"Fascinating. Where did you learn these methods?"

In the corner of my eye, Lestrade was ready to stand. A quick temper darkened his face. Just as quickly, Bradstreet pushed him back down in his chair. Pennywraith's eyes glittered at me, an unblinking serpent waiting to strike…

…John grimaced as the cab slowed even further. At this rate, he would have his own memoirs written, re-read, proofed and ready for his publisher by the time he reached his home!

He set his pencil within the crook of the little book and blew on his fingers a moment, collecting warmth inside his palms. The cab-ride smoothed out. He resumed writing down his impressions of that less than warm meeting with a man who intended to catalogue him under 'rival'…

…I confess, I was not completely unprepared for the man's enmity, but I had also trusted to wait for my own judgment. When faced with his antagonism, my first reaction was astonishment. In the silent expressions of the Yard, I read a forlorn hope that Pennywraith would at last be taken in hand.

Only a few months ago John Watson would have attacked any man for questioning his reputation and his teachers—even if the fight would be lopsided.

Months have a way of being as entrenched as the centuries.

"As you can see," I turned his back to the grasshopper man, and faced the chalk-board, "The bones are all adults. Comparison of the size is the least effort in this identification. Other traits, such as wear on the bone, smoothing of the joints…and of course, the partial dissolution of age which makes the bone look spongelike…all these factors besides the size separate the bones from that of children or physically mature individuals." So saying, I sketched quick lines of comparison on the slate.

Pennywraith was left standing, his own audience of one…

The mildness of daylight suddenly vanished like it never existed. John peered hopelessly at the paper, and finally closed it up and secreted his journal into his pockets. With the growing dark came what his grandmother would have called the 'sna' season. London was acting as though it had been given the wrong month. February was far enough away to be a myth.

Soft winter illumination had melted coldly into the dark that quickly; the snowfall was resuming. Watson couldn't recall in his memory such an erratic winter. Or perhaps he had simply ignored it? With a wife and newborn child to think of, thousands of obstacles to their safety and happiness materialized in his mind--

--The cab jolted, nearly sending him flying. The doctor caught himself in time by flinging his good arm up. The driver from above swore like a highwayman and just as quickly apologized.

"Sorry, Doctor. Bit of a spill up ahead."

"It's all right, Parkinsson." Watson paused to open the door a crack and peer out. About twelve ells ahead he could see the disaster of an upturned chestnut-cart. As a man who had a secret weakness for the roasted wares, Watson had to wince at the loss. The vendor looked barely old enough to shave. While he more than matched Parkinsson's skill with language, he was also making use of his time with cleaning up the remains steaming in the road.

Remains.

Watson tried to fix himself a pipe during the wait, but his hands were cold and the renewed jostling of the cab helped not a whit. He gave up and thrust them back into his gloves, feeling the familiar tremble in his spirit spread outward to his muscles.

The finger-bones haunted him. Finger-bones. Small, delicate relics of what had been an assembly of parts that created that strange total known as a human. Mortal clothing for the immortal soul. Watson had been drawn to the wonders of the human creature, but it had been Holmes with his brilliant, logically-faceted mind that had drawn out the particulars of his thoughts. For a man that professed to place little interest in large fields of learning, his friend's maieutic1 tricks had shown Watson they were both philosophers. Holmes had merely been more aware of his self-questioning.

There were few people who could be defined by their intangible traits; such language was usually reserved for the pious or spiritual. The holy men of India had affected the young soldier with their calm dignity, just as the desert dervish struck him with the raw power behind their eyes. They were not defined by their physical presence so much as the presence behind their bodies—the way a man notices the lit lamp first and not the unlit one closer by. Holmes had carried that quality—all the more remarkable because it was not a trait nurtured among Englishmen. It was something that was such a part of his being that it could not be ignored, or submerged, repressed…discounted.

Holmes had felt his true legacy had been in the mark he left behind. To that end he had pressed his methods upon the few he felt were capable of continuing. Still. There was the matter of his mortal passing, and that should have been addressed in a decent manner. Holmes had not said specifically what his desires were, and Mycroft had not been helpful the one time he asked for information.

I fear my brother never spoke of his wishes to me…

Battered within and without, he'd accepted the even voice of the large man and left with a final apology.

Do not mourn him, doctor. My brother was not a sentimental man, and he would not have wished that of you.

Perhaps, sir. Perhaps…but I am a sentimental man, and he would have told you there was no logic in changing a man's nature.

Something flickered in those sharp grey eyes, so much a Holmes. Those eyes had nearly broken him then and there. Giving his last regrets, he left quickly before he could embarrass them both.

So tired…tired beyond reason and his control had fractured. So many things he'd wanted to say to Mycroft. So much he'd tried to do.

He'd tried so hard to find the remains.

Remains…he'd argue with me even now. He would tell me his true remains are the methods he left behind. Methods I can publish now that his conditions are met.

Holmes had been adamant that anyone could learn his ways…but he was still in possession of his own vanity—and justified it was. His work was his primary livelihood and his disdain of those who would ape him without truly understanding…well it was the same as finding one's neighbor had polluted the well. Publish after I am gone, he had said. Let them know me in the wake of my life.

Very well. Watson could keep his word.

He'd kept far worse commandments.

The cab lurched; he gnashed his teeth as his bad leg hit the door.

This case was pulling more out of him than he'd dreamed possible. It hurt deep as Shakespeare's well, and there was nothing to end it.

-

Lestrade turned the key in the lock, shoulders slumping as he made his way in. Now that he was home, gravity couldn't be put off any longer. One of the women in the building had been cooking something with orange peel. It placed warmth in the atmosphere he needed.

Someone in the other floors—children—were thumping about in a game. Probably the new neighbors. Nicholas was doubtless with them; he'd fallen in love with the oldest son's wood-carving set.

He hung his coat and hat up and finished his trod upstairs. Clea was just opening the door as he cleared the landing of the first storey.

"There you are, Inspector." In her house-slippers she was even tinier. "I've just set down the dishes. I hope you've an appetite."

"No fear there," he paused on his way to the wash-room to tap her nose with his cleanest finger-tip. "Smells like beef and barley, but not quite."

"Right you are. I had to use up some pork roast, so that went in instead of beef, which I would have had to buy." Clea produced a hand-towel just as he was turning, wet-handed, to the cabinet. "You look ready for a meal. There won't be any soot falling off your collar and into the plates, will there?" He produced his collar for her inspection. "Nice to see that new coat is doing the job."

"Have the nippers et?"

"Since they were good enough to finish painting Mrs. Collins' rooms, she was good enough to stuff them with cabbage rolls. They're both asleep, but they did their lessons first."

He flexed his dried hands, wincing at how the cold seemed to chap them even within their lined gloves. Gregson must be in agony, was his thought. "I'm more than ready for supper, ma-mel."

"Sweet words will get you nowhere with me." Clea chuckled. As mel was the word for honey, it was not a bad play with words. Clea seemed to be developing a skill in those lines.

Inside their rooms the fire had settled to lava-like coals. Lestrade had been in the act of loosening his tie when something grey and fur-covered caught his eye by the grate. "What in God's name is that?"

"It's some sort of cat," Clea answered. "Mrs. Collins rescued it from some beggars this morning.

"That's a cat? It's got to be a stone and a half! Why would it need rescuing? It's big as a French beagle!"

The cat in question paused while licking a massive paw. It looked at him.

"It's sensitive to paint. I told Mrs. Collins we could keep it here a few hours."

"Well, perhaps it can take care of those Thames-rats that took up housing in the basement." Lestrade decided he could move on with his life. He resolutely ignored the new tenant; the cat returned the courtesy. And he would introduce that monster of a feline to the latest unwanted, unpaying lodgers.

-

"Doctor Watson! You'll catch your death!"

For once—and only once—Watson permitted Theresa her fretting. "Thank you, Theresa. I trust your father will be picking you up soon?"

Theresa patiently pulled his coat off and hung it in the warmest nook of the foyer. "He'll be ending his shift in a few, sir, but let me take care of this first. I took the liberty of setting some tea out in the sitting-room. I put your mail on the tray…" She stopped at the state of his gloves and wordlessly placed them on drying-hooks. "The stew Mrs. Watson set out to simmer in her absence is well tender by now. Shall I make you a bowl?"

"Please do," Watson sighed. "I'll be downstairs in time to give you your wages for the week. We'll need you back on full time when Mrs. Watson returns."

"Thank you, sir." Theresa parted with his gloves; John went to his bedroom for a much-needed change of stockings and house-slippers.

-

Geoffrey was grateful for the sudden quiet settling upon the building with the late hour. Soft snow burst against the windows, and once in a while the snatch of holiday bells rang down the street.

"I've always enjoyed listening to that sound," Clea smiled. In concession to the chill they were wrapped under a quilt. "When I was a tot, the farmers would deck out the brightest brass bells on their sleighs as they took their families to church."

"And here in muddy old England, we just have the thrifty cab driver who wants to make a few extra fares by the young, romantic crowds leaving the theatres right now." Geoffrey chuckled lightly as he measured his watch-time with that of the mantle-clock. "Well, I hope they get it. By tomorrow it will either be a sheet of ice or a curtain of rain."

"I suppose that's the lot of life." She was pleasant enough but her usual mood was slightly off. Geoffrey knew his wife and knew when she was self-censoring. That meant something was upsetting her.

And it was hard to say what. Clea had been determined to forge her life with his from the beginning, but there was a great difference between her family (comfortable, deeply respected, close-knit if overbearing) with his (disowned, family fortune lost decades ago, family not all that honest or respectable to begin with).

Past experience said it had something to do with her family. Spending occasional week-ends with her loving folks meant someone, most likely a sister-in-law or her brother Andrew had been noting again how Clea's husband could be doing better. The Cheatham households held enough wealth that husbands and wives could afford separate bedrooms. No one had to budget their meals. Sewing was a matter of skill and pride, not necessity. Clea had often sworn it meant nothing to her, but the fact remained his income was a bone of contention with her pettier kinfolk and some had a cruel streak to their teasing.

The Cheathams had stopped trying to cause trouble (and thankfully, no more fights), but they rarely came to visit. She visited them. By degrees things seemed to get better…

Lestrade still found it strange that the men had been the first to accept him after nearly killing him in a bar and Clea's wrestler-brother breaking not a few of his bones pre the engagement. Once they understood that he cared about their sister as much as they did, the resistance had dropped. (He still had no idea what would have happened had they decided his affections were false; best not to dwell on that).

Best not to dwell on too much of anything right now. He was tired enough to try sleep a bit earlier than normal, but he was loathe to let go of the peace and quiet.

"Clea, you appear to be a bit on loose ends."

She leaned her head back against his shoulder. "I suppose I am. The day started out so pleasant and mild."

"Nothing like that now." He paused to yawn behind the back of his head. "We've got some time to ourselves before bed-time. Anything about your day you wish to speak about?"

"No more than you do, I suppose." She rested her head against his chest and they both fell silent, listening to the fire close by, while the bells continued down the street.

-

Mycroft Holmes?

John turned the paper over in his hands. The name remained the same.

Mycroft Holmes…and I was just thinking of him.

But why?

Shaking his head and suddenly wide awake, the doctor split the seal and opened the folded-over notepaper.

Dr. Watson,

Your presence requested. Diogenes Club at yr convenience.

MH

Of course the man would be too lazy to write a proper missive! John blinked in wonder. What was this? When they'd parted ways all had seemed…well, not joyous of course, but nor had it intimated there was something amiss between them.

Presence requested. Mycroft was as steady and unsurprising as a neap tide. If he didn't have something to do, he wouldn't expend the energy to ask for him.

I should go then, tomorrow…and see what he wants. He was suddenly quite sick of puzzles. In a flash of insight, John understood why his old friend solved puzzles and then moved on to the next one post haste. There were days when these things were thick as weeds—and just as hard to eradicate.

1 A Socratic method by which a person draws another's latent thoughts into actual consciousness.