Chapter Text
April 1st, 2023
Today was... I don't even know how I should start. Till this point I'm terrified that it could only be a dream.
I cannot control myself. I need to stand up once in a while and walk towards the sofa 2 meters away from me to ruffle the hair of the person sleeping there so I know he really exists, and is not an illusion.
My laptop isn't around, but I found my pen and pencil. I needed to write something to calm me down, or else I may start dancing or burst into tears any second.
This morning's free clinic for the homeless was held in a building with bright, large windows in each room, which didn't cause much discomfort for those with claustrophobia.
My third patient was Old Jack again. He walked in greeting me in a loud voice and closed the door behind him. But when he saw me, he froze.
"Sit down!" I called out.
He stood there for a moment before slowly coming over to sit.
"How have you been lately?" I asked.
"Same old," he mumbled, looking up at me. "What about you, Dr. Watson?"
"I'm fine," I replied. But his expression made me think he must look utterly exhausted and terrifying.
I had the sterile cotton and the needle ready, and as I gestured for him to roll up his sleeve, his eyes fell behind me. "Doctor, are you going on a trip?"
I turned back in puzzlement, but saw no luggage. When I looked again, it was Sherlock who sat across from me.
I jumped to my feet, staring at him in shock for a few seconds before a white mist began swirling around me. As the fog dissipated, I noticed my collar was undone and a lingering brandy kick hit my lips. There he stood, leaning against my chair with a bottle of brandy clutched in his hand.
I closed my eyes, counted three in my mind, then opened them again.
He remained there.
I stared at him without blinking, until he started, lips shaking: "It's me, John."
My mind went blank, neither terrified nor excited. Yet my hands instinctively reached out to grasp his arm. Through his sleeve, I felt his lean, muscular arm, then smiled at him: "You're real."
This was the most authentic dream I'd ever had - tactically tangible, with the warmth of his skin through the fabric. In all my previous dreams, whenever I reached out, he vanished.
His gaze fixed on me as his throat tightened. For a moment, I saw something sparkling in his eyes, almost about to spill. But he took a deep breath and brought the bottle close again: "Take another sip." As I swallowed obediently, he said: "John, you're not dreaming."
The alcohol's power gradually brought blood back to my head. I regained enough clarity to question whether this was a dream. I remembered a movie line from long ago: "You never know where dreams begin. You arrive somewhere suddenly, but never remember how." But I remembered this place, how I arrived this morning, how Old Jack entered the room, and I see a gray wig tossed on the table, so...
Then came a sharp headache, my temples throbbing like a storm. It felt as if I had been dead for ages, then suddenly someone forcibly revived me. In my lifeless body, the heart that had stopped beating for so long began pounding wildly, blood roaring through my hardened veins and nerves. My muscles went numb, skin swelled, and I stood with my mouth agape, unable to speak. Clutching Sherlock's sleeve tightly, I heard my own bellows-like ragged breathing. Straining to blink, I tried to wipe away the thick fog before me.
I heard Sherlock's voice: "John, relax, John! Breathe!"
What gradually calmed me was the urgency in his voice and his trembling hands cradling my face. I ordered myself to breathe deeply, focusing on counting breaths. When I reached seven, I finally saw him again.
His gaze lingered with a lingering fear I'd never seen before, then he suddenly pulled his hand away as if waking from a nightmare.
"No," I said, grabbing his arm just in time. After so long, I finally held those hands again—the same hands I'd known intimately, with fingers longer, stronger, and more dexterous than any I'd ever seen. They could play the most beautiful melodies on strings or bend an iron rod straight with their grip. I turned them palm-up, though their surface wasn't perfect—soaked in chemicals had altered their color—but in my eyes, there was no pair of hands more exquisite. I bowed my head and kissed his palms reverently. He shrank back slightly, but I still clung to his trembling fingers. I heard the voice above me: "John!"
I looked up at him, his pale face flushed with a faint blush, his sharp gaze now clouded. "John -" he called my name again, leaning forward slightly. Then we heard someone knocking at the door.
While examining the next patient, Sherlock lay sleeping on the extra examination bed. I lifted the curtain for him. After each patient, I would move to that corner, pull back the curtain, and check if he remained there.
At noon, I finally finished all patients. Approaching him, I whispered his name. The ever-alert Sherlock showed no response—clearly exhausted. Gently stroking his hair, soft as I remembered it though much shorter now, I traced its texture while gazing at his sleeping face. I felt I could dedicate my life to this task, finding supreme fulfillment. My fingers grew bold as I began caressing his scalp, then I touched something uneven. Repeatedly probing before smoothing the hair, what I saw made me dizzy.
Sherlock opened his eyes then, half-awake, his extraordinary mind suddenly sharp.
"It's nothing," he said, having already grasped my discovery.
"What happened these past three years?" I asked with difficulty.
He sat up on the bed, stretching his arms. "I'll tell you everything, John. We have plenty of time. But tonight, we have an important matter to attend to." He waved me off, "Now I'm hungry," he said, glancing at me and adding: "I haven't eaten anything for over ten hours."
He always knew the most effective way to deal with me.
We had dinner together and returned to Baker Street around two o'clock. Mrs.Hudson, who had clearly met Sherlock that morning, had mostly regained her composure. Yet when she saw us together, she burst into tears uncontrollably anyway. I had to hold her securely in an armchair while comforting her, as Sherlock paced restlessly, his hands tangled in his hair.
By three o'clock, we finally reached the familiar drawing room. Sherlock immediately claimed his favorite armchair, sprawled out on it, and watched me pace back and forth as I boiled water for tea. He remained silent until I placed the cup beside him, then said, "John, it feels like we've never left this place."
My throat tightened as I looked at him.
He quickly changed the subject. "Have you heard of Colonel Moran?"
I shook my head.
"His other name must be familiar to you."
"What is it?"
"The Daughter of Time."
I stared up at him abruptly.
"No, John. I haven't been able to contact you or find any news about you." He immediately understood my confusion: "Mycroft told me about him last night."
"He's one of Moriarty's most dangerous henchmen, but has eluded justice due to lack of evidence. Mycroft has been keeping tabs on him. His frequent appearances on your blog over the past year certainly didn't escape my brother's notice."
"Why -" I paused, recalling the turmoil he had stirred. The first time was when he slandered Sherlock as a "bloody murderer." The second was defending Moriaty. The third... what about that third time? What was that for?
Sherlock's gaze swept across my face, his mind as precise as ever in reading my thoughts. "Clearly, John, when you thought I was dead, he finally received news of my escape. He knew I'd return sooner or later, and nothing would strike me harder than finding you back in London - overwhelmed by guilt..." He paused, turning away before resuming: "When I returned to Baker Street, they knew immediately. This morning I spotted their sentry through the window. It's a harmless guy, Barker, who makes a living from murder and robbery, an excellent Jewish harmonica player. I don't care about him, but I'm deeply concerned about the more formidable man behind him. As long as he breathes freely in London, neither your nor my safety is assured."
He rose from the sofa.
"What do you intend to do?" I felt the warrior's blood stirring within me. Sherlock looked at me, a smile playing at the corners of his lips. Will you come with me tonight?"
"Any time, anywhere." I answered without hesitation.
He gazed at me intently, a slow smile spreading across his face.
"Just like the old times." He said.
Our gazes locked, and neither spoke. My heart raced as I felt rooted to the spot. "John -" Sherlock's breathing grew labored as he approached me with a gleam in his eyes.
Just then, the doorbell downstairs rang.
He sprang up like a startled dreamer and dashed down the stairs. I eased from tension, sinking into my chair with trembling legs. I heard Sherlock exchange brief words with someone downstairs before the door closed. He rushed back, reappearing at the doorway clutching a medium-sized cardboard box.
Watching him toss it on the floor, I watched with rapt attention as he ripped open the packaging with childlike excitement. "What is it? Sherlock?"
His flushed face showed. He carefully unboxed an odd machine, speaking rapidly: "John, this is extraordinary—you've never seen anything like it. But you'll soon." He pulled out a pamphlet, scanned it quickly, then tossed it aside. "Extraordinary," he said, "truly remarkable, John. Come here!" He ordered me while connecting the power.
"Press this button when I tell you later," he instructed. Rising abruptly, he swiftly moved to the window, snapped the curtains shut, then leaped to the switch to flip the lights on. His urgency permeated every action. Turning to face me, he declared: "Now."
I pressed the button, and the machine's lights lit up as it began operating. Sherlock paced back and forth directly opposite the device. After ten seconds, he told me, "Press again." I complied.
He lunged forward, pushed me away, pressed another key, then turned to me: "John, close your eyes!"
"Sherlock!" I finally grew impatient.
"Please!"
I failed again. I closed my eyes.
He tapped the controls rhythmically, then paused his breathing. After a brief hold of labored breath, he urged: "Now, John! Open your eyes."
When I opened them, Sherlock stood by the window. This startled me. Instinctively, I reached out to grab him, only to grasp a warm arm. Turning to look at him, he laughed. "Now, John! Come to the window and touch the other me."
I stiffened and approached the window. My hand tentatively touched Sherlock——but only air.
Turning to face the real Sherlock, I momentarily thought I was dreaming. But he immediately said: "This isn't a dream! John," he declared, "this is a holographic projector."
For the rest of the afternoon, Sherlock used this device to record his own image. He experimented with different positions and poses, testing various combinations until three hours later when he finally completed the experiment. We ate a light meal, and Sherlock, unusually, decided to take a nap. He said he needed his full strength to face this formidable foe.
For the past three hours, he had lain on his sofa with blankets pulled over his forehead, revealing only a tuft of curly hair.
The room was lit by a single small lamp. As I bent down to write these words, I felt his gaze.
He must have woken up at some point and lay there quietly watching me. Though I couldn't see his face clearly, I could read the gleam in his eyes.
"For God's sake, Sherlock!" I finally snapped. "If you want to kiss me, do it now. If you dare waste another minute, I'll strike." He chuckled as if choking on something. "Ah, John, you're the only one who can surprise me like that."
"So your decision is - ?" I interrupted.
"I reserve my right," he said. "Not now. A few more hours, a few more hours. My dear John, if I haven't done it by midnight's bell, then after Colonel Morland's death knell, believe me—I won't waste any more time. Do you think you can wait until then? John."
"Piss off!" I felt my face flush.
Damn it, with him staring at me like that, I can't continue writing. I must stop. It's time to go.
Our plan for tonight is brilliant. We will employ holographic projectors (though the outside world remains unaware of this technology's successful trials) to project Sherlock's shadow across the room, creating the illusion that he is present. Meanwhile, we'll hide in a nearby empty house, awaiting the villain who might attempt assassination or ambush Sherlock.
As Sherlock deduced through his analysis with Mycroft, Colonel Moran would inevitably act on impulse—having recently committed a crime and being convinced that Sherlock's return would bring catastrophic destruction. Whether driven by vengeance or self-preservation, he would find himself compelled to strike prematurely.
I'm certain if these two brothers reach a consensus on this conclusion, there will be no room for error. After tonight, Moriarty's remaining followers will be completely eradicated, and our greatest security threat will vanish.
I eagerly anticipate this moment.
And of course, there's still the promise Sherlock made afterward.