My apologies for the delay, readers; I'm afraid I've dropped the ball lately with my writing due to my best friend's wedding this weekend and starting a new job. Life is a pain sometimes.

I am hoping to get back into my Snapshots series and back on the writing prompts, if anyone cares; it will just take a bit of time to get back into things. Thanks for your patience, and enjoy the chapter (if you can).

Time rushes by and yet time is frozen. Funny how we get so exact about time at the end of life and at its beginning.

-Helen Prejean

Watson

The sun was casting elongated, distorted shadows on the walls of the little room by the time Holmes returned that afternoon.

I heard the door shut behind me and footsteps that stopped momentarily, then started again more hesitantly, to where I stood in the window, watching the world go by below me as if nothing had happened, as if a good man and loyal friend had not been murdered out there only forty-eight hours before.

"Did you find…anything?" I asked distantly.

A long sigh, then silence. "Nothing. Which…could be grounds for hope…" he said hesitantly, but the chill in his voice belied the very idea. "The 'ravines' I could locate in several places along the road were not overly deep – possible to survive a fall, I suppose. But…"

"Possible to survive a gunshot wound, or a fall even with broken ribs, or a snowstorm," I responded bitterly, "but the likelihood of surviving all three is slim to none."

"I'm afraid so." How in the world could he have so much confounded control over his voice?

I envied the man for his detachment, his ability to mask his feeling and continue to go on living as though nothing had happened. I certainly could not. No matter how much I tried to keep my memory from bringing up scenes and pictures that were piercing my heart at their sight, I could not stop it.

I closed my eyes and took a shuddering breath, leaning my head against the cold windowpane for a moment. I was still attempting to process the fact that I would never see our midshipman again…

I felt Holmes's hand tighten firmly on my good shoulder, and he tugged gently on it. "You need to sit down, Watson," he said softly, no doubt able to feel my quivering despite all my efforts to be in complete control.

I nodded wordlessly and allowed myself to be guided by his strong arm into the chair I had vacated after dozing off and dreaming about the Friesland and our…I still could barely wrap my mind around the word…dead friend.

"How is he?" Holmes asked, leaning over the bed to look at Haight.

"He woke up for a few minutes about an hour ago, and I had him drink some broth," I replied wearily. "I'll have him try to eat something light tonight when he wakes again."

"Did he say anything more about the…incident?"

I swallowed hard and glanced up at my friend's worried eyes before dropping my gaze once more. "Not that will help us. I didn't think to ask him for descriptions of the men, Holmes, I'm sorry –"

He dismissed the matter with a wave of the hand. "I've informed the local police force, and they've put an official detective in charge of the matter, though he has half a dozen other cases on his plate at the moment. He's a competent enough fellow, and we went out with a search party…I was able to get the basic descriptions of the men from the house and some prints on the lee side of the structure that were sheltered from the storm…"

Holmes's voice droned on, describing the men to me and what he had been doing all afternoon, but I was not listening. My mind was back in London, all those months ago, the night Lachlan showed up at Baker Street with a half-dead Sherlock Holmes in his arms…back on the deck of the Friesland, holding me still while I coughed up what seemed like gallons of water after nearly drowning, his sound pounding on my back and calm voice the only tangible recollection I had of that first fifteen minutes…back on that tiny bunk in that tiny cabin, where he watched over me while Holmes tore the ship apart in search for Culverton Smith's accomplice…of his final salute in a last parting gesture of respect to the both of us…

I lowered my head into my shaking hands, feeling the grip on reality I had managed to hold while watching over Haight alone this afternoon start to slip away in the knowledge that Holmes would never think less of me for my weakness. Try as I might, I could not get the seaman's face out of my mind, those twinkling blue eyes were haunting me as sure as any spectre we had yet encountered.

The death of my wife over a year before had nearly devastated me, though her passing had been expected and, while not welcome, a slight relief to me for I could not bear to see her suffer as she had those last few months of her pain-filled existence. I had had time to grow used to the idea, though I was not ready for it. Losing Lachlan, while less painful than my wife's death, was so unexpected that the shock was nearly debilitating.

So absorbed was I in trying to regain my control that I did not notice that Holmes had stopped talking and had left the room – the next thing I consciously heard was the door shutting and then a clink to my right. A moment later a hand touched my arm gently, and I looked up to see Holmes offering me a steaming cup of coffee, fixed with milk as he knew I took it.

I took the drink in a trembling bandaged hand, and he patiently waited until I had steadied myself before letting go of the saucer. Then he sat in the other chair opposite and looked across at me.

"Watson, I…am sorry, but I need you to focus right now, old chap," he said with infinite gentleness.

I gulped down half the cup in one swallow, burning my mouth badly in the process, but I welcomed the pain as a draw away from the far worse internal one roiling below my outward attempt at calm. Then I swallowed again and nodded for him to continue.

"The local constabulary told me that they would continue to search until dark," he said quietly, "though they could not give me any hope that they would find anything. While not a regular occurrence, this has happened many times in this area in the winter and…" he trailed off with the slightest of tremors.

I sighed and finished my coffee, nodding with a numbness that now seemed all too familiar.

"Here, you'll probably need the energy tonight," said Holmes, taking the cup back from me and refilling it.

"Thank you. Holmes, do you…do you think there's any hope at all?" I asked desperately.

I saw him freeze with the milk pitcher in midair, closing his eyes and lowering his head in defeat.

"No," he whispered. "No, I do not. Were Lachlan still alive, the first thing he would have done would be to send a wire sometime in the last two days to us at the castle, asking for us to come and help find Haight here. I contacted the Count two hours ago, and there has been none. I'm afraid he really is…is gone. If only I had used whatever brains God has given me and foreseen this! I – I sent him to his death, Watson!"

At the misery-laden, helplessly angry words, I could almost literally feel my heart sink to the floor, and I put my head in my hands once more, trying desperately to keep under control – neither Holmes nor Haight had time or energy to deal with anyone's grief and guilt but their own.

I heard a loud clink as he slammed the cup down with suppressed rage, but I was too frantically engaged in trying to keep the grief I had shoved under a mask of professionalism in front of Haight still controlled; and I was afraid I was losing the battle. I was reeling from a mixture of grief and false hopes I had allowed myself to indulge in being dashed to the ground at last…I should have known better than to hope for a miracle; for weeks after Reichenbach I had hoped for one and was disappointed. I never did learn my lesson…

I shook with the effort of holding back the pent-up emotions that were twisting my insides into knots, wishing more than anything that we had never accepted this case, that I had never run into Haight back in Strasbourg…the lad's words echoed bitterly in my head and twisted the knife already in my heart. I wish to heaven I had never seen you on that platform.

As I choked back a tear and dashed angrily at my burning eyes, I felt a strong but comforting hand upon my shoulder once more, squeezing it gently with unspoken sympathy.

"It's all right, dear fellow," he murmured, his brief fiery burst of anger gone now. "There is no shame in mourning, only in forgetting to."

"Where did you hear that?" I asked shakily, for it sounded so completely unlike his normal logic that it was almost incongruous.

"Tibet," he said softly, clasping my shoulder once more before resuming his seat opposite me.

I cleared my throat and downed the rest of the now lukewarm coffee, aware that my friend's haunted eyes were upon me the entire time, and then I turned back to him.

"Holmes, this was not your fault," I said directly, for now swallowing my grief in an effort to reassure the guilt-ridden detective. "You could not possibly have foreseen this, and you did not send them; they insisted upon leaving, if you will remember, against both our wishes."

My comrade's eyes darkened into a black-grey steel, filled with guilt and blind fury. Had Haight not been sleeping I believe he might have put his fist through the wall, so angry and hurt was he; more vulnerable than I had seen in many a year.

"I still should have foreseen this possibility, Watson," he whispered, his hands clenching into tight trembling fists. "Now, because of my stupidity, a good and innocent man has been…has been murdered…"

"Stop it!" I hissed, in a low voice so as to not wake the young reporter. "You are not to blame, Holmes. And – and Lachlan would not want you sitting here blaming yourself either. Do you hear me?"

My friend glared at me, or rather glared through me for his anger was not aimed in my direction, but then his face fell into a cold misery.

"Is this what you felt like, after you realised that note from Meiringen was a hoax? That you should have been there, that you were a fool not to have seen this eventuality?" he whispered, so low that I barely heard the words.

I swallowed hard twice before answering. "I…well…yes, Holmes." He averted his gaze from me, face flushing slightly. "But," I went on, more confidently, "your brother told me that I was not to blame, that there was nothing I could have done about the matter. And while it took quite a long time, eventually I accepted the truth of his words."

Holmes glanced up at me in surprise. "Mycroft?"

I nodded. "You are not to blame, Holmes. Neither I nor…nor Lachlan would ever blame you for not foreseeing what this fiend we are up against did."

Holmes passed a hand over his eyes and sighed, a long, shuddering breath. Then he looked back at me, and the corner of his mouth twitched in the faintest of smiles. He extended his hand without a word, and I clasped it firmly, holding the grip for a moment in an effort to steady both of us.

"Now, Holmes," I said with as stout a voice as I could muster. "How are you going to go about finding these men?"

Holmes

I once told Watson that work was the best antidote for sorrow, not too long ago in fact. Only a few hours ago I realized the flaw in my own statement. Work was not an antidote…not for grief and loss of this kind; it served only as a delay until time, the real healer, could pass by and leave the open wound as a scar that no matter how it faded would always ache.

Still…it was distraction, and I took refuge in the familiar routine of investigation probing the small abandoned house where Haight had been kept for the past thirty-six hours, as well as the surrounding area.

He had been all too right of course; any tracks that might have existed were long ago obliterated by the storm and other passing vehicles so that any attempts to discover where the incident of Lachlan's death had occurred were for naught.

Never mind, I consoled myself, leaving the rest of the searchers and local police force on the road to continue the search; when I found the three who had done this they would help me locate the body. At the very least, Lachlan's remains would be taken care of; I would not allow him to remain lost for the remainder of the winter, only to be stumbled upon by a careless hunter and a curious hound later in the spring.

I shuddered with anguish at the thought, dashing the sudden images from my mind, recalled from past cases when some poor soul had been discovered in just such a manner, I had seen far too many of them, and Lachlan would not be one I would add to the list.

It was small consolation, but it was something, and the thought of the peace that it would give to Haight served to drive me further into investigation. Seeing a friend laid properly to rest did bring a certain peace.

An investigation of the building added little to my knowledge, as the men did not stay for long after depositing Haight there. There were indeed three of them and after my investigation I was able to give my descriptions, vague as they were (mere height, weight, and age) to the official forces…for all the good it would do.

Wet, tired, and considerably frustrated by my lack of results, I had returned to the inn to find Haight still in an exhausted sleep, and Watson, wracked with grief, gallantly still watching over him, and it galled me all the more that I had no fresh news to give him that would be of any comfort.

When he asked me what I intended to do next I found myself at a sudden loss.

There was precious little left to investigate, no one left to interview besides Haight himself, and Watson had made it abundantly clear that he should not be pressed until he had had a decent rest.

Well no…not quite; there was still the station master and the man who had rented out his wagon to the kidnappers. I had done a very scanty job of investigating those areas in my eagerness to locate Haight and Lachlan.

"I will go to the station," I said as last to my friend, who was gazing wearily at the burning fire in the hearth, the dancing flames reflecting over his lined face. "They may know something. At the very least we might find out if the three have left the town yet; if they rented a wagon we can get their names."

Watson looked up with one of his eager ideas, though it failed to light his face as it usually did. "Do you think it's likely that they remained here?"

I shook my head. "This was a throw-together job, Watson, just like everything else we've encountered so far. Well executed, I admit, just like all the others, but very spur of the moment. I doubt that whoever is behind this has even been in close contact with these thugs; blackmailing is an ugly business and the less that are involved the safer and cleaner it is. And the accomplices would be fools to hang around after their work was completed."

Watson frowned. "Completed…but surely they were coming back for…"

"They left Haight on purpose, as a warning, or cruel jest, Watson," I said gently as I could. "A warning to me. Think, my dear fellow – he was left in a house that according to local legend is haunted. Who else could that warning be for than for us? I do not think that they originally intended to kill Lachlan; perhaps they intended both of them to be a warning, perhaps they intended to use them as leverage against us. Then when Lachlan tried to escape and was…was killed, they decided to merely use them for a warning to us."

My poor friend's face blanched even whiter, looking as if he were going to be ill.

"These three men's mission was to stop the two of them from reaching Vienna and contributing to our investigation, and this they accomplished. We already know our opponent is an exceedingly confident man, and that he is not afraid to take risks merely for theatrical effect. He meant us to find Haight, however long it took us…and possibly Lachlan as well, had he not tried to escape. If his death was not intended then its likely that the kidnappers had even greater motive to leave as soon as possible."

I watched as Watson's usually kind face, now even more vulnerable with grief, hardened into a mask of disgust and rage that he reserved for very few people.

"He's mocking us then…you were right. It's more distraction; he enjoys taunting us and is so sure of himself that he believes himself untouchable."

"Exactly," I growled. "And for that same reason he does not comprehend the consequences of dealing so carelessly with human lives…nor does he understand the import of challenging me. It seems that we have at last found a villain who is not well read in your excellent accounts, Watson."

I got only a semblance of a smile for this comment, though that was to be expected, I doubted that either of us would be in jesting moods for quite some time.

"How are we to get at him, then? If he is so confident he cannot be touched that he leaves so much to chance rather than taking obvious precautions."

I conjured up a reassuring smile from somewhere in my acting abilities and clapped Watson on the shoulder briefly. "That will be his downfall, Watson; with such self-assurance coloring his vision he cannot possibly foresee the full consequences of his actions. We will have him, my friend, and he will pay for every mishap and thrill of terror that we have experienced so far."

I felt my voice catch in my throat suddenly and met Watson's eyes, assured by his look that he was thinking the same thing as I.

"And for Lachlan," he whispered softly.

I swallowed the lump and nodded, getting to my feet. "And for Lachlan…he is responsible for far too much. One man alone should not be able to do so much damage, and he shall be repaid for it."

I took Watson's empty coffee mug from his hands and paused, realizing that one of those mishaps had been fairly recent, though it felt like an age ago now.

"How are your hands?"

Watson blinked, surprised by the question, then looked down at his bandaged appendages to ascertain for himself.

"More flexible," he said, "though still quite painful…I hadn't really noticed."

I nodded. "No surprise there, old fellow, you've hardly had the time to think, and there is still much to do before we rest. Will you be all right here with Haight while I go to the station?"

Watson, staunch as ever, nodded, though still he did not smile. "We'll be fine, Holmes. Go and do what you need to."

He turned his attention back to the fire, his grief once again in place on his face and I knew that it would be a while before I saw him smile properly again. He was far more familiar with emotion than I, and so Lachlan's death had hit him that much harder. I wished that he could accompany me on this part of the investigation…to find some distraction, but Haight needed him here; not only because of his role as a physician, but also that out of the two of us he was far more adept at comforting a person than I.

I sighed and went to the door, knowing that any words I could give would be far from adequate. My only role now lay in action.

"Keep your revolver with you," I said softly. "I'll be back shortly."

Watson looked at me once again with a frown.

"Revolver? Holmes I thought you said that it would be absurd to think they are still here. Do you really believe there is danger so soon after…"

He trailed off, unable to complete the sentence and I watched him worriedly.

"After all that has happened, Watson, I am unwilling to leave anything to chance…and ready to believe almost anything. I am more than sorry for Lachlan's death, but I would be even sorrier should a similar fate befall you. You are responsible for both Haight's and your safety, so keep your revolver and do not be timid with it."

My Boswell's brows drew together with sharp concern; no doubt he thought I was overreacting, much he supposed that first night just before we departed to the Continent to flee the grasp of Moriarty.

Blazes…one could get exceedingly weary of the feeling of a bullet aimed constantly at one's back.

Watson trusted me, however, and no matter how morbid he found my caution to be he nodded soberly and even seemed to pick up some of my fear for he added a caution of his own.

"Be careful, Holmes. If you are not back in two hours I'm coming after you."

I smiled grimly.

"I'll be back shortly," I repeated and left the rooms, closing the door behind me not long after I had entered it.

It had grown dark by that time, and the moon illuminated more of the early evening than the sinking sun did. With the darkness came the cold and I saw fit to pull the collar of my coat up higher around my neck for warmth. It was a simple matter to call a cab for the station, for that really was the only location that anyone would be headed at that time of night.

I was both grateful and uneasy of the crowd when I arrived, for it saved me from having to traverse an empty platform filled with shadows.

But a killer could just as easily secrete himself in such a crowd.

I made my way to the office that we had visited before and, pushing my way past the line of ticket buyers, chose to remain ignorant of their protests in mainly German but also numerous other tongues.

Alerted by the noise, the attendant raised his head from the papers he had been consulting. I felt another stab of frustration.

It was not the same man from before. Of course, what an imbecile I was.

"What can I assist you with?" the attendant questioned me in brusque German with a snap of formality that bordered on the impolite.

Given this and my own impatience I addressed him not in German but in English. I had little time to waste on their blasted language.

"Yes, I am looking for Herr Baucher? He worked at this stall earlier today."

The attendant smirked, realizing my difficulty, and said, "I am sorry, mein Herr, his shift ended some time ago, he has gone home."

"Can you tell me where I might find him?"

The man smirked, making his craggy face even more disreputable than it was before.

"At this time of day, mein Herr, who is to say?"

"Where does he live?" I asked, my own voice going thin with frustration.

"I cannot give you that information."

With a shuddering sigh I managed to suppress my anger, and I leaned forward on the counter, allowing the full force of my gaze to fall on the man.

I was gratified when he leaned back somewhat with a nervous glance.

"I need to question Herr Baucher in connection with a murder, sir, and it is most important that I get in touch with him…it would be far more beneficial to you if you cooperate and help me to get in touch with him."

The man sidled nervously and broke his eyes away from my face.

"It is true what I tell you, I cannot give you address where he lives…but he will be here tomorrow, same shift as before. Now, mein Herr, you are holding the line."

I sighed and stepped aside, recognizing a dead end when I saw one. I would just have to return tomorrow. A quick glance at my pocket-watch told me that I had just enough time to go to the stables where we had rented the hack.

Hopefully my search would yield more results there.

I cast wary glances about me for a moment for any signs of someone stalking my movements, spectral or material. There had been far too many of both elements already in this case for my taste.

But now, a distinctly human agency had just murdered a man who not only did I consider one of my few (very few) friends, but one I owed a debt to for what he had done for Watson in our past. For both of them, failure was not an option for me now.

I tugged my coat up again against both the external and internal chill and strode off into the crowd.