Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

1881

“I have not had gingerbread in years,” I exclaimed.

Holmes and I strolled along the avenue arm in arm. It was not bitter cold, but there was a sharpness in the air which enticed us to huddle close together as we walked, despite our winter coats, and I could not bring myself to mind the recent turn in the weather. It was the heavy, sweet aroma of yeast and sugar and spice which had turned my head from my companion to the humble bakery as we passed, the corners of its windows fogged from the warmth inside.

“Gingerbread was a childhood treat, but I have not had it since…” This was still very early in our acquaintance and I had been only a year out of the service.

I glanced at Holmes and saw him watching me, regarding me with that keen, intent gaze to which I was still not accustomed—I had never before been observed so attentively and I had some feeling that even my very thoughts were not my own.

“Very well,” he abruptly proclaimed and there seemed to be a laughing note to his voice, “we shall right that at once!”

I endeavored to give some protest that it was hardly necessary even as Holmes steered me into the bakery, and my vehemence only increased as Holmes proceeded to withdraw the coins from his own purse and exchange them for a small parcel of warm gingerbread biscuits, which he pressed into my gloved hand. In the end, all I could do was stammer out my gratitude and accept the unexpected, but dearly appreciated gift.

We stepped back out into the chilly afternoon and as we resumed our stroll along the avenue, I folded back the brown paper and took the first biscuit, its spiced aroma like a sweet memory. It snapped as I bit into it and the heat of the ginger burned slightly at my tongue. Holmes was still watching me, his thin lips turned upward in a subtle smile.

I offered him the parcel of gingerbreads, which was by all rights his. He seemed ready to refuse, but upon my insistence, he delicately picked up a biscuit between his gloved fingers and took a small bite. His eyes widened a little, I presumed as the heat hit his tongue, and I hastily stifled a laugh—I would have said that he seemed surprised by the sensation, but I could hardly imagine that he had never before tasted gingerbread.

Holmes gave a dismissive wave with his other hand, which still rested upon my arm, and said, “You may laugh, Watson, but you must recall that food is mere sustenance for the reasoning apparatus; and gingerbread is not so ubiquitous as you may assume—I have tasted it before, but that is all.” He explained it no less rationally than he might describe the solution of a case to a client, however, his cheeks were tinged pink from the cold where his woolen scarf fell away, giving him a nearly nervous, flustered air.

I privately wondered where he might have lived that gingerbread was indeed not so ubiquitous as it had been in my childhood, but I already well knew his reticence when it came to himself, and I expected that had he wished to elaborate, he would have done so of his own accord.

“If you are to learn my methods, Watson, you must apply yourself,” Holmes said, as though in answer to my wondering thoughts.

He said it lightly, with perhaps a touch of skepticism, but I had some cause to wonder if he meant it as an invitation, or even a challenge, and I thought I may have seen a look that was nearly questioning in his eyes. However, with all that he could discern from a mere glance, surely he knew that I could not refuse him, whatever his intent.

Arm in arm, we continued ambling along until we reached a little park, with a ginger cat curled up by the gate. As we meandered by the flowerbeds, now brown but for the evergreen bushes, I took another gingerbread and I was pleasantly surprised to see Holmes still intent upon his own biscuit, as though making a study of the flavor.

Chapter Text

1882

It was a familiar exercise; I tread a narrow line through the dark, my footsteps silent to avoid detection and to allow my ears to detect the most minute sound. No sound came, but I knew there was someone there; my logic would not fail me.

The stairs creaked behind me—Watson had neither the training nor the necessity for stealth, but I hoped that it would make little difference now. We came to the bottom of the basement stair and he raised the dark lantern to shine a narrow strip of light across Mrs. Hudson’s cellar. It illuminated a dusty mound of coal, piled against a rough stone wall directly opposite us, and beside it, at the foot of the stairs, a heavy icebox, with some cleaning implements thrown into the corner between them. The remainder of the cellar was a maze of sharp wooden angles and moth-eaten cloth of disused furniture; the objects of ordinary life, but arranged in a stark contrast to our comfortable flat above.

Watson turned to me, and I could perceive the unspoken question in his gaze even though I could only dimly make out his eyes in the dark. I gave the shallowest nod, my attention occupied by the slightest sound of movement, but at once he understood and did not falter; I briefly felt his hand upon my arm in a silent assurance of his presence. I did not know how I had been so fortunate to gain such a companion and to earn his trust, but I could ask for no other.

Together, we ventured forth from the stair, into the maze of furniture; thin beams of light shone upon discarded chairs and cabinets and trunks, all piled haphazardly into walls which loomed on either side of us, hemming us in.

Suddenly, I heard a quiet sound, like something scratching, coming from the other side of a couch which had been turned upon its side. I swiftly maneuvered past Watson, to stand between him and the upended couch.

The scratching intensified, as though a madman were attempting to tear through the couch.

And then came a loud, pointed, Mrow.

It was only a mouser sharpening its claws. Watson behind me exhaled sharply.

I made to continue on when, in the renewed silence, I heard a footstep shuffling against the ground, coming from ahead rather than behind, and out of the corner of my eye, I saw the figure of a ragged, desperate man—only a man—standing in our path, ashen in the thin lantern light, the shape of a pistol at his side.

I did not have the chance to move before the light went out. There was a sudden rush of movement and then-

Bang.

It shook the air. A nightmare of blood flashed across my vision.

“Holmes!” Watson called out, his voice terse, but I hoped worried rather than pained.

“Watson?” My voice came out sharp.

Fumbling in the dark, I found the lantern where Watson had set it upon the ground before he lunged, and opened the shutter just enough to clearly make out two figures upon the ground; the topmost was my own Watson, and pinned to the ground, restrained, was our assailant. I had known revenge before, but this was the first time it had followed me into our Baker Street flat.

The man was subdued, but still the old nightmare of the blood splattered cell lingered at the edges of my mind. With some effort I pushed it aside and proclaimed, “Excellent, my dear Watson. You are uninjured?”

Watson answered in the affirmative and confirmed that I was likewise well. Still, he eyed me with some uncertainty, but said nothing. I knew he lacked my power of deduction, but I had the sinking feeling that he had gleaned all there was to know nonetheless.

Between the two of us we helped the man, now relieved of his gun, to his feet, and took him back up the cellar stairs. He was more reasonable without his weapon, but I could feel the ire I had seen in his gaze roiling in the pit of my own stomach.

Fortunately, we did not have long to wait before he was taken from our custody and we were at last permitted to return to our own flat. However the familiar setting was not quite enough to assuage my restlessness.

“You are certain you are quite well, Holmes?” Watson asked, pressing a glass into my hands. The brush of his fingertips seemed to linger.

“Yes, Watson, there is no cause for concern,” I said with a gesture, only belatedly thinking about the liquid which threatened to splash out onto the floor.

Still, we both remained standing in the middle of the sitting room, amid the papers and books in front of the hearth, no more than a foot between us. My free hand found its way to Watson’s shoulder, perhaps to ensure that he was indeed uninjured.

“You were remarkable, a truly uncommon gentleman,” I said, and I surprised myself with the truth of it. Relief bubbled up in my chest at the realization that I needed not have been afraid for my brave, self-sufficient Watson after all.

A demure flush colored his cheeks at the compliment. “I confess that I saw his gun and acted without thinking, but perhaps my instincts are not so poorly informed.”

“I could have done no better myself.” I raised my glass in the intimation of a toast and Watson clinked his own against it.

He drained his glass, and I wondered if his nerves, which had appeared to be quite proof, had in fact suffered as mine had. But then I saw that there was a sudden resolve in his gaze, and he stepped nearer to me; his free hand settled upon my own for an instant before he instead raised it to my cheek. I felt my eyes widening in unconcealed surprise as he leaned closer and for a brief moment his lips brushed against my own.

I froze, unaccustomed and therefore uncertain.

He drew away, questioning, and I let out a sharp, barking laugh.

Chapter Text

1883

“Thank you, Mr. Holmes, for extending your hospitality.”

“It is my pleasure; I am grateful to Sherlock for deigning to share your company for the evening.”

I paid no heed to brother Mycroft’s pointed tone, my attention instead occupied by Watson, who was still taking in Mycroft’s Pall Mall lodgings, not so opulent as the Diogenes Club, but well appointed and orderly in a plain contrast to our own homely flat. I only hoped that Watson would get no ideas from it.

“I fear Mycroft’s housekeeper would not last a day at Baker Street,” I said, falling in beside Watson as we followed Mycroft into the dining room.

Watson accepted my arm with a chuckle—the desired effect, though much of his tension remained. “No, I would think not. Your brother is of a more orderly disposition?”

“I find, Dr. Watson,” Mycroft said, “that it is impossible to think clearly when surrounded by disarray.”

“And that is why Mycroft is the wiser,” I concluded.

Mycroft’s features expressed that he indeed believed that to be much of the reason, but he knew my own answering retort as to our differences in habits without my needing to voice it.

However, I was surprised when Watson spoke up, “Though it would not do for me to condone the state of our flat, Holmes frequently astonishes me by producing some method from the madness, to frequently remarkable effect.”

“See brother, there is method to my madness,” I said wryly, though I could feel the compliment, and the fond, earnest way in which my dear Watson had said it, coloring my cheeks.

Mycroft surely observed the uncommon warmth between us, but he kindly said nothing.

Though I knew it was hardly necessary, as Watson himself protested, I helped him to his chair at the table before taking my own, across from him; Mycroft, as the elder and the host, in turn occupied the head.

As every meal with Mycroft, dinner was a feast, of one dish followed by another served by his famously excellent young chef, Anatole. 

We were in the midst of the main course when Watson remarked, “Holmes said that your people were country squires, is there still an old manor house?”

“I am afraid not,” Mycroft answered. “Our line was not a prosperous one, as might be expected of land situated on the edge of the moors. By the time that Sherlock and I were born, our line had dwindled to the extent that we are now the only two who remain.”

It was a familiar story; Mycroft and I had conjured it up together, debating each point between us to ensure that it would raise no questions and could not be falsified, and it had been embellished some over the intervening years. And yet, hearing it now, I was struck by how there was indeed some truth in it, of a roundabout sort.

“Oh, my apologies,” Watson said with earnest sympathy, doubtless thinking of his own absent family—but it was far better that he shed a tear for our sad fabrication than be tempted to seek the less savory truth.

Fortunately, we soon moved along to happier subjects, and dinner was, on the whole, a most pleasant affair in excellent company.

Afterward, we moved to the sitting room, as etiquette dictates, for digestifs. Mycroft was generous enough to turn a blind eye as he settled in his prefered chair with a book, and Watson and I huddled together upon the settee, a comfortable quiet between us all.

“Thank you for inviting me to dine with you and your brother,” Watson said softly, almost wistfully.

“Not at all,” I said, resting my hand upon his, “you have also become family to me.”

I hoped that the words might comfort him, and I did not expect to see his eyes dampen with emotion. “Thank you,” he whispered, and I believe I detected a slight hesitation where my Christian name might have been, had he not thought better of it.

I did not expect an answering rush of my own emotion; I had always had Mycroft, and if asked I would have said without hesitation that he was my family and meant it as truth, but I had never before thought to consider what it meant, nor dared to hope for more. I only felt a deep pang that my first dear companion was not there to share in the impossible fortune I had found, and I could but wonder how long this dream could hold before it inevitably shattered.

Chapter Text

1885

I paid a visit to the London flat of the gentleman responsible for the recent astonishing return of the favorite Silver Blaze at the Wessex Cup. On the exterior, it is by all appearances an ordinary residence, which functions as the headquarters of the man whom Colonel Ross, the esteemed owner of Silver Blaze, described as the premier private detective in all of England.

The landlady showed me up into Mr. Holmes’s consulting room, which doubles as a private sitting room, and looks as though a pack of wild animals has been through it, throwing everything asunder. Sitting placidly at the center of the chaos was a pair of gentlemen.

I hardly had the chance to bid them good day when one of the gentlemen said sharply, “You are a reporter.”

I acknowledged that I was, though it came as a surprise that he knew it, because I bore no sign of my trade. However, I continued proudly, “Mr. Holmes, I have heard that you possess talents which enable you to solve even the most difficult of mysteries.”

He appeared not to hear me. “Colonel Ross told you of me. It seems he has gotten the last laugh after all.”

His manner was so devoid of any good humor that the other gentleman felt the need to protest on my behalf, “It is not so bad as that, indeed the credit is well deserved!”

Mr. Holmes snapped, “Do not speak on that which you do not understand.” I could see the fear of the press in him.

 The outburst was enough to cow his companion, but I was not to be so easily deterred. “Do you mean to say that you were not the one who returned the favorite Silver Blaze in time for the Wessex Cup?”

At this, Mr. Holmes violently leaped to his feet and declared, “Out! I have no desire to see my name in the press and will answer no questions!”

A reporter knows where he is not wanted and will get no answers. As I left, I saw Mr. Holmes’s companion endeavoring to appease him.

Whether or not he is indeed responsible for the return of Silver Blaze, it is plain to see that Mr. Sherlock Holmes—if that is even his true name—has some secret which he is desperate to hide from any investigation. This reporter is of the opinion that he may very well have caused the disappearance of Silver Blaze, and only returned him for a price.

You may rest assured that I will get to the bottom of whatever sordid enterprise is surely afoot and that you will be the first to know the truth.

Chapter Text

1887

Sherlock Holmes gave a painful moan.

I jolted into awareness, startled from the brief slumber into which I must have fallen as I sat, waiting at his bedside. The novel with which I had attempted to distract myself as I whiled away the hours, lay disregarded upon the floor where it had fallen. My gaze turned immediately to Holmes, lying still and silent in the bed beside me, his features pale and thin, even for him. Where his nightgown had slid from his shoulder, I could see the thin, white tendrils of countless scars creeping up from his back.

I had just begun to wonder if I ought to trouble him with more ministrations, or if it would be better to leave him to the rest his body so dearly needed, when he gave another hoarse groan.

I rested my hand upon his too narrow wrist—the skin still very warm and his pulse unusually rapid—and said, gently, but urgently, “Holmes, what is it you require?”

He struggled with as much violence as he could muster against the thin sheets. Amidst the groans, I believed I was able to make out a labored shout of, “No!”

“Holmes, Sherlock,” I said again, attempting at once to soothe him and draw him back to the present.

His eyes suddenly opened and he pulled his arm away from under my hand so abruptly that the motion seemed to me to be intentional rather than blind thrashing. His gaze was wild, but he appeared to see me, if not recognize who I was, and he seemed to be attempting to say something, but again all I could distinguish was a single word; “Danger!”

“You are safe here,” I attempted to soothe him, but again he knocked away my hand.

He groaned again and his eyes fell shut, but his breathing did not slow. At last, with a deliberate effort, he was able to articulate, “Not a man; a creature.”

 “A creature?” I asked, though I knew I needed to be careful lest I agitate him further.

“Too dangerous,” he insisted once more.

It pained me to see the great man whom I loved having deteriorated to such an extent. I tried to reach him; “The case is solved.”

“Not the case.” Again, his eyes flew open and he regarded me with a wild gaze. “I am the creature.”

I gave a quiet sigh. It was plain that his great mind was still addled by lack of sleep and food, and withdrawal from the drugs upon which he had come to depend. I could only hope that the effect was not a permanent one.

“Sherlock, rest.” I tried to press my hand to his forehead, but he jerked away.

“I don’t need rest.” I realized only belatedly that the low, coughing murmur that followed was indeed a dry chuckle. “Don’t you see? Like Dr. Frankenstein’s monster; the miserable daemon, crafted by the curious, unhallowed wretch, that fled abroad into the world, to sow destruction in its wake.”

He sounded much like himself, but it could only be the delirium. “Please, you will feel better when you have slept—or do you need some water, or food?”

I thought I could see skepticism in his wild eyes before they at last fell shut and he again leaned back upon the pillows, his breathing still much faster than resting, still I confess I took a breath of relief that at least I no longer had to face him in such a state.

I had been urgently called to France, where Holmes had gone to work on a case, because he had suddenly collapsed from days without sleep or food—and I regret to say that I was not surprised. Of course, I had dropped everything and rushed to his side, but it had been foolishness to think there was anything I could do; I well knew that he was bent upon destroying those great powers with which he had been endowed, and of late it seemed even my company had become a burden to him—our relations had deteriorated to such an extent that there had been no expectation that I might accompany him to France.

Now, in his delirium, he appeared to be intent upon warning me away entirely. I knew it could be nothing more than madness, but his reference to Dr. Frankenstein’s creation made me think of the web of scars that stretched across his back and riddled the rest of his body, which I had seen many times before, but I had known better than to reopen old injuries, long since healed. It almost looked as though, in his youth, he had been carved up and put back together.

I wondered if he was not now attempting to finish what had been done to him, and I feared that there was nothing I could do to stop him.

Chapter Text

1891, May

As the sun set over the rolling heathland, a bitter chill set in, with a cold wind sweeping down from the north. My fingers, already clumsy and stiff, were beginning to numb, and despite sturdy boots, my toes were quickly going the same way, but so long as I could continue to walk, I dared not falter. The old nightmare of the blood splattered cell replayed indefinitely in my mind.

Around me, the slopes were painted with the color of spring, but the land was no less foreboding than when I had passed through it in my youth, fleeing the place where I had been created, to which I now desperately ran. I was alone now, without even M—brother Mycroft—for company. It was for the best. I could not risk sentencing him to the fate which we had already managed to escape once, on account of my own foolish mistake—I should never have been so selfish as to bring Watson with me to the continent, as much as I longed to see him one final time.

Darkness fell quickly over the moors, the skies already overcast with heavy clouds. I could now make out only the swell and troughs of the land, and a few, scattered, rough silhouettes of ancient huts of peoples long since past. M and I had not thought to wonder who had made them as we had darted from shelter to shelter, concealing ourselves from sight and the blustering wind for as long as we dared, before darting out once more.

We had run for days and nights without pause, our feeble shoes and thin uniforms discarded in an attempt to throw the guards and their dogs from our track. At night the frost nipped at our skin, biting our fingers and toes until they were so cold that they felt warm. The thin light of day offered little respite. A short lifetime of cold nights had done little to prepare us for the bitter winds of the open moor. Even now, a gentleman’s suit offered insufficient protection from the elements, but I did not need to last long.

If I fell before I reached my aim, there was hope that at least my body might be found and my dear Watson released, as his captors would no longer have any need to hold him. After all of the ill-fortune I had brought him, he would have little cause to mourn me, as much as I selfishly wished he might think of me with some fond regret. He already knew the insufficiencies of my inhuman nature, which had at last driven him to foreswear my company in favor of a wife who was everything that I could not be. It was evidence of his great kindness that he had agreed to accompany me on one final case—a final lie—and this time I had repaid him with unfathomable danger.

I only needed to take him away from there, and then I would disappear so that he could live out the remainder of his life in the peace which he deserved. My feet pounded against the hard ground, driven by legs of lead. The blood rushed in my ears—M and I had nothing to eat until we had arrived in that first village. I could not stop, could not falter. I blindly followed the rise and fall of the moor. It seemed to stretch on forever, until-

There, in the distance, I saw a solid wall, as though of a fortress; a prison, rising up from the empty land around it. I could only hope that Watson had managed to survive long enough for me to find him and undo all the misfortune that I had brought him.

Chapter Text

1891, June

It was dark, long past time any respectable person might still be about. And yet, there was a lone gentleman, dressed in traveling clothes more suited to the countryside than a quiet London street. He came urgently to the door of an ordinary, respectable abode—the residence of one Dr. John H. Watson. Any inhabitants ought have been abed, but a lone light crept through the sitting room shutters and as the man came to the door, it opened to meet him.

“John!” a woman greeted the man with a shout and threw her arms around him. “I was so worried! Where have you been?”

The man took her in his arms and drew her back inside. They clung to each other as though they were each afraid to let go.

Mrs. Hudson went through her mail as she did every morning. There was the post, and the ordinary notices and bills, and all of the many letters which arrived every day for Mr. Sherlock Holmes as his notoriety only increased. Amidst them was an envelope of the nicest, most official paper—which was ordinarily meant for Mr. Sherlock Holmes—delivered by hand, addressed to the humble landlady.

She leafed through the rest, tossing aside that which she knew could be discarded and arranging those which required more attention in a neat pile, before quickly returning to her own rooms, where she immediately opened the official envelope, which could only bear news of some importance. The paper inside was of a similar quality to the envelope, bearing all of the signs of some high office.

Inscribed upon it was a brief note:

Dear Mrs. Hudson,

In gratitude for your long service as his landlady, Mr. Sherlock Holmes has left you a legacy, on the condition that you maintain his rooms as he left them and do not allow any person to remove or displace any object except in accordance with Mr. Holmes’s wishes. If you agree to these terms, please reply with your affirmation at once. If you decline, I must offer, on behalf of Mr. Holmes, to purchase the residences at 221 Baker Street from you at whatever sum you ask.

Please send word of your decision at your soonest convenience.

Sincerely,

Mr. Mycroft Holmes

On the subsequent page, in between some lines of legal language, was printed a sum, a very large sum. It would have been more than sufficient to purchase all of 221 Baker Street, and she would have never needed to take on another boarder for the remainder of her life. She had known Mr. Holmes to be a kind, generous gentleman, but this was much more than she could have possibly expected—and then there was the odd condition of maintaining his rooms just as he had left them.

Mrs. Hudson had served too long as the landlady to Mr. Holmes, and had experienced too much of life besides, to readily believe that all was what it purported to be. This was not the first sign of unusual activity from Mr. Holmes of late; he had suddenly returned from France without a word, and then had left just as abruptly and had yet to return. And then, only days before, Mrs. Watson had come by asking after husband, who had apparently vanished while she was away and left no note.

Mrs. Hudson did not know whether Dr. Watson had yet returned, but if anyone knew what was happening, she could think of no one more likely to know than he. So, after completing a few essential chores, she hurried out into the blustery summer day, to the practice of Dr. John Watson.

The girl who showed her in to the sitting room looked a little harried, and as Mrs. Watson arrived to greet her, Mrs. Hudson feared that Dr. Watson was indeed still missing.

“My apologies, John is out,” Mrs. Watson said, looking a little overwhelmed herself.

“You have seen him?” Mrs. Hudson asked, surprised—it was a relief that Dr. Watson had returned, but that only deepened her worries about the still absent Mr. Holmes.

“Yes, just last night,” Mrs. Watson said, but she seemed somehow uncertain, and it was with a suggestion of reluctance that she invited Mrs. Hudson to take a seat.

Mrs. Hudson gratefully complied, taking a chair across from Mrs. Watson, who settled upon the settee.

“Did he say where he had been,” Mrs. Hudson asked, “did he mention Mr. Holmes? I do not mean to pry, but Mr. Holmes is still away, and then this very morning I received a letter from Mr. Mycroft Holmes, indicating that he had left me a legacy, but I can hardly credit it! Mr. Holmes has been behaving strangely of late, yes, and I cannot say he has been well, but it is so sudden, and the terms were so peculiar.”

“The terms?”

“I don’t mind telling you, it was odd is all; the note said that I could have the legacy on the condition that I maintained Mr. Holmes’s rooms just as they are now, and not to allow anyone to move or take a thing.”

“That is peculiar…” Mrs. Watson said with a peculiar tone, as though to her it merely slotted into place.

“Peculiar unless Mr. Holmes is alive, but then I couldn’t say what all this about a legacy is for when he might as well continue paying rent—it would be a much smaller sum. Do you know what has happened? What did Dr. Watson say?”

Again, Mrs. Watson hesitated. “I would hardly credit it myself were it not my own dear John…”

She seemed to be on the verge of saying more when someone arrived at the door. All conversation ceased as the maid showed in a large young man in a military uniform. He was tall and wide, perhaps still with some ways to go, with dark hair and black eyes. He stood perfectly at attention as he entered, but his eyes subtly flickered here and there, frantically taking everything in on the edges of his vision.

“I have a message from Dr. Watson,” he announced, as though reporting to a drill sergeant.

“What is it?” Mrs. Watson stood urgently, ready to do whatever was required of her.

The young man held out a slip of paper, and she took it and read it briefly.

It was only a short note in her husband’s distinctive scrawl: “Dearest Mary, All is well, though I still regret that I needed to hurry away so urgently so soon after I returned to you, but I fear medical care should not be delayed any longer, and you may rest assured that I will be home tonight for dinner. Until then, I only require a few specialized implements, which I am certain you will be able to locate.” He proceeded to list them, and then signed the note, “Yours, with love, John H. Watson.”

Mrs. Watson gave a quiet smile as she put the note aside, and then turned curiously to the messenger. “Are you one of Mr. Holmes’s relations?” she asked delicately.

The young man hesitated before giving a sharp nod, as though in response to an order. “In a manner of speaking, ma’am.”

Mrs. Hudson, who had been watching the entire exchange with barely disguised curiosity, now glanced between Mrs. Watson and the young messenger in bewilderment. “A relative of Mr. Holmes? Do you know where he is then?”

“No, ma’am.”

At last Mrs. Watson explained, “John said that no one knows where Mr. Holmes is now. He is apparently in hiding, searching for…” she faltered in uncertainty.

“The guards and scientists that escaped,” the young messenger supplied promptly.

Mrs. Hudson looked no less lost than before and Mrs. Watson hastily said, “Yes, I should explain from the beginning.” To the young messenger she said, “Do have a seat, and then I will show you to John’s office.”

Very haltingly, the young man followed Mrs. Watson to the settee and perched upon the edge, as though he might leap to his feet at any moment.

“According to John,” Mrs. Watson said at last, “he and Mr. Holmes were kidnaped and held captive at an institute, which he described like a military prison. They were not the only captives; there they met several young men and women, including…” she paused to permit the young messenger to introduce himself.

Again he hesitated, before replying as though he were trying out the name, “Reginald.”

“There were many children there as well. That is why John is away now; few of them have ever seen a doctor, and meanwhile Mr. Holmes is searching for those responsible who have escaped, so the less that is known about his whereabouts the better. Apparently they have decided that it is best to keep the mere existence of the institute a secret.”

Young Reginald gave a sharp nod in affirmation.

Mrs. Hudson took a moment merely to absorb it all, and then gave young Reginald a searching look, as though some fact of his existence might explain what she had heard—he still sat unyielding at attention, no more at ease than when he had arrived. At last she concluded, “I knew there had to be some rational explanation for Mr. Holmes’s behavior of late. I am pleased to hear that both he and Dr. Watson are well. You and the doctor are both welcome to come by anytime.”

“Thank you, I am certain that John will appreciate the invitation.”

Then Mrs. Hudson turned to young Reginald. “And any relative of Mr. Holmes is always welcome on Baker Street.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” he said, though he very nearly sounded uncertain, almost as though the words were unfamiliar to him.

Mrs. Hudson bid them both farewell and as she gathered her things to leave, Mrs. Watson waved young Reginald into Dr. Watson’s office to complete his mission.

Dear Mr. Mycroft Holmes,

I am honored that Mr. Sherlock Holmes saw fit to leave me such a legacy, however it is hardly necessary. I will ensure that Mr. Holmes’s rooms are kept untouched, and only ask that rent continue to be paid for them as before. I am certain that the remainder of the money can be put to a much more worthy cause.

Sincerely,

Mrs. Hudson

Chapter Text

1892

My dear Watson,

I fully expect that it will be summer by the time this letter finds you; I found your Christmas greetings most heartening in the flush of spring. I know that I have, in the past, scoffed at your proclivities for the more sentimental celebrations, but I confess to you that it was no more than the lamenting of the fox, which upon being unable to reach the grapes hanging from an arbor, calls them bitter. I was deeply touched by your kind greetings, and I carry all of your letters near to my heart, so that they may never be misplaced in all of my comings and goings.

You may think that I have sorely misjudged you, but indeed I expected with confidence that you would want no part of me after you had returned to your dear wife, liberated from all of the misfortunes which I have brought upon you. Still each letter which I receive is a fresh, and dearly welcome surprise. You continue to grant me infinitely more than I have ever had any right to take.

Even your writings, which I once ridiculed, both in reasonable fear of notoriety and in thoughtless disdain, are now a great respite from my lonesome exile, and through their rosy, sentimental gaze, they offer a reminder of the man I might have been as I chase across the continent, hiding in storerooms and venturing out only in disguise. Your accounts have also served their purpose well in occluding my present aims.

As to my present aims, there is at once too much and too little to report. I have written you every day in my mind, some days twice if there was some matter that required particular consideration, but I fear that the hypothetical page pales in comparison to your own abilities as a conductor of my thoughts, and discretion forbids that I take up my pen and turn the hypothetical into the real. I dare not say too much upon my present habits lest this missif thwart every precaution and fall into the wrong hands before it reaches brother Mycroft.

However, I believe enough time has passed that I may tell you of my travels in Belgium. First, I must express my sincerest gratitude to yourself and Mrs. Watson for all that you have done to take upon the burden which I have left behind, of managing my young, so-called relations, even though you could all the more easily wash your hands of it and never think again of the ordeal to which you were subjected on my account. Furthermore, I hope you will forgive that despite your assurances that the ones who have left your supervision in England only desire to see the world, I have seen fit to endeavor to monitor their whereabouts.

E-Q, with his scarred, skull-like face, was easily discovered in a traveling circus, last I was aware, W-N, was traveling in southeastern Europe, and I have heard some word of S-R’s activities further to the north, thereabouts of Poland. In each instance, it is true that I have found no plain indication of any wrongdoing, but that is not to say that none exists, merely that I have had more urgent matters to pursue and was therefore only able to glean what I could through hearsay.

As I was passing through Brussels, however, I personally encountered H-P, now humbly identifying himself as Hercule Poirot. I had heard that he had some interactions with the official authorities, though I had no clear indication as to their nature. I took a brief diversion from my ordinary tasks of keeping watch outside hotels and waiting for word from my extempore network of informants to follow him.

You will surely understand the significance of the fact that he knew I was in disguise, though he could not recognize my face beneath the false beard and moustache—I believe that even you, Watson, would not know my face if you saw it. He saw that I was following him and managed to lure me into an alleyway, where he drew out a knife. It was at that juncture that I elected to reveal my identity.

We ended up dining together that evening—I believe the waiter took me for his grandfather.

I asked after his travels, and he answered resolutely, “I believe I will settle here. It is a beautiful country, very different from England.” He has already begun to practice speaking English with a francophone accent.

When I inquired as to what he intended to do there, he said, “You have worked with many official detectives; Dr. Watson has mentioned how you lament their inefficiency. The Brussels police too leave much room for improvement, and in what better way could I gain a vantage point into the countless lives and indeed the minds which teem around us.”

It is a pretty tale, if he is telling the truth. As you are well aware, Watson, it speaks very well to my own sympathies; so much so that I wonder if it was not tailored to them. I was more careful as I followed him in the subsequent days—though I could not remain too long lest I lose the trail of the quarry which had brought me to Belgium—and still I did not see anything amiss. He spoke with a neighborhood constable on a few occasions, and otherwise his habits were precise and unremarkable. I hope that you are correct, Watson, that my concerns are indeed in vain.

I regret that my present activities are considerably less exciting than the stories which you tell of my past cases or of your present life, though I am certain that the latter features no less embellishment than the former. Most of my time is spent hiding, or else lingering about in disguise, waiting. Still, I dare to hope that you glean some manner of comfort from my accounts, as I know I take from yours.

And believe me to be always very sincerely yours,

Sherlock Holmes

Chapter Text

1893

I made my way down the winding lane to a very large, cheerful house, set amidst a patchwork of gardens. I paused at the gate to scratch a friendly mouser behind the ears, and waved to the young woman working in the gardens as I passed. I was nearly bowled over by a gaggle of children hurrying by, laughing and chattering in a unique blend of English, and their mothers’ language, which I may never learn, no matter how frequently I visit.

I let myself in by the front door and nearly bumped into a pair of young women in brightly colored dresses, hurrying out—one of them tipped her hat at me as they went. I had stepped into the center of a whirl of activity; there were women everywhere in all manner of dresses—and a few in what looked more like suits—with even more children underfoot, all going here and there, working, and talking in that same unusual language, which I had never heard anywhere else. Many of them passed me with a quick greeting in only slightly accented English.

Even the front room was busy that morning; a small crowd had gathered around a side table, all intently interested in something upon it.

“Mrs. Watson, it’s good to see you back again,” a young woman, who had chosen the name Caroline Sheppard, called out to me from where she sat off to the side, her attention divided between those gathered around the table and all the other goings on of the house.

At that, everyone beside the table glanced up, and another young woman in a relatively simple dress, with dark hair in a sensible bun; a sister to Miss Sheppard, who went by Jane Marple, remarked, “You look much better today.”

“Good morning, and thank you, I feel much better; I only needed a little rest,” I said. As I approached the table of interest, I saw that there was an envelope sitting upon it. “Who is the letter from?”

“That’s what we’re trying to figure out!” one little girl who had been craning up at the table said with a giggle. The even smaller girl beside her covered her mouth to try to hide her laughter and let out a squeak.

I bent over to look at the envelope. It was an ordinary envelope, which had been addressed to the affectionately named “Holmes House” in a precise hand, but instead of the return address there was a block of gibberish which almost resembled a cipher, and there was no stamp.

“It was in the mailbox this morning, ma’am,” reported the page boy who had been standing off to the side throughout the proceedings; the young Reginald Jeeves, who had long since exchanged the borrowed soldier’s uniform that he wore when I first met him for a simple livery, and he had grown even taller over the short years, so that he now positively towered above us all. “If I might take the liberty of going into town to determine who might have delivered it.”

He swiftly departed, leaving only the ladies and inquisitive children.

“What’s inside?” I asked, delicately picking up the envelope.

Miss Marple suggested that I look for myself; it had already been opened. It was empty, but the interior of the envelope was covered in brief scrawlings, which seemed to be other ciphers.

“Have you been able to solve it?” I asked, knowing many of the ladies’ penchant for puzzles, and Miss Marple in particular.

She shook her head. “We had only just received it when you arrived.” However, there was already a faraway look in the young woman’s eyes, from which I knew she was deep in thought.

“It is unusual, but it hardly seems to be serious. I can tell John if you think there’s some danger; he has told me of how countless times, Mr. Holmes has followed the most innocuous of clues to a dire conclusion.”

“Has there been any word from Mr. Holmes then?” Miss Sheppard piped up, suddenly drawn away from her conversation with another woman who had come into the front room. “Jane, you and Margaret and I must go and see the rest of Europe soon, and maybe the whole world while we’re at it.”

“That’s a lovely idea, perhaps a change of scenery would do John and I well too. As for Mr. Holmes, there has been no word since April, and I fear John is becoming restless again.”

“I don’t think there’s any need to worry Dr. Watson over a little thing like this,” Miss Marple said at last with a slight smile.

I agreed, “It almost seems like a sort of joke.”

"I'm sure that's just what it is."

I followed Miss Marple’s gaze to the young girls, lingering off to the side, who suddenly broke off their eager chattering, and tried very hard not to erupt into giggles under the scrutiny.

It was the younger of the girls who broke first. “It was four-nine’s idea!”

“People names,” the woman who was talking with Miss Sheppard chastised.

“Phryne,” the girl corrected with a roll of her eyes, “but there’s hardly any difference!”

“Mrs. Watson said it sounded Greek,” the other girl insisted proudly. “I don’t want a weird name like Beth, anyway.”

“Young ladies,” I attempted to stem the conflict which I was afraid that I had caused, and to redirect them to the question at hand, “why did you put this envelope in the mailbox?”

“It was Phryne’s idea,” the younger girl, Beth, reiterated.

Phryne did not deny it. “But it was a good mystery, wasn’t it?”

Chapter Text

1893, November

“It may be best for me to remain in London,” John said over breakfast that morning.

It was only a week until we meant to depart for the continent, but I was more disappointed than surprised; John had made little comment upon my mounting preparations, instead occupying himself with his writings.

“I should not leave my practice, and a letter may come from Holmes—but do not allow me to keep you from accompanying the young ladies, especially not when your health has improved so much of late.”

I knew that his practice was not so consuming, but I assented, “Perhaps you are right, I have been so looking forward to going, I believe getting away from the London air will do me good, and I would not wish to leave Miss Marple and her sisters to travel the continent alone.”

Our little traveling party met at the “Holmes House”; a modestly fashionable group of young ladies with one traveling case a piece, all chattering eagerly about the journey to come. I was their worldly chaperone, but as we set out in a carriage to the station, I felt like just another young woman, off to see the world as though for the first time; I barely remembered India, which I had left when I was but a small child, and it had even been years since I had last traveled to Edinburgh, where I had spent most of my youth.

“I can just imagine the rolling hills of the Italian countryside,” the ordinarily practical Miss West said wistfully.

“Rolling hills are much the same anywhere,” Miss Sheppard replied, “I wonder how different Paris will be from drab old London; all the fashionable cafes and boutiques, et encore, je parle un français parfait!” Her accent, at least, was much better than mine.

“Now girls, we will have plenty of time to see Italy, and Paris, and the rest of the continent besides,” I said.

“I would like to spend a little time, perhaps in a quiet town, to get to know the people and their lives,” Miss Marple remarked, in the quiet, reflective way of hers.

“We could settle in a town for a while if we liked, and I do not think I would mind if we decided to remain there and did not return to London at all.” I said it lightly, but as I said it, I knew that it was true; it saddened me a little, of course, but for a little while, I felt as though I were truly as free as air.

The journey from the station, by train, to the ferry at Newhaven, seemed to pass in whirl. I have some faint recollection that at some point along the way, Miss Marple asked if I was quite well, but I only smiled and insisted that I was as fine as I had ever been.

We were aboard the ferry, drifting across the channel to Dieppe, France, when I felt suddenly dizzy, and then all went black.

I only remember the rest in brief snatches; worried voices, the pungent aroma of smelling salts and the taste of brandy, and then gentle hands carrying me away. Eventually, I found myself in a bed in an unfamiliar place, the girls gathered around me.

“I was afraid of this,” I heard Miss Marple mutter—she had once been a doctor’s assistant, and had learned as much as any doctor.

“I’ll be fine,” I insisted, “it is only a passing spell, that is all; just a brief detour on our travels.”

Miss Marple shook her head, but said nothing. I could already feel my strength waning. John had said that all was well when I had recovered from my most recent relapse, but perhaps there was something he had missed.

At some point the doctor came in, but all he said was, “Your husband will be here by midnight.”

I tried to argue, to explain, “No, it is hardly necessary. We were just going.”

But it is too late, like a bird shot down in mid-flight. I am dying when I have barely had the chance to live.

The girls hold my hands, but already they are growing cold and distant.

My thoughts, my memories, have become hazy, indistinct, as though my past and future are all but a suggestion, never made whole.

I wonder where I went wrong…

Chapter Text

1894

An old man, with bent back and sharp, wizened features framed by bushy, white whiskers, hobbled down the lane, peering about with every step. My faltering step may have belied the nervous urgency of my purpose, but I was not so preoccupied that I did not observe that what I had known to be a quiet, respectable neighborhood was now scattered with the most downtrodden of London’s inhabitants, whose comings and goings appeared to be concentrated around the same modest home which I had traveled across the continent to reach.

By the door, overseeing all who passed, was a young man whom I recognized as the boy Wiggins, now grown. I had traversed the world and back unnoticed, but I waited until his attention was drawn away to shuffle past, discretely pressing a sovereign into his hand as I went—by the time he realized and glanced about, I had already passed inside, out of his purview.

I came into the sitting room which was, to the distress of the frantic young maid, plainly newly acquired, occupied by half a dozen men and women in various states of disrepair, all waiting to see the kindly doctor—and was I not so different from them; weary and without a home, come in search of sympathy to which I had no claim, and it seemed that unlike the huddled masses, I had not been invited.

I had not gone so far as to take a seat when I heard the first peal of a familiar voice coming from the other room, just out of sight of the doorway which I knew led into the corridor to the doctor’s office, “Dr. Verner, you may be right, but whatever you learned in America, you cannot speak like that to a patient here.”

The argument in motion broke off as Dr. John Watson stepped into the sitting room. He looked just as I remembered him, perhaps a little thinner, a little harried from the sudden influx of patients in his otherwise quiet practice, but he still carried himself with the steady composure upon which I had long ago learned to depend. Following close behind, with a limping gait, was a young man who I recognized as V-P—he sharply turned away rather than venture into the sitting room.

Watson paid the young man no further heed, his bright eyes already scanning the room with an incisive gaze, drawing conclusions about his patients no less rapidly than my own deductions. I did not look away even as he turned to me, meeting my eyes for but an instant as he searched for whatever ailment might have brought me to his practice, and then his attention swiftly turned to the next.

My disguise nearly forgotten, I sprang across to him before he had the chance to call over another patient, hardly bothering to shuffle my feet as I went. “You are Dr. Watson?” I asked, taking on the rough voice of the old man. “If you will pardon me, there is something I must see you about most urgently.”

He gave me another glance, his gaze now sharper—I nearly winced at the evident displeasure at what he saw. “My apologies, but as you can see, I have no openings today. Unless there is some emergency, I can recommend another doctor, or I ask that you return another day,” he said firmly.

He glanced impatiently away, already thinking of another patient. This was not how I had intended for it to go. If I were a wiser man, if not a cleverer one, perhaps I would have turned and left as he had suggested, but in that moment I could not bear the thought of leaving, not when I had come so far.

On a moment’s impulse, while his gaze was distracted, I straightened my back and tore off the white wig and false whiskers to reveal my own features, wizened though they were by careful application of clay and pencil.

He turned back at the sudden motion and I saw the instant that his eyes widened in realization. “Holmes,” my name fell quietly from his lips in shock. Emotions warred across his features, too quickly for even I to categorize them all, and then, abruptly he mastered himself and whispered urgently, “What is it you require?”

It was my turn to give way to surprise. “Nothing, I only came as soon as I heard.”

A ghost of a frown crossed his face. “Thank you.” And then, it was gone, replaced by the urgent purpose of a doctor. “It is a good thing that you are here; we are dearly in need of another hand.” He briefly rested a hand upon my sleeve, before he turned away and motioned for one of the women upon the settee—a flower girl, holding awkwardly onto her right arm—to follow into his office.

The impression of his touch upon my arm lingered even as he strode purposefully down the corridor, the girl trailing nervously behind.

He spared only a single glance back at me. “Come, Holmes, if you would hold the lamp.”

I hastily followed after and so spent the remainder of the day angling lamps and bracing limbs and fetching and holding and returning all manner of devices as Watson tirelessly saw to one patient after another, all to the sound of V-P berating his own endless stream of patients on the other side of the small office.

At long last, well after evening had fallen, the rush of patients began to ebb until the sitting room was empty and only two patients remained to be observed overnight.

“Dr. Verner has volunteered to keep watch,” Watson said, and I required no powers of deduction to see that it came as a relief to him; his exhaustion was plain. Despite it, he continued, “Thank you for your assistance. Would you remain for a drink?” The offer appeared to be earnest, but I could perceive a lingering uncertainty.

Nonetheless, I could hardly refuse him and allowed him to lead me upstairs, to the bedroom which had never been mine to enter. It still bore traces of a woman’s touch in the modest decoration and complementary upholstery. By the fireplace was a pair of chairs, not quite so comfortable as those in the flat on Baker Street, in which we had once whiled away many a long evening, as I had wondered if we ever might do again.

At Watson’s insistence, I sat, perched upon the edge of the chair, as he took the decanter from the cabinet and poured us each a glass.

“You are a most gracious host,” I said lightly as I accepted the glass; an unspoken question whether that was all, or if I might dare to hope that Watson had some other, deeper motive.

He sat down heavily in the chair opposite mine, but his soft reply seemed to be no less sincere for his weariness. “It is truly my pleasure to see you again. How long will you be in London?”

“However long it will have me,” I said with a dismissive wave, but my gaze remained upon him, searching.

A gentle smile graced his lips, but he did not meet my eyes in favor of the flames dancing in the grate. “I am certain that all of London will be the better for your presence.”

“And what of you?”

Slowly, he turned to face me. I felt his warm, calloused hand upon my wrist. “I will be the most fortunate of all,” he said, his bright gaze unfaltering.

My heart seemed to stutter and swell with the warmth with which he regarded me, and I longed to believe him, yet I could but caution, “You cannot forget that which is my true nature.”

At that, his smile faded and his eyes at last turned away. He leaned back in his chair and let out a sigh. Into the flames, he said, “Yes, I remember; whenever I see Dr. Verner, or when Jeeves or Miss Marple or Mr. Brown come by for tea; though they grow by the day, it is impossible to miss.” He turned back to me, his eyes burning in the warm, flickering light. “I remember it every day when I think of the perilous errand you have been driven to undertake, though I know it is of the utmost importance, I can but wonder in what corner you are hiding now, and hope that you have not come upon some misfortune which is too much for even you to face alone.” He gave me a long, searching look, as though he could see beneath my suit to the patchwork of scars across my skin. “No, I will never forget.”

I could feel the signs of surprise which had written themselves across my features slowly transform into a wry, desperate smile. “Indeed, Watson?”

“Sherlock.” The sound of my Christian name upon his lips, though uttered as much in frustration as in gentle caress, sent a sharp thrill down my spine.

Watson’s hand came to cup my cheek, and with cautious deliberation, he leaned in; his moustache tickled upon my upper lip, and then I felt the soft press of his lips upon mine, and I could but lean into the tender warmth, to be drawn wherever he might lead me.

My cheeks were flushed hot when we pulled away and my eyes felt wide.

“You have made your point, John,” I said, my voice a heady whisper.

He smiled, full and earnest, and quite pleased, as I had not seen in many years. I was almost reluctant to ruin the sight by leaning in again to claim another kiss.

Chapter Text

1894

“Home at last, Watson,” Holmes declared, surveying his domain from the door of 221B Baker Street.

He glanced over at me, a twinkle in his eye, and I am certain that my own expression was no less eager. It had been nearly three years since I had last set foot there, and longer still since I had called it home—regretfully the parting had not been on such good terms. It was all nearly the same as I remembered it; the chairs by the fireplace in which we had whiled away the long evenings, Holmes’s chemical workbench, even some of the familiar papers and books which were ordinarily strewn across the sitting room in precarious piles.

“I perceive that Mrs. Hudson has not been idle,” Holmes concluded; the chief change was that the rooms were neater by far than I had ever seen them.

“I maintained your rooms just as you asked, Mr. Holmes,” Mrs. Hudson insisted, hurrying by us to open the windows and let in the brisk air. “I could not leave everything in disarray.”

“I doubt it will take long for it to return to how it was,” I said encouragingly.

“No, I expect not, Watson,” Holmes said laughingly, though he was still preoccupied, taking in the once familiar scene. Then, abruptly, he took me by the hands, drawing me across the room. “Come, Watson, let me see you in your old seat once more.”

I obliged and he stepped back toward the fireplace to examine me, as an artist regards his canvas, though I fear I made a less than naturalistic portrait, observing him in turn with my own fond bemusement.

At last he let out a barking laugh and threw himself down in his own customary chair by the fire, his hand trailing past mine in what had once been a familiar gesture, carefully planned to appear entirely incidental. He wriggled into his chair and let out a quiet sigh of contentment, but which seemed to take some of his excitement with it.

Softly, he remarked, “I believed I would never set foot here again.”

I reached out and brushed my hand against his in a clumsy imitation of the subtle gesture that he had perfected. “I feared it too, and I can think of no greater fortune than that we were both mistaken.”

“Yes, perhaps it is not such a bad thing to be wrong upon occasion, though I do not intend to make a habit of it,” he said, his wry humor returned.

Mrs. Hudson took the opportunity to make her presence known once more. “Pardon me Mr. Holmes, but I feel I ought to tell you that there was a break-in not long after your departure, that August, I believe. There were a few papers out of place, but the only thing that seemed to be missing is whatever was in here.” She handed Holmes a small, well-worn case. “I would not have noticed it at all, but that I found it that morning, open on the side table. Inspector Lestrade was kind enough to come by and investigate, but he never found who did it.”

Holmes held up the case, turning it this way and that, to examine it. “Thank you for bringing this most intriguing matter to our attention.”

“If anyone can get to the bottom of it, even with the trail now three years cold, I am certain it would be you, Mr. Holmes,” she said and took her leave.

Only then did Holmes turn to me with a questioning, but not unsympathetic eye; of course, he missed nothing.

“I only did not mean to worry Mrs. Hudson after she has done so much for us already,” I said. “I know that case. It held the medal that I received for my troubles at Maiwand. It was only a campaign medal—more than I deserved and more reminder than I wanted. I do not know what anyone else would want with it. Plainly it must not have been Professor Moriarty—J-M—or any other agent of the institute, as was my first thought.”

“No, indeed not,” Holmes said, apparently already turning the problem in his mind, envisioning possibilities which I could hardly begin to imagine. Then, abruptly, his gaze seemed to focus once more. “That is precisely why one must not theorize until one has acquired all the facts. For the present, I believe some luncheon is in order; if I am not mistaken, that is Mrs. Hudson returning upon the stair now.”

Beneath his airy manner, I saw a lingering glimmer of concern in his gaze, which I answered with an assuring hand upon his arm.

It was some nights later. The two of us were sprawled across the bed which had once been mine, my nose in the crook of his neck and our limbs intertwined, just shy of a jumble of sharp joints. It was very late in the evening, but I was only just beginning to doze, and I could feel the rise and fall of his chest beneath my arm a little faster than fully at rest.

We both heard it at the same time; a soft thud in the room below. Immediately I felt both of our muscles tense, my ears alert to the slightest sound. We exchanged a glance in the dark.

He went first, sliding silently out of bed with catlike grace, and I carefully followed, trying as I might not to make a sound. Side-by-side we padded to the stairs and crept down to the sitting room; as we approached I could make out the quiet, but definite sound of something stirring below.

At the foot of the stairs, we exchanged another quick glance and Holmes threw open the door. Standing in the middle of the sitting room were a pair of dark figures, one nearly as tall as Holmes and one shorter than myself. Their eyes landed upon us for but an instant before the taller one grabbed the shorter by the arm and pulled him across the room to the open window. We both sprang after them as they slipped through and we only reached it just in time to see them leap to the ground and run off, down the street, and into the night.

Holmes pulled up the rope ladder by which they had entered and escaped our rooms and busied himself with examining it as I lit the gas—sleep was now the furthest thought from either of our minds.

In the dim glow, I saw a glint of metal upon the mantle which had not been there before. “What’s this? I don’t believe it; it’s my old army medal. Do you think they were returning it?”

Holmes swept up behind me to examine the old thing, which I now held in my hands. It showed some signs of age, but it was more well kept than I had ever seen it; it had been polished until it shone.

“Excellent, Watson!” Holmes said wryly. “Tell me, did you recognize our young intruders—surely they must not have been older than twenty.”

“They did seem young,” I acknowledged—my joints would hardly have taken so kindly to a leap from a ladder at that height, but I had little doubt that Holmes could have managed it. “But no, I could not say I recognized them, surely not all in black as they were, with even their faces covered. Were they familiar to you?”

“I only wondered if they might have been among the young subjects—my so-called relations. You are correct, it seems unlikely that the timing of the theft is such a coincidence, and I can think of few others who might be so inclined to steal an object of little monetary value, and then, years later, think to return it upon discovering that I had indeed come back and might miss it.”

I confess that I only heard half of Holmes’s explanation as the figures of our intruders suddenly became familiar to me. “It was Mr. Raffles and Mr. Manders, I must have been blind not to see it from the first! The others avoid each other if they can, and both of them still live in London; Mr. Raffles has gained some notoriety as an amateur cricketer and now resides at the Albany.”

To my surprise, it was that last point which arrested Holmes’s attention. “The Albany? This appears to be a deeper matter than I thought. He has no source of income?”

“No, not that I know of, but I have not seen Mr. Raffles or Mr. Manders for some time.”

“They could hardly afford such an esteemed residence on what income brother Mycroft has set aside for them, and I expect they no longer take it, not when they have shown their proclivities for another line of work. Come, John, it is back to bed with us,” he declared, slinging an arm around my waist to steer me back to the stairs, “tomorrow we pay a visit to the Albany.”

From only a glance, it was apparent that Mr. Raffles’s rooms at the Albany were far more opulent and more orderly than our rooms on Baker Street. We were greeted by the young Mr. Raffles himself; now nearly as tall as Holmes, he could have passed for my friend’s brother more easily than Holmes’s actual brother. Beside him was the slight, innocent-faced Mr. Manders, who has been Mr. Raffles’s constant companion for as long as I had known them.

“Good morning, Dr. Watson, and it is a pleasure to meet you again, Mr. Holmes,” Mr. Raffles greeted us cheerfully, looking every part the languid young gentleman, but there was a sharp incisiveness in his eyes, more steely than Holmes’s own keen glint, which suggested a deeper purpose.

“It is our pleasure,” Holmes answered easily, but I knew that he was playing the same game.

Mr. Raffles invited us into the sitting room and as we all made ourselves comfortable, he asked, “What is it that brings you here so suddenly? I thought you were still on the continent, chasing after our esteemed creators.”

“I have decided to return to London at last, and I thought I ought to see how my young relations are making do.” I could hear the pointedness of each word behind Holmes’s false levity.

“We’re fine, we don’t need any more of your help,” Mr. Manders insisted, nervously perched on the edge of his chair.

“Bunny, would you get us something to drink?” Mr. Raffles said sharply, and I could hardly blame him for trying to get his excitable companion out of the way—even I was not certain what Holmes intended to accomplish.

Mr. Manders deflated a little at the request and reluctantly stood to get the decanter, while Mr. Raffles’s attention returned to Holmes.

“What Bunny means to say,” Mr. Raffles continued, “is that we appreciate you and your brother’s assistance, but as you can see, we’re quite comfortable.”

“Yes, Watson tells me you are an amateur cricketer,” Holmes said, just shy of mocking.

“I am,” Mr. Raffles acknowledged proudly—perhaps too proudly.

“And the rest?” Holmes gestured at our opulent surroundings.

“Oh, a bit of this and a bit of that,” Mr. Raffles said with a shrug, but his intent gaze, affixed on Holmes, suggested otherwise. “I would offer to show you the books, but I’m afraid they’re all in disarray.”

“A pity.”

Mr. Manders came around with glasses, but Holmes and Mr. Raffles largely ignored him, both occupied with attempting to stare the other down, at once imperious and defiant.

When he reached me, I thanked him a little pointedly, and asked, “How have you been?”

“Fine,” Mr. Manders insisted, still a little rattled. “I don’t see why the sudden inquisition.”

“It is only that we are concerned,” I attempted to explain gently without giving up Holmes’s game—especially as both he and Mr. Raffles were watching us both now. “I know it may be easy to forget all the ways that the world outside is very different from the Institute.” I glanced at Holmes, hoping he might heed my words as well.

“And nowhere are actions without consequences,” he added severely, but I thought his gaze had softened a little. Then, suddenly, he stood. “Come, Watson, I believe we have intruded for long enough.”

I hastily followed him, and Mr. Raffles and Mr. Manders stood to see us out.

“You are always welcome, Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson,” Mr. Raffles said graciously, but it sounded like a challenge.

“Thank you,” I said, lingering a little longer at the door, “it was good to see you both again, just be careful because Holmes is not wrong.”

“Good day, Dr. Watson,” Mr. Raffles said, proud defiance in his eyes.

I shook hands with Mr. Raffles and Mr. Manders, and then followed Holmes back out into the bright day.

Chapter Text

1895

I sleep lightly and so a sudden movement was more than enough to jar me into awareness.

It was still dark. Outside the wind howled and rattled against the windows, but inside the bedroom still and silent but for the narrow figure beside me, sitting upright in bed, his knees drawn up to his chest. He breathed heavily, as though from some great exertion.

“Sherlock,” I whispered, pushing myself upright to join him.

He turned as though startled, his eyes wide.

Cautiously, I rested a hand upon his back, just in between his sharp shoulder blades, and he leaned in to the touch. His nightgown felt damp with sweat—I did not need to ask to know what had awoken him on this blustery night.

I rubbed gentle circles into his tense muscles, hoping that the slow, rhythmic motion might somehow help assuage his fears and draw him back to the present from depths of his past. He drew nearer with each motion, tilting toward me until he settled with his back against my chest, his head resting against my shoulder. I enfolded him in my arms, and my lips brushed the top of his head, his hair in downy disarray.

“It was V—V-H,” he said, his voice so low that I could just barely hear him above the wind. “It is always the same; I am always too late.”

I drew him closer, tightening my arms around him, as though I could do anything to protect him.

“It always ends the same. I believe I will never forget how I found him; the cell splattered with his blood…” He turned his head against my neck, as though trying to look away from the memory which had seared itself into his mind, more vividly than the fading brand upon his shoulder.

I cradled his head against my chest and ran my fingers through his hair and down his neck, in what I hoped was a soothing motion.

He let out a low, choking laugh. “That is all I remember; the rest is but a hazy nightmare, frantically searching, and then-” He did not need to finish the sentence. “It all seemed to come back to me while we were there, but now I can hardly remember what he was like in life; a hearty laugh, a wry joke even against hopeless odds, all hazy. His whole life is now naught but an impression, like memorized facts; hiding and fighting and scheming, as we must have done, but which I can only just recall,” he concluded bitterly.

“That is the way of memories of childhood,” I said gently, thinking distantly of my own faded memories.

I felt him turn sharply against my chest. “We were never children, we only appeared to be.” I could hear all of the regrets, lingering beneath his words, unspoken; all of the guilt which he bore upon his narrow shoulders.

I held onto him tighter still, as though somehow I might share some part of his burden and bring him some respite. He shifted in my arms, unfurling his long legs to intertwine with mine, and extending his arms to hold me in return. We gradually slid back down, to huddle beneath the heavy quilt, his head resting upon my chest and his meagre weight sprawled more across me than upon the bed. Outside the wind raged and howled, but I held him safe and warm, and hoped that would be enough to weather the storm.

As his breathing slowed, and I began to wonder if he might return to sleep, I heard him murmur, “Thank you, John.”

Chapter Text

1896

“There are no crimes and no criminals left in London,” I declared querulously; I could feel the old restlessness burning through my veins, so much that my hand twitched with it, drumming incessantly against the arm of my chair.

Even through the chemical induced haze—now on account of a lack, rather than a supplement—I could but admire Watson’s patience as he quietly put aside his book and met my withering gaze with quiet exasperation. “I am certain something will come along, and even if it does not, I have no doubt that you will manage; this will pass.”

“Tell me, Watson, what am I without my work? When there is no more use for me, why should I not give in to the transcendence of mental exaltation?”

“Because your life is worth more than that,” he said with some vehemence, though his ire soon faded. “Whatever work you undertake is of little consequence in comparison.”

I shook my head and tutted. “You forget that mine is not a human life, but that of a creature created toward an end.”

“Holmes.” Watson met my nervous gaze and held it fast. “Your ‘creators’ may have decided that you are not a man to assuage their consciences, but it is in truth not their decision to make; you are as much a man as I, and I am grateful, as all of London should be, that you have forsaken the purpose which they laid out for you.” Having said his piece, he tentatively reached out and rested a hand upon my own.

At last, I turned away with a shake of my head, unable to hold his gaze any longer, but I did not remove my hand.

“Come, Holmes,” Watson said with a bit of forced cheer, “perhaps a walk will do you good, and we could go to see about that peculiar disappearance on Fleet Street which has been all over the papers.”

I gave a dismissive wave, but allowed Watson to urge me to my feet, help me into my coat, and lead the way out the door.

By the time we arrived upon Fleet Street, my spirits had greatly recovered and it was with some humor that I remarked, “From the account in the papers alone, embellished though it may be, the matter presents itself plainly enough that there can hardly be any need for my services; after all, when a man, now missing, was definitively last seen entering some establishment, there can be little doubt that something of consequence occurred within. I am certain the officials have it all squared away and all that remains is perhaps a few formalities.” Having concluded, I then strode across to the lone officer standing watch at the front of the aforementioned establishment, and Watson followed after me with something of a smile.

As we approached, I took note of the establishment itself, which had garnered such notoriety of late. From a brief perusal, it appeared to be nothing more than an ordinary barber’s shop, with a long white and red striped pole out front, and the name “Sweeny Todd” over the door, accompanied by a simple couplet advertising a shave for a penny. Otherwise, there was no dressing in the windows boasting his wears; in fact, with the door shut, it was impossible to see inside at all—a most suggestive feature, if not conclusive.

To the officer by the door, I said, “Has an arrest been made yet?”

The man began to warn me that if I was not there for a shave, my time would be better spent elsewhere, but once he had been made aware of my identity and purpose, he quickly became agreeable and replied, “My apologies Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson, I didn’t realize it was you, but perhaps it’s a good thing. I don’t know it all, of course, but it seems the fellow inside is a tough nut to crack, if you get my meaning. There’s something not right here, but unless the Inspector is keeping it tight, they haven’t an inkling what.”

“Thank you, officer,” I said, giving him a coin for his troubles, “I believe we will take a look around and see if we uncover anything which may shine a little light on this murky affair.” With that, I looped my arm back through Watson’s, and with his assent, we went into the barber’s shop.

The first thing which struck me was how it seemed to be smaller on the inside than the shopfront had appeared from the exterior—another suggestive point. There was only one chair, and no space for a man to sit while he waited.

Not that Watson and I had any time to wait, for we were immediately accosted by a most unfortunate man, who presented himself as the owner of the establishment. “Good afternoon gentlemen, are you here for a shave?” He gave a gruesome smile and let out a sharp rasping noise, which gave both Watson and myself a start.

It was little wonder that this man had earned the scorn and suspicion of his neighbors from his appearances alone, which suggested the vilest of natures. Such suspicion could itself be enough to drive a man to crime, but I had also known many an unfortunate man wrongly suspected on account of his visage, and some who, despite all appearances, had made themselves friends to all.

So, it was without prejudice that I answered, “No, thank you, Mr. Todd. We are here on the behalf of the official force to see if we may uncover some clue which they have missed in the matter of the disappearance of Mr. Thornhill.”

His unpleasant features betrayed a deep displeasure. “I have no choice but to let you look, but you have my word that there is nothing to find.”

“That may be so, but I have often been able to find that which others overlook. Do not trouble yourself Mr. Todd; it will be as though we are not here at all.”

With that, I removed my magnifying glass, and began a minute survey of the barber’s shop. It was in most respects ordinary, perhaps remarkably plain, with few features worthy of particular remark. The thing which most immediately struck me as noteworthy was the singular chair, in which would sit the barber’s lone client. It was fastened to the ground, with a most peculiar mechanism which included a hinge, and perhaps some weights.

I believe it was shortly after I made some quiet exclamation to such an effect that, suddenly, there came a mechanical sound, and the ground vanished beneath my feet. At that same instant, the chair above me swung precariously and it was only on account of my falling through a gap in the floor that it did not strike me with some violence.

By some fortuitous reflex, I managed to catch myself upon the opening into which I had fallen, my fingers clinging to the floor above even as I felt the mechanism struggling against them to slide shut once more. I dangled inside a long, wide chute, which seemed to open into some larger area below—I dared not test the fall.

“Watson!” I called out, but my own cry was quickly overtaken by a shout above.

Echoing in the hard walls of the chute, I could hear the sounds of a struggle. It was easy enough to know what had happened; after disposing of myself, Mr. Todd had gone for Watson, but had found him a much fiercer opponent than expected, but by the sounds of the fight Mr. Todd was also a more dangerous man than he looked. I struggled to pull myself up and come to Watson’s aid, but I could not get enough of a hold to lift myself out.

At last, it came to silence.

I heard the victor’s footsteps fast approaching the spot where I dangled from the floor—it seemed I had not been forgotten, for better or for worse.

Then, to my great relief, I heard my name in a familiar voice, and a pair of well-worn hands reached down into the dark to help pull me back up.

Between our combined efforts, I found myself back upon solid ground, the trapdoor through which I had fallen gone without a trace. Watson crouched beside me, gently examining my battered hands and sore arms.

Before I had the chance to ask the same of him, he said, “Holmes, what happened, are you unhurt?”

“Yes, I am fine, but for a small misadventure. It appears there is truly more to this place than can be seen from the first glance. And you, Watson, you did not suffer too much at the hands of Mr. Todd?”

“No, only bruised. He came up from behind me—it was only on account of your shout that I turned soon enough to catch the blow before he struck me down. His strength was something terrible, but I was able to wrest the weapon from his grasp and so subdue him; the officer has him now, though such a peculiar turn of events seems hardly fit to put before a judge, and I would have called the notion of such a trap door impossible, had you not nearly gone down it.”

“It is only improbable,” I corrected him, winning a fond smile, “and our accounts will not be unsubstantiated. I fear this is a deep business indeed.”

Watson kindly helped me to my feet, and followed my lead to the back room into which I had seen Mr. Todd slip out of the corner of my eye as I had been examining the chair. The door was still open. Inside was a small, ordinary room, lined with cupboards which I minutely examined, less for their contents, which were the ordinary effects of Mr. Todd’s trade and station, some perhaps speaking to a more liberal lifestyle than his trade suggested, rather my true interest was in the woodwork around them. I knocked at the wall, until at last I found where it produced a hollow sound. There, I pulled to reveal a doorway, which opened to a stone stairwell, leading down into the dark below.

“That must lead to where you fell, but why all this?” Watson muttered.

I only motioned for us to continue on, holding the lantern aloft so that we might see a little ways into the darkness. Together we descended into the cold, musty cellar. As we went deeper, the air seemed to gain a peculiar odor, which became increasingly rancid as we neared the source. Watson and I exchanged a glance, our fears already confirmed.

At the bottom, we came into a large, empty stone chamber, like the pit of an oubliette, with a narrow chute for an entrance hewn into the stone above. There were dark splatters on the inside of the pit, of blood long since dried, but at the moment it was empty of any unsuspecting victim. Instead, the stench seemed to emanate from a passageway beyond, and I also noted a door, set into the far wall.

We edged around the room, and in the spirit of thoroughness—and perhaps to delay the inevitable—I first tried the door. To my surprise, it led not to some storage closet, but to another chamber, cold like an icebox. By the light of the lantern, we could see that it was arranged like a butcher’s workroom, with a large counter in the center, arrayed with blocks of meat; slabs of muscle, ribs, even limbs.

Watson beside me let out a choking cry, as I stared, horribly transfixed by the tale laid out before us.

I could only murmur, the thought only half formed even as my mind raced to put all of the pieces together, to make some sense out of the horror, “As though they were not even human…”

At last, holding tightly to one another, as though feeling the presence of another living, breathing person might obviate even some of what we had just seen, we emerged from that dark cellar to warn the officials of what we had found below.

Chapter Text

1897

Someone at the Scotland Yard—he had a strong suspicion of Inspector Gregson, who had then not even bothered to attend—had suggested that the young, up and coming Inspectors should have an informal opportunity to learn from their superiors about the tricks of their trade. It was a perfectly fine and good idea, but somehow it had fallen to Inspector Lestrade to organize one such gathering on top of his usual caseload. So, he kept it simple—after all, what could be more informal than going to a pub not far from the Yard to unwind after a hard day’s work.

 Lestrade got the table, and was eventually joined by six more detectives; a perfectly decent showing, if he said so himself. Four he recognized as particularly promising young detectives, and one an experienced officer of his own stripe—Lestrade would not admit to higher.

The last was unfamiliar to him; a refined man whose accent, slight though it was, proclaimed him to be a Frenchman, who said as he sat down, “Thank you for permitting me to come along and share in your custom. I am Aristide Valentin of the Paris police, in London on official business. If I may ask, are you the Inspector Lestrade famous for collaborating with Mr. Sherlock Holmes?”

Lestrade was not not sure of M. Valentin’s tone, but he acknowledged, “I have worked with Mr. Holmes on occasion. Did you have the chance to meet him when he was in Paris in service of the French government?”

“No, but your point is well taken,” M. Valentin said with a gracious smile.

“And not all of us at the Scotland Yard need to turn to amateurs,” Inspector Mackenzie put in gruffly—Lestrade was surprised to see the large Scottsman there at all. “It’s said that even the famed Mr. Holmes tried his hand at stopping the thefts of the infamous A.J. Raffles, but in the end all it took was a bit of persistence.”

M. Valentin raised his glass to Inspector Mackenzie. “Word of your apprehension of ‘the greatest jewel thieves of the century’ was all over the papers even in France.”

“It’s not quite France,” Inspector James Japp was the first of the young inspectors to speak up, “but I ended up in Belgium on a case a few months ago, and I was working with this funny little police detective, who may well be the cleverest man I ever met. He’s pretty green still, but I wonder if he couldn’t give Mr. Holmes a run for his money one day.”

“Mr. Holmes has some competition in England too,” Inspector Jones put in. “While he was away those few years ago, I was trying to bust that crooked financier, Mr. Montague-Todd, and Dr. Watson introduced me to some young cousin of Mr. Holmes, who was able to get a situation as the man’s valet. I’ve never seen a more efficient bit of work in my life. He really looked the part; just about blended into the wallpaper, and by the time we were ready to come in for the arrest, he had everything in perfect order. I’ve never had anything go so smoothly. I have to wonder what he’s doing now.”

“It must run in the family,” the young Inspector Henry Clithering mused with a smile. “I wasn’t too proud to go to Mr. Holmes when I had a particularly tough case a few months back that I hoped he might take an interest in. Another cousin of his; a very prim, but absent-minded young lady, I thought, was over for tea. She stayed to listen through the case, and with Mr. Holmes’s permission, went ahead and solved it right then and there. I’d never been so floored in my life.”

“It is not just Mr. Holmes’s relations, it seems that everyone is a detective these days,” the young Inspector Winkfiled said. “I was investigating a death at one of those old manor houses; a dinner party gone awry. It was a delicate situation, and this very slight, nervous young man—I thought the wind might blow him over—came over to me and absolutely insisted I look into the young gentleman of the house’s room, with no explanation at all, only that he had a feeling. The young gentleman was away and could have had nothing to do with the case, but whatever it was that gave him that feeling, he was right on it.”

To the surprise of the others, M. Valentin chuckled. “What is in your English water? It was just the other day; I thought it must have been a fluke, but now I see that it is everywhere. Now that it is resolved, I can say that I am here in pursuit of the infamous international thief, M. Flambeau. On the way to London, I met this young, absent-minded village priest on his way to the Eucharistic Congress, who it seemed needed a miracle just to keep his head on. Somehow he had been entrusted with a very valuable jeweled cross, which Flambeau had of course gotten wind of, but by the time my men caught up to them, I was astonished to find that the little priest had outwitted Flambeau and he was the one who had led us to them, all by the means of skills he claimed to have learned at the confessional.”

Lestrade shook his head in disbelief. “With all these amateurs, if we’re not careful, we’ll all soon be out of a job.”

Chapter Text

1898

It was a quiet afternoon. I sat upon the settee, ostensibly reading some new paperback, while Holmes reclined across it, his head upon my lap and his feet dangling off the far end, engrossed in the morning edition of the paper, which he had arranged precisely where I would have liked to hold my novel. However, it was not such an interesting read, and any irritation was far outweighed by the relief which I felt at Holmes apparently contentedly taking the time to rest between cases, as his health continued to recover from the brink of disaster some months before.

I switched the paperback between my hands again to keep either one from getting too sore, and let my now free hand fall beneath Holmes’s papers where it just brushed the top of his head. He shifted a little into my touch, deftly turned back the page without quite knocking the book from my hand, and continued reading.

When next I glanced down, Holmes had put the paper aside. He was gazing up at the ceiling, apparently lost in thought, and I meant to return to my book and leave him to it, when he met my eyes. He regarded me with some warmth, but his expression was a rueful one, and it seemed to be with some resignation that he pushed himself upright.

“I regret, Watson, that I have again only told you half of the truth, in this instance not out of a desire to mislead, but because I did not think that the other half would be of any consequence.”

“What is it?” I asked with some urgency.

He rested a reassuring hand upon my thigh, as to keep me from leaping to my feet. “I doubt that it will come to anything, but it troubles me all the same; the professor has been released from prison on good behavior.”

“You cannot mean Professor Moriarty? Was he not in truth an agent of the Institute, and  now rests at the bottom of Reichenbach Falls?”

“Indeed there was no more a Professor Moriarty than a Victor Trevor. Subject J-M identified himself as James Moriarty and pursued us to Switzerland where he met his fate. However, he did not have the time to establish himself as a professor or a Napoleon of crime; he and S-M had only been sent to retrieve Mycroft and myself, and that was all.”

“But you mean to say that there was such a professor?”

“Precisely, Watson, your talent for deduction improves with every day.”

I flushed at the compliment, though I knew it to be exaggeration.

“Surely you must have wondered, Watson, why I suggested that you describe the agent of my fictive demise as an esteemed professor of mathematics with a criminal empire that begins to rival the troops of Napoleon. It is not, I regret to say, that you have swayed me to your love of all that is dramatic and romantic. I suggested this improbable professor because I knew him; it was he who I knew by his Greuze, and matters had even gone so far that he had sent some of his forces against me, but for all of my efforts, he was not arrested until some time after my own departure.”

“Do you think he will come after you again now that he is free?”

“Always reliable, Watson,” Holmes said lightly, but I could see that he was touched by my emphatic concern. “In truth, you flatter me; I was but a fly in the ear of an elephant, and his efforts but a distracted swat. The trouble in catching him was more technicality than mystery, and I, preoccupied, only dabbled in the case. It is but a small footnote which I uncovered in my brief investigative efforts that troubles me now; among his other criminal efforts, he had some small interest in the Prometheus Institute.”

That final pronouncement stopped me cold. “He was involved in the Institute?”

“Only financially—what a better investment for a man in his line of work than special-made muscle? However, he is not the only one liable to be released on good behavior; the charges against those who were truly responsible were substantially limited in the spirit of secrecy, and they are clever enough that it is unlikely that they will remain to serve out their full terms.”

“Do you think they may attempt to recreate the Institute?”

“Not within this lifetime. With neither their records nor the fruits of their efforts thus far, they would need to start again from the beginning, and it is our hope that the sheer dimension of such a task would be enough to dissuade them, old as they are, and having been defeated once in their efforts already. However, I fear that it is not an impossibility.”

Of course Holmes was afraid of such a prospect. “Is there anything that can be done to keep them from being released?”

“No, it was only by the will of Mycroft that they were imprisoned at all without revealing the extent of what they had done. He can monitor them, that is all.”

I took both of Holmes’s hands firmly in my own in an attempt at a silent reassurance. His eyes met mine, uncertain, but with a spark of defiance in their silvery depths. I did not require his power of deduction to know that the same thought echoed in both of our minds; a promise of safety that neither of us could truly guarantee, but which we would each do anything to make a reality.

“It is hardly fair that you may again be subjected to such a risk on my account.” A question lurked beneath Holmes’s words.

My hold upon his hands tightened unthinkingly. “I would take much worse odds if I could ensure that you were not subjected to it.”

A smile flitted across his thin lips, though I could still see a lingering uncertainty.

I withdrew one of my hands so that I might raise it to his cheek. “You know that there has been no greater fortune in my life than making your acquaintance all those years ago.”

He swiftly bent down to brush his lips against mine in a silent expression of all the feeling I could see subtly written across his features, and then just as quickly returned upright.

“I am certain you will find that all the fortune has been mine,” he said with a wry smile, raising a long, delicate hand to my cheek in turn.

I could but give a low chuckle and drew him down upon the settee, so that I might kiss him properly, concealed behind its back. For a moment, we remained, grinning flushed and breathless, and then wiser heads prevailed and I again sat upright and Holmes rested his head upon my thigh, and we each resumed our reading, with perhaps a few more quiet words between us.

Chapter Text

1899

It had been three days since Holmes had last eaten and I could not say with confidence that he had slept at all in that time.

 Now we were crouched in the dark, chilly evening, with Inspector Lestrade and half a dozen of his men, hiding behind the hedgerows as we waited for a man to emerge from a darkened house. Like a bloodhound on the scent, Holmes sat alert, prepared for the suspect to make his egress at any moment. His body seemed to tremble, I suspected not with the thrill of the chase, but with the cold, which permeated deeper the thinner he became, and seemed to turn his already pale features to ice. His hands were clasped tightly in front of him as though that might protect them from the chill.

I did not notice any movement from the house until Holmes leaped to his feet and sprung forward—the chase was on.

I scrambled to my feet at the same time as all of the officers, and we all rushed toward the figures already racing across the lawn; I after Holmes and the rest after the suspect. Holmes was the nearest to their quarry, but I hoped he would not be the first to encounter the desperate man.

Fortunately, Inspector Lestrade had planned it well, and as Holmes and I closed in from behind, more men came at him from the front, and in but a minute, the suspect was duly restrained, and Holmes had but to explain the last of his reasoning to Inspector Lestrade—seeing the suspect, I believed I knew how his logic had gone. 

As Holmes spoke urgently with the inspector, I stopped and caught my breath; the case had been a trying one for us both, and I was relieved that we might now return to Baker Street unharmed, to resume the course of rest which Holmes had been prescribed.

The denouncement complete, Holmes was just going over the few final details that remained for the prosecution when I saw him begin to falter. It was as though he were beginning to fall in slow motion, wavering one way and then the other. This was what I had been watching for through our nighttime vigil. I swept in before he could stumble, catching him with an arm across his back and another out so that he could take it to steady himself—he braced himself heavily upon my shoulder. His eyes opened and closed a few times and I could see that they were out of focus.

“What happened?” Inspector Lestrade immediately glanced at the still restrained suspect.

I shook my head as Holmes attempted to wave off the inspector’s concerns. “I am surprised it did not happen sooner. We only need to return to Baker Street; Holmes just requires rest.” Or so I hoped.

Again, I appreciated Inspector Lestrade’s efficiency, as he asked no more questions and instead called for one of his officers to find a cab to take us home.

“I am fine, Watson,” Holmes endeavored to insist, but he did not loosen his grip upon my shoulder.

“With a little rest,” I said, my tone more dire than encouraging.

A cab soon arrived, and I helped Holmes inside. It did not take long at all for him to give in to the exhaustion that had rapidly come to replace the effects of adrenaline; he dozed heavily upon my shoulder. I checked his pulse and monitored his breathing; slow and shallow, but I did not believe dangerously so.

It was already late and the flat was silent and dark when we arrived. With some difficulty, I roused him and helped him up the stairs and into his own bedroom. I did not bother to do more than discard his outermost layers; shoes, gloves, hat, and coat, before letting him lie upon the sheets and bundling him up in as many blankets as I could find—and still, his cheek was deathly cold to the touch. Food would wait until tomorrow, for now I hoped that rest would be enough.

Even so, I did not dare leave him alone for the night in case his condition worsened. I hastily changed into my nightgown, and taking a blanket from the bed upstairs, I lay down beside him, so that he might easily rouse me, and perhaps my warmth might even reach him beneath the blankets and speed his recovery from the chill of the night.

Curled up beside him, all I could see of my dear Holmes was the thick outline of what may as well have been a pile of quilts and blankets and, peeking out above them, his head upon the pillow; his narrow, colorless features seemed to glow like a ghost in the darkness.

I should not have let his condition deteriorate so far…

—

For all of my restless thoughts, I must have fallen into a slumber, for I awoke in the morning, very warm, but rested.

I sloughed off my blanket, and pressed a hand to Holmes’s cheek, which had now gained some color, and found it feverish to the touch—it was not a surprising reaction after overexerting himself to such an extent. His breathing appeared somewhat shallow, but steady, and I could feel his pulse in his neck, quiet, but faster than resting. He stirred a little at my touch, but not enough to draw him into wakefulness—I would be forced to rouse him soon enough.

What Holmes needed most urgently was water. I hastened to retrieve a glass and then, kneeling upon the bed beside him, with a hand upon his back, gently lifted his torso so that he could sit upright against some pillows. His eyes fluttered open and he gave a quiet sound, which did not quite coalesce into words.

“You need water, and then you should rest,” I said softly.

He gave a cautious nod, and his glassy eyes seemed sufficiently focused to suggest that he truly had understood.

I carefully handed him the glass and he slowly tipped it back. He finished that glass and then another before his eyes fell shut once more, and I helped him lie back down beneath the blankets. He gave my hand a final squeeze, before he fell again into a deep sleep.

Once I was certain that Holmes was comfortable, I went upstairs to dress and shave for what I expected would be a long, if quiet day, looking after my sole, dear patient.

When I was ready, I rang for breakfast, which Mrs. Hudson soon brought up with a sympathetic word. “Mr. Holmes has fallen ill again, has he? If I may say, he really must take better care of himself; he is not so young as he once was. It was very kind of you to watch him through the night again.”

“It was the least that I could do, seeing as I cannot stop him from using himself up so freely,” I said with a sigh.

“The only one who can stop that is Mr. Holmes.”

“You are right, of course, but I would have hoped…” I had selfishly hoped that Holmes might spare himself for my sake, and I had succeeded at weaning him from his dependence upon cocaine and morphine, but his work was another matter.

Mrs. Hudson nodded in understanding. “It is not too late.”

“No, it is not too late yet.” But I wondered how long Holmes might last like this.

Mrs. Hudson soon after took her leave as I, preoccupied, set about my breakfast.

I let Holmes sleep through the morning as I attempted to read, and failing that, perused some of my old medical journals on the pretense that it might be of use—though none of it addressed the ailment of a stubborn patient.

It was after lunch that I asked Mrs. Hudson to bring up something light with which I might endeavor to entice Holmes to take some badly needed nutrition.

He is ordinarily a light sleeper as I am, but in evidence of his exhaustion, he did not stir until I sat down upon the bed beside him. His eyes were still glassy, but he met my gaze and offered some assistance as I helped him upright so that he might drink some more water.

Once he had drank and removed some of the roughness of disuse from his voice, he remarked, “My apologies, John, that you should see me like this again.”

“I have seen worse,” I answered, “and that should be the least of your concerns.”

A thin smile crossed his lips. “You are right, but my apology remains. Dr. Agar warned that I would suffer an absolute breakdown if I did not change my ways, and I am in no position to fault his prognosis. I hoped that merely taking on fewer cases of particular interest would be enough, but plainly I was mistaken, and I expect that I am only fortunate that you were able to prevent my condition from becoming even worse.”

I shook my head and was about to argue, but Holmes raised a hand to forestall me and I relented so as not to trouble my patient. Instead, I helped him to some of the food which Mrs. Hudson had provided, and then, when he had his fill, saw that he was comfortable and allowed him to return to sleep.

The following afternoon, I was again endeavoring to read in the sitting room so as not to disturb Holmes’s much needed rest, when I heard some movement in the other room. I put my book aside and hastened to my feet to go to Holmes’s side and see what it was that he required. However, I had only taken a step or two when the bedroom door opened and he emerged, wearing his old purple dressing gown.

His step was still a far cry from his confident stride, and there remained a distinct pallour to his complexion, but his gaze was no longer glassy and his gait did not falter as he crossed the sitting room to meet me. I extended an arm around his waist to support him, and he took my other hand and pressed to his lips; his skin was still warm to the touch, but no longer burning.

“Good morning, Holmes,” I said, though it was well past noon.

“Good afternoon,” he answered perfunctorily, and I could see the amusement dancing in his eyes; the familiar sight came as a welcome relief. As if in reply to my thoughts he said, “There is no cause for concern, my dear Watson; you yourself have seen to it that I am rested and fed, and want for nothing.”

I gave him a pointed look, but I fear I only betrayed my lingering concerns.

He pressed my hand again, and I understood the unspoken apology.

I helped him to the settee, where he stretched out his languid figure; I could see that he was already worn from the mere exertion of coming out into the sitting room. He was correct, all he needed was rest. I returned to my chair and resumed my reading as he dozed upon the settee.

It was shortly after that there came a knock upon the door. Holmes stirred as I stood, prepared to send anyone away, whatever their station; he was hardly in a state to receive another client.

At the door was a tall, broad-shouldered young man, who respectfully tipped his bowler hat at me. “Good afternoon, Dr. Watson. Mr. Wooster generously granted me the afternoon off, so I wondered if I might be of service to you and Mr. Holmes.”

“Jeeves, it is always a pleasure to see you.” I welcomed him into the sitting room and offered him Holmes’s usual chair by the fireplace—Holmes had propped himself upright upon the settee to examine our guest. “I was just about to ring for tea.”

 As I went to call for Mrs. Hudson, Holmes remarked, perhaps a little too incisively, “I perceive that Mr. Wooster’s lifestyle suits you well.”

“It suits me as well as any,” Jeeves replied, with the barest suggestion of a pointed remark.

“I only regret that there is currently no case to which you might lend your abilities,” I interjected, returning to my own chair.

“Yes, I was aware of Mr. Holmes’s present condition, and have come to provide any assistance you may require.”

“Thank you, that is most kind of you. I forget that like Holmes you observe all.”

Holmes gave a dismissive gesture. “It is little mystery that servants talk among themselves; a fact which I have found indispensable in the solution of many a case.”

Despite Holmes’s response, I could still a touch of pride in Jeeves’s otherwise impassive expression.

It was then that Mrs. Hudson arrived with the tea, and Jeeves, never entirely off duty, immediately stood to serve it. It was truly more of a light luncheon than a tea, which was just what Holmes needed—so long as he partook in it.

“Thank you, Mrs. Hudson,” I said.

“It is my pleasure, especially for such generous company,” she said with a grateful nod to Jeeves, and then took her leave.

“There is no cause for concern, Watson,” Holmes said when she was gone, pointedly lifting a sandwich from the plate.

“If you will pardon my saying, Mr. Holmes, a lapse in health is dangerous indeed,” Jeeves said, having returned to his seat, and there was something unusual in his tone, more deliberate than sympathetic.

Holmes answered with a rueful smile, “Yes, but failure is even more dangerous.”

His meaning I understood well enough to protest, “Holmes!”

“You are correct, Watson; the danger to my health is the more immediate concern, but the consequences of failure are difficult to forget, and even in success we could have no greater value than to make ourselves useful.”

Jeeves inclined his head in assent. “To be of service.”

“And yet,” Holmes said, covering my hand with his, “I have had the fortune to find that there are some things more important than mere work. I only regret that it has taken me so long.”

“Indeed,” Jeeves replied, doubtless thinking of his own fortune.

Chapter Text

1900

I felt blindly around the stems and leaves in the dark, carefully endeavoring not to crush the delicate flowers, still in bloom. My hand padded across soft dirt in search of hard metal.

“My apologies, my dear Watson,” I said, “it was careless of me.”

A few feet away, Watson likewise knelt upon the ground, searching through the flowerbeds. Glancing up from his task in exasperation, he said, “Whatever made you think to hit him with my revolver?”

“I did not wish to kill the man, only to impede him, and I am not so adept a shot as yourself.”

“Surely you have had more experience than I.”

“Not at all; my efforts upon the walls of our flat are the extent of my training. You do not expect that they would have been eager to trust me with such a weapon, by which even the weakest man can kill with only the press of the trigger.”

Watson stopped and pushed himself upright, and from a glance I saw that his expression had turned somber with his own unpleasant memories. “You are right, Holmes, it is hardly a skill to be proud of.”

“And yet, with it you have saved my life on countless occasions,” I said encouragingly, as I continued my search through the flowerbeds.

A small smile crossed Watson’s lips. “Still, I cannot help but feel that this is one gap in your knowledge where you are remarkably fortunate to have gone without.”

“Perhaps so.” It was not so difficult to imagine what purpose such a skill would have been put to.

At last, I withdrew from the flowerbeds and got to my feet, to Watson’s apparent surprise, but when I extended a hand to him to help him up, he accepted it.

Once he had regained his footing, I held out his old service revolver to him, the metal still a little smudged with dirt. “If you will continue to accept this burden—for my sake, if not your own.”

Despite the heavy matter, he smiled at the sight of the lost revolver. “So you were able to find it. Thank you, Holmes, it is my honor to be of assistance to you in any small way I can.”

“You do yourself a disservice, Watson,” I insisted, taking him by the arm when he had holstered the weapon.

We strolled between the flowerbeds of the dark and silent city park, the colors dimed, but still bright with all the fruits of life, which had once been strange to me. With my free hand, I brushed a stray petal from Watson’s cheek and he turned to me with tender regard.

“You may find this gap in my knowledge more surprising now,” I remarked, “but you must imagine my embarrassment upon realizing that I was unaware of what you described as universally known facts about our solar system.”

Watson chuckled at the memory, though his manner was subdued as he said, “I did not know.” His arm tightened around my own.

“And I hoped to keep it that way; I expected it would be more natural for me to have intentionally scorned the by all means irrelevant knowledge, rather than to have gone thirty years without learning of our placement among the heavenly spheres.”

“It is hardly relevant,” Watson acknowledged wryly.

“And yet, the most essential facts often seem to be entirely unconnected at first glance,” I said, earning another fond smile.

Chapter Text

1901

I took a long drag upon my pipe and exhaled the smoke in curling wisps. I let my eyes fall shut and leaned back more heavily upon the pillows, for the moment completely at ease. There was the soft whisper of skin against skin and a light impression of warmth, as I passed the pipe to my dear companion so that he might take a drag and likewise enjoy the soothing effects.

I felt his breath tickle my neck as he exhaled, and with my own breath, I drew in the thick aroma of tobacco. His warm weight was nestled against my side, soft and smooth in contrast with my own sharp angles; his head leaned upon my shoulder, and his short hair in wild disarray brushed against my cheek. All was dark and quiet, as though we may as well have been alone in the world, though even in the depths of night, just outside our heavy curtains, London never truly slept.

Again, his hand pressed against mine as he passed the pipe back to me.

“Tobacco is a horrible habit,” he remarked, well aware of the hypocrisy.

I took another drag upon the pipe and replied, “I am certain that you are quite correct as to the dangers, and yet I find that it is one habit that I am disinclined to forswear.”

I held out the pipe to him again and he lifted his head from my shoulder to take a smoke, his lips brushing against my fingers.

I caught a glimmer of humor in his eyes as he leaned back upon my chest. “One of its known consequences is an addictive power.”

I drew him nearer still with arm around his waist and exhaled another wreath of smoke. “As ought be the case of anything which produces such a sublimely soothing effect.”

My fingers meandered along his spine, evoking a shiver.

He captured my lips with his own, the pipe, for the moment, forgotten.

Then he pulled away, his face lingering mere inches from my own, his gentle features alight with warm laughter, speaking to fortune I could have never imagined.

“Then again, we are not so young as we once were,” I said quietly, “perhaps you could once more persuade me to surrender one habit in favor of another.”

Chapter Text

1902

All was quiet.

Holmes had said that I ought to wait outside as he slipped in for but a moment, before we continued on our late night errand, which I had little doubt would, by some winding path, lead us to the conclusion of his most recent case. Many moments had passed since I had watched his figure, made to appear bulkier by a sailor’s rough clothes, disappear behind the door of an establishment which may have never seen better days.

I crept closer, endeavoring as I might to appear as an ordinary loiterer on the largely deserted streets behind the shipyards. The lights were still on inside despite the late hour, but I could see nothing of what passed within, behind the thin shades. 

It was only out of the corner of my eye that I saw a side door open into the dark, narrow alleyway between the one establishment and its neighbor. I inched closer in an attempt to more clearly make out the figures which slipped out into alleyway, without letting the front door out of my sight. There were three of them; two furtive and hurrying, urging on the third between them, taller than them both.

I spared the front door only a swift, parting glance before I ran after them, my hand upon my concealed holster. They turned a corner into a still more narrow alleyway before I reached them, my pistol raised. They were sufficiently preoccupied with their struggling captive—I knew him even in over-large sailor’s clothes to conceal his figure and with a blindfold over his head—that I was able to stun the first before leveling my pistol at his companion.

“Step away from him.” I cocked the gun, brooking no argument.

“You wouldn’t,” the man taunted, “you’d bring everyone running for a mile.”

However, his attention was diverted for just long enough for Holmes to, with a sudden effort, pull himself free, remove the blindfold, and grab his former captor.

“Excellently done, Watson,” Holmes declared, but his tone was strangely sharp, almost sardonically so. “If you would be so kind as to alert the inspector that we have caught his man.”

I glanced between Holmes and the man who was now his prisoner, and the man’s accomplice, still stunned upon the ground. “Holmes, you are certain you will be able to manage them alone? You are not injured?”

“Yes, hurry,” Holmes insisted more sharply still, and so I did as I was bid.

Holmes was still restless as we returned to Baker Street, hardly even pausing to put aside his disguise before he took to pacing across the sitting room, with a glass in one hand and his pipe in the other.

“Perhaps it is for the best, Watson,” he said at last, as I poured myself a glass from the sideboard.

“What is, Holmes?” I asked, stepping toward him to provide whatever assistance was required of me.

“Perhaps it is time you returned to practice; you are right, you did not ask to be a detective, and the dangers of my work have only become more pronounced.”

“Holmes,” I protested, laying a hand upon his arm, and he met my eyes, silently pleading.

I was saddened by the dismissal, but not entirely surprised. When I had seen Holmes being led away, hooded, by his captors, I could but think of the way the subjects—and myself as well, during my brief capture—had been moved around the Institute, blindfolded so as not to have any chance of effecting an escape. It was little wonder that Holmes had been shaken by the reminder.

“I will not leave you to face any danger alone,” I insisted. “Even if I do go into practice, you know that I will come to your side at the slightest indication.”

Holmes shook his head. “You are too generous, my dear Watson.” He took my hand and held it tightly.

Chapter Text

1903

“An evening at the theatre was an excellent idea, thank you for inviting me to accompany you,” I said as we strolled in through the doors, into the modest hall.

“I only count myself fortunate that I was able to draw you away from your busy practice, my dear Watson.” Holmes emphasised the statement with a hand upon my arm, which was already hooked in his.

I glanced away in regret, ostensibly searching for our seats. “My apologies, Holmes, my practice is truly not so consuming, the time only gets away from me.”

“Watson, do not think that I cannot discern a busy medical man from one who is at leisure, and I can say better than no other that your patients are fortunate to be in your hands. I only hope that they may permit me to have the pleasure of your company until tomorrow.”

I flushed at the compliment and replied, “Certainly, Holmes.”

I saw a pleased smile cross his thin lips as we shimmied down a row, almost directly in the front of the theatre.

When we had taken our seats, with what I believed may have been the best view in the house, Holmes continued, “In any case, I am not the one to thank for this outing; I received an anonymous invitation to tonight’s show.”

“You have no inkling who from?” I asked, my curiosity piqued.

He said nothing, preferring to revel in the enigma, and I was content to wait and discover the answer in due time.

Soon after, the lights fell and the curtain rose upon ancient Rome.

First a few men came on to set the scene, and then they exited and a grand procession crossed the stage, led by the Emperor himself, and then his senators, followed by a great crowd. The Emperor spoke to his men and then made to continue on.

Suddenly, a voice cried out from the assembled masses, “Caesar!” A hunched figure hobbled forward, wearing a loose dress and a hood over his head. “Beware the Ides of March!” His voice shook and there was a dire look in the young man’s deeply shadowed eyes, which made me feel as though the threat were indeed real, rather than a mere act upon the stage. Again, he warned, “Beware the Ides of March!”

As the scene changed, I leaned toward Holmes and breathed into his ear, “That is one mystery solved; I am certain that the soothsayer was your young relation, Mr. Harley Quin. I knew he had gone into the theatre, but I did not expect to see him here.”

“You are quite right, Watson. The question remains why.” There was a serious suspicion lurking beneath Holmes’s words which surprised me.

“Doth not Brutus bootless kneel?” Caesar demanded.

Already, several of the other Roman senators, all conspirators, were gathered around him on their knees, knives concealed in hand.

Brutus did not move, instead it was Casca who lunged himself at Caesar with a shout. Caesar grabbed his arm, but already it was too late; Casca’s knife had found its mark in Caesar’s neck and the rest of the conspirators followed, to Caesar’s bloody screams. And last came Brutus, faltering, knife in hand, as the others stumbled back in horror at what they had just done. Caesar’s voice was so constricted that he only mouthed his final words.

I glanced at Holmes beside me. I could claim little knowledge of the stage, but I knew too well the sight and sound of a man taking his final breaths and I doubted any actor could be so gifted—and Holmes’s wide eyes only confirmed what I had seen.

Upon the stage, the actors stood frozen, no longer merely playing the shock of the scene. A knife clattered to the ground and, with a desperate gesture from one of the actors, the curtain abruptly fell.

“Come, Watson, quickly!” Holmes grabbed my wrist and drew me to my feet as the crowd erupted into uncertain muttering in the wake of the sudden interruption.

We hurried down the row to the backstage door. On the other side, all was in chaos; Holmes and I weaved between actors and stagehands, all hurrying and shouting, none in the least aware of our intrusion. I only trusted that Holmes knew where we were going, his hand still around my wrist like a vice.

We went up a flight of stairs and emerged, from behind another curtain, onto the stage, where Ceasar still lay upon the floor, his robes splayed out around him, dyed bright red with blood.

Most of the actors had fled the scene, but a few remained, some stagehands now among them, scattered about the set, all watching the corpse whether out of the corners of their eyes, or staring, as though past the bloody play to the truth that lay beyond. Among them, looming over the corpse like an omen, stood the soothsayer; the young Mr. Quin, his eyes shadowed as though by a domino mask, staring directly at Holmes.

Holmes, however, paid him little more than a glance, taking his ordinarily meandering approach to the scene of the crime, his gaze fixed upon the ground to discern that which I would have never observed.

So, it was I who asked Mr. Quin, “This is why you invited us?”

He nodded. “I am pleased that you could come as well, Dr. Watson.” He stepped aside so that I might examine the body.

I glanced at Holmes to be certain that I would not disturb any evidence he required in doing so, and, having received his silent approval, knelt beside Caesar, as the actors had been doing in their scene just minutes before. The bright red blood that surrounded him was fake, but the man, younger than myself, was truly dead, and I could see the pallor of blood loss in his features. For all of the blood, there was only one gash in his costume, in his side, where the bright red darkened into a crimson that was nearer blood’s natural hue.

“You required a witness,” Holmes remarked to Mr. Quin, having come up beside me as I examined the corpse.

“Yes, I could not prevent it when they had such an opportunity, so instead I ensured there was a witness who would see through their crime.”

Holmes made some noise of scepticism, but said nothing, instead coming to crouch beside me and help pull aside the costume to more closely examine the victim’s injuries.

To my surprise, there was not only the stab wound along his side, but also multiple fresh bruises on his chest.

“How recent would you say those are, Watson?” Holmes asked.

“The bruise has barely begun to form; it cannot have been long at all before his death,” I said.

“My suspicion precisely.” Holmes abruptly stood once more to address Mr. Quin. “Surely you have some particular suspect?”

“There were multiple possibilities,” Mr. Quin said with a certain evasiveness which he had for as long as I had known him.

However, Holmes appeared to be pleased by the reply. “Quite right!”

“What do you mean?” I asked, stepping away from the corpse as well.

“For all our purposes, Watson, I believe that there must be multiple murderers; only one who delivered the final blow, but four who struck with the intent to kill. I would not be surprised if they did not know which it was who had the genuine weapon until it came into his hand.”

“Do you know who they are?”

“That is precisely the question which remains.” Holmes’s chin sunk to his chest in a familiar gesture of contemplation.

As though giving a cue to Holmes’s thoughts, Mr. Quin asked, “Who did not break character?”

There was only a moment’s pause before Holmes exclaimed, “Aha! I have but one question: were even the most staunch conspirators meant to recoil some in shock? Knowing that, Watson, we may go meet the men of the Yard and direct them to the culprits, before returning to Baker Street to pass the remainder of the evening in the most pleasant company.”

Chapter Text

1904, January

A sound upon the stair roused me from my slumber. By the thin, winter light outside the window, I could see that it was already early evening—of the 5th or 6th I was not certain. I slipped out of bed on uncertain legs, and pulled on my dressing gown, one pocket weighed down by the revolver which I now kept there out of necessity. If anyone had made it past Mrs. Hudson at the door, who had strict instructions that I was not to be disturbed for any reason, then it must have been a matter of the utmost importance.

As I padded into the sitting room, I heard the knob of the door to the flat turn. I cocked my gun in my dressing gown pocket, prepared for the worst—I knew of multiple men from my most recent case alone who might have cause to seek retribution for my part in it.

The door creaked open, and in stepped a gentleman in heavy winter wear, a glass bottle in hand.

I fell heavily upon the settee, my pistol discarded upon the side table.

“My dear Holmes, are you quite well?” He rushed to my side, not stopping to remove his coat or put aside the bottle. “I came as soon as I could, but I would have come sooner-”

I raised a hand in an attempt to belay his concerns. “Watson, it is a pleasure to see you, as ever. I am fine, I only feared a less amiable visitor.”

“Are you expecting someone?”

“No, I only must be prepared for the possibility, but I hoped I had sufficiently tied up the most recent affair. But come, Watson, do not be a stranger.”

That concluding remark earned me a twitch of the moustache to conceal a smile, though I could see the concern lingering in his bright eyes.

“I hope you will forgive me for not standing to take your coat,” I continued as he returned to the door to put aside his outer garments, revealing the man I knew so well beneath, “but a most powerful reaction has come over me since the conclusion of that case, and I fear that it was only the possibility of danger which kept me afoot.”

I knew that he desired to make some argument in reply, but restrained himself. Instead he returned to the sitting room with the bottle and, pouring a pair of glasses, explained, “A patient of mine gave me a bottle of cider and I thought it would be best shared. I can assure you that it has not been poisoned.”

I let out a sharp laugh. “Very good, Watson. It is very kind of you to share the fruits of your labours.”

“It is nothing compared with all that you have given to me over the years,” he insisted, handing me a glass and pouring the other for himself.

I could say nothing but accept the glass and make room for him to join me upon the settee. He looked tired, but well; a modestly successful doctor in what may as well have been his prime. Work suited him.

He sat near enough that our thighs pressed together, and I leaned heavily upon his shoulder, his arm gently around my waist and his cheek against the top of my head. I reflexively catalogued the familiar scents of his practice, which mixed with the heavy spices of the cider. As I became comfortable, exhaustion settled back over me and the warmth of the fire now crackling in the hearth and the soothing feeling of his fingers running through the hair around the nape of my neck began to lull me back to sleep, much more peaceful than the one he had startled me from.

“Perhaps it is time that I retired to the countryside,” I remarked quietly.

I felt him shift beside me in surprise, though it was not the first time that we had spoken of the possibility. “Holmes, are you certain?”

“I am not so young as I once was, and I find that there are other things which I should like to do before I die—increasingly it seems as though my work is leading me to an early grave.”

“You could be more careful,” Watson began to admonish before stopping himself short.

“You are quite right, my dear, but I have also found of late that my work is not everything. It may not use my powers to their fullest, but I have been thinking that I might take up beekeeping, and I would like more time to devote to my other interests.” I gave Watson a wry glance out of the corner of my eye.

His arm tightened around my waist, gently drawing me closer, even as he looked away. “It might be difficult to sell my practice,” he began reluctantly.

I gave his leg a pat. “Do not worry yourself, Watson. I do not mean to draw you away from your work before your time.”

“If you are certain, Holmes,” he said questioningly.

“Yes, Watson. I believe it is time I allowed myself to enjoy life for its own sake while I still have the chance.” With that, I nestled back into his side, savouring his warm company for as long as I had him.

Chapter Text

1909

I fell heavily into the chair, my feet no longer willing to support me.

A glass appeared in front of me and my hand belatedly came up to catch it. It was soon followed by a pipe, already filled with tobacco, and a match which came to light it.

“Thank you, Jeeves,” I said in surprise. I had been so preoccupied with my own exhaustion as I entered, that I must not have noticed the young man, already waiting in my sitting room. “Do help yourself,” I added, indicating the decanter from which he had already poured one glass.

“Thank you, Dr. Watson.” He obliged and took a seat upon the sofa, never entirely at ease.

“Is there some trouble?” I asked.

“No, Mr. Wooster kindly granted me the evening off.”

“Oh, how is Mr. Wooster?”

“Quite well. I am pleased to say that he has only become engaged once this past month.”

I shook my head, bewildered at the ways of youth. “He must be quite remarkable. I was only ever engaged twice.”

“Indeed,” Jeeves intoned.

There was a brief pause in the conversation as we each drank and I took a drag from the pipe which Jeeves had been kind enough to light for me.

It was then that Jeeves took the opportunity to remark, “I recently visited Mr. Holmes at his cottage; he conveys his greetings.”

I confess, the sound of my dear friend’s name caused my heart to skip, but I could only give a rueful smile. I took another sip from my glass. “I am very pleased to hear that he has had some company. How is he?”

“His health continues to be very good; much better than it was in London.”

“That is a relief.”

“He gave me a tour of his beehives, which he says are getting along quite well. He also had some ongoing chemical studies, and when I arrived was doing some light reading of some mediaeval manuscripts. However, if you will pardon my saying so, Dr. Watson, I got the impression that Mr. Holmes was, in a manner of speaking, somewhat lonely.”

I sighed. “I know, it has been too long since I have visited him. If only my practice were not so busy, but you see me now having just returned from my rounds, hardly able to stand from running across the city and back, and I fear I am on call at all hours—and there is always some pressing matter. But in truth I miss him too.”

“If I may take the liberty of asking, Dr. Watson, why have you not already joined Mr. Holmes in retirement?”

“My work is not quite so trying as Holmes’s; I believe I have a little time left in me, and I am not quite ready to retire to the countryside. I regret that my work keeps us apart, but only for a few more years.”

“But surely there is no need for you to work.”

“No, Holmes has seen to that, but I never truly took to detective work, and until my return to practice, I had hardly even been a doctor. It is time I did my part.”

“If you will pardon my saying, Dr. Watson, and I am certain that Mr. Holmes would agree, you have done more than your part already,” Jeeves said with what I thought may have been a touch of vehemence.

“That is very kind of you, Jeeves, and I do not mean to argue. In truth, though I try to help my patients in any way I can, it is not for them that I have returned to practice—after all, there is no shortage of doctors, many spryer and wiser than I—but for myself.”

Jeeves inclined his head in understanding. “Even were I not in the employ of Mr. Wooster, I would nonetheless take pride in my work.”

“And Holmes and I long ago found that it was madness for me to serve as his physician,” I added with a dry chuckle.

“Indeed.” I believe I heard some sympathy in Jeeves’s tone.

As I began to feel somewhat revived from the exhaustion which had overcome me upon my return home, the pangs of hunger began to make themselves known, and so I then took the opportunity to say, “I am afraid I am not much of a host, but you are welcome to join me for supper.”

“Thank you, Dr. Watson, and then I must return to Mr. Wooster’s side.”

Chapter Text

1914

The hall alone spoke unmistakably of great wealth and power, with rich, plush carpets underfoot, and ornate ceilings overhead. The glass panels that made up the wall offered a window into a large, even more luxurious room, carved up by columns and alcoves and bookshelves, into little nooks, several of which were occupied, each by a single man who sat reading or lost in his own thoughts. In all the place, there was not a sound but the quiet spring of my step upon the carpet.

I did not dawdle. I hurried to the far end of the hall, to a little, out of the way chamber. I opened the door to find it already occupied; there were two men in the chairs by the window that looked out on Pall Mall. Just as I entered, the younger of them got to his feet. He looked young to me, but he was probably not younger than forty, with a narrow face, black hair, and hard, piercing blueish eyes, and he had a thin scar down his cheek.

“Pardon us-” he began to say, politely but firmly.

However, he was interrupted by the much larger, older man, who had only turned in his chair, to regard me with very pale grey eyes, which have been described as introspective. “Mrs. Hudson, it is so good to see you. I believe you have not met my young cousin, Commander Bond.” To Commander Bond he said, “This fine woman is an associate of my brother.”

“One can never be too careful,” the young man said by way of an apology as he extended a hand in greeting. “It is a pleasure to meet the famed Mrs. Hudson.”

“Oh, hardly, the pleasure is surely all mine.” Having shook his hand, I turned to the elder Mr. Holmes and said, “I have only come to convey a message, I did not mean to interrupt.”

“We were just concluding,” Mr. Holmes insisted, and with that, Commander Bond was dismissed.

When he had gone, I relayed, “Everything has been sent back for new parts, which should be ready to collect in the next few days. If there were a time to stop all the lines, it would be now.”

Mr. Holmes gravely shook his head. “I fear that it is long past time for that, my dear lady. We are prepared for anything he may send, as for the rest…” he trailed off, as though it were beyond comprehension, or at least beyond speech.

“I only hope that when all this dreadful business is over, everyone can return to their hard-earned peace.”

“If only the fates were inclined to be so fair. I fear we may count ourselves fortunate if we live to see the dawn at the end of this long night.”

Chapter Text

1915, December

“Good day, Doctor.”

It was a rare cheerful word amid all the sick and injured of the war, funnelled into our makeshift infirmary directly from the Front. The young officer, no older than thirty, was still gaunt and pale from his recent ordeals, but otherwise he looked well, as though he might indeed be on his way to recovery, though it was difficult to be certain under such conditions.

“Good afternoon,” I said, pausing a moment at his bedside on my rounds, a bowl of the latest remedy in hand.

“Arthur Hastings,” he introduced himself. “I say, I’m feeling much better today.”

“If your health holds up, you may be able to return to England soon so that you might have a chance to convalesce away from the Front. In the meantime, we are going to apply a new antibacterial ointment which will hopefully help to prevent infection.”

He nodded sharply in understanding, as though to an order, but it was plain he was a young gentleman as he went on to say, “Thank you. You’ve helped to save my life and I’m afraid I don’t even know your name.”

At my reply, he exclaimed, as many others had before and since, “Like the fellow who works with Sherlock Holmes.”

I could not help but smile at the mention of my dear friend, though he was I knew not where, in no less danger than I. “The very same.”

“Is that right? You may laugh at me, but I confess I always had a sort of hankering to be a detective along that line. I met a very famous detective in Belgium who was a marvellously clever little fellow.”

That sounded nearly like one of Holmes’s young relations, and so I had to ask, “By any chance, what was his name?”

“Hercule Poirot, he’s really a funny little dandy, but quite remarkable.”

“I am certain he is; I met him very briefly in England many years ago.”

“Did you really? He said to me he had never been; he gets so terribly seasick he couldn’t even abide the ferry across the Channel, and he never told me that he had met Sherlock Holmes, in fact he was a bit disparaging about his methods, though I was sure to set him right—or, at least I tried.”

I hastily recanted—if Mr. Poirot wished to distance himself from his past, I would not keep him. “I must have been mistaken, it was a very many years ago. As for Mr. Poirot, I am certain that he has his own method.”

“That’s what he said all detective work was; method. I’ve progressed his system a bit since then, though of course we’re all nothing compared with Sherlock Holmes. What is he up to these days?”

“Holmes is doing the same thing as us all,” I said, revealing as little classified information as I could.

“Oh, right, of course he’d lend a hand with the war effort, though it’s hard to imagine Sherlock Holmes so far from London.” There was a bit of wistfulness to the young man’s tone, that not even Sherlock Holmes was safe from this great war.

I was spared answering by the arrival of another attendant with a tray of rations to help our patient through his recovery.

“I say!” he exclaimed at the sight of the tray. “Is that cranberry sauce? Is it really the 25th already?”

“It seems it must be,” I said, nearly as surprised as he. “A happy Christmas to you, Captain Hastings.”

“Happy Christmas, Dr. Watson. It’s really an honour to meet you. I hope we may have the chance to meet properly when this is all over.”

“I hope so as well.”

Chapter Text

1918

There was a knock at the door.

Before I had the chance to push myself from the settee, Holmes leaped to his feet, no less agile than ever. “Do not trouble yourself, my dear Watson.”

“You know that it would be no trouble,” I insisted, attempting to maintain some measure of pride, but in truth I was content to remain seated, my vigour still not what it was.

“I can answer it,” Mr. Manders hastily offered, already half out of his chair.

However, Holmes waved him down too. As Holmes left the room, Mr. Manders visibly relaxed, though he was still on the alert.

No more than a minute had passed after Holmes’s departure when we heard a loud exclamation of, “Good lord! Are you really?”

A moment later, the young Arthur Hastings emerged into the comfortable little front room of the cottage, Holmes following after him.

“Dr. Watson, it’s good to see you again. You weren’t kidding about knowing the Sherlock Holmes!”

“If not for Dr. Watson, you would have no reason to know my name,” Holmes replied, and I could see fond amusement in his gaze as his eyes met mine.

“Oh, yes, right. Well, it’s a pleasure to meet both of you, thank you for inviting me.” Captain Hastings then turned to Mr. Manders. “I don’t believe we’ve met, I’m Arthur Hastings.”

Mr. Manders stepped forward to greet Captain Hastings, already on his feet. “It’s nice to meet you. I’m Harry Manders.”

“I say! Not Bunny Manders? The old accomplice of A.J. Raffles?”

Mr. Manders affirmed that he was.

“Of course you would know each other! I was almost as much a fan of your writings as the stories of Dr. Watson here. Is it all true?”

Mr. Manders gave a reluctant nod.

“You’re welcome to take a seat,” I said before Captain Hastings had a chance to interrogate Mr. Manders further.

Holmes returned to the settee beside me as Mr. Manders resumed his chair and Captain Hastings took the other.

“I would have hardly imagined Bunny Manders and Sherlock Holmes palling around,” Captain Hastings mused, “in fact, at the time, I wondered if it wasn’t really Sherlock Holmes who had cornered A.J. Raffles rather than that inspector of the Yard.”

Holmes dismissed the suggestion. “I was thoroughly occupied by my own cases at the time, and theft is rarely of sufficient interest to require my involvement.”

Mr. Manders appeared to be torn between affront and relief at Holmes’s reply, and Captain Hastings argued on his behalf, “But the way Mr. Manders told it, at least, A.J. Raffles was hardly an ordinary thief. Is it true that he died out on the veldt?”

Only Mr. Manders could answer that question, and after a silence that went on a moment too long, he solemnly said, “Yes, he did.”

“Oh, I’m sorry old boy,” Captain Hastings said, suddenly subdued. “Everyone has lost good friends in the trenches, myself included—as a matter of fact, I would have been one of them if not for Dr. Watson and all the other doctors and nurses.”

“If not for Raffles, it would have been me,” Mr. Manders said quietly.

“Right, your leg, was it?”

Mr. Manders nodded.

“I would not have lived to meet Holmes if not for Murray, my orderly,” I remarked, though that had been long ago indeed.

“Oh, right, this was your second tour. How are you holding up, doctor?” Captain Hastings asked.

“Much better, thank you. I am afraid it ended up being a little too much for an old man, but under Holmes’s care, I have recovered at least as well as can be expected.”

Holmes rested a gentle hand upon my arm. “Yes, you have improved remarkably, but my own small efforts can hardly claim the credit.” I could still see the concern in his gaze and tried to convey what silent reassurance I could in response.

To Captain Hastings, I said, “And how are you?”

“Perhaps there is something to be said for youth; it’s faded to hardly a scratch. Now I’m back in London and have been rooming with Poirot, working with him on his cases—I invited him along, but unfortunately he couldn’t make it this time. But, I say, it’s hard to believe it’s all over.”

“Yes, sometimes I forget that I am not still working in a field hospital, and even away from the Front, the effects of the War are felt everywhere.”

“If brother Mycroft is correct, Europe will never be the same, but England appears to have weathered the storm,” Holmes said.

Captain Hastings added encouragingly, “Sussex, at least, seems much the same as ever.”

Chapter Text

1920

“That is very kind of you, Jeeves, but I assure you I can manage quite well without assistance,” I endeavoured to insist.

“Very good, Mr. Holmes,” Jeeves replied, but did not move from in front of the sink, where he was already at work upon the rapidly dwindling pile of dishes.

I was going to make another attempt when, from the other side of the small kitchen came an exclamation of, “Mon dieu, Mr. Holmes, I fear you must find another housekeeper. To leave the kitchen in such disarray, it is a disgrace!”

Like the rest of the cottage, the kitchen was not large, and it was dwarfed by Jeeves’s presence alone, who was twice as broad as myself and tall enough that he needed to stoop over the sink. The addition of M. Poirot examining the counters, and Jeeves’s employer, Mr. Wooster, lingering off to the side, made the room feel miniscule.

“Mr. Holmes hired his housekeeper at my personal recommendation,” Jeeves replied with a hint of affront, though he did not turn away from the sink. “He assures me that the state of the kitchen is entirely his own doing.”

M. Poirot shook his head and tutted in dismay, before rolling up his shirtsleeves and setting about cleaning the counters with no less gusto than Jeeves had taken to the sink.

“It is hardly necessary,” I attempted once more.

“I’m afraid it’s no use arguing,” Mr. Wooster said, “I find Jeeves, at least, usually gets whatever it is he wants, one way or another.”

I saw the corner of Jeeves’s lip twitch upward a little in satisfaction.

I gave a sigh of resignation. “I suppose you are right, Mr. Wooster. Shall we rejoin the rest of the company?”

“Right-o! I think I saw the rest of the party trickling out into the parlour, or what-have-you. I’ll leave you to it, then, Jeeves, Mr. Poirot.”

With those parting words, I motioned for Mr. Wooster to lead the way down the hall, into the front room where the rest of the company had gathered for drinks after dinner; Watson was upon the settee, and the rest had drawn up chairs around him.

“What ho!” Mr. Wooster called out as we entered, drawing all eyes to us.

“Holmes, there you are, I was going to suggest that we leave the kitchen for tomorrow,” Watson said, waving me over to join him.

Miss Marple shook her head. “I highly doubt that will happen, not with Jeeves around. Whenever he visits St. Mary Mead, he always finds something to put back in its place, even if I have a perfectly fine girl.”

“And Poirot left saying something about ‘order and method’,” Captain Hastings added. “I’m rather afraid he’s taken the place for a crime scene.”

To my dismay, even Watson chuckled in response, but I could hardly disagree.

I joined him upon the settee as Mr. Wooster pulled up a chair, and the rest resumed their prior discussion.

“So you are really all related?” Captain Hastings asked.

“Well, it’s a bit complicated,” Miss Marple said.

“M. Poirot, Mr. Jeeves, Mr. Manders, and I were all raised together, at least,” Father Brown explained, “along with several others, but we’ve all dispersed rather widely.”

“Oh, right,” Captain Hastings said. “Do you lot get together often then?”

“Dr. Watson has been kind enough to invite me around on occasion,” Mr. Manders spoke up and then very quickly fell quiet again.

“I work in London,” Father Brown said, “but I make an effort to visit for tea when I can. I also recently saw Mr. Mycroft Holmes at the Diogenes Club.”

The last was directed at me, and I replied, “How is Mycroft? I fear he has only become more sedentary with age, and refuses to leave London at any cost.”

“He’s well. I believe he has scaled back his efforts since the war.”

I nodded. That much I had expected; I had never known him to work himself so hard as he did during the war, and I feared it had irreparably taken its toll.

“Now that we’re back in the metrop.,” Mr. Wooster piped up, looking a little restless at the mention of the war, “as far as I know Jeeves hops by every now and again on his days off, but I’ve only convinced him to bring me along a handful of times.”

“And I come for tea once a month, unless I absolutely must be elsewhere,” Miss Marple said.

Watson and I hardly had constant visitors—thankfully so—but it was truly a far cry from the solitary life which I had once envisioned for myself, with no family except, perhaps, for Mycroft, and I found that I was not disappointed to be proven incorrect.

Chapter Text

1920

Holmes and I lingered by the front door of our cottage. The sun had long since set over the rolling hills of the English countryside; Holmes’s bees were fast asleep inside their hives, arranged across the lawn in orderly rows. Between drifting clouds, we could see the stars glittering in the heavens.

Somehow Holmes’s arm found its way around my waist, and my head found the softest corner of his shoulder. However, I had only just made myself comfortable when I was jostled by quivers of silent laughter.

“When you have eliminated the impossible,” Holmes murmured his old mantra in what I took to be disbelief.

I made a questioning sound that was not quite an articulated inquiry.

“We hardly make a conventional family.”

“No,” I acknowledged, not entirely certain where Holmes was leading, though I had my guesses.

“Yet, there were no poisoning attempts, no brandished weapons nor threats of any kind, and only the most innocuous of manipulations; an altogether ordinary dinner in the most pleasant of company.”

“We have all come a long ways.”

“Indeed we have.”

I followed Holmes’s gaze to the horizon, where the endless hills and sky met, and I regretted that I could not follow him further.

“Do you know, Watson, there is nothing I ever feared more than my own ‘family’, even M—even Mycroft—at times. We stood between each other and the next meal, success, even survival. We could never entirely lower our guards—by intentional design. And I am certain that it was no different for the younger generations, despite the changes to the Institute in the intervening years, indeed they suffered it for longer. And yet, it was a pleasant dinner. I can only imagine that our creators would be disappointed.”

“Holmes!” I protested, taking his arm in mine as though it might draw him back to the present.

“You are right, as ever, Watson,” he said with a placating hand upon my arm, “it is a jest in poor taste, and yet… A few detectives, a priest, a manservant, an author, and all the rest; sometimes I can but wonder what our creators would think of the outcome of their experiments, for good and ill.”

“I hope we need never find out,” I answered with a little vehemence.

“No, I do not think there is any risk of that,” Holmes said gently. And then, with a mischievous spark in his eye, he continued, “Truly, the only evaluation which matters is your own; what do you make of the outcome?” He made a sweeping motion, as though to present himself before me, though some sympathy lingered in his expression.

“I hope you do not mean to say that this is nothing more than an experiment,” I answered coyly, but I earnestly hoped Holmes knew that he was much more than their experiment.

“Not at all, my dear Watson.” Holmes took my hands in his and drew me near. “My life may have begun as nothing more than an experiment, but life makes for a poor experiment indeed; it has a way of growing more rich and varied than can possibly be accounted for.”

I smiled despite myself at his reasoning. The stars above appeared to shimmer silver in his eyes. And because it was dark over the hills and there was no one around us for miles, I leaned in and kissed him, and then, together, we eagerly returned inside our warm and bright little cottage.

Chapter Text

1924

“Holmes, is that a catapult?”

“A very astute observation, my dear Watson.”

We were strolling arm-in-arm—as only old fashioned gentlemen did in the new modern age—down the makeshift lane between the stands which made up a little local New Year’s fair. The sky was a bright, if not cloudless, blue, but a few inches of snow had fallen in the night and now carpeted the ground. In a gap between the stands, a group of children were playing in the snow before it all turned to mud, intently loading snowballs into what appeared to be a simple catapult.

“I believe the very same catapult which was used to dispose of the overripe apples this fall,” Holmes said as we hastened on, out of the children’s range.

With a chuckle, I said, “Does it not remind you of that case for which we were out all New Year’s Eve—it must be twenty-odd years ago now.”

Holmes answered with a laugh, “I could not forget it; what a way to spend the turn of the twentieth century.”

“I will never forget that night for as long as I live.”

“Nor I. But look at us reminiscing like old men.”

All around us was the liveliness of youth; of people of all ages bustling about despite the cold weather. It appeared that the entire district had come to ring in the new year, a far cry from quiet war-time celebrations that seemed to me to be not so long ago. 

“Has it truly been twenty five years since then—a quarter of a century?” I remarked.

“Very nearly,” Holmes said with a wry smile.

It was long after the sun had set and the sky turned a deep cloudy grey with clouds which seemed to be pondering snow. The stars in heaven appeared to have descended among us in the form of  countless candles glimmering along the stands, illuminating the night. Earlier in the evening, exhaustion had begun to weigh heavy upon my eyes as the proceedings slowed to a familiar lull, but now all were eager and alert as the year drew to a close and we waited to usher in the next.

Holmes and I lingered upon the edge of the proceedings, out of the way, nestled a little more tightly together, perhaps, than convention might have encouraged, keeping out what little cold might have otherwise seeped through our heavy winter coats.

Holmes was in the midst of some remark when he was interrupted by the tolling of the bells, ringing in the new year.

There was a great cheer and we observed some of the young couples about exchanging a kiss. Holmes and I contended ourselves with a discreet glance and a drink of hot cider.

“To the new year,” I said, raising my cup.

“And the quarter century,” Holmes replied in kind, “may we be fortunate enough to share another.”