The leaves on the trees were changing colours all around London. The cold was beginning to make its home in the City once more and the citizens were wandering the streets a bit more heavily bundled in warm clothing. It was a welcoming change from the stifling heat of the summer months.
Holmes and I were lounging in our rooms on Baker Street, five months after our visit to his parents' mansion in Southampton. Holmes's heartache had eased tremendously, but there were still some things he needed to sort out. I stood by him and guided him along the way to a full recovery.
"I say, Watson," Holmes said cheerfully, lying on the floor reading The Times. "Scotland Yard is losing its touch: there are robberies all over London!"
"I suspect they'll be calling on you soon enough," I replied warmly, sitting in front of him.
"Oh, but these thefts are so commonplace! Banks, jewels, various valuables. Amateur thieves, if you ask me."
"They are beneath your calibre, I suppose?"
"What do I always say about simple cases, Watson?"
"There is more often than not a complexity beneath the surface."
"Excellent, old boy. Excellent."
There was a knock at the door. Holmes and I looked at each other in surprise; we had not been expecting any visitors and by mutual agreement we had asked Mrs Hudson to not admit any clients for the day. What could be so important that the landlady disobeyed our wishes?
My friend told the caller to come in, and to our great shock it was Mrs Holmes who stepped inside. Holmes laid there gaping for a second before scrambling to a sitting position. I glided closer to him and protectively sat next to him, glaring at his mother.
"What do you want?" I snapped.
"I understand I am not welcome here. But, please, I need to speak with Sherlock," Mrs Holmes said pleadingly.
"Anything you need to say to him can be said to me," I replied coolly.
"Fair enough." Mrs Holmes sat before us, her skirts pooling around her. Holmes eyed her warily, pressing himself slightly against me.
"Your father is in France on business so I have taken the opportunity to call on you. What needs to be said cannot be written in a letter," Mrs Holmes said meekly. "Sherlock, words will never be enough to show you how terribly sorry I am."
"You are forty years too late for that," Holmes said tensely.
"You think I do not know that? I have been a fool, my son. A bigger fool than all the criminals you have ever faced combined!" Mrs Holmes exclaimed.
Her eyes were sparkling with unshed tears. Were they real of just for show? I could not be sure.
"I have made a grave mistake: I permitted your father to dictate my behaviour. I have never believed for an instance for you to be strange, or to be a liability to our so-called reputation. In fact, I have always thought you were gifted.
"Your father was once a poor man, and he let riches have the best of him: he came to hate whatever he deemed to be out of the ordinary or threatening to his social class. I did not wish to be on the receiving end of his anger, so I stupidly followed his lead.
"I know this is hard to believe but I am so proud of you, Sherlock. I love reading of your exploits in the newspaper, and see you triumphantly lock another criminal away. Your skills of deduction are amazing, and I have read every single monograph you have published. Yes, I am familiar with your analysis on the forty different types of tobacco ash. You have a brilliant mind, my dear boy.
"I turn to you now, Dr. Watson. I want to thank you for taking care of my son. The loyalty and love you hold for him is truly remarkable. I tip my bonnet to you for standing by Sherlock through thick and thin."
Silence followed her monologue. I watched Mrs Holmes closely, seeking signs of deception but finding none. I wanted to believe her; I truly did. However, that horrible visit was vividly imprinted in my mind. I waited for Holmes to speak rather than reply to his mother myself.
"Why," Holmes said, his voice containing a barely perceptible tremor, "did you let him dictate your behaviour? You chose to follow him. Why should I offer you my forgiveness for making my life a living hell? And, yes, you are right: Watson has been incredibly loyal to me. He has been more of a family to me than you or Father have ever been."
"I was young when I met your father; I did what I thought would make him happy. I truly believed that I was doing what was right. As I have previously mentioned, he only became this way after making his fortune and I, being the foolish girl I was, continued to do as he pleased in order to keep him happy even if it meant turning on the people I love. But disowning you and Mycroft was the final straw. I do not expect to receive your forgiveness, Sherlock, but I did want to have an opportunity to explain myself and to apologize for all the damage I have caused," Mrs Holmes replied.
"And now you have," Holmes said with finality.
He needed not to say more: his mother nodded and got to her feet. As she made her way to the door Holmes caught up to her and lightly touched her arm. Mrs Holmes looked at her son, blinking with confusion.
"If I choose to forgive you," I heard my friend say, "I will send you a letter within a month. If you receive nothing by then, do not bother contacting me."
His mother nodded again, and he permitted her to kiss his cheek before she left. Holmes closed the door behind her and rested his forehead against it. I picked myself up from the ground and approached my friend, placing a hand on his shoulder.
"Is everything all right, Holmes?" I asked gently.
He walked past me without looking at me and retreated inside his bedroom. I followed him, glad to find the door unlocked this time.
"Holmes?" said I, peering inside.
"Here, Watson," Holmes replied, sitting on his bed. I joined him.
"How are you feeling, dear fellow?" I said in askance.
"I am at a loss, Watson," Holmes declared, placing his chin in the palm of his hands, his elbows on his knees.
"How so?"
"I believe every word my mother said, but the breach in my trust in her is far too wide."
"You cannot honestly say that you did not find her deceptive!"
"That is exactly what I am telling you. Think, man! Did my mother avert her eyes from ours as she spoke? Did she force herself upon me? Why would she come alone when my father's leash on her is far too short?"
My friend had a point: Mrs Holmes had looked us in the eyes the entire time and she left the minute her son told her to. And there was certainly no possibility Mr. Holmes would have allowed her to come to Baker Street on her own.
"Besides, a small part of me has always known Father had some sort of hold on Mother," Holmes continued bitterly. "I remember pleading with her as a small child to free herself from his will. She had paid me no mind."
"She seems to regret it greatly. What will you do?" I inquired.
"I truly do not know; for once in my life I do not have the answer! What should I do, Watson?"
"That is not up to me to decide, but I can help. Start with what you want, which is…?"
"I want to trust her."
"Good. You want to have faith in her and for her to be a presence in your life. Do not look at me like that; you may not have said the words but they are implied. Now, voice what is stopping you from trusting your mother."
"Twenty years of cold treatment; twenty years of silence; a disastrous visit five months past."
"All right. Weigh them in your mind and trust your instincts, Holmes. They have never led you wrong before."
"My instincts are helpless."
"Give them time and they'll give you the answer you seek."
As predicted, Holmes was able to make a decision and by the end of the month he sent his mother a letter stating that he was willing to forgive her and start anew but as soon as she stepped out of line it was over between them. Mrs Holmes rushed back to our flat on the pretense of visiting some friends in Hampshire and nearly suffocated her son in an embrace. We went out to lunch with Mycroft, who was a lot more willing than Sherlock to have their mother back in his life. It had been a pleasant afternoon.
Mr. Holmes eventually discovered his wife was on speaking terms with their sons again, and it was not long before Mrs Holmes was staying with Mycroft due to 'unbearable circumstances' as she put it. I do not know what will happen to them now, but at least three out of the four Holmes are much happier. One could say that my friend and I do not entirely regret our visit to the estate.
P.S. Mother decided to leave Father in the end. She finally stood up for herself and did what was right. He refuses to grant her a divorce but she now has a lovely home in London courtesy of me and Mycroft. My brother and I are not in the least upset about this separation, in case the reader is wondering. Another one of Watson's tales have come to a close, and we will see you in the next.
S.H.
The end
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