#fff267

“Who would have thought we would accumulate so much extra stuff in just a few months!”

Watson sighs at his trunk—already bulging—and looks around at the piles of belongings still to be packed. He pushes his hands through his hair and leaves them there as if he has forgotten about them.

“We could leave a few things.” Holmes sits on the lid of his trunk to see if the buckles will fasten this time. “We didn’t expect to be in Meiringen for a whole year.”

Watson lowers his hands, leaving his hair in disarray that quietly amuses Holmes. “Are you missing London terribly?”

Holmes purses his lips. “Not as much as I thought I would.” He taps his head with a forefinger. “What has the doctor to say about my return to my old life?”

Watson smooths his hair and shrugs. “Only what he has told you: physically, you will recover as long as you do not indulge old habits. We both recommend caution in case your old surroundings prompt you into your old addiction.”

Holmes’s face falls. “I hope you think me stronger than that.”

“Of course I do. Still, have you no desire at all to travel further?” He raises his eyebrows. “Norway, perhaps? To see the fjords and the Northern Lights and to experience the far north’s most singular midsummer and midwinter?”

“I think it’s time I got back to Baker Street and back to work. Brother Mycroft has been generous in keeping the place intact for us and…” He waves his hand to indicate the delightful rooms they have been sharing at the clinic.

“As you wish, my dear.” Watson holds his hands out to Holmes. As Holmes gets up from lending his weight to the lid of his trunk, the trunk pops open and a rolled-up jacket uncurls onto the floor.

Watson laughs and points. “I think we need to purchase another trunk, old boy.”

“Piffle.” Holmes takes Watson’s hands. “The kitchen can furnish us with crates and we can have some of our belongings sent on ahead. I’ll see to it.”

After breakfast the next day, when Watson sets off on his daily hike, Holmes badgers the dining room staff until they give him a couple of sturdy, wooden sherry crates. He takes them to their little suite and sets about packing into them all the books and trinkets from their trunks. He empties Watson’s trunk to get to the veritable library packed at the bottom, shaking his head and smiling at the titles Watson has persevered with learning to read competently in German.

He comes to Watson’s journals—plain, clothbound notebooks—filled with his dear friend’s thoughts. He knows it is something of a trespass, but curiosity must be sated. He chooses one, the first one, sits on Watson’s bed and opens it.

Three dried and pressed violets flutter out and down into his lap like purple and blue butterflies, leaving shadowy ghosts on the page. He picks them up cautiously in case they might crumble into dust, and sets them aside before turning his attention to Watson’s familiar handwriting.

Day 5 Walk to Reichenbach Falls

His brow is no longer clammy and his breathing rate and pulse rate are normal while he sleeps. He barks at my “unnecessary fussing” still, but he is tolerant of “doctor’s orders” in general. His appetite is returning and the fresh, mountain air is doing wonderful things to his previously ashen complexion.

It does my heart good to see him recovering so. Even yesterday, travelling more than half a mile from the clinic would have been unthinkable, but he walked the entire three miles to the Falls of Reichenbach with hardly a complaint. We stopped often and took time to admire every view, partly because of the breathtaking beauty of the area and partly to allow time for his heart and lungs to recover. I did not want to demand too much from him too soon and leave him despondent at his gentle progress.

We did not linger. My dear Holmes had what Dr Moriarty called an “episode” by the waterfall, although I would have simply called it vertigo. After a rest and reassurance he was able to walk back. I stopped to admire these pretty little violets that seemed to be everywhere, scattering blues and purples and even occasional yellows close to the ground amongst the sheep-cropped grass. He picked these three and carefully threaded them into my buttonhole, then I returned the kiss he had given me by the falls. I hope that when the time is right we may exchange more.

He has not tried to escape—yet—but I will continue to share his bed in case he tries to slip out when I am asleep. Also, I can be a comfort when his dreams send him horrors.

Holmes reads the journal entry again, drifting into a hazy memory of the fear of falling, the fear of dragging Watson down with him into certain death, and the comfort of Watson’s solid, reassuring presence. He barely remembers the first kiss, but the second he thinks he will never forget. He replaces the three violets, carefully aligning them with their outlines, and closes the journal. He packs the journal into his own trunk, reasoning that he will think of an excuse if one is ever demanded.

He thinks about the coming weeks: the journey and the return to London and the dragons his doctors have said must be slain if he is to survive.

Watson returns in the early afternoon, ruddy-cheeked, smiling and hungry, just as Holmes is kneeling and nailing the crate lids.

“Lunch?”

Holmes nods. “I’ve finished packing.” He looks up and smiles. “Copenhagen, Gothenburg then Oslo, I think. Then on to Bergen and as far north as sails and steam will take us.”

He takes Watson’s offered hands, stands and stretches, then cups Watson’s dear face and kisses him for the third time.

Much to his disgust, the air in his tent felt fresher than it had in months. How long had it been since his fingers had started to twitch again? With a renewed wave of irritation, the Sergeant stood up from his desk for the first time in days and decided it wouldn't be breaking orders if he stopped the fire from getting out of control this time. Since he was young, it had been the one thing that brought him joy. Back then, he would burn anything he could get his hands on, bugs, animals, or plants. It didn’t matter much. They all sparked a strange joy in his heart. That being said, there had always been something missing, some itch he’d never quite been able to scratch no matter how much he burned.

Then the war came, and he discovered the one thing he had failed to consider as a target: people. Unlike the other things he had burned, people tended to beg and plead. They might call him a monster, but at least he was aware enough to know that the sense of power he felt from their cries sated the desire he had been starving from. To date he had burned three-hundred and eighty-seven prisoners, with only one survivor who he would track down eventually, but the war was still young, and in what was proving to be a battle of attrition, the Sergeant could tell that he might even be able to push those numbers into the thousands.

“Is the area clear?”

His assistant exited the tent and quickly returned. There was fear in his eyes as the Sergeant stared down at him intensely. There should be several more prisoners, so the assistant wouldn’t have anything to fear unless he got on the Sergeant’s nerves.

“The troops have rounded up all the rats.”

A smile spread over his face at that. They had sent more pathetic mice to try and end him, but they were just providing him the entertainment that he craved. It was poetic in a way that he realized was probably sick.

“Well, then we can’t keep them waiting.”

Stepping out of his tent, the Sergeant felt a sharp pain in his chest and looked down to see a spot of red right above his heart that was quickly expanding. His assistant stumbled and grasped one of his eyes with a scream of pain. The Sergeant’s skin grew cold as an overwhelming sense of dread washed over him as screams of pain began emanating through their camp. His soldiers were the best. They wouldn’t have been taken out so easily, he couldn’t be taken out so easily.

Collapsing to the ground while clutching his wound, the Sergeant watched his assistant let out a final cry of agony as a green sprout began to poke out between his bloodied fingers. The Sergeant barely felt his own pain as he lay almost paralyzed on the ground, wondering how this had happened. As his vision began to grow hazy, he saw what looked like a living tree stepping towards him. He couldn’t understand what had happened, but he could feel in his bones that the thing was coming for him.

-Five-thousand eight-hundred and twelve, quite the high toll for someone so young-

The words sounded like a whisper of wind rustling through leaves. HE didn’t have time to contemplate what this creature was as a crushing pain passed through him and for the first time in his life the Sergeant began babbling incoherent pleas for his life for what felt like an eternity before his body stopped responding to his commands and he was forced to lay in frozen agony as his body was eaten from within.

…

“Hey Billy! MA was worried”

The Forest Guardian begrudgingly took his eyes off of his latest target. Owen was running towards him with a stupid grin plastered over his face like he wasn’t stepping over twisted bodies while covered in blood. This man… he needed to get his head checked.

Still, he meant well and seemed to be in functioning condition, so Billy didn't need to spare his attention just yet. With a wave of his hand, Billy dismissed his concern and turned back to the bodies with a smile of surprise. A field of violets had begun to bloom from the dead. It was well worth the three days he’d spent watching the tent through his rifle scope.

It never ceased to amaze him how people who had caused so much pain to the world always seemed to make the most beautiful flowers.

Percy came home after another long day at work. The fall out of Viktor’s retirement still hadn’t died down nearly 4 months later and his poor husband was all but hiding away in their home.

Percy wasn’t going to complain, it was wonderful not only having Viktor home but also not having to ferry Dara around family member to family member to help him with her care when he had a work emergency or had to stay at work for longer hours than he had planned.

He had hated the way he often had to cancel plans when Viktor was out of the country and it was a relief to know he no longer had to. That no matter what time he was called in, or how long he had to stay to stop an international situation, his darling daughter was able to actually settle down to sleep in her own bed, with her tati there to sing to her.

Percy loved every moment of his life with Viktor, but he wasn’t ashamed to say that these last 4 months had been the best they had ever had. They had reconnected in all ways and Dara was flourishing having a stay at-home parent with her.

A job that Viktor had taken to like a seeker to a snitch. He would be worried about the absolutely fattening but hearty meals Viktor was creating if it wasn’t for how active he and Dara were. Percy, however, thanks to Viktor’s renewed love of cheese, full fat milk, and everything he had denied himself for decades, was having to actually use the gym in their home that had barely been touched for years.

He was just grateful that Viktor often rewarded him for his efforts, otherwise there was no way he would be able to force his very non sporty body onto that treadmill, the bane of his existence that it was.

Thinking of his husband had him wondering about their home looking for him and Dara. Percy had missed them both so much he had taken a half day off to surprise them.

He heard Dara’s sweet voice as she let out a shriek of excitement. Percy would not lie. He was glad she was right next to Viktor’s ear and not his own.

With a smile, he walked into the back garden, stopping in the doorway to watch them both.

Viktor’s larger hand wrapped around Dara’s tiny one as he helped her dig holes in the soil and plant some seeds.

“What seeds are they, tati?” she asked excitedly.

“We are planting violets in this flower bed, бебче (baby), for daddy.”

“For daddy?”

“Yes, for daddy. Do you remember how you and daddy looked up the meanings of the flowers?” Viktor asked his daughter quietly.

“Yes, cause of Bilbo. I wanted to be a hobbit but daddy said I had to be a little girl. He said we could look at the flowers and give them to you instead because that’s what hobbits do for the people they love, and we love you,” Dara rambled on, a huge smile on her face.

Percy watched as Viktor beamed back at their daughter, his love for her clear in every part of his body, of his soul.

“Exactly that. Even now, daddy gives me flowers with a card explaining their meanings. Your father loves me, and I love him. And unlike I, your father isn’t fond of flowers as a gift. Instead, he likes to sit out here after work, watching you play, or us as we train together, so I thought he would like his own flowers that he can see every day if he wishes to,” Viktor trailed off looking forward, a soft smile on his face.

Percy hoped it was a smile for him. For the love he held for this precious man before him.

“Why violets, tati?” Dara asked as she pushed herself away from Viktor, who let her go easily.

“Because I too looked at the meanings of the flowers. Violets mean modesty, faithfulness and everlasting love. Three things that your daddy holds in abundance. Traits that we are lucky to have bestowed upon us, do you not think?” he asked as he turned back to cover the seed up, helping Dara with hers.

“We are lucky, aren’t we tati?” Dara suddenly asked, looking up at her tati with wide, honest eyes.

“To have your daddy? Yes, we are. We were obviously blessed to be worthy of him,” Viktor agreed quickly, no shame to be found in how much he adored his husband.

“Uncle George says daddy is a fusspot,” Dara said, feeling sad that uncle George would be mean about her daddy.

“Uncle George loves Daddy. They are best friends. But Uncle George is correct. Daddy is a fusspot. He is also precise and practical. He also hates when I don’t tidy the house before he gets home,” Viktor said with a laugh as he stood and picked Dara up and placed her on his hip.

“Daddy is also brave and passionate. He loves with every fibre of his being, and he loves me and you more than he will ever be able to express. He deserves to know he is loved that much in return, yes?” Viktor said as he kissed his daughter’s head.

“So that’s why he gets for always flowers?” she asked sweetly.

“Yes, that is why your daddy gets for always flowers,” Viktor said as he looked up from Dara to walk back in the house, stopping when he saw Percy watching them, his eyes swimming with tears as he beheld his loving family.

“I love you,” Percy croaked out.

“And I you, смел красивият човек на огъня (my man of fire),” Viktor said as he pulled Percy in close.