Chapter 28

As there was indeed nothing else for me to achieve in Dover, Hopkins accompanied me to the train station to see me off on my way back to the unfortunate village. I felt that this behaviour was rather below my pride, but, as I have to admit, entirely justified, for I stumbled on my way into the carriage and would have had a rather nasty fall had Hopkins not be there to catch me. I felt absolutely drained, not to speak of the pain that had flared up with new intensity since I had left the damp cell in which Ralf McCraine was kept.

As much as I loathed to confess it, I was returning to Holmes's side disarmed and empty-handed, with not even a fraction of good news. I feared the effect this would have on my dear friend's mood, which had already been exceptionally low since he had come to his senses after his close brush with death.

The small incident with Inspector Roades had also distressed me greatly. It seemed to be a minor occurrence on the face of things, but in my eyes, it was not. While Holmes was constantly under the public gaze due to his appearances, at least by name, in various newspapers, I had not published a story in many a year due to Holmes's own unyielding resistance on that point. I could understand why he placed restrictions on the publishing of the more delicate cases, but I failed to understand why he would not have any publications at all. Of course he insisted that I wrote the cases at any rate, to publish them once he had retired, but that could be in oh-so-many years, considering the relentless energy he still seemed to be able to devote to his cases even in the direst of times.

Thus, my own identity began to slip from the mind of the great public, and soon I would be nothing more than a fictional foil for the great detective, a device he bounced ideas off and which trailed behind him like a loyal dog. I have never considered myself to be merely that, but it was in fact rare that Sherlock Holmes allowed me to think otherwise.

Even his note, which had been designed to inform me of his demise, had been as restrained as was his usual demeanour.

It may be that my own physical condition and the constant pain in my old wound led me to be a trifle harsh on myself and on Holmes, but such were my thoughts at the time, made all the bleaker by the prospect that the men who had committed multiple murders and had caused my good friend grave injuries would run free.

A boy at the station was kind enough to ready the carriage for me which I had left there the night before on my departure for London, and I was grateful for the means of transport. I was certain that my leg would not have stood up for the lengthy walk to the cottage.

The boy accompanied me and saw to the horses while I limped up to the door and let myself in. The whole cottage was eerily quiet, and for a moment, I was seized by an entirely irrational feeling of horror, until Mycroft Holmes stuck his head out of his brother's bedroom, placed one of his large fingers over his lip and motioned me closer. "Sherlock is asleep."

I could see into the bedroom around him, and indeed there was Holmes, huddled in the covers, over which a chequered duvet was thrown, slumbering peacefully. A piece of cloth rested on his brow, but his face was relaxed and he did not seem feverish any more. "How is he?"

"Much better, Doctor. The cough subsided during the night, and the fever broke at dawn. He is very exhausted, but of course he was anxious to know what had become of his case. Your long absence worried him greatly."

"I'm fine," said I, unable to comprehend the meaning behind Mycroft's words in my own desolate state of mind at the present. "I'm afraid the case will not be a success."

Mycroft's expression darkened with worry and he motioned me to the armchairs of the sitting room, pulling the door to the bedroom shut behind him. "Then you bring bad news."

"Yes. Inspector Hopkins will most likely be forced to release the gang for lack of evidence. They deny their involvement, of course, and without the cooperation of the local inspector, there is nothing to back up Holmes's view on this case. All evidence has vanished to thin air – most likely O'Neil's deed. The man has been soundly bribed."

"Surely Sherlock's injuries and identification will be enough?"

"I can not risk moving him from this cottage, and I would prefer it if he remained in his bed. If I tell him that his presence is needed, he would try to get up, and probably aggravate his condition as far as to make it fatal. Besides, his testimony would lead to a prison sentence, at the most, and there would be no justice for all the other victims of this gang."

"Their confession is the only way, then."

"Indeed."

Mycroft nodded. "I'm sure you would agree with me that we should gloss matters over for Sherlock. His over-active mind is rather bothering him, especially since he is confined to his bed."

"I agree."

The elder of the Holmes brothers rose with a grace that one would not have expected in view of his stature. "Then I shall talk to him. Remain seated, Dr Watson, and rest. You look as though you need it."

Mycroft returned to the bedroom, and though he left the door ajar, I could not hear his words, only the low mumbling of his deep voice. The rhythm of his speech was peculiar, while very soothing, and it only later occurred to me that he had been speaking in French. Holmes's reply was barely audible at all, but it was only as Mycroft called my name that I dared venture closer.

Holmes has often remarked that I had no gift for acting, and while I trust I do have enough skill to deceive someone else, it is true that Holmes himself has always been able to see through my lies. It was fortunate indeed that Mycroft should have been there to gloss the reality over, as he had expressed it.

Holmes lay half elevated on the a pile of pillows now, the cloth had disappeared, and his hands were clasped together in the familiar position rather than hidden under the duvet. He looked at me through half-closed lids, evidently very tired, but there was a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Watson. It is about time you returned."

"I have been to London and Dover, to see the arrested men."

"Mycroft has already told me as much." Holmes followed his brother with his gaze as the elder rose to relinquish the chair by the bed to me. "Have you given all the particulars to Hopkins?"

"Yes, certainly. He has even been in touch with Edinburgh."

"Did you show him the telegram, then?"

"No, I did not think it necessary."

"Ah, well, maybe it wasn't."

"Sherlock." We both looked up at Mycroft Holmes, as he stood by the foot of the bed, suddenly tense. "Physical evidence."

"Of course!" Holmes's eyes were suddenly wide open and he grasped my wrist. "Watson, you should have thought of it! Why did you not confront the McCraines with the telegram? They can't get past that!"

"I didn't... I didn't even have it with me. It is still lying on the coffee table."

"Ah, Watson." Holmes let go of my wrist, appearing very tired again. "I really am disappointed. You should have taken the telegram with you at least – you could have had a confession by now. In the meantime, Hopkins has probably released them!"

For a moment, I was stunned speechless by the feverish vigour in Holmes's voice, but I recovered myself soon enough. "I am sorry, Holmes."

"Pshaw, there is nothing for it. I shall have to go down myself."

"No!" I cried, placing my hand on his shoulder to keep him in bed. "You will go nowhere!"

Holmes glared at me with true venom I hardly ever saw directed at me, and only ever during times of sickness. "And let the murderers escape? Watson..."

"I shall go. Immediately."

"Doctor..."

I ignored Mycroft's words, as well as his worried tone. "I will be back before sunset."

"Good." Holmes relaxed back into the cushions. "Don't forget the telegram this time."

"I won't!"

By the time I had reached the front door and was ready to depart, heaven had once again opened its floodgates for a veritable downpour, resulting in further twinges of my leg. But Holmes was right, there was no time to be lost now. I had blundered often enough during this case, and I would never forgive myself if the McCraines were to be released.

I almost fell as I made my way over the slippery cobblestones towards the little building where the carriage was kept. The boy, who had not yet departed because of the rain, readied it again for me after I had flipped him a coin, but promptly curled under his overcoat on a small bench again after I had led the horses out into the rain. Of course the animals were not pleased by the recent turn of the weather, but they moved forward readily enough as I took my place on the driver's bench, and also obeyed to my urging them to hurry.

It was as the cobble-stones met the road that a horrid screeching sounded in my ears, the horses whinnied, and suddenly, the world tilted.