Archive of Our Own ^beta

7/5/91

Have reached Zurich. Strongly suspect I am being tailed, and so am trying to remain inconspicuous for now. I am feeling rather battered and broken in more ways than one, and often find myself needing to take breaks to catch my breath. As of yet, I am uncertain whether this feeling is from my bruised ribs or the deeper, less curable affliction of a broken heart. I fear that I will not be able to return to Baker Street for a long time. I am less concerned for my own safety and more for that of my dear companions. If Mrs Hudson was to be placed in danger due to my folly. If Watson was to be placed in danger… I cannot risk that. The possibility makes my blood run cold.

Cannot write more on this. Pain in my chest returning.

–

10/5/91

I am most certainly being followed. Received a confirmation of the fact this morning when I narrowly avoided being pushed into the Limmat river. Leaving Zurich and headed to Munich, where I hope to catch the Orient Express and stay on as far as I safely can. If Moriarty’s vengeful agents also make it onto the train I fear that my journey will be a short one.

–

13/5/91

Must not forget: Watson has hair that is a mixture of brown and blonde, dispersed with the odd bit of grey. It is a little bit like sand where, from afar it looks like one solid colour, but up close it is actually a mixture of anything from the darkest brown to the lightest yellow. He has a square-ish jaw and a lovely, thick moustache over his top lip, a little darker than the hair on his head, and he often wears thick woollen suits. He is strongly built with a little fat at the waist (or as he calls it– insulation) a feature that he is, occasionally, conscious of on his less happy days but I find an excellent addition to his person. The more Watson the better, in my opinion. He carries a sturdy walking cane– especially during the winter or in rainy weather when the pain from his injury returns. He has brown eyes. He enjoys reading yellowback novels. He is shockingly brave, strong, protective, and the greatest friend a man could ever hope to gain. Remember all of this.

–

14/5/91

Have reached Munich. It took far longer than necessary as I regularly needed to lay low and divert the attention of my pursuers. Several of them are currently racing towards Berlin, entirely ignorant of my position. 

–

16/5/91

I would not have expected to find an old copy of The Strand resting on an unassuming bench in the Munich train station, but that is precisely what happened this morning. I was, at first, suspicious of the consequence but on careful inspection, finding no wires attached to the book or poisonous dust between the pages, I eventually came to the conclusion that this was simply one of those occasions where fact was stranger than fiction. 

I was greeted with the familiar writing of my friend recounting the adventure of the Speckled Band. The details were the same as I remember them, excluding a few minor adjustments– Watson always skipped over my small mistakes, painting an image of me to the general public that was, sadly, far more efficient and precise than I could ever hope to be. Sometimes, on my more irritable mornings, I would find myself making derisive remarks on his writing choices. Now this little magazine is one of the few truly valuable items I possess. I will hold it close to my heart as I travel further from home.

This has affected me more than I thought. Memories of our past have been brought back to the surface. It is surprisingly painful to read this story, despite the adventure itself being a simple one. In doing so I am forced to consider his perspective – what he has lost, as well as I. I only wish-

–

Dear Watson-

–

My dearest -

–

My dear Watson,

I am rather uncertain as to how to write this letter, after all that has happened. I did not enjoy decieving you, but it was the only way to keep you safe.

– 

Watson,

I am alive. I wish you were here. I miss-

–

Dear Watson,

I am almost certainly not going to send this letter, although I am sure you would be relieved to know I am alive and, more or less, in one piece. My dear fellow you deserve better than this painful deception. 

I feel your absence every moment. On the train, in a hotel room, at a bar. As I move from place to place I will get the sudden lurching panic that I am forgetting something vital, and every time I realise that the thing I'm forgetting is not a thing at all, it is you. I miss you more than I could ever try to express. You are everything I –

–

My dear-

–

Watson,

This is very difficult for me. 

-

18/5/91

I must not send Watson a letter. He needs to remain ignorant of my continued existence. It is my knowledge of his character that keeps me silent. If he knew, he would travel out to meet me which I could not bear when I know that at any moment one of Moriarty's agents could be following me. As well as this I am certain that he would refuse to tell anyone of my whereabouts no matter how they questioned him. He would die first, and that is precisely what I fear. If Watson does not know I am alive his ignorance will, at least, be genuine. It is a weak safety net, but a safety net nonetheless.

I remain on the Express for now, but am getting restless. May get off at next stop and continue on foot from there. One of the passengers has been paying close attention to me and I have the horrible sense that, despite my disguise, I have been found out. 

–

24/5/91

I have written essays before on the incredible strengths of scent memory and how even the slightest whiff of a familiar smell from our past may bring a series of memories rushing back. On Thursday I walked past a house in which someone was baking a loaf of bread that smelled precisely the same as the bread Mrs Hudson would make for us in Baker Street. I was half tempted to knock at the door.

I am travelling along the River Danube as I write this. It is a breathtaking stretch of landscape, great hills and forests interspersed with towns and villages that appear to have been there for time immemorial. I have taken charge of a small, two man vessel, with the help of a man named Lukas Arcan, whom I believe to be unconnected with this whole ordeal. He has had a myriad of chances to kill me as we continue on eastwards, and has not done so yet, which does not appear to be the way of Moriarty's agents. Most of them are not prepared to play the long game. They are fast and deadly and, since Moriarty's demise, have lost much if the scheming wit that they were once so adept at. If they have an opportunity to be rid of me, they will do so without hesitation. Despite my deductive talents, often the first hint I have that they have found me is the whoosh of a bullet whizzing past my nose, or poisonous leaves dropped into my morning cup of tea. 

–

4/6/91

Plagued by nightmares of that day. Infuriatingly, the one person I wish to speak to– the one person I am certain would understand– is the one person I most certainly cannot contact. 

--

17/6/91

It is astounding how much one's appearance can change within such a short space of time. My hair has grown out and I often have to brush it back out of my eyes during the day. It is woefully unkempt, but I do not quite feel comfortable with the idea of going to a barber who, at any moment, would be in arms reach of a straight razor. I have managed to keep my face shaven when I have access to a private toilet, but it does grow back fast.

I wonder if Watson will look different when if I see him again.

–

7/7/91

Watson has several smiles. Remember this.

1. The wide grin: Often appears when a case is going well. Eyes bright, dimples, a slight restlessness in his shoulders as we search for clues or chase down a criminal. Endearing sense of excitement towards life. 
2. The thin-lipped smile: Rare. Reserved only for when an individual annoys him and he is too polite, or not able, to give a retort. A slight sense of danger in the air. My Watson is not angered lightly. If this smile appears, one should be wary of the individual it is directed at. 
3. Music smile: The soft relaxed curve of his lips and half-lidded eyes as he listens to a concert or, touchingly, when I play my violin for him after a long and trying day. 
4. Client smile: The respectable, approachable expression he keeps saved for our clients. 
5. The Beam: My favourite, and the one I endeavoured to produce as often as possible. Glittering eyes that crinkle around the edges, dimples, and a smile that seems to take over his entire face. The effect, when pointed in your direction, iss almost heart-stopping.

—

24/7/91

Have been in contact with Mycroft. He is the same as ever, very unperturbed about the whole situation. It seems almost impossible to surprise the man, even in the faking of my death. 

Watson is well, as is Mrs. Hudson. He has been keeping an eye on them both– though I expect it is not him that has been doing the work. He has a myriad of agents running around London and reporting back to him at this very moment, much like my Irregulars (mem. Ask Mycroft to check in with Irregulars.) 

I suspect he was not telling me everything, for when I asked after Watson he refused to elaborate. All I know is that he is “alive and in good health” which is the kind of report I would expect about a pet dog or horse, not sufficient information regarding my dearest friend. 

Mycroft has provided me with some money, which is very useful as I had been beginning to run short. It is difficult to find work when I am uncertain of how long I will be staying in any area.

–

14/8/91

Mem. Do not sleep in stables before thoroughly checking the hay for hidden assassins. Concerningly unperceptive of me. It seems exhaustion was blunting my usually sharp senses.

–

21/8/91

Cannot stop to write often. Have had several close calls over the last week which tells me, in no uncertain terms, that Moriarty's agents are still close on my tail. 

–

17/9/91

Have been hopping between towns and villages over the last month and have often had to sleep out in nearby forests to avoid capture. Awfully uncomfortable. I am hoping I can find sufficient accommodation soon. I expect Watson would have several things to say about how thin I have gotten. I am often on the move, too busy or distracted to eat and, when I am hungry, I have the very real fear that any food I recieve could be poisoned. I really should go to a bakery or street vendor soon. It would be awfully ironic to spend weeks avoiding murderers only to die of hunger.

Hair is quite long. It is a strange feeling to have it brushing against my neck so I have taken to tying it back with a piece of string. 

I am heading steadily east. I do not want to go too far, though I suspect I will have to. It is surprisingly painful to travel further away from England, when all I want to do is run back to London.

–

Dear Watson,

I cannot tell you where I am writing from, lest this get into the wrong hands, or worse if you are questioned by one of Moriarty's agents. I am so sorry-

–

My dear Watson,

I hope you are well. I am sorry to have kept you deceived for so long. Please know it was my fear for your safety that kept me silent, and not out of any lack of trust in you.

I do not have the time, nor the paper space to explain all that happened on that fateful day. I am alive, that is all I can tell you. I miss you every moment and–

–

Watson,

I saw a man today in the town square that, for a brief moment, looked just like you. When I turned my attention to him I found that he was not you at all. The eyes were not half as kind, and the hair was a different colour altogether, but for that brief moment between spying him out of the corner of my eye, and realising it was not you, the roar of emotions that overcame me was almost staggering. I must confess I had to sit down for a moment to catch my breath. I cannot–

–

24/9/91

Mycroft has contacted me again. Watson has moved to new lodgings. He did not explain his reasoning behind it, but it is no great leap of the mind to figure out why he might not feel as at home in our comfortable little flat as he once did. 

It is a strange thing indeed to see the world move on without me.

I have been provided with more funds and a temporary safe house. Mycroft has threatened to send a hairdresser if I continue to let my hair grow. I rather hope he does. 

Irregulars are doing well and continue to be provided for by Mycroft. He has occasionally made use of them for certain missions in and around London.

–

1/10/91

Watson’s frowns:

1. The thinking frown: the little frown he made when he was trying to figure out how I deduced something. Was particularly entertaining to imagine the thought process going on in his mind, the cogs turning.
2. Reading frown: the little expressions that would flick across his face in quick succession as he perused the morning papers. Not necessarily suitable to be categorised into simply “frown” for it is many expressions all at once. I was often amazed by the variety of looks one face could create in such a short amount of time.
3. The concerned frown:  usually appeared when I had neglected to feed myself, or to sleep, or when I had previously found myself using chemicals to distract from the drudgery of daily life. His “Which is it today, morphine or cocaine?” frown
4. The angry concerned frown: not to be confused with number 3, though there was some overlap. This frown was reserved for when I had done something particularly reckless, resulting in injury or near-death experiences. His “What were you thinking, Holmes?” Frown. I strongly suspect this is the expression I would receive if he were to see me right now.
5. Actually angry frown: blazing eyes, hard mouth. I feared for the individual this glare was pointed at.
6. Sad frown: When Watson was truly upset or hurt by something he didn't frown. His eyes became glassy, his mouth formed a hard line, and he would often walk away, or avert his gaze. This was the worst expression to be faced with. It was heartbreaking.

–

10/10/91

Helped a young girl and her brother search for a missing dog today. Was particularly energising to be able to use my skills of reasoning and logic to help others again, rather than to just deduce whether or not any given individual wishes to cause me injury. 

She was a wonderfully smart young girl and seemed to catch on to my methods quickly, even seeking to use them herself. She has the makings of a great detective if she chooses to develop her skills in that area. Sadly, women are not allowed to join the police force yet in England (a grave oversight, in my opinion) and I suspect the same can be said for this country. However, she could, like me, operate outside of the institutions and help in her own way to make her small village a safer place. The times are moving forward, and the world must keep up.

I am headed to Tibet. I hope that such a long and gruelling distance will keep Moriarty's remaining agents far behind me. I must accept that it will be a long, long time before I have the chance to return to Baker Street again.