Prologue

"Deep scars of thunder had intrenched, and care/ sat on his faded cheek"

Paradise Lost

The rain fell on his hat in heavy, sluggish drops as he exited the cab, feet carefully testing the soaked ground before he entrusted it with the weight of his body. A cane was most welcome on this slippery terrain, the black glove which covered the hand wrapped around the knob most appropriate on this most melancholy of melancholy days. Just right for the occasion, he thought, though whether he referred to the weather or his clothing was a matter unclear even to him.

Simultaneously with the probing of the muddy ground, his quick eyes had discovered the forlorn figure right there at the iron-wrought portal, hands irretrievably lost in the grasp of some sympathetic friend or acquaintance whose talk seemed as persistent as the fall of rain. He was not being listened to. A set of eyes under brows that frowned with chagrin aimed at somebody beyond the sympathetic talker; at the new arrival.

He did not hasten his move and smoked a cigarette in the shelter of a large willow as he waited for the unwanted party to withdraw. Only when his retreat through the towering portal was complete, the cigarette was flicked listlessly into the mud.

"Thank you for coming, my dear chap."

John Watson's hands wrapped as tightly around his as if they had grown used to this manner of locking with other people's, and felt lost in their few seconds of liberty. It was probably the truth. Watson had grasped many hands within the last seventy-two hours.

He moved his head slightly, unwillingly. "It's nothing."

The tense, chagrined eyes, small from lack of sleep, met his gaze. "Well, I am glad you're here. I'm...troubled."

Sherlock Holmes nodded slowly. Both men seemed to move in slow motion, in spite of the rain that dribbled down onto their exposed forms.

"I am very sorry. For you, for Mary. She was too young to die like this. She was - a fine woman, old boy."

The face with the drawn look tensed painfully. "I appreciate your saying so. Particularly since your estrangement might have disposed you toward - "

A swift shake of the head, a fleeting smile. "Pray don't mention it, my friend. It does not matter now."

Watson opened his mouth, as if to protest, when another mourner hailed him from a short distance. Instantly, Holmes merged with the shadow of the high brick wall. He had no taste for his friend's general company; men with boisterous voices who tried to subdue them for the occasion, nervously toying with their hats or gloves. Also, it was better if no introductions took place. After all these years of semi-celebrity, Holmes still valued his incognito.

He ponderously followed the wall toward the portal, passing through it into the god's acre. It was quite true, after all. The estrangement with Mary, since its beginning seven years ago, had permanently closed Watson's doors to him. If it had not been for the doctor's regular visits to Baker Street or the Sussex Downs, those would have been lonely years indeed. Only her premature death, brought about by an undetected cancer, was able to finally restore his friend's availability to him.

But this was neither the time nor the place for thoughts like these. As he approached the open pit, surrounded by by a growing number of people, he made a conscious effort to envision the good times, the times before...the event. Sun seemed to shine warmly on his face in spite of the unrelenting rain, he recalled the smell of flowers, freshly picked, as Mary spread them on the picnic blanket in front of him, her laughter as he teased her for her zeal. Her grateful face uplifted to him, released from the strain of anxiety a false suspicion had brought upon her, a suspicion he had cleared her from. Her girlish excitement as she walked into a ballroom in full evening wear, right next to -

No, no. Better not to think at all. Better not to remember.

He had reached the throng of mourners by the edge of the grave. A coffin was waiting, circled by four sturdy young men in dark clothes. They had taken off their caps and lowered their heads solemnly, immovable figures in the cold drizzle. The priest, on the other end of the pit, seemed much more eager to get started with the ceremony. Maybe it was the cold humidity creeping into his ancient bones, or the mud that kept splashing up against his white vestments. He fidgeted, and gave a small, impatient sigh as the widower appeared in the distance, accompanied by a sprinkling of late arrivals.

Holmes followed the example of the other mourners, and took of his hat as the eulogy commenced, although the top of his head was the last dry spot on his entire person. He was no enthusiast of formal speeches, and barely listened to what the man said. He had not known Mary Watson, whose christian piety and involvement into good works he praised in a self-righteous fashion, as if nothing else mattered, as if there had not been a living woman behind all those saintly virtues. A woman who grew disappointed, but not bitter, over her inability to have children. Who liked to laugh and befriended people easily. Who played the piano. Who danced. Who meddled. Who argued. Who crossed a small stream on large, round stepping stones, a large bouquet of flowers in her arms…

But now she was there, cold and lifeless in a coffin that slowly lowered into the grave, defeated in a battle she could not have won. She had not wanted to see him to the last. She had not allowed him to bid her adieu. And now, she had met the ground, with a shaky husband strewing soil on her from a freshly dug up heap. He managed one, two hands full, before he stepped back to let the others have a turn.

Which they did. A pale, white hand dug into the heap of soft earth, opening in mid air to release the crumbs above the coffin lid. A quick beat of lashes behind a short, black meshed veil. A glimpse of vibrant red beneath the toque.

Holmes felt the colour drain from his face. His body, trained to resist natural impulses, did not gasp; his hand did not fly up to clutch his collar as he saw Kitty Winter stand on the opposite rim of the pit. He saw the fierce flash of recognition in her peculiar watery eyes, saw her raised hand close into a fist. There were just these few feet of thin air between them. Had it not been for those, he could have reached out to touch the woman who had died seven years ago.

Kitty looked younger than she had on the day that she went over the cliff. She was thinner, a few inches taller. Her simple black dress was modern, inexplicably elegant. There were no marks of vitriolic oil on her bare, white neck.

The moment lasted for less than a heartbeat. She stiffened, and drew back. Others pushed to the front and drowned her out. The only thing he could glimpse was the small black toque, disappearing swiftly in the crowd.

oooOOOooo

He felt transported as the wash of people took him away, directing his step in a certain direction without any need to think about it. Memories flooded his mind as they had earlier on, but this time inadvertently. Catherine haunted them.

Of course he had not seen a spectre. He had been a fool even to wince, he who knew better than most men that the world was big enough as it was, without any ghosts in it. The person by the pit had not been Kitty, or, as he had taken to calling her secretly in his thoughts, "The Woman". She was separated from him by the grave in more than this sense. In fact, he knew quite well who this was. It had been mere stupidity not to anticipate such an incident.

But the first moment's shock ran deep. He had to admit it to himself as he realized the altered surroundings, a porticoed venue with large windows and high ceilings, overlooking wistful, autumn-tinted clusters of beech and elm. He reached out, and with muttered thanks grabbed a glass from off a waiter's tray. The wine was sweet and potent, and, though disgusting to him, served his purpose for now.

"Holmes!"

To his dismay, he saw Watson dismiss a group of people who uttered their condolences. With a few swift steps, the doctor had crossed the room and was at his elbow.

"I am so awfully sorry, my dear fellow. I thought you knew….she came over from Paris yesterday."

He smiled irritably. "Of course I knew she'd be here. You are the closest approximation to a father she has in the whole world. And I assume she was fond of her foster mother as well."

"Still." Watson pressed a fist to his moustache, letting it drop again from there as sometimes he did when angry with himself. "I should have said something, back at the entrance. I should have known it would be a shock to see her thus, unprepared. Why, the girl is Kitty's living image!"

A brief spasm passed over his friend's face, just in time for Watson to get a hold of himself.

"My apologies. I'm well aware you do not wish to have her mentioned. But Fanny was only fourteen years old when she came to live with us...she hasn't seen you since. She will not even remember your face, depend upon it."

Holmes smiled tightly. "She recognized me."

Watson's eyes narrowed. "Are you sure? Couldn't she just have…?" He faltered. "Oh dear. Here she comes."

He straightened, mustering a smile at the young woman who had suddenly appeared out of nowhere.

Her gait was catlike; leisurely, but self-confident. Her steps did not for a second hesitate, the glass in her light grasp did not sway. Grey eyes peered out from behind the black mesh. She did not smile in return.

"Uncle John." She gave him a light peck on the cheek. "I 'ope this wan't too much of an ordeal for ye."

Seven years of private education in an upper middle class household had not taught Fanny to disown her origins in the lower strata of London society. Those words might have been Kitty's words, the inflection was pure Limehouse. It did not seem to make her self-conscious.

"Of course not, Fanny dear." Watson patted her hand, the small, transparent hand that had sprinkled earth over Mary's coffin. "I say, do you remember my old friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes?"

Her head turned slowly, as though she had not been aware of anybody else's presence. Holmes' hand extended towards her. "Hello, Frances", he said calmy.

Grey eyes pierced him, slowly wandered down on his person and pierced his proffered hand, too. With the same, unhurried movement, her head turned back towards her former guardian. When she spoke, it was like honed daggers falling from the sky and boring into granite.

"Indeed, Uncle John. Yes, I do remember the man who sent me aunt into 'er death an' had her chile put away into an asylum. How do you do, Mr. 'olmes?"

She did not face him, but he replied all the same.

"Quite well. Thank you, Frances."

"That is wonderful. I 'ope the best for yer health, so that you may live many years more wiv the knowledge of the damage you did. It will do the most astounding things to yer character."

Still, to the observer, she seemed to be talking to Dr. Watson, rather than his friend.

Holmes cleared his throat. "Doctor, could you give us a moment, please? Obviously, Miss Morris and I have one or two things to discuss in private - "

Her head was flung around full force to face him, her eyes burning. "I am NOT me aunt, Mr. 'olmes! I would not discuss anything with you in private, even if ye was ten years younger. Seriously - " her eyes travelled him up and down again, "'ave you looked at yourself?"

One more glance from contemptuous grey eyes, and she was gone. Watson' arms hung by his sides limply, his mouth opening and closing again as if he could not find the heart to speak. There was no need to say anything, however.

Sherlock Holmes drew out his cigarette case. He took one out,stuck it between his lips and lit it, frowning at the spot where Fanny had just disappeared.

Hi readers!

It has been a long time! Time enough to miss 'my' characters and to crave writing about them again….heh. So this is the pilot chapter for my sequel to "A study in wedlock".

As you can tell, seven years have passed and Kitty's niece Fanny is a grown up woman - maybe not a very nice one. A lot of things have happened in between time to change her life completely, and evidently, she has some reproaches to lay at Holmes' door! We can only wait what happens. That is, you can only wait, because I know (some) already!

As always goes: Let me know what you think! I love to hear your views!

Lots of love, Mrs. F