t make it far without it.

“Sorry, I’ll go back.”

“If you’d prefer,” he answered, tucking both hands into the pockets of the long, dark coat he wore. I must have been imagining the flicker of disappointment across his features, but it made me hesitate all the same.

I knew this was the moment I would lose any plausible deniability for my behaviour. Because I could picture it so vividly it was almost a memory—the two of them walking through the foggy streets arm in arm, the only open display of affection that wouldn’t have gotten them locked up for the unpardonable offence of loving one another. I remembered too the look that had come over his features the first time we had passed by a pair of men holding hands, one of them leaning up to kiss the other on the cheek. I had felt that acute, blissful agony of living in a world where everything you had thought impossible was now within your reach without the one person you would have chosen to share it with as if it were my own. 

If I had any sense of decency I would have said no.

“You really don’t mind?” I said instead.

“Not at all.”

“In that case, yes, that would be nice, thank you.”

“My pleasure,” Sherlock said cheerfully as he slid his arm around mine in a smooth, practised gesture, his other hand coming to rest at my elbow. “Now, where shall we go tonight?”

“I always pick,” I said as I leaned my weight against him, willing my circulatory system to behave—it wouldn’t do for him to hear my heart racing at such a casual touch. “Why don’t you decide?”

“Are you hungry?”

“No, not particularly. You?” I winced as I said it, having spoken without thinking, but he chuckled so I reasoned that was alright.

“No, not particularly. I have just the place then.” He led us through the rambling streets—it never ceased to amaze me how well he knew this city, like he had a map of it written on his heart. “I’m glad we were able to meet this evening. For a short while I thought I might have to rearrange our plans, but I finished at the crime scene with time to spare with a bit of effort.”

“Crime scene? I didn’t know you were still doing that.”

“Here and there. Only the interesting cases—not that the official forces have ever been an accurate judge on that score. It’s almost never worth the trouble of going, but I often find myself thinking that it might be better if you came along sometime. You might enjoy it, if nothing else.”

I scoffed. “What would I do at a crime scene?”

“You’re a highly specialised doctor with years of field experience. And you’re clever. Believe me, that is a rare trait these days. You’d be helpful.”

“Until you had to chase down a suspect.” I hadn’t meant to sound so bitter and berated myself for letting the mask falter.

“Everyone has their strengths and weaknesses,” Sherlock remarked. “For instance, there was a recent case where I had nearly apprehended the murderer, but got caught waiting where I was until sundown. Even giving the police precise instructions, that window was enough for him to get away. It was maddening.”

“I bet you caught him in the end though,” I said with a smile.

“You only prove my point—our limitations are never so disqualifying as we imagine.”

We passed through a stone arch leading into a cemetery. He led me to a park bench under a willow tree, helping me down before seating himself beside me.

“Why a graveyard?”

“I like to spend time around people my own age,” he said, casting me a sideways glance before we both burst out laughing. 

He was sitting so close to me, his entire left side pressed against my right. The warmth emanating from him drew me in like a moth; I could almost feel his heart beating alongside mine. 

“Listen…” I began, speaking at first on impulse and then reasoning that once I had begun I might as well see it through. “You don’t have to answer this, obviously, but I have been wondering. What I asked earlier, about you being hungry—thirsty… Are you? Do you… are there…?”

There was no discrete way of asking what I wanted. Whose blood do you drink? Men’s? Women’s? How often? Do they enjoy it? Do you?

Why haven’t you asked me for mine?

“It’s not a necessity,” he answered with an offhand expression, as if this wasn’t the most dangerous thing we could have been talking about. “It’s more like a thirst for wine than water. It won’t kill me, not drinking, and I am not so dependent for it to present any difficulty most of the time.”

Most of the time. “Some of the time, though?”

He let out a wistful sigh. “Some of the time.”

The next word out of my mouth was the worst possible thing I could have said, I knew it even then. Some rational part of me fought for control, but it was too late—I was already gone.

“Now?”

His eyes met mine, the inescapable magnetic force there pulling me in just like it always did, every single time he looked at me. The silence stretched on and I wondered what observations he was making, what calculations were playing out in his head. Would his answer be what he thought I wanted to hear, or would he tell me the truth?

“Yes,” he whispered.

A sensation like molten gold pooled in my stomach, hot and possessive and triumphant at the thought that he wanted me, any piece of me.

“What does it feel like?” I asked, my voice pitching lower. “The thirst?”

A slight flush crept onto his pale cheeks. “I don’t know that I will be able to describe it to you. It’s much like other feelings, the longing, the desire…” As I watched, his pupils dilated and my heartbeat quickened in response. “I’d say the greatest difference is in the intensity of the feeling. Not enough to have him in your arms, you want him to become part of you, to have it be his warmth, his strength, his life, flowing within your veins, sustaining you. To show him your soul—the truth of it—to see the reflection of his. To become one in every possible regard. Even that… I’ve never felt that I had any great talent for it, but I don’t think any words would be sufficient to capture it.”

Sherlock was right; it was a very poor description. He might as well have been describing the way I felt about him—obsessive, crazed, devout bordering on heretical.

“How often?” I asked, for the moment beyond shame.

The twitch at the corners of his mouth might have been a smile as easily as a grimace. “Not since I’ve resurfaced.”

“Would you care to change that?”

His expression was inscrutable. “Is that an offer?”

“Yes, I suppose it is.”

“Why?”

“Curiosity. And I don’t much like the thought of you being in pain.”

“You’re in pain,” he remarked, his voice twisting around the words as if the thought of my affliction added to his own.

“That’s different.”

“Ah, I see. Because you are equal to your suffering, whereas I am a miserable creature with no capacity for nobility.” He said the words in a light, almost amused tone, but there was an undercurrent to them I couldn’t quite place. “How flattering it is to have your pity.”

“No,” I denied, my shoulders stiffening. I had been warning myself against this, the moment I would push him that last inch too far, when he would get over whatever sense of novelty that was keeping him with me. The knowledge that it had arrived made my words come out strained, frantic. “I didn’t mean to offend you. I wasn’t—I just wanted to—You can forget I said any of that. Please.”

I fixed my eyes out at the gravestones, clutching my hands together as I waited for him to leave, knowing I would fall to my knees and start begging if I let myself watch it happen—I had enough dignity remaining to want to avoid it if at all possible.

A small shock jolted through me when his fingertips brushed against my cheek, urging me to look at him—it was the first time he had touched my bare skin since Sherrinford. Relenting to the gentle pressure, I found his eyes were burning with a dangerous cocktail of tenderness and hunger that sent my heart racing and sparks of electricity shooting up my spine. 

“I want to,” he confessed.

My gaze fell to his parted lips, instinctually licking my own. 

“Have you thought this through?” he asked.

“Yes,” I whispered back. I did not tell him I had thought of little else since the day we met, but I imagined that he knew it all the same.

He turned towards me, one leg tucking up under himself on the bench, the other knee coming to brush against my own. He cradled my face in his graceful hands, his eyes dark with need, his pulse hammering in his throat.

“I can make you dream,” he told me in a hoarse whisper. “Of anything in the world you’d like. What do you want to dream about?”

I swallowed, my mouth having gone dry. “More than anything, I want to know how it is for you. Would you show me?”

“Are you certain?”

“Yes,” I breathed, cautiously bringing my hands to rest on his shoulders. When that seemed to be permissible, I slid one hand up the back of his neck to tangle in his hair, nails scratching along his scalp, watching with rapt interest as he shivered at the sensation. 

Using both his hands to angle up my chin, he bent down to place one slow, open mouthed kiss to my throat. Then another. And another. I trembled in anticipation as he made his way to the point where my now frenzied pulse beat the strongest. With a quiet groan, he pressed the sharp edges of his teeth to my tender flesh.

I never even felt the pain. 

It was bliss, like his long, delicate fingers were caressing along all the interwoven threads of my veins at once. I bit my tongue to keep from crying out in pleasure, not wanting to draw the attention of anyone who happened to be walking by—to do anything that would make him stop. I never wanted him to stop.

Because in the nonexistent space between us, something infinitely more devastating was playing out. We were in a bedroom that was every bit as cluttered as mine was sparse, and without being told I knew it was his. Sherlock was himself but… more, brilliant, breathtaking, glowing—looking at me like he had never seen anything that had so captured his interest in all his unnaturally long life. We were together, in his bed. Naked, making love. It was everything I had never once permitted myself to want from him—tender, passionate, impossibly romantic—and I knew from the first instant that giving it up to return to reality was going to utterly ruin me. I was consumed by a fierce longing for the impossible—for the dream to be real, to keep him there in my arms forever.

The scene around us shifted, darkening and narrowing, till we were lying together in a cramped wooden box, our limbs still twined together, my face now buried in the crook of his neck. I heard a sound like the rushing of a waterfall as the cold seawater started to seep in through the cracks of the boards sealing us in. I shivered and clung to him, but soon I could see or feel nothing but the water. I knew Sherlock must still be there with me, but that fact only filled me with unspeakable horror. I was swallowed up by it—unable to breathe, yet unable to drown.

“No!” I choked out.

At once the inky blackness began to recede, like watching film fly in reverse. I heard a choking sound, and blinked my eyes open to see Sherlock coughing behind his covered mouth, my blood seeping out onto his fingers. I had a brief flicker of confusion that was scorched away by a blinding rage. 

But the roar came back to my ears, deafening, the bone deep terror flooding in with it. I was hyperventilating, my limbs going numb, my head spinning as my vision filled with static, then went black.

I came around to find myself back in my own flat, lying in my bed tucked beneath the covers. Sherlock stood against the wall beside the window leading out to the balcony, hidden in the shadows. The sight of him brought all the memories flooding back.

“What was that?” I demanded.

He would not meet my eyes. “You no longer wanted me to drink your blood, so I couldn’t.”

He knew full well that wasn’t what I meant. 

“No. Before that. What the hell—” I knew it wouldn’t help anything, losing my temper. I fought to keep my voice even. “Why did you show me that?”

“You wanted to know what it was like for me; that was what I saw.”

“No,” I denied, shaking my head so violently that for a moment I imagined I might shake myself apart. A horrible suspicion had begun to gnaw at me, that all along he had been waiting for this opportunity, gathering his data, biding his time till the moment I would be most vulnerable to play on all my weaknesses at once. “God, is this all some sick game to you? Do you get a thrill out of it? Making me believe that you—”

His piercing eyes at last flashed to mine. “When have I ever lied to you, John?”

“When are you ever not lying?” I retorted with a disbelieving laugh. “You think you can just rewrite it all, is that it? If you’re clever enough, charming enough, you’ll win me over bit by bit, till at last I want you so desperately that I’ll go along with anything you say, hm? And then it will be like he never died. Well it won’t work, Sherlock. He’s gone and he’s never coming back and the closest you’ll ever get again is me. Nothing you do or say, no story you tell yourself or me is ever going to change that.” I laughed again, almost hysterical. “God, and here I actually thought that maybe we could be friends.”

Sherlock let out a weary sigh and, for the first time in our acquaintance, the exhaustion written across his features made him appear as old as he truly was. “We can never be friends, John. There’s too much history between us.”

“Not mine!” I hissed through my teeth.

“Yours or not, you will acknowledge it is between us all the same.”

I shook my head again, my fingers clawing at the air in irritation; I couldn’t remember the last time I had been so furious. “So what’s left then? Do we give this up before we destroy one another, or would you prefer to see it through to the bitter end?”

He was quiet for a long time before he answered. “I’ve never wanted to hurt you.”

“Yeah, well, neither of us seem to be able to help ourselves, do we?”

“Then perhaps you’re right. Maybe it would be best if we parted ways while we might still do so on at least somewhat amicable terms.” 

He turned towards the balcony to make his exit and the finality of it brought back that same visceral panic I’d felt lost with him in the dark water.

“Sherlock,” I called out in spite of myself.

He stopped at once, turning back to face me, his expression unreadable as he waited for me to speak. When I didn’t, the silence stretched on between us like an impassable chasm. I don’t know how long we stayed like that—I knew it would be the last time I would ever see him and the crushing weight of all the things I couldn’t bring myself to put into words wrung the air from my lungs. I was certain I was either going to die or go insane if something between us didn’t give.

Sherlock did. Gliding across the room to my bedside he stooped down to press a soft, lingering kiss to my hairline. I closed my eyes and held myself still, trying to memorise the feeling of his lips against my skin. I didn’t allow myself to move again until I knew he was gone.

Chapter Text

I didn’t return to Sherrinford. On the first day, my phone would go off at random intervals—Frank trying to work out where the hell I’d gone. Eventually, the phone drained through the rest of its meagre battery life and I was left alone with the silence. My eyes traced over the patterns in the wallpaper as I waited, because I could feel it coming, the death I had used to want. Did I still? Did it matter? I didn’t want anything else—not anything I could have—and I couldn’t endure having it all just outside my reach any longer.

I supposed that was its own kind of answer.

I’d woken up with a splitting headache after what had happened that night, and as I went longer and longer without a transfusion, my symptoms grew steadily worse. I’d drawn the curtains as soon as the sun began to rise, but even the faint light peeking in from the gaps along the wall set my head pounding. I had no appetite to speak of, but a constant, aching thirst began that no amount of water from the tap seemed able to quench. I recognised the signs of my organs failing and tried to be happy about it, but I couldn’t muster the energy to feel much of anything. I don’t know whether I slept, if I did, all my dreams were the same, lying there in the room that would soon become my coffin. 

I don’t know for certain, but I think it was a few days later when I gradually became aware of an incessant knocking on my front door. The sound somehow made my migraine even more intolerable, and I took the pillow from beneath my head and covered my face with it to muffle it. I wondered absently whether it was possible to smother yourself that way but trying seemed like too much effort.

“Come now, Dr. Watson,” called Frank from the hall. “That’s enough of this. There’s still work to be done.”

I tuned him out as best I could; after a while, he went away again.

I must have fallen asleep after that, because when I pulled the pillow away from my face, I wasn’t alone. The curtain to the balcony had been pulled aside, the cool evening air blowing in from the open window. Molly Hooper sat tucked up in the lone armchair in the corner, reading a worn paperback. When I raised my head, she glanced up and gave me a bright smile.

“Hello, John.”

“What are you doing here, Molly?”

In answer, Molly fished into her cardigan pocket and held up the spare key I had given her a few years back. She lightly tossed it onto the bed without being asked, then looked back down at her novel. 

“So, have you just decided to give up then?” she asked as she flicked to the next page. It was an old trick of hers—luring me into talking to her by pretending she wasn’t paying any particular attention to what I had to say.

“Giving up implies there’s something else I’m meant to be accomplishing; this is what I should have been doing from the start.”

“Which is?”

“Damage control.”

Her eyes flashed to mine. “Did Sherlock ask for that?”

“He didn’t have to.”

“And you think you’re more qualified to know what he wants than he is?”

I rubbed both hands over my face. “Is that why you’ve come, then? To tell me that I’ve gotten it all wrong? Because I think I have that covered.”

“No, believe it or not, I didn’t come to add to whatever punishment you’re already inflicting on yourself. I’m here because I brought you a present.”

“A present?” I asked in a monotone.

She uncurled herself from the chair and stood to her feet, raising her arms high above her head before letting them fall to her sides, like she’d been sitting there for a long time waiting for me to wake up. I felt a twinge of guilt at that, but she appeared untroubled as she reached down to retrieve something from her purse, holding it concealed in her closed fist as she crossed the room and sat on the edge of my bed. 

“Would you like to guess what it is?”

“Not particularly.”

“Well, hold your hand out then.”

Sighing in irritation, I pulled myself up so that my back was propped up against my headboard, then did as she asked. She slid a small glass object into my palm, smooth and cool to the touch.

Looking down, I saw it was the vial of Sherlock’s blood that I had drawn all those months ago.

“How did you—”

“I happened to come across it at your workstation.” When my brows pulled together, she continued on. “Okay, that’s a lie. I went looking for it. I knew you never ran any tests on it and thought if you were done at Sherrinford, you might still want it.”

“What would I want a vial of Sherlock’s blood for?”

“I dunno. Why did you never use it?” She bent her head down and began picking at the chipping polish on one of her fingernails, giving me more fake privacy. Why did it still work when I knew she was doing it?

“I don’t know,” I confessed. “Running tests on it seemed like a waste, I suppose.”

Molly let out a long hum. “And have you given any thought at all as to why that might be?”

“Do you have a theory?” I asked, growing annoyed.

“Not a theory, no. But I’ve always felt like I ought to have been able to do more for you, and I thought committing a minor act of burglary on your behalf might go some way towards mending that.” Her eyes glittered with satisfaction as she flashed me a mischievous smile. “That’s the only sample of Sherlock’s blood Sherrinford will ever get, he was quite insistent about it.”

“You’ve talked to him?” I asked, sitting up a bit straighter.

Molly’s eyebrows pinched together. “Not recently, no. Sorry.”

“Nothing to apologise for.” 

It looked as if she was having a hard time believing that, and so I shifted the hand still closed around the glass vial towards her. She understood and wrapped both of her own around it. 

“You’ve done plenty, Molly. You were my best friend, did you know that?”

“I did,” she said with a sad smile. “You were my best friend too. Maybe we could pick that back up again. After.”

“I’m not sure I believe in an after,” I admitted. “But if there is one, I’d like that.”

She sighed, and leaned in to peck me once on the cheek. “Text me if you need anything at all. I’ll keep Frank off your back in the meantime.”

“Thank you, Molly.”

“Anytime.”

She paused in the doorway and turned back, her mouth open as if there was something else she wanted to say, but after a moment she just shook her head and closed the door gently behind her. 

As soon as I was alone, my eyes were irresistibly drawn back to the vial in my palm. I held it up, admiring the way the light glinted off the glass. The blood inside was such a vivid scarlet that it was almost iridescent—like blood from a fresh wound, laced with all the alluring vibrancy and life of Sherlock Holmes himself.

It was the dehydration—the incessant burning in the back of my throat that seemed to flare to life as I gazed at the swirling, wine-red liquid. Or I had been cooped up in this room doing absolutely nothing for far too long to be healthy and was now actually going insane. Or the undeniable fact that against all better judgement, I still missed Sherlock so much that it was like a physical ache under my ribs and this was the closest I would let myself get to seeing him again.

I couldn’t justify it to myself. I didn’t try—didn’t let myself think about it for long enough to change my mind. My hands shook as I unstoppered the bottle and brought the glass to my lips. I tilted my head back and drained it down in one swallow. It burnt down my throat like whiskey, leaving a trail of warmth in its wake.

The taste was— 

I’d been so exhausted for so long, it wasn’t surprising that I fell asleep soon afterward, still clutching the vial. But for once, my sleep was deep and restful. I dreamt of the ocean, the sound of waves against the shore, the fresh, salty scent of sea air, of the way sunlight looked one hundred metres below the surface, coming down in dim beams that shifted and bent with the current. 

Eventually, a scratching noise began to nag at the edges of my consciousness. I tried to place it as I held on to the remnants of my dream. I thought it might have been a pen on paper, but that wasn’t quite right. The sound was too sharp, like a blade carving into flesh—a fountain pen, maybe. 

I blinked my eyes opened and as the room around me came into focus, I realised that while I remained in my bed, I had no idea where I was. This room was small and cramped, with antique furniture and stacks of luggage piled against the walls, a thin layer of dust settled over everything as if no one ever came here.

In the opposite corner of the room, a man sat with his back to me, his head bent low as he wrote by the dim light of the gaslamp.

“I’ll be with you in a moment,” he said without looking up from his work, and I felt a twinge of unease because I recognised his voice. It was my voice, not the way I normally heard it, the way it sounded when I listened to myself recorded back, but lilting with odd, antiquated inflections. I squeezed my eyes shut, then reopened them, but the scene around me remained in place.

“Where am I?” I asked.

The man let out a soft chuckle. “That’s not quite the question you should be asking, John. I can call you John, can’t I?”

He turned around in his chair to face me—apart from the neatly trimmed moustache and the styling of his hair, it was exactly like looking in a mirror. Except wrong again—reversed—the way everyone else saw me. Not me. That wasn’t me sitting across the room, it was—

I started back, jerking upright as my limbs flooded with adrenaline. 

The corners of his mouth pulled upward and I knew from the familiar crease at the corners of his eyes that it was in sympathy rather than amusement.

“There’s nothing to be afraid of, John. Sherlock drank my blood, and you drank his. Blood has everything you need to know if you understand how to read it. Have you worked it out yet? Some part of me, the version that Sherlock remembers, lives on in him and so you see I’ve travelled to the new world in his veins.”

His smile turned more bitter as he finished, a spark of steel glinting in his eyes.

“But who are you?” I demanded.

“That’s still the wrong question, John. It’s perfectly obvious who I am.”

“Is it?” I retorted.

He flashed me a roguish grin. “Who do I look like?” 

I hesitated before answering. “Me.”

“Correct in one! I applaud your quickness, though I suppose your problem has never been a lack of intelligence has it?”

I felt myself growing defensive. “You don’t know the first thing about me.”

“I think you’ll find that it’s you who doesn’t know the first thing about yourself. Consider: you drank Sherlock’s blood and so it would seem only logical that if you were going to dream of anyone, it would be him. Yet here I am. One must wonder why that is.”

“But you can’t be him!” I protested.

“Who?” 

“John Watson!” I grimaced, hating—as I always had—being forced to acknowledge that we shared a name. “You’re not him, you’re too much like me.”

His eyebrows shot upwards. “You knew that already.” 

“Knowing it and seeing it are two very different things.”

“I couldn’t agree more. So that begs the question, John—what is the purpose of a mirror?”

“What?”

“Come now, do keep up. There is some enlightenment to be found in one’s own gaze, after all. But you don’t like to look, do you? Why is that? What are you afraid of?” 

His eyes danced with self-satisfied implications. 

I closed my eyes and pinched the bridge of my nose. “Look, I don’t know what you want, but if this has something to do with Sherlock—”

“Of course this has to do with Sherlock!” he exclaimed with a quiet laugh. “Everything is about Sherlock with you.”

“It’s not,” I denied, but his grin only widened in response. “Not anymore. I’ve learned my lesson, alright? I can’t keep doing this to myself, he’s too dangerous.”

“Ah, dangerous, is he?” he asked with that same knowing light in his eye. 

“It’s not like that,” I insisted. “I’m not—he does something to me. I don’t think he means to, but it’s like I become this other person when I’m near him. I feel—I lose control of myself and I can't ever let my guard down like that. Not with him.”

“Why?” 

“Do I really need a reason to avoid spending time with a monster who feeds off the living?”

He stood to his feet and approached me. “A valiant effort, John, but it is belied by the fact that I’m in your head. I know when you’re lying. It’s not bitterness motivating you.”

“Alright, why don’t you tell me what I’m really feeling then? If you’re so smart and so sure.”

“Guilt,” he answered. I scoffed, but he ignored me. “Of course, that’s a displacement too, but one you have to address before you can get to the heart of the issue. Tell yourself whatever you like—you and I both know you still see Sherlock Holmes as your heroic ideal, as if he was Prometheus, bringing light and hope to your dismal little world. And if he’s the cursed god, where does that leave you? Destined to remain in the shadows as his guilty secret—and salivating at the mere thought of him. What else could you be but his eternal punishment? The carrion bird sent to devour his insides over and over and over again. And he lets you. Gladly, he lets you. Of course you can’t bear to face who you are.” He arched a single eyebrow. “What sort of depraved monster feeds off the living?”

My stomach turned. “I didn’t—”

“Didn’t what? Didn’t know what you were doing to him each and every instant you spent at his side? Didn’t do everything in your power to keep him coming back to you anyway? You did, and you know it, so for once in your miserable life, John, stop lying. Or have you been putting on that act for so long that there’s nothing left beneath it but pure, unfathomable selfishness?”

“I didn’t want it to be like this!” The words came without a conscious decision, as if he had torn them out of me. “I didn’t want to be like this! I wanted—” 

I clenched my teeth together to stop the sob that threatened to rise up my throat, my eyes fixed on the duvet, feeling humiliated.

With a sigh, John Watson lowered himself to the edge of my bed, his clasped hands resting in his lap.

“There, you see?" He asked, his voice gone gentle again. When I finally managed to bring myself to look at him, I was surprised to find tears in his eyes. "Was that so very difficult?”

Comprehension dawned. “You felt the same way, didn’t you?” 

“Of course I did.” He gave me a small smile before leaning towards me conspiratorially. “I think you’ll find that when it comes to trying and failing to be worthy of Sherlock Holmes, I wrote the book.”

A huff of laughter escaped me. “Well, there goes that. If you were no better off than I am then there’s really no hope, is there?”

“Oh, I don’t know about that. Is there ever such a thing as false hope?”

“You’re the one who got yourself blown up on that ship, you tell me.”

His expression turned wistful. “The particulars will disappoint you more often than not, I grant you. But which is the greater sin I wonder—risking all you have in a vain pursuit of something better, or being so paralysed by the fear of failure that you squander the opportunity?”

My face heated in shame, but I felt compelled to defend myself. “I did everything I could. It’s like you said. I just hurt him, over and over, and I can’t stand it. This is all that’s left.”

“There you go again. That is precisely how I know you haven’t given up yet—lying is hope, the willful belief that truth can be altered. Sherlock met you night after night of his own free will. What does that tell you?”

“I don’t know.”

“You do, but I suppose that’s still not the real question, is it?”

“What is then?” I asked. “What do you want?”

“Yes, that's it,” he said with an encouraging nod. “What do you want, John?”

I laughed once without humour. “Honestly?”

“Honestly,” he echoed with a sideways smile.

“What I want…” I sighed. “I wanted to be the man that he thought I was. But I’m not him, and I never could be. So I suppose that means that what I wanted—what I want—is to be you.”

I angrily wiped away the tears that had spilled over, wishing he couldn’t see.

“Thank you,” he said earnestly. “Might I return the favour?”

My brow furrowed. “What you wanted?”

“Yes.” He waited till I gave my assent, then continued. “What I wanted—more than anything else in the world—was to be like you.”

He looked every bit as ashamed of himself as I felt. 

“But why?”

“I will tell you, John, you have my word. But there’s something I need you to do for me first.”

“You want me to go back to him?” I guessed.

“It’s not so dire as you imagine—nothing is yet unsalvageable. But time is short and in order to succeed you and I are going to need to coordinate.”

He stood, offering me his outstretched hand.

I raised my hand towards his but hesitated before taking it. “Will this help him?” 

“I believe it will, yes. But more importantly, it will help you. You have to pass through the darkness before you can stand in the light, John. The fight may cost you all you have, but you may yet gain something better in exchange. Are you willing to take that chance?”

I met his steady gaze, so much like my own, and placed my hand in his, allowing him to pull me to my feet.

As soon as I was standing, I found myself alone in my own bedroom. Frowning, I crossed the room to the mirror hanging above the mantelpiece. Bracing myself, I glanced at my reflection—John Watson stared back at me. 

But he wasn’t there anymore, not in the way I half hoped he would be. I hadn’t become him—didn’t feel his spirit invigorating mine. I still don’t. But beneath that disappointment, there was one small but vital change, one that’s given me the strength I needed to see this through to the end. I can still feel it even now—the afterglow of Sherlock’s blood warming my veins. Fitting that he would be the one to sustain me to the end. I have to find a way to make this right for him. I owe him that much—I owe him much, much more than that.

So. John Watson—get the hell on with it.

Chapter Text

An oppressive sense of nostalgia overshadowed me as Molly turned the corner onto Baker Street. I’d avoided this place for longer than I could remember—knowing all the while that the familiarity of it would be too heartrending for me to bear. Even with all the modern signs and neon lights, the bones of this place remained the same as they always had been.

“Do you want me to come with you?” Molly asked as she slid into a vacant parking spot just in front of 221B, her hands clenched around the wheel as she gazed out the windshield.

“No, I need to do this alone.”

“You sure? I don’t have to come up—I’ve heard they have a surprisingly good avocado sandwich here. I could get one while I wait.” She nodded to the awning for a cafe called Speedy’s.

I frowned. “Who would order an avocado sandwich from this place?”

“I don’t know. Some people.”

“I’ll be fine, Molly. Really.” The words lacked any conviction—we both knew I was lying.

“Yeah.” Her voice was hoarse, and I realised with horror that her eyes were filled with tears.

“Molly, please don’t cry!” I placed my hand over hers on the steering wheel and she turned her palm up, squeezing around my hand. “It’s alright. Really. Everyone dies eventually and I’m lucky; of all the ways I could have gone, I would have picked this—being with him.”

Molly rubbed the heel of her palm under her eyes, her breath hitching around a strangled laugh. “I’m so proud of you, John. Do you know that? You’ve been so unbelievably brave. I couldn’t have done it, if I were you.”

I could no longer bear to meet her eyes. “You could have, I think.”

“No. I couldn’t. No one could have but you. I hope you get to see that.” Molly sniffed and cleared her throat, then took my hand in both of hers and pressed a kiss to my knuckles that was like a final benediction. She glanced over at me with a tear-stained smile. “Goodbye then. It’s going to be a beautiful day.”

“Thank you,” I answered, trying to convey seven years worth of affection and gratitude in the words.

I took my cane from where it leant against the centre console and stepped out onto the street, waving at Molly one last time as she pulled away.

The door to 221B was unlocked and I took that as an invitation to let myself into the dark hall, pulling the door closed behind me by the knocker. I was surprised to hear voices above me and double checked my watch—a bit after 6:30, too early for visitors. With as much stealth as I could manage given my leg, I climbed the steps, straining to make out the conversation.

“Not interested,” Sherlock was saying. “Find something else.”

“I am trying, Sherlock,” answered Frank. “I’ve come to you with some genuinely fresh initiatives, but you turn down every last proposal I offer. You can’t afford to remain idle forever—I do sometimes wonder what it is you actually want.”

I’d come to the landing and found the door to the living room was ajar. Through the narrow gap I saw Sherlock sitting in a leather armchair near the fireplace. As if he had sensed a presence lurking in the shadows, his eyes snapped to meet mine.

“John.”

No hiding now. I stepped into the room—my eyes only for him. “Sherlock. Frank, surprised you’re here at this hour.”

“I could say the same of you. I’d quite gotten the impression that you’d decided to drop quietly from the face of the Earth.”

“Not just yet.” I gestured to the seat opposite Sherlock. “Do you mind?”

“Not at all.” There was a strange lilt to Sherlock’s voice that I couldn't quite place—not formality, but something very like it. “My nephew was just leaving, weren’t you, Frank?”

“Was I?”

“Yes. Goodbye,” Sherlock said with a dismissive wave of his hand.

Frank let out a long sigh, and I tore my eyes away from Sherlock long enough to catch a flicker of some strong emotion on his features before he could conceal it; disappointment or triumph—impossible to know for certain which it might have been. He offered me a small nod as he gathered his things and left.

I sat down with a quiet groan, rubbing a hand over my thigh.

“Sorry,” I began. “I know it’s a bit presumptuous just showing up here after how things ended last time. I probably should have called.”

“No,” Sherlock answered, still in that odd, stilted way. “I would have come to see you regardless. I didn’t want to leave it at that, considering….”

“Considering.” I echoed with a grim smile.

“How long do you have?” he asked casually—his expression anything but.

“Hard to say. Not long though.” I recalled Molly’s expression in the car. “Not long at all.”

Sherlock did not seem surprised at my answer, but made no reply. I would never tire of looking at him, but some sense of convention drew my eyes around the room. The evidence of modernity had crept its way inside—a flat screen tucked into the shelves to the left of the fireplace, a kitchen where there had once been a breakfast table, the refurbished wallpaper that was clearly intended to pay homage to how the rooms had once looked in their glory days—all superfluous. The greatest change was the tangible sense of absence that lingered in the air, because it was obvious that only one man lived here. Remarkable how nearly one hundred and forty years later he was still haunting the place—in the walls, in the books, in Sherlock’s veins, in mine.

My gaze fell on an open leather travel case resting on the small table near the window behind Sherlock’s shoulder, inside which lay a heavy wooden mallet and a carefully whittled stake. 

I had been about to ask Sherlock why he would have such a thing but he spoke before I could.

“There’s something I’ve always wanted to tell you, John. Since we’ve come to the end, I thought it best to say it now before I lose the opportunity.”

My eyes met his and the silence dragged on. He drew in a deep breath, his lips remaining parted, but still, nothing. I couldn’t help but smile.

“I think that about sums it up, don’t you?” I teased, wanting to lighten the mood.

My words had the opposite of their intended effect, instilling in Sherlock whatever sense of resolve he had been searching for. His expression hardened, his grey eyes turning cold. “You would hope so, wouldn’t you? As if I could let you off so easily.”

The blood turned to ice in my veins. “I’m sorry?”

“As you ought to be, given all you’ve put me through. I think I have been more than accommodating—it’s hard not to feel moved to pity when faced with someone so hopelessly pathetic—but you’ve pressed your advantage past all reasonable limitations, trailing after me like some lovesick fool. I pretended to be blind to the obvious because I imagined we both knew the truth. I was never going to reciprocate your sentiments. How could I? Look at you—a broken shell whose only worthwhile qualities are the similarities you happen to share with a much better man. That’s all you’ve ever been—an echo, a substitute—and a poor one at that.”

His words pierced through to the core of me—I had held those thoughts in my heart since the day I had met him, but I had never shared them with another soul.

He shoved up onto his feet, towering over me, and something about that set me off—had me rebelling against how small and flayed open I felt. Forgoing my cane, I stood and closed the distance between us till we stood chest to chest.

“You invited me,” I said, my tongue darting out to wet my lips. “Every single time. I always waited, and you always asked.”

“It was amusing, I admit, watching you read into every word I said, searching for any sign that what you hoped for might have some foundation in reality. But you never seemed to grasp the distinction between your lunatic fantasy and the truth, did you?”

He took a step back, angling to the side so he didn’t walk into his chair and I followed after him.

“You wanted me,” I insisted, a menacing smile creeping over my features. “You wanted my blood if nothing else. I’ve made you thirsty since the day we met.”

“Did I ever tell you that for a fact, or did you just assume?”

There was an undeniable sense of rhythm to the exchange; attack, retort, retreat—a mockery of a waltz. 

“If I did assume, it was because you gave me good reason to believe it was true,” I answered, my voice gone quiet and deadly. “If you wanted to discourage me, you’ve done a poor job of it. Someone who’s indifferent doesn’t act the way you have. They don’t show someone what you showed me when you drank my blood.”

He stepped back just an instant before I moved myself—anticipating me. 

“I told you, all you saw that night was your own desires reflected back to you. That’s what you do—paint the world as you wish to see it and wilfully ignore any evidence to the contrary. Has it been entertaining, John? Has it been satisfying? Is this all you might have hoped for? Because this is all you will ever receive from me—an uncompromising reminder of what was never going to be. There was never anything more to this than your own deluded fixation.”

“You’re lying.”

His lips curved up in a disdainful smile. “Would you like the truth, then? I’m looking forward to it—finally having some peace. I will not grieve you, when you’re gone. My life will begin the day yours ends.”

I cornered him so that his back was to the window with nowhere left to hide. I was breathing hard, my hands curled into fists at my sides as I fought the impulse to wrap them around his throat. As he took that final step back, he knocked against the table beside him, and the sound drew my gaze down to the wooden stake now within easy reach. My eyes darted back to his, seeing for the first time the desperate sort of eagerness there.

It has to be the hand of him that loves you best.

“No,” I whispered as the fury abated like pulling the stopper from a drain, leaving me exhausted. I should have seen it sooner; the words were too precisely calculated, striking right to the heart of my fears as if he had read my thoughts in my air—more intimate than that, he had read them in my blood.

Sherlock glared down at me and I had to admire how skilled an actor he was; he had never looked more imperious, more heartless, than when his heart was breaking into pieces. “What do you mean no? Are you still hoping I might reconsider? Because I—”

“I mean it isn’t going to work.” I snatched up the stake and shoved it at him so the blunt side of it hit his chest; he caught it before it could fall to the floor. I barked out a bitter laugh. “God, you didn’t mean a word of that, did you?”

That realisation almost hurt more than the words themselves. In a depraved sort of way, I’d wanted for him to mean it—for him to at last know the truth, even if he hated me for it.

For a moment, Sherlock was utterly still, blinking at me. Then, like a dam bursting, he wilted against me so that I was supporting his entire weight, his head burrowing into my shoulder. I held him tight to me as his chest heaved with sobs, gritting my teeth against my answering tears. 

“No, I didn’t mean any of it. I’m so sorry, I only wanted—”

“I know.” I caressed the planes of his back, struck by the bitter irony that this was the circumstance in which I finally gave myself permission to hold him. “Don’t be sorry. You didn’t say anything that wasn’t true.”

“It’s not,” he insisted. “None of that is real, John. I know you worry it is, but I’ve never once thought of you that way. It was cruel of me to—”

“I’m not angry with you,” I assured him. “That wasn’t your brightest plan though, was it? A stunt like that is more likely to make someone want to off themselves than you.”

He let out a broken laugh. “It was worth a try.”

“It really wasn’t. That’s not how you would have wanted it anyway, me killing you in a fit of rage. Wouldn’t have been very romantic.”

“I would have taken it,” he swore. “I would have taken any death at your hands.”

“Sherlock—”

“I know. I won’t ask again.”

But I knew what I would have wanted, had our situations been reversed, and I felt like a hypocrite for being incapable of giving him what I myself would have chosen.

I pulled back to see his face. “Would you have been able to do it? If it was me asking?”

The agony written across his features was answer enough.

“We make for quite a pair, don’t we?” I asked, a little amused. “Almost enough to make me believe in fate, the way things have gone. You and I have been doomed from the start.”

“Journeys end in lovers meeting,” he said, a small smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. “Would that it has been otherwise for you and I. I thought I might at least accompany you onto that last unprinted page.”

Something deep in my chest stirred at that. “This is what you wanted though, isn't it? It was always going to come to this in the end. You didn’t want him enough to keep him.”

“That wasn’t why I refused him,” he denied, his eyes lowering from mine. “I told you once before, it’s like being frozen in amber and I—the way he thought of me then, as if with one act I might save us both from all the troubles of the world. He was always going to be disappointed. Always. I couldn’t bring myself to face that.”

“And so in order to avoid failing him you let him think he had failed you instead.” I shook my head. “That’s the worst part of it, he did fail you. You’re all wrong about him—you always have been—and there’s nothing I can do to make you see that.”

I drew back from him and the wooden stake, which had been pressed between us, clattered to the floor.

“John?”

The stake. My awareness of the world narrowed to that one unassuming object resting on the floor between our feet. Something—not a plan, nothing so well considered as that—but an idea, at least, began to take shape in my mind. My eyes flashed to Sherlock’s face, saw him trying to read the source of my abstraction, and I knew I couldn't give him the chance.

Before I could think better of it, I had closed again what little distance there was between us and caught his face between my hands, stretching up onto my toes. His eyes went hooded at once, his lips parting.

I still paused just a hair’s breadth away from him to be certain.

“Alright?” 

He nodded, and I heard a tiny gasp catch in his throat. 

It utterly did me in, that one little sign that he wanted me. I kissed him with all my pent up desire. It was not gentle—I was far too hungry for that. My lips moved fervently with his and my hands would not stay still, gliding down his neck, his shoulders, tracing the shape of his waist as my breath sped into panting. My desperation for him was rolling off of me in waves. He would see, he would know.

I didn’t care. 

Sherlock was just as eager as I was, one of his long arms circled round the small of my back as the other hand trailed up the length of my spine to cradle the base of my neck, pulling me closer. I groaned and drew his lower lip into my mouth, worrying it with my teeth. Sherlock made the most delightful sound I had ever heard in my life in response and I wanted more. So much more. 

What do you want, John?

I wanted Sherlock Holmes. All of him. Every last piece of him. I wanted to claim him, body and soul, and keep him forever as my own—to live off nothing save the air in his lungs and the blood in his veins.

I wrenched my lips away from his, cringing away from the thought. But as I gazed up at him—taking in his kiss-swollen lips, his wide blown pupils—I could not deny to myself that it was true. I wanted to devour him.

A broken off cry hitched up my throat and I crushed myself to him again, burying my face in the crook of his neck. His pulse hammered against my lips, sending another pang of longing through me. Grimacing, I shifted myself so that only my forehead was touching his bare skin.

“Sherlock.” I gasped, sounding shattered. What did he imagine going through my mind in that moment? Did he think me afraid? I was afraid—I had never been more terrified in my life. Worse than the fear itself was that with it, I felt the first sparks of something like hope stirring in my chest. “Can I ask you something?”

“You just have,” he retorted breathlessly. When I didn’t laugh along with him, he became more serious. “Of course, John.”

“You did it once.” I did not elaborate on what I meant, trusting that he would be able to make the leap. “Did it hurt?”

He understood at once. His hold on me became more cautious, as if he were dealing with a wild animal he was trying very hard not to frighten away. I knew the feeling—one false step and I was certain I would see the flaw that would bring the dreadful, doomed hope crashing down around me.

Is there ever such a thing as false hope?  

“Yes.” Sherlock said, and for one wild instant I imagined he had somehow heard my thoughts, but of course he was answering my spoken question. “It was the worst pain I’ve ever felt, physically.”

I was surprised at his candour, but he had no doubt realised that attempting to spare me from the truth would only decide me against what he wanted.

He continued in a light, even tone. “Of course, that was all after I revived. When it first happened, I lost consciousness in around three seconds. Far from the worst way to go.” 

I nodded into his neck, and he went perfectly still against me, holding his breath. Without opening my eyes, I tilted up my head and pressed a tender kiss to his lips—it was the only apology I would get to offer him, if I was wrong. Afterward, I rested my forehead against his, knowing I could stay there forever, if I let myself. I couldn’t let myself. Not yet.

Stooping down to pick up the stake from the floor, I stepped around Sherlock to place a hand on the drape covering the window behind him.

“May I?”

Sherlock’s brows furrowed, but he gestured his assent, stepping out of the path where the light would fall. I pulled aside the curtain and looked out at the city of London. The sun was just beginning to crest over the buildings to the east, casting the entire street in a soft, golden glow. Below us a few early risers already went about their day, hailing cabs or walking towards Baker Street Station sipping at paper cups of coffee. Raising my eyes back to the brightening sky, I savoured the warmth of the sunlight against my skin, waiting for my reason to return to me, to convince me not to go through with a plan that was undoubtedly going to get both of us killed.

Are you willing to take that chance?

It wasn’t a spectre’s voice in my head—I knew enough to understand that wasn’t how blood was read. Having eliminated the ghost, there was only one suspect remaining. 

I turned away from the sunlit window, the room seeming dim in comparison—Sherlock and I separated once more by that insurmountable, intangible barrier.

“I’d like to tell you something, now,” I said, my voice shot with all the rioting emotions threatening to break free of my careful control. “These aren’t prepared words, but I want you to hear them all the same.”

“Alright,” Sherlock agreed, more confused than concerned.

“I want—I need you to know the truth about me. I should have told you this a long time ago but I—people are always telling me how brave I am—the wounded soldier bit sounds rather heroic in the abstract, I suppose. But I’ve never been able to stand it. They’re all dead wrong about me. I’m the biggest coward I’ve ever met in my life.”

Sherlock opened his mouth to protest but I held up a hand to stop him. 

“Let me get this out, please. I’m not brave, not when it counts. Danger, that’s easy. Tell me to risk my life and I’ll do it in a heartbeat, put me in a fight and I’ll give everything I have to win it, but put me in a room with a mirror…” I gave him a bitter smile. “You’ve noticed that, haven’t you?”

“Yes,” he murmured, gazing at me with so much more kindness than I deserved.

“It’s ridiculous, I know that. But if I look, it will ruin me. I won’t be able to pretend anymore. Because I know, Sherlock. I know what I am.” A tortured laugh escaped me. “I’ve always known it and it terrifies me. I never wanted to be this, but I could never manage to be anything but myself, no matter how hard I tried. I wanted so much to be better for you—to protect you, to be there for you whenever and however you needed me. But more than anything else I wanted to impress you—to trick you into thinking I was worth a damn. I’ve always been so afraid of the day you’ll realise that I’m not.”

“John—”

“No, Sherlock. Listen to me. I’m done lying. This is all my fault. All of it, right from the beginning. I can’t make it right now, it’s far too late for that, and I can’t go back and make a different choice. But I can stop running from what I’ve done, at least. It’s not fair to you. I’ve let you think you were responsible for this for so long when you never were. It was always me.”

“John, what—”

He sucked in a startled gasp as I twisted the stake in my grasp, gripping the handle with both hands and pressing the point of it to my own chest. Sherlock’s face paled with unadulterated terror; he stretched a single hand futilely out before him but there was nothing he could do to stop me—not without stepping into the light.

“I love you, Sherlock,” I confessed. “That’s the truest thing I can tell you and also the worst—loving you has never been enough to keep you safe from me. But maybe this will be.”

“No, John, please!” 

“I’m sorry,” I whispered, my eyes burning into his before I squeezed them shut for the final time. In the darkness, my pulse rang in my ears, drowning out all else. Taking in one last breath, I mustered my courage, then drove the wooden stake through my heart.

Chapter Text

It does rather ruin the suspense, this being a first person narrative. By virtue of the fact that you’re reading these words, you already know that I must have survived to write them. Then again, in all likelihood this tale of mine has contained very little mystery for the outside observer. You no doubt suspected who and what I was from the beginning—I imagine you’ve thought me quite slow for not knowing it myself. In my defence, you had no reason not to see the obvious, while for me, it had become so that nothing could have been more vital than the suppression of certain facts.

Even in the decisive moment when I had resolved to at last face the truth or else die in the effort, I still had not accepted what had by then become self-evident. There was no rational thought at work in me then but something raw and visceral. I am inclined now to place it as the writer’s instinct taking over at the last. After all, what else does a storyteller do but whisper, with that peculiar mingling of confidence and shame:

Come close, dear reader, I have something I’d like to show you. Hold out your hands for me, if you would be so kind. There you are—my throbbing, bleeding heart for all your horror and amusement, cut out so precisely you can see each and every fault-line as it strains to keep on beating. Yes, it is rather grotesque, isn’t it? Believe me, I know that better than anyone. But there may be something beautiful about it too. You’ll have to tell me when you’ve decided for yourself, I fear I am in no state to judge. 

That’s my heart you’re holding, after all.

You have no doubt caught on by now to the fact that when I begin my writings in this drawn out, rambling fashion, it’s a sure sign I’m biding for time. That has never been more true than it is as I sit here now. This final piece of my narrative is the hardest for me to relay; here, I must at last unravel the web of deception I so carefully spun around myself. All that remains beyond this point is the pure truth and nothing could be more horrific than that. What will you think of me, I wonder, when you know who I really am? I dread your understanding almost as much as I crave it.

There’s only one way for us to find out. So hold out your hands for me, dear reader, if you think you can stomach it.

My first impression after dying was of a dark, consuming weight pressing upon me from all sides. I could not breathe, could only move my weakened limbs with great effort. I was aware of a light some distance above me, that I was floating up towards it, and regret flooded through me with the realisation that I had been wrong after all. The golden rays overhead shimmered like a mirage, growing steadily brighter but kept back by some translucent barrier, a veil separating me from the next world. I stretched out my hand towards it and broke the surface. 

The cold air stung my skin, shocking me; I had the sense that I hadn’t felt the wind on my face in a long time. I tried again to breath, and got a mouthful of cold, briny seawater. I sputtered and coughed, but did not drown—I did not need the air. The sun was setting on the western horizon, creating a sparkling path between myself and the shore. I didn’t have the strength to swim there but the tide was pulling me in and I allowed myself to be carried along with it.

Eventually, the pebbled stones on the shore brushed along my knees, then scraped against my cheek. I crawled forward till I was out of the ocean, my chest heaving from that small effort. My head swam and I had the impression I was forgetting something important. 

“Sherlock,” I gasped out, remembering he was meant to be with me. 

A tall figure approached me and any hope I had was immediately dashed by the shape of his silhouette, the umbrella which twirled from one hand. I peered up at Frank blearily and with a small shock I registered he was… younger; fewer creases about his eyes, his ginger hairline less receded, the silverish beard he’d grown in the last few years absent. This was not Frank as I knew him now, but the Frank I had first met.

Two strong sets of arms lifted me from the ground, carrying me towards the unmarked van some distance away. As they shut me inside, I at last understood that this was not my entrance to the afterlife—this had all happened before, it was a memory. 

The scene around me ebbed away, leaving one breathless instant of darkness before another flowed in.

I lay in a hospital bed, my eyelids so heavy I could barely open them. Through my lashes, I could see the IV dripping into my arm and the blood bag hanging beside me, not aluminium-lined like the ones Molly used, but clear plastic. I saw for the first time that there was something wrong with the blood they were giving me—it was too dark, more maroon than scarlet, like blood that had begun to dry. Dead blood. It seeped through my veins, thick as tar, and the sensation was at once revolting and so familiar to me it almost wasn’t worth noticing. I had always felt this way, since the war.

Had there ever been a war?

There was movement in my peripheral vision, a man rolling down his sleeve and doing up the cuff. I had turned my head in time to catch a fleeting glimpse of his back as he had left the room, and there had been something familiar to me about the slope of his shoulders, the tilt of his head. The beeping of the cardiograph beside me became frantic as my heart raced with fear.

“He’s coming round,” said a droll voice from the corner of the room—Frank again. “Increase the dosage, Dr. Hooper. He isn’t ready yet.”

Molly? Yes, there she was, standing beside my bed, her hand hovering above the control panel attached to my IV. 

“Are you sure this is right?” she asked.

“Perfectly.”

“I just think—”

“I do not pay you to think, Dr. Hooper. I pay you to follow orders.”

“Right.” Molly’s eyes flickered over to me and she winced when she found me staring back at her. She offered me a silent apology as she turned the dial, plunging me once more into unconsciousness. 

More time passing. Weeks? Months? I hadn’t known even then.

The vaguest sense of nearly resurfacing, cool lips pressed to my ear.

“Soon now, John.” Though I could no longer place how or why I knew this voice, the sound of it made my stomach turn. “Just a few final pieces to put into place, and then we’ll see if you were right.”

A fissure ran down my spine as everything within me recoiled from the words—how close they came to stirring up the one truth I had spent so many years trying to bury. Even in death I couldn’t bring myself to face it, but I no longer had a choice. Wherever my thoughts grasped, they all led back towards that moment, like a river drawn inexorably over a waterfall.

John Watson sat hunched over a grand mahogany table, one hand held tight against his throat, wincing in pain as the other hand flew across the page in line after line, the words pouring from him like blood from a wound.

I sat on a park bench surrounded by gravestones, my hands clenching one another till they hurt, believing like a fool that I could offer Sherlock Holmes the blood in my veins without having to face anything in it myself.

He stood on a lonely shore, holding himself stock still as his heart cracked open in his chest, falling in love again with the love of his life and cursing himself for the weakness—the avarice of it.

I stood in a convent, embraced by the woman I might have married in another life, attempting to soothe her and knowing all the while that so long as Sherlock Holmes still drew breath, I was incapable of wanting anything but him.

It was not selfless devotion that had driven me to the ends of the earth to follow him.

He’s a fool for brilliance and beauty.

The last of the dying light glinted off the bronze serpent’s head mounted on the heavy wooden door before me; gathering my courage I stepped forward and placed my outstretched hand between its jaws.

Moriarty’s cold hand seized around mine, his black eyes gleaming with fascination as the last of his mirth faded away. I stared back at him, the inky depths of his gaze reminding me of the dark water at the bottom of the sea.

The waves sloshed against the hull of the Matilda Briggs, the worn wood creaking as the ship rose and fell with the current. Through the porthole before me, a lone lifeboat rowed its way westward to the English shore. I had watched until I could no longer make out its silhouette against the waves, then had closed my eyes and bowed my head. 

It had not been an articulate prayer—I had given no praises, made no formal confession. It was more akin to tearing aside a covering, revealing the gnarled, imperfect mess tangled in my soul—my fear and my shame, my hope and my desire—laying them out before me as their own sort of offering.

Please, dear God.

Beginning a slow and steady march toward Doyle’s cabin, I wanted—as I had wanted then—to turn away and make another choice, any other choice. But this moment was set in stone, inalterable, and I could do nothing save what I had done before. A hand on my revolver, I eased open the door, hoping even then some miracle might transpire, that the Divine would see fit to reach down and save me from what I rightly deserved, that I would glimpse inside that cabin and find anything other than what I knew I must.

There had been no miracle.

James Moriarty sat behind Doyle’s desk, his arms folded so that his clasped hands covered his mouth. He raised his head in acknowledgment as I stepped through the door—he had been waiting for me.

“Hello, John. Welcome. Have a seat, please.” He indicated the chair opposite him, then reached down to pluck up something from the table. He had laid out Doyle’s chessboard before him, the pieces already scattered across the squares as if there was a game in progress. As I approached, he moved his knight forward to capture the opposing queen. I raised my revolver, quirking my lips when he arched an eyebrow in response, and set it atop the desk between us before taking my seat. I scanned my eyes over the board; it was a close match, but he had given himself the advantage. 

I let out a humourless huff of air. “The losing side?”

“Where you’ve been since the start, I’m afraid.” 

My brow furrowed—I had been expecting for him to lord his victory over me, but he wasn’t gloating. He sat watching me in almost perfect stillness, that serpentine swaying of his head the only movement in the room. 

Along with the chessboard, the tray of brandy sat upon the table. When it was apparent Moriarty wasn’t going to speak until I did, I unstoppered the bottle and turned over two glasses.

“I don’t drink,” he reminded me.

“I know, both of these are mine. You’ll have your turn soon enough, I imagine.”

A small smile played at the corners of his mouth as he watched me raise the first glass in a mock toast before draining it down without breaking eye contact. I repeated the gesture, savouring the trail of warmth the brandy left behind, the way it numbed the worst of the despair.

Returning my attention to the board between us, I found that he had an opportunity for a mate in one and castled to avoid the effort.

“May I ask you something?” I said. He inclined his head in invitation. “The people aboard the train, the nuns in the convent… is it true? Did you really kill them?”

He chuckled. “You don’t honestly expect me to give you a straight answer to that question, do you? Not when your suspense is so much more tantalising. Even knowing for certain your actions had led to all that suffering would be less agonising, wouldn’t it? It would let you smother that last flicker of hope that all of this might have been worthwhile. As it is now, you’re forced to weigh the four deaths you do know of against the rest, praying that’s all I’ve managed, and cursing yourself for the fact that their lives being the only cost would grant you even a sliver of relief when you believe your cause would not have justified the loss of even one soul—excepting your own, of course.”

He captured my remaining bishop with one of his own, then returned to the same position as before, watching me as if in expectation.

“If you haven’t come to talk then why are you here?” 

He hummed. “A word of advice, John. If you’re having trouble with the game, concentrate on the chess. You excel in metaphor—rely on your strengths while you’re still in possession of them.”

I scoffed, but did as he asked, imagining him to be toying with me, serving some final bit of humiliation so that I would beg for him to finish me off. I was on the cusp of telling him that I was already willing when I at last found what it was he had wanted me to see and all my thoughts of defeat halted in their tracks. A lone pawn stood in wait at the far right corner of the board, poised to become a second queen with no rook left in rank to capture it.

My head snapped upright as I stared back at Moriarty, unable to quench the fierce hope that had sprung up within my heart.

“There he is,” he said with a contented smile. “And for a moment there I thought you were going to disappoint me by giving up without a fight.”

“Why?” I breathed.

“Telling you would be playing fair. You are, however, welcome to make your guesses—I do find your thought process so engaging to watch.”

“You wouldn’t take the risk if you thought I had the slightest chance.”

“Wouldn’t I? What makes you say so?”

I shook my head, feeling bitter. “I never succeeded in deceiving you for an instant, I see that now. It was foolish of me to believe I could beat you at your own game.”

“Yes, very foolish. I've been at this for more time than you could even conceive of. There is no fault or failing of the human heart with which I am not intimately familiar, that I have not manipulated to my advantage countless times before—even a heart as remarkable as yours. But you wouldn’t let a trivial detail like that stand in your way, would you?”

I barked out a harsh laugh. “I really thought I’d won.” 

His answer when it came was spoken with such evident sincerity it was unsettling. “If it’s any comfort, John, you came closer than almost anyone.” 

“Almost?” 

His expression turned wistful. “I confess, I’ve been lying about my spotless record. I have lost. Exactly once. I’ve taken great pains to ensure it does not happen again.”

“Yet you’d give me another chance?” I tried again to read his motivations, but his expression gave nothing away. “You must have a reason. What do you want in return?”

“Only what I asked of you before: everything you are, everything you might become, every memory of Sherlock Holmes. And if, bereft of those advantages, you still manage to outplay me, I will give you what you so desperately want. Both you and Sherlock will be free of me. Forever.”

That word echoed in my mind, the perfect temptation, but I saw the catch at once.

“Sherlock.” I grimaced. “What will become of him if I fail?”

Moriarty gave me a pleasant smile, his head tilting to the side, but otherwise made no answer, allowing my imagination to fill the silence for him. 

A wave of revulsion threatened to overwhelm me. I would have gambled my own life without hesitation, but his? Would having proven in the end that Sherlock did not want the same things I did be enough to stop me from bartering his fate along with mine? I struggled in vain against the inescapable fact that it would not—nothing would.

He saw the instant I realised it, yet still he waited; I had to be the one to make the decision—to seal our doom of my own free will. My heart was leaden in my chest as I removed the pawn from the board, then took the queen from the line of fallen pieces and set it into place. I mirrored his pose as I returned my gaze to him, folding my hands in front of me, my face set in a mask of grim determination. 

Moriarty flashed me a ravenous grin before crossing the room in the blink of an eye, lifting me so that I stood with the backs of my thighs pressed to the desk. He cradled my neck with both hands, his face inches from mine.

“Look me in the eye, John,” his voice was melodic, those black eyes burning with intensity. “And beg for me. I'll be part of you. You’ll make it to that brave new world, but I’ll be there in every beat of your heart, whispering through your veins. With the full knowledge of all you’re surrendering in exchange—beg me, and mean it anyway.”

I raised my chin, feigning defiance even as I thought I would choke on the shame. “Please.”

“Tell me how badly you want it.”

“I want it more than anything else. You know that.” I found some solace in the fact I merely sounded resigned.

“Enough to betray the man you love most in the world?” he pressed.

I could not contain the anguish that flickered across my features then. “Yes.”

“Oh, that’s lovely,” he sighed, his left hand sliding up the side of my throat, coming to rest against my cheek. “Once more for luck.”

“Please,” I repeated, my voice breaking in the end, but I did not allow myself to flinch under the weight of his gaze.

“Perfect. Absolutely perfect.” He leaned in close as he had once before, resting his forehead against mine. His eyes slid closed and I felt his contented sigh fan across my skin. “I am going to enjoy this.”

Even knowing it was coming, the sudden slash of pain at my throat caught me off guard. I hissed in a gasp before gritting my teeth, biting my lip till it bled rather than giving him the satisfaction of hearing me cry out. He took my silence as a challenge, purposefully compounding the agony even as he spun the strands of his influence around my soul. He made no attempt to alter me then, only demonstrated with painstaking care how effortlessly he wove himself round every facet of my being. There was no thought, no feeling, no shameful secret hidden in my heart that did not belong to him. 

I fought to keep myself upright, anchoring my grip to the edge of the desk till my fingers went numb, till my head spun from the blood loss, and still he kept drinking. I knew all the while that with a single word, I could end it, but to do so would be to forfeit all my sincerest hopes. I would endure, no matter the cost—I would not turn aside, would not run, not with what I stood to gain in exchange. Moriarty’s amusement washed over me, and I knew he had been waiting for me to have that very thought, knew what he was about to do. He shifted the hand on my face so that it covered my mouth; the other crept down to caress over the top of my thigh before his fingers became a constricting vice.

I heard the sickening snap of bone before I felt it—my answering shout stifled only by his palm. He smiled against my skin, waiting till my muffled cries had died down into laboured breathing before removing the hand from my lips and setting the bone back into place with cruel efficiency.

My scream rang off the walls. Moriarty laughed to himself before tonguing up the length of my throat. I watched through dimming vision as he ran one of his pointed nails along his left wrist, slicing through the skin. He pressed the gash to my lips, his other hand coming to cup my jaw, encouraging me to open my mouth.

I gagged—the flavour of it cloyingly sweet and musty as rotten earth. I would have spit it out had it not been for Moriarty’s unrelenting grip, leaving me no choice but to choke on his blood or else swallow it down. I managed the latter, shuddering at the awful sensation of it sliding down my throat. 

Moriarty released his hold on me at once and I collapsed into a broken pile on the rough wooden floor, my awareness slipping away from me the same instant I hit the ground.

I awoke to find Sherlock kneeling over me, the deep lines of sorrow carved across his features transforming into relief when he saw I was still alive.

“Keep him talking,” I whispered, locking my eyes with his, imploring him to understand. 

I’d known it was futile every excruciating inch of the way; destroying the ship would make no difference, our fates were already cast. But Doyle and the others would know we had failed, and the warning might be sufficient to prepare them against whatever I might become. I imagined myself looming over little Cara Grieff, her eyes wide with fear at the crimson dripping from my hands, and clawed at the floor with such violence that my nails began to bleed.

When I reached the barrels of rum, I stabbed into the closest of them with my pen knife, the amber liquid trailing towards the stacked boxes of cargo. Striking a match against the sole of my shoe, I tossed it forward and watched as the flames danced away in a line. 

The resulting explosion threw me across the hold, slamming me into the far wall and knocking me senseless. I could feel that I’d broken more bones, possibly punctured one of my lungs, and I thought the force of the blast might have been enough to kill me—had I still been able to die. 

The self-loathing alone ought to have been sufficient. 

I hadn’t realised I’d lost consciousness again until I was roused by a warmth at my neck, the brush of familiar lips, then that transcendent sensation of his hand twined with mine. It faded away as quickly as it had come and my eyelids fluttered open in confusion. I found Sherlock’s throat before me—the thin, scarlet line he had cut into the flesh there. With so much tenderness it set my heart aching, he cradled my face to him, bringing my lips to his wound.

I could only imagine what this offer must have cost him; I wanted to tell him his sacrifice was unnecessary—I no longer needed his blood—but more than my frailty kept me from speaking out. I did not need his blood, but God, how I wanted it—had craved it long before I would have been able to stomach it.

The taste was unlike anything I had ever known—so exquisite that the flavour of it on my tongue transfigured the scene of destruction around us till the deafening sounds of heavy wooden beams bending and snapping apart and the unrelenting rush of the water flooding the ship was like being in the midst of a symphony. I shivered in ecstasy before summoning the will to pry my lips away from his throat, knowing I was unworthy of it. Sherlock let me hide my face in the crook of his neck and nestled me in his arms as the world around us was swallowed up by the dark water. 

I clung to him, knowing even as I did that the stain of what I had done—the lengths I had taken to keep him by my side—were sins of such magnitude that nothing, not even immortal blood, could ever wash them away.

Not even my own.

Chapter Text

I came alive with a violent jolt—my eyes snapping open as I sucked in a horrible, wheezing gasp. Even that small movement sent a wave of agony stabbing outward from my chest, radiating through my limbs before reverberating back. The pain was all-consuming, eclipsing nearly everything else. Only one fact in the world could have had enough significance to cut through it to reach my awareness:

I was not alone.

“John!” Sherlock sobbed in relief, clutching both my hands in one of his, cradling my face in the other.

I struggled to bring his features into focus, a task made more difficult by the dazzling light glaring down around him. When I at last managed it, I was utterly enraptured by the sight of him. My eyes caressed over every detail of his face—the familiar sharp angle of his nose, the way it contrasted with the soft curve of his lips, the dark circles permanently etched beneath his eyes from the strenuous final weeks of his life, the small crease that had just begun to form above his left eyebrow before he had been frozen forever in time, most wondrous of all—the depth of emotion shining in his brilliant, grey eyes. In his countenance the imperfect melded with the lovely, and he was so beautiful that I almost could not bear to look at him. My heart strained to beat, sending another surge of pain coursing through me.

I tugged my hands free from his to grope at the wooden stake protruding from my chest, wanting nothing more in that instant than to have the wretched thing out of me, but my fingers were weak and clumsy and I could not get a good grasp. Even as a panicked helplessness rose within me, Sherlock’s long, pale fingers settled over my own.

His voice was reassuring, a lifeline through the pain. “No, John. You can’t do that. If you take it out you’ll—” he swallowed, fresh tears springing to his eyes. “You have to stay where you are now. We’ll get you help. I’ll call an ambulance. Or Sherrinford, that would be better, they have the best—no, no—” he soothed, because I had flinched at the name. “I won’t leave you. I’ll stay right here, I promise. It’s alright—you’ll be alright.”

I didn’t know whether he was trying to convince me or himself.

“Sherlock,” I croaked, wincing at how torn and airy my voice was, then tried again in a whisper. “Sherlock. Think.”

Because he wasn’t thinking, not clearly. He thought I was still in danger when he ought to have known that no mortal man could have stabbed himself through the heart as I had and survive to tell the tale. Yet there I lay, alive and breathing. There was only one explanation for it and it surprised me that he had not seized upon it at once, for I had been certain he had known all along what I was. It wasn’t until that moment that I realised he never had—he’d only been hoping, just as I had once been. But even in the end, he still shied away from the clear proof that he had been right. Why did he not see it?

The answer supplied itself to me at once: Sherlock yet believed himself to be a lesser being, one who did not—could not—exist in the same world I did. But that barrier too had at last fallen away.

“Sunlight!” I gasped. 

With considerable effort, I brought my hand up towards his face, running my fingers through the ends of his hair where the sun tinged the dark brown with a reddish hue, feeling a smile ghosting over my features. 

“So beautiful.”

A half-strangled cry escaped Sherlock's lips. His face twisted up in horror as if he expected this—the moment of awareness—to be the tipping point which would set off the delayed reaction, causing him to burst into flames there in my arms. He didn’t—of course he didn’t. The sunlight was never going to hurt him. It had only ever been another of Moriarty’s tricks.

At last, he realised it too. Tentative as the first, faltering steps of a newborn fawn, Sherlock held his right hand out before him, catching the light in his palm as he curled and uncurled his fingers, joy and wonder illuminating his features before his eyes shot back to mine, brimming with fragile, desperate hope.

“John?”

I heard the difference in the way his voice wrapped around my name and knew what he dared not ask.

“Yes,” I whispered back with an expression as close to reassurance as I could manage under the circumstances, then gestured to the stake. “Please.”

Moving as if he were in a sort of trance, Sherlock braced himself with one hand on my chest, the other wrapping around the end of the stake. A flash of apprehension flitted over his features as his eyes cut back to mine.

“This won’t—” 

“No.” I rested my hand over his. “Please. For me.”

A grave resolution came over him. Sherlock’s left hand held me flat against the floor as he jerked up hard with his right. 

The sound which forced its way out of my throat was inhuman. Blood seeped out of the gaping wound as my heart took up a frantic, disjointed rhythm—the throbbing pulse sending new waves of agony through me with every beat. With the pain, there was an odd, almost effervescent sensation around the edges of my wound where my cells were already attempting to stitch themselves together.

A discordant crash rang from the direction of the kitchen where the stake had landed. Sherlock didn’t so much as glance at the sound, pressing both hands over the hole in my chest, as if he were trying to staunch the bleeding. He wasn’t—he was helping me breathe, closing the gap where the air had been escaping.

I gulped down a deep lungful of air, then another, savouring the feeling of it like I had never breathed before. I rested both my hands over his, squeezing his fingers.

“Thank you,” I whispered, still concerned with how my voice might sound if I attempted to speak any louder. “You weren’t kidding, were you? That was bloody awful.”

The corner of my mouth twitched upward at my own joke, and Sherlock let out a startled laugh before dissolving into an almost hysteric fit of giggles. I would have joined him if I weren’t painfully aware of how laughing would shift the raw edges of my wound.

“It was,” Sherlock said when he had regained control of himself, still looking more than a little stunned. “You’re alright, then?”

“Never better,” I quipped, but as I spoke, a wave of triumph swelled over me and I found that it was true. 

“I did it!” I breathed, for a single moment wholly exhilarated by the realisation. Quick as the radiant joy had come though, it was swallowed up by an acute awareness of all that supposed victory implied. “Dear God, what have I done?”

Above me, Sherlock was regarding me with a mixture of affection and concern, and I realised with fresh horror that the worst of my ordeal lay yet before me. I was going to have to explain to him—in vivid, painstaking detail—what I had done to us. And then I would lose him—of course I would. 

But it had to be done. 

It would be difficult to shake his faith in me, particularly on the heels of the revelation that he had never lost me. Almost impossible—but if there was one person on the Earth who could accomplish it, I could. The necessity of using my greatest strength to bring about my own demise was a crueler torture than anything Moriarty had ever conceived.

“Sherlock,” I said, and my voice had by then taken on a different cadence—one that belonged in an earlier century, to the life Sherlock Holmes had once lived. John Watson’s voice—my voice. “Sherlock, I cannot begin to tell you how sorry—”

He removed one hand from my chest to press his fingers to my lips. “Hush. How could you possibly imagine I would be angry with you now?”

I tugged his hand away from my mouth.

“You will be,” I promised him. “You don’t understand yet, you don’t know what I’ve done.”

He huffed in irritation. “If you believe that I would be so hypocritical as to be distressed that you’ve become a vampire, I would be forced to remind you that it was I who changed you.”

“No, it wasn’t,” I corrected. “I’d already made a bargain with Moriarty when you’d found us.”

Sherlock fell silent then, those keen eyes narrowing in on me. I held his hands in mine, drawing comfort from the warmth of his skin while I still had the chance and considered how best to proceed. Steeling myself, I methodically laid out my confession.

“I’m a ridiculous man, Sherlock,” I began. “Arrogant for all I try to cloak it in humility, foolish for all I try to prove myself clever, always oscillating between an insatiable craving for applause and a desperate need to hide myself in someone else’s shadow. All of that twisted itself together to make me perfect for you in the worst conceivable way. I loved you from the first moment I saw you. I’ve told you that before, haven’t I? A thousand times I’ve told you. The moment your eyes met mine, the world halted in its course, and I knew I would be yours until the day my heart stopped beating. That’s the truth, and it’s also the sort of detail I knew how to manipulate to my advantage. And believe me, I made use of every last trick at my disposal in pursuing you—I was relentless until I knew you were mine.

“But that wasn’t enough for me—I had you and I wanted more. I longed to shout from the rooftops that you loved me—that for all my failings, I had been enough to capture the interest of the most remarkable man I had ever known. I couldn’t then, not without losing you for having done so, and so I contrived a plan that would ensure that fact outlived either of us—I would weave a dual legacy so entwined that to hear my name was to think of yours, and yours to think of mine. If I had to make myself look like a fool in order to accomplish it, I would endure it in the hope that someday you would understand why I had. Then you would know me, all of me, down to my bones, and if you stayed after that, I would no longer have to live in constant terror of the moment you’d finally discover I was the world’s greatest fraud. I couldn’t bear it—every day wondering whether that would be the morning you would wake up and realise you’d made a mistake in choosing me. It was inevitable, I knew that. All I could hope to do was buy myself more time—perhaps till the end of our lives, if I was very lucky. Until that fateful day when, with one word from your lips, everything which I had so long thought impossible came suddenly within my view.

“The instant you persuaded me of Moriarty’s existence, I was overcome by a sort of premonition. It was as if time stretched itself out in one long chain, forged from the foundations of the earth and reaching on into an endless future. I could see everything that had happened, everything that was going to happen, like a perfect pattern laid out in front of me. You and I were part of it—trapped by it, as we always had been, as we always would be—but in that moment I thought that perhaps, if I played my hand perfectly, we could overcome it. I could overcome it—because when you told me the nature of the enemy we were facing, I knew him as if I had been looking in a mirror. I knew that he would do what I had intended to do but would carry it out to such an extent that I never could have dreamed of accomplishing on my own. He would preserve you, body and soul, and if I could but free you from his hold, you and I would someday arrive at that far away future neither of us would have otherwise lived to see. I could picture it so vividly—how you would look at me when you knew that I had outsmarted you, when I’d at last proven myself to be your equal, worthy of my place at your side.

“I accused you of not counting the cost then, but that fault lies with me alone; I saw all of the risks that you failed to perceive, but still I believed there was no circumstance in which I could lose. The game seemed as if it had been designed for me to win it, as if Providence Himself had made a way for me to prevail where all others had fallen short. I would rise to the challenge, run the race laid before me and in so doing earn my divine reward. Imagine the willful blindness required to believe that God had ordained a deal with the devil. But I did. I thought that with one fell swoop I could rid the world of its greatest evil and secure for myself all that I had so long desired. 

“In my heart of hearts, I knew that I was ignoring the obvious—had you known my plan from the beginning you would never have agreed to it. It did not matter. You and I are so similar for all our disagreements; I was certain that by the end, I would have persuaded you to take my view. 

“So you see that I am the cause for all we have suffered. Moriarty discerned what I intended before ever I spoke to him, and every twist of his game was designed to punish me for my hubris—I thought that I could deceive him and he turned my lies into a snare, I’d buried my former sins and he brought them back to life, worst of all, I had coveted you with the same excessive, demented passion he did and he made me watch you pay the price—gave me all I wanted in exchange for the knowledge that it was only possible at your expense.

“The only defence I can offer for myself is that Moriarty would have killed us both, had I refused to play the game once it had begun. You would have chosen death over poisoned life, but I could not. I still hoped, even in that final hour, that someday we might come out on the other side to find that it had been worth it after all. I’m such a fool. I won’t ask for your forgiveness—I know what I’ve done can’t be forgiven—but know that I will spend every last day of eternity regretting what I’ve done to you.”

An absolute silence fell between us as I waited for Sherlock's answer, his expression alight with intense concentration.

“John Hamish Watson,” he said at last with slow deliberation. “Do you mean to tell me that you knowingly entered into a game of deception against an ancient immortal being out of a misguided romantic notion that doing so would allow you and I to be together forever?”

“Yes,” I answered, feeling as though I were pronouncing the guilty verdict at my own execution. I imagined a thousand reactions in that endless instant—furious screams, stony silence, retrieving the stake and finishing me off once and for all. I was convinced there was nothing he could do to me that I would not deserve. 

I was wrong.

His lips crashed to mine with such ardent hunger that it left me dizzy. One of his hands came up to cradle the back of my head, the fingers of the other curling where they were still pressed against my chest. I could do nothing but respond in kind, my arms twining around his slender frame of their own accord. Through the onslaught of sensation, my mind struggled to make sense of the chasm between the reaction I had anticipated and what was happening.

“Sherlock—wait—you don’t—” I tried to gasp out, but he would not part with my lips long enough for me to manage more than a few aborted words.

“I do,” he murmured against my lips before drawing me into another intoxicating kiss. I groaned in surrender and stopped trying to resist him when it was so obviously what we both wanted. I attempted to surge up into him and was viscerally reminded that I remained mortally wounded.

Sherlock eased away from me at once, pressing me back to the floor and placing one last kiss to my lips before moving on to my cheeks, my eyelids. I basked in his affection, even as I could not understand it. 

He let out a breathless, delighted laugh. “John Watson, you are a marvel!” 

My eyebrows shot up in astonishment. “Were you not listening to me?” 

“I was. I heard you, all of it.” Sherlock beamed down at me, his eyes shining as brightly as when he had at last fitted together the final piece of some intricate mystery in that scintillating mind of his. “I should have known—you truly are the one fixed point in a changing age.”

It was everything I had ever wanted. My punctured heart shattered with the evidence that my carefully crafted facade had proven too persuasive—now he would not believe the truth even when it was laid out before him.

Sherlock's eyes swept over me, his expression turning speculative, and he appeared to consider his next words with the greatest of care. 

“John, am I not—by far and away—the most intelligent man in your acquaintance?”

An incredulous laugh escaped me at the arrogance required to make such a pronouncement. And yet, “I concede it.”

“Granting then that I have proven myself to be as clever as even you, do you imagine that it is possible—given the degree of intimacy which you and I have shared—that you have somehow managed to conceal from me your truest nature after all this time?”

He had found perhaps the only argument which might have proven effective against me, for my faith in him had a stronger hold than even the depths of my self doubt.

“You never wanted this,” I reminded him.

“And yet now that we are here, I find that I am perfectly content. Always the way—you never know where you’re going till you arrive.”

“I don’t understand how you can forgive me so readily.” 

“I would tell you that there is nothing to forgive, but I know you will not find that persuasive—I would not. Perhaps that is what will convince you. Everything which you have described—excepting the specifics of your own brilliant planning—I have known firsthand. How could I not? You are the most steadfast, courageous, incisive, charming, and truly good man I have ever known, and for reasons beyond my comprehension you are utterly devoted to me. I have never once felt worthy of it.”

“I know no one who is more worthy, Sherlock.” I told him. “You deserve so much better than me.”

“My sentiments precisely,” he said with a gentle smile.

I knew what he was attempting to do, but my view of our relative standing was so ingrained in me that it would not be uprooted so easily. “I cannot see it that way.”

“Then I suppose that you’ll just have to try for a bit of faith.”

“I struggle with faith. In myself, at least.”

“I know. Ironic considering how effortlessly you inspire it in others.”

“How do you do that?” I said with an exasperated laugh.

“Do what?”

“Make my worst qualities sound like virtues.”

“I seem to remember having asked you something similar once. Maybe that’s what it is to love someone: to see them—all of them, the best and the worst—and still find something of infinite value there.” He placed another slow kiss to my lips, then appeared to rouse himself. “Now, there remains one last thing for us to do, I think.”

My brow furrowed. “And what is that?”

“Speaking from experience, waiting for that to heal on its own would be unwise.” Sherlock pressed more firmly against my wound for emphasis. “You must admit it is a bit amusing—you might have begun here and proven what you were in a much more direct fashion. As it is, in attempting to avoid it, you’ve only necessitated the inevitable.”

Sherlock tilted up his chin in a sure, deliberate gesture—a ravenous desire flaring to life within me at the sight of his exposed throat. 

“I can’t,” I protested, my voice hoarse with the fevered intensity of all my long-denied hunger.

“You can—I want you to,” he said gently, his eyes shining with tender devotion. “It is not a sin to need, John, nor to take what is given in love. You will never conquer your shame till you stop hiding behind a lie. Believe me, I know.”

I warred against myself in silence for some minutes, uncertain of where to draw the distinction between what I wanted and what was right. It was Sherlock’s serene, unending patience that persuaded me in the end. 

“Let me,” I begged in a broken whisper. “Please.”

“It was always yours,” Sherlock told me. “You only had to ask.”

He shifted us till we were lying side by side on the faded carpet, guiding my head up so that I hovered over his throat. The sight of his throbbing pulse mesmerised me, captivating all other thought. Acting on instinct, I nestled into the crook of his neck, feeling with equal parts hunger and horror the way he quivered against me. I breathed in the wonderful, familiar smell of him and shivered with longing. The thirst had grown irresistible, yet I did resist—hesitating even then to take what he so freely offered. I did not have the will left to pull away from him, but I remained there for a breathless instant, balancing on the knife's edge.

Sherlock’s graceful hand came up to card through my hair. The other twined with mine between our chests—a silent gesture of permission, of acceptance. 

It’s alright.

Taking in a shuddering breath, I placed a lingering kiss to his skin, willing with all that I was that he would not feel even a trace of the pain I might otherwise inflict. My teeth grazed the flesh above his pulse point before I at last succumbed to the yearning which had been ever present since the night we had reunited on that shore in Whitby—since I first heard the name Moriarty and knew what I hoped we might one day become. Unable to withstand it an instant longer, I bit down—effortlessly piercing through his skin.

The rich taste of Sherlock’s blood burst inside me like a supernova—singing through my veins and thrumming in my heart, healing over as if it had been made new. I heard the rapturous moan that escaped me, muffled as it was by his skin, but was unable to contain myself, lost in pleasure so acute that it was nearly pain. 

In that fantastic, impossible place between thought and dream, Sherlock’s soul entwined with mine in a tangle of silken sheets. His lips, his limbs, danced with my own, and the intimacy of those ethereal caresses was all the more beautiful to me because of the horrific act that had enabled them—the utter surrender that predicated it; the abandoning of this last, most entrenched of my pretences—that I was a creature somehow beyond selfish desire. By that act of dedition, we became equals at the last. All that I had pretended to be—all of his own evasions—crumbled away into dust, leaving only myself and him and the golden glow of the light.

Clutching him closer with desperate hands, I closed my eyes, and I drank.

Chapter Text

One may well wonder as to my purpose in creating the volume you now hold in your hands, for it is evident that I could hardly expect any reasonable reader to accept so fanciful a tale. Granted, I am far from the only man who has dared do much for love, but I confess that I myself find it hard to believe all I saw with my own eyes and heard with my own ears is living truth. But I want no proofs—I ask none to believe me. I have sought not coercion but communion.

Read this story as an allegory—if you so desire—and learn what you may from one man’s battle to find his way adrift between the opposing tides of hope and shame. Judge my failings as you see fit, or allow my victory against all reasonable expectation to inspire you to accept your own. None of us may provide a reliable accounting of ourselves, for both the monstrous and the divine are exaggerated in our view; though in loving and being loved by another fallible soul we may yet glimpse some objectivity—if we are willing to relinquish the comfort of our fear. 

A final page would seem to mark a parting of the ways, but this is not so. From this day forward, a portion of my heart—my soul—shall accompany you along the road you travel. After all, stories flow in our veins, if you know how to read them. Having come to the end of my narrative, you now know what flows through mine—and you may trust me when I tell you that there could be no greater intimacy. In that respect, I shall ever remain,

Most sincerely yours,

John Hamish Watson

THE END