Chapter Text
Sherlock Holmes shifted his slouched shoulders uncomfortably on the stone steps of the coroner's court and pulled the bundles of books on his lap closer to him. A hunchback was an undesirable choice of disguise, awkward and confining, but he must remain as unrecognizable and easily ignored as possible. The tiger uses the concealment of the forest until precisely the instant it pounces upon its chosen prey.
His prey on this day was one Colonel Sebastian Moran, a dangerous man at cards and an even more dangerous man with an air rifle. But it could be equally fairly stated that his quarry was also one Doctor John Watson, who, like Moran, was due to exit the courthouse within the next minute or two.
Being still was a challenge with this much anxious electricity running through him. He wondered if Watson would seem different now. Three years had come and gone since he had last seen the doctor, sitting on a mossy rock out in the cold, clean mountain air, reading a letter of fond goodbye from a man awaiting death. It was hard for Holmes to remember that scene now with any clarity, almost as if it had been in some kind of a dream. Or some kind of a nightmare.
A bustling commotion of voices behind him rose as the audience and participants of the hearing began filing out slowly. His keen ears picked up the particular cadence of the footsteps he was anticipating approaching and he held his breath. As the man passed, Holmes feigned an accidental bump into him and the books fell down the steps with a clatter.
Watson picked them up carefully with apology in his voice, which sounded somehow perfectly untouched by time. Everything about him was exactly, exquisitely as Holmes remembered. Even the scent of him was the same, a blend of his favored, earthy brand of tobacco and the peppery musk of his aftershave. He smelled like Baker Street. He smelled like home.
As the unusual collection was passed back into his hands, Holmes could not resist lifting his head and indulging himself in an all-too-fleeting connected glance. It was tempting fate to allow Watson to catch his eyes, he knew, but it was impossible for him to simply allow the opportunity to pass. Three years had gone by since the last time it had occurred. For three years Holmes had been traveling, exploring the world. And waiting.
He had waited in fourteen countries over three continents. All the while absorbing knowledge, admiring the beauty of exotic lands, discovering forgotten places and hidden secrets. And waiting. Waiting. And now here he was, back in London and in a single instant the long wait came to an end.
There was a steep risk in endangering his cover in this way, of course. Moran had yet to exit the court. If he came upon the joyous reunion of two lost friends, one of whom he had been attempting to assassinate for quite some time, the outcome would be disastrous.
But when their eyes met, he discovered with a shock that his exhilaration was not reflected back at him by Watson. Although there was recognition in his gaze, what struck the detective as he looked into Watson's eyes was the disturbing blend of fear and sadness, like nothing that he had remotely anticipated. He could only barely contain a shivering chill at the sight. What had happened to his friend? Was it Holmes himself?
The doctor shoved the books back at him and quickly hailed the first cab he saw. It was all Holmes could do to suppress the urge to call out to him. To chase after him. To help him. Something for Watson seemed so terribly amiss. The doctor was not a man of superstition. If he was afraid of Holmes, it wasn’t because the man believed him to be a ghost. Something else was very wrong. Holmes could feel it in every muscle in his body. But he could not follow, not yet.
First, he had to trail Moran, the last thread remaining in a vile spiderweb it had taken Holmes three years to destroy, and who at that very instant was himself departing the court in a rush for parts unknown. Holmes took one last look at the cab speeding away, then shuffled after the Colonel in the other direction in the doddering bookseller's gait. He made sure to keep his distance as he followed. The trap must be laid with great care when one wishes to hunt a hunter.
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By the time he was able to track Watson down, a cool dusk had fallen and Holmes' shoulders were aching dully from bearing the guise of the book collector for the length of the day. The detective found his friend in the last place he could think of to check, and the very last place he had in truth desired to go.
In the very cemetery chosen three years prior to hold an empty coffin and an erroneous headstone, Watson stood, motionless. In his hand, he carried a bundle of fresh tea roses, Holmes’ favorite. He remembered. Holmes concealed himself in the encroaching darkness to observe his friend and the vacant grave before him. For five minutes, the doctor simply stood there staring at the granite marker, adrift in his thoughts.
Finally, with a sharp breath, Watson knelt to place his flowers. He glanced over his shoulder, on watch for any interlopers, although he of course missed the only one that existed. From inside his pocket, he removed a small envelope which he kept palmed and hidden. While one hand laid the bouquet delicately, reverently, on the ground, the other surreptitiously tucked the envelope into a small gap between the stone and the dirt surrounding it, and it disappeared. Watson rose, pulled his coat tighter around himself to counter the evening wind, and walked away briskly without looking back.
When Watson was well out of sight, the detective crept out of the shadows and walked over to stand in front of the grave bearing his name. The sweet scent of Watson’s roses hung in the air about him as he crouched to retrieve the envelope. Inside was a letter written in Watson’s always precise hand, but clearly not actually meant for anyone to see. Anyone living, at least. Holmes stood and leaned to rest on his headstone as he read.
Minutes later, he was running. Running harder and faster than he had in years, he tore through the streets of London after the doctor. There was no time to lose.