Disclaimer: I only have ownership of volumes one and two of the Complete Stories of Sherlock Holmes, plus a much-battered copy of the Hound of the Baskervilles that has suffered much abuse over the past six years. But that's about it.
Chapter Twenty
The funeral was a quiet event, but one of the hardest things that Sian had ever gone through. As she stood around the grave with Siger, Sherrinford, and Mycroft, Sian felt the deepest sorrow of her life. Never before had she felt this sad; not when her hamster died when she was seven, not when her parents divorced when she was ten, and not even—as bad as it may sound—when her grandfather died. Her grandfather hadn't left behind three little boys, all under the age of ten. Her grandfather hadn't died when he was thirty-one. It was because of these things that added to the heaviness of Sian's heart.
Sian was amazed at how quickly she had developed a bond with this family. Violet, in the few weeks she had known her, and become as close as any friend she had ever had, and certainly closer than her sister; Sherrinford and Mycroft were just as dear to her as Paris and London; even Siger felt like family to Sian. So even though her mission was completed, Sian couldn't bring herself to just pick up and leave—not yet, at least. She at least had to remain for a few days after the death.
The boys were trying to bear their mother's death manfully, and that broke Sian's heart even more. Both Sherrinford and Mycroft had taken to wearing their mother's birthstone rings on chains around their necks. When they thought that no one was looking, they would often pull the rings out from under their shirts and stroke them. The garnet ring for Sherlock was in a small box in the bureau in the nursery now.
One night, as Sian was tucking Mycroft into bed, he declared, "When I grow up, I'm never getting married."
"Why's that, dear?" Sian asked, sitting at the edge of his bed.
"Because, my wife might die, and I never want to see anyone die again, ever."
"Oh, honey," Sian said sympathetically. "Dying is a natural part of life; everyone has to die sometime. Isn't it better to have loved someone for a little while, rather than not at all?"
Mycroft considered this. "Maybe," he admitted. "But I'm still never getting married."
Mycroft was a stubborn child, Sian knew, and it just didn't seem worth it to argue life, love, and death with a seven-year-old.
"Whatever you say, Mycroft," Sian said, kissing him good-night.
As she went to say good-night to Sherrinford, Sian thought, well, now at least I understand why the three Holmes brothers are all still bachelors.
---
The next day, as Sian was changing the baby's diaper—and it was moments like these that Sian always made sure to refer to him "the baby" as opposed to "Sherlock," because that was too awkward, even for Sian—Siger wandered into the nursery.
He watched intently as she worked.
"I've never done that," he observed as Sian pinned the diaper shut.
Sian, who knew that there was a time and a place for spreading the gospel of feminism, or at least the pseudo-feminism that included men changing their own baby's diapers, said nothing more than a polite, "Oh?"
"Yes." After a stretch of silence, Siger said, "I'm interviewing a wet-nurse this afternoon."
The idea still appalled Sian to a certain extent, but she knew that was the practice of the nineteenth century. She wondered vaguely when baby formula was going to be invented.
"Ah," she said.
"Yes. And a governess for the boys."
Sian managed a smile. "That is excellent."
"Yes." Siger looked up at Sian. "But that—that's what I wanted to talk to you about, Sian." Sian narrowed her eyebrows.
"What?"
"I wanted to ask you if… that is, if you… if you would consider remaining here at Holmes Manor."
"I don't understand."
"The boys like you," Siger said. "And I like you. You remind us a bit of Violet, and, well, I was wondering if you would stay here and help take care of the boys."
"Take care of the boys?"
"We can still employ a governess as well," Siger rushed to say. "It's just that, well, you are Violet's cousin, and I would like you to stay here with your family."
"I— oh, Siger."
"I will allow it," he said. Sian gave him a confused glance. "Remember?" Siger explained. "Violet asked you to take good care of Sherlock, and you said you would, as long as I would let you."
Sian's mind flashed back to that moment…
"You will take good care of him, won't you, Sian?" Violet had asked desperately. And Sian remembered what she had said in response…
"If he lets me, I will."
Oh, blast it, Violet meant in marriage, and I meant if Sherlock even asked me! Sian could, however, understand how Siger took it the way he did.
"Siger," Sian said slowly. "Siger, I can't stay."
"And why is that?" Siger asked, gruffly.
"This is hard for me to say, but I must move on. I can't stay here, as much as I would like to." Sian could see that Siger was grinding his teeth.
"Sian," he said. "But we're your family."
"And that's part of the reason that I must go," Sian said. "I know it doesn't make sense, but please believe me when I say that it's best for us all that I go. I was only hanging around until you hired caretakers for the boys, and now that you have, I feel as I can go." Sian stopped, and glanced at Siger's face. It was the oddest expression, some mix between outrage, disappointment, and deep sorrow. She reached out and laid a hand on his shoulder.
"I promise that we will meet again," she promised. She then realized that she didn't even know if he was living in 1885, so she amended, "I promise that I will return to Holmes Manor one day."
"Very well," Siger said. "I suppose that the choice is yours."
"I'll leave in the morning," Sian said.
---
It was hard for Sian to say good-bye. The Holmes men—all four of them—were in the foyer as Sian was preparing to leave.
"You can borrow the carriage into town," Siger said, cradling Sherlock.
"I'll be fine," Sian said, winding the scarf around her neck. "Besides, the snow's too deep for wheels." She knelt down beside Sherrinford and Mycroft.
"I'll see you boys later," she promised, kissing them.
"Why are you leaving, Aunt Sian?" Mycroft asked pitifully.
"You'll have to ask Sherlock one day," Sian said cryptically. "But I must go now. I'll see you all later." And with that, Sian picked up her carpetbag and walked out of the door. She had gone about twenty feet before she turned around and looked at the house. In the panes of two windows were the faces of two little boys that meant the world to her. She waved her mittened hand one last time before walking off.
When she had finally lost sight of the house, Sian hid behind a tree and, using Moriarty's transporter, launched herself back to 1885.
---
Watson and Holmes were sitting in the parlor of 221B Baker Street when Sian started to reappear. Watson stealthily crept out of the room when he saw the telltale blue light. Holmes, who failed to notice Watson's flight, practically leapt out of his seat.
"Sian!" he yelped, but then, regaining his composure, he said, "Miss Fairfax."
"Sherlock," she said, nodding her head.
"I take it that you were successful in your mission?" he asked.
"Yes. Yes, I was. I shot Moriarty in the head." Holmes gaped at her. "He was holding a knife to your mother," Sian explained. "He was about to stab her. Well, you, really, since she was still pregnant with, um, you."
"Ah."
Silence.
"Here's Watson's revolver," Sian said, pulling the weapon from her reticule.
"Why don't you give it to Watson himself? He's right here."
"Sherlock," Sian said mildly. "Watson isn't here." Holmes glanced over his shoulder, but all that was in Watson's chair was the London Times.
"Oh. I suppose he isn't, then." He accepted the revolver and laid it on the side table.
More silence.
"What, uh, exactly took you so long?" Holmes asked. "You said you shot Moriarty while my mother was still, um, with child."
"I did," Sian admitted. "But I couldn't leave right after your mother's death. That would have been cold."
"Oh. Yes, I suppose it might have been."
Even more silence. God. Why are we being so uncomfortable around each other? Holmes wondered. We've always clicked rather well. We've never had long stretches of silence before, ever. We're usually talking. Or arguing. Holmes knew Sian mustn't be herself if she wasn't trying to pick a fight.
"Then I suppose you're done now," Holmes said finally.
"Yes. I suppose I am."
Silence again. What is wrong with us? Sian wondered. There were many questions that Sian wanted to ask Holmes, if she was brave enough to ask in the first place. Like, what were his true feelings for her? Had she somehow offended him? Why was he being so quiet?
"I suppose I should be going home now," Sian said finally.
"Yes," Holmes said. "I suppose you should."
"Good-bye, then."
"Good-bye."
And Sian disappeared from Holmes's life. Forever, he supposed.
"Smooth, Holmes. Very smooth." Holmes turned to the voice. Watson was coming back in the room.
"Where did you disappear to?" Holmes demanded.
"I left, to give you and Sian a private moment that I assumed that you would want. You didn't even seize the opportunity. Very smooth."
"What are you talking about?" Holmes asked angrily.
"That was best way I've seen a man confess his love to a woman in all my years."
"I didn't confess anything!"
"I know. Brilliant job."
Holmes didn't know what to say; he'd never seen a sarcastic Watson before.
"Why did you let her go?" Watson demanded.
"It was time for her to go. She'd spent enough time in the past."
"Damnation, Holmes! Don't you love her?"
"Yes."
"Don't you want to be with her?"
"Yes."
"Then why aren't you with her?"
"I can't stay in the future, Watson!" Holmes exclaimed. "If I may quote what you yourself said not too long ago, 'Just think about how London, England, or the world would exist without you.' I couldn't have gone to the future with Sian."
"Why didn't you ask her to stay here with you?" Watson yelled.
Holmes, not for the first time that day, was speechless.
"Well?"
"Evidently, she did not wish to say," Holmes said calmly, regaining his composure. "She wanted to leave."
"Well, no wonder, poor girl, with the way you were acting."
"How I was acting?"
"Yes. You claim that you love her, yet I've seen no hint of that so-called affection."
"Well…."
"Why didn't you ask her to stay with you?"
"I, uh…." The idea had never occurred to Holmes. "You really think she would have stayed?"
Watson shook his head sadly. "For an ingenious man, Holmes, you certainly know nothing of the real world." And he left the parlor, leaving Holmes more confused than he ever had been in his thirty-one years.