==Chapter 2==
The Prodigal's Return
No matter how bad things get, you got to go on living, even if it kills you.
– Sholom Aleichem
Stopping at the gate, Charlotte leaned up and kissed Johnstone on the cheek. "Take care of yourself, laddie."
He gave her a saucy grin, hugging her. "Don't I always?"
She hugged him back, murmuring, "Still have to say it." Her smile turned sad, gaze shifting to the cart. "Take care of him."
Johnstone nodded solemnly and kissed her cheek, then asked innocently, "Anything you want from Bond Street while we're there?"
She smacked him on the shoulder. "Go on with you now!"
He laughed, climbing up into the driver's seat, and looked over his shoulder at Jack and Holmes in the back, the flash cull wrapped in blankets and hidden behind stacks of boxes. "All right there?"
Holmes nodded weakly. His wound had been cleaned and bandaged, and Charlotte had bullied him into sipping what felt like half a gallon of weak tea, but he didn't feel noticeably better. Nor was he looking forward to the jolting cart ride, he would have much preferred to go on horseback. Unbidden, his mind dredged up images of Beth riding, skittish as a horse herself but just as strong and more beautiful... Beth...
"Keep the kettle on, love, we'll be back before you know it." Johnstone gathered up the reins and clicked his tongue at the horse. "Walk on."
Crossing Waterloo Bridge over the Thames at a crawl, Johnstone had to keep a sharp eye on the crush of traffic; running someone down wasn't a good way to go unnoticed. This bloody London fog, though – why wouldn't it shift?
"Cap'n?" Jack had been dozing fitfully in the back of the cart after his turn at driving, and the note of concern in his voice made the hair stand up on the captain's neck. "Come take a york at our swell, 'e looks sick as a cushion!"
Johnstone swore softly, he'd been afraid of this. "You drive." He waited until Jack climbed over and took the reins, then took his place in the back. Putting a hand on Holmes's brow confirmed his worst fears: the flash cull was burning hot.
A moan escaped Holmes, Johnstone's touch feeling horribly rough. His wound throbbed with fresh pain at the slightest movement—why didn't Moran simply shoot him and have done with it? Because this is a better revenge...
The smuggler shook his head. "Well, that's it, then. We're taking you to the Infirmary."
Holmes's eyes widened in fear. "...no," he croaked feebly. He would rather die now...
"If you don't see a doctor soon, you'll die – I'm not having that." Not to mention that both women would likely have his hide!
Holmes clutched weakly at Johnstone's coat, shaking his head pleadingly. "...n-need Doctor... Doctor Watson... only him..." The world suddenly began to spin around him, colours dancing before his eyes. "...please... take..." Would Watson be home at 221B... or out on... his rounds...
Johnstone swore louder as the man's eyes fluttered closed. "Whitechapel, Jack, quick as you can!"
"Right!" Jack whipped up the horse as much as he dared, straining his eyes through the fog as they rattled along.
"I'm sorry, lad," the captain said quietly – Holmes likely couldn't hear him, anyhow. "I'd find your doctor for you if I could, but I don't know where to start looking." It hadn't escaped his notice that the cove had been careful not to give him any specific addresses.
Whether through skill, Providence or sheer good luck, Jack managed to get them to the hospital with no worse mishap than an overturned fruit barrow. "Cap'n, if the sawbones 'ere know 'oo 'e wants, mebbe I c'n fetch 'im along?"
"Might as well try." Even if this Watson didn't have a practice, at least one of his colleagues must know where he lived.
Drifting back towards the waking world, Holmes heard male voices which remained frustratingly out of focus. "...Watson..."
The captain patted his arm soothingly. "Shhh... Don't take on, lad, we'll find him."
Jack reined the horse in hard outside the front entrance. "I'll wait 'ere with 'im, Ca... guv'nor."
Johnstone smirked at the slip, but nodded, jumping down and hurrying inside. "Stretcher! We need a stretcher, a man's been taken ill!"
Holmes groaned. Watson... he had to get to Watson... He tried and feigned failing to lift his head. He actually felt stronger than he had since... since... well, in a while. "Mon... tague..."
Jack pricked up his ears. "Montague Street? That where your doctor is? "
Holmes hardly had to fake his laboured breathing. "...yes... 17 Montague... near Russell Square..."
Jack grimaced, sighed, and nodded. "Right y'are, guv'nor. I'll fetch 'im." The captain wouldn't be happy with him leaving his charge... but really, what more could happen to the cove out here, in front of a hospital?
Holmes gave him a faint, grateful smile, trying to suppress a pang of guilt. It's for the best—they mustn't get caught up with Moriarty... Once Jack's footsteps faded in the distance, Holmes gathered all his remaining strength, and crawled out of the nest of blankets to the end of the cart. He lowered himself slowly, carefully, to the ground, arms trembling. His knees buckled for a moment as his feet touched the ground, then managed to catch himself.
He bent double for a few seconds and drew slow, deep breaths to stave off the returning dizziness, then launched himself towards the street.
Mercifully, it wasn't long before Holmes heard a man nearby hailing a cab to Regent's Park. He never knew afterwards how he did it, but he hitched a ride on the back without the cabbie seeing him. Instinct, perhaps. He wasn't thinking very well right now; he did much better by simply doing. And he was exhausted by the time they reached Baker Street; as they passed 221B, he dropped and landed heavily on the cobblestones, gasping as fire shot through every inch of him on impact. But home was right there, looking the same as ever, and yet never more beautiful than now.
His head swam every time he so much as lifted his head—he couldn't possibly stand and walk, so he crawled to the steps, and up them. The doorbell seemed impossibly far away; even his long reach couldn't cover the distance from where he was, and he couldn't raise himself. He didn't have the strength to make a fist, let alone knock, so what to do… Ah, the letter flap. Arm trembling, he reached for it and rattled it.
From inside came a familiar female voice crying, "What on earth?!" The door opened suddenly, and there was a gasp. "Good heavens!"
Bleary-eyed but immensely glad, Holmes beamed up at Mrs. Hudson. She looked thinner, greyer, but still very much his magnificent, indomitable landlady. "S'rry, Mrs. Huds'n, los' my key. 's Wa'son back yet?"
"Who?" she said, stunned. "Young man, I haven't the faintest idea who you are or what you're talking about!"
Holmes stared at her in confusion, feeling as if the breath had been knocked out of him. Why's she saying that, of course she knows me… The world started to spin again, and he closed his eyes, trying to will the haze in his brain to dispel, to think… his head was so heavy… just need to… rest it… for a moment…
The next moment, he was being lifted into small but strong arms. "There, there, you look as though you could use a warm bed and broth, poor thing. What on earth you're doing on my doorstep or how you got here in your condition, I can't imagine, but I'll not stand by and let you freeze to death."
The words were starting to jumble together in his head, though her tone of voice was reassuringly mothering. He wouldn't mind that right now… "Where's Wa'son?"
His arm was slung over her shoulder, and she carried him into the warmer foyer before kicking the door closed after her. "I don't know, dear—where should he be?"
Holmes frowned. "S'pos'd t'be here... came t' find 'im…" Oh! The TARDIS! "Could be ou' back…" He tried to head down the passage to the kitchen, and failed entirely to move Mrs. Hudson or move away from her.
"My dear sir, really!" she said in the firm tone he knew only too well. She sighed and moved him towards the stairs. "Come along—you are quite delirious and you are going to bed."
"No, no, 's the TARDIS, see... lots o' room i' there..."
The going upstairs was slow and cumbersome. "The 'Tar-dis'... what an unusual name. If your friend wasn't in this Tardis, where else might he be?"
He shrugged in frustration. "Dunno…" He frowned—he had a reason for being here… "We were s'posed t' be... fixing... something..."
"Fixing what, dear?" she said gently.
He faltered, his vision turning blurry. The memories he sought seemed to dance just out of reach every time he tried to catch them. Pain, and tears, and shouting voices, and two sad blue eyes… "...don't know…"
They reached the landing at last, and Mrs. Hudson bore him into his bedroom. "You poor thing," she said in a tone he barely recognised. Was she… crying…? "If you rest, I'm sure it will come back to you." She threw the bedcovers back, lowered him gently onto the bed, removed his coat and boots, and pulled the covers up over him. "There you are. I'll just go and get you some water—I shan't be long."
He submitted without argument, unable to express in words just how much he'd missed her… nor could he quite remember why he seemed to have been away for so long… maybe that's why she doesn't remember me… He closed his eyes, letting his weary head sink into the gloriously soft pillow… he'd forgotten what sleeping in his own bed felt like…
It was the first letter ever to arrive at Rosewood. John took it, eyes widening in recognition, and tore it open, scanning its contents quickly before jumping up from his chair at the kitchen table and running from the room, the letter falling to the floor. "I have to go!" he called back to Sally, who had risen as quickly as he had in shock at his behaviour. Balancing Kathy on her hip, she bent and picked the letter up.
To whom it may concern,
My name is Sarah Hudson—
Sally sat back down, stunned. What was Mrs. Hudson doing, sending them a letter, and how did she know the address?!
—and I reside at 221B Baker Street in Marylebone, London. I am writing on behalf of a young man who has been a guest in this house since he arrived at my door in the most dreadful state of health. He has been battling a severe fever, I believe caused by an infected puncture wound in his neck; although, Heaven be praised, the worst danger seems to have passed. I write to you of this because, even at his lowest, he would not allow me to send for any other doctor than one by the name of Watson, whom he asked for constantly in his delirium, and whom he seemed to believe might be residing at this estate.
Sherlock. Oh God, Sherlock. So that was where he'd been, all this time that they hadn't known… But where was Beth? She would never… never have willingly left him…
The poor man will not tell me his own name, but he is at least six feet tall, of naturally slim build, with black hair and grey eyes. Forgive my impertinence, but he has also frequently mentioned a woman called Elizabeth, whom I gather, from the tender way he spoke of her, was his late wife.
Sally stopped and reread that part. Surely she'd misread it… his late wife… no… no, no, no… not Beth, she couldn't… she couldn't… not Beth…
And wife?! They'd… they'd gotten married? Beth had finally gotten her heart's dearest wish… only to have it snatched from her…
If there is anyone who knows of this Dr. Watson, or where he may be found, then I humbly ask that he be summoned with all possible haste to Baker Street, where he is still most sorely needed.
Yours faithfully,
Sarah Hudson (widow)
"Yew aw-roight, Missus?" asked Kelly.
Sally shook her head slowly. Beth can't be dead… that's not possible… Nikola never... oh my God, is that why he's been such a hermit lately?! "Please take the baby," she muttered, depositing Kathy on the boy's lap. The baby started to whimper, but Sally couldn't comfort her just now.
She walked quickly, dazedly, towards the main staircase, then paused and shouted her husband's name. His face quickly appeared over the railing, as pale as she'd ever seen it. It must have been the tears beginning to fall on her own face that turned his expression from anxious to empathetic, and he hurried back down the stairs and gathered her into his arms.
"I'm sorry, love," he whispered as she sobbed, stroking her hair soothingly. "I'm so sorry!"
She knew he had to leave soon; Sherlock still needed him, and John needed to go. But just now… she needed to not be alone…
Sky: *passes out hugs to all our poor characters* Sally's scene was one of those last-minute additions again, which actually helped make this chapter one of the chapters with the most of my own writing in it. (We try to divvy up the scenes as evenly as possible, but Ria actually does write more content for any given chapter than not.) Hopefully you didn't notice the difference at all: chronologically, this is the first time I've actually written Holmes's POV for this series. As comfortable with his POV as I'd felt once upon a time, I certainly felt as though I had a high standard to reach here!
Stay tuned for the Christmas update! Well, Christmas Day for... probably most of the world, and Boxing Day for a few people on the other side of the International Date Line. Trust me, reading the next chapter on or right after Christmas will absolutely be worth it!
