A/N: Still seeing the light … no, wait. Another day ending. ;-)

Prompt 11: From mrspencil – A character from an old case turns up unexpectedly.

Reunion

Holmes and Watson are approaching Saint Paul's.

The sky is dull and rust-coloured, stains of dirty red disappearing behind the great dome of the cathedral as the day descends, to make room for a brooding storm.

Mother Nature is unsure of how to portray herself this evening. Everything around them looks painted, wet and smudged, rain falling in thick sheets and making the usually grimed-coated pavements shine. Through a watery frame of vision, they can see Lestrade waiting for them, his coat and hat blurred marks some distance away until they reach him.

"Inspector," Holmes greets, shaking Lestrade's outstretched hand.

Lestrade tips his hat with his free hand, water dripping from the brim. His eyes look tired, the usual glint erased, a weary hunch to his shoulders.

"Mister Holmes, Doctor Watson. Thank you for coming."

"What is this about?" Watson says, the merest hint of a smile touching his face before it vanishes. "The telegram sent was somewhat vague."

"I thought it best to speak to you here." Lestrade jerks his thumb across his shoulder, to the steps of the cathedral.

A body is lying there, limbs spread outwards, the chest and face covered by an overcoat which no doubt belongs to the constable standing in his uniform nearby, the policeman shivering minutely with the absence of a protective layer and the rain falling around him, but objecting none in respect of the dead.

"A theft gone wrong, I reckoned," Lestrade says, "but nothing has been taken. Watch and money is still on his person, so foul play is suspected. Also, the victim was recognised."

"You know him?" Holmes says, gesturing to the body. Watson moves away from them to crouch beside the deceased man, fingers hooking into the coat collar to pull it away.

"Not I personally," Lestrade replies, his face grim. "By a colleague, who said that you both knew of him. I was asked to send for you immediately."

"By whom?" Holmes asks. He is gazing at a spot to the right of the body, where a soaked, yet familiar frayed top hat is resting like an epitaph one step up. A sudden foreboding settles upon the detective, and he thinks he knows Lestrade's answer before the name has left the Inspector's mouth.

"Jones."

In the space of a few seconds Holmes has already put a name to this unfortunate before he hears the surprised noise coming from Watson, the sound a cut-off exhale of Holmes's name. The Doctor has lifted the coat, the fabric pulled back to reveal a round face, slightly thinner than before, the saggy cheeks looser. There is a stab wound on the upper chest, the hilt of the knife resting there and pointing heavenwards as though it was always meant to be, intrusive and anonymous. The shock of hair looks almost-brown and inky, the wet making it appear darker than the original fiery red it is supposed to be.

"Who is it?" Lestrade asks.

Watson glances up at Holmes, his lips pressing together. The rain hits the Doctor's exposed face and his expression is deeply saddened, thoughts no doubt going back to a familiar rust-coloured autumn day in 1890.

"It's Jabez Wilson."

End

A/N II: There is something seriously wrong with me, lol. These are dark waters in which I lurk. :-p