I surprised myself by calling on Dr Watson several times over the following months. Indeed, on his account I left my habitual well-worn daily path between Pall Mall and Whitehall on more occasions during the winter of '93 than in the preceding decade.

We spoke about many things: science, politics, art. Neither of us went out into society, attended the theatre, the opera, or even lectures at London's learned societies. But we both read widely, and I soon discovered Watson was a highly intelligent man and a pleasure to converse with.

He had stopped writing, of course. How could he continue, after an ending like that?

The story he had called The Final Problem appeared in the Strand. I bought a copy and left it lying in my desk drawer for several days, until I finally picked it up. I leafed through the first few pages, following once more the events as they unfolded in London, my brother facing up against the Napoleon of crime. I paused at one point, unable to suppress a smile when I found myself among the cast of characters, in disguise as a coachman. A few paragraphs later saw my brother and Watson on the way to Switzerland together. I sat for a long moment, staring blankly at the page, and remembering what came next.

Then I laid the magazine aside and quickly turned to a technical report about newly opened railways lines in the North.

Over the next few months, I continued to call on Dr Watson. Sometimes we spoke about my brother. On one of those quiet evenings by Watson's fire, we even came to talk of the day he died.

"Lestrade hit me over the head, did you know?" Watson said. "I was furious. Wouldn't talk to him for days. He was right, though, of course. I couldn't have done that to Mary." The lines around his mouth deepened. "That was just after she first fell ill."

"And the case?" I said. "The case that took you to Greenhithe."

"Oh, Lestrade solved that himself, a few weeks later. Holmes was right about the Greenhithe connection, of course. It turned out to be some fellows from the Nautical Training College just up the road." His lip twisted at the irony. "It was a very straightforward affair, actually."

We sat in silence for a little while, sipping our drinks.

"It was only by purest coincidence that I was there," Watson said finally. "I was involved in very few of your brother's cases that year, you know." He raised his head to look at me. "At the time, my moving out of Baker Street seemed like the only possible course of action. Now... I can't really remember what we were thinking anymore."

On another evening, we fell into the topic of Sherlock's childhood and our family. Watson seemed fascinated. It was clear my brother had not shared many details about that part of his life.

"Sherlock was always a contrary child," I said. "We are separated by ten years, you know, and our father died young - but that certainly didn't mean Sherlock was willing to bow to my authority."

"I can't quite imagine him bowing to anyone's authority," Watson admitted with the hint of a smile.

He rose to pour another drink for me and for himself. We sat in companionable silence before the fire for a while, until I rose to take my leave. As always, I promised to call again some other evening in the near future.

The next time I called, however, it wasn't evening. It was three in the afternoon, but I had received a letter which had so overwhelmed me, and which concerned Watson so closely, that I could not possibly wait.

Watson was just showing out a patient as I arrived. He greeted me in a manner that clearly showed how much this deviation from my routine had surprised him.

"I've had some news," I said. "Some good news. I - "

I hardly knew how to express myself. I was still in a state of shock, and hardly believed the news myself.

"You don't look well, Mr Holmes," Watson said, looking poised to don the guise of a medical man if necessary.

"Perhaps we could go into your surgery," I suggested.

He ushered me in, and I began to speak the instant we were seated.

"I have received a letter from a certain Dr Wan, a surgeon in the employ of the French army in Indochina, and currently stationed in a prisoner-of-war camp near Saigon."

Watson's eyes widened at that, but he let me continue.

I produced the letter itself from my pocket. I had read it so often the thin paper was already beginning to wear at the edges.

"Let me read you the relevant part of his letter," I said.

"My surgical assistant, a Norwegian by the name of Sigerson, received a blow to the head in a fall from a mango tree two days ago. He has suddenly gained, or regained, the ability to speak English, along with - by his claims - a whole lifetime of memories previously unknown to him. He now claims to be an Englishman by the name of Sherlock Holmes, who was apparently a person of some renown in your country several years ago, although I'm sorry to say I'm not familiar with the name myself. The fact that Sigerson has fixed on the identity of a person of some celebrity to claim as his own makes me suspect he is delusional. However, besides that he is perfectly lucid and appears to be in excellent mental condition.

He has given me your name and address, and I enclose a letter from him with this missive. If I am importuning you with the ravings of a madman, I humbly beg your forgiveness, but if his claims are true, it seemed to me too important a matter to neglect."

I looked up at Watson, who had gone so pale that for a second I thought he would faint away.

After a moment, however, he seemed to come to himself again.

"The letter," he said hoarsely.

I began quickly to read.

"Mycroft,

I will tell you the details of my story later - from the Norwegian fishing boat that hauled me out of the water to the French Foreign Legion, and many further adventures.

For now, I'd be obliged if you'd wire me fifty thousand francs, and confirm my story to Dr Wan - he will certainly be of assistance to me. You can act via the British embassy here in Saigon.

To assure you of the veracity of this letter, I recall to you my favourite hiding place as a boy, the fallen sycamore tree behind the rhododendrons at the bottom of the garden. You always knew where to find me, of course.

You can also ask Watson if he remembers the apple orchard in Chipping Cambden."

I looked up at Watson.

He nodded instantly. He didn't look to be in a fit state to speak, and I didn't press him to explain the allusion. In any case, I didn't care. Rationally, I had already known the letter was genuine, but I had spent the hour since its arrival feeling like I was living a delusion of my own invention. Having a second person confirm it suddenly made it pass from the realms of hope to certainty.

I was glad I was already sitting down, for I felt something like how Watson looked.

"Good God," I managed to say.

Mutely, Watson held out his hand, and I handed over the letter.

"It is undoubtedly written in his hand," I said. "I think you probably know it as well as I do."

I didn't believe he was even listening to me any more. He was simply staring down at the letter in his hands.

.. .. ..

"Brandy, Mycroft?" Sherlock asked, holding up the decanter.

I was sitting in my usual chair in their sitting room, next to Watson and opposite my brother.

I was ashamed now to think that the first time I had ever set foot in Baker Street was as executor of my brother's will. Since his return, I had become something of a regular feature in their rooms, adding Baker Street to my tiny repertoire of habitual locations, which until a year ago had included only Whitehall, my club and my rooms. I was not sure which fact my brother had found most surprising: that I was on intimate terms with his friend, or that I now left my usual paths at least once a month, and often twice.

Watson was living in Baker Street again. I didn't know how they had come to that decision. Perhaps they felt that his status as a respectable widower gave them a protection they hadn't had before. Or perhaps the years of loss and separation had simply caused them to see the risk they took through a different lens.

Now, Watson took his own glass of brandy, and picked up the thread of conversation again.

"So you see, Mr Holmes, your brother had already visited the house once, but he didn't see fit to mention that to Lestrade. The poor inspector spent considerable effort trying to track down the old charwoman who'd been seen at the tradesman's entrance that morning."

He shot a sideways smile at Sherlock, who snorted with impatience.

"If Lestrade had asked me, I would have told him. But he was quite determined to pursue his own line of enquiry. Completely convinced of his own theories, poor fellow."

"But the very next day," Watson took up the story again, "Something happened which shattered all those theories to shreds. The police constables searching the nearby woods made a shocking and macabre discovery - "

I was leaning forward, caught up in the adventure despite myself. Watson was a born storyteller, and this had become on of the very few little indulgences I allowed myself. We spent many pleasant evenings thus, with Dr Watson recounting their latest cases, and Sherlock interjecting with the occasional correction or clarification. Watson had started to write again too, with my encouragement.

My brother had not known what to make of our friendship, at first. He had been in a continual state of tension when we were together, no doubt fearing I would divine the secret he and Watson had been hiding for years. I had the pleasure of seeing Sherlock completely dumbfounded, a rare event indeed, when I referred first to Watson as 'in a very real sense my brother-in-law'.

Watson himself was not present at the time, and Sherlock could only seem to stare at me.

"Ah - what?" he said after a considerable pause, sounding uncharacteristically stupid.

I raised an eyebrow at him.

"Wouldn't you say that's accurate? Though I do think Dr Watson could have done much better than you, my dear Sherlock. Still, it seems it's you he's settled on, for better or worse, in sickness and in health, et cetera."

"Ah - " Sherlock sank into the nearest chair. He stared at me, gathering his wits together. "Yes, he has. To my eternal surprise." His expression had grown soft around the edges, like something warm and happy was leaking out. He gave me a rueful smile. "I suppose I couldn't hope to conceal it from you very long."

"You didn't need to, brother."

With that, I rose to my feet, thinking that was quite enough on the topic. It certainly wasn't something I particularly wanted to discuss in any detail.

"Good-bye, Sherlock," I said briskly. "Give my regards to Dr Watson, and remind him that I look forward to having both of you dine at my rooms on the 16th."

He rose to shake my hand, still looking stunned. As I went down the steps from their rooms to the street, I was smiling to myself.

I was bemused by the two of them, I admit. I shuddered at the thought of living in such intimacy, having to face someone first thing in the morning across the breakfast table, or having a good night's sleep disturbed another person at close quarters. But Sherlock seemed happy, far more so than in the years when he first came to London, before he met Dr Watson. To each his own, as they say, and I am merely grateful to have had this second chance to see him happy.

.. .. ..

Fin

.. .. ..