Chapter Text
They had only spoken of it once.
All the other facets of the doctor’s singular biology were a common topic of conversation between them, revealed piecemeal throughout their years of association.
The dual heartbeat was one of the first discoveries, the catalyst for Holmes finally sitting Watson down and insisting that he explain precisely what he was (beyond clearly being a wounded army medic. The nature of the War transpired to be beyond Holmes’ comprehension, but war is war, and doctors are doctors). Since then, Holmes had delighted in endlessly testing the properties of Watson’s blood. His capacity to withstand heat and cold and reduced oxygen environments was regularly an asset to them both. His scant requirement for sleep produced many happy evenings of companionable silence.
Yet they had only spoken of regeneration once.
It had been a dark night after a long day. A few hours earlier Watson had come within moments of death during the apprehension of a notorious murderer and both of them were still shaken. Holmes had listened as his friend sombrely explained that if mortally wounded, his species had the capacity to reincarnate themselves into a new body, retaining their memories and vital essence but otherwise changing utterly.
“I think it is important you know so that you can be prepared,” he had said, but Holmes had wafted the thought away quickly.
“Hum! Well, try not to let it happen, if you would. Your current visage suits you very well, and I am rather fond of it. ”
When events had necessitated the deception at the Reichenbach falls, Holmes had comforted himself that perhaps for such a long-lived being, a few years may pass by quickly. In terms of the length of Watson’s life, it would be a mere blink before they would be reunited.
It was not to be.
When Holmes glanced over a newspaper from his bolt-hole and saw the obituary, he spent three days confined to his bed in the blackest grief.
His Watson was gone. He would never again see his beaming smile, hear his cackling laugh, hold his hand, stroll side by side with him.
The strange whispered conversation from long ago began to haunt him.
Did this mean that there was now another Watson in London? Some new approximation who held within him all the treasured memories that he and his own Watson had shared? Holmes felt he must find the man. It would be too difficult to associate closely with him, but he had to ensure that he was not a disgrace to His Own Watson’s legacy.
When a police coroner named Dr James Watson was mentioned in the press, Holmes made plans to track him down.
That was how he came to be waiting in the guise of a wizened old man on the steps of a courthouse, examining each person who left with rapt concentration. Might this new Watson be the severe looking fellow with large sideburns? The youth with a cleft lip? The thin gaunt man with a monocle? All of them seemed thoroughly inadequate.
He was making his way to view the throng from a better position when a man in a greatcoat and bowler hat knocked into him, sending the bundle of books which formed part of his disguise tumbling to the cobbles.
“Oh, excuse me. Your books,” the man said mildly. His open and expressive face was creased with weariness, and yet he stooped down to pick up the bundle with steady hands.
“I presume they’re not greatly damaged?” he said, curtly but respectfully, as any kind-hearted gentleman would to someone less fortunate than himself. His apologetic smile was accentuated by a well groomed moustache. Holmes remained in character, responding with a scowl and a feeble slap at the one who had done him wrong.
Once the gentleman was walking away, Holmes allowed himself to drink him in: the military stride, the doctor’s bag, the cane, the shoulders bowed as if under some great weight. When the man disappeared into a cab and vanished from sight, Holmes realised he had been holding his breath.
Of course. Of course! How had he ever doubted it? Eyes, skin, hair, tone of voice, mannerisms: it was all chaff in the wind, but the true substance remained. Watson was the one fixed point in a changing age, after all.
Changed, but alive.
Changed, but alive.
The elderly bookseller shakily climbed to his feet and hobbled away. It was time to demonstrate that a human too may come back from the dead.