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The Travels of Emile Sigerson.
Chapter One. The Deception.
The day he had left Watson at the Reichenbach falls was the hardest of his life – and he had known hardship. Watching his dearest friend – his only friend in such pain was torment, a torment he never knew he was able to feel. It almost made him wish Watson's pain were valid, that he had been lying dead at the bottom of the falls. That is what he had intended, what he had prepared himself for. Death. That sweet breathless release from all he had suffered, and yet. Here he was, alive, and his greatest enemy was dead. He had triumphed and instead of rejoicing he felt wretched, felt that life had finally come to an end, he no longer wished to be Sherlock Holmes. And then an idea struck him, it occurred to him what an opportunity fate had placed in his way. He no longer had to be Sherlock Holmes, the world thought him dead, why disillusion them? He could choose to be whoever he wanted, he could forget his past life and disappear; leave Watson to the life he should always have had, leave him to his Mary and to peace. By vanishing Holmes could ensure his safety.
The thoughts flitted through his head in a flash and he glanced back down to the path to see Watson being led away by two policemen, his head buried in his hands and his eyes closed by tears. Holmes felt a pang in his chest but dismissed it as he had done for years, emotion should never be allowed to cloud one's judgement. It was a rule Holmes had lived by and he was not about to give it up now. As soon as he was certain Watson and the search party had gone, he emerged from his hiding place. He sighed as he glanced around him at the sheer rock face, as he looked, and without warning, a rock whizzed past his head and ricocheted off the rocks below. Holmes ducked back into the recess and tried to control his breathing. His body was still exhausted from his climb to this point and his heart was beating wildly, seeing Watson and having to face his guilt had not helped his nerves and now he was not alone. He was being watched. He was surprised at how the thought terrified him, he supposed it was shock. Cautiously he peered out of the recess and looked up, a man's figure quickly disappeared but Holmes knew the face. Moran. Of course Moriarty had not been alone; he was naïve to have thought so. Looking around him Holmes felt a sudden rush of hopelessness rush over him, he pushed it to the back of his mind and concluded the only course of action would be to face Moran.
Hauling himself up to the ledge above Holmes winced as a jagged rock tore his shirt and warm blood began to trickle down his chest. Lying flat on the grassy ledge Holmes held his breath and listened- silence. Moran had not gone of that he was sure, the man was an expert hunter and he would not give up so easily. Holmes crawled forwards pausing every so often to listen for any sign, his heart was beating furiously and the blood had begun to dry and congeal on his clothes. He did not notice the pain; the adrenalin rushing through his veins was enough to sustain him. Raising himself to his knees Holmes peered about him, still nothing, he raised an eyebrow to no-one in particular and stood, maybe Moran had gone. Straightening himself Holmes ran, he ran forwards, away - not knowing where he was running to. After about half a mile he collapsed to the floor in a breathless heap and cried. Tears of relief and shock and pain all mingled together to form a despair such as Holmes had only felt once before, a feeling he had thought long dead. Shaking from his sobs and shivering from the cold Holmes reined his emotions in and returned to his normal, practical self.
He fled, the only option left open to him, he ran away from all he had known and all he had loved. Yes, he had loved. His home, the quiet familiarity of London, the reassurance of those faces he had come to know. The shock of never seeing them again was rather too much to bear. Still, he pushed this emotion to the back of his mind, perhaps to be returned to. He had discussed with Watson his idea of the mind as an attic, and like an attic, pushed to the furthest, darkest recesses were those things that one would rather forget than ever return to again. It was so with Holmes. There were recesses of his mind that were his and his alone, places he repressed so that he could continue living.
He ended up in Florence, how he got there he could not recall. The time between leaving the falls and arriving in Italy were a haze that Holmes could not remember. But he was here, and alive. He found lodgings and slept, he slept for days. When he awoke he was greeted by a rather strange looking creature of about sixteen years, clad head to toe in rags she glared at him from the windowsill. Holmes sat up in his bed and was relieved to find he was wearing clothes, the blood on his chest however, had left a livid stain and the girl was staring at him as if he had lost his mind. Holmes smiled at her and tried to reassure her – in Italian – that he was no threat to her. She hesitantly smiled back and asked if he would like food, Holmes replied that he would and she dashed off without another word.
An hour or so later and the dishevelled man that had rather unceremoniously dumped himself on their doorstep begging for sleep, reappeared as a clean-shaven respectable gentleman, looking to the world as if on holiday. The young girl that had so glared at him upon his awakening now stared at him in awe and he smiled, thanking her for the food and the clean clothes. She nodded absent-mindedly and asked his name. Holmes thought for a while before answering, how does one decide upon one's own name?
"Emile Sigerson" he replied. Emile had been his grandfather's name and Sigerson his father. Neither name evoked particularly pleasant memories within him but it was as good a name as any when put on the spot. The girl smiled and replied that her name was Angelique. Holmes replied that it was a suitable name for one who had saved him by providing food and shelter. The girl looked somewhat puzzled by this remark but smiled none the less. Edging closer to him, she took his hand. Holmes did not recoil as he usually would have done from any human contact; he had already changed his name why not also change his character? She smiled and asked if he knew anyone in Florence? Holmes replied that he did not. She asked if he would like to be introduced to her father? Holmes said he would and was led from his room down some steps that looked as if they were held together by pure will rather than anything physical and into a surprisingly cosy kitchen at the back of the house.
"Papa? Papa?" Angelique's voice reminded Holmes of a music box his mother had had when he was a child, a tinny sort of music that evoked simple pleasures. She released his hand and ran to a room that was tucked into a corner. Holmes listened as a man's voice trickled into the room, a strong voice that contained smiles and joy. Holmes felt rather apprehensive at this sudden social situation. Emerging from the corner room appeared a man in his mid to late forties, a little younger than Holmes himself and smiling from ear to ear.
"Papa this is Mr. Sigerson."
Angelique was beaming up at Holmes who felt rather awkward at being introduced by a mere slip of a girl, he held out his hand and felt it grasped in as strong a grip as his own.
"I am sorry for my abrupt arrival." Holmes spoke in Italian but his accent was detectable for Angelique's father replied in English.
"That is quite alright Mr. Sigerson, we were very distressed, especially Angelique, she stayed by your bedside until you woke."
Holmes favoured the girl with a smile; she smiled back coquettishly and hung off her father's arm.
"I am very grateful to you for your care when you could have easily thrown me out." Holmes continued the conversation in English.
"We would not have done that sir, I have not always lived this way and I can recognise a gentleman when I see one."
Holmes cleared his throat and smiled awkwardly.
"And how did you know that Sir? I'm sorry I do not know your name."
"Mario, Mario Conaveli. This, as you know, is my daughter. We live here alone, her mother died in childbirth."
"Oh I am very sorry to hear that."
Mario nodded his head in acknowledgement before continuing,
"You spoke like a gentleman and your clothes are of the more expensive kind, besides you have a bearing about you that suggests breeding."
Holmes smiled; here was a man after his own heart.
"Do you not find it difficult here? Without a female influence for the girl?" Holmes enquired, feeling he should perhaps attempt genial conversation.
"We manage well enough on our own." Angelique gazed up at her father in adoration and he flicked her arm, as if commanded she set about laying tea cups and arranging food. Mario indicated a seat, which Holmes took.
"What brings you here Mr. Sigerson? And in such a state." Mario smiled and took his tea from Angelique.
"I do not know where to begin. I am Swiss by birth," And so the lie begins thought Holmes as he concocted some tale to satisfy their curiosity and ensure their suspicions, for he was certain his 'death' must have reached the press by now, were not roused. When he had finished Mario whistled under his breath.
"That is quite a story sir."
Holmes raised an eyebrow and smiled. It certainly was, quite the most romantic lie he had ever told, Watson would have beamed with pride.
"Yes well; and so here you find me, attempting to start a new life."
Mario slapped his hand on the table, waking Angelique from her dream, throughout Holmes' speech she had been resting her head on one hand gazing at him, unfortunately for Angelique she was at that susceptible age when it is so easy to fall in love, especially with romantic foreigners who have fought death and are now drinking tea at your kitchen table.
"Well you are to start here!" Mario exclaimed with all the passion of an Italian. Holmes was rather taken aback.
"I beg your pardon?"
"Here, you must live here!"
Holmes looked around him attempting to keep the questioning look from his face. Still, he thought, he had no other options.
"That is most of kind of you Mr. Conaveli."
"Mario, Mario." He insisted, taking Holmes' hand and smiling stupidly at him. Angelique had now stood and was also beaming at Holmes, who felt rather as if he were facing a firing squad.
"Then that is settled I accept your hospitality with gratitude for your kindness."
"Not at all Mr. Sigerson it will be a pleasure to have more refined company about the house, especially for Angelique."
At which point she dropped the cup she was carrying, Holmes smiled and cleared his throat.
"Yes, thank you. I will not forget your kindness."
Mario almost flushed and bowed slightly in Holmes' direction.
"Erm…could you tell me where the nearest telegraph office is?" Holmes was already glancing out of the window, planning his next move.
"Certainly," Mario replied, guiding Holmes towards the door, "We are quite near to the town, so follow the road down, turn left and it's the first building on your right."
Holmes thanked him and suddenly realising he had no coat or hat, turned rather desperately to Mario who seemed to read his mind and laughed.
"They are here." He smiled, producing Holmes' coat from behind a door, "I'm afraid you came with no hat, but I do have this one for you to use if you wish?"
He produced a rather battered, brown felt hat which Holmes accepted gratefully, wishing to blend in rather than appear as a foreign traveller. After disentangling himself from Mario's grasp Holmes set out on his first day as Emile Sigerson, there was one thing to be done however before the transformation was complete. He entered the dusty and stiflingly hot telegraph office and despatched a rapid telegram to his brother in London, which ran;
AM WELL STOP NEED FUNDS STOP WIRE TO FLORENCE POST STOP NAME OF EMILE SIGERSON STOP KEEP WATCH OVER W STOP REGARDS SH STOP
He knew it was risky to send a wire so soon but he needed money, he could not live off people's kindness forever. He smiled as he pondered the sort of reaction that would elicit from his dear brother. Handing it to the girl behind the desk, Holmes smiled and was surprised to receive a smile in return. He was happy to play this game for the time being, until he was sure there was no-one following, that no-one knew he was alive. Yes, until then he would play the part of Emile Sigerson with flair, he would be the very antithesis of Sherlock Holmes, he would be charming and flirtatious and merry, he would compliment women and he would court them. Holmes winced inwardly as he winked at the girl before leaving. All to keep up the charade he thought, it was absurd, but he had little choice.
There was almost a spring in the gentleman's step as he left the telegraph office that bright morning in Florence, to the casual observer he was well over six feet and striking, striking in a jaunty sort of way, a gentleman certainly but with a casual air that made one feel at ease around him, there was a sparkle in the eye and a twitch to the eyebrow that attracted attention and the smile that was constantly seen on his face betrayed nothing of the torment within, nothing of the man who was fighting to keep hidden, fighting for his very life.
So after a brief break I reappear with a brand new story, Holmes' hiatus has always intrigued me, this is my take on it. I hope you enjoy. Reviews are always welcome and I will be very grateful for any.