"I specifically asked for Lestrade."
Inspector Bradstreet shifted uncomfortably. "Well, sir, he's been very busy as of late, he said he didn't have time..."
"Fine." I cut him off. "What about Gregson? I worked with him on that dreadful business with Foxhurst. It's not the Merripews, but it still has some bearing."
"He's busy, too, sir. It's this crime wave. We're overbooked, and Lestrade and Gregson are up to their ears."
Ah, irony, thou art a cruel mistress.
It had been some eleven days since the viewing of Watson's body, of which I had spent five in a state of self-imposed solitude. Four of those had muddled past in a haze of morphia-induced stupor. On the fifth I awoke in a cold sweat from an unremembered dream, realized with sharp clarity that I had missed his funeral, and was suddenly overtaken by such an anger as I could not hope to describe. In my rage I tore apart the sitting room and my adjoining bedroom. Irreplaceable papers turned to ash in the fireplace. Chemicals and glass scored the floor. To the settee I took one of the ornamental swords from the wall, and the iron poker I took to the writing desk, though only after flipping it onto its side. A full box of .38 was unloaded into our walls and furnishings, and one stray shot through the curtain, shattering the window pane. Through the whole fit I kept up a constant monologue of abuse and obscenity directed at anyone who happened to cross my mind. I blamed Watson for not coming to see me. I blamed Watson for having left at all. I blamed Mary Morstan for having stolen his heart. I blamed Major Sholto who had given her a case to bring to me. I blamed Stamford for introducing Watson and me in the first place.
Watson's armchair remained untouched throughout, and when all my wrath was spent I found myself curled up in it, silent tears coursing down my face. There, in the end, I blamed myself. I had chased him away. I had been the petulant child who could not stand to let him seek happiness without me. I had continued my game despite the pain I knew it caused him. And I had been so absorbed in my own petty dramas that I had not seen their full effects until far too late.
On the sixth day I came to kneel by his grave. The tombstone was plain granite, bearing his name and title, his birth-day and death-day, and the absurdly simple epitaph of 'loving husband and friend'. The only decoration was a wilting spring bouquet in the vase atop it. It was modest and unostentatious, just as he was, and so much less than what he deserved, just as his whole life had been.
"My friend, I owe you a thousand apologies and more," I said to the fresh earth of the grave. "The truth is I could say I was sorry with every breath for the rest of my life and achieve only the cheapest portion of what I owe you... of what I feel. I don't say that because I'm looking to be forgiven, Watson. I know I don't deserve any such consideration. I wouldn't even think to ask of it. What I've done is unforgivable as anything could be. I begrudged you your happiness and hounded after you, until I drove you to this... this desperate end. Just that... I am not as unburdened by emotion as I put on, Watson. I already felt it keenly every time you were gone from my side, but I never... Dear God, Watson, I miss you. I miss you so, so terribly-" the word sputtered as my breath hitched and choked. The epitaph swam before my eyes, and I swiped at them, perturbed by my own lack of control and then ashamed that I should think of control at such a time.
I waited until my breathing had calmed again before I continued. "I know that you worried about me, even until the end, even when I least deserved it. I never did deserve you, Watson. You were always far too good for an irascible old fool like me. I don't know why you put up with it for as long as you did. Bless you for it." I was getting off-track and my voice was trembling again. I crawled up to sit beside the headstone and lean against it, as if I could draw strength from its cold surface. "But, Watson," I whispered, "you were wrong in the last stretch. I can't make it without you. I don't even know that I should. All I've done is cause pain and misery for all those around me, and at times I even delighted in it.
"I'm not worth saving, Watson, not in body or in soul. I never was." I felt tears roll down my cheeks and this time made no move to stop them. "But you tried anyway, didn't you? You tried so hard to save me. Any endeavor that you put so much of your energy towards could not be entirely frivolous. To say so would demean your good name, and you know I don't abide by that." I smiled only for a moment.
"Tell me how, Watson. I don't know how to do this on my own. Tell me how to make it right."
That was it. My confession was spent. I lay my head against the smooth granite and wondered in a far-off way what I was expecting - a ghostly apparition? A voice from the heavens? An earth-shattering epiphany? There was nothing of the sort. Just a cold headstone and a fresh grave and that gaping sense of emptiness that had become my constant companion.
I felt foolish for having tried such a desperate tactic. He was gone. He would not answer. I would have to make it up to him on my own.
But how? Merely returning to proper work would not cut it. I could return all of what I had stolen, restore the baker to his place on King Street, but even that seemed a paltry offering. What would Watson want from me?
He wanted me to help good people and stop the bad ones. That... yes. I could do that. I could use my new criminal contacts one last time and take down one of those true devils that the Yard could not catch up to, the ones that hid behind the scenes and manipulated, just as I had done.
I explained my plan to Watson's gravestone, said goodbye, and set off with a renewed sense of purpose.
By the ninth day I had found my man. It was no easy task to do so, and I had in that time managed to burn through an entire two pouches of tobacco, but by careful deployment of my people and determined scouring of the facts I had managed to track a profusion of incidents back to their source.
That source went by the name of Countellinus, a name unknown to the members of the Yard, or any other authorities on the Continent for that matter, except as a passing phantom that upper-class snitches might mention in hushed tones just before they disappeared. I myself had heard it only once before, in reference to the yet-unsolved disappearance and suspected murder of viscount Emerrit. Countellinus was a criminal mastermind, completely without sympathy, so subtle and cunning that he might as well be a malevolent spirit.
Count Reginilus Telos, on the other hand, was as clearly flesh and blood as any celebrity. Born French nobility, he had an inauspicious start in life when a scandal involving his father was made public, driving the elder Telos to his death and leaving his son with a ruined name and little more. The young Count had fled to the Americas for several years, then resurfaced in Italy with a healthy fortune from the gold mines. He established himself in Florence, and soon the name of Count Telos was back in the public's mind with nothing but praise for his good looks, shrewd business sense, and great good humor. His marriage to Lady Flarice Abbracciabene was covered in newspapers all across the Continent, as was her death not two years later. When he declared last year that he was turning his fortune towards the clearing of his father's name, support poured in from all sides.
According to my information, both the respectable Count Telos and the phantasmic Countellinus were one and the same. Though there was no record of his time in the Americas, I had strong suspicions that he had begun his criminal career there in order to amass his fortune and perfect his technique. Here he lead a double life, using his wealth, charisma, and intellect to build his empire upon any number of despicable crimes. Not only theft but murder, extortion, and blackmail were well within his purview, and even the grotesque possibility of a slave trade.
His position as a public figure would make his downfall all the worse, but at the same time lent him protection. With the death of his wife and his crusade for his father, public sympathy was firmly on his side. I could not seek to sully such a name without irrefutable evidence of his guilt, and for the moment he had covered his tracks well. He did not dip his hands personally in anything, but dictated the actions of a hierarchy of men, from the sophisticated con-man to the uneducated ruffian.
We had a lot in common, he and I.
Fortunately, I had traced a few leads back through my own cases, and had a pretty good start up that ladder. Now if only the fallout of my ill-conceived hobby would stop interfering with the process.
"I brought the files on the Merripew case, sir, if that will help."
I shook my head at the inspector that stood fidgeting in my sitting-room. "I need Lestrade's recollection, not the official reports." The case itself had not been overly remarkable, but there were a few matters in it that bothered me now and I could not follow them through the case file. "Hail a cab and we'll go back together. I promise I won't take up too much of his time."
Bradstreet seemed keen to protest, but thought better of it and left to do as I'd instructed. I fetched my hat and coat and followed. A hansom was waiting by the time I caught up. I climbed in, and promptly sank down and closed my eyes, preempting any attempts the inspector might have made at conversation.
A boy darted past us as the cab pulled up to the kerb, and as he disappeared into the station I briefly wondered why he was dressed as an urchin when he was clearly of fine, if working-class, breeding. Bradstreet preceded me to the door, holding it open for an old writer that leant too heavily over his cane. Down on his luck with once-fine, now threadbare clothes, gloves worn from weather but not menial work, eyes half-lidded and chapped lips parted around a groan of pain.
The old man moved past me with a limp to his step and for a moment my heart leapt, for a moment I admit I paused and searched his lined face, hoping to see blue eyes dart towards me with guilt or daring or amusement, or else pointedly not look my way. Instead he only stifled a yawn, murmured "G'day, guv'nor," in a rough and unfamiliar voice, and shambled away. The limp, I realized, was on the wrong side, and there was a general weakness throughout his whole form, from the shuffle of his feet to the slump of his shoulders.
I felt disgusted as I turned back towards my task, at myself more than anything. Watson was dead. I had seen the body. I had stood by his grave and wept. Was I really so desperate as to still grasp at such remote clues, scrabbling for even the slightest hint that my Watson was not in fact six feet beneath London soil?
With the celerity with which I have become accustomed, my mind returned the answer, simple and yet deeply troubling: Yes.
"Mr. Holmes?" Bradstreet called, voice edged with irritation. I broke out of my reverie and caught up.
Count Telos/Countellinus is an unrelated character borrowed (with permission) from my friend Nergalitos, because I needed a villain and he's so terribly good at it.
I'd like to take a moment to thank all of my unsigned reviewers. I make a point of responding to all of the signed reviews that I receive, but I want those of you who don't have accounts and still have taken the time to review to know that I truly do appreciate it.