tourists in the waking world (3/3)

[mooging]

Once, late at night, Watson had been woken by Holmes stumbling into his room, bruised and disheveled, clutching a hand to his chest and bleeding quite profusely from it onto Watson's floorboards.

"Terribly sorry, old chap," Holmes had said, leaning back against Watson's door even as Watson swung his legs out of bed, "but I seem to be in need of your assistance." Watson had only just been quick enough to stop him from hitting the floor when he fainted.

He'd got Holmes up onto his bed - it being the nearest surface available that wasn't the floor - and taken solid advantage of Holmes temporarily feeling no pain to examine his injured hand. There was a sizable, neat wound right through the centre of his palm, like something had gone almost straight through and out the other side. Watson winced on Holmes's behalf; being unconscious, Holmes made no comment about Watson's touching and entirely unnecessary, Watson concern.

The wound had resulted in more blood than damage, for which Watson was grateful. It had nicked a bone but not broken it, and Watson did the best he could to clean and stitch and bandage it up. He resolved to make Holmes go to a proper hospital in the morning, but that decision would serve no purpose until he could have the appropriately bullying conversation with Holmes that would get him there; Holmes waking in a hospital when he had not last closed his eyes there was never an option Watson hastened to take, and he at least had the past experience to let him know he was making the right decision.

There was also the small matter of Holmes now occupying all of Watson's bed, and the blood on Watson's previously clean sheets. This, unfortunately, was nothing new nor shocking, and Watson had purchased a slightly more comfortable chair for the corner of his room for just these occasions. It wouldn't serve as a chair to offer guests, but it did mean he could fall asleep in it with one eye on Holmes and not wake up with his spine resembling the precarious glass structure Holmes had made out of loaded test tubes that nearly blew a hole straight through the landing wall when it had collapsed in the first few weeks of their living together.

Holmes stirred before dawn, shifting in the bed and grimacing before coming to properly and seeing Watson in the chair opposite. He brought his bandaged hand up to examine.

Watson said, "You are going to a hospital in the morning."

"It is the morning," Holmes said, voice thick with sleep and an attempt to disguise pain, "and I have not gone anywhere as yet."

"Only because I do not wish to further injure you by bodily dragging your unconscious carcass across London," Watson informed him. "But do please keep talking, because I'm sure something you'll say will give me the incentive to move past that sentimental notion."

Holmes huffed a laugh, and his eyes closed tight again.

Watson came to stand by the bed. He took Holmes's injured hand in his again, turning it slightly this way and that.

"I'm sure whatever you are doing is vital to my well-being," Holmes slurred, not opening his eyes, "but it is hardly conducive to my returning to sleep any time soon, so do you think you could resume your tender nursing once I have placed more than a couple of hours of unconsciousness firmly between myself and this incident?"

"What incident?" Watson asked, and Holmes said, almost immediately over the top, "It's really not important, nor impressive, so kindly stop asking."

"Answer me this, at least," Watson tried. "Is it self-inflicted or have you angered someone else by being your usual effervescent self unceasingly in their presence?"

"It's possible," Holmes told him, "that there may have been a misunderstanding during which more than verbal blows were exchanged."

"Ah," said Watson.

"But," Holmes continued, "it is equally possible that said misunderstanding may have occurred by the docks, too close to a tool box. For example."

Watson said, "Ah," in an entirely different voice.

"So to conclude," Holmes said, still talking mostly into Watson's pillow, "it would not be outside the realm of possibility to hypothesize that, if said altercation had taken place, a badly taken - or well placed, I suppose, depending on which side you were to view it from - punch could have sent me reeling to catch myself on the nearest solid object, and that nearest solid object may have been an open tool box, in which may or may not have been the implement to inflict such a disfiguring injury upon my delicate yet deadly fighting hand, but there is nothing to prove said theory any more than conjecture."

"I see," said Watson. "Out of interest, the other party in this hypothetical misunderstanding by the docks, how might he have fared?"

"Worse," said Holmes, and grinned.

"I would expect nothing less."

"And what did you take from his toolbox?"

"Thievery?" Holmes exclaimed. "Watson, I am shocked, shocked and appalled that you would cast such an uncouth aspersion on my blemish-free moral character."

Watson said nothing.

Holmes said, "Then again, if you were to check the right inside pocket of my jacket, you might find a monogrammed handkerchief sporting the same initials as the one I located beneath the pillow of the absent daughter of the enraged Colonel Smithes. An error on the young lady's part, I am sure, to leave such a beloved possession behind, but then again, if she left her family home both in haste and in the knowledge that she would soon be with the mysterious A.R.W. himself, what need would she have of such a memento? Hence, it lay forgotten, and with the orders from the Colonel that the young lady's room not be touched until my arrival, there it remained, waiting for me."

"All right, you've made your point." Watson dragged the chair over to the side of the bed and sank down into it.

"I assure you I do not intend to move until the morning," Holmes told him.

"I know you don't," Watson said, "and, as such, neither will I."

Holmes raised an eyebrow in the way that made Watson's chest clutch, a schoolboy caught scratching dirty messages into his desk.

"Well," Watson attempted, "what sort of doctor could I claim to be if I left a patient suffering from blood loss alone overnight?"

"The kind that has patients in the morning and needs his sleep himself?"

"And since when has my practice been your concern?"

"I don't know what you mean," Holmes said. "I have always taken the utmost care over your ability to work."

Watson scoffed.

"Why are you so determined to blacken my name this evening, Watson?" Holmes was grinning more wildly. "Is it not enough for you that I am physically unsound?"

Watson folded his arms. "As much as I am enjoying your attempts to inveigle me into leaving you unattended for the night, doubtless so that you can slip out unnoticed to celebrate the confirmation of your theory with the aid of drink and the boxing ring, I feel I should let you know at this juncture that I will not be going anywhere. Cease your wittering, man, and go to sleep."

Changing the subject entirely, as was often his wont, Holmes said, closing his eyes, "But you have not yet asked me why a simple dock-worker would be in the possession of the monogrammed handkerchief of a disgraced nobleman."

"I was assuming," Watson told him, airily, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, "that the dock-man that you may or may not have fought this afternoon was in fact one and the same as Anthony Robert Williams, the noble recently purported to have gambled his fortune away but with whom you are about to tell me that the young daughter of angry Colonel Smithes has absconded and plans to elope. For who else but a man who had no use for tools except as a disguise would keep his monogrammed handkerchiefs in the same place as the tools of his trade? It must have been subterfuge, and a poor attempt at that."

"My dear man," Holmes said, and there was something low and almost crude in his voice. "You excel yourself."

And - well, Watson has reasoned, pain is like alcohol for removing logic from a mind, even a well-honed mind, or maybe Holmes was more asleep than awake, and Watson has nothing to suggest that he even remembers it at all - Holmes reached up his uninjured palm to fit as soundly against the line of Watson's jaw as if this was something he had done and perfected in the past. Watson caught his wrist but Holmes opened his eyes, and Watson stilled.

"Doctor," Holmes smirked, in the way that meant he knew Watson was about to raise a moral objection of some kind. There it was, like always: Holmes went through life like a game, and Watson was on the way to winning the round, and so Holmes would change the stakes

But Watson hadn't slept much, and Holmes was looking up at him with unfocused eyes, and so he let his free hand rest against Holmes's shoulder, warm through his bloodied shirt, and they stayed, awkwardly and together, until Holmes fell asleep again, and his arm dropped with the bonelessness of sleep to hang over the side of the bed.

*

Harry and Draco appear again at early dusk, just in front of where Holmes is starting to kindle their evening fire. Watson had posited that they keep going through the night, offering it from the intensity of Holmes's focus as they walked, but Holmes had stopped, and looked at him, and told him in no uncertain terms that they would make camp, and what was he going to do to stop him, he didn't even have his cane to hit him with.

We've found it, says Harry, leaving out any and all preamble. His face is all lit up with a savage pride that Watson has to turn away from.

Draco, by contrast, is staring at Harry with a fondness that Watson has never seen in him before. We have, he confirms, so we can get you two out of here now and then we can go back to where there is coffee.

Yes, Harry says, because, as we all know, your caffeine habit is the most pressing issue at hand.

Shut up, Potter, Draco tells him, but Watson is barely listening to them. He can hear the sound of his own heartbeat in his ears. That was fast, he thinks, but then again, Harry and Draco have been searching for this device for the entire time Holmes and Watson have been struggling their way back to London, so maybe the end of their hunt has not been as fortuitously brief as Watson initially judged.

Holmes straightens up, something wild about his eyes. What are you waiting for? he asks. He keeps his back resolutely to the silhouette of London, fading raggedly into the dying evening light. Watson feels his chest constrict, and he coughs, and Holmes shoots him a fast, agonized look. He turns on Harry. Take us there, he demands.

And Watson thinks, no. He says it too, and his voice sounds hard even to his own ears. No, he says, again. Not yet.

What? Draco demands, eyes like flint.

Not yet, Watson repeats, and he has faced down fiercer adversaries.

Holmes says his name, softly.

Watson says, without room for argument, Take us to London.

We can take you back, Harry says, gently, in the same tone Watson has heard cabmen use on startling horses. We can -

I know, Watson interrupts, firmly, surprised that Holmes hasn't spoken up. And you will. But we have to go to London first.

Muggles, Draco swears, and Watson wheels round on him, feeling half mad.

We have walked for weeks, he says. We have walked in the snow, and the rain, and the mud, and when we couldn't walk we waited until we could. We have been beaten, and injured, and frozen, and fevered, and we did it all to get here. We can see London from this hill, and we are not going anywhere until you take us to Baker Street and we see it for ourselves. He takes in a breath, unsteady with anger. We have come this far, he says. We are going to London.

Harry glances across at Holmes. Holmes nods, once, and his eyes do not leave Watson's face.

All right, Harry says, softly - Draco says, incredulously, All right? but Harry ignores him - and touches Watson's arm and Holmes's elbow, and Watson hears Draco swear once more -

and then they are standing on a familiar rug in a familiar room, and they are home.

The roof is missing now, and one of the walls of the parlour has been blown out; Watson can stand by the fireplace and look straight out into the deserted, rubble-strewn street. The shop windows have all shattered outwards; once brightly coloured awnings are shredded and filthy, ash heaped dishearteningly grey over once cheerful reds and yellows; there is the shell of a hansom half on, half off the pavement. There are no people in sight; Watson thinks, there was nothing to come back for.

Holmes says, voice uncharacteristically uneven, If we had been here instead of -

You'd be dead, Draco tells him, bluntly. Holmes nods, accepting it.

Quietly, Watson asks, Mrs Hudson?

Harry says, holding Watson's gaze, I don't know.

The wind rips through the room, billowing their clothes out around them.

Can we go now? Draco is uneasy; it makes Watson uneasy. He watches Holmes pick his way through the detritus on the floor. He snorts, suddenly finding himself holding back a thrill of tasteless mirth.

Holmes looks up. He catches Watson's eye, and he snorts too. They grip the mantlepiece and laugh, choking on it, staring around at the pulpy remnants of papers, the scattered, ruined books, the lumps of stone from the wall now tumbled haphazardly across the floor.

Draco makes a disgusted noise, and pivots on his heel to stare out through the space that used to be a wall. Watson gulps in a couple of breaths and tries to calm down. Holmes is flushed a merry red, and it's all so inappropriate that it makes Watson feel almost normal again.

But Holmes says, Aren't you glad we came to London? and that sets Watson thinking about bite marks in bones and fingers grabbing at his ankles and coughing up blood in a desolate church, about Holmes putting up tents and not spouting theories every other minute, and about how he is standing in his own parlour and it doesn't have all its walls, and laughing, only laughing.

Let's get this over with. Draco is pacing the filthy rug now. Harry waits motionless behind him, close enough to reach out a hand to touch him, close enough to be intrusive if he were not the right person. It's exactly as close as Watson stands to Holmes.

They pull themselves together properly, though Holmes flashes Watson a wicked, quirking smile as he makes his way over to examine once more the wreckage of Baker Street.

Watson navigates around an overturned, water-damaged armchair and tries not - Holmes curled up in thought, on his third pipe of the afternoon, knees drawn up under his chin - to look at it. Instead, he too looks out into the street. A flash of movement on the opposite side of the road catches him by surprise, discernible even in the thickening night, and he takes a step forward, saying, There's someone there. A crack rings out and Holmes's face twists as he glances fast and horrified over his shoulder at Watson, and then there's a sharp, hot flare of pain in Watson's side and he thumps jarringly to his knees.

Holmes is by his side almost before Watson has hit the floor, getting an arm around his back to lie Watson down, Watson's head rolling loose on his shoulders.

Gunshot, Watson says, indistinctly, words slurring already. Put pressure on it. Holmes is already there, shrugging his jacket off fast and holding it hard against Watson's side. Watson watches, detachedly, as his blood shows up on it even through the grime.

Do something, Holmes hisses, craning his neck back to find Draco, voice gruff with the savage, helpless anger Watson rarely hears. You can do magic, so do something.

Everything comes and goes for Watson after that. He just gets flashes of what's going on, coming in and out of awareness. Holmes bowing his head over Watson; Harry kneeling by his side, muttering indistinctly under his breath; Draco darting across the room with his arm outstretched, screaming something vicious that Watson doesn't understand; a warmth in his side that's neither unpleasant nor agreeable. He closes his eyes against it, and wonders how you might go about trying not to die. He doesn't think it's like this, just letting everything happen around you while you bleed out onto a rug so dirty it's rotting where you've fallen.

He tries instead to focus on something tangible, and opening his eyes is no longer really an option, and there's a rushing in Watson's ears that he's determined to believe is the wind, so he ignores that and the metal taste in his mouth and -

- and there's Holmes's fingers grasping Watson's own, and Watson can't squeeze back but Holmes is there, and that's what Watson concentrates on -

- and Watson has an admittedly narrow frame of reference, given that he's been alive for the duration of his life, but this certainly doesn't feel like he's dying.

He blinks, and that's something he didn't think he'd be able to do again. Holmes's fingers tighten painfully around Watson's hand, and Watson thinks it takes a strong grip to be noticed over the pain of a bullet wound.

Except - except he can't feel the bullet wound anymore. He swallows, and waits, and slowly, everything starts to come back to him.

Is it working?

Yes. Harry, reassuring. It just takes a little time.

We don't have time. We need to get out of here. Draco, impatient.

Holmes again, snarling, I'm not leaving him.

Watson smiles. That'll make a change, he says, croakily, and opens his eyes.

The look of pure, blank relief on Holmes's face hurts more than being shot.

Watson, Holmes breathes, and it means, Thank God.

I'm all right, Watson says, short of breath, trying to sit up. Holmes, I'm all right, everything's all right. It blatantly isn't, because the apocalypse has still happened, but Watson doesn't seem to be dying anymore and that expression is slowly fading from Holmes's face, and, right now, that's as all right as Watson needs.

Holmes looks at him in absolute disbelief for a long moment, and the wind howls around them, and then Holmes grabs Watson by the collar and yanks them together, and it's more violent relief than a real kiss, but it is a kiss.

You idiot, Holmes breathes, still gripping what remains of Watson's ragged shirt collar in tight, scared fists. You absolute - He brings their mouths together again, hard, and Watson thinks, it's about bloody time.

I hate to interrupt, drawls Draco, who obviously doesn't, but do you think you could keep your muggle fornicating to a minimum so that we can get on with reversing the end of the world? Thanks a bunch.

Holmes pulls away insomuch as their mouths are no longer touching, but he presses his forehead against Watson's and Watson, squinting down through wet eyelashes at Holmes's blurred face, too close to Watson's own to be clearly defined, sees him smirk.

What happened to the man who shot me? That makes Holmes move away properly, but only so Watson can actually see Draco to ask.

Draco stands as still as though the wind were not inviting him to stagger, urging them all to cluster together as it blusters in uninvited through the broken wall. He says, an icy evenness to his voice, He won't be a problem anymore.

Watson expects Harry to say something about Draco's fondness for melodramatics, but melodramatic is what the situation would seem to require and the moment passes unremarked.

We need to get out of here, Harry says, instead, and Watson, accustomed to anticipating instructions, starts to try and stand.

Don't be so ridiculous, Holmes tells him, moving in close again as easily as if he had done it time and time before - and, Watson realises, he has done, he just hasn't paid it proper attention until now. It seems almost perverse, that when he finally lets himself look at Holmes, Holmes is covered in grime and streaked with rain and probably smells more than the times he's fallen into the Thames - which Watson highly doubts were all intentional, no matter what Holmes claims - and yet all Watson wants to do is look.

But he bats Holmes away to try and stand up, and Holmes brushes his protest aside and shifts around Watson to loop an arm around his back.

Struggling awkwardly up to his feet, Watson asks, so that he can think about something other than the way his leg is cramped and angry, Will we remember? He lets Holmes take most of his weight.

Sorry? Harry moves to take Watson's other arm to help, but Watson shrugs him off. Harry steps back again; Holmes, briefly, looks delighted.

My God, you're possessive, Watson teases.

I don't know what you mean, Holmes tells him, straight-faced. It can hardly be thought a negative quality to guard one's own belongings.

And I am one of your belongings, am I? says Watson, and it's like all the other times they've done except this isn't a fight, and the answer isn't going to make Watson angry.

Holmes says, perfectly levelly, Of course you are, like this armchair - he kicks it - and all those books.

Actually, Watson says, the chair was mine.

Moving on, Draco says, shoving his way back into the conversation, let's get on with it. There's a shower waiting for me in two hundred years time, and it would be rude to keep it waiting.

It'll be ruder to use up all the hot water, Harry mutters, and Draco says, Potter, you never really grasped the whole concept of being a wizard, did you?

Watson shifts to get his weight more firmly on his good leg. The ache still clutches in his lungs, and his leg is still cramping and belligerent, but when he drops a hand down to the blood all over the side of his shirt, there's no wound beneath it. As stupid as it sounds, as much as he's seen, it's only this that lets Watson believe in magic. Up until this moment, there'd always been the nagging possibility that maybe they had both run mad, snow-blind and crazed with an inevitable fever, but this - this is Watson knowing he was dying and yet continuing to live. It is impossible, medically, rationally or otherwise, for there to be no wound. Watson believes in magic; Holmes keeps steadying him.

Watson asks, again, Will we remember what happened, when you take us back?

No, Draco scoffs, bluntly, at the exact same time as Harry says, Yes.

Draco rounds on him. You're such a romantic.

No, I'm not, Harry retorts.

Time is going to reset, Draco says. These two will just end up right back in the middle of their ordinary lives like nothing happened, because nothing will have happened. I know you're not quite as sharp as the rest of us, Potter, but even you have to understand that.

I know, Harry tells him, going an angry red. I just - I think they'll remember.

You won't remember. Draco addresses them properly. Don't listen to the Boy Wonder over here.

If a person has experienced something, Holmes says, and Watson would think him calm except for his tightening grip on Watson's arm, anything, it changes them. We have been changed. He doesn't look at Watson. We will remember.

Fine, Draco says, throwing up his hands, hold onto to your little delusions if that'll make you happy, just, come here -

- and Draco grabs Holmes's arm and Holmes grips harder still to Watson, and Watson closes his stomach jerks in what is now an unsettlingly familiar way, like he's leaving his organs behind with the wreckage of his home, and then he opens his eyes and they're standing on a beach.

It is black night now, and Watson can't see the sea but he can hear the waves and smell the salt in the air. This feels like the very end of the world, like the dark and the sibilance of the waves is all that's left - and then Holmes squeezes his arm again, and Watson thinks the world might still have something left to give.

You did want me to get out of London, Holmes tells him, low voiced and darkly amused, and Watson affectionately swats at him, and tells him to be quiet.

Ready? Harry is somewhere behind them.

Watson turns, but it's too dark for him to make out where Harry might be, so he just says, Yes.

Holmes says, No.

Oh my God. Draco sounds very near the end of his tether. Watson doesn't need to see to know that he has rounded on Harry. Next time, we're letting them get eaten by cannibals. Then, presumably to Holmes: Why not?

We'll wait till morning, Holmes says, uncharacteristically unexpansive. Just - wait till morning.

It's cold, but it's been colder, and the wind from the ocean is less primal than the one that's been snatching at their tent for days. Watson remembers, belatedly, dropping his bags in Baker Street and never picking them back up.

We are not waiting - Draco begins, but Harry interrupts.

It'll be easier to find the Portkey in the morning, he tells him. There'll be more light and less risk of you slipping on a rock and breaking your precious face.

Draco says, My face is not precious, and Harry says, ignoring him, Delicate little Pureblood bones.

They're probably glaring at each other now. Watson finds Holmes's hand on his arm, and holds it tight.

Draco relents. In the morning, then, he says, at length, and mutters something else unintelligibly under his breath, and a fire springs up about ten feet away from where Watson is standing. The warmth hits him fast enough to give him chills, shivering with heat and the brisk sea breeze.

He clutches on to Holmes, unnecessary now that there's light but still unwilling to let him go, and moves closer to the fire.

The morning, then, Watson says, so only Holmes can hear him, and Holmes says back, a catch in his voice that makes Watson tense up, The morning.

Watson puts an arm around Holmes's shoulders, suddenly unable not to touch him, not to have him close, and unashamed to act on it. Holmes leans against him; Watson has always let Holmes lean against him.


*

The daylight is cresting over the waves, pale and misted as all the rest of the dawns Watson has seen since they've been on the road. The sea is grey. Waves crash down far out away from them, the surf not white by the time it rushes out around their ankles and curls ashamedly back. The air tastes like salt, and freedom.

Holmes and Watson stand side by side, staring out over the sea.

You ready? Harry asks them, hovering near a rock pool.

Watson squints. Harry crouches down, peering into the still water, poking a hand in to move aside the swirling seaweed. He looks a little like worship might look now that there's nothing else left, small and squatting on an unsteady surface, but there, and smiling. There, he says. He cranes his head back to find Draco, who comes to stand behind him. Look, Malfoy. I've found it.

You have, says Malfoy, and even Watson, not really listening, can hear the sheer, unguarded relief in his voice.

He curls his fingers into Holmes's. Ready? he says.

Holmes has red eyes and pale skin and he's lost too much weight; Watson is wearing shoes bound up with the remnants of their burlap food sacks; he is cold down to his bones, and Holmes's bones, and he holds on tight to Holmes's hand and doesn't want to let go.

Holmes squeezes back. His hand is shaking in Watson's grip. It's like the end of the world all over again, back in that little bathroom listening to the flames. Watson, he says, and it means, yes.

Watson wants to kiss him, wants to drag him in by his collar and grab at handfuls of his dirty, ragged shirt, taste the mud on his mouth, but he can't turn away from the sea. If he looks at Holmes now -

Are you ready, Malfoy snaps, from behind them. The edge to his voice means he's scared out of his mind, Watson knows.

Yes, says Watson.

Right then, says Harry.

Malfoy grabs Watson's other hand, says, sharply, Do not let go, do you understand?

There's a jerk under Watson's ribs, sudden, like he's being pulled backwards, and his heart pounds and pounds, and he turns to Holmes, desperate, and Holmes is smiling back at him with an old, familiar ease and the world goes bright, bright white, and -

*

It's cold for so early in autumn, and Watson shivers as the hansom turns a corner.

"The chill set in, has it?" Holmes asks, without any real concern, leaning back into the corner of the cab. "A pity, that."

"Some of us need actual heat to stay warm," Watson says, pulling the collar of his coat up and hunching his shoulders. "We can't all run on deductive power and narcotics alone, you know."

"That must be hard," Holmes agrees, smirking impiously as he glances over at Watson.

The cab comes to a stop, and Watson shifts forward in his seat, already thinking about a crackling fire in the grate, afternoon tea and the warm scones that Mrs Hudson had been baking when they left.

Holmes puts a hand on Watson's knee to stop him, opens the cab door and steps out first, swinging his coat off, folding it neatly over his arm.

"Are you mad?" Watson asks, trying to keep the grumble out of his voice, following Holmes out onto the street. "It's freezing out here."

"Yes," says Holmes, as Watson goes to pay the driver, "but then I retain my body heat through sheer deductive power and a heady mix of narcotics," and he flips his coat up and over Watson's shoulders.

Watson stares at him, but Holmes isn't paying him any attention, moving off up the front steps of the house.

"Come on," he calls, over his shoulder, "your scones will be getting cold."

The cab starts away with a clatter down the street. Watson smiles.

"You mean, if I don't hurry up you'll eat mine, too," he replies, moving after Holmes into the hall, and Holmes says, flamboyant and exclamatory, "And I'll take all the jam!"

"You'll do no such thing," Watson retorts, and, with Holmes already half a staircase closer to the scones than he is, he pushes the front door shut.



end.


(Masterpost with link to fanmix)

Comments

[onidoko.livejournal.com]

YAAY! You already know how much I love this, but I couldn't resist commenting and telling you again. ♥

[moogle62.livejournal.com]

Thank you! And thank you for all your help, you have been literally amazing. And! Thank you for your last-minute email: I did get it in time, and it was great, and BASICLES ILU. <333

I cannot wait to read your fic! I am waiting till I have time to sit and read it in one big chunk but you'd better believe I'll be all over it v v soon.

[onidoko.livejournal.com]

No worries, darlin' - sorry again that that last e-mail came so late! :3 Glad you got it on time, though, and yaay for posting! \o/

Looking forward to hearing what you think of Hours! At the very least, definitely check out ptelefolone's artwork; it's stunning. *_*

♥

[whichwanderer]

There are so many lines in this that are absolutely hilarious but this one:

I hate to interrupt, drawls Draco, who obviously doesn't, but do you think you could keep your muggle fornicating to a minimum so that we can get on with reversing the end of the world? Thanks a bunch.

This is brilliant. I think I fully died a little, even more then when Holmes went all possessive on Watson. xD

[moogle62.livejournal.com]

Thanks so much! That line was like the second thing I wrote - the kiss was the first, because I am a ridiculous human being.

I'm glad you liked the fic, thanks for the comment ♥

[blacktablet.livejournal.com]

... Right. Let me try and collect my thoughts for a moment here because my mind, it was BLOWN like Watson blows Holmes after he's been good. I'm not ashamed to admit that I've been looking to seeing a long SH/HP crossover, mainly 'cos I wanted Holmes and Malfoy in the same universe; I just knew Holmes would piss him off in so many ways, and yet they'd be strangely alike.

And what do I know, they are. I think I've read the fic you refer to as your Harry&Draco!Canon but I rather reckon I've got to do a re-read just in case. I loved your characterisations (of everyone!) nevertheless, from Holmes being rational enough to fill the bath tub to Watson hiding his illness (my heart, you broked it). The two fandoms merged together so seamlessly - three, actually, which just makes it more impressive although I can't say much about The Road since I've neither read nor seen it - that you really couldn't tell where one ended and the other began.

I have to mention the cannibal house because goddamn, it gave me the creeps. Serious creeps. Sleep-with-a-light-on creeps. I could practically imagine the place, and the trapdoor, and the bathroom. For some reason that bit really got to me; excellent horror writing, the stuff that you really really don't want to read but know you will anyway.

All in all, I was wishing for maybe just a small thing - although there was the chill Watson felt - that indicated Holmes and Watson indeed remembered what happened, even if it was on a subconscious level. Or perhaps Draco was right and it was just wistful thinking. AND! While we're doing the constructive cricism instead of madly flailing squeeing (like I want to do); I spotted the grand total of two typos. ;P Part 2: "what it is that Watson needs, but inn turn" and part 3: "Watson has always let Holmes against him." Missing a 'lean' there, I think.

And that's really everything I can think of complaining in the grand total of ~23,500 words you've written, so that alone should tell you something. I loved the bleakness, and the quiet despair, and the chilling scenes with the cannibals, and the fact that most of your speech had taken a dislike to quotation marks. <3 I heart that style so much, and it really helped make the distinction between... between... oh wait, did I miss something? Were the scenes with ""!Holmes&Watson meant to be the equivalent of TheRoad!H&W happenings, or were they just... randomly sprinkled there?

[moogle62.livejournal.com]

Oh my god, I just wrote a huge reply to this and then my computer ate it DDD: Let me see if I can remember what I said.

Thanks so much for the comment, first of all! It's amazing. I went back and corrected those two typos, so thanks for that too - I've spent so long going through this fic that fic-blindness has sort of set in, you know?

Then I think I said something along the lines of YES YOU MUST REREAD DROP DEAD GORGEOUS, it is my absolute favourite H/D fic. A close favourite is The Quality of Mercy by the same author. Amazing. I didn't realise quite how literally I meant that it had become canon in my head until I started writing this and that's how Harry and Draco appeared. Hmm hmm hmm. You must also read The Road, because it is beautifully written and heartbreakingly bleak and devastating and, god, the film gutted me. This fic is about 100% more cheerful, I swear.

I wish I could take full credit for the cannibal house idea! Damn Cormac McCarthy for getting there first :P That was the easiest scene for me to write - I literally haven't changed a word of it beyond typos and needing an extra line since I first wrote it - so I don't know what that says about me, but I'm glad it worked for you. (I was going to say 'I'm glad you liked it' but that didn't seem quite right). I'm also glad that the bleakness worked: I didn't want it to be too, like, BLEAKNESS IN YOUR FACE but it was slightly unavoidable given, you know, the whole post-apocalypse thing.

The ""!sections throughout the fic were intended to be Watson remembering moments from his old Baker Street life on the road, so in a way they are the equivalent of TheRoad!Holmes&Watson because Watson is being reminded of them as he goes, if that makes sense? The ending is definitely meant to be ambiguous as either another flashback or a post-reset scene though, like whichever verse they found themselves in, nothing would change between Holmes and Watson. Oh, boys. (I did also have to fight my instinct to end it happily with snuggles and both of them remembering everything and being perfectly happy, but that refused to happen. I do, however, know whether they remember or not - and I do also sort of want to write the Harry/Draco POV counterpart to this fic - so I guess that just leaves me with more fic to write in the future! ~watch this space~

Anyway, I shall stop typing nonsense now but thanks so much for your amazing comment, and I'm really glad you liked the fic. :D

[blacktablet.livejournal.com]

D: Bad computer!

Oh yeah, I know fic blindness. I recently caught a typo in one of the fics I published in May. :P (Er, I tend to go and re-read the good bits to reming myself that my writing isn't as much suck as I fear it is.) You could be writing 'horse' instead of 'hose' and wouldn't notice it.

You know what? Checking out DDG, I don't think I've actually read it. As in, at all. Must fix this immediately. I've also been very interested in The Road, the idea sounds so very good (I'm a fan of urban fantasy, really, but I'm having a very passionate affair with post-apocalypse novels). 100% more cheerful, are you kidding me? o__o Ouch.

The ""!sections throughout the fic were intended to be Watson remembering moments from his old Baker Street life on the road--

Ah, right, I sort of figured that that was what they were meant to be, but was then struck by a Crazy Idea(TM) while writing the review and got sidetracked. :) And oooh, I actually really like the idea that the last scene is just another flashback; it does give you a sense of that they'll, well, they'll always be them. Boys ♥ (Oh, great, now I get all teary-eyed about the ending.)

I am now watching this space. :D Thank you for writing such an amazing fic for Big Bang.

[moogle62.livejournal.com]

Wow, thank you so much! It means a lot that you read this despite being Potter-ambivalent. It's good to know that the fic still worked without ridiculous knowledge of the HP world. And I was slightly worried that I harped on too much about the miserable landscape/weather etc so comments that tell me otherwise are always welcome!

If you did feel the need to draw that, you know, I wouldn't want to stop you or anything ;D

(So romantic: THANK YOU, god, it was difficult trying to keep them at least vaguely romantically interested in each other whilst writing endlessly about the snow and the cold.)

Anyway, I'm glad you enjoyed the fic, and thank you again for the lovely comment. ♥

[skyvehicle.livejournal.com]

oh. my god.

I was a bit reluctant at first to see that this was going to be based on The Road, a book that I read in one afternoon, and though I liked it at the time, retrospect has given me a much less fond opinion of it. Reluctant and skeptical. And also Harry Potter?

But this absolutely took hold of me, in an edge-of-your-seat emotional desperation where I truly need for everything to be ok. It reads like poetry -- you write beautifully, and painted a stunning and vivid picture that I know I'm going to come back to re-read again soon.

Also, this is basically the most, THE most beautiful piece:

This feels like the very end of the world, like the dark and the sibilance of the waves is all that's left - and then Holmes squeezes his arm again, and Watson thinks the world might still have something left to give.

[moogle62.livejournal.com]

Thank you for the lovely comment! I'm glad you enjoyed this despite initial misgivings.

Confession: I've never actually been able to finish the book of The Road - I bought it after seeing the film, and I always get about halfway/three quarters done and then have to stop reading out of sheer heartbreak. One day I will conquer it!

[moogle62.livejournal.com]

Thank you so much for the lovely comment! I'm glad you enjoyed it, and even more so that you'd want to reread it. ♥

[(Anonymous)]

I knew you could do it Moo, and indeed you did! It was so bleak but then there would be something ridiculous, and not out of place or out of character ridiculous, just a funny thing. The cannibal house actually scared me, and the kid with lumps cut out of his FACE will come to me in my dreams, damn you! Harry and Draco were great too. The reason that version of Draco works is that he's selfish and arrogant JUST LIKE CANON - but where go amusing line about attractive face? Loved Harry being righteous and earnest and Watson being irritated by him apologising too much. And the end! Watson was cold! But there was happy jam waiting for him so all was well. What more does one need to be happy in this crazy world than a good friend and some JAM?

lots of love CAREBEAR

[moogle62.livejournal.com]

Look at you all up on LJ! I am so proud, and so pleased you liked this ♥ Bleak and then ridiculous is basically my life, except for the bleak part, but, you know, I fall down a lot. THE CANNIBAL HOUSE oh my freaking god, how pleased am I that I wrote that scene? VERY, is the answer. It was also the easiest scene to write, apart from the whole I know you know how to put up a tent bit, so I don't know what that says about me. But NEVER MIND, I will always have jam (except.. I really don't want any jam for a really, really long time.)

THAT REMINDS ME: I was unpacking some stuff that's been lingering in a bag since I got back because I am a sloth, and I found a jar of honey, and I thought of youuuu. Still retardedly happy you like this because ILU.

GET ON LJ SMARTISH, LADY. xxx

[moogle62.livejournal.com]

Thank you so much! I am so v glad you liked this, especially after I went so mental over your mix (it is on my iTunes RIGHT NOW). I cannot emphasize enough how pleased I was whenever Harry and Draco popped up - it was like, FINALLY, I can write some people who are not a) Victorian, b) repressed, or c) Victorian and repressed. Not that I don't love the repressed Victorians! It was just nice to go from Holmes-Watson-cold-rain-angst-tents to Draco despairing over the state of Harry's hair, you know?

Thank you again for the lovely comment ♥

[ot-mornmeril.livejournal.com]

i read this fic last night when all the lights were already out and, honestly, at some points i got really creeped out, lol. i was glad that my husband was there so i could cuddle up to him when i finally went to bed - i'm quite sensitive to horror-stuff, haha.

anyway, i was too tired to review last night, but i still want you to know how much i enjoyed your story so i'm telling you today ^^. loved your characterisation (of everyone) and, as i admitted before, you really got me with the creepy scenes ;).

great job!

[moogle62.livejournal.com]

Thank you for the lovely comment! I am so pleased the creepy scenes worked - I usually write stuff like, oh my god, I am the most sledgehammery writer ever, look, look, it is DARK, and there are PEOPLE, and it is DARK, I am so rubbish, have I mentioned it is DARK, maybe I should have a cake - so any form of validation is gratefully received. :DD

And special thanks for coming back to leave a comment! That means a lot ♥

[innie_darling]

the way he shivers in the deepening chill, idly, like it's a minor inconvenience - that line painted such a vivid picture for me.

Lightning flashes, and with the walls of their tent now stashed in a bag, it licks white across Holmes's face like it's trying to sear away the rain. - and here you can see Watson, the writer, the right words just pouring out of him.

What a wonderful story.

[moogle62.livejournal.com]

Thank you so much! What a lovely comment ♥

[soliandxpyne.livejournal.com]

Ohmygoodness, this was AMAZING, I hardly know where to start.

I loved your style, snapshots of recalled normalcy between the trials and fears and horrors of Holmes and Watson struggling through a starkly apocalyptic landscape of the unknown; also, there was something fitting about the way you only used quoted dialogue in the flashbacks, and not in the narrative. You also have a beautiful way with words and a knack for Holmes/Watson banter; I couldn't imagine this story written in any other way than exactly as you did.

I'll admit I wasn't sure what to expect when I saw that this would be a bit of a crossover with the Harry Potter universe, but you did this SO WELL. ♥ I love a good Harry/Malfoy Harry Potter story as much as the next fan (and was excited to see them finally show up!), but I also really appreciate that you put just the perfect amount of Harry and Draco into this, and didn't let them overwhelm what was Holmes and Watson's story. It didn't hurt that you did a fabulous job characterizing all four men, either. :D

Arrghhh, and you alternately had, like, the perfect mix of dread and longing and black humor and "have we gone mad, truly?" and intense action and dramatic tension and vivid imagery. And with the fanmix, it was the next best thing to there being, like, an actual movie of this story.

Fantastic, fantastic job, thanks so much for sharing this!

[moogle62.livejournal.com]

Thanks so much! I'm so glad you liked the fanmix too - I mean, obviously I had nothing practical to do with it, but I love it so much that every time someone says they like it I go all ridiculous and flaily even though this is only really tortugax's right.

Your comment is so lovely - especially that you liked the characterisation, I can't even tell you how much shouting at the screen happened while I was writing this (lies, it happens whenever I write anything, but that's not the point here) - as much as I love the repressed Victorians, they don't make themselves easy to write about!

Thanks again ♥