Thanks for the reviews! I'm over a hundred! Yea! It's longer this time, so enjoy...

Christmas, to me, as it is for most people, is a time of family togetherness and happy reflection on all one has. Even during my tumultuous upbringing, I remember nothing but happiness during the Holidays, even with my withdrawn Father, bitter brother and overzealous mother. Christmas was the time when we seemed the most together and thought of the birth of our Saviour and how that affected our lives.

Christmas Eve night in 1894 was not exactly a time that I spent thinking on religion, family togetherness or happy reflection. It was a long, utterly sleepless night that I lay in a cold bed starring at the shadows of an unfamiliar room, thinking on the subjects of romantic love and brotherly love and how in our society the two should never meet. In my mind, never previous had they. But although I had convinced myself that it was only stress that was changing my very core of beliefs-I thought of things that night that even now in my dying years in something that shall probably never be read-I feel it hard to admit what I was thinking. However, because I swore an oath to myself not to euphemise this memoir, I will tell you despite my guilt for thinking such unholy thoughts on that most holy of days:

I wondered if Holmes was truly a homosexual attracted to men, or was it just myself?

Had he ever been engaged sexually with another man? The thought seemed utterly strange and preposterous.

Did he...well, abuse himself over his love for me?

Well, I did think all of those things that night for the first time although I was hardly to the point of wanting answers. No, it was more curiosity then anything else. Perhaps pure morbid and hormonal curiosity. But mostly that night, I simply wanted to know- why me? What was it about myself that attracted him? He had said that he couldn't explain it. But surely there most be a reason for it. A heart is easily given and taken, but always there is reason behind this most sacred of emotions. What was his?

Those were all questions to which eventually I would have answers, although some would take years to get.

I awoke with very little sleep on Christmas morning yet with a determining thought in my mind. And that was not to think on the subject. There would be more than enough time for that. But for now, I wanted simply to enjoy this holiday. I didn't want to pollute my mind with rhetorical questions and lay in dread that I was becoming something I didn't understand in other men, let alone myself.

Feeling lazy, I bothered not to dress and simply put on my dressing gown over my nightshirt before adjoining to next room, where in the snowy accented window a heavy orange light was creeping over the Alps with progressing speed. It was cold, as it was at six thousand feet nearly any season, but the snow mass was low this year I had come to hear, and the winter mild. We would be able to walk into town and I delighted in the fact that I could show Josh something of this quiet Swiss village. For I wanted him exposed to other countries and cultures, so that he may not think that Bond Street1 represented the whole of European civilization.

Sometime during the night, Father Christmas-Holmes had arrived to leave a veritable fortune of treasure for my son, although it was strange that I hadn't heard him come into my room. The thought scared me slightly although I couldn't say why except that I was glad of him being on the right side of the law. He would have made an excellent burglar. There was one present, however, that I recognized and shook my head in amazement. It was my gift for Holmes that I had had ordered from a catalogue during the first days of my long recovery in Baker Street. Indeed it was the only present I had time to order, having not realized what would happen. Mrs. Hudson had told me the day it arrived, but I had asked her to keep it for me until Christmas Eve. I feared Josh's curiosity may lead him to it in my room. But how had Holmes...well, I suppose Mrs. Hudson had given it to him to take for our Christmas. I was glad of it. Glad that I had something for him. And was eager to see the look on his face upon opening it.

"He came! He came!"

All in one second I had gone from sitting in the morning light watching the silent tree glow to being bombarded by Josh, exuberant at the sight of all that lay before him. "Papa! Father Christmas came! Just like Uncle said he would! He really does know everything!"

I turned to see Holmes standing next to me, grinning with a great deal of emotion at what he had created and I was instantly filled myself with holiday spirit. Normally the man detested the Holidays. Why, he never exactly said, but I took it to be his own inactive religious convictions as well as disregard for the unity that Christmas inevitably brought with it do to his Bohemian lifestyle. But here he was, smiling and joyful as any child and I was happy without meaning to be.

"Don't tell him such things, Josh," said I. "He has enough ego as it is."

Besides the rocking horse, drum and enough sweets to cause a massive belly ache, Josh received several books and his own lens which he loved, I think more than anything else. But at last all of his gifts were exhausted and Holmes said to me "I now have a present for you, Watson."

He handed me a small, flat package tied with red ribbon. It had a very refreshing smell to it, and as soon as I had the paper off, I saw that it was a book. But not just any book; a blank one, similar to the kinds I used to take notes on Holmes' cases. But it was clear to me that this one was far finer than any I would ever think of using at home.

"It is Turkish leather," Holmes said. "Bound in Constantinople2 and stamped with your monograph in my presence by a family that has specialised in book-binding and tanning for four generations."

It was then that I noticed the "JHW" carved on the front. The leather was clearly first-rate as indeed it felt smooth and rich in my hands. "It's...wonderful, Holmes," I said, tracing those letters with one finger. "Thank you." I couldn't begin to explain how much it meant that he took my writing serious with this gift. "I have no idea what I'll use it for, though. It seems too exceptional to record just anything in."

"You'll think of something," He said with a brief smile that showed he was pleased I was delighted with it.

"Well, it amazes me that Mrs. Hudson both wrapped this and gave it to you to bring, and although I know you could easily guess what it is, I suppose I'll let you open it anyhow." I picked up the small box that I had expected it to come in, and handed my gift to him.

"It is not as though I couldn't have figured out what it was," he explained. "But that would have ruined the surprise. And surprise is the spice of life."

"I thought that was variety."

"Perhaps both." He carefully removed the gold paper and ribbon Mrs. Hudson had used and pulled out an oak and cherry box. The silver watch glistened in the sun and he carefully pulled it out dangling it from his right hand. The 'SH' I'd had engraved swirled round and round anti-clockwise. It swung slightly, as if he were hypnotising us with it.

"Ooh," said Josh. "That's a pretty watch." He immediately reached out to grab it.

"'Pretty' is hardly an appropriate word," Holmes informed him haughtily, holding it out of reach. "It is pre-eminent. Far more than I deserve." He looked at me with narrowed eyes, and I was completely thunderstruck. Wasn't he pleased? I had gotten him far less impressive, far less expensive presents over the years and he always seemed appreciative and delighted with them. In his own dispassionate way of course. But now he seemed...well, perhaps angry was a bit strong, but...was it sadness? I couldn't be sure.

"Well?" I at last was compelled to ask. "Do you like it or not? By the expression on your face I couldn't tell if you thought it any better than a dead rat."

His face flashed over to me upon my words and immediately softened. His fist closed over the gift and he delicately placed it back in the wooden box. He handled it like most would handle holding an infant for the first time. "Of course I like it. Only a fool would not. But..."

"But, what?"

He glanced at me quickly, and I knew the argument had gone through him like a bolt of lightening as to whether he should tell me or not. I lost, it was apparent. "Never mind. It is a brilliant watch, and always shall I treasure it, my dear Watson. Thank you. And now," he added, conveniently changing the subject. "There is one last thing that commands your attention. It arrived to Baker Street the very morning I turned up to retrieve John Sherlock, and I have kept it for you until you were well enough to read it."

He handed me a small package tied with Butcher's paper and wrapped with string addressed to me in thin, brownish ink. "Who on Earth..." I began, but then I saw the return address, and knew. "It's from my sister."

"Yes. I realize that."

"Why would she send me a package?" I wondered aloud.

"Perhaps if you open it, you shall find out why."

In it was a small gift, also wrapped in brown Butcher's paper and addressed to 'Master Watson.' I frowned at it, but before I could comment, Josh had spied it and was ripping it out of my hands.

"It's for me!" he exclaimed. "Only who is it from?"

"Your aunt," I replied, pulling out a carefully folded letter. It read:

Dear brother-

My compliments of the season and my wishes that the Lord is in your life. I received your letters on both the birth of your son and the death of your wife. You have my sympathies of the latter. Excuse the lateness of the reply, but I felt decorum stipulated I wait until an opportune time to visit the both of you. I feel at last we must put aside any feelings of malice we may harbour as we are, as you know, the last of our family.

I will come by the 10:30 o'clock train to Victoria Station the morning of 15 January and will hope that you will meet me there. I have enclosed a gift for the child, and it is he that I wish to visit with you about.

A Happy Christmas and a Prosperous New Year,

Your Sister,

Abigail

Believe me when I say that I had to read it several times before it sunk in. Why was she writing to me now? The two or three letters we had sent each other in the last decade were the only means of communication we had and even those had been times of great importance, when we had little choice but to communicate, despite the fact that she lived only two hours from London in our child-hood home in Kent.

"It was obvious not of immediate importance," Holmes said, lighting a pipe. "Otherwise I should have been compelled to open it. As it was not, I saved it for this morning."

"How do you know it was of no immediate importance?"

"Because of course if your sister needed you to know something immediately, I would think that she would have telegrammed."

My holiday spirit was diminishing fast. "You evidently know little of my sister."

It was the wrong thing to say to Sherlock Holmes. His eyes widened as he glared at me, as if I had somehow offended him. "And I would have thought you, Watson, would have known me better."

"I can make an adduction," Josh said to his uncle.

Holmes smiled with pleasure. "And what is that, John Sherlock?"

"My aunt doesn't know me at all." He held up his present, a picture book with little or no words. "This book is for babies." He paused. "If I have an aunt, why haven't I met her, Papa?"

Because she has never asked to meet you. Because I despise her self-serving ways. Because she cannot empathize with anyone else. These were the real reasons why. But of course, I was not about to say such things to my son. "Well, according to this letter, Josh, you shall at last meet her."

"You look as though you are not pleased about that, Watson."

I handed him the letter I knew his omnipotent mind was dying to analyze. "If you knew Abigail, you would understand why."

For several minutes, he read over her letter, looking at in every possible light, before discarding it. He then picked up the remains of the package examining every inch of it, even the string it was wrapped in. "On the contrary, Doctor, I feel I have a fairly good grasp of your sister." He paused and the scientific light of his eyes seemed to dim slightly. "But perhaps you would rather I didn't take the liberty. After all, the last time, on the matter of your brother..."

"No, no," I replied. "Proceed. I haven't seen her since my brother died in '82 and I haven't even received a letter since she declined to come to my wedding. Although I can guess at her character now, indeed you may know more than I."

He held the letter up with a nod. "To begin, this paper is curious enough as it is. No header. Plain yet heavy and good quality writing paper suggests two things to me in this case: first, that your sister is unmarried, and second, that this is not her own correspondence paper."

"How do you figure that?" I asked, confused somewhat.

"The vast majority of men, especially middle to upper class country men, have there own personal writing paper. It is less common among women. But have you noticed that although this paper is reasonably expensive, the ink used is dirt cheap? Not only cheap, but old, suggesting the writer has little need for it. The pen, too, is not in the best of shape. Look how the words appear smeared slightly. The nub is broken, I should think. Now, few men would allow the use of broken pens and cheap ink, as well as no personal paper. Therefore, your sister is unmarried, lives alone, and borrowed this paper from somewhere else."

"I...I don't know," I admitted. "Yes, I am sure she is unmarried. Surely she would have written to me if she had. But the paper..."

"No one who would use such spotty instruments is going to take the time to buy reasonably priced paper. I would guess...hmm, my wishes that the Lord is in your life." He frowned. "She obtained the paper from some sort of volunteer organization. A religious organization, at that, for there is little else in the desolate country side for a woman."

It felt as though my stomach had collapsed into my knees. "Yes, that does sound like her."

"And this string. Did you notice how brittle it had gotten? It is obviously not very new. The paper as well. Now a woman who uses old Butcher's paper and old string suggests to me that she does not go into town much. Probably just for church and her organization, as yet unknown. If you put all of this together, I would think your sister is a spinster, middle-aged, overtly religious, a bit...thrifty, shall we say, and rather retiring from society. How's that, my dear fellow?"

"Incredibly accurate," said I, feeling a twinge of shock. It is something that never entirely goes away with my friend. "But what you cannot possibly explain is why she wants to see me after all these years. The last time I saw her was at my brother's funeral, and she said...well, things that bear no repeating. But the message was plain as the nose on your face that she cared little to further our relationship."

"And why is that?" He looked genuinely interested, sitting there chewing in his pipe and peering at me with a heavy grey expression. But it was the sort of look reserved for any client, a look of intellectual curiosity, and not concern. And so I was compelled to answer:

"I don't care to speak on it, thanks."

"But you are worried about it," He said. No, he didn't say it, he stated it.

"Why, Papa? Is my aunt a bad person?"

I looked from one of them to the other. It felt rather like being interrogated. And I didn't like that in the least. "Come along, the both of you. After all this merriment, I feel I should like some breakfast."

Holmes titled his head slightly, before standing and tapping the remains of his pipe into an empty brandy decanter. "Then I shall ring for some." He made no further comment.

Holmes, Josh and I stayed in Meiringen through the New Year and all of a week after. I was perfectly healthy again, and more certain of it this time. My stubborn constitution had rid my body of all traces of influenza, and all that remained of my gunshot wound was a purple round scar, several centimetres in length.

The rest of the holiday was rather pleasant. We took Josh to the old church on Kirchgasse, a famous enough Romanesque building of the fourteenth century that Holmes and I knew attracted holiday makers of our own country.3 Holmes pocketed a bit of the wooden spire to put in his semi-museum at home. We learned that the British Museum back home also had trinkets from this very church. We also went to one of Switzerland's many chocolate shops, one of the finest ever I've tasted. The townspeople were exceedingly friendly and hospitable and for the first time in months, I enjoyed the sights and sounds of other people without guilt, fear or exclusion.

But the best parts of that unexpected holiday were the early evening walks the three of us enjoyed every day. Holmes had taken on a quiet form these days since Christmas, which was hardly unusual for him. He occasionally was silent for days at a time home in Baker Street, although when I reflected on the matter, I realized that these periods of disregard toward me had grown fewer and farther between as the years progressed. When he did speak on those walks, it was most often to Josh and was most often on the chemical composition of certain rocks or indigenous Alpine creatures. Josh found these facts far more intriguing than I, far more in fact than a three-year old ought to have. I could have joined in, I suppose, or changed the subject, but I was lost in my own thoughts. Part of me wished never to return to London. I could have enjoyed to sweet mountain air and avoided the thick fog of the city forever.

The day before we were due to leave Meiringen, Holmes at last spoke to me about what was clearly on the both of our minds. The sun was just beginning its descent behind the jagged white mountains that enclosed us, and the sky was shades of colours that I never even imagined existed in nature. It was cold of course, but the combination of exercise and body-heat from walking close was warming enough. Holmes had sent Josh skipping ahead on a journey for an igneous volcanic rock or something of the like, and we seemed alone in the growing darkness.

"What will you do, Watson?" He suddenly asked. "When we arrive home to London?"

I knew what he meant, but feigned innocence. "How do you mean, Holmes?"

He looked at me out of the corner of his eye and I was compelled to try not to smile. "When last we spoke, you had said you were leaving. 221 B, I mean. I suppose you will start looking for new lodgings?"

I watched his breath as it curled out his nose and mouth. So much hopeful steam. Instantly, I felt an unmistakable pain of battle rage at my heart and mind. I didn't want to leave, I knew that much. But this was not a matter or want; it was one of need. What if...God above how I was sick of that phrase. No. No more what ifs. I would not go down that street any longer. There was no purpose in it. And so I told him, "I shall make no decisions until after my sister leaves. I cannot think on both right now."

"You do know, Watson," he said, as we crunched along a snowy path back toward the Englischer Haus. "That you can trust me."

He was so close that I could feel the wool of his coat brush against my own. I swallowed heavily. "Trust you how?" I asked quietly.

He seemed surprised. "If you need help. With your sister. You can trust to tell me what is on your mind."

Relief flooded through me so intently that I could have taken his hand. "There isn't much to tell. Abigail is five years my junior. Our relationship can best be explained in that she was very close to our father, and Henry and I were close to our mother. She was only nine when he died and that devastated her. Soon after, our mother was taken ill. Tuberculosis. Henry had already left to make his way in the world, and I was to go away to school. I think Abby rather resented me for leaving her alone, but what was I to do? I was but fourteen."

"You needn't convince me," Holmes said nearly gently. "How came this feud that lasts to this day?"

"When our mother died, I was in my second year of University. I hope you shall understand that I was devastated. It was genuinely believed, although I never said it, that I was Mother's favourite."

"I could see that." Holmes smiled grimly. "And so, if I would be allowed a conjecture? You did not attend your mother's funeral, and your sister"-

"I couldn't! For God's sake, I just could not bear to see my own mother like that! If you think that cowardice of me"-

"I do not," he said, gripping my arm. "Calm yourself, Watson. You forget yourself."

I pulled my arm away, perhaps a little too rapidly, but he surprised me. "I...apologize," I said, immediately. "I meant nothing."

"I know." He nervously stuck his hands in his pockets. He looked rather like a boy that had been reprimanded by his schoolmaster. "And so what happened next? Was it your brother?"

"As always, you anticipate it before I say it. Abigail was furious that I did not attend our mother's funeral. Then, when Henry died many years later, as a method of revenge I took it, she sent me our father's watch, but didn't tell me of the funeral until after it was over. I will admit, that my relationship with my brother was strained in his last years. He drinking was out of control, and...well, when we were younger we were close. Despite the eight years age difference. I wanted to be there. It was just spite on her part. And so, I went to Kent...and we, we had words. She said...it doesn't exactly matter what she said. Suffice to say that she and I both agreed it would be better not to see each other again. And so, except for a few letters, we haven't. I thought neither of us was willing to forgive the other. I cannot imagine why she all of a sudden..."

"I fear..." he began, but then closed his mouth.

"What?"

"Nothing. You have enough on your plate as it is." He turned to look at me. "I should never have told you what I did, Watson, to bring you here. It was terribly wrong to spring all of this on you. I've been horridly selfish."

Holmes was admitting selfishness? His ego actually was allowing such a thing? And for my benefit? "Holmes," I said, turning round to face him. "I..."

"Yes?"

"I..."

"Well?"

No.

I couldn't.

"You were not wrong to tell me," said I. But that was all I could say. For now.

The journey back to England was not nearly as long as the previous. In fact, because I was none too eager to return, it went all too quickly. It was late at night when we arrived home to the Motherland, and Josh and Holmes were both asleep. Josh was curled up on my lap gripping his lens tightly in a pink fist, exhausted after hours spend observing people who passed us on the trains and boats. It was eerie to me how accurate he was.

His small chest was rising and falling, and he made this slurping sound in the back of his throat. I rested my hand on his head. It was brilliantly soft.

Looking over, I saw Holmes was awake. He was smiling genuinely, not his steely whippish grin that I came to associate with him. He reached out slowly to touch Josh's cheek. Our hands were practically next to each other. And then, in a sudden moment of unreason, I took it and held it there in my own. Damn it all...

He wasn't especially surprised, nor did he move. No, we just sat there, for several moments, the three of us. Like a family. It was rather like a family.

"I worry"- I began.

"Don't" said Holmes. "Please. Don't speak. Not yet."

And so I didn't. It was just the dark of the train and the noise of it passing the points.

The fifteenth dawned early for me, and although Abigail's train was not do in until half past ten, I left as soon as I awoke. I couldn't bare to be in the house alone with my thoughts. I craved civilization.

I was far more nervous than I ought to be when I arrived at Victoria Station, half an hour early. It could have been a premonition on my part, knowing now what I didn't know then. However, I think more so it was that I knew my sister. And I knew that I didn't trust her motives.

The weather had cleared nicely for January, and it was an unusually bright wintry day. Everyone seemed to be in a jolly mood, extending the holiday spirit, and though I didn't exactly feel it myself, I tipped to everyone I passed and even stopped briefly to chat with a chap who was a former patient. But all the while, I could feel my own anxiety. Partly this had to be doing to what had just happened with Holmes. But another part of me knew that whatever Abigail was doing here, it would not be good.

Stopping at the agent, I found that my sister's train was do in exactly on time, and would be coming in on Platform 10. The station was packed with holiday-makers, the majority returning home and I tried to look inconspicuous leaning on my stick, watching teary eyed good-byes and farewells from parting families and lovers. Josh would have loved to be there to see all the shiny engines chugging smoke and steam from the stacks as they rolled in to the station. They still even held a certain amount of appeal to me, and I had been on more trains than I could even count. But I knew there was a reason I had elected to leave him at home. What that was, I didn't know, but I trusted the feeling brewing within my stomach.

As the train rolled in, I had but one question on my mind: Would I even recognize her, and she me? We hadn't seen each other in nearly twelve years. She had not even been twenty and three, aged prematurely by having to care for our sick mother. And I suppose that I, too, only twenty and eight, acted far too brazenly and immaturely than I should have. But neither of us would have imagined that at 15 and 20, respectively, the loss of our mother would have perpetuated an 18-year long family feud.

Her train was crowded. It was odd that we lived only a few hours apart, and yet it may as well have been a few years. I stood off rather to the side, watching as a young woman with a daughter came out first, followed by a vicar, a group of teenage school boys, an old lady clutching an umbrella, a bootblack, and finally...

I knew it was her. There was no worries as to my not recognizing her. She walked with the same straight-laced demeanour that our mother had always tried to instil within her daughter. And suddenly, in my throat, everything went dry and heavy. She saw me nearly at the same moment I her.

"John!" She called waving, still standing on the steps. "Here I am!"

I waved with a forced smile, rather more enthusiastically then I felt. This was not going to go down well, this I knew in both my heart and mind.

Abigail approached me carrying a Gladstone and her own trunk, as assertive as always. I took a few seconds to really study her; to try and apply Holmes' methods, but while I have had some success in the past, I was completely lost with my own sister. I could see her only as the source of a nearly two decades row that provided no simple useful data, simply a lot of hurt feelings.

She bore a striking resemblance to our late father. It was appropriate given how close the two were. There are, of course, some traits that nearly all Watsons' in my immediate family shared-including average height, a thick build and common brown eyes. Indeed, Josh was the first Watson I remembered in three generations with blue eyes. Abigail had all of these familial characteristics, but like our father had also a long nose, thin lips and disproportioned hands and feet. One can excuse such unattractive features in males, but in a female judged more harshly, it was not an appealing combination. She had possessed a certain amount of prettiness and grace in her youth, but years of strict living and devotion to her 'religious obligations' had prematurely aged her face, lined heavily with wrinkles on very tanned skin. I was sure that was it. Her hair was up of course, most of it hidden behind a country bonnet that looked out of place among the flowered and feathered hats ladies in the city wore. Her dress, too, was out of fashion enough that even I could recognise, and I was hardly an authority of women's fashion. No wedding ring. Unfamiliar and unwilling with fashion. And a cross. I didn't remember seeing it before, but it was plain and gold and hung down to her bosom. It was the only adornment she wore, and briefly I wondered were she had gotten it. But one thing was clear. It seemed all of Holmes' observations of her letter fit. I had little doubt they wouldn't have, of course.

"Well," she greeted me, as I quickly kissed her cheek. "Where is he?"

"Who?"

"The boy obviously! Where's little...what was it you nicknamed him?"

"Josh," I told her, more than a little taken aback. This was hardly the greeting I expected. "And he is at home. I thought it best for us to talk before you met."

"Ta! How utterly ridiculous! The entire reason I came to London is to meet my only nephew!" She lifted her trunk with some ease and slung it into my side, forcing me to take it.

"Abigail, you and I haven't spoken in 12 years, except for a few overtly courteous letters. And the last time we did, we cut ties completely. If I recall it correctly, when Mother died, you said I was a self-important coward and you hoped that when I went to Afghanistan, I would take a bullet through the heart." I rubbed my shoulder where it twinged in sympathetic consideration. "You were a bit to the north, but not entire off the mark." To this day I recall how angry she was when she said those words. However, my sister was not the sort of woman to let emotions cloud her thoughts. When she had yelled that at me, she had been perfectly composed, her eyes cold as ice. No tears from Abigail Watson. She would have sooner spit on me.

"You've grown a moustache," she said, eying me critically, as if this were the normal response. "I think you were suited for married life. When do you plan to start looking for another wife?"

I nearly dropped the trunk. As it was, I stepped in front of a surly looking fellow rushing toward his quickly departing train, receiving a dirty gesture in return. "What on God's green Earth sort of question is that? The last thing I am concerned of now is remarriage. I've only just lost Mary four months ago! Good Lord, Abigail, that truly was vicious Even for you."

"Tosh. It is a reasonable question when a child is at sake. You must remarry eventually. The child must have a mother!"

"The child does have a mother. She is simply dead. I cannot change that, Abigail, no matter how much I wish it. Cab!" We were outside now, and already I was angry. I had known it would be like this. I had know it. Together five minutes and already we were quarrelling.

My sister climbed in, and she gave our destination as the Albert Hotel, where she was to stay. "It is a necessary expensive, of course." She said. "For I did not wish to crowd you."

"Yes, I am afraid it would be a crowd. For there are no spare rooms in the flat. I have one bedroom, Holmes the other and we were compelled to turn the attic into a room for Josh."

As soon as I said it, I knew that it was wrong. I could not certainly have hidden the fact that I lived with Holmes for very long, but there was nothing but silence. Horrid silence before my sister gave me the most stunned look. "What is this, John? You...You, Josh, and...another man?"

"Sherlock Holmes. Do you mean to say that you have never read any of my accounts of his cases? If you had, you would certainly know that he and I work together. Why should we share the same house out of convenience?"

"Well, you do at least employ a nurse, do you not?" The look on her face was one of pure disgust.

"I did," said I, now feeling equally spiteful. "But Holmes and I tend to him ourselves. Our landlady helps as well."

If she found this shocking, she did not let on. Rather she sat straight as rod all the way until the hotel. I helped her out and fetched the bags at the same time as I was throwing coin at the driver.

"I'll see you up to your room," I told her. But instead, she grabbed the trunk and Gladstone with a fierceness all her own.

"No, I shall manage myself. I feel I need a rest after the trip. I'll come round to see you tomorrow morning for tea. I expect the child to be there, John. And you and I apparently have much to discuss as to his welfare."

"Indeed? And what would that be?"

"That would be," she said with my Father's eyes blazing. "that if I find you are not adequately providing for him, I shall be compelled to take him from you."

1 Bond Street is the London equivalent to Wall Street

2 Now Istanbul

3 Indeed, this includes Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, who stayed there many times. Nowadays there is a Sherlock Holmes Museum in Meiringen, similar to the one in London.