Victor lay in his bed while he listened to the clambering and cursing of the Professor as he got out of the tub. He was a foul mouthed old man, no doubt harboring as much hate for the rim of the bathtub as he did for the Germans back in his war days. He had bathed for nearly an hour, between the efforts of merely lifting himself in and out of the tub, filling the water at an appropriate temperature, and gathering enough strength to lift his arms enough to his head to wash his curls. The lamp was on, though Victor had decided against the television for tonight, figuring it was a better to keep the room quite in case Professor Holmes needed to call for actual help...or worse still he became silent. Victor wasn't prepared for the old man to die, especially if their situation was already bordering on criminal. He had to hope the Professor stayed alive, alive enough for another witness, alive enough to make this venture worthwhile.
When at last the door opened, a cloud of perfumed steam followed the man as he rolled with as much strength as he could muster towards the door, getting trapped where the lip of the carpet met with the tiles in a small, slanted barrier. For a moment the old man struggled, a white towel pulled around his neck to catch the water dropping from his hair before it ruined his only good outfit.
"Victor, can you help me?" the man asked in finality, seemingly calming his voice only when he needed a legitimate service.
"Do you need any antibiotics on that leg?" Victor wondered, rolling off the bed as his answer and pulling on the arm rests of the chair to yank it towards a more accessible location.
"Yes, I'm sure. But have we got any?"
"No, of course not."
"Then the answer is no by default," Professor Holmes declared, wincing as Victor rolled the chair in a short circle to face the floor length mirror. The old man had struggled back into his formal suit, seemingly prepared to go to bed dressed for a wedding. He looked as wrinkled and old as ever, though the bath seemed to give him renewed energy at least for now, and as the water moistened his skin he almost passed as in good health. Almost.
"Your curls are matted, Professor." Victor patted upon them to show his point, the thin grey curls tangled together in a soggy mass atop his head.
"I conditioned them, they should settle out in the morning."
"I'll brush them for you," Victor offered instinctively, moving towards the bathroom vanity where the hotel had left an assortment of personal care items near the sink. One of which was a plastic comb, looking about as weak as the Professor's blood vessels, though it would undoubtedly do the job with enough care.
"Treating me like a dog, are you?" the old man wondered, though the hostility had all but fled from his voice. Instead he sounded tired, sad almost, as if he so missed brushing through is curls with the strength of his own body.
"I want to make sure you look your best tomorrow. John will not have seen you since...since the war I suppose. You'll need to look perfect."
"Perfect in this state is equivalent to a doormat when considering my past beauty. He won't recognize me...he'll think I'm an ugly imposter."
"You forget, Professor, that he's gotten older too," Victor pointed out, grabbing a handful of the man's wet curls and beginning to work the bristles of the comb through them. He went about it gently, realizing at this point in the man's life a tough pull may all but rip his scalp from his skull. How grisly would it be, to present a man whose toupee was his actual flesh? His hair was slick with conditioner and surprisingly soft, making the task close to enjoyable.
"In my head he is still a young man," Sherlock Holmes admitted, his voice small and scared as he stared at himself in the mirror, staring at the efforts his student went through to make him beautiful. In his eyes he did not believe it, Victor could see the doubt. He could see the way the old man's face settled nervously, staring upon his own form and finding it imperfect.
"In his head, you might be too," Victor reminded him. "Though age shouldn't be a deterrent. If it's true love as you say, nothing should stand in the way."
Professor Holmes sniffled nervously, averting his eyes away from the mirror as if too ashamed to look himself in the eye. It seemed to be easier to imagine himself, rather than confront what he had turned into.
"That's a lot of pressure," the man admitted. "True love in one sense is...is very different from another."
"But you can't die before you know for sure how much it varies. How much your love story differs from a fairytale."
"Have you ever read a fairytale about a crippled old man, a crippled old fool? One who...who waits? And waits...and waits?"
"No, because you're the first crippled old fool who has done it. But that's not to say an unprecedented story doesn't have a happy ending." As the curls fell freely about his head, finally released from the tangled web on top, Sherlock Holmes started to look more like himself. Gaunt and grey, thin and sick, but recognizable at least with the features that dedicated themselves to stay. Those which would die with him, should of course his longevity not surprise anyone.
"Tell me what I'm missing, Professor," Victor insisted after a long pause, patting down the last of the old man's freed hair and setting the comb aside. He didn't wheel the man away, not yet, instead he settled his hands upon the handles of the wheelchair, staring at their joint reflection in the mirror. "Tell me why you've dedicated yourself to him after all this time. What made him special, what...what happened?"
The Professor stared at his knees, once again determined not to let his expressive eyes confess the truth he wasn't ready to tell. He looked tired again, truly tired, and where Victor expected to see a slight fleeting happiness, that which was spurned by recollection, instead the old man seemed even more destitute.
"What happened is between myself and John Watson. I have allowed you to know of his existence, yes. But our relationship, beyond which you have read...is private." Sherlock Holmes summoned those words as if they were spinning on a record, spoken emotionlessly and with great effort, as if his tongue had been possessed by a more rational spirit than his own.
"Did he ever tell you that he loved you?" Victor clarified.
"I am tired, Victor," the Professor complained. "You keep me up with your driving, and now with your questions. It is unfair."
"Will you not answer?" Victor insisted, straightening to a more defensive pose. Finally the Professor raised his head, at least now to look Victor's reflection in the eye and gauge the seriousness of his question. Victor was serious of course, though it would seem that even his resolve could not loosen the Professor's tongue.
"I need a good night of sleep. I need to look well rested," the old man announced, signal enough that his patience had worn thin.
"Right," Victor muttered disappointedly, figuring there was no use in prying if the man was not immediately open to questions. He thought they had shared a moment, one in which their vulnerabilities could be exposed, though once more he was disappointed. His heart was spinning one tale while reality itself was constructing another, the latter most terribly varied and vastly hollow in comparison. Then again, Victor supposed the silence was understandable. He would not know how to respond if suddenly the professor had questioned him about Reggie, nor would he be able to handle the question itself. There was some comfort in obsessing over another man's love story, one that would distract from his own.
"I can get in bed myself," Sherlock Holmes insisted, wobbling in the wheelchair as Victor pushed it to the edge of his chosen bed. There was no point in arguing, and so Victor simply raised his hands in innocence, figuring he'd let the man struggle and labor while he took his time brushing his teeth. Victor was thankful for the motel's accommodations, as Victor would have gone nearly three days without any sort of hygiene. The shower had cleansed him of the grime of his new nomadic life, though nothing could replace the sweet mint of toothpaste and a shining white smile.
Victor brushed in silence, listening to the grunt of effort Professor Holmes made as he tried to clamber into the bed without injuring himself or sapping too much of his own strength. He was in a full piece suit, of that Victor could be sure, and as he fussed the boy had to wonder if his leg wound had reopened, he had to wonder if there was blood pooling on the inside of his woolen trousers. Victor was not a nurse, nor did he intend to be. Especially considering the last doctor who had treated that wound, Victor wanted to stay as far away as possible from the bullet hole.
Spitting his toothpaste into the sink, Victor turned off the vanity light, plunging the hotel room in darkness save for the small lamp on their shared bedside table. He brushed his own hair into his chosen style and retreated to his own bedside, finding that Professor Holmes was still wrestling his legs underneath the blankets, sat atop the mattress and angrily trying to wrench the things out from under him.
"Do you want me to tuck you in?" Victor wondered, wishing his energy would permit for the necessary sarcasm. Instead the statement was flat and matter-of-fact, as if this ridiculous request was of the same caliber as the answer to question number four on their first exam. Victor's life had become ridiculous, and it would be meaningless to pretend otherwise.
"Yes," the Professor grumbled, seemingly at the same stage of sleepiness. He was too tired to even be mean, or to deny the help he surely needed. Victor sauntered over as the old man laid back upon the pillows, looking dressed for a lecture as the boy yanked the blankets from underneath him.
"You sleep well, alright. But not too well," Victor insisted, allowing the man to shuffle comfortably as he laid the blankets carefully over his chest.
"I'll dream of John Watson for the last time tonight. Tomorrow he becomes a reality."
"I hope they are sweet dreams, and what follows is even sweeter."
"Tomorrow night I may have nightmares," the Professor admitted. "Nightmares that reflect my grim reality."
"Tomorrow you may not need to dream," Victor countered. "Perhaps tomorrow he will be lying by your side."
"Don't...don't be ridiculous," Professor Holmes snapped, though his cheeks flushed with the suggestion, his face softening even if he dared not admit why. "Though I can only hope."
Victor retreated to his own bed, making an almost dramatic show of his own strength as he squirmed and contorted with the blankets, bouncing around to become as comfortable as possible before leaning over to switch off the light. The Professor was still lying on his back, surely the only sleeping position that was possible for him now, his eyes open against the soft orange lamp light. He was dreaming already, Victor could see it. He was dreaming with his eyes open, imagining, believing...hoping.
"Good night Professor," Victor whispered, watching as the man's eyes turned back towards him, ever so slightly. His response was in his glance, that which was so fleeting Victor would have missed it had he not expected it. It was enough, enough to twist the plug on the lamp and plunge the room into darkness. 

The Professor was silent in the morning, silent at breakfast, and silent as he was loaded into the passenger seat of the car. He was up before the sun, up so early Victor had to wonder if he had ever slept at all, and at breakfast he could hardly manage more than a couple of bites of oatmeal before he came close to vomiting. His skin was pale with nervousness, his hands even weaker than before, and throughout the duration of the morning the old man looked as if he had been drugged, with eyes so vacant Victor wondered if the corneas would show into his brain.
Victor had eaten his fill, so happy to find himself faced with unlimited food that he threatened to put the motel out of business. The manager looked as concerned as ever, his face wrinkled with worry as he watched the hallow form of Sherlock Holmes sitting barely upright in his wheelchair, unresponsive and trembling, a shell when compared to the boisterous nature he had brought to their initial check in. So long as he did not call the police they would be okay, for Victor understood by now he was aiding in and committing a slew of nearly unforgivable crimes. Those would be just fine if they were never reported of course, and without definitive proof of harm it seemed unlikely the hotel manager would dare pick up the phone. Throughout the duration of their breakfast it seemed more likely that Victor was robbing him of the intended amount of breakfast, balanced only by his companion's refusal to take more than three bites.
As the two finally clambered into their car, well rested and clean for the first time since their lives fell apart, Victor knew better than to ask the old man how he was feeling. He knew better than to pressure him to respond, and to speak the obvious when he so obviously had trouble admitting his emotions to himself. It was as if the air itself was conducting an electric current, as if each breath they took was sparked, was fueling their anxiety where it already blossomed in their throats. Victor was nervous as well, nervous that they would be facing a disaster upon arrival. There could be a million reasons why John Watson did not answer the letters, and as Victor weighed them all in his head he reasoned that death would be one of the more preferable options. He would rather see his house burned to the ground, his state having sunken into the continent, his city flooded long ago, than have to sit on a porch stoop and be told to go away. To be told Sherlock Holmes meant nothing anymore, and that each of his letters were sent back to the post office by the supposedly loving hands which were meant to receive them. Tragedy was better than betrayal, and with the old man's current state Victor had to imagine he wouldn't be able to handle anything short of a miracle. He would flourish at an acceptance, at a reasonable excuse for the decades of silence, though he would be hallowed out from a disaster, and perhaps he would die on the spot if they were turned away. It was a risk they understood, a risk that was calculated well before they loaded into Victor's old car. A risk that was worth it, here at the end of life. It was that risk which silenced the old man this morning, and which kept Victor's tongue respectfully behind his teeth.
"About two hours, by my estimate," Victor admitted, his finger pressing upon the dot on the map where John's house was supposed to be. The dot had looked much farther away when they had first set off, but now there were only a couple of inches separating it from their current location. A couple of highway transfers, a couple of back roads, and soon that dot would not just be close...it would be upon them.
Sherlock Holmes was silent to that point. Silent to every point, it would seem. Perhaps if he opened his mouth he would begin to cry, or worse still he might lose his nerve. Maybe it was taking all of his strength not to let his mouth fall open in a sudden instance to turn around. Maybe that was why he dared not use his voice at all.

The hour mark came and went, and then again the hour and a half. It felt as if time was moving much quicker today than it had yesterday, so much so that Victor deliberately eased his foot off the gas pedal whenever it seemed natural to do so, trying to ensure their speed was always slightly below the speed limit so as to drag the time a little longer. Sherlock Holmes didn't seem to notice; or rather if he did he didn't care. It seemed he would be more likely to jump out of the window than complain of the speed, indeed if he had the strength to do either he might have been sliding across the pavement hours ago. As slow as Victor drove, or as silent as the pair could be, time still moved at the same pace and surely enough the earth crawled beneath them. Hours became miles and miles became moments, and soon enough Victor began to see the exit signs advertising to their destination. Ten miles away now, with an estimated twenty minute before they had to step out onto a sidewalk. Onto a front porch. Next to a doorbell. "Professor, we're almost there," Victor muttered apprehensively, worried that the old man's eyes had fogged over to the point of blindness. He seemed to be lost in his head, so still at times Victor worried he had died without effect, though oftentimes his trembling would reveal his true life force. His hands were shake, his knees would rattle, his entire body seemed to be on vibrate as his nerves tried desperately to disperse of his anxiety without spontaneously combusting. "I know," the old man admitted. Victor nodded, sniffing in the pause merely to give himself time to think. He had a million questions, a million considerations...though he worried that speaking of logistics would push the man over the edge. The more they talked about a plan the more likely the Professor would force the car around. "What...what are you thinking?" Victor muttered, trying to keep the question as vague and casual as he could manage. The Professor clamped his hands between his knees, his eyes fluttering shut as he could hardly voice his distress. "Nothing," the man admitted. "I'm thinking nothing." "Right," Victor agreed, understanding that lie was in place of a grisly truth, one better kept concealed. "I just, well I suppose you ought to prepare yourself for both scenarios." "Both? More like each of the ten thousand." "Both the best...and the worst," Victor corrected. "I don't want you miserable walking into the door, expecting the worst, though I also can't have you starting to get giddy without probable cause." "I have calculated the probabilities of all scenarios, Victor. I know what I'm getting myself into." "Calculations don't apply to the real world, Professor." "Right now that doesn't matter," the old man breathed. "Let me have some control, please." Victor nodded, biting upon his tongue to prevent him from continuing with his mothering. It was strange how protective he felt over the old man, especially considering their roles ought to be reversed. Sherlock Holmes should be protecting him, telling him how to navigate the world...but instead it was Victor who was holding the shield. At the moment, however, he was useless against the enemies on all sides. He couldn't fight off Professor Holmes's illness, his lack of mobility, his loneliness, or his stubbornness. And now worse, Victor was driving him to the very spot that could potential wound him irrevocably, the very spot that would drive an emotional bullet with near as much force as a German rifle. What kind of protector was Victor, really, when he was playing Russian roulette with a fully loaded gun? "What role should I play?" Victor wondered, holding his breath as he pulled the car off of the highway and slowing it on the exit ramp. They were officially within the same city limits as John Watson, the closest the pair had gotten since the doctor sewed his leg some fifty years earlier. "You must come with me, surely. You'll pretend to be my grandson," Professor Holmes insisted. "Would that not imply you have a lineage?" Victor pointed out, glancing towards his Professor and catching a remarkable side eye in return. "I'm sorry, Victor, I suppose I forgot to take into account that I am not only ugly, but also undesirable, and absolutely unable to spend an evening..." "Professor! I only meant that implies you were with a woman!" "Yes, it does," Professor Holmes agreed, crossing his arms with a pout. "It'll make him jealous." "Certainly so," Victor grumbled doubtfully, shaking his head. "We're playing jealousy games well into our nineties." "Eighties," Professor Holmes corrected with a snarl. He raised his withered hand towards the visor, opening the small mirror hidden behind the flap and drawing his fingers slowly through his curls in an attempt to tame them. For a moment the old man fussed, parting his curls one way, then shaking them around into no conceivable pattern, then finally deciding to give up in his efforts and accept his looks were by now unchangeable. Without a comb, makeup, or a sudden face lift the man was unable to make himself beautiful again. He had to accept that. "Do you know what you'll say?" Victor questioned, parked momentarily at a stoplight and looking around them for familiar street signs. Their map did not get into such minute details, as John Watson's town was a meager population when compared to the vast cities that surrounded it. Instead they had to work on intuition and the guidance of traffic. "Yes," the man agreed. "Though certainly there is no use scripting this." "Rightly so," Victor muttered. "It seems reasonable to explain who you are, and why you've come." "Victor, I bloody know what to do," Professor Holmes snarled. "For God's sake, I've been around the sun four times more than you, I know how to talk!" "I'm just trying to help!" Victor defended. "Help by shutting up!" Professor Holmes insisted, his voice sharp and anxious, his fingers twitching along the buttons of his suit jacket. He seemed hardly able to sit still, and his worry was only heightening Victor's feelings of complete dread. The boy's legs had gone numb long ago, his feet feeling detached and the gas pedals foreign underneath his foot. His fingers were trembling, his breath was irregular, and he kept thinking he saw John Watson on the sidewalks. The younger version, the only version he knew, waltzing in a wedding suit down the cement. It was a foolish delusion of course, an embodiment of his dread, though it seemed remarkable that the possibility was upon them. Perhaps he was seeing a ghost, a vision of the past, his eyes merely thrilled to set upon the same landscape that John Watson had settled into. A place where this figment from Professor Holmes's past called home.