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Chapter Text

“My dear Watson,” said Sherlock Holmes upon my entrance to our living room one January morning, “How do you feel about visiting Brother Mycroft on this fine day?” 

He was sat in his armchair, partially dressed and wrapped in his mouse-coloured dressing gown. He was in a good mood that morning, I could tell from his smile - lazy and relaxed. It was nothing like the forced smiles I had become accustomed to during his black fits. His eyes crinkled delightfully at the corners, and were soft as they gazed upon me. His toes, which were still bare and tucked underneath him, wiggled happily against the seat of his armchair. In his hand he clutched an opened telegram, which I surmised he had received from his brother. 

“That sounds wonderful,” I smiled easily in return. It was difficult not to - Holmes’s true smiles were infectious. 

Holmes’s hair was still tousled from sleep, and I was filled with the urge to ruffle it, an urge I fulfilled without hesitation. It was my right, given the new nature of our relationship, and he preened happily under my touch. It was only then I pulled the bell for breakfast. “It’s rare for him to invite us with such short notice.”

“I suspect he has a case for us,” Holmes’s eyes twinkled with excitement. Mycroft knew his brother well, and only offered him the cases he knew would pique Holmes’s stubborn interest, unless the fate of England was at stake, then Holmes would be forced to bear with the boredom for the sake of Queen and country. 

It had been a week since Holmes’s last case, and it had been stimulating enough that Holmes had been in quite the amiable mood in the time since its conclusion. I was relieved at the timing of this possible new case however, as I was keen for Holmes’s spirits to remain high; I had not seen the needle in quite some time. 

Holmes hopped up from his chair to join me at the breakfast table, where we smoked together in companionable silence as we awaited our meal. It arrived some time later, and Holmes attacked the toast and eggs with a gusto that was rare for him, and I hid a smile behind my coffee cup. 

Once we had finished our meal and Holmes had made himself presentable for the London public, the two of us were tucked into a hansom and clattering toward Pall Mall. 

Since Holmes’s return, somehow it had become our habit to visit Mycroft for afternoon tea at his club at least once a fortnight. I do not precisely recall how this little routine began, but begin it did. Of course, Holmes had visited his brother prior to his apparent death, but very rarely with me by his side - it had quickly become one of the main highlights to my month.

I had only met the elder Holmes a handful of times prior to my friends apparent death, and so I was not familiar with his character. But it soon became apparent that Mycroft Holmes was a kindly gentleman. Yes, he could often be brash and speak without care, just like his younger brother, but he also possessed the same kind heart, as well as an intellect that surpassed his brothers - Sherlock had not been exaggerating in the slightest. 

The brothers did have their differences; where Sherlock was the storm, Mycroft was the calm that preceded it. His brain was indeed incredibly organised; I imagined Sherlock’s brain attic to resemble our Baker Street rooms - perpetually cluttered with no apparent organisational system in mind, papers left scattered on desks and chairs to gather dust until they were needed again, or perhaps reduced to cinders at the bottom of the fireplace after the attics second occupant inevitably grew tired of the mess. 

Mycroft’s, I imagined, would resemble rows upon rows of neatly aligned filing cabinets, all cross referenced so efficiently that recalling information was as easy as breathing, then returned to its rightful home once it was no longer needed. Other than their physical appearances, it was the most startling juxtaposition between the two brothers.

Traffic was light that morning, and so we arrived at the Diogenes Club in good time. We were quickly shown into the Stranger’s Room, where Mycroft was waiting for us, sat in a comfortable armchair in front of the blazing fire, his hands folded across his great belly.

“Ah, Sherlock! Doctor!” He greeted us without standing, and instead waved us toward the two unoccupied armchairs next to him. “You’re both looking well, though I see you still haven’t gained any weight, Sherlock dear.”

He was right, of course; Holmes had returned to me thinner than I had ever seen him, so much so that it was a cause for concern. I carefully monitored his weight, though sometimes that involved almost physically dragging him to the weighing scales. He had not lost any additional weight, which was a relief, but it was taking him far too long to regain. 

Sherlock smirked as he sat gracefully opposite his brother. “And I see you have gained five pounds since my last visit,” he shot back.

“Five and a quarter, my boy.”

I waited patiently for the brothers to finish trading deductions, and their game ceased when it became apparent that Mycroft had out-deduced Sherlock. I smirked. I held a lot of affection for Holmes, but it was rather enjoyable to see him bested on occasion.

It was then that Mycroft turned upon me with a kindly smile. “And how are you, Doctor Watson?” he asked.

I knew he was only asking out of courtesy - I had explicitly told him not to deduce me, I had enough of that at home. Luckily, Mycroft had laughed and promised he would cease. 

“Fine, thank you,” I smiled. 

Sherlock had obviously had enough of the formalities, something that was only tolerated in my presence, for he waved an impatient hand and leant back in his chair. “The case, if you please, brother.”

“Yes, alright,” Mycroft’s eyes twinkled. 

The door opened, and a footman set a tea tray on the table before us and began to pour our cups. The case obviously was not one of national importance, for Mycroft began speaking whilst he was still in the room.

“An acquaintance and fellow Diogenes member recently mentioned to me in passing that his servants believe his house to be haunted,” Mycroft began, dropping four lumps of sugar into his tea and stirring it idly. “His name is Lord Farringdon. He works in parliament and owns a modest sized estate in Richmond facing the river.”

I could see Holmes’s interest was piqued: he stared down into his tea and he stirred in his own (thankfully only two) sugar lumps, but I could see his eyes sparkling in the dark reflection of the tea.

“His servants hear shuffling in the walls at all times of the day, as if someone were walking by. Many of them, mostly the entirety of the female staff, feel as though they are being watched, primarily at night. 

“This has been happening for some years, and as a result there is a high staff turnover at the house. Though it is only now that Lord Farringdon grows concerned - this ‘ghost’ has begun to steal.

“The thefts started small - first the odd silver spoon or dessert fork would vanish from the kitchens, but soon Lady Farringdon would report her jewellery missing. It was after this that the police were involved, but predictably, they have had very little luck in catching the culprit. Despite multiple watches conducted on the house at all hours of the day - no one was seen entering the house that wasn’t supposed to. And now, an important collection of government documents have been stolen from Lord Farringdon’s private office, which is located at the top of the house. The servants are not permitted to enter without Lord Farringdon present, and he possess the only key.”

Holmes’s eyes were glittering, and he was practically wiggling in his seat. I so adored the habits he adopted when he was happy or excited; these mannerisms that were so natural to him in our daily lives were so often quashed whilst interviewing a client - the world outside our Baker Street rooms was often so judgemental, and my friend had built up an iron mask in order to protect himself. To see it discarded made my heart swell with affection. 

“How old is the house?” Holmes asked keenly. 

“No more than fifty years old, and before you suggest secret tunnels, I have to inform you that there are none. I admit that is where my own inquiries wandered, given the fact that no one suspicious was seen entering the house, but Lord Farringdon has assured me that is not the case. He designed the house himself and had it built especially.”

Holmes deflated somewhat, but his interest hadn’t waned. He steepled his fingers upon his breast and hummed to himself. “Interesting. What about mice?” 

“It could explain the shuffling within the walls, but mice do not steal jewels and important documents, my dear boy.”

“Yes. Quite right.” Holmes rubbed his palms together, deep in thought before he jumped to his feet and grinned down at his brother. 

“I will take the case, though I suspect you already have the answer within your grasp.”

Mycroft smiled fondly up at Sherlock, then heaved himself to his feet. “I believe I do, but I would like you to confirm a few details for me.” 

The footman was summoned and Mycroft requested a cab for the three of us.

“What is this Lord like, then?” Holmes asked as we milled about the entry way, wrapped in our coats and scarves against the winter chill, and waiting for our carriage to take us to our destination. 

Mycroft’s eyes darkened a touch, and he leant closer to us, as if he were about to divulge some great secret. “Between the three of us, I don’t think highly of the man,” he said in a low voice. “He is known to be a liar and a cheat, and someone who is not above buying his desired outcomes. He is thrice married; he gives reasons for both of his divorces, but it is said that he begins to tire of his women once they reach middle age. He married both of his wives on the cusp of womanhood.”

“Ah, I know his type,” I frowned. I had known of such men in the army, and there were more than a few at my club - they were never good company, and one was forced to tread carefully in their presence.  

“So he is untrustworthy,” Holmes mused, tapping his fingertips against his bottom lip. “Interesting.” 

A carriage pulled up outside the door to the club, and together, the three of us made our way out of the door.

“Ah, driver?” Holmes called out before he entered the carriage, “Would you mind terribly if we stopped at Baker Street before heading to our destination? I have something I need to acquire.” 

“What is it you need?” I asked once we were all sat down upon the lush, padded seats. It certainly paid to be the British Government - I could hardly feel the bumps in the road as we drove on home again. 

Holmes grinned impishly at me. “Ah - but that would be telling!”

Once we had arrived back at Baker Street, Holmes hopped out with the assurance that he would be only a few minutes. I stayed behind in the cab with Mycroft. 

“Do you have an idea as to what he’s planning?” I asked. 

“I do indeed.”

“And I suppose you won’t tell me.”

Mycroft smiled slyly at me, and I gave an exaggerated huff of annoyance. “You really are the most frustrating pair.”

“Now now, Doctor,” Mycroft chided, “I do like to let Sherlock have his fun where it is harmless. It is a better alternative to some of his other preferred activities, as I’m sure you’ll agree.” 

He was, undoubtably, referring to Sherlock’s use of narcotics, underground boxing and indoor target practice, and I grimaced. 

“You’re right, of course.”

I would have asked him if Sherlock was known to cause such trouble in his childhood, but at that moment the carriage door swung open and Holmes reappeared, this time carrying a small carpet bag. 

“What’s in there, then?” I asked, though I knew it would be useless. Holmes always liked to deprive me of answers, though I would never deprive him of our usual game. 

“All will be revealed in due time,” he grinned and knocked the roof of the carriage with his stick to signal the driver to depart. “I am confident that the case will be wrapped up by lunchtime, so I took the liberty of asking Mrs Hudson to prepare a spread for our return. I trust that will be amiable, brother?”

Mycroft gave a curt nod. “Of course,” he said.

Chapter Text

Less than an hour later we were pulling up the long, gravel driveway to a large stately home on the outskirts of Richmond. Holmes and I had visited many a mansion home during the course of our work together, and to be completely honest, the novelty was beginning to wear off.

Even so, I have to admit that this home was, even in the midst of winter, absolutely beautiful. Under the blue-silver frost of the season, it was obvious that the grass underneath it was a luscious, well kept green. The gravel drive cut through the otherwise perfect lawn in a subtle arch up to the manor house, which was three storeys in height, and for what it lacked in size was made up for by its beauty. 

For a country manor house it was small, but made of the finest tawny Cotswolds stone. Two large windows framed the grand entrance to the house, and the three storey home ended with a pointed roof lined with a great number of chimneys. 

The three of us exited the carriage and stepped out into the crisp, late morning air. We were met by the butler and escorted inside where our coats were taken and we were met by the Lady of the house. 

“Mr Holmes, it was good of you to come,” Lady Farringdon greeted Mycroft in the cosy yet bright hallway. She was a petite, brunette woman approaching her late thirties. She was stunningly beautiful, her cascading hair pulled up into a partial bun and her small frame was smothered in intricate shawls to stave off the winter chill. She took one of Mycroft’s meaty hands in both of her delicate ones, and Mycroft gave a minute bow. 

“May I introduce my younger brother Sherlock and his companion Doctor Watson,” Mycroft gestured to each of us in turn, and the lady shook our hands cordially. “I can assure you with no amount of bias that my brother is the finest detective England has to offer; I can guarantee your problem will be solved within the hour.”

“Oh, I am happy to hear that,” Lady Farringdon said, the relief heavy in her voice. Holmes smiled kindly at her. “I trust Mr Holmes has provided you with the details? I know it sounds silly; I am not one to believe in ghosts, or I wasn’t until I came to live in this house, but it is the only explanation for what I have experienced. I would have thought I was going quite mad… if it wasn’t for my servants experiencing the exact same events.” 

“Never mind the ‘hauntings’,” A mans booming voice sounded from the upper landing. We looked up to see an older gentleman descending the great staircase, his gaze fixed cooly on Lady Farringdon. “I have never heard such nonsense in my life. It is the stolen items you are to focus your attentions on, gentlemen.”

“Lord Farringdon, I presume.” Holmes said in an overly jovial tone as Lord Farringdon came to stand by his wife’s side. He was a short man, perhaps a couple inches shorter than his wife, with thin, white wispy hair and a face rather like one of a bull dog. His expression was cold and unflinching as he observed my friend with a scrutinising glower.

“The very same. Mycroft,” He nodded at Mycroft, who nodded curtly back. They were truly men of the Diogenes. 

“Do you not believe in the hauntings then?” My friend asked. 

“I think the very notion is preposterous,” Lord Farringdon sniffed, and Lady Farringdon dipped her head in what looked like shame. Not for the first time that day, I wondered about the state of their marriage. 

“Do you not feel as if you’re being watched?”

“No,” Lord Farringdon said firmly. 

Holmes hummed in a fashion that sounded almost sarcastic. Holmes detested men such as Farringdon, and he never hesitated to make his distain known. I had to hide a smirk. “Don’t you find it odd that both your wife and the other female staff have reported the sensation of being watched, yet you and your male staff have had no such complaints?”

Lord Farringdon straightened in defence, an act that did little to serve him; if I were to stand at his side, the top of his head would barely brush my shoulder. “No. You know women have these fancies. They are prone to hysteria.”

Holmes’s smile took on a dangerous edge. “Of course,” he said sweetly. 

“I swear to you, Mr Holmes, I felt the distinct prickle upon my neck not five minutes before your arrival,” said Lady Farringdon, and she lay a desperate hand on Holmes’s forearm, an action that caused Lord Farringdon to bristle like an offended house cat. “My staff report the feeling in vulnerable moments, such as when they are changing or washing…” she trailed off with a shudder, and I was hit with a wave of revulsion at the implications. 

“I don’t doubt you at all, my Lady.” Holmes patted the back of her hand lightly before withdrawing his arm from her reach. “I believe we can solve the mystery of the voyeur spirit and the disappearance of the household valuables in one fell swoop. What’s the expression, Watson? Two birds with one stone? Lady Farringdon, where were you before coming to meet us?”

“I was in my dressing room applying my powder,” Lady Farringdon said. Holmes hummed thoughtfully. 

“May I ask you to return there?” he asked softly, “I would not ask you to do so if I did not believe you would be perfectly safe, it would be a great help to me.” 

Lady Farringdon’s brow furrowed with nerves, but she nodded regardless. “What would you like me to do?” she asked, her voice steely with determination. 

“Just act as naturally as you are able.”

Lady Farringdon nodded and with one last nervous glance at her husband, took her leave. 

“Now, Lord Farringdon,” Holmes turned upon the man with a fleeting smile. “The documents vanished from your office, yes? Where about in the house is it located?” 

“On the top floor.” 

“Excellent! That fits nicely with my plans. Would you show the way?”

Lord Farringdon looked nervously between my friend and Mycroft, “Is this really necessary?” he asked, indignant. 

“To search the room in which your documents vanished from? Of course.” 

The little man looked between the Holmes brothers again as if willing Sherlock to change his mind, or Mycroft to step in on his behalf. When neither of these outcomes transpired, he sighed with defeat. “Very well. Follow me.” 

We followed Lord Farringdon up the stairs he had just descended, then up a further two flights. His office was at the end of a long corridor, and shut behind an imposing oak door. 

“I keep this door locked at all times,” Lord Farringdon provided as he took a large, brass key from his pocket and inserted it into the lock. It opened with an echoing click. “There we are,” he said, pushing the door open.

Holmes hummed to himself as he entered the room, the three of us close on his heels.

It was a handsome office, though perhaps a little smaller than I had expected compared to the rest of the house. The walls were coated in a royal blue wall paper with a dark wooden trim, and there were a good number of bookcases along them, almost overflowing with papers. Between the shelves hung the occasional portrait, none of which appeared to depict Lord Farringdon himself, but the men that stared down at us from the walls certainly bore his resemblance. The hardwood floor was solid beneath our feet, and our footsteps were muffled by a plush red rug.

A large desk sat in the centre of the room and faced two comfortable looking armchairs, though from its location in the house I found it improbable that Lord Farringdon was holding any meetings there; perhaps they were just for show. 

I stood next at Mycroft’s side as we watched Sherlock pace up and down the room, peering at the floor, out of the window, and he even eyed the portraits on the walls with keen interest. He then turned to Lord Farringdon, folded his arms behind his back and gave the old man a fleeting smile. 

“Lord Farringdon, would it be terribly rude of me to ask you to leave the room? I believe it would be much easier for my companions and I to conduct our search if you were - respectfully - not here.”

Lord Farringdon bristled. “It would be terribly rude of you!” He exclaimed. “This is my private office, I have classified government documents stored here!”

“My Lord,” Mycroft soothed, “I can assure you that my brother is completely trustworthy, and I will be at his side all the while. Nothing shall leave this office.”

Lord Farringdon looked to Mycroft with what looked like an expression of betrayal, but he conceded. I wouldn’t have been surprised to hear that Mycroft held even more power over Farringdon, despite his title. 

“Very well,” he said reluctantly. “I will be in my private rooms down the hall, should you need me.”

He left, and Holmes bounded across the room to close the door in his wake. 

“He is not being completely honest with us,” Holmes said. He threw himself against the wall that faced the next room and put both his ear and palm against it. “And in this case, it works out in our favour.” 

“What do you mean?” I asked as Holmes began to tap along the part of the wall which was not concealed by a portrait or a bookcase. His face lit up with glee.

“Mycroft - when Lord Farringdon told you that he does not have secret tunnels in his house, did you believe him?”

Mycroft’s expression had taken on one that mirrored his brothers, albeit significantly more restrained. “Not in the slightest.” 

Holmes came to a halt next to the portrait by the window - it depicted a man who bore a great resemblance to Lord Farringdon dressed in a military uniform, sword in hand and two black hounds at his feet. 

Holmes pressed his cheek against the wall and squinted at the side of the portrait. 

“This is an entrance; I can see the hinges,” Holmes reported. He darted to the opposite side and began to grapple at the edge of the frame. “But I can’t see a way to open it.”

“There must be a button or a lever,” I reasoned. 

“Yes, but where?” Holmes scratched the back of his head and turned toward his brother. “I suppose you’ve already located it?”

Mycroft regarded his brother cooly. “I have indeed.”

“Well, care to enlighten us? We don’t have much time to enact my plan, we must move swiftly.” 

Mycroft sighed and wore a rather put upon look, as if Sherlock was being deliberately obtuse. He strolled toward the desk and there he reached toward one of the trophies that sat atop the oak wood and gave it a quick pull. It tilted forward and held its position, and a small, barely audible click could be heard from the direction of the portrait. Holmes tried the portrait again, and it swung easily toward him. 

“I should have known,” he muttered with a glance back at the trophy. 

Mycroft gave him a placating smile. “Hidden in plain sight, my dear boy.”

“So he lied,” I observed the portrait-door with amazement. Perhaps it is shameful to admit, but I took Lord Farringdon at his word. In my defence, it is not everyday one comes across a home with hidden rooms or tunnels.

“Yes, which begs the question: what else is he lying about?”

With that, Holmes disappeared through the opening, taking the carpet bag with him.

I scurried to the entrance of the tunnels and peered in, but Holmes had already vanished into the shadows.

The tunnels were narrow, just wide enough for a slim man such as Holmes to walk comfortably without brushing his shoulders against the walls. The ceilings were as high as the rooms they were sandwiched between, and there was neither natural light or gas-lamps; one would need a lantern in order to see one’s way.

They were dusty too, and cobwebs hung from the ceilings like drapes. I could just about hear Holmes creeping along the tunnels, his steps catlike. 

It was a while before he emerged from the darkness, brushing dust and cobwebs from his shoulders and wearing a sly smile. 

“Our man is not on our floor,” he said as he handed me the carpet bag, which I took without hesitation.

“You think someone is hiding in there?” I asked, aghast.

“There was certainly someone before we arrived, I don’t doubt Lady Farringdon’s account,” Holmes said as he retrieved a book of matches from his breast pocket. “If a woman says she is being watched, she is usually right. If we are lucky, he is still hanging about her rooms. We shall smoke him out.”

From the carpet bag he unearthed a great number of smoke rockets, which I immediately recognised from our adventure concerning the brilliant Irene Adler. 

Holmes disappeared into the tunnels once again. He lit a match and ignited the rockets, then tossed them down the corridor, where they landed with a dull, echoing thud further up, and several sounded as if they had tumbled down a flight of stairs. Then he was back and shutting the portrait-door behind him. 

“We shall split up,” he announced. “Watson, you patrol this floor; I doubt you will see him, for any sensible man should retreat from smoke, but I would like to be sure. Mycroft, you take the floor below. I will search the ground floor. Be sure to keep an eye on the windows and be on the lookout for a dusty, spooked looking man.”

With our orders received, we split up.

Sherlock and Mycroft disappeared downstairs whilst I remained on the top floor. I left the office door ajar and began to pace the long corridor.

The doors along the corridor, barring the door to the office, were all closed and locked. I stooped to peer into the keyholes, but I saw nothing untoward. I reached what appeared to be Lord Farringdon’s private rooms, for when I looked through the keyhole, I saw the man himself pacing the length of his room, his hands folded behind his back and his chin upon his breast. 

It quickly became apparent that our man was not going to appear, and I considered descending to the floor below when I heard a unintelligible shout, followed by a deafening bang. 

I flinched violently. The sound was unmistakably a gunshot. 

Upon the realisation that the sound had emanated from at least two floors below, I broke into a run.

Holmes was down there.

I hurried down the corridor and down the staircases. I could hear nothing but my own footsteps echoing off the walls, and the implications of that made my heart swell with terror. At the foot of the staircase, I saw the door to the drawing room was ajar, and I burst through.

I had barely registered the scene in front of me before I was rushing to the figures on the floor.

The room was empty, all except for the Holmes brothers at the very centre. The scent of gunpowder was rich on the air, mingled with the metallic tang of blood. 

To this day I have never seen Holmes so stricken. His face was so pale he was almost grey, his eyes wide, and his face lax with shock. He crouched on the floor, his hands upon his brothers chest, pressing desperately at his heart.

I knew it was too late before I had the chance to get a good look at the wound. Blood had soaked into the floorboards beneath us, and continued to flow at an alarming rate. Holmes’s hands were covered in scarlet, which glinted in the midday sun, and a red streak dripped from Mycroft’s parted lips. 

I retrieved my handkerchief from my pocket and knocked Holmes’s trembling hands aside to apply the meagre scrap of cloth to the wound. It was then that I realised the high, keening whine was not coming from the mortally wounded man on the floor, but from Sherlock’s own mouth. 

Mycroft’s eyes were still open. There was still life in them yet, but it was rapidly fading. With a monumental effort, Mycroft raised his arm.

His hands were stained with his own blood, but that did not stop him from reaching out for his little brother. Tenderly, he cupped Sherlock’s cheek, and Sherlock gasped at the contact.

“My dear boy,” Mycroft wheezed, and his pale lips spread into a smile. His eyes, fluttering feebly against his approaching doom, were overflowing with pure love. “My dear brother… Sherlock…”

The chest beneath my hands suddenly stilled, and Sherlock grabbed hold of his brothers hand as it fell from its tender caress at his cheek. He held it in both of his, his face the very picture of shock. 

I removed my hands from Mycroft’s chest to press two fingers against the artery at his neck, even though I already knew what I would not feel. I could not tear my eyes from my dear Holmes’s face for a second.

“Holmes,” I breathed, my voice ragged with shock. It had all happened so fast. “Sherlock. My dear. I am so sorry.”

My words appeared to have awoken something in Holmes, for his eyes suddenly snapped to attention. He dropped his brothers hand to rest on his chest and stood, turned on his heel and tore from the room, slipping slightly in Mycroft’s blood as he did so. 

“Holmes!” I cried as he slammed into the door and ran down the corridor. I could hear his footsteps thundering across the hallway. 

I dropped my ruined handkerchief and made to follow him, but stopped as my eyes crossed Mycroft’s lax expression.

Mycroft Holmes - a man so impossibly greater than my friend, who still shared so much with his younger brother, including his features. His face was so similar to Sherlock’s, yet so different. I had never observed the elder Holmes so close before that moment. Before his death.

I rested my palm over his familiar grey eyes and gently guided them shut. I grasped the dead mans hand and said a prayer to a God I did not believe in. Then I stood to pursue my friend. 

Chapter Text

I caught sight of Holmes through the open front door. He was sprinting with purpose across the perfectly manicured front lawn, a shadow against the frost-covered green, toward the retreating back of a lone figure. 

I knew at once that he was the gunman.

The man would be hanged, I was sure of it. But I could not let Holmes meet the same fate. 

I tore over the threshold in pursuit of my friend. The air was frigid and tore at my lungs as I ran, both my leg and shoulder protested at the sudden activity, but I could not let myself stop even for a moment.

“HOLMES!” I bellowed across the lawn, so loud that the word tore at my throat, “DON’T!”

It was too late; Holmes had caught up with his quarry, mere yards from the front gate. He slammed into his back and sent the man sprawling across the frozen ground with a cry. Holmes was on him in an instant; he gripped him by his the scruff of his neck and wrenched him onto his back and then began to rain blow after blow down upon the mans face. The man cried out and tried in vein to shield himself with his palms. 

A shrill police whistle cut through the air just as I caught up to Holmes and wrenched him off the mans body. The man gurgled weakly on the floor, his face having been reduced to a bloody pulp beneath Holmes’s fists. His lips were parted around pathetic whines. I could see that a few teeth had been knocked loose, and his fists flailed weakly in the empty air above him. 

Holmes struggled in my arms as I fought to restrain him. I was once again reminded of Holmes’s deceptive strength; my muscles burned with the exertion of holding him back as he fought like a wild animal to continue his assault upon his brothers killer. I suspect I only succeeded as I am considerably more bulky than he, and even in his frenzied state, he subconsciously did not wish to hurt me. 

He was so unlike himself then that I, paired with the traumatic scene I had just witnessed only moments before, was having trouble controlling my own faculties. 

I had never seen Holmes so affected.   

“What’s going on?” cried the constable who had just arrived on the scene. He looked between the pitiful man on the ground and Holmes, who was still struggling in my arms. 

“That man,” Holmes spat, pointing an accusing, bloody finger at the curled body on the floor, “Killed my brother.”

At that moment Lady Farringdon joined us on the scene, her skirts bunched up around her ankles as she hurried toward us. 

She turned toward us, her mouth open as if to speak, but her jaw fell slack upon seeing the man lying prone upon the lawn. 

“My goodness! George!” she cried, “What on Earth have you done?!” 

“You know this man?” The constable asked, as he bent to cuff the nonsensical man. 

“He is our driver,” she said, a palm pressed to her breast in shock. “George. George Wickham. I would never have thought…” she swallowed heavily and turned to face us. “I heard gunshots and went to investigate. It is then we found…” 

She trailed off with a nervous glance to Holmes’s face. Holmes’s eyes had never once left George, and he was staring at him with flaming fury. He shook in my arms, poised like a whip, ready to strike once again should I relax my hold on him even for an instant. 

“It was then we sent for the police,” Lady Farringdon finished quietly. 

“I was passing by when I heard the commotion, my Lady,” the constable said. He attempted to wrench Wickham to his feet, but his head lolled forward and his eyelids fluttered as his consciousness started to fade, and so he thought better of it. He looked up at Holmes and I, his eyes flickered toward Holmes’s bloody fists. “And you two are?”

“My name is Doctor John Watson, and this here is my friend Sherlock Holmes,” I said, relieved when I heard my voice was strong and steady, for I certainly didn’t feel so. “We were called to investigate a number of thefts within the house.”

The constable’s eyes widened with recognition. “Of course, I have read your stories,” he said with a small smile, which quickly dropped at a look to Holmes’s face. “I am Constable Taylor. Pleasure to meet you sirs.”

Constable Taylor then turned to Lady Farringdon. “You have sent for the police?”

Lady Farringdon nodded, “I sent one of our stable boys, and,” she paused here, with another glance at Holmes, who was staring pointedly at his feet and attempting to regain control of his breathing, “A coroner will have to be sent for…” 

“I will have to take your statements, of course,” Constable Taylor directed to Holmes and I. 

I glanced to Holmes; he looked positively ill. He had just experienced a great shock - we both had - I was certainly was in no mood to recount the events of the day, I could hardly imagine how Holmes felt. 

“I’m afraid that will have to wait,” I told him firmly. “I am Holmes’s doctor and he is in no condition to give a statement; I won’t allow it.”

It was a testament to how awful Holmes must have been feeling that he did not attempt to argue with me.

“I would be grateful if Inspector Lestrade from Scotland Yard would drop by Baker Street tomorrow to take both of our statements.”

Taylor looked as if he wanted to argue, but the mention of Lestrade seemed to have swayed him. “Very well then, sir,” he conceded. 

I turned to my friend. “Holmes, we should take you home-”

“No.” Holmes snapped, “Not whilst Mycroft is still here.”

It was a reasonable request, but even so I hesitated. 

I was sorely worried for Holmes’s health. His constitution was already weak from the events of his three years away, and with his nerves so shaken, I wished to get him home as soon as possible. I knew that even being away from the safety and comfort of Baker Street for extended periods could be trying on his nerves, especially under such circumstances.

But I had a feeling that Holmes would not forgive me if I were to drag him home now. He deserved to spend some time with his brother at the very least. 

I sighed heavily. “All right, then.”

Lady Farringdon smiled kindly, but her eyes shined with emotion; the reality of the events that had just unfolded within her own home were likely beginning to settle in. “I will call for some tea, and we can sit in the living room whilst we wait. 

I smiled, “That sounds wonderful, thank you.”

We started back toward the house, leaving Constable Taylor standing guard over the nonsensical Wickham. As we entered the hallway, Holmes’s eyes gravitated to the still open door of the drawing room, where his bloody footprints could be seen retreating from the scene. A pale-faced butler stood in the doorway, his hands folded behind his back and a grim expression etched onto his face. He did not look at us as we passed. 

We reached the living room - a charming space with light blue walls, white accents and comfortable floral couches, and sat down. We were provided with a bowl of warm water in which to wash the blood off our hands, though Holmes only gave his a fleeting dunk. I resisted the urge to wash them for him, for we were with company. Holmes would never forgive me if I were to coddle him in the presence of others, much less a woman. 

Tea was sent for and drank, though I believe we both drank automatically and without care. We sat in silence as we waited for the police and coroner. 

As we waited, I glanced discreetly at Holmes out of the corner of my eye, for I knew that if I were to openly observe him, he would react with distain.

He sat on the sofa next to me, close enough that I could practically feel the tension rolling off those thin shoulders, but not enough for me to reach out and discreetly take his hand, which I desperately wished to do. He spent most of that time staring down into his tea cup, the ripples in the surface of the drink betrayed the subtle tremor that wracked his frame. 

He left bloody finger prints on the fine china, but Lady Farringdon did not comment.

I too could feel myself trembling. We had suffered a massive shock, yes, but I would be lying if I was to say that was the only cause of my unrest. 

The sight of Mycroft’s lifeless, grey eyes hung in my minds eye. So similar to his brothers.

My mind wandered, as it often did, to that terrible day in Switzerland almost four years ago. To finding the note. To screaming myself hoarse at the edge of the abyss. 

There was no body, of course there was no body, but that didn’t change the fact I had thought my dearest companion dead. Before returning to England, I had walked along the rocky banks of the rivers that surrounded the Falls, in vein hope that I would catch a glimpse of my friend, to confirm what I desperately wished was not true. 

Obviously, I found nothing, but that didn’t stop my unconscious mind plaguing me with dreams of stumbling across Holmes’s body, floating lifelessly down a rocky stream, covered in blood and starring up at the sky with glassy grey eyes. I dreamt it so often, sometimes I awoke believing the dream to be a memory.

I had just seen those same lifeless grey eyes in a conscious moment.

I felt sick. 

Luckily, I was saved from spiralling further by the arrival of the constabulary and the coroner. 

We remained in the living room. I had thought Holmes may rise to converse with the officers, to offer up a short account of what had happened, but he remained seated. Though I could see he was keenly listening to the gaggle of men conversing in the next room.

It struck me as odd that Holmes did not even attempt to provide his assistance, but this wasn’t just another case for him, one that he could drop as soon as it reached it’s conclusion. This was his brother. 

The muffled conversation must have shifted, for Holmes set his tea cup and saucer on the coffee table in front of us with no concern for the delicacy of the china, and abruptly stood and made for the door. I followed close behind. 

Five men stood about Mycroft’s prone body, now covered with a white sheet. One was evidently the coroner, who was accompanied by two constables and one inspector - a stocky, balding man with a handlebar moustache. Lord Farringdon stood next to him, looking as pale and sickly as I felt. 

The inspector looked up as we entered and his eyes fell on Holmes. “The brother?” he asked. 

Holmes merely nodded, his lips pressed into a thin, pale line. I was almost intimately familiar with this - Holmes was prone to episodes of muteness, especially when under immense emotional strain, be it from an external or internal source. During these episodes, he could barely communicate, even non-verbally, and it was generally not a good idea to pressure him into speaking before he was ready, for he had a habit of retreating further into himself. It was for this reason I spoke:

“I would be grateful if you would send Inspector Lestrade to take our statements tomorrow,” Constable Taylor was nowhere to be seen. He was most likely tending to Wickham, and I could not be certain he had passed on my earlier message. 

Luckily, the inspector nodded without complaint. Perhaps he recognised us, and was willing to allow us leniency. “I understand. We were just about to remove the body.”

Holmes stood a few paces back as the police coroner and the constables lifted Mycroft’s heavy, limp body onto the stretcher. The covered corpse under a sheet was a sight Holmes and I had encountered at crime scenes many times, but never for a man we had known so intimately. 

Despite the familiarity of the scene, I found I could not watch. Instead, I looked to Holmes.

He was pale and his features had taken on a grey hue, but his expression was one of fixed determination. He watched, his lips still pressed together in that firm, bloodless line, as two constables picked up the stretcher and began to walk Mycroft’s body from the room.

Holmes followed immediately, though he kept a few paces back at all times, like he was following the hearse at a funeral procession. We emerged into the main hall, and I stuck close to Holmes’s back the entire time.

The household staff had gathered outside the door that perhaps led into the kitchens, all whispering to each other behind their hands. They all eyed the stretcher with thinly veiled interest, though there were a few gasps from the women when the great bloodstain at its chest came into view. 

Holmes walked past them all without a glance, his head held high. I do not know if he even heard the whispers that were directed his way. 

The coroners carriage was waiting outside the front door, and Mycroft’s body was loaded smoothly into it with practiced ease and the doors slammed shut behind him. 

The coroner approached Holmes. “Mr Holmes, I am sorry for your loss.” 

Holmes merely nodded, his mouth still clamped firmly shut. 

“We will be taking him to the local morgue and will prepare him for a funeral. Are there any requirements-”

“All enquiries for my brothers Will can be made to the Diogenes Club in London.” Holmes said, his voice surprisingly strong and clear. He almost sounded like his usual, commanding self, except to I who knew him so well. There was an undercurrent to his voice, one of barely concealed sorrow. My heart ached to hear it. 

With that, Holmes turned on his heel and headed back to where our carriage still waited on the driveway.

Chapter Text

We reentered the carriage and began the hour-long drive back to Baker Street. Holmes lapsed back into his mute silence and stared at the wall opposite him, his stormy grey eyes void of all emotion. He barely even blinked.

I found myself at a loss for what to say; this was much different from our usual, companionable silences I was so used to. The air felt heavy between us, and my chest ached with the need to say something, anything. 

But what was there to say? Holmes had just witnessed his dear brother murdered in cold blood, with seemingly no motive. Not only was it a tremendous shock, but also a massive emotional blow.

Sherlock Holmes was a man who held an iron control over his emotions. It was rather astounding to witness him shake off turmoil like snow after a blizzard, and for some years, I am ashamed to admit that I thought him completely emotionless.

Now, I know better. Holmes has allowed me to peer under the mask he keeps affixed in place before the general public, and beneath it lies a very emotional man. He feels things to strongly that in recent years my admiration for his skills had slowly morphed into deep concern for the state of his nerves.

This was one such occasion. After his initial burst of emotion, Holmes had completely closed himself off to the world, including to me. 

Although, perhaps not completely. During our journey, Holmes had begun to shiver. The shivers had started off as minute tremors, but gradually grew until his teeth began to chatter so violently the steady beat of the horses’ hooves could not cover their rattle. He was going into shock.

With no regard for the cold, I quickly shucked off my own overcoat and wrapped him snugly within in it. It would have to do until we arrived at Baker Street.

The contact had jostled Holmes out of whatever reverie he had been trapped in, and he glanced my way, but with no attempt to meet my eyes.

“You are going into shock, my dear.” I informed him quietly, and I took his cold hand in both of mine and squeezed gently. His hand was still sticky with the unpleasant mix of his brothers and Wickham’s blood, but I paid it no mind. I had put my hands in much worse over the years.

Holmes still said nothing.

I breathed a sigh of relief as the cab pulled up outside the door of 221B. 

“We are home, my dear.” I told him. Holmes had once again slipped into his brown study, and I was not sure if he heard me. I gently squeezed his elbow and guided him out of the cab, where he stood on the pavement on unsteady feet. 

I paid the cabby, who looked quite alarmed at the blood that had stained my own hands. I smiled apologetically at him.

I let us into the house using my key, and gently guided Holmes over the threshold with a palm at the small of his back. 

Mrs Hudson evidently heard our arrival, and she bustled from her rooms to take our hats and coats. She stopped short when she saw Holmes. 

“My goodness!” She cried, “Mr Holmes, are you quite alright?”

Holmes paid her no mind. Instead, he walked straight past her without so much as a glance and ascended the stairs to our rooms. 

We heard the living room door slam, and Mrs Hudson turned back to me, her jaw lax with shock. 

“Doctor Watson?” she inquired nervously. The good woman was more than used to Holmes’s black moods, but she was also extremely intelligent - though it didn’t take intelligence to see that something was very, very wrong.

“We were investigating a case with Holmes’s brother, Mycroft,” I explained, my voice low even though I knew there was no chance that Holmes would overhear. “Unfortunately, Mr Holmes was fatally shot in the heart. He practically died in Sherlock’s arms.”

Mrs Hudson’s hands shot to cover her mouth. “Oh, my goodness,” she breathed.

I smiled grimly and gave her a comforting pat on the shoulder. “I think it best if we are left alone for the rest of the day. Please send away any callers; I will ring if we need you.”

Mrs Hudson nodded, “Of course, Doctor.”

I took to the stairs quickly, but when I opened the living room door I paused upon the threshold. 

Holmes stood in the centre of the room, his back to me. From my viewpoint, it looked as if he were gazing out of the window, the afternoon sunlight flooded the room in dazzling rays. He was a dark shadow against the pouring light. 

“Holmes?” I asked tentatively as I stepped into the room and closed the door behind me.

Holmes did not acknowledge me, or move in any way. I crept closer to him until I was stood at his side.

His face was completely blank. He stared straight ahead, his eyes empty and unfocused. His lips were still pressed into a thin line and he was as white as a sheet. Undoubtedly, the shock had completely taken hold.

I reached out to take his wrist in hand and feel his pulse, and it was thrumming rapidly against my fingers.

“Holmes,” I repeated, softer this time. Still, he did nothing and continued to stare. 

It was unnevering. Holmes was such an expressive man, yet here he had been wiped clean. Even when he was in the throws of a black mood or deep meditation, there was at least some life in his eyes.

Only when I wrapped my arm around his shoulders did he stir. He jolted minutely and turned to look at me.

“You are in shock, my dear,” I murmured. 

He seemed to process that for a moment, then he looked down at his outstretched hands, his palms up. Blood had etched into the lines of his palms, scarlet and vibrant. Slowly he turned his hands over to reveal blood-caked fingernails and split knuckles on his left hand, a nasty gash ran horizontally along the knuckles of his index and middle fingers, most likely where George’s teeth had caught him.

But first - the shock. I guided him to sit on the sofa and poured him a large glass of brandy, and a second for myself. I would need my whits about myself if I was to help Holmes through this. 

I had to prompt him to drink, for when I pushed the glass into his hands, he stared at it as if he had forgotten how to do so. With one hand on his back, I lifted his hand containing the glass to his lips. Luckily, he was able to take a great gulp. 

“How about a bath?” I suggested once the glass was empty. Again, Holmes said nothing to this, but he lead me steer him by the waist up the stairs and into my room.

The bathroom was located next door to my own bedroom, and was equipped with modern plumbing and hot water. For comforts sake, I sat him on the bed. He went without argument.

I shook a quilt from the edge of my bed and draped it around his narrow shoulders. He had begun to tremble again, only the slightest of tremors, but it would grow in time. I guided his hands, now limp at his sides, to grasp at the quilt and keep it secure around him. He let me, not once breaking his gaze from the floor.

“I am going to run you a bath and collect a change of clothes from downstairs, then I will be right back,” I informed him, “Will you be alright here? I won’t be long.”

I waited a minute for Holmes to say something, but he didn’t. I was beginning to fear he was becoming catatonic, but I needed to focus on getting him clean and warm.

I ducked into the bathroom to run the taps and lather some soap in the water, creating a bubbly foam, before I ventured down to Holmes’s room. I collected a clean, lavender scented nightshirt from his drawer, thick woollen socks and his mouse coloured dressing gown before returning to my room.

Holmes still sat in the exact position I had left him in. 

I pulled him to his feet and together we crossed the short distance to the bathroom. It was up to me to undress him, for when I gently asked him to do so, he stared at his buttons like he had never seen them before.

He shivered when he sank into the water, despite the fact that I had checked the water was on the warm side, as was his preference. He made no move to wash himself, so I took the sponge, lathered it with the soap and got to work.

It was silent as I scrubbed the blood from his skin, the only sounds was the gentle trickle of water which echoed in the tiled room. I was careful as I scrubbed the skin around his ruined knuckles - the skin had began to bruise a dappled mix of scarlet and purple, and was covered in deep lacerations - but he did not even wince. Instead he sat, his knees pulled to his chest and grey eyes staring unseeing at the bubbles which floated atop the water.

“It should have been me.” 

The words were so quiet and so unexpected that I almost didn’t hear him. I paused in my ministrations and looked to Holmes. “Sorry?”

“It should have been me,” Holmes turned his head slowly to look me in the eye. “He was protecting me. He saw the gun and he jumped in front of me. It should have been me.”

My heart dropped and my stomach rolled. I thought of Mycroft’s lifeless, grey eyes and had to fight off a wave of nausea. 

“Holmes…” But what could I say? It still felt too early to offer any of the words of comfort I would usually provide; I had seen survivors guilt many times in my years as an army surgeon, and there was no soothing balm I could provide while the wounds were still so raw. 

All I could do was drop the sponge and pull Holmes to me by the back of his neck. Wordlessly, I pressed my lips to his forehead. 

I was glad it hadn’t been him. 

Holmes leant his weight into me and said nothing more.

It was a while before I encouraged him from the water. I helped him step from the tub and wrapped him in soft, warm towels, which he clutched around his shoulders and shivered with his head bowed and his hair dripping. I escorted him from the bathroom and back into my bedroom where I helped him dry, then dress in his nightshirt and a warm pair of woollen socks. 

I bandaged his knuckles, his hands rested on my bedside table as I dabbed at the wounds with anti-sceptic, but he didn’t even flinch. I wrapped his hands in soft gauze, then pressed soft kisses over the bandaged wounds.

It was still only mid afternoon, but I assisted him between the soft sheets of my bed and got him lying down. He went without complaint. He lay curled on his side facing the far wall and clutched the blankets in a similar fashion to which he clutched the towel. I could not help but think how small and vulnerable he looked.

With only a moments consideration, I shed my shoes and waistcoat and crawled into bed behind him. I tucked myself up against his back, slotted my knees behind his and rested my chin on the top of his still damp hair. 

I would often hold him in this fashion during his black fits, and it seemed to calm him immensely. Sherlock Holmes was one of the strongest men I had ever met, but that did not mean he was immune from the darker emotions, nor did it make him immune to the effects of simple comforts.

I am not sure how much I helped, for he was still tense in my arms. It was as if his body had suddenly turned to stone, his muscles stiff beneath his nightshirt, and he held himself in a rigid manner. I began to lightly massage his shoulder, but it did little to encourage him to relax. 

It did not escape my attention that Holmes had not yet cried, or expressed any emotion other than anger at his brother’s passing. Of course, there was the shock to consider - it was unlikely Holmes would express any other emotion until that passed.

But what would that look like? I had never seen Holmes cry before. I had seen him become teary when moved by beautiful music or given a genuine, heartfelt compliment, but I had never seen a tear fall from those grey eyes. Had I not witnessed these events, perhaps I would think Holmes incapable of tears. 

I, for one, hoped he would cry. Holmes was a man who held his emotions close to his heart, and would only relieve their weight with the assistance of his hypodermic needle. This was far from healthy. 

I had been in the company of men who would cry and wail out their woes after consuming a little too much alcohol, but Holmes did not like to drink to excess. I wondered how drunk Holmes would have to become in order to relieve himself of the burden of his emotions, but I found I wasn’t particularly keen to find out. 

I fell into a fitful doze, punctuated by the memory Holmes’s animalistic grunts as he pounded at George’s face with his fists, and familiar grey eyes, lifeless and gazing at nothing. 

Chapter Text

Lestrade arrived the next morning to take our statements. I had just breakfasted, and sat opposite Holmes next to the roaring fire.

Holmes had been silent ever since his declaration in the bath. A half-drunk cup of coffee sat on the tea table next to him, alongside a cold slice of honeyed toast. He sat with his legs tucked under him and his dressing gown drawn tightly around his slender frame. He puffed at his pipe, and other than re-filling the bowl, had not moved since sitting down over an hour previously. 

When Mrs Hudson had announced Lestrade’s arrival, Holmes had waved a careless hand in signal for the detective inspector to be shown up.

“Is he dead?” Holmes asked in greeting upon Lestrade’s entrance into our quiet, cosy living room. 

Poor Lestrade looked a little taken aback at the sudden question. He looked to me, but I merely shrugged. 

“No,” Lestrade said carefully, “Though it was a near thing; you beat him senseless. If the good doctor hadn’t pulled you off, you could have killed him. You would have faced the gallows yourself.”

Holmes disregarded the subtle rebuke. “So he will hang?”

“Most likely, yes,” Lestrade sighed and sank down onto the sofa. I directed his attention to the coffee pot upon the table, and he poured himself a generous cup. “I still need to take your statements, but the fact remains that he gunned down a prominent government figure in cold blood; I find it difficult to believe he will be treated lightly.”

I had not completely realised the ramifications of Mycroft Holmes’s death until that moment; I had been far too concerned with the state of Holmes’s nerves to even consider what effect Mycroft’s death would have on the country at large. 

From what Holmes had told me, I knew that Mycroft was not just employed by the British government - he was the British government. His death was likely to have consequences for the entire country. 

A second realisation came to me upon the back of the first - I had no idea what had happened in that room. All I knew was that Mycroft had been shot, I had not born witness to the events leading up to it. Mycroft Holmes was dead, and I had no idea why. 

Holmes took a deep breath and unfolded his legs from the depths of his armchair. He stretched them out in front of the fire and steepled his fingers upon his breast. Lestrade retrieved his notepad from his pocket and sat with his pencil poised over the page, ready to take notes.

“My brother called upon us yesterday morning,” he began. Holmes spoke quietly but eloquently, his voice completely void of emotion as he relayed the details of the case Mycroft had presented us little over twenty-four hours previously. 

“I then deployed the smoke rocket to lure our quarry out of the walls. I suggested the three of us split up and search one floor each. Watson took the top, Mycroft the one below, and myself the ground floor. Although Lady Farringdon’s rooms were on the second floor, I could not rule out the possibility that our man had fled during the time she was downstairs, and so I was keen to have all floors covered. 

“Once on the ground floor, I heard movement within the walls. I followed the muffled sounds to the drawing room, where I saw movement by one of the portraits. I hid behind a pillar and watched George Wickham emerge from the opening behind it. I waited until he had closed the portrait behind him to confront him, as I did not want to risk him retreating the way he came and losing him once more within the maze. 

“I called out to him and he froze. I approached and began to question him, and he reached into his breast pocket and pulled out the handgun. It was then that Mycroft appeared next to me and jumped in front of the bullets path.”

Holmes fell quiet for a moment, and neither I or Lestrade spoke. Holmes’s gaze was fixed on the fire when he spoke again. 

“He died in minutes. Once I was certain he was dead, I took off in pursuit of Wickham. I believe he fired on impulse and fled when he realised that he had just killed a man. I caught up with him and subdued him in the garden.”

Lestrade nodded as he scribbled on his notepad. “Thank you, Mr. Holmes. I appreciate this must be difficult for you.”

Holmes said nothing and continued to stare into the fire.

“How did you know Lord Farringdon had secret tunnels in his house?”

“I believed what Mycroft was told by Lord Farringdon to be a lie for several reasons; one was due to the description my brother gave. Mycroft did not trust generally as a rule, but he very rarely outwardly expressed blatant distrust. Another was that Lord Farringdon designed his house himself - why not simply buy a house? As far as I can gather, Farringdon is no architect. I came to the conclusion that he had dishonest intentions. My final reason is the behaviour of the so called ‘ghost’ - the female staff in the house reported the sensation of being watched, especially in vulnerable moments.”

The realisation dawned with sickening clarity, “He was spying on them,” I said.

Holmes nodded soberly, “Quite right, Watson. Farringdon had divorced twice already, and all the wives he has taken have been significantly younger. This would not be suspicious if he did not divorce his previous wives as they approached middle age. I surmised that Farringdon did not marry his wives out of love or the desire to devote himself to them, rather he married them for their looks and dumped them when those looks began to sour. Farringdon treats women like objects, I am sure Farringdon had those tunnels built in order to spy on his female staff to satisfy his own sick perversions.”

“And what of Wickham?” Lestrade asked, “How did he discover the existence of the tunnels?”

Holmes shrugged, “I admit I don’t know. Perhaps he discovered them by accident, or perhaps Farringdon informed him of their existence after learning they were kindred spirits. I’m sure Farringdon knew that Wickham was behind the thefts, but was reluctant to confront him. Perhaps Wickham had some sort of hold over Farringdon, such as blackmail, I wouldn’t be surprised. But this is all up to you to discover, Lestrade. I’m sure you can manage that?

Lestrade nodded. “You can count on me, Mr Holmes.”

“Doctor Watson,” Lestrade then turned his attentions to me, his pencil poised once again. “We will have the coroners report by tomorrow at the earliest, but I would be grateful for your opinions on the injuries that the elder Mr Holmes sustained.”

I glanced at Holmes, but it was clear he wasn’t listening, his eyes glazed over as they were, so I spoke freely. “I did not undertake a thorough examination, though it was obvious that he had been hit directly in the heart, at fairly close range too,” 

I found that as I spoke, I could not tear my eyes away from Holmes. He stared into the flames with an almost wistful expression, his eyes mournful and his thin lips turned down. He had began to idly rub his palms together; the fingertips of his left hand slowly dragged down his right palm, only to pause at the wrist and slide back up again so his fingertips were pressed together once more. It was oddly mesmerising. 

“I am surprised he survived for as long as he did; I have seen similar shots kill men instantly, but My— Mr Holmes was able to retain consciousness for a matter of minutes. He was still alive as I reached the room, but it was apparent that there was nothing that could be done.”

I closed my eyes as the sight of those lifeless eyes came back to me once more.

It was an awful experience, to talk of a man I had known in such a manner, with his flesh and blood in front of my very eyes. Though Holmes had not reacted to a word I’d said. 

Lestrade finished scribbling and let his notebook fall shut. “Thank you Doctor Watson. Mr Holmes.” He stood and pocketed his pencil, “I will leave you gentlemen in peace.”

I stood to show our friend out, but just as we reached the door, Holmes suddenly spoke again. 

“I would like to be at the execution.” 

Lestrade shot me a nervous look, which I’m sure I mirrored with one of shock. Holmes had not moved an inch, in fact he was still staring into the fire, wearing the same expression he had during my own statement. 

Holmes, to my knowledge, had never attended an execution before, and had certainly never expressed the desire to do so. In fact, my friend had occasionally alluded to the fact that, generally, he did not agree with capital punishment. Holmes was a man that, despite everything he had seen over the course of his career, still tried to see the best in people. I knew he felt some form of guilt whenever our quarry was sentenced to the gallows, though perhaps not enough to overshadow the feeling of a job well done.

But this was personal.

“Well… You are welcome to, of course,” Lestrade’s gaze travelled slowly between Holmes and I, as if hoping that I would interject. I did not. “When a date has been set, I will send you a wire, if you would like.”

Holmes nodded slowly. “Thank you, Lestrade.” He said quietly. 

Lestrade turned to me and shook my hand before he took his leave.

Chapter Text

During the days that followed, Holmes was distant. He primarily kept to his bedroom, and for the majority of the day, I sat in the living room with a book, but I found I read nothing. I sat and stared at the pages, the words turning to mush in front of my eyes as I strained my ears to hear sounds of life from Holmes’s room, but I heard nothing. 

In the times he was not in his bedroom, Holmes would drift aimlessly around our living room like a phantom. He would move listlessly from his armchair, where he smoked his pipes until long after the shag had been reduced to mere cinders in the bowl, to the window to stare despondently down at the bustling street below. He barely ate, and it was a battle to get even a mere cup of tea past his lips. 

I did not see the Morocco case, but I saw the effects of it. Holmes would alternate between pacing back and forth so rapidly that I worried he would overexert himself from pacing alone, to lying prone on the settee with his pupils blown so wide his eyes resembled little more than twin voids. 

I would not hear his voice until two whole days after Lestrade’s visit. I ate my breakfast alone opposite Holmes’s untouched plate, still covered by its silver cloche. It glinted mockingly at me under the winter sunlight that poured through the window. Holmes was folded in his chair, listlessly sorting through the morning post. Despite the events of the past few days, the world moved unsympathetically around us; crime did not stop for mourning, and Holmes was still high in demand. 

He had expressed no desire to take a case, and even if he did, I would not allow him. From my vantage point at the breakfast table, Holmes’s face was vailed in shadow, but his porcelain complexion and the heavy shadows under his eyes were evident. He had barely slept since the incident; he had ignored my pleas to join me in bed and I had heard him pacing restlessly into the small hours of the morning. Taking a case in his current state would likely be the end for him too.

My stomach rolled at the thought, and I pushed my plate away, the remaining rasher of bacon and mouthfuls of scrambled egg suddenly wholly unappetising.  

I poured myself a cup of tea and picked up the morning newspaper, abandoned on the table next to me, and attempted to read.

Suddenly, an envelope was thrust into my line of vision. 

I looked up at Holmes, who was not looking at me. Instead, his eyes were fixed upon a seemingly random point across the room. 

He was, of course, asking me to read the contents of the envelope. I took it from him, and he immediately left my side in a flurry of his dressing gown to fold himself into his armchair once again.

I carefully extracted the letter from its envelope and began to read. 

“Mycroft’s funeral. It’s in two days time,” of course Holmes already knew this, but he hummed anyway. 

I turned to face him, or more accurately, the back of his armchair. “You’ll be going, of course.”

“Of course,” Holmes agreed, “The question is, are you?”

I was taken aback. “Well, I should quite like to, if you will permit me.” I had been quite fond of Mycroft, and not just because he was the beloved brother of my most dear friend. Mycroft was, surprisingly, good company, and a good man. “Why, would you rather I didn’t?”

Holmes shook his head. “I’d prefer you were there. But Watson,” He turned in his seat to face me, and his mouth was set in a firm line, those grey eyes stormy. “You will likely learn things about me that I never wanted you to know. Not because I distrust you, you understand, but because these I would rather forget.”

I frowned. Despite the closeness of our relationship, Holmes had never divulged anything about his past to me. At first, I had assumed he had no family to speak of, but of course this assumption proved false when I finally met Mycroft. 

He had offered me a few other tidbits of information over the years - that he came from a family of country squires, that his grandmother was the sister of the French artist Vernet - but nothing more. He had been highly educated, that much was obvious, though over the years I had grown to wonder how much of this was due to his Oxford education or his fulfilling his own insatiable curiosities, but nevertheless, it was highly likely that he came from money. That was all I could reliably say.

Mycroft was the only family member he talked about, but only after I had met him after some six years of sharing lodgings. Mycroft hadn’t spoken on the matter of their family either, though he did talk about young Sherlock with great fondness, something that Sherlock himself detested. 

I had come to the conclusion that the Holmes brothers hadn’t had a happy childhood, and so I hadn’t dared pry. 

This only confirmed my suspicions. 

Midday two days later found us standing in front of St James’s church in a very grey and rainy Westminster. The weather was dismal; a real pathetic fallacy. The dark clouds seemed to suck away any residual sunlight, and the fine drizzle was so relentless that we found ourselves quite soaked despite the minuscule size of the raindrops. I almost found myself wishing for snow. 

We were surrounded by a hoard of black-clad mourners - men in heavy, black coats and top hats all milled about the churchyard, and I suppose we all resembled a sinister crowed of black crows.

Initially, I was surprised at the turnout, for Mycroft was an especially solitary creature. He had many acquaintances, but I would not be remiss in saying that the only people he had that were somewhat close to friends would have been Sherlock and I. 

It was easy to forget that Mycroft’s position in government was one that his brothers assertion that he was the British Government was no exaggeration; Mycroft had been an extremely important man, his skill set had rendered him indispensable. The men that surrounded us were undoubtably some of the most important in the country, perhaps the empire. As we stood huddled in our smartest overcoats, I thought I even spied the prime minister.

Holmes stood silently at my side, so close that our shoulders brushed as we shifted to chase any warmth we could. He squinted up at the grey clouds with obvious distaste, his hands buried in the depths of his pockets and his shoulders hunched up to his ears. Then, without looking at me, he murmured: “I loathe funerals.”

“Well. Nobody particularly likes them.” I countered. I had been to a fair few funerals in my time, and to be completely honest, after my time in Afghanistan, I was grateful for them. It was difficult to give our fallen brothers any semblance of a send-off as many had simply been left in the desert to rot. Even over a decade later, my heart still ached for those men, and their families who were robbed of the chance of a proper farewell. 

Holmes seemed to have deduced my train of thought, for he smiled wanly at me. He put two cigarettes in his mouth and lit them, an easy feat as the rain was far too fine to extinguish the flames, and handed one to me, which I accepted gratefully. He took a long drag and exhaled with a sigh. 

“I suppose I never really understood the need to say goodbye,” he said slowly. “The person is dead, surely goodbyes and kind words would be more beneficial whilst they were alive? In my opinion, funerals only serve to drag up old memories that were better off left buried.” 

I smiled. Holmes was an incredibly intelligent man, but he could be extremely blind at times, especially when matters came to emotion. “It’s not so much for the dead persons sake, but for the family and friends. And besides, some people believe a blessing must be performed in order for the deceased to enter heaven.”

Holmes huffed and kicked at a stray piece of gravel with his perfectly shined shoes, like a surly teenager who had been dragged to Sunday service. “I don’t see what good saying goodbye to a corpse would do me. And heaven isn’t real.”

I shook my head and endeavoured to change the subject. “Who’s was the last funeral you went to?”

“My mothers. I was five.”

We were barred from any further conversation by the arrival of the hearse. 

We all shuffled into the church behind the coffin. Holmes and I stuck to the back of the crowed, and we took our seats at the second to last row of pews. 

It took a few more minutes for everyone to settle into their seats, from the sheer volume of mourners and from how slowly everyone moved. However, the last pair of men to enter the church caught my eye. 

One was an extremely tall gentleman, with grey hair with flecks of black on the tops and sides, perhaps in his early to mid fifties. He had a sharply pointed nose and chin, in his blue eyes were so intense that they resembled glaciers. On his arm, he lead an old man, his back bowed with age, but in his prime I theorised he would have been as tall as his companion. He was perhaps nearing eighty, and he shuffled along the aisle at a snails pace, his head so far bowed that the only features I could make out were the stark, wispy white hair that clung to the top of his head. 

The pair made their slow way to the very front of the church. There, the younger gentleman bent to speak to someone sat on one of the front pews, and I caught a glimpse of a faux smile that felt eerily familiar, despite the fact that this man was a perfect stranger. 

In fact, everything about this man felt familiar. 

The man he was speaking to nodded his head politely, and he and the man at his side stood swiftly and relocated themselves to the pews on the row behind, and the newcomers took their seats. 

They were Holmes’s family, I realised. The resemblance was uncanny. I turned to Holmes to tentatively ask after them, but Holmes was not looking at me. Instead, he was staring fixedly at the coffin, the corners of his lips wrought with tension, and any questions I had quickly died in my throat.

The service was unremarkable, almost cold and automatic. Apart from the priests blessings over the coffin, it resembled little more than a regular Sunday service. Nobody stood to read prayers or poems, and there were no anecdotes or stories of Mycroft’s life. Even a list of Mycroft’s services and achievements were notably absent. 

I was initially saddened, but I eventually came to the conclusion that it was likely that Mycroft asked for exactly this; admittedly, I did not know the man was well as I know his brother, but I could imagine Mycroft insisting that little fuss be made on his behalf. In fact, I could imagine Mycroft insisting that he be buried with no preamble, but his significance in the government most likely robbed him of a simple burial. 

Once the service was concluded, we followed the pallbearers and priest out into the churchyard to the open grave. The crowed of mourners had thinned out somewhat, and so Holmes and I found ourselves standing at the edge of the abyss. I had to restrain myself from clutching at Holmes’s elbow as if I - or he - would fall in.

As the coffin was lowered, Holmes did not take his eyes off it, much like when Mycroft’s body was being removed from the house in which he died. 

We each threw a handful of dirt into the grave, where it hit the lid of the coffin with dull thuds.

The priest had begun another blessing, but Holmes tugged at my wrist and pulled me sharply from the graveside. He did not utter a word as he dragged me toward the crowed of mourners still milling about the graveyard, all talking amongst themselves. Holmes walked with long, purposeful strides, and I almost had to jog if I did not wish for my arm to be pulled out of its socket. 

We were almost at the church gates when a man accosted us. He looked to be in his late fifties with curly grey hair that peaked out of his top hat and bushy eyebrows that were so intense they were almost comical. I belatedly recognised him as the butler that served us tea in the Diogenes club the very morning that Mycroft died. 

“Mr Holmes,” he began, his face twisted in sympathy. It was a stark difference to the forced expressionlessness that the serving class are forced to undertake. “I am very sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you,” Holmes said curtly. He still had a vice grip around my wrist, but despite this, I could feel his fingers trembling against my sleeve. I desperately wanted to take his hand in mine and give it a comforting squeeze. “Now if you’ll excuse —”

“Mr Holmes was a real gentleman,” the butler continued as if Holmes hadn’t spoken, “So polite and curtious. You know, I have been in service for over thirty years and had never before met a man of his class that looked upon me as a fellow man. One gets used to it, of course, but I was always so grateful to him for that. What a tragedy!”

My friend was positively vibrating with impatience. I found it ironic that such a talkative man earned his living at such a place as the Diogenes club. “Yes,” Holmes said through gritted teeth, “Please—”

“Sherlock.” 

The grip on my wrist turned bruising as Holmes tensed. The voice sounded from behind us, but he did not turn around.

The butler glanced behind us and his face lit up with recognition. “Ah, I best leave you to discuss things with your brother,” he tipped his hat to us and gave a minute bow. “Please excuse me. Take care, Mr Holmes; remember that you are always welcome at the club, with or without your brother.”

He left as soon as he arrived. 

We turned to see the two men from the church, the men who had stood opposite us at Mycroft’s graveside. The older of the two stood with his chin higher than before, revealing his face to me. 

It was wrinkled with age, and age spots permeated his face, making it resemble an old, crumpled piece of foolscap. He had the same prominent chin as the man next to him, as Sherlock, but his nose was completely different - it was straight, slightly wider, and curved upward at the base, and his eyes were identical to his companions - a cold, icy blue.

It was undeniable: this man was Sherlock’s father, and the man at his side was Sherlock’s brother.

To say I was shocked would be an understatement; I was shocked enough to learn of Mycroft’s existence all those years ago, but I had since cemented myself in the belief that it was merely the two of them against the world. The brothers had certainly given of the air that they were alone, especially when they were together. They never spoke of other family, apart from the rare, fond references to summers spent at their Grandmothers cottage in the south of France. 

All at once, Holmes relaxed. He did not relax out of calmness, but in the way a gazelle relaxes in the jaws of a lion after it submits to its fate. He reluctantly released my wrist.

“Sherrinford,” Holmes nodded curtly at his brother. “Father.”

“I admit, we are surprised to see you here,” Sherrinford said. There was an edge to his voice that I did not like, and I found myself shuffling closer to Holmes’s side, to comfort or defend, I did not know.

“Is that so?” Holmes asked coldly. 

Abruptly, Sherrinford turned his cold gaze to me, and I had to make a conscious effort not to shrink before it; I am far from a cowardly man, but there was something in Sherrinford’s eyes that commanded submission. 

Then he smiled. I believe it was supposed to be a polite smile, but it was somehow deeply wrong. “My name is Sherrinford Holmes, Sherlock’s oldest brother. This here is our father, Sigur. I suppose you must be Doctor Watson?” 

Neither of them offered their hands, and so I nodded curtly to each in turn. “How do you do.” 

“We here of Sherlock everywhere, thanks to you,” Sigur continued. His voice was thin, and even though it wavered in the fashion exclusive to the elderly, his voice was forceful and commanded respect. “It is only because of your little stories that we know what Sherlock has been up to all these years.”

My stomach tightened, and I glanced sideways at Sherlock. He did not meet my gaze, but instead seemed to be alternating his firm gaze between his brother and his father, a challenge in his eyes. 

There was a distinct implication in his words - Sherlock had not had contact with this part of his family for years, and from what I could see, it was for good reason. And then I had published our cases, and suddenly they knew his business. They knew his address. No wonder Holmes reacted with such destain toward my stories.

I did not have much time to stew in my guilt, for Sherrinford was speaking again.

“You really should have kept in touch, Sherlock,” he said with an obvious injection of faux kindness. It was almost as if he was mocking him. “Even Mycroft cared enough to write on occasion.”

“Your flat is close by, yes?” Sigur continued the tirade, though at least he did not even attempt to sound kind. “You could have offered to host the wake, but instead we are to go to Mycroft’s silly club.”

Holmes and I both stiffened at the jibe against Mycroft - on today of all days! I found myself bristling with anger, and perhaps I would have spoken if Sigur had not continued. 

“But you always were selfish. You take after your mother in that regard.”

I believe I did splutter after hearing this, but I did not have the chance to rebuke, for Holmes grabbed a crushing hold on my hand and abruptly pulled me away from the conversation. I was so stunned by Sigur’s cruel words that I let myself be dragged bodily from the churchyard. 

It was a good thing too, for when we reached the road, I exploded. 

“How dare he!” I cried, startling two women on the opposite side of the road. They clutched each other in shock and scurried away, but I was far too angry to care. The anger within me was boiling up, so much so that I struggled to articulate my thoughts, and I was rendered me a stuttering, spitting mess. “How dare he!”

Holmes had not let go of my hand, even as he flagged a passing hansom. It stopped for us and he pulled me inside. 

The cab started toward home, and I forced myself to calm. I could do little for Holmes with the state I was in, so I took a sharp intake of breath and let it go as slowly as I was able. 

“You are angry on my behalf,” Holmes observed quietly. 

I snorted, “Of course I am!” I exclaimed. “How dare he say that to you, at Mycroft’s funeral no less. His own son’s funeral!” 

Holmes hummed his agreement, as his gaze fell to our hands, still intertwined on the seat between us. “You shouldn’t let it affect you so. I grew used to it years ago.” 

He sounded so defeated, and utterly unlike himself. It scared me.

“Sherlock,” I said emphatically, so startled was I by this revelation that I could not help my use of his Christian name. “His treatment of you was positively vile!”

Holmes gave a small, wan smile, tinted with sadness. “You need not get so offended, my dear.”

“How can I not? I love you!” We were blessed by the loud passing of an omnibus, or our driver may have heard my exclamation. “And it is because of my love for you that when you are insulted, so needlessly by the man who gave you life, that I get offended.” 

Holmes gave my hand a gentle squeeze, but he said nothing more.

Chapter Text

As soon as we returned home from the funeral, Holmes shut himself in his bedroom, and I did not see him for three days.

There was nothing for me to do but endeavour to go about my life as I normally would. For the first day, I sat at my writing desk and attempted to write up an account of some cases that we completed long ago, but whenever I wrote Holmes’s name, I was once again reminded of my friend suffering in the seclusion of his room.

I was called away to attend to patients during this time. I hoped that during my absence Holmes would take the opportunity to leave his room without having to risk the possibility of social contact, but when I returned there was no sign of his presence ever gracing the living room.

I did try to reach him. Every morning I would knock on his door and leave a few slices of buttered toast and a cup of tea on his bedside table. I would talk to him softly, all nonsense in the hope he would not feel pressured to respond, but he ignored me each time. He remained curled on his side in bed, his face hidden by the protective fall of his arms.

Once when I returned to collect his untouched toast and half-sipped tea, I caught a glimpse of his Morocco case carelessly hidden by his pillow.

This period was torture on my own nerves; I would leave to see a patient filled with the fear that I would return to discover he had taken a lethal overdose. I rarely left the living room, except to go to bed. I was loathe to leave the living room at all in case he needed me, but I did not slip into bed with him in fear that I would be violating his privacy. I would have slept on the sofa, but I had discovered on the few occasions I had attempted to sleep there that it was hell on my old wounds. I knew I would have to be well rested if I were to be of any use to him. 

On the third night, my unrelenting anxiety made its presence known.

I was back in that drawing room, but this time I stood at Holmes’s side as we watched his brother fall from afar. Holmes ran ahead of me, but when I tried to follow it was as if I were trying to wade through a waist deep pool of molasses; no matter how hard I tried, I could not reach my friend. 

When I finally reached Mycroft’s side, all I could focus on was the dead stare of his grey eyes. I reached out to check his pulse, but where I expected to feel soft, plush fat against my fingers, instead I felt the all too familiar sensation of skin stretched over bone. 

I looked back to Mycroft’s face only to see Sherlock’s lifeless eyes staring up at me. All at once I became aware of the great, animalistic roar of the Reichenbach Falls, and the water I was suddenly found myself kneeling in ran red with Sherlock’s blood.

I awoke with a cry.

I sat in the dark of my bedroom for a few minutes, my face in my hands, as I fought to regain control of my breathing.

It had been a while since I had dreamed of the Falls. The dreams had lessened in frequency since Holmes’s miraculous return from the dead, but that didn’t mean I was completely freed from their grasp.

It helped that in recent months, when I awoke from such a dream, it was to Holmes at my side, either with a concerned hand on my shoulder or asleep next to me, breathing softly but very much alive.

This time, my bed was empty, and I could barely escape the grief in my heart.

I slipped out of bed to stand on trembling legs and pulled my dressing gown protectivly around my shivering frame. I opened my bedroom door and crept down the stairs to Holmes’s room. 

Holmes lay curled on his side in bed. Despite the cold, he had kicked the blankets from him in his sleep and lay with nothing but his crumpled nightshirt for warmth. 

Carefully, I rescued the blankets from the tangle around his feet, gently pulled them back over his body and tucked him in. He did not wake, but did grumble slightly when I smoothed the blanket across his shoulder.

I sat down on the floor beside the bed. Thanks to Holmes’s position at the edge of the mattress, it was easy to take one of his bony wrists in hand and rest my fingers against his pulse point. It was slow but steady.

I sat there for the remainder of the night. I only left his side as the sun started to peak out from over the horizon.

He would not find his way back to me until a four days after the funeral. I had retired to my own room that night and settled down for what I feared would be a fitful sleep, when the sound of the door creaking open roused me from my feeble dreams. 

I did not truly register my surroundings until I felt the blankets twitch and a weight settle next to me. I flinched as something ice cold touched my calf. 

Sleepily, I rolled toward that wonderful weight and soon enough my arms were full of Holmes. He snuggled closer to me, shivering slightly in the winter night, and tucked his head into its rightful home under my chin. 

It felt good to have him in my arms again after what felt like so long. I held him tight to my chest and buried my nose into his soft, black hair and inhaled the scent of his soap and tobacco. 

“I have been inattentive as of late,” Holmes murmured into my shoulder, and his warm breath ghosted my neck pleasantly. “I can only apologise.”

“No apology needed,” I insisted firmly but quietly as I pressed a kiss to those subtle curls, untamed by their usual pomade. “You have not been yourself, understandably.” 

We lay like that for a while. I hovered between sleep and wakefulness, my unconscious attentions on Holmes’s steady breaths and his fingers fiddling with a button on my nightshirt. “Would you like to talk?” I asked.

Holmes sighed heavily. “There is nothing to say,” he muttered. 

Despite this, I could feel him wide awake against me, so I pressed forward, “Did seeing your family agitate you?”

Holmes pressed his face against my neck and hummed an affirmative, “You saw how they were. It is is a great challenge to keep calm in their presence.”

“I admit I was shocked,” I said lowly, “They were attending the funeral of their brother and son respectively, yet they only spoke of him to belittle him. They seemed to want to focus on only your short comings…” I squeezed him to my chest and pressed a kiss to his hair. “I am sorry that you had to grow up under their care.”

Holmes’s laugh was hollow. “‘Care’ is perhaps not the word I would have used.”

He fell silent, unwilling to follow that thread of conversation, and I did not blame him. Holmes had been through enough in the past week, I did not wish to press him further. 

“You and Mycroft are so different to them,” I mused instead. 

“Sherrinford was the golden child, as I’m sure you deduced,” Holmes said, “Mycroft and I were the rebellious ones. We took after our mother, whereas Sherrinford took after our father. As the middle child, Mycroft was afforded more leniency, but as he began to climb the ranks within government, Father steadily began to favour him more. Not that Mycroft particularly cared; he detested Father almost as much as I.  I was raised to fulfil the roles that Mycroft had abandoned, but that was not to be the case.”

“What roles were they?”

“To be a dutiful heir, to marry and to continue the family name. Although Sherrinford married, his wife was only able to bare daughters. Should anything happen to Sherrinford, the estate will pass to me. The fact that I am unmarried without children vexes my father to no end.”

“My goodness,” I murmured. I prided myself that I knew Holmes better than anyone else, and I could not imagine Holmes married with children and tied to an estate for the rest of his life. He would be throughly unsuited for such a role as it went against everything that my friend was. I would not be wrong to believe it would kill him. 

I held him tighter at the thought. 

“My thoughts exactly,” Holmes said quietly, and I held him tighter still. 

We lapsed into silence again. I ran a hand up and down the length of his back whilst he played with the short hairs at the base of my skull idly. 

“I suppose I should apologise,” I said eventually. 

Holmes paused in his ministrations. He rose up onto his elbows to frown down at me. “Whatever for?” he demanded. 

“For publishing my stories,” I said. “If I had known what you had escaped from, I would have never published your cases for the entire country to read. I published our address, for goodness sake!”

Holmes stared down at me for a moment more, at a loss for words. Then he smiled fondly, “Oh, Watson,” he said in such a way that it made my heart twist. He rested his palm at my cheek and caressed the skin under my eye with his thumb lovingly. “I gave you permission to do so, remember?” 

“Yes, but you weren’t very happy about it.”

“Only because your writing is so romantic!” he exclaimed, “Should you have presented my work in a scientific manner, I would have had no qualms at all. Instead you wrote them as tales to be read during morning commutes and furnished them with fabrications.” 

Here he was likely referring to my fake wife, something we had rowed about at the time. All those years ago, I couldn’t fathom why he had cared so much, but all became clear once he had made his feelings for me known. He had hated the thought of me leaving him for a woman. 

“But they were important to you, so I allowed it,” he continued, “And you only published the rest when you believed me to be dead.”

That was true; Holmes had, after my first two pamphlets were published, given me express permission to publish more of his cases once he was retired. When I had believed he had succumbed at the hands of Moriarty at the Reichenbach Falls, I had submitted the stories I had written to the Strand magazine. It had been a very therapeutic exercise for me. I would have continued had he not miraculously appeared at my practice that day all those months ago. 

“And besides,” Holmes had settled his head back on my shoulder now, and he began to draw idle circles on my chest with his forefinger, “Even though our address was public knowledge, neither Sherrinford or my father ever bothered to contact us. They knew it would be futile. See, my dear? Nothing to concern yourself with.”

He was right, of course. He usually was. 

Mollified, I rested my cheek on the top of his head once more. No more was said that night, and the two of us drifted into a dreamless slumber. 

Chapter Text

Holmes remained subdued and somewhat listless for the next few days, but it was far from the black depressions he had been subject to since Mycroft’s death, and I began to let myself relax a little. 

He rarely dressed, instead he preferred to spend his days curled in his armchair in his nightshirt and dressing gown, smoking morosely. But he did eat a little more and began to read through his great pile of correspondence. He had even solved a few cases from the safe sanctuary of our living room and handed his conclusions off to Mrs Hudson in the form of letters to be posted; we were heading in the right direction. 

This time, Holmes did not hand the letter for me to read and instead read it to me himself over a half-shredded slice of toast. 

“We have been summoned,” he announced, “Mycroft’s Will shall be read one week from now.”

He waved the letter at me, which was headed from a solicitors office in Westminster. 

I paused in the midst of pouring myself another cup of tea. “We have been summoned?” I asked, “Do you wish for me to accompany you?”

“No, you have been named as one of the beneficiaries. Look,” he tossed the letter carelessly across the breakfast table, in which it narrowly avoided a decent into the uncovered dish of scrambled eggs. 

I picked it up and stared down at the paper in disbelief. My name was neatly printed upon the heavyweight paper, directly underneath Holmes’s. We were not alone of course, Sherrinford was also listed, along with another name I did not recognise. The dread at the revelation that I would have to meet Holmes’s oldest brother again was outweighed by the shock that I had been named at all. 

Holmes was able to seamlessly follow my train of thought as usual, and took pity upon me. “Mycroft was fond of you,” he said softly, “He was incredibly grateful that you had remained a good friend to me despite my… habits. He was also aware of the nature of our relationship, and he approved wholeheartedly.” 

I had found myself more than a little choked up, but my gaze shot up to meet Holmes that last tidbit of information. “He knew?” 

“How could he not?” Holmes laughed, “He was Mycroft. You may find this difficult to believe, Watson, but I am not made for solitude in the same way that Mycroft was. Whilst I generally prefer my own company, I have always had a tendency toward loneliness. Despite this, I have always had trouble making and retaining friends… Then I met you.”

There are so many revelations a man can take in the span of one morning, let alone ten minutes, and the emotion rendered my throat tight and the edges of my eyes warm. I took a long sip of my tea to allow myself time to collect myself. 

I had always thought of Holmes as a solitary creature, and so I had never truly considered that an emotion such as loneliness had plagued him. But it had.

The suggestion that Holmes had been lonely until he met me both broke and warmed my heart. 

The day of the will reading dawned with a flurry of snow. We wrapped up in our warmest coats and thickest scarves and caught a cab to take us to Westminster.

We were held up when the flurries briefly turned to a veritable blizzard, but were able to make it to the solicitors office in good time. 

Sherrinford and another man I did not recognise were already seated before the solicitor, a stern looking, skeletal-framed man of about fifty, who’s salt and pepper hair was thinning about the temples and was wearing a rather obvious toupee. 

“Let us begin,” he said when Holmes and I took our seats. Holmes sat next to the stranger and I next to Sherrinford, who’s gaze I could feel boring into the side of my head. Perhaps my presence was just as surprising to him as it was to me. “My name is Bartholomew Clarke, solicitor to Mr Holmes. You have been summoned here as beneficiaries to Mr Holmes’s last Will and Testament.”

Sherrinford’s eyes were back on me, and I turned cooly to face him. He didn’t seem to expect that, for he blanched slightly, but his gaze remained hard and cold. With one last suspicious glare from the side of his cold blue eyes, he turned to face Mr Clarke.

I turned to my left to look to Holmes, who was sat rigidly in his seat, his right knee crossed over his left and his hands folded in his lap. He did not fidget, as was his wont in meetings such as these, and instead stared at Mr Clarke with an emotionless expression. 

Mr Clarke cleared his throat and began to read off the sheet of paper on his desk before him:

“I, Mycroft Charles Edmund Holmes, resident of Pall Mall, London, being of full age and sound mind, hereby make and publish this to be my Last Will and Testament. I hereby nominate Mr Bartholomew Clarke of Clarke Solicitors as the representative of my estate. All my assets shall be distributed to the following persons:

“The sum of one thousand British pounds will be left to Sir Stanley Morris of Westminster, London, with intent that it is used to secure and sustain the future of the Diogenes club of Pall Mall, London.”

The man to Holmes’s left, who was evidently Sir Morris, gave a solemn nod and readily accepted the envelope that was handed to him.

One thousand pounds to the Diogenes club! I had given little thought to the state of Mycroft’s finances - I knew he must have been fairly well off, for he kept rooms in Pall Mall and held a high position in government, but I had not concidered him to be of the financial position to leave one thousand pounds in his Will to his club.

“To my younger brother, Mr Sherlock William Scott Holmes Esq., resident of Marylebone, London, I leave the Sussex cottage,” Mr Clarke picked up a brown envelope from the surface of his desk and held it out to Holmes, “To do with as he sees fit.” 

Holmes took the envelope from Mr Clarke’s skeletal hand with a nod of thanks. I watched as he opened the flap and tipped a large, brass key onto his palm. The corner of his lips twitched in an aborted smile.

“To my elder brother, Sherrinford Sigur James Holmes of Farnham, Surrey,” Mr Clarke continued, to which Sherrinford twitched in obvious interest, “I leave you the sum of one British pound.”

Sherrinford’s face fell lax with shock. Mr Clarke was about to proceed, when Sherrinford interrupted in a rather ungentlemanly manner. “That’s it?” he barked. 

Mr Clarke levelled Sherrinford with a hard, withering stare. “There is nothing further listed for you, Mr Holmes.”

Sherrinford’s jaw fell open, and his snapped it shut moments later with a sharp click. “But that is preposterous!”

I glanced sideways at Holmes, who had his elbow on the arm of the chair. From a first glance, it looked as if he were simply resting his head on the palm of his hand, but in reality his palm was covering his lips. At my angle, I could just about make out his eyes shining with satisfied mirth. 

“I am simply reading the will, sir,” Mr Clarke said cooly, “May I proceed?” 

Sherrinford hesitated, then waved his hand in an impatient gesture for the man to continue. 

“Doctor John Hamish Watson, resident of Marylebone, London,” said Mr Clarke, and I sat straighter in my seat like a schoolboy being addressed by a stern headmaster, “I leave to you the sum of one thousand British pounds —”

I heard Sherrinford splutter next to me, and it was my turn for my jaw to drop. 

“To do with as you see fit. I also leave you a further two thousand British pounds to be kept in trust on behalf of my younger brother Mr Sherlock William Scott Holmes Esq.”

I turned to Holmes in shock, but he did not look up to meet my gaze. Instead, he was turning the brass key over in his hands and observing the way in which it caught on a stray sunbeam that shone through the window. This news obviously came as no surprise to him. 

I did not know what to say, so I simply nodded. Sherrinford, however, did. 

“I contest!” He exclaimed, “This man is not even family!” 

I tense in my seat, uncomfortable at the sudden ire directed in my direction. Holmes still said nothing. 

“That is the terms of the Will, Mr Holmes,” Mr Clarke explained in a manner that suggested he thought Sherrinford as little more than a whining child. “You are unable to contest.” 

Sherrinford visibly seethed, and he stood abruptly. Holmes and I both flinched as his livid gaze turned on us. 

“What did you do?” he demanded of me, “How did you convince Mycroft to do this?” 

“I had no part in this. I am just as shocked as you are, Mr Holmes,” I met Sherrinford’s icy stare head on. His waspish demeanour was doing little to subdue me; on the contrary, I could feel my own molten anger coiling in my gut. 

I only tensed once Sherrinford turned his ire toward his brother. Holmes did not look up, instead his focus remained on the key. “What did you say to him?” 

“I said nothing to him,” Sherlock said placidly. “Mycroft came to the decision independently. My only part was to bare witness.”

“You must—!” 

“Mr Holmes,” Mr Clarke interrupted, “I ask you not to make a scene in my office.”

Sherrinford stood, looking down his nose at us, his chest heaving with anger. Then he abruptly turned on his heel and made to storm from the room. 

“Mr Holmes,” Mr Clarke called after him. Sherrinford turned, and behind the unrelenting anger, I saw the faintest glimmer of hope in his eyes. 

“Your money.” Mr Clarke held out an envelope which bore the outline of a singular pound coin. 

Sherrinford’s lips pressed together in a thin, furious line. He stalked back to the desk, snatched the envelope from Mr Clarke and stormed from the room.

After we tied up some lose ends, we left the solicitors office. I was still in a state of shock and the two cheques safely stowed in my breast pocket did not help matters, and so I let Holmes flag down a cab to take us home.

“You knew of this,” I said as the hansom pulled away from the curb. 

Holmes nodded. “I did.”

“You didn’t tell me.”

“I didn’t.”

“Why?”

Holmes sighed and flashed me a grim smile. “My dear Watson, you are a good man. I was sure that, if I were to inform you, you would insist upon my brother revoking the will.”

He was most likely correct, but I didn’t say it. “But why?” 

“I told you - Mycroft was fond of you. He was grateful to you.”

“I do not need compensation for being your companion.”

Holmes sighed again and gave me the look he often bestowed upon me when he felt I was being especially stupid. “It is not that,” he said softly. Then he shuffled closer to me and dropped his voice, for we were only in a hansom, “We are in a committed relationship. If we had the power to marry, or to enter into some similar legal contract, what is mine would also be legally yours. But we are unable to do that.”

The look in Holmes’s eyes turned so incredibly soft and fond that I felt my own prickle with the intensity of it. “You are family, John,” he said softly, “You deserved to be included.”

It was rare for Holmes to express sentiments such as these, and emotion swelled in my throat at the force of his love. I swallowed it down and nodded once. 

I reached out and squeezed his hand. He squeezed back.

“There is one thing I don’t understand.”

We once again found ourselves back in our wonderfully warm Baker Street rooms. It was still early, but we treated ourselves to a glass of stiff whiskey each and settled in front of the fire. I had tucked both cheques into the drawer of my desk, and Holmes had done the same with his key. I had caught his fond smile as he pushed the draw closed. 

Holmes’s legs were stretched languidly before the hearth. He sat slumped in his seat in an attempt to warm his frozen toes as close to the flames as he could reach. 

“I suppose you’re wondering why he left my inheritance in trust to you?” 

I nodded. “You said he was fond of me, but could he truly say he trusted me?” I wondered, “I… Did he know…? He must have.”

“About your passion for the horses? Yes.” There was a reason why my cheque book was locked safely in Holmes’s desk. It was not something we spoke about. 

“Then why?”

Holmes smiled and took a sip of his whiskey. 

“You may have an issue with controlling your impulses, but you are not so far gone. Would you spend another mans money to get your fix? Especially if that money was left to you in trust?”

I would like to think I wouldn’t, but there have been instances where I had scared even myself with my financial recklessness. 

Having said that, our system of keeping my chequebook in Holmes’s desk was working just fine so far. If I needed to make a exuberant purchase, I would ask Holmes for my book and inform him of what I was paying for. Holmes could read me like no one else, and so he would be more than able to sniff out a lie. Luckily, he hadn’t needed to.

“Why leave it to me?” I asked, “Why not give it to you directly?” 

Holmes smiled wanly and stared down into the fire.

“It will come as no surprise to you, but Mycroft did not approve of my habit of shooting various substances into my veins,” he said, “It may be hard to believe, but I used to be a lot worse than I am now, worse than you have ever seen me.”

My blood ran cold. I had seen Holmes at what I had believed to be his worst - three injections a day, drug addled stupors and even a couple of overdoses. To think it had been even worse…

“When I left university, I shared rooms with Mycroft for a while. We both quickly realised it would not work - I was too chaotic for him, and we would often get into blazing rows over the mess I would cause and the odd hours I kept, all of which disrupted his carefully maintained routines. 

“I moved into Montague Street - the rooms I kept before I met you. At that time, I was struggling to find work, and as a result could not afford to pay the rent. Mycroft entrusted me with the funds to do so, but my habit was at such an intensity that I would instead take the money to the nearest chemist. I evidently could not be trusted, so Mycroft paid my rent directly. He also paid for my meals, and I should I need anything, I was to go to him and he would buy it directly. 

“After a little while, I was able to find somewhat consistent employment and was able to pay my way. With the work, I was able to cut down my use of substances, but Mycroft has never been able to trust me with money since. I don’t particularly blame him.”

“You have your own money to buy drugs,” I pointed out. 

“I do indeed. But if I were to buy drugs with Mycroft’s money, he would spin in his grave so fast he would propel himself into the artic circle.”

We both chuckled at the imagery, and lapsed into silence. 

“I am surprised he gave me the money over Sherrinford, though,” I mused. 

Holmes snorted. “I’m not,” he said, “He and Sherrinford never really saw eye to eye, despite the fact that they were close in age,” then he smirked, “Though Sherrinford was obviously expecting it.”

“Why leave him one pound?” 

“So he couldn’t contest the will. If he had been excluded completely, he could argue that Mycroft forgot to include him. Not that that would ever happen, but a judge wouldn’t know that.”

He caught my eye, and we both chuckled again. 

“I admit I don’t feel as bad as I probably should.” 

“Don’t worry, Watson,” Holmes smiled and closed his eyes. “I don’t either.”

Chapter Text

When all was said and done, it did not take us long to get back into the swing of our ordinary lives. Even though my practice was all but a distant memory, I still had plenty of patients to see, and as February dawned cold and bright, so did flu season. I was out and about at all hours of the day attending to patients and prescribing cough drops and bedrest. 

Holmes, too, was highly in demand and had a flurry of cases come his way; I regretted that I was unable to join him for the majority, so busy was I with my patients. 

I was glad that Holmes was employed once more: normalcy would be, at this point in time, very beneficial for him, I theorised. And it was. With the funeral and the Will reading out of the way, Holmes had managed to claw himself out of the dark pit he had been trapped in. Holmes’s eyes were alive with the thrill of the game, and he was flitting to and from the flat at all hours in all manner of disguises. 

Having said this, he was, however, still not quite himself. Although he obviously found satisfaction in his work, a melancholy air still hung about him. Sometimes I would catch him with his nose in a book, but a faraway expression in his eyes, absorbing nothing he read. His Morocco case made more appearances than I was comfortable with. 

He would need time, I told myself. He was still in mourning, and would be for a long time yet. 

My mind would occasionally wander back to the time after my own brothers death; Henry and I had been estranged a few years before my time in the army, and I would seldom hear from him. The only letters I would receive would be requests for money, which grew in number as his dependancy on spirits deepened. I regret to say that I threw them all in the fire upon opening them. 

When news of his death reached me, I was saddened, of course. We may not have gotten along, but he was the last of my family remaining. I despaired that our relationship frayed and ultimately fell apart, but I have never been a man to dwell on what could have been. 

After the funeral and receiving our late fathers watch, I was able to move on. I had long been content with my new family: Holmes and Mrs Hudson. 

While my brothers loss still hung over my head like a raincloud on a summer day, it was not oppressive. I thought of him sadly from time to time, but carried on with life. 

I was sure I would have felt differently if we had been close. 

Sherlock and Mycroft had been close, or whatever passed for close in their world. Although my friend had not disclosed the very existence of his brother until years into our cohabitation, it was obvious that they cared very deeply for each other. They communicated in a fashion that would seem cold to some, but I could tell it was anything but. 

I had not asked about the Sussex cottage; I had been content to let Holmes mention it when he saw fit. Though admittedly, my curiosity was burning away within my mind - he had never mentioned such a cottage before. 

My curiosity would be sated during our dinner one cold, February evening. The snow had melted into muddy slush, but the air still remained bitter. We hadn’t shared a meal in a few days, and the two of us were savouring the occasion by sitting in perfect silence, alone with our individual thoughts.

Though mine were not so individual as I believed. 

“You are wondering about the cottage,” Holmes said languidly as he sucked at the stem of his pipe.

I had indeed been thinking about the cottage, and I turned to glare at him. “I have said it before, but you really would have been burned at the stake two hundred years ago.” 

He smiled and puffed thick smoke from his nostrils, which made him look like a rather self-satisfied dragon. “You were considering the painting of the ocean,” he nodded at the painting that hung on the wall at the far side of the room. I had found it whilst browsing a second-hand shop some years ago, and I had grown quite fond of it. “And your gaze routinely travels to my desk and settles on the drawer. You have kept away from the tracks for some weeks now, and are not exhibiting any of your usual tells for wanting to go again, so you are not wondering about your cheque book. I also keep the cottage key in that draw.” 

I huffed a reluctant laugh, “Guilty as charged.”

He took up his glass and pondered the merlot within it as he idly swirled it around. “Would you like to visit?” 

I did indeed want to visit, but I didn’t want to sound too keen. I did not want to push him into anything. “Only if you would.”

He smiled knowingly at me. “We have both been quite busy as of late, but I have fulfilled all my obligations. If you are free, we could visit at the weekend.” 

“I would be delighted,” I beamed. 

Three days later found us at Waterloo station, and then we were hurtling toward the Sussex Downs at great pace. 

The cold was frigid, and even within our private compartment we did not shed our many layers, but despite this, the sun shone brilliantly. 

As we rattled out of the city, the grey buildings and smogs of London gave way to lush countryside. The clear blue sky was dazzling, and my eye was easily drawn to the dewy fields, dotted with the specks of faraway sheep and cattle. 

Holmes was quiet, but he seemed to be in good spirits. He sat opposite me and fiddled idly with the tassels of his scarf. He did not hum a tune outright, but he would occasionally make a noise of contentment, as he is wont to do.

Almost an hour into our journey, my curiosity had reached such a height that it threatened to bubble over, and I broke our content silence. 

“Why did Mycroft have a cottage in Sussex?” I asked, “I thought he never left London.”

Holmes glanced up and smiled knowingly at me. “You would be right. The cottage belonged to our mother - a gift from our father when they were first married. She would take us boys there every summer, just us, her and a couple of staff. After she passed away, a governess would take Mycroft and I, as Sherrinford had never truly appreciated our visits there. Mother left it to Mycroft in her will, and it has been under his care ever since, though he seldom visits.”

As he spoke, his gaze remained fixated on his tassels. He had begun to manipulate them into something that resembled a French plait. 

“Mycroft never intended to leave London, and he even discussed selling it, but I convinced him otherwise. He decided to leave it to me upon his passing.”

I smiled sadly. “What’s it like? The cottage?”

Holmes grinned at me. “You’ll see once we get there.”

We alighted at Eastbourne station as the morning began to morph into noon. Holmes led me through the ticket office and out into the clean open air, where we a dogcart was awaiting us. Once Holmes had informed the driver of our destination, we were off. 

It was quite a long drive, perhaps just under three-quarters of an hour. During our journey, we passed yet more farmers fields, though most where bare of crops. There would be the odd farmers cottage dotted here and there, and we even passed a heard of dairy cows being led by their bull. I could not help but stare as our cab edged cautiously past, for I had only seen a cow up close on a handful of occasions. They truly resembled monstrous beasts, and though I had heard of their kindly and affectionate temperament many times, I still found myself thinking that I wouldn’t like to get too close to one. When I finally turned away, Holmes was smiling fondly at me. 

Finally, we entered the small village of East Dean. It appeared to be a fishing village, for the streets were lined with fishmongers and fishermen in their tell-tale high necked jumpers and long boots. Though I could not see the sea, I could smell it in the air.

But we did not stop in the village, instead we continued further along the bumpy road and back out into the open air and secluded fields. The scent of the ocean was stronger here, and it was not long before I laid my eyes upon it for the first time. 

It was beautiful. Dazzling, clear blue stretched as far as the eye could see, glittering like diamonds in the sunlight. The waves were calm that day, and they licked gently at the sandy shore like a kitten lapping happily at a saucer of milk. 

Whilst my attentions were captured by the dazzling sea, our cart came to a halt. With a great effort, I tore my gaze away toward the cottage we were now in front of. 

It, too, was beautiful. It was a two storey house, painted snow white with black paned windows and a thatched roof. Despite the fact that it had not been lived in for many years, it remained in good condition - no paint was peeling, and all the windows were intact. It had a large, sprawling fenced-in garden, and a winding path that lead up to the front door. The grass that surrounded the house was neatly trimmed, though the flowerbeds stood brown and empty. 

We had packed lightly, so we were able to take our bags inside in one trip. Holmes paid the driver and waved him off. 

The interior was just as charming as the exterior. As soon as we stepped inside the door, we found ourselves in a spacious room which served as both the kitchen and the living room; to our right was a wood burning stove, plenty of counter space, a small dining table and a door that presumably lead to a pantry. The kitchen had two windows, one that faced the front garden and one that faced the side of the house, which looked out over the azure ocean. 

The living room was to our left. It was cosy and compact - a sofa and two armchairs faced a stone fireplace and large, oak bookcases loomed over the space. 

Holmes led me forward toward the door at the end of the room, which opened to reveal a small bedroom, next to this, a bathroom equipped with all the modern amenities. 

“The master bedroom is upstairs,” he said, “Perhaps we would both be more comfortable if we shared?”

I agreed eagerly, and we took up our luggage and ascended the staircase. 

We emerged into a spacious attic bedroom. The room was well lit, thanks to the large window that revealed a perfect sea view. A king sized bed sat against the wall as soon as we entered, illuminated by the afternoon sunshine. The was a desk against the far wall, next to that a large wardrobe. The majority of the walls were lined with bookshelves that stretched to the ceiling, though most were bare but for a few dusty boxes. 

“It has been some years since anyone occupied the house,” Holmes explained as he dumped his carpet bag upon the bedspread. “But it has been attended to by a housekeeper prior to our arrival; we should find it most comfortable.” 

“I’ll say,” I said with awe as I crossed the room to look out of the white-paned window. Far upon the horizon, I could make out a sailboat riding the gentle waves. “It is beautiful, Holmes.”

I turned just in time to catch a flush upon Holmes’s high cheekbones. “I am glad,” he said softly. Then he looked to the rich, red rug he stood upon, suddenly uncharacteristically sheepish.

“I had thought,” Holmes began hesitantly, “That one day I shall retire here. Not any time soon, mind you. I believe I will be well enough to stay in work for at least a decade more… I have always had a special interest in bees, as I am sure you know. When I was a small boy, I had wanted to become a beekeeper. I think, that when I am older, I shall become just that.”

“It sounds idilic,” I said wistfully. 

He turned to me, his eyes soft yet anxious, and took my hands in his own. 

“I would be grateful, only if you are willing, if you would join me,” he said quietly. Hopefully. “I realise you have your patients in London, and you are just as enamoured with the city as I, but I think you would like it here… If you wish to stay in practice, the people in the village may be grateful for an extra doctor. If not, the bedroom on the ground floor could be turned into a study, should you wish to continue your career as a writer. We could spend our days in the garden, tending to the beds, growing vegetables or perhaps we would merely sit and gaze at the sea. Speaking of the sea, we could go swimming. The water is warm in the summer, it may be good for your old wounds…” 

He had begun to ramble, gripped by uncharacteristic nervousness. But with every word that spilled past his lips, I could feel my heart growing warmer and my smile wider. 

I squeezed his hands, cutting him off. He looked up at me, his eyes wide and hopeful. 

“I would love to,” I breathed. “This cottage is beautiful, but Holmes, I would stay by your side for as long as you wish me to, wherever we may be.”

“I want you by my side forever.”

“Then so it shall be,” I said, folding him into my embrace. 

Chapter Text

After we had thoroughly explored the cottage and its grounds, we removed our winter layers and sat at the table for a late luncheon. 

The pantry had been well stocked for our stay - we uncovered a loaf of bread and some fresh cold cuts. With these we made ourselves some hearty sandwiches and opened a bottle of wine.

My nerves were electric in the wake of Holmes’s proposition to me. I was enamoured with the thought of living out my golden years at Holmes’s side.

Despite my overflowing enthusiasm, Holmes remained subdued. We had decided that we would take a walk the following morning, and so we settled into the cottage for the night. For the entire evening, Holmes sat curled in an armchair opposite the one I occupied and smoked his pipe, a faraway expression in his grey eyes. Once the hour had grown late, I bade him goodnight and headed up to bed, hoping he would join me soon. 

I fell asleep before he came to bed, and awoke with his shadow looming over me in the darkness of the night. His hand rested on my shoulder.

“What time is it?” I mumbled, confused. I could not recall experiencing one of my bad dreams, and out here in the countryside there were no cases to be roused for. I could not fathom why he would awaken me.

“It is almost six in the morning.” I could not see him in the darkness, so I reached over to turn up the gas lamp on the bedside table and illuminated him to me.

He had not slept, that much was obvious by the dark shadows under his red-rimmed eyes. He also looked uncharacteristically nervous.

“What is it, dear?” I asked, my voice scratchy with sleep. I stretched out to grip his arm in comfort. 

“I had thought… I had thought to take a walk. I cannot sleep. I wondered if you would join me?” he asked shyly.

The bed was blessedly warm, and I had rather hoped he would join me in its embrace, but I could not deny him anything, not with his grey eyes so open and soulful. I was up and dressed within fifteen minutes, and together we ventured out into the cold morning.

The sky was tinged indigo with the impending sunrise, so it was no true hardship to find our way. We walked arm in arm for several minutes, blanketed by the early morning silence.

But there was something on his mind - his whole frame was tensed in a way that was alien to our quiet sojourns. 

“Will you tell me what you are thinking of?” I asked quietly. 

Holmes sighed. “I am merely thinking of an incident from my childhood,” he said.

“Involving Mycroft?” 

He stiffened in surprise, but I heard rather than saw his small smile. “Yes. However did you guess?”

“It has barely been a month since his passing - of course you are thinking of him.”

Holmes nodded, his small smile turned sad. “Of course,” he agreed, his chin dropping to his breast. 

“Mycroft and I ran away here when we were children,” Holmes said. “You recall my father to be quite the cold man?”

“Cold is putting it kindly,” I said. 

“Quite so. He was always that way inclined; he was never truly a father figure to me. He was already into his middle age when I was born and didn’t particularly want another child after Mycroft. I was an accident, you see, and my birth triggered a nervous illness in my mother that she never recovered from. She was no longer able to serve him as a wife should because of me, but despite this, he already held a grudge against me when I was in her womb.

“As a child, I had never been able to be the perfect son. I tried - God, I tried - but I was never quite able to figure out what I should do or how I should behave. My father thought me simple; perhaps you will find this difficult to believe, Watson, but I did not speak until I was seven years old.”

This was, indeed, surprising news. Though he was often struck mute for days on end when especially overtaxed, Holmes spoke with the eloquence of a gentleman and possessed an astounding vocabulary. I had often envisioned Holmes as a tiny child speaking in much the same manner as the adult Holmes, though with his voice pitched higher with childhood.

“Despite this, I had learnt to read younger than most children, and could communicate my needs and wants effectively in other ways other than speech. This was not enough for my father - in his eyes, I was a failure. An embarrassment. As a result, the slightest misdemeanour on my behalf was treated perhaps more harshly than I deserved.

“I do not remember what I had done to evoke his ire on this occasion - I could never live up to my fathers expectations, though to be fair I was an extremely chaotic child, always subject to my own whims. I suppose I have changed little in that regard.”

I smiled, but did not speak to agree with him. 

“I was terrified of my father. Being eight years old, it had not yet occurred to me that it proved more sensible to go along with my fathers wishes than to actively disobey him - it was a while before he could beat that out of me; if I felt the urge to run, I ran, and did so on that occasion. 

“Despite this transgression, he was angrier than usual. I don’t know what had him so angry that day, but my disobedience must have been the straw that broke the proverbial camels back. He hunted me down and found me cowering in the potting shed at the side of the house. He burst through the door and stared down at me with a perfectly neutral expression, and somehow it was so much more terrifying than his usual twisted anger. 

“He grasped me by the forearm in a bruising grip and dragged be back to the house. You would not believe this of me now, but as a child a had a tendency to scream until my throat was raw - that was another thing that my father was unable to beat out of me until I was embarrassingly old. And I screamed then. I screamed bloody murder and I fought him every step of the way. I caused such a ruckus that I disturbed Mycroft’s studies, and he left the library to investigate. My father ordered him to return to his books and to not disturb us. He dragged me into his office and locked the door.”

Holmes stopped walking. When I turned to look at him, he had his eyes closed and was pulling in a deep breath through his nose. 

“I hated his office almost as much as I hated him. The worst beatings always happened there.”

I retreated a step to stand at his side. I slipped my hand into the crook of his elbow and gave it a squeeze. He did not look at me, but he did smile.

After a minute, we resumed our stroll, and Holmes continued to speak. 

“I had not been beaten so badly before, and was never beaten so badly again. I was used to the belt, but after endless minutes, he tired of it. He threw me to the floor and started to kick at my ribs.

“Each blow was agony, and I was certain I was going to die. In fact, to this day I firmly believe that he would have killed me if Mycroft hadn’t intervened. He hammered on the door until my father grew tired of the relentless noise and let him in. 

“‘You sort him out,’ I heard him spit in his direction, and then I believe he retired for the evening.”

“What a blackguard.” I spat, and saw Holmes’s mouth twitch out of the corner of my eye. I recalled the frail old man at the funeral, to those icy blue eyes with no warmth to be found, even in their depths. 

It was difficult to wrap my head around the amount of suffering my dearest Holmes must have endured. 

“Mycroft lifted my battered body into his arms and took me to my bedroom. There, he attended to my cuts and fetched cold compresses for my bruises. Neither of us said anything. Despite the pain that overwhelmed my body, I no longer screamed or cried. I believe I was emotionally numb at that point.

“Mycroft lay me down in my bed and pressed his palm to my forehead. ‘Stay,’ he told me, ‘I will return soon.’

“It was not unusual for Mycroft to spend the night in my bed, or for me to creep into his. I was prone to night terrors at a child, and Mycroft was the only safe haven I could turn to. When he was not away at school, of course.

“But that was not what he had in mind that night. He returned with a small suitcase. I dozed, so exhausted by the events of the evening, but I watched him rummage through my wardrobe and pack my little clothes alongside his through heavy lids. He shook my shoulder to rouse me, then wrapped one of my blankets around me like a great cape and encouraged me to climb onto his back. 

“It hurt. I am sure I had at least two broken ribs and I was terribly bruised, but I clung to him desperately. We crept through the dark, silent house and down the stairs, where Mycroft retrieved our coats and tucked me in mine, and wrapped the blanket around me once more. Then we stole out into the night.

“I didn’t know where we were going, and I didn’t care. I just wanted to get away from that house, from that man… I trusted Mycroft, and I was no longer afraid. 

“Mycroft walked the ten or so miles into town, and we arrived just in time for the first train of the morning. Mycroft paid for our tickets and we joined the crowed of people on the platform. It was still dark at that time, and so no one recognised us. 

“I sat on Mycroft’s lap and was soon lulled into a doze as the train set off. I still had no idea where we were going, but knew that we were heading south thanks to the gradual lightening of the horizon. 

“We alighted at another unknown station, then half an hour later we were on another train. The train was packed with commuters, so Mycroft had to carry me upon his back again. He was a strong child, believe it or not. He played rugby at school, although he hated every moment of it… I’m sure that he was exhausted by that point; I doubt he was able to sleep on the last train as I did. 

“We stayed on that train until the end of the line, then we disembarked. I had been unable to see out the window during our journey, but as soon as we were on the platform I immediately knew where we were.

“‘Are we going to the cottage?’ I croaked. 

“‘For now. We won’t be able to stay for long.’ 

“We were able to ride in the back of a farmers cart for the majority of the journey, but the farmer reached his field whilst we still had ten miles in front of us. I must have looked fairly terrible,  for the old man gave me a pitying glance as Mycroft paid our dues and we set out on our way again.” 

We had reached the end of the field now, and a low hedge stood in our way. Holmes made no move to climb over it or look for a gate, but simply stood and stared at the rapidly brightening horizon before us. 

“We walked across this very field,” he said quietly. “There was snow on the ground that day. Mycroft was beginning to tire. You know, Watson, I used to think he was invincible. By the time I was born Mycroft had matured, and so I never knew him as a young child. From my perspective, he entered the world as an adult. My admiration for him was infinite. Of course, my views shifted quite drastically as I grew older - I realised that he was, in truth, frightfully lazy and self-centred, but the admiration I held for him never waned. I don’t think I ever let go of the notion that he was invincible - he was always there when I needed him, and somehow, he would solve every little problem I had. Until…” 

His voice died in his throat as the sun peaked over the horizon and illuminated the tears in his eyes. They shimmered in the dawn like great diamonds, or perhaps the rarest gem known to man. 

“It’s odd,” His voice shook with his barely surpassed emotion and looked down at the crocus’s that lined the field, even this far out. “The crocus’s were in bloom unusually early then, too.” 

It was then he let the tears fall, and I grasped the back of his neck and guided his face to my shoulder. 

I held him as he cried, great heaving sobs that shook the entirety of his lithe frame, and I cried with him. 

“What happened once you reached the cottage?”

The living room was bathed in the weak light of the morning sun. Holmes and I sat side by side on the sofa, each cradling a piping hot cup of coffee, poured from the teapot that sat on the table in front of us. 

Holmes had calmed somewhat in the time since we had returned. However, his eyes remained red-rimmed and he would emit a poorly suppressed sob every so often, but my question made him smile. 

“Mycroft got a window open and sent me through it to unlock the front door for him. We only intended to stay for a few hours to gather supplies and take a quick rest, but the two of us were so exhausted that we fell in a heap on this very sofa and fell asleep. Mycroft had planned to catch a boat train to the continent and travel to our Grandmothers house, but it wasn’t to be. We woke up to a stern looking constable towering over us. When our disappearance was noticed, Father sent word to the village to check the cottage. We were dragged home in disgrace.” 

Holmes smiled sadly down into his teacup. “It was not one of Mycroft’s best plans, though to be fair on him, he had not accounted for our exhaustion.” 

“I suppose your father was none too happy when you returned.”

“Actually, he was surprisingly quiet about the whole ordeal,” Holmes mused, “I think our disappearance had caused a lot of trouble for him, and he realised that if he were to scold us further it would only encourage us to try again. He gave the both of us the cold shoulder for months afterwards; it was rather nice, actually.” 

We lapsed into a contemplative silence for a while. Holmes was leaning heavily into my side, and after a few minutes his head came to rest against my own. I smiled softly. 

“We could return here every so often for the occasional rest, if you would like,” Holmes murmured.

“That sounds nice.”

“And then, perhaps in about a decade or so, our retirement…” 

I smiled wider this time. I cupped the back of his neck and bought his forehead to rest against mine. “I will look forward to it.”

Chapter Text

Despite the budding spring, the day of the execution dawned dull and grey.

Neither Holmes or I spoke that morning. I found it a challenge to finish my breakfast - the eggs felt like rubber in my mouth, and my coffee sat uneasily in my tumultuous stomach. Holmes did not bother to try. 

Once the clock on the mantle struck ten, we donned our black coats and top hats and hailed a cab to take us to Newgate prison. 

It was Inspector Lestrade who greeted us at the gates with a grim smile and a curt handshake. 

We were lead through dark stone corridors, our footsteps echoing off the walls, though it did very little to mask the sounds of jeers and cries from further within the building. It was as if we were walking into the depths of the underworld, never to return. 

But we would return, I reminded myself. It was not us who would meet their fate today. 

We emerged into a large courtyard, surrounded on very side by the rust-red brick walls of the prison. At the heart of the yard stood the gallows.

Holmes kept back, lingering around the mouth of the tunnel from which we had emerged from, and I stood at his side. Lestrade continued on to convene with a small gaggle of men that surrounded the wooden frame, preparing it to consume its prey. The noose winked at us from the shadows.

After what seemed like an age, we caught sight of George Wickham for the first time since that fateful day. Both hands were bound behind his back, and his face was obscured by a wiry beard. He lifted his shadow laden eyes to meet ours, and I tensed involuntarily. 

If he recognised us, it did not show on his face, but he nodded once before averting his gaze. 

A prayer was uttered and Wickham was guided up the steps toward the noose which hung ominously in front of him. 

As the noose was slipped over his head and tightened, the executioner asked if he had any last words. Wickham merely shook his head.

I could not watch. I closed my eyes and bowed my head as the trapdoor was opened and a sickening crack echoed through the air.

By the time we arrived home, the sun was starting to peak hesitantly through the veil of grey. I sank into my armchair warily as Holmes stood at the bow window, watching as the blue sky gradually revealed itself to us. Neither of us uttered a word.

But the silence did not hang heavy with the weight of words unsaid, or with feelings unexpressed. I observed Holmes’s shoulders from where I sat, and it seemed as if they had been relieved of a great burden. 

Holmes moved slowly from the window to his desk, I crouched down and retrieved something from underneath - his violin case.

He lay the case on the breakfast table and opened it as carefully as if he were opening a long sealed tomb. For the first time since Mycroft’s death, the Stradivarius was revealed to the light. 

With his delicate touch, Holmes lifted the instrument from its bed of silk. He held it in his hands and smiled fondly down at it, like a father welcoming his child home from school after a long, lonely term. 

He lifted the violin to his shoulder, and picked up the bow. He did not whip the bow through the air as was his wont, savouring the sensation of the air parting around it, and relishing in the subtle ‘shwhip’. Instead, he slowly brought it up to meet the strings. 

The mournful warble of the violins song gradually filled the air of our home. It was such a sweet sound, one I had missed so much, I could have wept. 

Instead, I settled back in my armchair and stretched out my legs in front of the hearth. Holmes played with his back to me, but I could read the emotion in the slope of his shoulders and the tremble of his long, white fingers upon the strings.

I closed my eyes and let the music wash into my soul.