A/N: Damn finals! And that's all I'm going to say about that. Well, except thanks to those who answered my question about British weights. Hmm…I should let you guys do more of the work more often…read and enjoy!

When I got back to my room in the Holmes' estate, I was completely baffled. My chat with Mycroft was bewildering enough as it was, but adding LeStrade to the mix, I was unsure what to think. LeStrade knew something, something about Sherlock, something according to his brother, that had to do with a case he would never take up. While it was true that LeStrade had actually known Holmes longer than I, I could not imagine what this could be.

I was on the point of confronting Holmes with this confusion when I realised I had no idea where he was. He was not in my room, nor any longer in the room we had spent the night in. I spent an extremely uncomfortable hour searching the house, which was expansive, but to no avail. At last I confronted the servants-the same sullen faced cook from the last night and an unstable looking yardman to see if he had been spotted. He had.

"He said only that he wanted to borrow the horse, sir," the fellow said. "T'aint even much of an animal, but I told him, sir, that'd get him to Wadebridge and back."

"He was on his way to Wadebridge?"

"I gather so, sir."

I couldn't imagine what on Earth he would be going there for, especially on such a day as this. I knew for certain if anything he was eager for this all to be over with. When he left as a child, he had never intended to come back. That much had been made abundantly clear. It was the only thing that was clear.

He had still not returned by the time the hearse had pulled up to the house. I did not view the coffin being placed inside its glass house, but it was clear that Mycroft had designated only modest expense (no doubt at the wishes of the deceased). Only one horse in traditional black ostrich feathers was pulling the cart and there were only two others for the mourners. I was given a black band for my topper, and I tried to look not out of place as we rode quietly toward the nearest chapel. Once, Mycroft glanced at me as if he wanted to say something, but did not. I am quite sure that he realised I had no idea where his brother was.

The service was short and no one spoke other than one wizened old vicar who was barely audible. The chapel was deathly cold, and I wanted only for the whole thing to be finished so that I may leave this God-forsaken place.

The burial was to occur behind the chapel. This did not surprise me. Mycroft, as the chief mourner, followed solemnly behind the casket with hands clasped, but showed little emotion. There were not many others, and no one I could place for certain. A few elderly ladies who appeared to be some sort of relations, some curious locals perhaps, the ancient vicar, and some fellow church parishioners, perhaps. They were all of advanced age, which seemed to me odd, although I cannot say for certain why so. Perhaps it was because I myself was so out of place without Holmes. I had not even known the deceased, except from Holmes' story, and from that there would be no sorrow from me. I will not think it shameful to admit that I was not sad she was dead. For her abominable behaviour toward her own child, I think it fair to say that she had been alive to enjoy life too long as it was.

The vicar took us to a plot behind the chapel, an old plot with graves so antique that they were unreadable and collapsing in some cases, covered in years worth of brown and green weeds. The final prayers commenced, while I stood near Mycroft with head bent, trying to look as sober as he, but my mind reeling as to where his brother was. I couldn't help but glance out of the corners of my eyes, thinking he would appear at any second. He did not. The prayers ended, and as soon as the ladies had departed1, two strong-backed fellows took up their shovels to cover the oaken casket. Mycroft sighed deeply, but I could not tell if it was from sadness or relief that at last it was over. I nearly laid my hand at his shoulder, but thought better of it at the last. He was not his brother. I had already seen all the weakness in this Holmes that I was going to.

The funeral was over then, and the friends and relations slowly scattered. Some spoke in low voices to Mycroft, but he did little more than nod and glance about with a grim expression. I knew what he was thinking, I dare say. He was going to be rather angry with his brother, if he ever did intend to show up.

Not sure what was expected of me, I wandered about the graveyard, the names and dates somehow fascinating to me. 200 years or more of history here, forgotten, reduced to rubble. It was hard to fathom that these had once been living beings with families, lives; hopes and dreams. There was the concrete lamb statue of a little girl-only four, a victim of typhoid or cholera, I would wager, as both ran rampant here. Next to her was an entire family- a father, mother, and three children under the age of ten-all deceased in the 20's and all buried under the same marker. This saddened me all the more, thinking of my own family, scattered between Kent and London, immediately flashed into my mind. Holmes was all that I had left. Holmes and Josh. Perhaps that was why I was both so angry and yet not at the same time.

Finally, I saw him at, of all places, back at his mother's grave. At first, I was nothing but infuriated because I had promised Mycroft I would have his brother there and then he disappeared without trace. But before I could plod over, red-faced and acid-tongued, I saw the elder Holmes stroll up next to him. Now feeling it rude to intervene, I instead stayed put, mostly hidden behind a rather large statuette of an angel, carved in great detail of white marble.

"So, brother," said Mycroft, calmer than I would have expected, "you do show up at the last. Too late for the appearance of respect and civility, but not so late for your own purposes."

"You speak at though these anile great-aunts, senile cronies and ignorant Cornish ploughman greatly effects your position. I shouldn't think that any man in Parliament, nor any woman in Windsor Castle will remember Mycroft Holmes as anything but the foremost mind of the late 19th century."

The elder Holmes puffed up with a loud snort, though it was difficult to tell whether it was vanity at this exaggerated statement or just annoyance. Each was equally likely.

"You seem to think my anxiety is misguided and overstated, Sherlock, existing only because I must be concerned for my own reputation"-

"On the contrary, brother mine, I think you also concerned for your job, your club, and your connections to the finest eating establishments in London." He chuckled, unconcerned his sibling was obviously in anything but a jocular mood.

"Do not be condescending to me! I'll have you remember it was I who accepted, in fact encouraged"-

Sherlock jerked forward suddenly, his hand flying out to grasp his brother by the shoulder. With his back to me, I could not see the expression on his face, but they then began to speak only in low whispers. Whatever Mycroft had been about to say remained unspoken. Unconcerned with my shame, I leaned closer, trying to hear, but I could make out nothing short of a few head shakes.

"You are aware you are juggling swords?" Mycroft at last continued normally. "And that Newton's theorem must come into play before long? I speak of course, that these swords will eventually succumb to the gravity2 that even you are not capable of preventing."

"Your mind does not see everything, brother." Sherlock was absolutely final in his tone at this. It could have been a snake that said it.

Perhaps it was my own guilt at what I was doing-eavesdropping, that explains why I didn't even try and separate the pieces of their cryptic conversation.

Mycroft, it seemed, despite the appearance of propriety and normalcy, always forgave his younger brother's discretions. I thought it highly ironic that the public view of the elder brother was obviously one of utmost respect, as I now knew that he was, at times, the British government. Yet he was far from mainstream. He was a founding member of a club that did not permit its members to speak; he was completely anti-social, anti-sport, anti-convention, even. Still haunted by the spirit of the only woman he had allowed himself to feel love for. He would never marry, never have a family, never really even allow himself friends…

I paused, shocked by my own analysis. Perhaps the two brothers were more alike that I realised. In fact, the only real difference I could name was that Sherlock had risked it all to confess and trust me; Mycroft would not take that risk with anyone now that Jane was lost.

I felt sorry for them then. To be so strong of mind-even body, but so fragile of heart that at any minute the icy material could shatter into a million pieces.

At some point during my pondering, Mycroft had disappeared. I was suddenly fearful of being spotted, so I tried to make him out amongst the small black groups gathered 'round the chapel, but the familial trait of stealth must have come into play, for he had disappeared into the wind.

Sherlock stared angrily at the newest grave in Bodmin Moor. Or perhaps 'angrily' is not the correct word. I could be transposing my own will on to him, wanting him to be angry. In truth, he was probably stone-faced, emotionless, completely composed. His words, when spoken, would seem to have been spoken in anger. That was how it was to me. But take it from me that I knew them to be spoken with complete equanimity.

"Well, Mater, at last you are gone. I had for a time against my better judgment, supposed that you were a creature who was not capable of life and death. One who had existed and always would. Your God did manage to keep you away for a spell, did he not? But in the end, you got your own way. Just as it was in life. I want you to know, my dear mother, two very important things. Firstly, that I come here today not for your own sake, but for your other son's. He has tried to the best of his ability to protect me, and I owe him some loyalty for that, although I care not to admit it. Secondly, I want you to know that I have succeeded. Certainly not because of you, but not despite you, either. It is because I have chosen to. For years, I had thought you won. I nearly let you, in fact. But for the first time since before I lost Philippa, I have something that makes me happy. Not something merely to distract me until my life is over, such as it is for Mycroft, but something that makes life seem worth living. You would say that I am on the path to Satan. You would say that no matter, but if you knew of my life at this point, I am certain you would think me destined to an afterlife of fire and brimstone. I am not one to speculate on such matters. Theology has never held much interest. Perhaps because it was crammed down my throat as a child, or perhaps because it is intangible, useless, unscientific and holds no use for me. But it's of little consequence. I will take that risk. And if you did manage to make it to a place where you can hear me now, than I want you to know that. You have never known anything else about me, so know that."

He paused and bowed his head slightly. His right hand seemed for a minute, about ready to reach out to touch the grave, but at the last it did not. Holmes quickly made the sign of the cross and turned away, nearly at a run. That was as close as he would come to making peace with his mother. I wouldn't know him to speak of her again.

Before I even had time to turn back to see where he was, he appeared in front of me with a wide grin. "Hello, doctor. Looking for me, were you?"

I was so surprised that by the time my heart had returned to a normal rhythm, it was too late for any retorts, clever or not. "Where the devil have you been?"

"Oh, come now, Watson. I have already been quite castrated by brother Mycroft. I needn't hear the same from you." He linked his arm through mine, and with an enthusiastic pull, led me toward the chapel.

"How was the service?"

"Perhaps you would know, had you bothered to attend."

That smile again. But he refused to take offence, even on those rare occasions when I do intend it. "I am sure that my brother gave a stellar performance as the dutiful son in grief. I came home for his sake, but never did I promise that I would subject myself to such tortures as the actual ceremony. I will briefly shake the hands of any ancient relations of mine who happen to still be alive before we depart, thanking them for their misguided sympathy, but that is all. There is no reason left for me to ever think on this place again."

Before we could leave the eerie grounds of the cemetery, Holmes paused for a second, staring at something just off the distance, near to his mother's grave. "What are you starring at?" Asked I, trying to see.

"Nothing." He turned away quickly to retake my arm and said not a thing for several moments. It was only later that I would realise the very grave with the white marble angel I had been hiding from, watching the two brothers was that of Philippa Davies Holmes. I would not see it again for many years, but there after I would visit it quite often, placing flowers at it and the tomb next to it. I knew even then that it was the place he would want to spend eternity.

Mycroft seemed in genuine morning the rest of our time in Cornwall, which was only a few hours more. Wherever Holmes had gone to those missing hours, whether it really was Wadebridge or somewhere more specific, he had obtained return tickets, and we to leave on the 1:14 back to Victoria, to be home for a late supper. There were actually three tickets when he produced him, and Sherlock tried (albeit without much heart in it) to convince his brother to return to London with us. He refused with a shake of his massive head. "There is still much to do here," said he in a thin voice. "The estate must be catalogued, the servants disposed of, the will read, and the dept liquidated. I, of course, am left to handle all of this."

For a second, I think Sherlock nearly was ready to stay another day or two, just for his brother's sake. For a second, his hard face softened, but then I think the ghosts of the house called to him and he shuddered slightly. "I have no doubt that you are capable of it all, brother. Do send word if there is anything I can do…oh, and about the will…"

"You would have the audacity"-

Sherlock held up a hand. "I would have the audacity to tell you that while I highly doubt Mother would take such leave of her senses to remember me, if the law happens that the estate is to be divided between both sons, I am telling you now that you may uses every last pound of it to surround yourself with vintage port and curried fowl. I want nothing."

Mycroft's lip curled, and it seemed evident another war in as many days was going to occur between the two brothers. But instead, nothing happened. The elder brother merely nodded, waving us away and saying nothing else. I remembered how he had spoken that very morning. I wondered if Sherlock ever knew there was a side to his brother that was not made of stone.

My friend seemed deep in thought the entire dogcart trip from Bodmin Moor to the station in Wadebridge. Having nothing else to do, I watched him in his brown study. His expression was lucid, but his eyes seemed detached, darting back and forth faster than the wheels of our transportation could turn. I could nearly see into his mind. He was thinking about what happened the last two days, last night in particular. Perhaps he was even remembering all the things he did not tell me about his childhood, all the things too painful to even talk about. Such as Philippa's actual death, and whatever else his mother may have done to him. Then there was school; I knew nothing from the age of ten or so until we met. There was so much more to know. It was my own private mystery. My own mystery to try and solve. Starting with LeStrade. I made up my mind right then and there to pay a visit to Scotland Yard soon after we returned. I was not a fellow that had to know everything, mind. But there were some puzzle pieces that just had to fall into place before I would ever be able to close my mind to it all. He had started me down this path and like our relationship, I could not divert from it now. It was all too far gone.

I started my investigation on the train, another private compartment, as was Holmes' typical fashion for attaining. He was not the most cooperative of clients. He seemed to want to continue his silent meditation that had occupied him for the entire two hour cart ride. I didn't think that I could stand that.

"I am not sure that your brother will ever forgive your actions today. He especially wanted you to be there, for the funeral." What I did not tell him was how I knew this.

"I do not take orders from Mycroft," said Holmes in a bitter tone. "Nor you, might I add."

"I do not expect you to take orders. Merely to do what is right occasionally"-

"Right had nothing to do with this morning! Mycroft only cares about other people's perceptions of his daft brother! Of course, he is as queer as I am, if not more, but unfortunately for him, his occupation requires that he maintain an appearance of normalcy and tedium. His own closeted skeletons barely allow for this. Add to it a brother like I…well, you see it, do you not?"

"You are wrong!" I said, leaning forward. "Your brother cares for more than his own reputation. I can assure you that he cares for you as well!"

"Ha! How do you know that? What were you doing with him this morning?"

I didn't even hesitate. It was so much impulse that I knew later I would not have been able to stop myself even if I had wanted to. But I did not. I jumped to my feet and gave him a blow that was far more ruffian than he was used to, I'm sure. It was not a straight-left by any means. It was a wild swing that caught him hard against the cheek. He reeled in his seat with a grunt, but did neither cry out nor retaliate.

As for myself, I slowly lowered my body into the seat feeling my hand throb. The first thing that occurred to me was that I hadn't been in a fist-fight for probably two decades and yet I had resorted to it now. The second thing I felt was utter calm. It was as if all the anger and frustration I had harboured over his behaviour had through my fist as soon as I hit him.

I was stunned, unable to believe I had done it. But I was also unable to apologise. I knew I had meant it and he deserved it. So with as much dignity as I could muster after my puerile action, I sat straight-backed waiting for his reaction.

He laughed. Looking me squarely in the eye, he actually began to laugh quite heartily. He did wince when it became apparent his newly bruised cheek wouldn't allow it, but I thought surely he must have gone mad. It had been thought that geniuses tended to have problems with their own sanity. And I thought for that moment Sherlock Holmes had at last crossed that boundary.

"My God, you're mad…"

His laugh turned to a chuckle. "Surely you don't believe such a thing."

"Certainly I do! And will you please stop that laughing? What sort of person except a madman would laugh rather than retaliate when someone hits him?"

"Now, now," said he, holding up his hands defensively. "Don't let any such rubbish cross your mind. There was a perfectly rational reason for my actions. I assure you, dear Watson, I am as sane as you."

That was not exactly reassuring as my own actions I had long suspected now could not have undertaken with complete lucidity. "Then, prey, enlighten me. Why wouldn't you, a champion of the ring who easily could defeat me if it came to such, strike me back?"

"Tsk. Really, Watson. Do you think I would do my dearest friend such a way? Well, perhaps you do at that. I shan't blame you if you do. After all, it was I who dealt the first blow…" he cleared his throat, momentarily looking away. His actions the previous night were as fresh and painful in his own mind as in mine. Perhaps more. "I wanted you to hit me. Sometimes it is the only answer to strike at what pains our hearts. But I knew you, as a gentleman, would not come to such an end unless I provoked you." He smiled. "It worked, did it not?"

"Holmes, are we such barbarians that we have to resort to hitting to solve our problems?" That at least was what I said, although I could not deny how good that punch really did feel. And how much he really did deserve it.

"There is nothing barbarian about instinct, doctor. In fact, it is deeply laden within the brain, tracing in some cases back to different stages of man. Like animals, without instinct, we would not be able to survive, as we could be easily overcome by such emotions as fear3"-

"Could you please save this talk for another time? While no doubt fascinating…"

"Watson," he interrupted, snatching my hand suddenly in a tight embrace. "You have my most sincere apologies for my actions the other night. You must realise…I was not myself. It was that house…being there again…remembering…" he shivered, and on instinct, I gripped his hand tighter. "All the death and murder and deconstruction of society we have witnessed together could not prepare me to return there. I have spent three-quarters of my life trying to forget that the first twelve occurred. Like Dante's traveller, I could not escape Purgatory, and felt certain I was returning to Cocytus4. Last night, I was that completely frozen and deserve to be among the three traitors for what I did. But God, if indeed such a being exists, will witness that I never intended to hurt you. What I did…I will never…abuse you in such a way again. I swear it."

There was more sincerity in his voice than I ever recalled him using with me. On one hand, I was touched. Touched that he had summoned both the nerve and emotion to muster this speech. But on the other hand, I knew that even if I forgave him here, which I knew in my heart I would, there was nothing that even he could say that would make me forget. And I told him so.

"I know," he replied in a whisper. That was all he would say.

He could have protested. I had actually expected he would. Arguing his point of view was one of his strong suits, and rare was the occasion when he would so genuflect to myself. But there would be no disputing me. His punishment would be to know that nothing he could say or do what change what had happened. And as we all know, guilt was the worst punishment of all.

"I have something for you," said Holmes after a long and knowing silence. "I found it this morning. I must tell you straight away I do not want to discuss anything it may say. And no matter what you say, I will not change my mind to that. But you are free to do whatever you want."

What he handed me was a thick brown correspondence book. It was old and had a musty smell to it; the pages felt thick and creased in my hands, as if read a lot. It was filled with ink that had one time might have been black, but had since faded to pale brown. I had time only to glance at the first page before I knew I would have to say something to him, as that page told all.

'The Private Journal of Observations by Sherlock Holmes, age 8 years.'

"I was eight when I began to record life as it happened to me. I cannot say for sure why I did, although it became great practise for later life when I was forced to keep some documentation of cases. I recorded nearly every day in my life from eight to eleven and a half, and then at least once or twice a week until nearly twenty."

"Why stop?" I asked, as I myself had kept a journal, or at least some ramblings of my life, for as long as I could remember.

He gave a brief shrug. "Life became commonplace. I lost interest. I was too engaged in trying to eke out my chosen profession. Take any excuse you like."

"But why give this to me?"

"Well, you often claim that there are parts of me unknown to you…what you write of me is not who I truly am"-

"I would presume though, that you would not wish the public to know you in any other way."

"True enough. But that does not mean I would deny you. If my mother's death has stirred anything good within me, I want it to be understanding between you and I. I wish to give you my complete trust, as I know I have not up until now." He pointed to the book. "There are things I wrote in there I am not proud of. Things that could even be considered scandalous if the public were to become aware of them. Up until now, anything I may have done that could lead to blackmail, arrest, disgrace, et cetera, I have made certain of no proof existing. Unlike Wilde, whose soul is rotting in Reading Gaol, I know that discretion is the only shroud for my life with you. But even a Scotland Yarder could connect the dots of what I confess in that book." He looked at me then, with eyes that were firm but seemed to me fearful anyway. Whether or not that was my fancy I couldn't say. "For the first time in my life, I am putting my life in the hands of another."

Sitting there with him then with his hand in mine, I recalled a memory of some two years previous. Just after a Christmas in Switzerland, a very long train ride from Dover and then home to London. Josh, asleep in my arms, and Holmes and I, peaceful and mellow. There was no concern over the present, no fear over the future, at least for a few moments. There was just the three of us, a gorgeous sun setting, and no one having to speak. I hadn't realised at the time, but I now knew that was the most perfect moment of my life. I highly doubted that it could ever be like that again. Nothing had really changed. It was still he, I and the boy. Yet something had. I fully remembered the promise each of us had made that night, just months later. If ever there was a time we could not continue; we had not the other's complete heart, we were supposed to quit. There was too much to risk to continue if not under the most devoted of circumstances.

I was not certain whether such a time had occurred. But for now, I was going to say that it had not.

The boy, Sherlock, eleven years old, sat in a second-class compartment with his sister and brother-in-law. The train was heading to Victoria Station from Wadebridge on that chilly morning in mid-December. The Christmas season was just ten days away, the first one for the newly married couple of Mr. and Mrs. James Davies.

It was plain to all, Sherlock thought, that they were newly married. They sat with hands held, ridiculous grins frequently passing between them with any number of other intricacies that made it obvious. One of which was his sister's belly, at six months along, already sticking out round and firm from her dress. Sherlock could not help but stare at it angrily. The life that was in there would mean the end of his. One look at it, and there would be no need for him. He would be thrown over to a rank, drooling bundle of filth that everyone would coo and fawn over. Philippa had tried on numerous occasions to convince him that would not happen. Sherlock did not believe her.

They were going to London that day to shop about for the forthcoming holiday. Sherlock was to stay with his sister until the day before Christmas Eve, when all three would return to Cornwall to celebrate the holiday. Everyone was in good spirits. Philly and James, of course, but even his parents. His mother had basically ignored everything he did and had since the wedding in June. It was a glorious freedom for the first time in his life, that he could go and do what he pleased, not having to worry about retribution from the woman. Even Mycroft was pleasant. He was eighteen now, and had just returned from his first semester at Oxford. The only thoughts he had were of University and Jane Davies.

Everyone was content with life for the first time that Sherlock could remember. Everyone but him.

"I think that Honora is a lovely name," Philippa was saying. "Or perhaps Maeve?"

"You must be daft if you think I'll have a child called Maeve!" Said James, laughing. "Besides, it's going to be a boy and it will be named James, junior, of course."

" 'I'm' daft! I'll have you know, James Davies, that this child is growing in my womb. I think I am a better judge of what it shall be." The two continued this ridiculous argument for some minutes more with Sherlock trying to silence them with the most contemptuous glower he could muster. Philippa sighed at last, smiling at her brother as if she could not see his anger. "I remember when you were born, darling boy. I had so hoped for a sister."

Sherlock's eyes went completely wide.

"But I was more than pleased at having another brother."

Davies laughed in that common, altogether too jubilant way of his that sounding like someone prodding a mule in its backside. "I don't think he's too pleased to hear you wishing him a girl, Phil." He slapped his brother-in-law good-naturedly on the arm.

In truth, the boy could think of nothing worse than being born female. But he would not tell his sister that. "I say, Davies, you do have a great propensity for the obvious."

James' mouth closed. He did not say anything directly to Sherlock again until after the station arrived in the City.

"Really, Sherlock," said Philippa. But that was as rebuking as she ever got.

London was saturated with Christmastide cheer. There were about 3 million people counting the outer boroughs in the city and it seemed to Sherlock that every single one of them was out that day, rushing about with packages and parcels hanging off various appendages. He loved the city. He always knew that sooner or later he would end up here, amongst the crowds and soot and air that occasionally hurt to breath. But it was action. Solid action. His mind would never cease to pulse in a place like this.

"Shall we go off and find you a present?" Asked Philippa, as Davies disappeared into a clothing store, and the brother and sister took off alone.

"Yes…how about a divorce for you and James?"

Her face fell so that the boy was forced to look away. "That pains me, my dear. You know that, don't you? Why can't you…" She sighed walking a half-step in front of him. "I love you both. But you expect me to choose between you. I cannot do it! I refuse to do it! You are my brother, my own child in my heart, but James is my husband. It is utterly unfair of you to ask me to choose between you."

He knew that she was right. He was asking her to choose. But she was gone, gone from him now, gone the moment that the gold band had been placed on her finger. He had nobody now. Nobody to keep his mind sane, nobody to hold him, nobody to listen to his brilliance…nobody to love. He felt for the first time completely alone.

"Sherlock! Sherlock, come back!"

He did not know his way around London at all yet. But this was the perfect opportunity to find out. He was headed toward Whitechapel, the unclean area of the city. It seemed a perfect place to start. He passed restaurants, tobacconists, hotels, shops, pubs, a church and a bank without stopping. He thought he could still hear her behind him, but the streets were getting more and more crowded and it was hard to hear. He slowed down briefly, but then he heard his name again. He was standing between a pub and a bookstore, a cart on his left and a crowd of shouting people just behind him when it happened.

He thought that he might have heard someone yell "Stop," but it was hard to tell for all the people. He heard the shot but didn't know that was what it was. It sounded only like a bang, a door being slammed, lightning that drew a bit too near. But instinct stopped him the second it happened. His entire body went completely rigid. Gunpowder. Nothing smelled like it, and it was close enough to linger in the air. There was screaming and panic, men shouting and at least one small child crying. A dog started barking and he heard heavy footfalls. "Where was it?" A man's voice called out. "Over here!" That was a different man. "Get out! Move aside! Move aside, now!"

And all of that was before he could even muster the courage to turn around. When at last he did, there was nothing to see but a colourful blur of people. Shoving and general running about commenced, and Sherlock knew that it was bad. And he too, began to shove and run. "Out of the way!" He yelled. He knew. He just knew. "Get out of the way!" He jostled a fat man in front of him hard as he could. "That's my sister!" His heart was pumping so hard that it hurt. But he could not stop to clench his chest nor keel over, like he wished he could. He was too busy pushing. Some large fellow back-handed him. He didn't even stop to think if it was on purpose or not. Sliding between his legs, he had reached the epicentre of the ruckus.

"God..Oh, God…

She was lying on the cement which had seeped to red and puddled around the body. People crept back, trying to avoid stepping it in, but most stayed close enough to watch. Sherlock fell to his knees, feeling how cold it already was. He tried to take her hand, but it wouldn't move. "Philly…" his voice said. "Philly…"

One eye opened slightly, enough to see the deep grey colour. Her mouth twitched slightly, as if she were trying to smile. What followed could have been a horrible scene of last confessions of love, hand holding and heavy tears of sorrow and shock. But the reality of it was far different. Sherlock could move no part of him except his eyes. He was kneeling in a gigantic puddle of blood and all he could think was how disgusting it felt. Several times in those last few seconds he tried to reach out to touch her, to heal her, but he simply could not move.

She died with a short little gasp, her mouth remaining open and eyes falling horribly back to all white. Neither said any last words. Neither could really believe the other was there. It really mattered very little.

At some point in his shock, the boy realised that Davies had appeared. He looked up at him, feeling curious. He seemed distraught. Some men were next to him, and one held him tight by the arm. He was talking to him, but Sherlock could no longer hear. The world had changed; had become so oddly slow. Surely he was here to fix his sister. That had to be what he was here for. Why wouldn't they let him go to her?

Someone grabbed his arm. "Come out of there, boy," said he.

It didn't even occur to Sherlock to move. The man, who wore a policeman's uniform and a thick walrus-like moustache, tugged harder. "I said now, lad."

When he still didn't move, the Bobby actually picked him up, dragging him toward the sidewalk. They were taking Philippa away on a long board. She was covered with a piece of white resin, already turning red.

At last he found his voice. "Where are they taking her?" He asked anyone who might have the answer. "Where are they taking Philly?"

He turned on Davies, but he had somehow disappeared. A medium-height detective with dark hair and beady eyes appeared in his place. He wore a plain dark suit, but Sherlock knew he had to be an Inspector. They stuck out like sore thumbs.

The officer who had accosted the boy pushed him over toward him. Sherlock could have fought back. He could have ran, most likely after his sister, but he allowed himself to be led. "Inspector LeStrade5, sir," said the bulky man, touching his hat. "This lad here is the young lady's brother. That's according to her husband, sir. He said maybe he had seen what had happened. They were together, apparently, sir."

The Inspector nodded and turned his rat-like eyes on the boy. "What's your name, boy?"

Sherlock didn't answer. His mind turned rapidly, trying to put it all together. The gunpowder had been so near he could feel it in his nostrils. Whoever had shot her had been right next to him.

Close enough that he could have reached out to touch him. If only he had turned around.

The Inspector jabbed him hard on his arm, his face twisted in his anger. "I know this isn't easy, boy, but if we are to catch this madman, it has to be now. Look at me boy! Now, tell me what your name is!"

Eventually, Sherlock told him. A cab with iron bars appeared and he went with the Inspector to his local division. Although usually able to remember nearly everything that happened to him with his photographic memory; that day the boy could not even recall the questions they asked. It was all a blur of confusion and constant explanation that did not seem to get them any closer to the truth. Finally, Sherlock looked up from his uncomfortable wooden chair and saw Davies' standing near. With the Inspector yelling protestations behind him, Sherlock ran over.

"Where is she, Davies? Where is she?"

He had been crying. His face was still streaked and pale red; his hair dishevelled and his handkerchief missing. There was a dirt streak on his collar and his tie was askew. He looked at the boy and gasped. "Jesus, Sherlock, Jesus Chirst."

The boy realised then, looking down at his suit, that it was heavily stained with blood. He quickly looked back at Davies, fighting the urge to strip off all his clothing.

"Never mind that," he said to him angrily. "What about Philippa?"

But James could manage nothing but more 'Jesus…Jesus Chirst.'

"Tell me what's happened, you bastard!"

Davies was crying again now. Heavy tears blurred his eyes, and he made no effort to hide it. In fact, to the boy's great shock, he grabbed him in a tight embrace and wailed loudly enough that several policeman turned to see what was going on. "Oh, God…why? Why did this happen? My darling…she's dead! They're both dead!" Davies tried to grip him even tighter, but Sherlock had gone completely limp upon hearing the word 'dead.' He would not remember anything about the rest of that day, nor the two that followed it.

1 It was the custom that ladies not witness the actual internment

2 Whether Mycroft is talking about the gravity of an object or a situation, I'll leave open for speculation.

3 The psychology of instinct and suppression was not fully explored until around 1920. Again, Holmes is ahead of his time.

4 The ninth level of Hell is Cocytus, where Satan himself resides, flapping his wings for all eternity and making thick layers of ice. Traitors to God, family and county are said to reside there. The three traitors Holmes speaks of are Cassius, Brutus, and Judas.

5 I'm sure you all know this, but just in case someone is going 'huh?' I mean this to be LeStrade, senior.