About a year ago I have said I would work on another adventure for Hendrik Sigerson, meaning Sherlock Holmes during his travels, and here at last it is. - At least the first chapter of it. It currently is rated as a K+, but I might have to change it to a T later on, I am not quite sure yet.

Once again, I have tried to be as historically accurate as I could be, but it was difficult to get any detailed information that exceeds the common knowledge and hence a lot is nothing but assumptions on my side. Also, I have never been to Egypt myself and had to rely on the information available to me. In regards to the mentioned digs and pharao's that will come up in later chapters, they are mere figments of my imagination, as the history of Egypt is too long and too complex to digest within such a short amount of time as one year. I am lucky to have an exceptional museum with an incredible ancient Egyptian collection basically at my doorstep, and still, all the names and historical events are rather intimidating. So please, forgive any liberties taken, but there is only so much time I can invest in my stories without neglecting my other duties.

So, have fun reading, and please leave me a feedback. Thank you. Nic

Chapter 1

The sea was calm, its surface only rippling slightly, glistening in the golden beams of the early morning sun, and there I was, aboard the small steamship that had brought me here from Venice, casting my first glance at the busy port of Alexandria. The sky was as clear and blue as could be reflecting in the calm waters of the Mediterranean Sea where a myriad of tiny boats, larger steamships, just like the one I had boarded about a week prior to coming hither, as well as some sailing vessels, bobbed up and down on the ever-moving surface that kept them afloat. Behind the harbour the ancient city rose, glaringly white with dots of colour here and there making it look like a sugar glazed cake with intricate, colourful icing on top that were the domes and minarets of the many mosques standing out from amongst the mainly flat roofs.

I had heard tales about this city, its beauty and history, but had never thought I would see it for myself. Now I was here, fascinated and intrigued and still, had I had a choice I would have traded the fair prospect that came ever so much closer as we pulled into port, I would have chosen my home over it anytime. I have written to my brother of my departure to Egypt and not yet received an answer. That he had gotten my message, however, was apparent by the fact, that when I deboarded, the tiny suitcase with my meagre belongings in hand, a well-known figure approached me, undeterred by my masquerade. There, in his white linen suit and broad-rimmed straw hat my father stood, the man I had, for so many years believed to be my uncle. He looked pretty much as I remembered him, though his hair had grizzled with age and he wore silver-framed glasses. But behind them his eyes were as sparkling with intelligence and wit and as kind as they had ever been and the smile he gave me was a warm and welcoming one.

"It is good to see you, my boy," he exclaimed seemingly unsure of how to greet me in the light of my necessary incognito.

For a moment I hesitated before I dropped my suitcase unceremoniously and embraced him, an act that as a child had been so very natural in all my once innocent trust in Aldwin Holmes. I had not seen the man in a good ten years and only now I realised how much I had missed him. All my anger towards him about having kept my real parentage a secret had evaporated long ago and still, aside from the occasional letter I had hardly kept up any contact, despite having picked up my pen time and time again to write. But some things are hard to put into words and as yet I had been unable to write down anything that sounded neither accusing, when it was not supposed t be so, or downright silly. Perhaps it was good then that fate had decided for me.

"I am glad to see you as well," I answered upon letting him go, though his hand, stayed on my shoulder as he looked at me intently, to a point where I felt almost under scrutiny.

"It would have been better, had it been under different circumstances, I suppose," he said at last with a wry smile playing on his lips, though I could see how touched he was by my greeting. "But I am glad you are here anyway."

I picked up my suitcase again and together we made our way towards a waiting carriage that was to bring us to a small hotel in one of the narrow and crowded side streets in the very centre of Alexandria, close to one of the busiest bazaars, so that the air around us was constantly filled with the many aromas of the many spices on offer there, the cinnamon, nutmeg, mint, saffron, frankincense.

It was but a small room we were to share for a couple of days till we would make our way south to Cairo where my father lived unless he was on a dig since he had left England to work as an Archaeologist. But despite its feeble size, it was comfortably furnished with artful oriental rugs covering the floor, the bright colours gleaming in the warm sunlight like jewels. Two narrow four-poster beds, sporting thin net curtains to make them airy while keeping out the millions of mosquitos haunting the delta with its sea of papyrus along the banks of the River Nile, as well as a wide table in the centre of the room surrounded by carved chairs, that in any other surrounding would have looked oppressive made up most of the furniture, aside from a closet. The only other piece of furniture in the room was a cosy looking divan underneath the high window, its thin curtains billowing in the slight breeze that made the heat outside just about bearable as the sun rose ever so much higher.

The short drive we had spent in silence, as both of us pondered on how to begin and where. There were many subjects either of us wanted to address and yet was timid to do so. Too much had passed between us and either of us intended to tread carefully as to not break the truce we had made many years ago.

But at last, it was my father who broke the silence as we entered our chamber.

"You cannot imagine how glad I was to receive Mycroft's news that you were alive and well, considering the circumstances. The news of your death was hard on me."

"I am sorry, father, I did not mean to..." I replied, unsure how to put my words.

With some astonishment, I saw that at my words his face had lit up and with tears in his eyes, he replied: "I know and I understand, Sherlock. It must have been very hard for you to leave everything behind so unexpectedly. At least I have made a decision when I left, you were thrown in the midst of it."

"I could have acted differently, father. I could have called out to Watson and return to London with him."

"And then? Your brother explained the situation to me and I agree with your decision. Not only will it keep your friends out of harm's way, but it gives you a decided advantage if you are believed to be dead."

He still looked greatly touched and at last, I could not help asking why.

"You cannot imagine how I have longed for you to call me 'father' instead of 'Uncle Aldwin'. That you do so now, has made everything worthwhile," he replied not meeting my eyes but on his cheeks, I could see a single tear make its way down and I had to swallow hard.

Eventually, he took out his pipe and began to stuff it. A habit of his I had known so well as a child that eventually, and quite subconsciously, I had adapted it. Taking out my own pipe I mimicked him which made him chuckle and at last, we sat down at the table to wait for the tea we had ordered downstairs. It promptly arrived and we resumed our long overdue conversation.

"You know, I have always thought of you as my father, in all but name."

"Yes, I know and I hope I was a father to both of you. To both my boys. But in order to be that, I had to be your uncle, for where would it have left Mycroft?"

I nodded thoughtfully, as at last, I got the answer I had longed for, for so many years but never dared to ask. And with it, all my initial anger at the shocking revelation of him being my natural father had at last completely evaporated. It was such an obvious explanation, such a considerate one, that I felt rather stupid for not having realised it long ago. My brother had been devastated by our parents' death. So much so, that Aldwin had taken him out of school for two years, for he neither ate nor spoke in the first couple of weeks after the news had reached him. I felt ashamed and inconsiderate but my father, carefully studying my expression only chuckled, his eyes sparkling.

"We all have been young once, Sherlock, and while I could not act any differently, neither could you. What you must have felt when you first read your late mother's letter, I cannot even begin to imagine. I should have told you earlier, but just as we stand before each other now, two grown men, it can be extremely hard to talk about the most important things. Those things that most urgently should be addressed. But with all that has come to pass, I would never trade what we had for anything in the world. Family and love are worth all the heartbreak it can potentially bring, never forget that, my son. But while the stakes are high and one can easily lose everything in the process, the winnings one might get out of either – or both - are worth it all."

With that, we sat in silence, smoking and drinking our tea, while below us the humming of the busy street drifted up and through the open window.