Holmes

I had been very gratified indeed to find that Watson appeared to have enjoyed himself at least a little in my company. I had put forth much more of an effort to be entertaining than was natural for me and in consequence was rather on edge the whole time – but it was worth the discomfort to see him smile and even laugh on several occasions in the course of our time spent at the Museum.

But now, as we rattled through the frozen streets, he had once again relapsed into a moody silence. His face had always been an open book to me, and it had not been difficult at all to deduce what his thought processes had been.

At first, worry about my impromptu spill upon the ice; then relief to find me unhurt. His brows had knitted and his gaze became distant, and he glanced across the street to an apothecary's – he had been thinking of all the extra work such weather makes for medical men.

That thought naturally had led to the illness that had robbed him of his family, and now I could tell that was where he was lingering, trying desperately to remain outwardly normal, too proud to let me see the tears I had already perceived in his eyes.

We were at an impasse.

I wanted so badly to help and had no idea how to. He either did not want my help or was too proud to ask. And I could not do anything if he did not tell me what he needed.

I sighed, my face clouding with worry. What was I to do?

Perhaps after a good luncheon and the concert I had planned he might have warmed up enough to tell me how I could help him. If he did not, then there was nothing more I could do.

Watson

Holmes was looking at me strangely, and for his sake I endeavoured to put away my dark thoughts and concentrate upon our converse at the little Italian restaurant we were so fond of.

"How is your headache?" I asked, seeing him rub absently at his temples.

"Not bad considering," he replied, finishing off his pasta thoughtfully, his almost jovial manner gone. I began to have a sneaking suspicion at that point.

"Watson," he went on, "I would like to stop by St. Albert's before we head back this afternoon – there is a simply superb violin quartet on the billing. Would you care to come with me?"

I hesitated, remembering that I still needed to perform the necessary duty of going to Mary's grave this afternoon before darkness fell and the cold grew too intense to be out in it.

I saw a look of slight dismay cross his face at my hesitation, and he reverted to old-fashioned pleading with that child-like gaze I never had been able to resist. There would be time enough after the concert; and besides, I just now realized with a pang, I did not relish being alone at a time like this.

"I should be glad to accompany you, Holmes," I replied, draining my glass and setting it back upon the table.

The glee that filled his face was reward enough for having to sit through four violins for a couple of hours – but along with the happiness in his face was something else, something I could not quite place.

Relief?

But in the instant I saw it, he once more dropped that mask across his features that even I could not penetrate unless he allowed it, and he motioned to the waiter for the check.

Our ride to the music hall was rather silent, as our conversations sometimes were; there was nothing unusual in that. And I was more than glad to be left alone with my thoughts as he evidently was with his.

The concert was fair, in my opinion – I was not much on violins, having heard a surfeit of one in particular throughout the years! – but I paid little attention to the music, for I was more than a little surprised to see that Holmes was not leant back in his chair as was his wont when we attended concerts. Usually he was oblivious to everything but the melody, tapping his fingers in time with the music with a dreamy smile upon his face, immersed in the program and completely unaware of his surroundings.

But this time it was almost as if he were not listening at all, his mind elsewhere, his thoughts troubled. Strange, very strange; for his powers of detachment were enormous and usually he could put anything from his mind enough to enjoy a rather good concert as this one was.

He was tapping his fingers on the armrest, but not in time with the music; almost impatiently, as if he were waiting for the thing to be over. Personally I would be rather glad myself, for I was fighting down an icy feeling of dread that only increased as the minutes went by in my anticipation of having to go to my wife's grave.

Why was I so loathe to perform the duty? I had visited Mary's resting place before, twice - once on her birthday and then only a few weeks ago on Christmas Eve – why was I so reluctant to go again? I supposed it was because of the inescapable fact that it had been a whole year since she died, one long year that I would have spent all alone had Sherlock Holmes not returned to England in April.

I glanced over at Holmes as the concert seemed to be drawing to a close and saw his thin lips pressed together, his sharp eyes staring unseeingly at the musicians, and wondered what was on his mind that would be important enough to keep him from enjoying the kind of concert I knew he normally loved.

But he offered no explanation and as was my habit I asked for none, knowing I probably would not receive any even if I did ask. Finally the concert finished, to both our relief I think, and we reluctantly left the warmth of the music hall and were struck by the icy wind outside.

Holmes bellowed for a cab loudly enough that several scandalised passers-by glared in our direction, but I ignored them. I had to go now, or else I should lose my nerve. Once we got back to Baker Street with a cozy fire, I should not venture out again. I had to go now.

"You go on ahead, Holmes, I have some business to take care of," I said a little nervously, turning my collar up against the wind and looking up into the cab at him.

He frowned.

"You cannot walk about in this weather, Watson," he replied, hopping out of the vehicle and giving me a push up into it, "your leg will be in dreadful condition if you tramp about London in an ice storm."

I was too cold to protest, for the cemetery was rather a far walk from where we were right now.

"Tell you what, I shall drop you off wherever you need to go and then head back to Baker Street," he offered suddenly, hopping up beside me.

I opened my mouth to protest vehemently, but then I saw that there was no other visible transportation available in the street. Much as I did not want him knowing where I was going, it was still completely unfair to make him walk in this weather until he could find another cab. I bit back my protest and settled back with a shiver.

Then I stiffened as I heard Holmes give the driver the address without asking me where I was headed.

He knew.

He had to have known all along.

Holmes had told me more than once that I was not very adept at hiding my thoughts and feelings and he could read me easier than one of my own stories – he had to have realised everything, starting from the incident last night. He had to have deduced exactly what was wrong.

But he was saying nothing, and pointedly avoiding looking at me from either discomfort or embarrassment. I swallowed and tried to cogitate something to say but was unable to think of anything that would be appropriate – so I simply followed his example and kept silent.

In a quarter of an hour we had reached the street upon which the cemetery lay and pulled up outside the wrought-iron gates. I gulped nervously and glanced at Holmes. He got out to let me past and then to my dismay got back up into the cab; he must not be comfortable with remaining with me. And I was too proud to plead foolishly to not be left alone.

"Watson, make sure that you do not try to walk back to Baker Street," he said, leaning over the side to call to me.

I nodded, unable to say anything, and turned to look at the dismal location, feeling the chill in my heart as well as my body as the wind whipped up round me, throwing ice particles into my face.

Then I entered the iron gates, alone.

Holmes

The look of dismay flashing through Watson's eyes as he realized I was getting back into the cab was enough for me to deduce what he was too proud to say – that he did not want to face these ghosts of the past alone.

So I made my errand as rapid as possible and was in the cab heading back for the cemetery within ten minutes of my leaving it, a small glass vase filled with winter flowers and greenery sitting beside me in the cab. I drummed my fingers nervously on the side of the seat, more than a little uneasy about what I was about to do.

I felt utterly helpless, for I had no idea what to say or do that would make things any better. I had never grieved in such a deep manner as Watson obviously did; his tender heart went far deeper and was capable of far deeper things than I ever should be able to fathom; I had no comprehension of what I might do to offer aid to him.

But I knew I had to try something, for it would be inhuman to leave him alone to face whatever he was feeling and disloyal in the extreme to not at least attempt to aid the dearest friend I had, whether I was capable of doing so successfully or not.

I hopped down out of the cab and asked the driver to wait, not knowing how long we would be. And if we were as long as I suspected we might be, we would both be too frozen to chase down another modicum of transportation in this kind of weather.

I have heard people say that graveyards are rather frightening to them in a spectral sense, but I have never been inclined to any such fancy. The bleak rows of grey stones, dotted with occasional greenery peeping through the swirling ice crystals, did nothing whatsoever to make me uneasy as they did some.

But the figure of my closest friend, kneeling in front of one of the stones with his head bowed, hat in his hand, sent a chill through me that no ghostly apparitions ever would be capable of doing.

I hesitated – should I wait until he were finished and then draw closer, or should I go over to him now and wait to see his reaction? Did he wish to be left alone now that he was there, or would he welcome my approach?

I cursed softly at my own cluelessness and finally decided upon a compromise. I moved quietly to a bench within thirty feet or so of the grave he was visiting, brushed the ice crystals off it with one hand, steadying the small vase in my other, and sat, waiting for him to notice me or make an indication to guide me as to what he needed.

And it was not very long until he did.

To be continued...