The news got out the next day. To his credit, Watson had made the front page. Although the story was big enough to make all the major London newspapers, they all went along the same lines. The articles were something to this effect:

Early on Wednesday, June 22nd, hours before dawn, the Highgate Gentleman's Club located south of Gillingham Street, burned down presumably from an accidental fire started by a broken water heater. Of the fourteen who were currently staying in the building, seven were injured, three in critical condition, and two were discovered dead. The most notable death being the one of Dr. John Watson, who had served in the 66th Berkshires with the 5th Northumberland Fusiliers in the Second Afghan war, but is most known today as the writer for the wildly successful and popularized detective stories published in the Strand. Dr. Watson is succeeded by the subject of his biographies and friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes. There is talk of a memorial service being held in his honor and the date of his funeral has yet to be released.

Miraculously, the Morning Post, renowned for its receiving of very important intelligence(1), had been able to unearth the only photograph that had ever been taken of the two of them. It had been the work of some small town, country newspaper in Hertfordshire. Holmes had sensed someone tailing them all day and had accordingly led them on a merry chase ending in a back alley, where, with the two of them shrouded in a shadowy doorway, Holmes delivered a heavy blow to their pursuer with his walking stick. The poor fellow went down like a cedar struck down by lightning and just as Holmes and Watson stepped out of the shadows he snapped the photo he had been hoping to take all day. Well, perhaps not the exact picture and certainly not from the perspective of the ground after receiving a savage blow and passing out shortly after. The photograph had captured the image of a truly baffled looking Holmes, cane still slightly upraised, and Watson's expression of incredulous disbelief. So unguarded was the nature of that photo that almost anyone who looked upon it could see the conversation that took place in the openness of their faces. It went something like this:

"That man took a photograph."

"Yes Holmes, he seems to be a photographer."

"But not a spy."

"No."

"Should we…destroy the camera?"

"Uh…no, I um, suppose we should let him keep it to dissuade from pressing assault charges."

"Ah."

"Yes."

"Let's leave."

"Yes, please."

Though journalists and news reporters were diligent in their efforts to get a statement from Mr. Holmes, the elusive detective had made himself scarce the following days after the accident. Though there were quite a few representatives from the various newspapers constantly monitoring Baker's Street, no one could be sure whether the man was holed up inside or entirely absent. Twice they had seen strangers exiting from the flat. Once, a strapping young dockworker with a hearty beard and another time, a doddering old woman who had presumably been selling flowers from her wicker basket.

Some thought the man had succumbed to grief. Others, his cocaine. However, it was firmly in the minds of children everywhere, that Holmes was working tirelessly to save Watson, who was imprisoned in a hidden castle in Burma or some other far off place because to them, the articles in the paper were no different from the stories in the Strand magazine and in stories the heroes could never be killed and best friends could never be parted. In stories, the hero didn't drag himself back home in the dead of night, exhausted and barely conscious with nothing to show for it. In stories, the hero didn't waver or fall into despair or frustration. In stories, the hero didn't break a man's fingers in order to gain one penny's worth of information. In stories, the hero always won, but that was fiction and Sherlock Holmes was only a man.

Holmes approached Baker's Street using the back alley and hauled himself through the kitchen window which he had bade Mrs. Hudson to leave unlocked. It was quite small, but he was a thin man and as he passed the larder with disinterest, it was very likely he would remain so. His feet dragged along the seventeen steps and his shoulders sagged with the failure of yet another day. It had been three days since the day of the fire and he had learned a great deal, but was no closer to reaching his goal than when he had started.

He abandoned his coats, which were stained from just about every foul smelling substance in London and extinguished the fire with the water from its pitcher, forcing the room to sympathize with his mood. He dropped into his armchair still dressed in his shirtsleeves and trousers and hadn't even bothered to remove his shoes. He sat in utter darkness, though it gave him no desire to sleep and the stillness failed to invoke the peace of mind he longed for. His thoughts pressed against him and the still raw emotions choked him.

He did not sleep. He could not. He had not since the night of Watson's murder. This night, like it had the past four nights, waned before his eyes. He watched the sky gradually lighten and the sun replace the moon and the night turn into day. He did not move, even when the sun had risen high and pierced through the sitting room windows. He had reached an impasse. He could do nothing. He wanted—needed to do something, but there was simply nothing to be done. Nothing, nothing, nothing, nothing.

"Holmes?"

Holmes blinked.

Watson frowned as he sidled into the room carrying a fully laden tea tray. "Holmes, whatever is the matter? Did you sleep last night?"

Holmes sucked in a breath, hands convulsing on the arm rests.

Watson, brows knitted with concern, quickly knelt on the floor, abandoning the tray on the coffee table. "Holmes, what's wrong?"

"You were gone," Holmes replied, barely knowing what he was saying, so occupied in keeping his eyes riveted on the face of his friend.

Watson sighed exasperatedly. "Did you not read my note? It said I would be back by morning."

Holmes wanted to yell, scream that he had not returned that morning, that his note had been followed by a second and he had read both of them thoroughly over a dozen times, but he knew that the moment he did the spell would be broken, so instead he said, "No, I did not read it. I am sorry."

Watson sighed again and stood up, going to the side table to look through the mail.

Unable to stand the sight of his friend being upset with him, Holmes said, "I missed you terribly Watson. I simply could not bear your absence."

Watson flushed as he always did when he received a complement from his friend. His face took on a considerably warmer expression and Holmes knew he was instantly forgiven.

Seeing nothing of interest in the mail, Watson began wandering about the room as if searching for something. "May I inquire as to how your case going? Have you gathered any new information on the gang that burnt down that club?"

"I have a plethora of information on Nightside. I know the location of their meetings and warehouses. I have the names of nearly half their members and exact descriptions to match. I can even tell you the state of their finances, but as to the case itself, it is going dismally."

"Must you really masquerade into the gang itself?" Watson questioned, now looking through the things on the mantelpiece. "It seems to be an unreasonable risk."

"But not an unnecessary one," Holmes stated firmly.

Watson pursed his lips and seemed ready to argue when he came across the tickets Holmes had placed there. "Oh! Are these our tickets for tonight?"

Holmes throat tightened. "Yes, they are."

"I cannot wait to see the performance." Watson placed the tickets back on the mantelpiece, glancing across its contents once again with an air of dismay, "Blast!"

"What it is it?" Holmes asked with almost an undue amount of concern.

"I can't seem to find my watch. Have you seen it?"

"No, I cannot say I have."

"Hmm, perhaps Mrs. Hudson knows where it is."

"Watson, wait!" Holmes exclaimed. He knew with confidence, in a way he could not explain, that if Watson were to leave this room, he would not be coming back and that at all costs, Holmes must keep him here. "I shall help you look for it momentarily, but first, I have a question to ask you."

Watson paused before the open doorway. "What is it, Holmes?"

"If you were to write me a letter, where would you hide it?"

"Why would I hide it at all?"

"If it was secret or private."

Watson frowned. "I don't think I have ever written something like that."

Holmes grew desperate, knowing instinctively that he was running out of time. "Yes, but if you had?"

Watson seemed to consider this for a little while. "Perhaps it would be in my room. Let us go see."

"Watson, stop!" Holmes shouted, but Watson had already stepped out of the room and just as he feared, the moment he tried to stand, he began blinking furiously from his slumped position in the armchair.

Sometime through his vigil, he had fallen asleep, his body simply shutting down from the strain and he had dreamed. It was all a dream. But then…

He glanced down at the coffee table and the tea tray that sat upon it. He felt the pot and it was still warm. He stood in an instant when he heard footsteps on the landing. Could it be?

Tobias Gregson had never seen that particular expression on a man. He had entered the room and was instantly arrested by the piercing, yet emotionless gaze of the detective. There was something more threatening and horrible about that stare than if it was filled with rage. At least you knew where it came from, a living human being filled to the brim with unbridled passions, something familiar and known, but Holmes' eyes were cold and they said nothing a fellow human being could recognize.

"Gregson." The cadence of his name sounded wrong, like Holmes had wanted to say something else entirely. Holmes sank back into the armchair and turned his face towards the window where his eyes seemed to dampen the light that fell across his profile. "Would you kindly leave my presence for a few minutes, I would like to be alone so that I may freshen up," Holmes lit a cigarette and jabbed it towards the offending china, "And take that tea tray with you before I throw it out the window."

Gregson bowed his head slightly. "Take your time Mr. Holmes."

Indignation flashed across the man's countenance. "I do not require any more time than what is necessary in order to affix a change of wardrobe. Do not presume my request meant otherwise."

"I did not. My remark was based on your appearance, not your emotional state," Gregson drawled as he bent to retrieve the tray.

"I am glad to hear it."

"I'm sure you are," Gregson replied blandly as he left the room.

He met Hopkins on the stairs, who immediately began to hover. "How is he? Is he alright? Lestrade said—"

"He isn't eating and he is acting like a stick is lodged in his arse."

Hopkins looked genuinely surprised at his assessment. Gregson sighed internally. Though they were of the same rank they were certainly different in ways of experience and age. Hopkins had only just come by his promotion and was at least fifteen years his junior. It made a considerable difference. In their line of work, one hardly ever met decent people. Hopkins was still willing to believe in humanity. Gregson had very little patience for them.

"We can return to the sitting room when we have finished this tea. Come."

When they did return, Holmes was once again his fastidiously clean and immaculate self. He was standing now, but still smoking, his eyes fixed on nothing but scrutinizing all the same as if the inner workings of his mind were transposed in the space surrounding him and he sought to tangibly place them into a working order. He greeted them in a business like manner, though with his customary amount of annoyance at them being there. It seemed perfectly ordinary but for the fact that he was not at all in normal circumstances.

Bridges, Gregson thought, were to be burned when crossed, not before. Thus, Gregson followed Holmes' example and kept his tone to a tolerably formal level.

"Lestrade informed us that you would like to talk to some of the officers who were present the night of Doctor Watson's death. We have called several times the past three days, but seemed to have missed you on every occasion."

"I have been preoccupied of late, not to mention being quite motivated to avoid many of my callers," Holmes said a little sourly.

"You won't have to worry about any further intrusions Mr. Holmes. Inspector Gregson and I have warned the journalists and reporters about harassment. It's quite horrible the way they have been bothering you about-about," Hopkins faltered a little, awkwardly seeking a way to dance around the subject, but found that there was no conceivable way to do so, "the accident and well, the Doctor's death and all." Hopkins, naïve and with the misunderstanding of youth, interpreted Holmes' silence as emotional onslaught and went on saying, "That night we were enjoying ourselves immensely, playing cards and gambling, I would have never thought such a thing could happen. Doctor Watson was losing terribly, but seemed to think it was a small sacrifice for the fine time we were having. He withdrew from our game claiming we had robbed him clean, but I had noticed a couple of crowns among his things when we searched his room. He must have a very good sense of self control to not be dominated by such a common vice."

"The Doctor has many virtues, although in this instance it was less to do with overcoming a vice and more to do with his stalwart principles." Holmes took a generous drag of smoke before tossing the nearly untouched cigarette into the fireplace. "The extra crowns and shilling were provided by me. I had slipped them into his purse while in the cab after he had said that he was low on funds. Doubtlessly, he deduced what I had done and refrained from spending money which he perceived to not belong to him."

"He did not notice while you were in the cab?" Hopkins asked.

"I am an adept pickpocket and although the goal is different the same skills can be applied."

"That was mighty generous of you," Hopkins said.

"It was hardly that as Watson has seen fit to bestow me with more money upon his death than I have ever set out to loan him."

"That was very good of him. I would expect nothing less."

Hopkins wanted to continue on with the subject, but Gregson interrupted him none too subtly by clearing his throat and giving him a clear look of warning.

"I'm not sure what information we can provide you with at this point Mr. Holmes, but we would be happy to assist."

Holmes was suddenly attentive in a way that Hopkins had been unable to arouse in the man. "No, you can help me a great deal. You must describe to me with as much detail as you can manage, the looks and mannerisms of some of the attendants working there. More specifically, all the attendants that Watson had contact with that night."

Hopkins obediently began to list the men in question, "That would be the doorman, the barman, the card dealer, perhaps the butler, Seppings, and the manager was there as well, but I don't see—"

Gregson interrupted him once again. "The doormen were not unfamiliar to me. The taller man with the square jaw and dark hair goes by the name of Jack. The other one, the one that was sick, is a half Irish fellow who is missing two of his teeth. The barman's name is Tom Mallory, an older sort of gentleman whose hair is fully grey and is thin as a whippet. The butler, Seppings, is stocky, built like a bear with a flat face. They have all been working there since the club opened."

"I am not looking for a shady character who would obviously be a hired hand. I am looking for someone well established in the system."

Hopkins still looked dismayed at this line of talk, but endeavored to continue providing what help he could. "The card dealer had ginger hair. He was young, maybe only a year or two older than I and had a scar on the back of his left hand."

"I have talked with the manager. What of the man who came to inquire after a doctor when Mr. Collins became ill?"

"Average height, pale, olive skin, round spectacles, more or less bald but for the bit lingering around his temples," Gregson replied.

Holmes' whole body snapped to attention. "His name?"

"Bryce."

Holmes' smile was exultant. "He is our man. Alexander Bryce is a member of Nightside."

"You are sure of your information?"

"Of course." Holmes once again began his stringent pacing, hands tucked tightly behind his back.

"Mr. Holmes, if you need anything or need someone to talk to," Hopkins started, but Gregson grasped his wrist to catch his attention and shook his head.

"Don't lad," he whispered quietly.

"Why?"

"He doesn't want your pity."

"I wasn't offering pity," Hopkins returned vehemently.

Gregson sighed. "He doesn't want that either. All he wants is to be able to work on this case. He needs it to keep his mind busy."

"That is hardly a beneficial way of healing."

"I know it," Gregson replied grimly, "but you do what you have to in order to get by. Why don't you go get our hats, I think we are about to leave."

Hopkins left in silence, considering the knowledge Gregson had painfully come across himself in his years on the force. Hopkins was still too new to have lost a fellow officer, a friend. The Yarders were a tough lot and Gregson had seen every form of grief. Some resigned, some threw their back into their work and became stronger, some burnt out.

"Is there anything else we can help you with Mr. Holmes?" Gregson asked.

Holmes had stopped his pacing and was looking at something on the mantelpiece. In a split second he had ripped the tickets to shreds and had cast them into the empty grate where they would be used as kindling for a future fire without so much as a twitch in his expression. Gregson watched this with a detached calm.

"No, that will be all. Thank you for your assistance Inspector."

Gregson nodded. "Good, now that we got that out of the way, I am going to say a few things to you that you doubtlessly do not want to hear. Nevertheless, I am going to say them and you are going to listen."

Holmes bestowed on him the barest lift of his noble brows.

"I know you well enough to know you are not a machine, far from it in fact," Gregson said, ignoring the thought that he probably would have left Hopkins gaping like a landed trout if he was here to hear him. "I have seen your disgust for the despicable crimes people have committed against their fellow man, your pleasure in surprising your quarries, your excitement at the prospect of mystery, your concern for your friend's safety. You feel Mr. Holmes and right now you must be feeling it quite keenly, but you are obviously using your superior mind to control all those pesky emotions. I will tell you now, the frozen control you are using just to function will come back to haunt you. When you bury emotions like that, you are only making it worse, making them stronger because you are burying them alive. They don't like that and one day they will make sure you don't like it either. You need an outlet and if it can't be Watson, it will have to be someone else."

"There isn't anybody else," Holmes said bitterly.

Just then Hopkins returned, handing Gregson his hat, oblivious to the tension between the two. Gregson began to leave, but Hopkins hesitated, staring at the glowering detective.

"I uh," Hopkins shifted nervously from foot to foot and ignored the Gregson's look of impatience, "I was wondering if you had eaten today."

"Why?" asked Holmes as if truly dubious as to the purpose of said act.

"Well, Gregson and I were going to Simpsons for lunch and I was um, wondering if you would like to come along."

Gregson chuckled at Holmes' look of genuine surprise. "It seems you were wrong after all, Mr. Holmes."

"Yes, perhaps so," Holmes replied thoughtfully. "Thank you for the invitation Inspector Hopkins, but I fear I must decline. I have some work to attend to."

"Ah yes, of course," Hopkins replied awkwardly, not knowing that in his naïve way, he had reminded the detective that he was indeed not as alone as he had feared.

Gregson steered the younger man from the room, giving his shoulder a tender squeeze and murmured, "You did good, Hopkins," as he closed the door behind him.

Holmes looked about the room utterly bereft at what he should do. He should be putting all his efforts into somehow applying this new information into a cohesive strategy, but his heart was not in it. The information meant nothing after all, unless he had a way to utilize it within the confidence of the gang. There were no informants to be had, no loose ends to prey upon.

Not to mention the dream alone had filled Holmes with such crushing disappointment he hardly felt able to do anything. He had hoped that his subconscious mind would have remembered something about the whereabouts of the letter which in turn could have been a clue to finding it, but all that it had served to do was shorten the dream considerably. He needed the letter. Holmes knew if he could just have that small bit of comfort he could find the energy to bring this case to a definite close.

Holmes whisked out of Baker's Street and into the nearest cab. Thankfully, Watson had not acted alone when he set up the terms of his will.


Holmes stepped out of the cab and onto Pall Mall Street. Sunday was the only day one could find his brother outside of the Diogenes. His valet, Owens, greeted him at the door before he had a chance to knock.

"Sir?" the elderly man questioned placidly.

"I would like to see my brother, if you please."

"I am sorry to inform you, sir, that my Master is not to be disturbed presently. You may wait in the parlor if you so wish and I would be happy to provide you with refreshments until his business is concluded."

Holmes nodded gravely. "I see. Thank you, my good man. Please tell him I called."

"I shall do so. Good day, sir."

As soon as the door was closed, Holmes stalked along the side of the house and none too gently broke one of the windows with his walking stick and pried the thing open before climbing inside. He was brushing his jacket down when Owens walked into the dining room, dustpan and brush in hand.

"My Master will now see you, sir."

"How fortuitous. Thank you, Owens."

He headed upstairs to the study where his brother was ensconced between two enormous twin piles of loose leaf papers.

"I perceive you chose the third dining room window from the left. Thank you for your selection Sherlock, as it eliminates the need to determine the dimensions needed to order a replacement seeing as you broke the second window from the left the last time you decided to barge into my house," Mycroft said in way of greeting, not at all looking up from the smaller mound of paperwork directly in front of him.

"Owens said you were unavailable."

"Owens said for you to wait," Mycroft corrected.

"And as you should have realized the first time I broke into your house, I have absolutely no intention of doing so. I hardly ever intrude upon your life, the least you can do is admit me when I do come," Holmes snapped angrily.

"I will in this instance, allow your childish behavior as it has only been a mere three days since the Doctor's death. You seem to be quite out of sorts about the whole affair," Mycroft commented airily.

"Of course I am! How could I not be?"

Mycroft sniffed dismissively. "You are overwrought. Did you really think it could last forever?"

"No, but I had been expecting it to be a little longer at least!" Holmes said, the humor he had meant to inject into the statement only serving to make it sound desperate even to his ears.

"Come now, was it really worth all this? Did you perhaps think it wise to have your happiness so contingent upon another person?"

Holmes flew across the room and leaned across the desk to grab his brother firmly by the lapels. "I would have given my life for Watson!" Holmes shouted, no longer able to keep the pain from his voice. "Why not my happiness?"

He pushed his brother away from him and sat down miserably in one of the chairs facing the desk and if there was a suspicious gleam in his eyes, Mycroft kindly averted his gaze.

Holmes passed his shaking hand across his face. "If you had thought so little of the Doctor it is no small wonder how you could have spent so much time together creating provisions for me in the event of his death. Did you bully him into making it?"

"No, no, he came to me," Mycroft said softly. "I apologize for my words. They were meant to be intentionally callous. We, the both of us, tend to bottle up our emotions and I thought you could use some release. As the younger brother you were always more prone to throwing fits as a child."

"I did not," Holmes denied belligerently. The expression on his face, had he not been an adult, would have easily been identified as a pout.

"Convincing argument Sherlock, really." Mycroft began to tidy his papers, which had fallen from their orderly piles into one big mountain of foolscap. "As for the Doctor, I liked him very well."

"How? You could not have found him intellectually stimulating and as you have only worked with him once before there was hardly enough contact between the two of you for you to have been able to determine his other assets," Holmes said skeptically.

"My reasons for liking Doctor Watson are none so complex and numerous as your own, of course. In fact, the basis of my regard for him is more or less simply because he was your friend."

Holmes gazed at his brother with a questioning stare.

Mycroft sighed. "I may not care about what you do with your life, Sherlock, but that does not mean I do not wish you happiness in life. The Doctor could make you happy and it was obvious he was a pleasant and loyal sort of fellow. He came to me hoping that he could make things easy for you if something were ever to happen to him."

"But there was no letter," Holmes said miserably.

"No," Mycroft admitted. "I encouraged him to write one, but he may have been killed before he was able to commit to the task. I'm sorry Sherlock."

"I see," Holmes whispered. "If that is the case then I should be on my way and let you finish whatever you were working on."

Holmes stood up to go, but Mycroft had walked around the desk and laid a hand on his shoulder.

"Wait," he said gruffly.

Holmes turned slightly and suddenly found himself engulfed in his brother's arms.

"What—?" Holmes choked, startled.

"I am initiating a hug. Be quiet."

Holmes did fall silent and feeling foolish just standing there, he rather awkwardly brought his arms up to return the embrace. As he took in the individual smells he picked up from his brother's jacket and mentally categorized them, he eventually relaxed into it and only then did Mycroft release him from his hold.

"You—" Holmes stuttered.

"Yes?" Mycroft questioned placidly.

"You…really could stand to lose some weight," Holmes blurted out unexpectedly and blushing furiously when he did so.

Mycroft rolled his eyes. Younger brothers really were the spawn of Satan. "And you really should eat more. How many meals have you skipped recently? Over a dozen by now at least."

"Only in your world could three days equate to over twelve missed meals," Holmes scoffed, though his tone was joking.

Mycroft smiled as he went to remove something from his desk drawer. "Doctor Watson may not have left you a specific letter Holmes, but he did write plenty of other things."

Mycroft passed Holmes a large leather bound novel followed by a much thinner paper backed one. Holmes stared, unblinking, fingers gently caressing the familiar title. A Study in Scarlet graced the top. Setting it gently aside he held up the leather bound one, which had obviously been printed quite recently as it still bore a strong smell of ink. It was titled, The Complete Works of Sherlock Holmes by Arthur Conan Doyle.

"Rather presumptuous of the editor, I must say," Holmes commented tepidly as he flipped to the inside cover where the new pages crinkled loudly. It bore the same title as the cover though underneath in smaller print was, 'Original stories by John H. Watson, MD' followed by his year of birth and the current one which now coincided with his death.

"Yes, I asked Doctor Doyle to change that into a dedication page. This was only an advanced copy after all."

"So soon," Holmes murmured to himself.

"The sales will be phenomenal. You will receive a portion of the earnings of course. They look rather handsome in book form, don't you agree? Much more dignity and less sensationalism than when they were printed in the Strand," Mycroft said a little proudly.

Holmes placed them back on the desk, shaking his head. "I have read them."

"All of them?" Mycroft asked pointedly. "Even if you have, this time Sherlock, read them like they were Doctor Watson's last words. For once, don't pay attention to the mystery or the logic. I guarantee that everything Watson wanted to say to you is all there, immortalized for you."

Holmes closed his eyes briefly as he tucked the books to his chest with one arm and gave Mycroft a brotherly punch on the shoulder. "Thank you."

As he turned to leave, Mycroft delivered an affectionate cuff to the back of his head. "That is for the window and the quip about my weight."

Holmes smiled faintly. "I will pay for it. I will be a rich man once this hits the shelves," he said, tapping his fingers along the book's spine. "By and by, is there any particular reason why you smell like daffodils? A lady friend perhaps?"

Mycroft's expression of distaste went unrecognized by the man who could produce a perfect rendition of it. "I have my assistant place a vase of them in my offices whenever the mood strikes me. They were mother's favorite, you know. Father would bring them to her every Friday after he returned from work."

"I have no private recollection of that," Holmes said.

"No, I suppose not," Mycroft said a little sadly.

"I keep Watson's bullet in my museum," Holmes offered. "I had not known you were prone to such sentimentality, brother mine."

"I assume such scathing retort is directed at yourself as well. You are wearing his watch."

"I—" Holmes suddenly realized that the watch in his hand bore the inscription H.W. on the back of it, though maintained a blank mask of innocence. "I was unable to locate my own."

"It is most likely on your dining table. You take it out to make sure you are not wasting time while you are eating."

Holmes spun on his heel and threw a hand carelessly over his shoulder. "Au revoir, mon frère."

"À bientôt, petit frère."

It wasn't until Holmes was safely out of the house and inside a cab on his way to Baker's Street before he gingerly rubbed at his still smarting head. "Older brothers are the spawn of Satan."

Meanwhile back in his study, Mycroft massaged his aching shoulder, at the same time looking dubiously at his waistline. He heaved a sigh. "Maybe I should take up boxing again."


Holmes arrived at Baker's Street and ignoring his case notes, he dropped the leather bound onto the side table and sprawled onto the settee with A Study in Scarlet. It was painful at first, reading those brief recollections of war that had filled his friend's nights with nightmares and the disillusionment he had saw so clearly in the man's eyes when they had first met. It was the description of that meeting that Holmes awaited to read with dreaded anticipation. When he did read it, for the first time he laughed.

"My god, I sound like a lunatic."

(2)…he cried, clapping his hands, and looking as delighted as a child with a new toy.

His eyes fairly glittered as they spoke, and he put his hand over his heart and bowed as if to some applauding crowd conjured up by his imagination.

"My dear Watson, I count myself a thousand times blessed that you were desperate enough to take your chances on the man you described."

Holmes was certainly not a difficult man to live with.

And Holmes was certainly relieved to hear it. The bands that constricted his chest began to loosen.

when I confess how much this man stimulated my curiosity, and how often I endeavored to break through the reticence which he showed on all that concerned himself.

Holmes remembered those early days between the two of them. Often, was an understatement. One would think that a man would cease to say 'Good morning' and ask 'How are you?' after being rebuffed or ignored for more than six days in a row, but Watson had continued to do so and it wasn't in the way of idle pleasantries, but a man who actually cared about the welfare of his rude and taciturn roommate. Eventually Holmes had answered him, thinking that if he appeased the man he would stop asking such infernal questions. He was quite mistaken and as a result Watson then knew that Holmes could answer, meaning he would answer after some persistence. Holmes had told him about the full details of his day ever since.

Soon he abandoned the paperback and moved on to their complete works, making away slowly through their greatest cases. The Speckled Band, The Gloria Scott, The Hound of the Baskervilles…and he realized suddenly that these stories were just as much a tribute to their friendship as it was the actual mysteries. How had he not seen it before? He supposed it must be the old adage that one didn't know what they possessed until it was gone.

It was beginning to get dark and he had nearly finished when he heard the doorbell ring and the clamber of adolescent voices filtering towards the window.

"Mr. Holmes, your boys are here to see you!" Mrs. Hudson called.

"Send them in, Mrs. Hudson. Thank you!"

He scanned the last few sentences of The Redheaded League before he placed the book protectively on the shelf where the often times sticky hands of young boys could not get to it. He heard the unmistakable sounds of a troop of eager boys parading up the steps. He opened the door to the sitting room just in time to let them in.

"Good ev'nin, Mr. 'Olmes."

"'Lo Mr. 'Olmes."

"Hiya sir!"

One after another they passed until over a dozen of his Baker's Street Irregulars filled the sitting room. In fact, all of them were probably present, which was a fairly unusual occurrence.

"What is it, Wiggins?" Holmes asked, practically having to wade through the sea of boys to locate their elected leader.

"Well, Mr. 'Olmes we just wanted to offa you our um…" he stumbled over the word.

"Sad feelings?" a boy piped in helpfully.

"Sorryfulness?"

"Gondolas?"

"That's the ticket! Condolences," Wiggins finished triumphantly before his face melted into one that was glum and cheerless, "for the death of Doctor Watson." He took off his cap, which was mirrored by all the other boys in the room. "The Doctor was always so nice to us. He always came when one of us was sick or gave us an extra coin even after you'd pay us, so we thought we'd do a memorial thing for him, like they said in the paper and we was thinkin' maybe you'd like to come along, since you two was best mates and all."

The boys all nodded along gravely in agreement.

Holmes felt a stab a pain at the thought of finally acknowledging the death of his friend and if he had not been given talks by Gregson and his brother or gotten the invitation to luncheon from Hopkins or the book currently residing next to Watson's Shakespeare collection, that pain would have been enough to make him decline. As it happens, he accepted the offer.

"What did you have in mind?"

Wiggins grinned. "Well, one time when my pal David was real sick—"

"I caught the 'flu."

"'E nearly died!"

"Right," Wiggins said, easily navigating through the interruptions. "Anyways, I was real upset and to take my mind off things Doctor Watson taught me how to do this thing with a newspaper to make it into a boat where you fold it all careful like and I mean, it floats and ev'rythin'. So when David got better I taught 'im 'ow to make it."

"And I showed Lenny," David said, pointing at a younger boy who could have been his brother.

"An' I taught Mikey and Mikey taught Richard and Richard taught Percy—"

"And so on and so forth," Wiggins interjected hastily. "So in a way Doctor Watson gave this thing to all of us, so we was thinkin' we'd make our boats and float 'em on the Thames with little candles, so that Doctor can look down from 'Eaven and see that 'e did right by us."

Holmes was struck by the symbolic significance of the Irregulars' ceremony. He looked into the somber faces of little boys who had all been given a helping hand, a shoulder to cry on, an encouraging smile and the lessons that kindness taught. He thought about honor and he thought about Watson.

"Wiggins," Holmes said softly, "can you teach me how to make one?"

It turned out that the Irregulars had ganged up on a neighborhood bully who happened to be a paper boy for the Morning Post and had stolen his entire stock. Soon the entire sitting room was littered with discarded newspapers as the boys started the delicate process of folding their boats using the front page picture of the newspaper. Mrs. Hudson had distributed sandwiches and fresh orange juice to all the boys and seeing her chance while Holmes was engrossed in listening to Wiggins' instructions, she shoved a sandwich into his hand, which he began eating absently as he watched Wiggins perform a complicated maneuver with the paper.

"You see, now you fold the triangle into a diamond shape and," Wiggins shifted the paper in his hands to the correct position, tongue stuck out at the corner of his lip, "pull open the hat lookin' thing and separate the corners, carefully see, until you see the cuppy part and then there it is—a boat!" Wiggins held out his creation proudly.

Holmes took the object in his hands and studied it from all angles, touching lightly here and there before he disappeared from the room, returning with an entirely different paper, although which bore the same picture. It was the original Meryton press release that the Morning Post had procured the picture from. Watson had found it humorous and had bought a copy from the train station before they left. Holmes had been most displeased at the time. He plopped down onto the ground himself, folding his legs 'Indian style' as his young comrades had said, and began to prepare his own boat. The other boys watched in fascination when in no time flat and without a single misstep, Holmes produced a perfectly engineered paper boat.

"Wow, Mr. 'Olmes. I wasn't able to do it right even after the fifth time I tried," Thomas exclaimed.

"Me neither. Doctor Watson had to show me twice," Wiggins said.

"Can you help me with mine Mr. 'Olmes," one of the boys whined, holding up something that resembled a flattened cup.

"Of course," Holmes said kindly, preparing a new sheet for the boy.

Once they all had folded a satisfactory water craft—even if a few were somewhat lopsided—they all lined up at the front door in order to form their procession.

"All right lads, have you all got your candles?"

There were several choruses of 'Yessir's and 'Right-O's.

"Mine smells like lemon bars," Percy proclaimed proudly.

"Where d'you get that?" David questioned, eyes narrowed.

"Well I nicked it from someone's window sill."

"Oi, we were supposed to buy them!" Wiggins said indignantly.

"Where d'you get yours then?" Percy asked with obvious suspicion.

"It fell off the back of a cart," Wiggins said.

"That's stealin'!"

"And you? Where's yours from?"

"My aunt Dahlia."

"She give it to you?"

"No, I didn't ask."

"Then that's stealin' too!"

"What about yours? It's already half burnt up."

"I lifted it from a church."

"You stole from a church?!"

"They had 'undreds in there. They're not gonna miss one little candle."

Holmes cleared his throat loudly, causing a ceasefire in accusations and guilty confessions alike. "I have yet to procure a candle and it seems to me," he began with utmost seriousness, "that in order to follow the trend set by you fellows, I must steal a candle so that this ceremony can be successfully carried out."

Fourteen sets of eyes widened to the size of dinner plates.

"Come, the game's afoot!" Holmes proclaimed, racing out the door like a madman followed by a steady stream of adolescent boys.

They navigated through London at a quick sort of pace and reaching the finest establishment on Oxford Street, Holmes placed the boys around as look outs and commenced in breaking into the high end store. He browsed their selection of candles leisurely. When he made his choice, he placed the cylinder of wax into his jacket pocket and relocked the door using his most basic lock pick tools. He barely noticed he had smiled the entire time.

When they resumed their march to the riverbank, Lenny, who was standing closest to Holmes, sniffed experimentally and asked, "What is that, Mr. 'Olmes?"

"I believe it is supposed to resemble the smell of daffodils," Holmes answered.

"I didn't know the Doctor liked daffodils."

"It would have suited his romantic side," Holmes replied, a little cryptically in Lenny's opinion.

When they reached the riverbank they all lit their candles and gently placed their boats in the water. Every single one of them floated and were swiftly taken by the current, spreading their lights across the Thames, adding a brilliant glitter to the darkened waters. Holmes lifted his face to the sky and wondered if Watson really was looking down at them.

Wiggins tried to see what the detective was trying to look at, but quickly averted his eyes when he saw his face. Wiggins coughed. "It um, looks like rain tonight."

David gave him a quizzical look. "Wot'chou talkin' about. There isn't a cloud in the—ouch!"

Wiggins elbowed his friend hard in an attempt to shut him up because David had obviously not seen the two glistening raindrops that had fallen from the sky and landed on Holmes' upturned face where they slowly made their way down the pale cheeks and slipped from the sharp chin to splatter onto ground, wetting the gritty sand.

Little Lenny tugged on Holmes' cuff. "Mr. 'Olmes, we have something else to tell you."

Holmes lowered his face and watched the little boats fade away into the distance. "Yes, what is it?"

"Me and David and my older brother, Bill used to live in workhouse in Westminster until Bill was able to get an apprenticeship as a carpenter. Me and David was real small at the time and Bill had this friend at the workhouse, his name was Gregory Jacobson."

Holmes body tingled faintly. Gregory Jacobson was one of the leading members of Nightside.

"His friend, Jake, he was called, owed a lot of money because of his pap, but Bill helped him escape. Jake wanted Bill to come wit 'im, but Bill had to take care of us. Jake told Bill that if he ever needed him, to find 'im in London. And you know what, Mr. 'Olmes?"

"What?" Holmes asked, barely daring to breathe.

Lenny smiled. "You look a lot like Bill."


A/N: Alright, enough with this sappy angst bullcrap. Next chapters is gonna be action, action, ACTION! Yeah! Okay, thank you for all waiting patiently (I think this two week update thing is gonna be a permanent wait time). The reception for my last chapter was phenomenal. 12 reviews! Seriously, my word! You guys are amazing, but damn did it up the pressure. So this chapter was supposed to be humor with some bittersweet. I hope you all enjoyed it. REVIEWS! I'll be horribly disappointed if I don't see twelve more by Monday.

BTW, if you are interesting in Holmes slash fiction I have a preview of the two I'm planning to write on my livejournal at http:// pro-prodigy . livejournal . com/ and will also show up in Cox and Co…eventually. Although I do plan to write a slash and non-slash version of my Guardian fic. The two will be completely different, I can assure you.

(1) Newspaper info and direct quote provided by http:// www. victorianlondon. org/ publications/ newsinlondon. Htm

(2) Direct quotes from A Study in Scarlet by ACD

Timeline provided by- http:// www. / Who_is_Sherlock/SherlockTimeline. html

Thank you for the Reviews! KCS, aragonite, Literatech, Pompey, Orriandra, pebbles66, reflekshun, Kadigan, Savethellamas, Mariagoner, and Timeal

You all made me laugh with your heartbroken desperation. Hope you all return to give me a review this time around. In fact, I COMMAND IT. REVIEW or no new chapter for you (or at least I won't be inspired to update on time, be warned).