[ It wouldn't have been the first time Holmes had busied himself speaking with ghosts. ]
[ His months here on the ship without much company but him and his own thoughts. His room was a mess. His wall was hardly distinguishable as a wall anymore, it was so covered with his scrawlings - character profiles, maps, thoughts, some of it comprehensible, some of it not. He had nothing here. He hadn't the comfort of many friends, he hadn't a case, he hadn't even his drugs to take the edge off of everything. ]
[ In short, there was a piece of him that had snapped. He felt insane. He looked insane. And there were long, long nights where his mind reeled in circles and knots and traipsed into everywhere and nowhere where he'd need someone - something - to listen and he'd talk, he'd just talk and talk and sometimes, on his worse days, Watson would respond, and it was a blessing - it was - it felt as though he could breathe again for a second or two; that was until he regarded his bed and saw no one sitting on the mattress, not Aberdeen or Wichita and certainly not John Watson himself. But he'd hear the responses regardless, time to time. ]
[ Never something solid like this. There's that split moment where he's sure he's gone completely 'round the bend. But then Watson's hand grips his own, and something changes completely. ] Oh, [ is all he says, and his eyes glaze over for a moment - he looks almost as if he is inebriated, then. ]
[ "It's me." ]
[ And despite all common propriety, Holmes wraps his arms around the other man, hugs him tightly and picks at the clothing that's entirely wrong for a military man for his status, but all the other details are right, and so it doesn't matter. ] Do forgive my indecency, my good man. It's been some time, you see.
no subject
[ His months here on the ship without much company but him and his own thoughts. His room was a mess. His wall was hardly distinguishable as a wall anymore, it was so covered with his scrawlings - character profiles, maps, thoughts, some of it comprehensible, some of it not. He had nothing here. He hadn't the comfort of many friends, he hadn't a case, he hadn't even his drugs to take the edge off of everything. ]
[ In short, there was a piece of him that had snapped. He felt insane. He looked insane. And there were long, long nights where his mind reeled in circles and knots and traipsed into everywhere and nowhere where he'd need someone - something - to listen and he'd talk, he'd just talk and talk and sometimes, on his worse days, Watson would respond, and it was a blessing - it was - it felt as though he could breathe again for a second or two; that was until he regarded his bed and saw no one sitting on the mattress, not Aberdeen or Wichita and certainly not John Watson himself. But he'd hear the responses regardless, time to time. ]
[ Never something solid like this. There's that split moment where he's sure he's gone completely 'round the bend. But then Watson's hand grips his own, and something changes completely. ] Oh, [ is all he says, and his eyes glaze over for a moment - he looks almost as if he is inebriated, then. ]
[ "It's me." ]
[ And despite all common propriety, Holmes wraps his arms around the other man, hugs him tightly and picks at the clothing that's entirely wrong for a military man for his status, but all the other details are right, and so it doesn't matter. ] Do forgive my indecency, my good man. It's been some time, you see.