Chapter Ten

Holmes

After realising that it was Watson I had knocked to the ground upon opening the door, I confess to have nearly flown into a rather embarrassing display of hysterics. One of my Irregulars had informed me that Watson had arrived safely at our shared rooms, but I hadn't dreamed that I would open the door into him!

I helped my poor friend to his feet, noting the many injuries on his person, especially his left arm, which he held rather stiffly, the blood-smeared rope burns on both wrists.

"Afternoon, Holmes," he said, terrifying me by stumbling backwards toward the wall. I lunged forward to rescue him from a very painful encounter, and helped him steady himself.

"What on earth has happened to you?" I asked incredulously, looking him up and down.

Watson gave me a shaky smile. "It's a rather long story. Would you mind terribly if I cleaned myself up a bit first? You know, in case Mrs. Hudson sees me."

I cringed. "It would probably be for the best if you did clean yourself up a little."

Fifteen minutes later, after Watson finished tending to various injuries and I informed my landlady that he was all right (that conversation is something for which the world is not yet—nor shall it never be—prepared), and had her send telegrams to Lestrade and Mycroft, my friend and I sat smoking in our respective chairs before the fire, which Mrs. Hudson had lit because of the chill that was sweeping through the city.

"So what did happen to you?" I asked Watson again.

My friend sighed, reclined gingerly in his chair, and began to recount his tale. Several times during his narrative, I questioned him about various things he said, and several more times, I nearly threw something, such was my anger at these people who had harmed my dearest friend. When my remarkable Boswell recounted to me how he had escaped from the brougham, I was struck by the resourcefulness of his utilizing the animosity between his two captors as a distraction while he freed himself. Though I have said it so many times it is practically a cliché between the two of us, I never shall get his limits.

"Now I believe it is my turn to ask you what you've been up to," said Watson when he had finished, eyeing me with curiosity.

"I must warn you that it is not nearly as interesting as what you've been through today," I said.

"I certainly hope not," said Watson dryly.

I laughed outright at his pawky sense of humor, and he chuckled as well.

"Well, what have you been doing today?" he asked after our mirth had subsided.

I proceeded to tell him what had occurred since he left the flat this morning. He was silent throughout my entire account, and when I had finished, I asked him if there was anything he needed clarified.

Watson's brows knitted, and when he answered, he spoke slowly and deliberately, as if each word carried a heavy weight. "Not about what you have just said, but about something Cauldwell told me."

With a sinking heart, I gestured for him to go on.

"He said that you had a sister, and that he'd—well, he'd killed her." My friend's voice was gentle and apologetic.

I nodded slowly, suddenly not sure if I trusted myself to speak.

"My dear fellow, you could have told me," said Watson softly, staring into the fire rather than at me, a fact for which I was grateful.

I sighed, struggling to find the words I was looking for. "I know, but…"

My remarkable friend smiled sadly at me. "It's all right, Holmes. I understand."

I reflexively frowned slightly, chewing on the end of my pipe, which had gone out.

"Losing a sibling, I mean."

"Your brother?"

"Yes, my brother."

We were silent.

"You don't have to tell me any more," said Watson. "I know enough."

I shook my head and set down my unlit pipe. "No, you deserve the full and complete truth Watson, and I should have given it to you in the first place."

My friend waited patiently while I collected my thoughts. With a great effort, began my story.

"My sister, Jane, was two and a half years my junior, so I was always closer to her than to Mycroft. After my parents died—I was eleven, at the time—Mycroft got himself a job in London, and Jane and I went to stay with my maternal uncle in France, and that increased this relationship even more than the difference in age. After Jane and I grew up, we both moved to London as well, and managed to scrape together enough to share a flat on Montague St. She worked as a music teacher. She was a wonderful pianist, and could play the violin as well as me. Meanwhile, I was attending university, before starting my career as a consulting detective.

"Jane eventually accepted a job as a live-in music teacher for a family near Brighton, and I was left on my own. My consulting venture took off, and we went our separate ways. She lived her life, and I lived mine. We wrote occasionally, and barely ever saw each other. She moved back to London in '84, or maybe '85. I can't remember, but I know it was a few years before your marriage, Watson. I went round to visit her a few times, but not much more than that.

"Jane was always very curious, and when I first mentioned to her my suspicions about there being an organisation in the London underworld, she grew very interested, and wanted me to tell her everything I knew. She continued to badger me for any information I had, and expressed interest in helping with the case. Mycroft and I both made it quite clear to her that she was not to put herself at any risk against Moriarty.

"She agreed, but in retrospect, I do not think she had really given up, especially when in the autumn of '89 she suddenly started courting a chemist with a rather shady reputation, none other than Roderick Cauldwell. At the time, Mycroft and I did not know of his affiliation with the Professor, but we disapproved of her associating with the man. She disregarded everything we said, and continued to court him.

"Then toward the end of March in 1890, while I was solving a forgery case in the East End, I managed to capture one of Moriarty's higher-ups, and get a few names out of him, Cauldwell's being one of them. I was then sure that he was only associating himself with her to try to gain information about me, and what I was up to. I prayed she hadn't told him much, but I feared that she had. And if Cauldwell knew I was on to him, Jane would have no longer be of any use to him. This frightened me, for it could easily put her into considerable danger.

"I went to her, and we both decided that it would be best if we pretended that we did not have this information; after all, it was likely that no one knew the man I had interrogated had given me Cauldwell's name, as I had told no one but Mycroft and Jane. She admitted to me that she knew of Cauldwell's affiliation with Moriarty, and that was the reason she was courting him. We decided that she would pretend that nothing had happened, and she would break off the match in a couple of weeks.

"I was extremely worried about her during those few weeks, but she repeatedly assured me that Cauldwell suspected nothing, and that she 'could take care of herself', I believe was the phrase she used."

I swallowed hard, reluctant to go on. The first part had been easy, once I had begun talking, but the rest certainly would not be. Watson gave me an encouraging nod, and I began again, choosing my words slowly and deliberately.

"Then on the 20th of April, I received a telegram from Lestrade, telling me…telling me that someone had found her. Dead. She'd been stabbed through the heart with a knife, and—"

My voice cracked, and I paused for a moment.

"And had obviously been tortured as well. It happened in her flat, and I went there immediately. I would have investigated, but I was in no fit state to do so, and everyone there knew it. Cauldwell was naturally a suspect, but there was not enough evidence against him to do any good in a court of law.

"Cauldwell ran off, heaven only knows where, I suspect because he knew even if the law couldn't hold him accountable, the Holmes brothers wouldn't forget. We held a small funeral for my sister, and so it ended."

I swallowed again, feeling oddly lighter having shared my load with Watson.

My friend gave me a sympathetic smile, before quietly asking, "April 20th, you said?"

I nodded.

"So tomorrow would be the five year anniversary?"

"Yes," I replied with as little emotion in my voice and face as I could manage. This was not a topic upon which I would willingly dwell.

We were silent again, and I picked my pipe back up from the table next to me. Watson dug out his book of matches and handed it to me.

"Thank you," I mumbled as I struck one, meaning more than just the light.

And Watson knew, as he somehow always did.

"You are always very welcome, my dear fellow."

Watson

Holmes received replies to both of the telegrams he sent. Mycroft replied by way of another telegram, reading: GLAD TO HEAR YOU ARE BOTH ALL RIGHT STOP CONTACT ME WHEN NEW DEVELOPMENTS ARISE STOP MYCROFT STOP.

While we were eating our supper (or rather, while I ate and Holmes halfheartedly poked at his food), Lestrade came by the flat to inform us that he had not made any progress tracking down Cauldwell or Crawford, and also, to see how we both were faring. He only stayed for a few minutes before leaving again, saying that he had work awaiting him at the Yard.

After finishing our wonderful supper, we sat down beside the fireplace for a quiet pipe before bed. I noticed Holmes was staring into the fire with a peculiar light in his eyes that I had come to associate with a reckless desire to bring a case to the close as soon as possible, using whatever means necessary.

I doubted we were destined to have a peaceful night.