Watson

I awoke with some bewilderment, realizing I was on the couch in the sitting room – that was odd…

Then I remembered the dreadful nightmare I had had the night before. I had come down to get a drink to steady my nerves and perhaps make me sleepy; I must have fallen asleep on the couch.

But what bothered me was the fact that there was now a blanket spread over me and the glass I had been drinking from had been replaced on the sideboard. I am no great detective, but even I could tell that Sherlock Holmes had probably found me there at some point during the night.

Embarrassed, I quickly arose and folded the blanket, deeply ashamed of my own weakness and wishing desperately that Holmes had not seen such a childish display as I had performed last night. A man who had seen more horrors than his share such as I had no excuse for ridiculous scenes like that.

I had just finished this thought when Holmes's bedroom door flew open and my friend burst into the room, fully dressed and pulling on his overcoat. He blew past me to the mantelpiece, stuffed his cigarette case and a magnifying lens into his pocket, and then snatched a coffee cup from the table, pouring himself a brimming drink.

"I must run, Watson – I shall be back sometime," he said, downing the coffee in one gulp and heading for the door without another glance at me.

Part of me was devoutly glad that he did not say a word about the incident of last night, but part of me was a little put out that he obviously did not wish to include me in whatever his plans for the day were.

I heard the front door shut behind him and sat down at the breakfast table where I picked at my food, my mind very definitely elsewhere.

Holmes

"Sherlock, why the devil did you not just go to the library and look through the newspapers to find out what you wanted to know!"

"Because, brother, I need a little more personal account of the affair than a block of black print will yield me," I replied, returning my brother's glare with an equally testy one.

Mycroft settled back into his chair, finishing off his enormous breakfast with an infuriatingly pokey slowness.

"You are telling me my messages never reached you on the subject?"

"Nothing. I was in Egypt at the time – the first missive I received from you in France was dated February. I found out about his wife's death from an old Times in March."

My brother sighed and drained his coffee cup, offering me a refill which I waved away impatiently.

"It was January 11, Sherlock, today in fact," he told me, "I remember because that was the day the treaty between Britain and – well, anyway, a very important government matter had been resolved that day and it was only that night that I saw the obituary in the Times."

"What was it?"

"Pneumonia, I think – there were people dropping right and left in that cold snap we had that holiday season, Sherlock, not just those two. Neither of them were overly strong, and definitely not strong enough to withstand such a bitter winter."

I started, stiffening and feeling my blood run cold.

"Not just – those two?"

Mycroft looked at me in some surprise.

"You didn't know?"

"Know what?"

"That they had a child in the fall of '93?"

I stared at him blankly, my mind trying to register that fact with an appalled numbness.

"A child."

"Yes, a little boy. Both mother and child died within a few days of each other in that dreadful cold snap, Sherlock," I heard him say gently as I tried feebly to process this information.

"A son."

"Yes, Sherlock!"

"I had no idea. The article I saw only mentioned his wife – not a child."

"The baby outlived his mother by about a week; his obituary would have been in a later issue," Mycroft said with a gentleness I had only rarely heard before.

Watson, my Watson, had been a father – until his wife and his son had both been stripped away from him in the space of one week.

And I had not been there for him when it had happened. No one had.

It was of no wonder that he looked half-dead himself when I saw him for the first time upon my return – even now, nine months later, that same haunted look still came over his face when he thought about his wife. Now I realized he was suffering a double loss, not a single.

No wonder the poor chap was so distraught – today, today was January 11, the one-year anniversary of his wife's death and one week later would be the anniversary of his son's.

I was utterly unable to comprehend the pain of such a loss, for I had never loved a woman, and I never would in future. And I certainly could not fathom the pain that accompanied the loss of a child. I had no idea what he was feeling like now, no indication whatsoever. How was I to help in any way if I could not empathize?

"Why are you just now wanting particulars, Sherlock?" my brother asked, fixing me with a piercing gaze.

"He has been acting oddly the last few days and I did not know why until last night. But I had no idea as to details, so I came to you, Mycroft," I said mechanically, my mind already engaged upon thinking of what I could do to help.

I stood to leave, my thoughts in a whirl, my brows knitted.

"Sherlock," my brother said as I opened the door of his rooms in Pall Mall.

"Yes?"

"Be gentle, for heaven's sake," he admonished me, his eyes clouding with concern.

"I...I am not quite sure I know how, Mycroft," I replied frankly, knowing that my brother at least would not fault me for my uncertainty.

"It will come to you," he replied, giving me a pointedly warning look, "make sure you listen when it does."

I felt my brow furrow – where was the logic in a statement such as that?

Watson

I wandered about after breakfast for the better part of the morning, trying to keep my mind off the disturbing thoughts and images that kept returning unbidden from my nightmares last night. I had seen them, seen them both, so very clearly – so clearly that I could see them still every time I closed my eyes to even blink. That awful dream had relived everything in my mind of that horrible week last year.

I, a doctor of medicine, had not been able to save either my wife or my son from the reaches of that virulent strain of pneumonia. I had pulled many patients back from the grave in the grips of that malady, but I had been helpless to save my own family.

Which was why I had, not long after, lost all real interest in practicing the profession that now seemed to be no more than a deadly joke in my own family's lives.

What kind of a doctor was I, that could not even save his own wife and child?

I sat at my desk, resting my head in my hands and listening to the wind whipping round the windows of the sitting room.

My leg was already throbbing from the change in the weather and I had absolutely no desire to go out on such a freezing cold day – but I knew I would have to later. This would be the first time I had done the ritual on the anniversary of Mary's death, and I was not at all looking forward to the event.

I wished desperately that Holmes would come back and deduce what was wrong and offer to come with me – but part of me also rebelled at opening myself up in such a manner to him. He probably would not even welcome the idea of being an emotional confidant for a romantically dramatic imaginer, as he had so often called me.

I sighed and picked up the newspaper, seating myself in my armchair by the fire, for the air was growing decidedly chilly and my thoughts were even colder still.

I was only shallowly immersed in some sensational headlining story when the sitting room door flew open and Sherlock Holmes entered as vehemently as he had left. Tossing his coat in the general vicinity of the coat rack and flinging his hat after it, he strode to the fire with a shiver and began to rub his hands together in its warmth.

"I say, it has to be below freezing out there, Watson!" he gasped, turning round slowly to warm all sides of his thin frame.

I agreed somewhat absently and then snapped myself out of my thoughts – Holmes would notice if ought were amiss with me and I had no wish to become a laboratory rat in a deductive exercise, not this morning at any rate.

"Watson, are you busy today?" he asked, pouring himself a cup of now-tepid coffee. I watched with amusement as he added sugar, stirred it, tasted it, and then nearly splattered it everywhere finally realizing it was cold.

"Ugh!"

"It's cold, Holmes," I said with a smile.

"Brilliant deduction, my dear Doctor – you scintillate this morning. No, really, Watson, are you engaged upon anything of importance or could you help me with something?"

"Yes, of course," I replied, somewhat relieved to have something to occupy my time, "I should be glad to."

"Ha! Capital! Can you be ready to depart in fifteen minutes?" he asked, his eyes sparkling with glee.

"I believe so," I said, scrambling out of my chair and heading for the door.

"Good – I have a cab waiting, so do hurry!" Holmes bellowed after me.

I was very glad indeed for something to occupy my mind for the next however long Holmes took it into his head to traipse round the city, for the excursion would take my mind from my grief and the pain of a still-open wound a year in the making.

I began to change and ready myself with some alacrity, forcing all thoughts of death and my own insufficiency from my mind. Whatever problem Holmes was engaged upon, it was far more important than my petty grief.

SINCE THE BLASTED LINE THING STILL DOESN'T WORK THIS IS GOING IN INSTEAD...

To be continued...