The Private Diary of Elizabeth Quatermain, Vol. V: Tartan Holiday

by Lady Norbert

A/N: Someone should draw me hunched over my keyboard with one of those big anime sweatdrops coming out of my head. That's how I feel.

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31 July 1900

There has been no opportunity to update since I wrote that we were departing for the monastery, as everything has been quite incredibly chaotic. We are going home! But I must start at the beginning. Although our crewman escort remained behind at the hotel, we still took both carriages, intending that no matter who the unfortunate Englishman was, we would take it upon ourselves to return him to his native country. It seemed the least we could do, since we'd had no luck chasing down Mr. Holmes.

St. Boniface's is a beautiful abbey, just fifty years old, constructed in the Byzantine style. It is the home of the tomb of King Ludwig I of Bavaria (not to be confused with Ludwig II, who commissioned Neuschwanstein). The monks smiled at us as we entered and were led through the building. We could see them going about their tasks -- tending gardens, kneeling in prayer, writing. I've often thought that a monastic life must be rather peaceful; actually, before the League landed on my doorstep, monastic would not have been an entirely inappropriate word to describe my own life. It was peaceful, but I'm much happier now.

We were escorted to a room which more or less functions as a hospital wing for the monks. There were a few patients there, and one was more or less obscured from our view by a curtain. This was slowly drawn back in short order, however, and one glance at the figure on the bed told us everything.

We had found Sherlock Holmes.

This was why he has been unable to return home or even to contact his brother -- he has been bedridden, his mind ravaged by fever. For a long time he probably had barely wit enough to recognize that he wasn't even in his own home. He lay sleeping, and we were unsure about whether to wake him. Henry had apparently explained to Brother Lechner that he is a doctor, for he was permitted to move around the bed and conduct his own examination of the sleeping detective. "Elizabeth," he said, "I want you to speak with Brother Hesse, here. He has had the chief of Mr. Holmes' care and I would like you to get all the information about his condition that you can."

Once I had finished that task -- Brother Hesse, like Brother Lechner, spoke very good though accented English -- I returned to the sickroom and could hear voices. One was weak, but strident. "I do not know anything of what you are telling me," he said flatly. "It may be so, but I have no clear proofs at this moment."

"Sir, I give you my word as a fellow Englishman," I could hear Henry telling him gently. "We are here at the request of your brother Mycroft, to bring you safely home."

"And I give you my word, as whatever you please, that I will not move until you can prove to me that your claims are valid!"

I slipped up behind Tom and Rodney, who were standing close together and looking uncomfortable; Alex seemed almost teary-eyed. "What's going on?" I inquired.

"He's refusing to let us take him home unless we can prove that Mycroft sent us," said Rodney, glumly. "Which we can't very well do."

"We have the letter he sent with us, don't we?"

"Yeah, well, there's the problem," said Tom. "He's not convinced it's authentic -- or that Mycroft Holmes is actually his brother. Suspicious bugger, ain't he?"

"Seems to run in the family. Remember how dodgy the other one was about Watson?"

I edged forward, and cleared my throat. "Pardon me, doctor," I said, "but I took the information you wanted." I glanced at Mr. Holmes with what I intended to be nothing more than a kindly expression, and a nod of polite greeting. The change to his countenance was extraordinary. His face was pale as he gazed up at me, but it seemed that his eyes developed something of a spark to them. We stared at one another for a moment, grey eyes on grey eyes, and then he spoke.

"Lucy?"

I could hear the murmurs of surprise swelling around me; Alex told me later that my face was "a perfect mask of confusion." Mr. Holmes shook his head slightly. "Lucy...where is your mother..."

"Who's Lucy?" I heard Tom mutter.

"Mr. Holmes, I'm..." I hesitated to say that I was not Lucy, but after a moment, it seemed quite unnecessary. He gave himself another, stronger shake, and looked at me hard.

"Forgive me. You can certainly not be who I thought you were." He turned toward Henry again. "Show me the letter?"

I think I may safely say that we were all beyond perplexed as the famous detective read the lines of introduction signed by his brother. "Yes," he said at last, his voice somewhat faint. "Yes...I remember. Mycroft...of course Mycroft would send someone...after the last time..."

I watched his face with interest. Something was going on behind his eyes; things were stirring, settling into place. His gaze was sharpening, gaining focus. It even seemed (though this may have been a trick of the light or my imagination) that he was willing strength to return to his atrophied limbs. He held the letter in long, elegant fingers, and after a moment he gave a soft sigh.

"May we go home?" he asked. "This German air is wonderfully restorative...but I think the cure I most need now can only be found in Baker Street."

There was a collective sound of joy and relief and amazement. "He's remembered!" Alex exclaimed.

From this point there followed the great flurry of activity. We wired Mina that we were on our way, and victorious besides; we further sent a wire to Mr. Mycroft Holmes, a more cryptically worded message that nevertheless conveyed all the necessary information. I can only imagine with what happiness it must have been received. It amused me, so I noted the phrasing:

RETURNING STOP

QUARRY OBTAINED STOP

ALL WELL STOP

Mr. Holmes felt it necessary, and I think we all agreed, to compensate the Benedictines for their care. "Without your kindness, I would surely never have been able to see England again," he said. Once he had made his contribution to the abbey, we took our leave of the brothers, and conveyed Mr. Holmes back to our hotel. From there we collected our own belongings and, following some small discussion on the subject, sold both carriages and the horses which had drawn them. It seeme both fastest and, for the invalid's sake, most comfortable to buy rail passes that would carry us back into Thuringia, and there we will meet with the Nautilus and return to England.

We are at present aboard our train. We have arranged for the use of a few adjacent compartments, and Mr. Holmes is resting peacefully in one of the beds. He must be carefully monitored all throughout our return trip, lest he suffer any sort of relapse; brain fever is not something to be treated lightly.

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3 August 1900

Oh, how I have missed this ship! It seems an age since we disembarked. Mina has done an excellent job in looking after my plants in my absence, and I do believe little Jonathan has grown. He greeted us all with the affection that only a small child can bestow, flinging himself first into Henry's arms with a joyful cry of "Papa!"

I note that Mr. Holmes watched this scene with a sort of bemusement. He is too good at concealing any true feelings; as Rodney says, "he's definitely not the sort of bloke you ever want to play cards with." But I have to wonder what went through his mind when he beheld the happy little family reunion. He does not speak much just yet; I think he is simply growing accustomed to our individual personalities. I am sure that he has heard of Henry Jekyll, and may even be wondering (as I once did) as to the reports of his death. I'm even more sure that he has heard of Nemo, though only the less amiable stories.

He has proven a fairly quiet patient. I do not think he cares much for being ordered to take medicine, or indeed, ordered to do anything. But the severity of his illness has quelled the more masterful aspects of his temperament, I suspect, and he is submitting more or less without complaint to Henry's and my instructions. I have been endeavoring to relieve Henry as often as possible, so that he has the opportunity to be with the wife and son I know he has missed dreadfully.

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5 August 1900

Had I ventured a guess, I would not have presumed that Mr. Sherlock Holmes had ever been acquainted with the existence of a creature named Elizabeth Quatermain. In this I would have been mostly correct; however, today I learned that it is not entirely accurate.

He was sleeping when I arrived in the infirmary to relieve Henry's watch, and I seated myself with a bit of needlework I had brought. I still have a wedding to plan, after all, and it is hardly too soon to be arranging my trousseau; I therefore have been, since our return to the Nautilus, at work on an embroidered counterpane, though I freely admit I do not expect to actually finish it in time for the wedding.

"Ah, Miss Quatermain."

I looked over to find the patient awake, and watching me with mild disinterest. "How do you feel today, Mr. Holmes?" I inquired. "May I get you something to eat or drink?"

"I could not tell you the last time I enjoyed a cup of proper English tea, if you wouldn't mind."

I at once set about preparing tea for him, and when it was ready, I poured two cups and resumed my seat. "You are comfortable, I trust?" I asked.

"In largest part. But I have a question for you."

"Not at all."

"Pray, how are you related to Allan Quatermain?"

I was not surprised that he should know my father's name; I was, however, very much surprised that he would begin to imagine that there was a relation. Quatermain is not the most unusual name. My face must have betrayed some of my feeling, because he smiled. "I find myself," he said, "in the company of such extraordinary companions as Captain Nemo and Dr. Jekyll. It seems too much to expect that anyone in the company by the name of Quatermain could fail to be a relation to the great white hunter. You are his daughter, are you not?"

"Indeed I am."

"And how is he?"

I glanced briefly at my teacup. "He was taken from us last year."

"I am sorry to hear it. He was a great man."

"Did you know him, sir?" I could not prevent myself from asking.

"I met him, yes. It was...oh, at least as many years ago as you yourself have years, I should think. We encountered one another at a location called the Crucible of Life."

"I am unfamiliar with that story, sir...would you be so good...?"

Sherlock Holmes, I was quick enough to discover, rarely objects to retelling any of his adventures, and he seemed only too willing to consent to my request. He began to speak about their shared adventure in seeking out the Crucible of Life, home of the very essence of life. I listened, enraptured, for a long time as he explained the reasons he had traveled under an alias, how my father had reacted to what he called a "magician's trick," and how they had parted company. The tea went cold.