Author's Notes: Well, I'm back! I will be writing this story at the same time as my Harry Potter fanfiction, Compitalia, so I might not update as regularly as I did TGH. Thanks to Haley Macrae, mierin-lanfear, violavampire, QueenOfSpain and Ki for the last reviews on that. For those of you who did not read the story summary carefully enough, this is a sequel, so please go back and read the prequel, The Great Hiatus. While that story followed the events of Reichenbach Falls, this one concentrated on the circumstances surrounding His Last Bow. Notes for this chapter: as usual, historical personages are real, including the old professor. I will tell you who he is at the end. See if you can figure it out!

Chapter 1

Strange Serendipity

As usual, it was Mycroft who suggested the necessity for action, though it took some convincing to engage Sherlock Holmes. Though most in the ministry were new men, there still remained some who remembered the embarrassing international boondoggle of 1891-4. All were initially opposed. The younger men were unwilling to believe that there was a threat at all. It was they who negotiated with Count Leo von Caprivi in 1890 for Zanzibar. It had only been necessary to cede Heligoland to gain dominance in Africa. The older men were perfectly aware that a naval fleet to rival that of Britain was equipped, but they believed that the amateur detective should be left to his chosen obscurity on the South Downs, where it was said he was engaged in bee-keeping.

Mycroft himself never considered such an option. The older man's life was so constructed on routine that it would never occur to him to change anything, never mind retire to an unremarkable life in the country, where he could pass his days in a haze of oblivion. Certain that his younger brother could not possibly object to an assignment of such grave importance to the future of England, Mycroft set about to use his impressive bulk, both actual and metaphorical, to ensure that something was done.

Since he was something of an institution in Whitehall and was both feared and respected for his nearly-supernatural powers of prediction, a compromise was reached in the hushed offices of the Foreign Office. Sherlock Holmes would be approached, but he was under no circumstances to become involved in direct dealings between nations. Instead, he would be grudgingly allowed to monitor certain personages, and report on their activities. It was left to his brother to deliver the news. A cab was hired to deliver Mycroft to Sussex, as he absolutely refused to take the train.

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His hand trembled slightly as he held the vial of tiny crystals over the blue flame. How angry he had been with her. Why? He thought desperately, for the hundredth time.

Why? He thought desperately, for the hundredth time. What could have possessed him to do such a careless thing? It was something in her eyes, he remembered, something about the wild despair with which she confessed to him, that had made him do it. And now, he was stuck. Tied to her, for all eternity, though she had offered him a way out.

He shuddered. He, who was a confirmed bachelor – not just because he was a younger son and would not inherit a red cent. Sherringford could have it all, pompous country squire that he was; his Catholic character meant that he was ambivalent toward money and rarely accepted a fee that was greater than was strictly necessary to survive. It was not just because his work demanded that he remain impassive, cold, and shrewd, untouched by baser feelings than the noble drive to correct injustice. It was because no other woman had ever affected him so. Oh, there was That Woman, but she at least was a courtesan, an actress, a singer, a painted lady. She had been adept at misleading the hearts of men.

But She? She! She, who was guided by her scheming uncle, she who had languished in remote exile, she who had nothing to distinguish her! … Well, that wasn't true, exactly. But he was still trapped!

He nearly crushed the small vial of bromide as he added it to the crucible, hands trembling with violent indignation. The liquid spilled, extinguishing the small blue flame below. His experiment thus ruined, he went to light his pipe, but the tobacco would not fill the bowl, and it would not ignite. He growled angrily. There was nothing for it; he would go see his solicitors.

The experiment worked beautifully. The crystals had melted and separated, leaving a greenish deposit at the bottom of the vial. As her extinguished the burner, he registered knocking at the door. Removing his acid-stained apron and draping it over a chair, he moved to greet his visitor. Opening the door, he was surprised to see his entrance was entirely blocked by the extraordinary bulk of none other than his brother.

Mycroft Holmes grunted as a greeting and moved past his sibling into the small cottage, which at once took on the appearance of a doll's house, so dwarfed were the furnishings by the tall, broad, older man. The sofa groaned under his weight as he seated himself, sharp eyes glinting in the half-light of the front room.

"I have an assignment for you," Mycroft said, his voice hoarse with laboured breathing.

"I cannot help you," answered his brother, who had closed the door, but had remained standing.

"It will help the Empire," encouraged Mycroft.

"I think, dear brother, that the Empire is perfectly capable of helping itself, quite without my help," Sherlock answered dryly.

"Damn your arrogance, man!" blustered his brother. "Do you mean to tell me that I have come all the way to your god-forsaken cottage and you will not hear me out?"

"I did not say I would not hear you out," replied Holmes. "But I will not help you."

"We need you to keep an eye out for some Germans," began Mycroft, but was swiftly interrupted by his brother.

"I can assure you, I have not seen any pass my cottage lately. All my visitors are Englishmen, born and bred."

With a swiftness unexpected from a man of his corpulence, Mycroft stood and moved to the door. "You have not heard the last of this, Sherlock," he said. The door slammed behind him and the sudden sound of horses and wheels faded quickly.

Tramping down the London streets, hardly seeing where he was going, he continued his furious interior monologue. Something about her eyes, that was it. She had ensnared his senses with those gypsy eyes.

The door to the solicitor's office was locked, quite inexplicably. With another growl, he turned on his heel, bound for Pall Mall, where he hoped to find his brother at the Diogenes Club. Entering by the dark oak door of that venerable establishment, he snapped at a young clerk behind the front desk.

"Mycroft Holmes."

"He isn't here, sir," squeaked the frightened young man.

"Why the devil not?" bellowed Holmes, his patience worn through by his elder siblings sudden unpredictability.

"It is Sunday, sir," answered the clerk, though his observation was unanswered. Holmes quickly exited the building, slamming the door behind him as he adjusted his hat. He swore loudly, scandalously, to his utmost inner satisfaction.

Returning to his rooms at Baker Street, he flung himself despondently onto a sofa, sighed and reached with one long arm to a stack of unopened mail. Reading the first letter, his lips spread into a malicious smile. Leaping up, he sat at the writing table and furiously scribbled a note that he stuffed into an envelope. About to ring for the housekeeper to take it, he remembered that it was Sunday, and not only was Mrs Hudson visiting her sister in Epping, but there was no postman to deliver his message.

His mood was thus truly foul when Watson returned from an afternoon of reminiscing with an old school friend. But' irritation had given him a kind of grim determination, so that as soon as Watson removed his hat, Holmes said, "Pack your bags, Watson, we're going to Norway."

"But why?" asked the bewildered doctor, his fingers frozen on the top button of his overcoat, and eyebrows hovering near his hairline.

"You recently expressed your admiration of Sigerson, did you not?" Holmes demanded.

"Yes," Watson answered kindly, still not grasping the connection.

"Well, he is Norwegian," stated Holmes, as though his answer was plain as day.

The good doctor tried a different tack. "But what about your work Holmes? The cases you are following?"

"If they have lived without their aunties and dogs for this long, I daresay they can stand the abseince a little longer," Holmes said superciliously. "Very little could convince me to stay in London and solve a case now," he said.

"But what about my work?" asked his confused friend.

"You can sell your practice, move back to Baker Street, and consult occasionally, if it makes you happy. I have already written to a potential buyer for your surgery," Holmes pointed to the envelope lying on the desk.

"You have certainly arranged everything," said Watson.

But the Adventure of Black Peter proved too much of a temptation after all, and the trip to Norway was postponed.

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Foreign Secretary Sir Edward Grey was a lean man with a high forehead crowned by a sharp widow's peak. His mouth was extraordinarily thin, and his eyes deeply set, giving him the appearance of a rare bird. The analogy was not inappropriate, as it was well-known that he was an avid ornithologist. He sat with dignity in the same spot occupied just a few days ago by Mycroft and looked at his host with a silent appeal in his eyes.

"I was not trained in diplomacy, Mr Holmes, but I find that negotiation is one of my strengths. I am prepared to make concessions, but the criminals must be caught. Your brother believes them to be German."

"I have heard something to that effect," said Holmes non-commitally.

"So you will help us?" said the Foreign Secretary, a little desperately.

"I'm afraid not. My bee-keeping demands that I remain here at all times. I am writing a book on the subject."

"We could help in its publication," suggested Sir Edward.

Holmes smiled briefly, but shook his head. Standing up, he extended his hand to the politician. "I'm afraid I must attend to my bees now, Sir Edward. It has been a pleasure meeting with you, but I can do nothing for you."

The Foreign Secretary stood up and shook Holmes' hand. "Good afternoon, Mr Holmes." He bowed to him slightly as put on his hat and walked out of the cottage door.

There were always lost aunties and runaway dogs. Or maybe it was the other way around. Watson would be the one to ask about that. In any case, work proved an effective consolation.

He had tried to settle things with her, sending her a wedding band, visiting several times. He had even invited Watson along once. And every time, upon his return to London, he would throw himself ever deeper into the intricate webs of crime, resolving to forget. He usually ended up forgetting his meals, but never her.

Watson had every right to be concerned. He had wasted away in those months, until even that eminent physician in Harley Street recommended a break. His friend deemed Sussex too close to London to truly be a distraction, and so the two of them were practically incarcerated on a lonely stretch of Cornwall seashore. There was crime there, too, of course, but She was not. He had allowed the criminal to go free.

And then there was the case that followed it immediately. Its solution lay in a logic puzzle so simple a child could have solved it. It was not worthy of Watson's little sketches. But he had been reminded of his old math tutor at Oxford, and this combined with his haunting feeling of rootlessness into a resolve to go visit the old man.

Though he had been retired since 1881, he was still something of a legend. He had gained considerable fame with a series of children's books that were imaginative, humorous, yet based on the very same principles of logic that he had taught his undergraduates. Though he steadfastly refused to admit authorship to adults, he would always oblige his adoring young readers. He genuinely liked children, to whom he was an eccentric but doting surrogate Uncle. His religious beliefs and employment, however, had long ago determined that he would never marry. Now he was in his mid-sixties and in failing health. That the formerly tall, slender, handsome, bohemian, sensitive professor had been reduced to a doddering old fool in his last years shook Holmes to the core. He resolved to return up to London immediately. Perhaps the strange serendipity that had brought him Beatrice Regina Bassano was not such an inconvenience after all.

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The Right Honourable Herbert Henry Asquith, Prime Minister, had alarmingly pale eyes below bushy eyebrows, and a strong chin. He spoke plainly.

"I am not exaggerating, Mr Holmes, when I say that this is a matter of national security. Things are going wrong, and we cannot understand why. There have been some arrests, but no conclusive evidence. The Foreign Office suspects the Germans, God knows why. I think it's the Irish. How could a foreigner be so effective in undermining our government, in subverting our plans?" The Prime Minister paused and looked at Holmes sternly. "I hear you have some plans of your own, and will not help us, Mr Holmes?"

Holmes smiled graciously. "Having you under my roof, Prime Minister, has convinced me that a change of plans might not be such an inconvenience after all."

A/N: Well, did you get it? The aging professor is, of course, Lewis Carroll, AKA Charles Lutwidge Dodgson, a bit of a fictional character himself. And yes, I think Holmes went to Oxford. And I also think he's a Catholic, but I have already threatened to write a "trifling monograph" to that effect.