because where they left off was with holmes in tibet on the run and watson in london believing holmes to be dead.
and then because she's awesome jessie wrote this thing where watson finds out through mycroft that holmes is alive. because holmes sends a coded telegram. you should probably read that before you read this thing i'm posting.
because i'm posting the companion to that fic.
this is holmes waking up in tibet after his time at the last resort.
Waking up alone in an unfamiliar room alone, without Watson, isn’t the most disorienting moment that morning.
That occurs when I recognize the room, the sounds of Tibet outside my window, and the name on the handle of my suitcase. Sigerson.
One misses certain things when dead. The use of your own name, for instance—such a small thing, really, and especially for an actor such as myself—becomes such a luxury, a comfort that lurks forever just beyond your fingertips.
Sherlock Holmes is dead again, but there are no headlines this time, no buzz in the English newspapers, because his death is known only to the deceased himself and, perhaps, a bereaved widower.
Sigerson smokes through a pack of cigarettes, cheap but extraordinary as these things tend to be in this part of the world that Sigerson has made into a rudimentary home, and Sigerson signs his name to a telegram, but it’s Sherlock Holmes who writes it with a hand that almost dares to shake.
I wouldn’t be writing it at all—or he wouldn’t, Holmes wouldn’t. I should specify considering I’m not entirely sure who I am anymore, Sigerson or Holmes or a man who married another man and saw such things that could not be explained. I, as Holmes, wouldn’t be writing this telegram at all if I weren’t unsure. There had been no cocaine the night before—I don’t allow myself, Sigerson that is, when I travel to new places, it’s far too dangerous—so there could be no explanation for what I saw, felt, lived, except that it might be true, or I may be going mad.
One seems as likely as the other, which makes it quite a difficult telegram to write.
Strangely, it isn’t any easier to read the reply. (It comes far too late; too many nights and days pass where I wake up and don’t open my eyes until I can tell where I am, Tibet or back in Watson’s arms.)
YOUR PHYSICIAN AGREES THAT ISLAND HOLIDAY WAS BEST POSSIBLE THING. HE IS NOT VERY SURPRISED TO HEAR ABOUT YOUR GOOD HEALTH. THIS SOUNDS LIKE QUITE THE HOLIDAY. I EXPECT A SOUVENIR.
I find myself exceedingly happy to hold this telegram in my hands for it answers several vital questions in very few words, not the least of such questions being: who am I in the wake of this second death, Sigerson or Holmes? The answer is clear. I am the man who married John Watson in an impossible dream of islands and freedom.
The other question that this telegram answers is: should I return to England? And now I know. The only thing that would keep me between England and my husband—my husband—now would be a succession of assassins out for my blood. Luckily, there is but one remaining assassin interested in killing me who is now preventing my immediate reunion with my husband.
These are dangerous times for Sebastian Moran.