Chapter Text
April 3rd, 1855
He had not wanted to come.
He had not wanted to be anywhere in the vicinity of this area, not with the reminders. Not with her burial being so close. He wanted to stay in London, stay in his home and drink port all day, lose himself in his grief. Or perhaps take himself to the local gambling hells, take the local rakes for all their money, see if he could entice a few into some rounds of fisticuffs and wipe the floor with them. Pounding his fists into the faces of a few high and mighty lords might make him feel better, because this…this was not.
He surveyed the body one more time. A young woman, dressed in the typical mourning gown of their time: high necked black frock, corseting in the back, voluminous black silk. The stitching was dodgy, which meant it was sewn to fit on the victim rather than the victim’s own personal wear. A rather morbid touch. Her hair was quite elegantly styled, her cheeks rouged up so that even in the pallor of death she appeared young and vibrant.
And yet it did not interest him.
He simply wanted to mourn his loss. His loss twiceover, he thought, the more permanent loss this time. The cruel loss of death, taking away both her and her unborn babe. Not his babe, though. No, not his. Cause of death: phthisis, though he had heard whispers that a household servant had had typhus and, moreover, his—
No, she was not his. Had not been his for many months. Well over a year now, actually.
Had never been his, really.
That was the way soul mates worked.
He shut his eyes and ran a hand through his hair. He did not care about his appearance right now, and had not taken the time to slick his hair back, as was custom. His brother would be scandalized if he saw him but he didn’t give two figs about that. He wanted to go home, back to London, baker to his flat on Baker Street, to mourn in peace. He did not care about this murder, tantalizing as it was. He ran his finger across the three dots raised on the woman’s wrist before he carefully lowered it again. “Watson,” he said brusquely.
“Yes?” his friend, his companion, his confidant John Watson said. He, too, had the body of a youth, though he was already well into his eighties by then. “What is it, Holmes?”
“I wish to depart. Have the carriage brought around,” he said, standing.
Watson gave his friend a dubious look, and then nodded. “All right. But…nothing to give to the Inspector?”
“Let them solve this on their own,” he said, turning and walking away from the scene. The sooner he got away from Haworth, the better. He needed to be far away from here. Far, far away. He knew that he was regarded as the great Sherlock Holmes, the consulting detective who could solve any crime imaginable, but tonight…
Tonight he just wanted to be Sherlock, the man who was grieving for a woman he once loved whom he would never see again, and he wanted to do so in peace and in quiet, as far away from the Church of St Michael and All Angels as possible.