Confessions of the Master Chapter 36, a sherlock holmes fanfic

A/N: This god-awfully long cretin was supposed to be even longer. But I'm posting this part now and another shortly. We are nearing the end, my friends! Just a few chapters left. Probably another five years or so should take care of it. ;)

The following letter is added by John S. (Josh) Watson at a later date:

Chicago, Illinois, USA

October 1912

My Dear John Sherlock,

I must first warn you that you must burn this after reading it. Or, as I know you to be as sentimental as your father when it comes to preserving papers, at the very least hide it and do not allow anyone to see the return address. Although great care was taken in preparing Sherlock Holmes's alibi, it may be of some inconvenience to me if it were discovered he was not currently in the Sussex Downs.

And now, I must wish you my most hardy congratulations. The boy has become a man. It is hard for an old man to realise that the little imp that first so impressed him by deducing he smoked too much has grown into his own. I do hope that medical school is still agreeing with you. I predict that our country may shortly require as many bright young doctors as they can muster.

I do wish that I could be with you in person, but no doubt you are as busy as I. I hope to be back on civilised soil by summer next, and though I still have a great deal to do, I think that a visit to the place I spent so much of my youth would not be unwarranted. There are a good many pleasant memories of that place, after all...1

Though I feel as though I am doing a disservice to the reader by having to skip over so many years, I think I must move ahead in time. The point of these scribblings is to leave a record of the true Sherlock Holmes as I knew him. And since he had all but disappeared from my life for the last decade, I suppose it is imperative that I reach the point that from the depths, he re-emerged.

July of 1914 was a tense, grey time for much of the world. Everyone, including myself, held their breaths. Waiting. We were encased in uncertainty. First the assassination of the Archduke. Then the bombastic grumblings in response to that cowardly act. The thread of law and order that held us in place was fraying rapidly.

My own life was stable, however, and revolved around my practise, my writing (since I had been given Holmes's rather indifferent approval, I had finally publicized his return back in '03 and had intermittingly been supplying the Strand ever since) and my children.

In point of fact, my daughter's twelfth birthday just a month previous precipitated all that would eventually follow. And as much as I may wish to omit what happened between my son and I immediately following it, I have sworn to myself that if nothing else, this will be a true account. I feel as though I owe that much.

For well into his teens, I was under the impression that my son still wished to follow in his Godfather's footsteps. Neither had ever led me to believe any differently. But as Josh was due to finish secondary school, he informed me that rather than Oxford or Cambridge, he was planning to sit for the entrance exam to St. George's2 and read medicine.

I was astonished to say the least. He was my son, but it was never me I thought he would emulate. "What brought this on?" I asked. "I'd no idea you were thinking of becoming a doctor."

He gave a sort of non-committal shrug, the kind that only a fellow of seventeen or so can, as if the decision of his future was no more important than which restaurant to eat at. "I thought you might be pleased."

Of course I was. I cannot recall a moment when I was more proud. "What did Holmes say when you told him?"

I was unprepared for his answer. He sighed, rubbed a hand over a still hairless cheek and gave me a small, piquant smile. "Is he my father or are you?"

Although I had had my doubts, medical school seemed to agree with my son. He enjoyed the precession of it, the exactness of knowledge required. Each problem or patient was like a puzzle that only he could solve, as he had explained it to me. In his fifth year, he had been released on the summer holiday for a few weeks that memorable July, and was staying with Lily and I. He had elected to keep a room on campus, though we lived but a short distance from the school, and I thought it best to not argue the futility of this. Besides, he was still home most nights, his appetite overruling any ideas a young man has of 'making it' on his own steam. Having someone to cook for him and launder his clothing were important considerations at that age. As was his sister. Though the two shared but half-blood, they were quite close. She worshipped him and he dotted on her.

One rather damp night, my son and I sat before a small fire. It was quite late, midnight, or even past it, and Josh and I were the only ones in the house still awake. I had a novel in my hands but it was not holding my attention. Across from me, his old chess board set out in front of him, Josh idly moved a piece here or there. He had been playing with his sister before I'd finally ordered her to bed with a wilful 'hmph' on her part. Josh laughed after her and went to the sideboard to refill his whisky. "Will you demand that I go to bed as well?" he asked as I nodded that I would take some as well.

I sized him up over the rim of the glass his handed me. He was a little below medium height, but had rebounded from the awkward, disproportionate lad he had been before puberty. His blond hair had turned into the dark gold of his mother, though now it only curled in the back and he kept it in place with oil. His face was clean-shaven as seemed to be the growing trend among young men, although I wouldn't swear that nature and his natural colouring had a hand in that decision. He had a strong neck and shoulders, a serious chin and a strength one would probably not suspect from his generous mid-section. These were the genetic gifts from his father, who had also increased in size over the years.3 All-in-all, John Sherlock looked young for his years, but had such a gravity and purpose about him that one, upon meeting him for the first time, would never think to treat him as such.

"Is there any chance you'd listen if I had?" I asked, only half-kidding.

"None." He smiled and downed his third drink in a single go, a rarity for him. "Besides I wanted to talk to you privately. To tell you I made a decision."

"Ah, about when you've finished your education?"

I had been eagerly anticipating this. He had never let on about what exactly he planned to do with his career, though we had several conversations about it. Personally, I thought his intelligence and personality ill-suited for a private practise; I had counselled him to pick a specialized field and throw himself into research. Get connected with the right people and possibly gain an appointment. Though I thought it distasteful to gain favour based on one's relations, I would not go so far as to say that one personally mentored by Sherlock Holmes could escape notice.

Josh took a deep breath. "I'm not sure how you will feel, but I beg that you will keep an open mind."

"Of course."

"Well, a lot of the fellows think Kitchener4 is going to start a queue for volunteers, starting with medical volunteers. Some of the chaps in my class have already planned on enlisting if it comes to that. I think it will. The Kaiser is all but committed to it...well, you know all that. But when it happens, I'm going to sign up. It could be just a hospital appointment, maybe a field hospital. I really don't know. I suppose I could have to go to the front, but I wouldn't mind. I think if I don't, I'll regret it someday. How often do you have the chance to serve your country? If I am in medicine, I won't have much chance for adventure, you know"—

Though I have occasionally felt dumbfounded by my son, this was the first time I was actually struck dumb. I rubbed at my ear, nearly convinced that I had misheard. It was almost a minute before I found my voice again. "You want to...you think...you are going to be a soldier?" I shook my head. "You would have to leave school! And you'll be done in only a year! Why would you do such a foolish thing?"

"Foolish?" His eyebrows shot up.

"That is the only word I can call it! You are throwing your life away!"

"'Throwing my life away'? Really, Papa. You sound as though I'm going to die! This will be over in a few months! I'll miss a semester, perhaps a year at most. I'll return to school and everything will go on as before. "

"You can't know that. No one can know that."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

Sighing, I got to my feet and limped over to the sideboard. As if on cue, the mere act of standing too quickly was enough to send a small shiver of pain from the scar in my thigh through to my nearly 60-year old brain. Perhaps because I had grown so old, I had forgotten how very young he was. "My dear child," I said. "I mean that I was a soldier. I know it is a subject probably not discussed since you were a lad interested in campaigns and conflicts. I realise that to a young man this seems a chance at living out a chivalrous fantasy. Of honourably representing all that an Englishman stands for. There is more than a thousand years of bellicose tradition flowing through your veins. From me—and your Grandfather Morstan—also a soldier. I can understand perfectly why fighting must seem so irresistible to you."

"Then why do you not support my decision?"

"Because you cannot possibly comprehend the horrors of war. Even as a doctor...especially as a doctor. I could tell you of the chunks of flesh I was forced to sew up. The rotting limbs I was forced to saw off. The open soars clogged with blowing sand and insects. Having to use filthy strips of canvas when there are no more bandages. Seeing boys—boys younger than you—die under my knife. You have no idea. You cannot imagine fearing for your life every second, not knowing when the enemy may attack. And when they do...a man is liable to do anything when death is meeting his gaze. We fought like savages...and even though we were fighting savages, that is no excuse. When there are no more bullets, one resorts to clubbing, rock throwing, anything. Much is made of the honour of soldiers. But often there is no honour is what they must do."

"And this was thirty years ago. Try to imagine, if you can, the differences between my experience and what yours will most likely be. We fought tribes of natives, many of whom were not even armed. This is the German empire, the most populous nation in Europe. Do you think that they will resort to throwing rocks and thirty year- old guns? The weapons that are available now...the grenade, the Zeppelin, repeating rifles. Have you even considered the magnitude this could reach? I still have hopes that war can be averted, but that hope dwindles daily...I am an old man, son, and not particularly enlightened, but I have lived long enough to see the world implode around me. I barely recognise it. I can only hope that you can trust in my judgment to see that this is the wrong decision for you."

Between this speech (probably the longest I had made since University) and the second whisky, I was out of breath. Collapsing in my chair, I watched Josh, who hadn't moved, hadn't given any indication that he'd understood a word I'd said.

"You must do this for me," I said desperately. The words no sooner left my mouth than I realised it was the very worst thing to say.

He sprang out of his chair like a jack- in- the- box, his eyes all but blazing. "Must I? Must I really, sir? And why, pray? Do I owe some bound of filial responsibility? Is there an absolute loyalty between us?" His voice was not raised, but the colour on his cheeks and neck betrayed the emotion. Holmes had no doubt tried to teach him to detach his heart from his brain, but he hadn't much learned his lesson. I was glad of that. It probably meant one had to endure a Hellish childhood such as my friend had in order to play the part with any success.

"You are correct. You owe me no responsibility. No loyalty except what any son would feel"—

"Ah, no responsibility at all? No loyalty, Papa?" The blood had darkened on his pale face and he was pacing around his chair, the ice clinking against the glass clenched in one fist. "Except for that which is supposed to occur between a father and his son. That is what you should say. A child is supposed to show absolute deference to his parent, and, in turn, a father trusts in his legacy. I mean, he is not supposed to coddle a boy, to turn him nancy. To think him too weak to defend his country."

"I never!"—I shook my head. "You are putting words in my mouth. Clearly you've had too much to drink."

"Probably I have. I never could make a decision to please you. But—in turn—neither could you, so I suppose we are even on that score." He turned to tumbler over and over in his hand, the light jumping off the glass.

"What are you implying?"

"Never mind."

"Tell me, Josh."

He glared at me for a second. "I should not have said anything."

"But you did. Tell me what you meant before I lose my patience." Why, oh why did I keep say the exact wrong things? It was almost as if my own tongue was against me. My son was asking me to understand him as a man and I kept treating him as a child.

He caught me by the eye. This time he looked quickly away, to the photographs on my mantel. "Perhaps it is time you knew," he said. I could not tell if he was looking at Mary or the portrait next to her—Josh at six, standing with his Godfather. "I sometimes wonder what a normal family would have been like. If my mother had lived, for example. Or if Sherlock Holmes had fallen off that damned waterfall."

I blinked. I had never heard him call the man anything but 'Uncle.' Or say anything remotely against him. "That is...normal."

"Is it? But you, Papa, are not normal. Nor is he. I guess because I have known for so long that it really doesn't bother me. If I had found out suddenly, now, then perhaps it would. Sometimes I tell myself that something is wrong with me that I don't mind. I guess because I admire you both so much...I really can't say. But I have thought...well, the reason I was angry so often is not because of your relationship. It is because you broke up the only home I knew. You took me away from him, my mentor, a man I still love. And Mrs Hudson, the only woman I can remember loving me. And I knew, I knew, the only reason you were doing it was so I would not find out the secret." He laughed. "That is what I always called it. The secret. And, Father, the irony! I already knew! I cannot remember a time when I did not know! And the only thing I wanted was for us to stay in Baker Street. I wanted you with him. I wanted my family intact."

"That was the start of my guilt. And anger toward you. If I had come to you and told you, would it have made a difference? Would you still have married Julia? I am glad of my sister, but, oh, if only one of us could have trusted to the loyalty and understanding of the other. Think of all the needless suffering we have done. I told your wife. I told Julia about you and Uncle, shortly before the baby. If that is why she left...well, I cannot guess what other reason. I am sorry for that now. I am, really. So in addition to having no faith in me as a soldier you should have no faith in me as a son. I guess I cost you both a wife...and a...and him." He turned to me. "And you have cost me any sense of normalcy."

With every word that he spoke, I felt my body growing colder. By the time he finished, I was nearly shivering. My chest had turned completely to ice. My boy, my only son, had cut off my head with one mighty slash of his sword. And what was left of me? A stupid old ass who had done everything in his power to protect him from the dark, only to discover that the night had long ago swallowed him whole. If he had suddenly dropped dead in front of me, I would have been less shocked or terrified.

Those were the emotions I felt in my heart. But the only one my brain would allow me to express was anger. For the second time in my life, I felt betrayed by a loved one and I acted just as I had twenty years earlier. "Go on then," I spat venomously. "Go on and join the army and get yourself killed. I already ruined your life. I've been no father and you are certainly no son of mine anymore!"

Ten minutes later, I wanted to take it back. Ten minutes later, I was sitting in my chair, weeping into my hands, trying to not be overheard by my daughter or our two servants. But it was too late. Ten minutes later he was already gone.

The temperature and the temperament of London both rose considerably over those last July days. Everyone I encountered from patients to acquaintances at my club to even my maid and cook talked about nothing but war. And with every passing day it seemed more and more likely that we would be coming to defence of France and Belgium. Any of the other political issues—Irish home rule, suffrage for women, among others, remained moot. I could not even relax in my library with a drink and a newspaper of a night—the stark black and white headlines would speak of nothing else.

And I wanted nothing of it. As far as John Watson was concerned, the state of his country was a taboo topic. I refused to discuss the subject with anyone. I had convinced myself that it had no relevance for me any longer. That is, until one early morning, when its relevance was thrust into my lap full force.

I was awakened from a restless sleep by a tapping on my bedroom door. At first I thought it the remaining pulse of alcohol sloshing through my brain, but when the sound persisted, I rolled over and blearily tried to focus on my door. "What the devil is it?" I slurred.

"Doctor? Are you awake?" Edna, my maid.

"No. I am not."

"Oh, sir. I am sorry. But you're wanted on the telephone by a very insistent gentleman. I did try to tell him of the early hour, but he"—

"What gentleman?" I sat up quickly, all thoughts of sleep slapped out of me.

"It's not...not the young master, sir," said Edna, not trying to hide the disappointment in her voice. The entire house by now knew of the situation between my son and I, if not the details, and all hoped that we might hear from him. As for myself, I had tried at his school, his room and the library, the only places I could think of. I had even taken an out-of-the-way sojourn through Regent's Park just so I could walk down Baker Street the other day. What I hoped to find there, I cannot say. A flat frozen in time? A chance lost? Indeed, it did look as though nothing had changed. The same gilded door frame, the same highly polished windows. Mrs Hudson's heavy curtains hanging proudly. I stared at the glass until a young constable happened by and asked me if I were lost. Embarrassed, I shook my head and thanked him, walking away as quickly as my arthritic leg would allow.

"I suppose it's no harm, no fowl now, Edna." I rose stiffly and tied my dressing gown. "I'll take it in there." I waved vaguely toward what had once been my wife Julia's bedroom. It had changed very little and it was almost never used, save for a rare occasion when I had a guest. Other than to take a telephone call away from the prying ears of the women in the house, I never stepped foot in there. There was no point in doing so.

With the maid still apologising behind me, I stumbled into the dark room. I tried to imagine who could possibly be calling so early, but other than a patient or Josh, I could not imagine. And one was simply wishful thinking.

But as it turns out, there was a third option. And the voice was one that froze my spine in place. The pain in my leg and the alcoholic stupor in my brain flew away.

"A thousand apologies, my dear Watson."

I tried to reply. My mouth opened. But all that emerged was a husky, surprised grunt. I sat down heavily on the bed. Though I had owned the device for more than a decade, I could not believe how very near he sounded. Like a ghost who had melted through my very walls. After several swallows, I forced my tongue to service. "Are you really there?"

"No doubt I am the last person you expected to be on your telephone."

"I...well, not the very last, I daresay. Holmes...my dear fellow. Forgive my surprise. How are you? How have you been keeping? Are you in Sussex? My so—Josh...is maddeningly reticent about your whereabouts."

"At my request, I am afraid. But there will be time for all of your questions. For now, I have something serious to discuss with you. Will you hear me out?"

"Of course I will."

"To begin, am I correct in understanding that you are now the owner of a Ford automobile? And that you are comfortable piloting it?"

"Why, yes." I ran my hand over the grey stubble on my face. Was this really happening? "There has been a significant lack of adventure in my life of late and I thought motoring would be one way to fulfil that."

He chuckled. "I am in need of one. Temporarily. Probably for only one night, although I cannot be definite. I also need," he paused, "someone in my corner. A comrade, as it were."

"Holmes..." I cleared my throat, not wanting to sound like the 'old fool' my son no doubt thought I was. "I will be honoured. What are we to do?"

"Oh, I cannot begin to explain now. Particularly on this device, you understand. What I need is for you to come to Sussex—with the auto—no later than Saturday next. No, actually try and make it Friday if you can. I will try to meet you, but if I cannot, than someone will. Sunday will find us quite engaged, I have an appointment in Harwich. After that, I cannot say, but I certainly have a use for you if you would be so kind." Again, he paused, this time for several seconds. "Given what is transpiring of late, I would...I would not...I mean," he cleared his throat and swore under his breath.

For the first time in a week, I smiled. Hearing my old friend fumble for words was priceless to me. "I am listening, old fellow."

"I would appreciate if you would stay for a time. With me. I mean, at the Downs. Um, your child, your daughter, is welcome too. John Sherlock has spoken to me of her. He speaks quite well of her mental abilities. For a female. I realise that this is all sudden. Events came to head quite faster than I anticipated or I would have called." He cleared his throat. "I am doing quite badly here. You will have to forgive me, Watson. I have been portraying a certain...character for some time now and I have forgotten myself. I imagine it will soon pass."

I was so full of curiosity that I wanted to explode into questions. I reframed, however. I could tell just from his voice that Holmes was over-tired, over-excited and in need of assistance. "I will come, Holmes." I told him. "I have many questions"—

"No doubt," he interrupted. "And I will provide answers. I may in fact have a question or two for you...but that is not of importance. You know what is happening in the world? Of course you do. Everyone does, or thinks he does. But the number that is actually cognizant of the metamorphosis we are soon to undergo I think is relatively small. And London...I fear for our fair city. I would soon cross one concern off my list thinking you safely away from all that." Quite suddenly, he broke off and began to cough quite violently. I was startled, as he had sounded strong, if a bit tired, up until that point. Concerned, I broke in,

"Are you ill, old friend?"

There was a wrenching sound, as if the receiver had been thrust away so as to hide the sounds. After a moment of silence, I heard it picked up again. The voice was much huskier. "Forgive me. I have been fighting a slight chest cold. This business I am involved in is quite consuming-but there will be time for all of that. For now, Doctor—just come."

I promised to and we spent another few moments making plans. When I had hung up the line, I was dumbfounded. Partly because of the shock of speaking with him after so many years, but also because of what I had discerned. He would never come right out and say—it was not his nature—but he needed someone. He needed me.

On a very warm Friday, the last of July, I packed two valises, my medical bag (old habits, etc.) and a picnic basket into my little Ford. Life was certainly no picnic—Russia was mobilizing, Germany was throwing its weight around, it was only a matter of time before someone declared war on another, and the fathers would be forced to protect the children, as it were. But my mood was light. Lily waved good-bye to Edna and Cook and we motored out over a congested Bridge, ostensibly on a long week-end holiday. I had left the top off and planned on enjoying the breeze; there had been too much heat of late. We weaved through a lot of foot traffic in the City, there seemed to be at least four different speeches, demonstrations and rallies going on simultaneously. Everyone had something to say.

I had planned on a relaxing, slow motor, taking several hours and to atone for my moodiness since the row with John Sherlock, a nice picnic around Petersfield with my daughter.

Lily had been curiously quiet these last several days, but I had been so busy putting affairs in order that I could do little. When I informed her of our plan, her dark eyes widened and she rubbed at her chin, an idiosyncrasy that indicated interest. "I have always wanted to see him with my own eyes," she said.

"You have. You were just too young to remember."

She had read all my published accounts and been privy to many more I hadn't put to print. She was always interested in Holmes, but I did not observe the same fervour in which my son worshiped the man. She disliked his use of stimulants (Have I mentioned how similar Father and Daughter are?); she did not like to read of any disparaging remarks by he on my part ("A gentleman should not speak that way to those he loves" was how she had phrased it) and she really disliked any comments by the detective she judged unworthy of women ("How can he speak so low of them when it seems as though he's never really known one?" She asked me. I chuckled. It would have been a betrayal of confidence or I would have explained about his mother and sister.)

"I don't suppose he'll like me much." Lily was fiddling with the collar of her duster as we motored past one tranquil, lazy meadow after another.

"What's that?"

"Mr Holmes. I know my brother adores him, but I guess I'm more sceptical than he."

I tugged at a pigtail. "You are indeed, my dear. And although Holmes has never shown much interest in females, I cannot imagine his disliking you."

She thought about this for a minute. "Well, I am not much of a female yet."

We pulled the Ford to the side of the road when we spotted an opportune area for luncheon, and Lily lugged the basket down to a small grove alongside a nearly dry stream. We took off shoes and stockings and sat in the cool shaded grass, devouring Cook's prawn or pickle and cheese sandwiches (Lily was 'off' meat at the moment) and resting. It was the start of calm that I hadn't felt in weeks. It was only temporarily stalled when my daughter, after swallowing a huge bite of apple tart, asked me, "Do you think Josh is alright?"

I hesitated. She hadn't asked about our row but seemed to instinctively know that all was not right between us. "I don't see why he wouldn't be."

"Are you worried about him?"

"Yes." I thought it better to be honest.

She nodded. "When we get back to London, can we see him?"

She didn't know of his decision to volunteer. Now seemed not the time to tell her. "I hope that we can, my dear." And I left it at that.

The sun was burned into the backs of our necks by the time we slowly pulled into Eastbourne, the nearest bit of real civilisation to Holmes beyond a few farms, a school of some sort and a church. After stopping for petrol and a cold drink, we pulled onto a long unpaved path framed in overgrown vegetation and deep ruts. Lily laughed as we bounced around for nearly half an hour as I daren't push the tyres much. I could feel every jut and thrash throughout my bad leg. "Leave it to Holmes to live beyond the path to Hell," I mumbled.

For some reason, the mere thought of that brought to mind my son. I could picture him sniggering and with bright eyes exclaiming, "Oh, come now, Dad! He meant to pave it with good intentions. He just didn't have any!" I smiled and felt a little better.

There are few trees on the Sussex downs—indeed, when one climbs to the top of the white chalk cliffs, one typically has a view of nothing but rolling green grassland for miles. However, Holmes's cottage was situated in a little alcove of trees that helped to protect it from the storms and winds that were known to roll in off the Channel. The first view of the place other than the trees is a dust-coloured fence that surrounds the grounds and the chimney jutting out from the green tin roof. The house was small, a single level, but looked snug enough. A large picture window occupied the south-facing wall which offered a view of the beach and the cliffs that was nothing short of majestic. The construction of stone with brick inlay gave the place a thick, sturdy feel and as I parked the Ford next to the lawn and slowly stretched out my old bones, I was struck with a realization.

It was almost exactly as I had pictured it ten years previous. Sherlock Holmes could have opened my brain, extracted the image and erected it on this very sight. Curious indeed.

As I knocked on the door, I felt a sudden burst of nervous anticipation at seeing my old friend again. Foolish, of course. But the last time we had met after a prolonged absence from each other had not gone well, as you may remember. We had both behaved badly, myself in particular. My chest seemed replaced by cement and my mouth went completely dry. The older I became the more acutely I felt my emotions, a phenomenon that was common in the aged. It really was a cruel hand of fate that the older one got, the more loved ones he lost.

"I can't believe how sweet," my daughter was saying.

I couldn't believe that he could be well so far away from civilisation. Even after all these years. It seemed far more attuned to my own constitution than his. Although remembering the horrid sound of that cough perhaps he was not well after all. "A nice little cottage," I agreed.

She looked around. "It is. But I meant the air. It smells like...grass. And raspberries." She inhaled deeply. "And salt. Not...dung and smoke."

Lily had never been out of London. For some reason, I hadn't thought of that. When I was her age, I had the lovely Kentish air and a million pines to fill my lungs. She had smelled nothing but the soot of the city and the rot of the Thames. I was very glad I had her here.

The door was opened and my chest exploded. But instead of Holmes's gaunt frame in front of me, a tall, buxom lady of perhaps forty stood. Her hair was the colour of straw and her eyes were watery and welcoming. Her pale face broke into a hundred smiles as she said, "Dr Watson...oh my yes, you are he. I've only the Strand to go by but I can certainly tell. An honour. I'm Mrs Kelly. I don't expect you would know me, but Mr Holmes did tell me you and your girl were coming. Come in...come in."

Although she spoke rapidly, there was such friendliness that I immediately smiled. Her voice, the way she said 'your girl,' reminded me so of my own mother that I had a strong desire to embrace her.

"You are more than kind," I said. I could tell immediately why Holmes had engaged her. She reminded me very much of one I still mourned, one my daughter shared a name with.

The first thing I noticed when we entered the brightly lit room was the smell. There was the familiar heavy shag, no doubt seeped into every pore and crevice, and it sank slowly into my body and memory. A comfort. But there was another smell... "Shepherd's pie?" I asked. "I swear I smell it."

Mrs Kelly motioned over to a small nook to the left, a little carved inlay and table, a frayed blue tablecloth and a feast set upon it. I breathed heavily and the smell of onion and mashed potato, fresh bread, and something heavily sweet—which I would shortly discover was honey—made me nearly weak at the knees. I could feel the saliva glisten against my lips.

"Mr Holmes left specific instructions as to menu. He regrets he missed your arrival, will be back before the morning. He's been quite busy of late. I don't know how much he explained. My mother works...well, you see, she has been taking care of him. I've only been here these last two years. Me and my wee one, after I lost my husband." She stroked Lily's long braid. "You have the loveliest hair, darling. My Barbara cannot do a thing with hers. About your age, too, I would suppose."

"You have a girl? Where?"

"Oh, she's at our cottage. Less than a mile. She wanted to take the filly for a ride."

Leaving the two females to discuss daughters and horses, I sought and found the washroom to relieve my bladder of three hours of rutted, unpaved road. I was full of curiosity—where Holmes was, what he was doing. Why after all these years the sudden thrust back into my life. It was exactly what I desired, of course. A diversion. After the realisation with my son...well, I would take anything to not be reminded what a fool I had been. How Holmes had known—who knew the answer to that. But he had somehow sensed I needed this. And had one of my favourite dishes prepared to boot.

Mrs Kelly joined us in the meal, at my suggestion, as she was not actually a servant I saw no failure of protocol in this. It was her mother who had originally been hired to cook and clean for my friend, but she was now serving him elsewhere, in a way that the lady would not exactly explain, so she was temporarily taking over. "Not that there's much to do these days," she said. "Mr Holmes is rarely at home and when he is, it is just for a quick change of clothing and a bath."

"Where has he been?"

She smiled and poured me another stout. "Well, I think it proper for him to explain, sir. Another piece?"

After the delicious pie, fresh peas, beans, a nice brown bread as well as afters—a sort of treacle tart but made with honey—I was so completely full that I could have fallen asleep at the table. My own cook I had always found perfectly adequate (as was proven by the two stone I had put on the last six or seven years), but I had not had a meal like this in some time. Everything so fresh—I was certain that the majority of it had come from either Holmes's or Mrs Kelly's garden.

Lily helped with the dishes and ordered me to rest with all the convection of a young girl, and I eagerly complied. It had been a tiring day. I was dozing comfortably in a wicker armchair when my daughter stuck her head in the door and said they were going for a walk—to see the Kelly girl and her horse no doubt. I nodded drowsily and when I opened my eyes again, the cottage was empty and the light behind the windows extinguished. Yawning, I made it to my feet and stretched out the cramping in my leg, shoulder and side, all three studded with tiny bits of bullet shrapnel.

Holmes's neighbour had prepared the guest room for the use of my daughter, but when I checked, it was still empty. Her love of animals and the outdoors would keep her with the horse as long as she could. In the other chamber, two small beds, one hastily shoved in the corner, were both neatly made. On one lay a black and grey crocheted wrap, long faded, and I recognised it as the one Holmes always had with him. There were other reminders of his presence. His cherrywood pipe lay abandoned on the nightstand. Several books I recognised were keeping it company— British Birds, a very old New System of Chemical Philosophy and one I did not know—a small, red-leather bound Hamlet. Next to that was a pair of kidskin gloves hanging precariously over the edge. And on top, his watch, carefully polished. Looking as new and unmarred as the day he'd opened it in Switzerland. Twenty years ago. Twenty! How could that much time have passed? Strange that he hasn't it with him. But surely he had a reason. I touched its cold, hard surface. Re-read the inscription. A sort of drowsy calm overcame me. Much had changed in two decades. I was very glad that some things had not.

Consciousness returned to my body before my mind and I lay supine for a very long time. I had not been sleeping well these last weeks; too many problems floated just above my head every time I attempted to clear it. But that night I was the proverbial rock, and I could tell just from a glance at the window that a good part of the morning was already gone. Feeling sheepishly lazy, I rose and shoved my body into dressing gown and slippers.

The cottage was still curiously quiet. Lily was not a banshee, but being the only child can make especially a girl used to receiving as much attention as she could desire. The sitting room in the light of day looked more cramped than cosy, but there was a familiarity to the piles of messy papers, the two chairs and the gilded framed waterfall just above them. I smelled coffee and bacon, but I was so occupied with studying the room that I did not see the figure in the shadow until he spoke.

"You know, I remember a young fellow who, when I asked him to name his faults, he said he is up at all ungodly hours. Who would have thought that more than thirty years later that would still be so?"

Beaming, I turned around. "Some faults we simply never outgrow, my dear fellow."

The shadow at the table came into the light, acquiring human form. And it was the same human form that I knew intimately, save for one hideous difference. Sherlock Holmes had a goatée. Because I had never seen him with more than two days growth of facial hair, it was something of a shock.

"My God, Holmes," said I, the words failing to adequately define all that I wanted them to.

"Indeed."

He moved slowly, as if studying me, afraid I might bolt if he did anything too sudden. I caught him by the eye. He looked quite exhausted, judging by the rings and lines, but the steel eyes were as penetrating as ever. He could have been a decade younger than his chronological age—his hair still virtually without white, his spine still ramrod straight, but there was a something there. He had worked too long and too hard without rest. As if he could at any minute become a white sheet upon the brightly coloured Turkish carpet.

"That...growth on your chin is really quite monstrous." I interrupted the silence.

"I couldn't agree more." He tugged at it with two long fingers. "And I hope very shortly to be rid of it forever."

"Hmm..." I cleared my throat. There were questions I could have asked. Why grow it to begin with? What have you been doing and why are you exhausted? Are things different? Has time rusted our ironclad friendship? "Have you seen Lily?"

Before he could answer, the front door nearly flew off its hinges as my daughter ran into the room. "Papa, papa! Oh, you should see Barbara's little filly! She goes like a dream and she"—she stopped when she realised I was not alone and starred at Holmes quizzically. "You must be Mr Sherlock Holmes," she said. "I didn't realise you had a beard."

"At you service, Miss Watson." He shook her hand.

"Thank you for inviting us. I hope wherever you're dragging Papa off too will not be too strenuous. He is quite old, you know."

Holmes's eyes twinkled and he looked at me merrily. "I promise his health is of the utmost importance. And I hope that you will avail yourself to any comfort I can offer you while you are here. I perceive you are fond of books. My library is at your disposal. I only ask that if you are going to take them up into any trees with you that you use caution. The upper branches of most are not particularly sturdy."

I blinked at him a few times but before I could open my mouth, my daughter shrugged and replied. "I am fond of climbing and reading. I suppose you saw these scraps on my elbows and palms from resting on tree branches. Our cook is always telling me how un-ladylike that is. And the reading...ha, I've got it...the pocket of my dress is stretched from stuffing books into it. Clearly, I needed my hands free." She laughed. "I wish my brother were here, Mr Holmes. I'd have liked to see the two of you together."

Holmes cocked a single eyebrow. "I wish that as well. Has he trained you at all?"

"Trained me? At what? He taught me chess. And we do Shakespeare together sometimes. He is a wicked Iago. I prefer Lady Macbeth. " She turned to me. "Barbara is waiting for me. Is it alright if I stay there today? I would like to ride some more."

I gave her the desired permission, with the warning that she should not overstay her welcome. As she dashed away, I was struck for a moment with the difference between my two children. Josh would never have missed an opportunity to observe and spend time with his Uncle. Playing with another child instead? He would have told me I was daft. But Lily, although somewhat tomboyish, saw nothing special in the detective. To her, he was almost a creation of mine. Someone her brother or father discussed reverently, but to her simply a man. I rather envied her detachment.

Holmes watched her go with a curious look on his face. "You know, I think there really must be unexplored depths to you, my friend. You are constantly undervaluing your own abilities and contributions in your writings of my...adventures. The reason why is something I have contemplated for most of the years I have known you and I have never come to a completely satisfying answer."

"You amaze me," said I, going to pour myself some coffee. "Why do you think so?"

"One child with the strong ability to deductive reasoning I can attribute to...any number of things. A change in gene, some hereditary line unrelated to the father, an anomaly. But two such children. And with different maternal...no, the odds are enormously against it. Your abilities may be lax from lack of use, but I suspect they are there, hidden under the surface." He shook his head with the smallest of smiles. "Hoc familia nunquam desinit mirum Watson5."

I helped myself to an egg and some bacon. It was no longer very warm, but I cannot remember when I enjoyed a breakfast more. "You and your bloody Latin."

After I ate and dressed and my friend drank coffee, smoked and picked at a single piece of toast, we went out to a hot morning, the first of August. "Russia has declared war on Serbia," was the first thing my friend said. "I have it on good authority. It will be in the papers this evening."

Looking up at the sky, I shivered. "Then it is inevitable, is it not?"

"Yes." He narrowed his eyes at me. "Don't worry about the boy."

"How can I not, Holmes? He is my son."

"Yes."

His voice was terse, but a bit sad. I stepped carefully through his garden, avoiding a brown patch of peas and picking my way through some droopy nut-hard tomatoes. "Have you spoken to him?" I asked, both hopeful and dreading.

"Once. Rather late one night." He did not need to specify which night. I sighed.

"I repeat, Watson. Don't worry about the boy. I realise...this has not been easy for you. And the timing I grant is not particularly appropriate. But, my friend, he is a good man. It is perhaps harder for you to see that than I. But I know him well. He was angry, words that are spoken in a cloud of emotion you really mustn't allow to make that deep of impact. Yes, I realise that is easier said than done." He placed one hand on my shoulder and opened a weed entrenched gate with the other.

"He is going off to war and the last words he will remember from his father are you are no son of mine. If anything happens"—

"Nothing will happen." The words were like venom coming off his tongue. And the minute they left his throat he began to cough so violently that it bent him over. I thought for a second he may collapse to his knees. Greatly concerned, I stepped toward him but he held up a hand and motioned me back. "It is nothing," he managed after a moment or two, his voice a hoarse whisper. He managed several wet inhalations of breath.

"That cough is hardly nothing, my friend. You sound as though you have pneumonia. Please, you must let me listen to your lungs."

He shook his head, as I knew he would. "I have been tired. That is all. When this is over, I will gladly submit to playing the invalid, but in the meanwhile, please do not worry about either me or your son. " He licked his colourless lips. "It is not easy to be the proverbial middle-man. I do wish the two of you could forgive each other with the same alacrity that you do my many faults."

We had reached a small grove of conkers6 and the coolness they provided was much appreciated. I heard the buzzing before I could see anything. We picked our way over rotted chestnuts and uneven clumps of ground until we reached a small clearing. There the noise grew louder and Holmes, pausing at a small wooden outbuilding, extracted a smoker as well as a large, netted helmet-like device. He handed it to me. "What about you?" I asked.

"I am almost never stung anymore."

I had no fear of bees, or any other creature for that matter, but to see so many in one place is something of awe. I watched at a few paces removed as my friend pumped the bellows and emitted puffs of sweet smelling smoke. He seemed quite calm as many of the creatures took to crawling on him and was even able to talk to me as he worked. I discovered that the type of hive he employed was called Langstroth and that the design, which reminded me of a filing cabinet, made for easy manoeuvring of the combs. I was interested in this hobby that I had originally dismissed as bizarre and we discussed honey types, and what he did with it when collected, numbers of bees, and the various researches he had done over the years, mainly on queen segregation. "In fact," said Holmes. "I have recently published something to that effect. It is called Practical Handbook of Bee Culture with Some Observations on the Segregation of the Queen."

"Quite the daunting title."

"It has occupied what little time I have had these last years. When I have not been engaged pandering first to my brother, than to Sir Edward Grey7, and finally the PM himself deigned to visit my humble cottage. I resisted, never you doubt it, but the three of them wore me down. It was too much for our people and too much was going out the door, as it were." He sighed. "I have been working steadily for more than two years and when this damned business is at an end I tell you, Watson, I am actually looking forward to some rest."

It was the first time I had ever heard him long for a case to be at an end. It was usually the opposite. Perhaps even the great Sherlock Holmes was feeling his age, after all. "If it is rest you desire, perhaps you have erred in having Lily and I down here."

He flashed me that lightening fast grin I had not seen in so long. "Nonsense."

We walked slowly around his property and he filled me in on Van Bork, the German agent; his rôle as Altamont, the begrudged Irish-American; and my own small part as his chauffeur. "Won't it look suspicious that you have suddenly gained a driver?" I asked.

"I have been meeting him in London, but this final piece of the puzzle, the one he desires above all, I will deliver to his private home in Harwich. I can hardly take a cab or a train. Besides, I will not deny that the German is a large and dangerous man. There is no chance of him gaining any information, of course, or at least anything that would benefit his country, but there is always the chance he escapes from my custody. That would be embarrassing to His Majesty's government, I daresay. And Mycroft is such a bear when he does not get his way."

I had to stifle a laugh at that image. "I have my revolver and your back, Holmes."

A tired nod. "I never doubted it."

Holmes disappeared again later that afternoon and when he returned the following morning he looked more haggard than ever. I held my tongue, though, realising that he had put himself out a lot these last years and it was reaching its climax. He had returned home with a small parcel wrapped in butcher's paper, a bottle of chloroform and an old .44 snub-nosed Bulldog that he had picked up somewhere. Shortly thereafter, Mrs Kelly came over and the two of them held a quiet conversation that ended with the lady clapping her hands joyously. "Oh, it will be so nice to have her back," she said. "I know that she is safe, but still I worry."

Holmes, uncharacteristically, clasped her hands in his own and smiled warmly. She returned it and then broke away and prepared a massive feast for brunch—we dined on halibut, curried chicken, cold roast beef, salad, fried mushrooms, porridge with jam and honey and more black coffee than my kidneys could handle. The celebratory mood was contagious so that even my daughter, who had no idea what was going on, was jovial and charming. We all ate well, and even Holmes picked at his food.

"The good doctor and I will be gone for tonight," he said, pushing his plate away and lighting a cigarette. "I trust that you ladies can be relied upon to look after yourselves for a night."

He was joking, but Lily, who fancied herself a suffragette looked at him warily. "If you ask me, Mr Holmes, it is you men you cannot be relied upon to look after yourselves. In Papa's stories, you frequently do yourself to death over a case and Papa has been shot nearly four times. A woman would never be so careless."

"I daresay," he agreed, his eyes twinkling merrily. "Although in my professional career, I recall numerous ladies who 'did themselves to death' over the love of a man or some other triviality. But in the case of your father, and indeed, in my own, it is for King and country that we wreck our health and ruin our bodies."

"That is only because it is unseemly for women to do so," Lily protested and then paused. "Besides, love is not a triviality."

Holmes smiled through a cloud of smoke.

By the time I manoeuvred the car through the picturesque village of Harwich, the sun had slipped behind the cliffs becoming a thin silver line along the water. Holmes sat behind me, head resting against the seat, eyes closed, humming what sounded like Macdermott's War Song8 . The revolver and the chloroform I knew to be tucked safely in a pocket of his greatcoat. Despite his pretext of all being well, he was gaunt, exhausted and perspiring freely. The rattle of his breathing set me on edge. It seemed a quirk of fate or God or whomever that so much depended upon a single man. A great man. But a man, nonetheless.

I shifted in my seat, trying to quiet my burning leg, inflamed from all the driving I had done of late. I could hear the occasional cough desperately trying to be held back. I could almost feel the heat of his fever from here. "Holmes—er, you know—perhaps I could do this for you. Couldn't I just tell Von Bork that you asked me to deliver the signals?"

He laughed quietly and then a mucus-filled cough rattled him so that it quickly turned to a groan. He pulled out a handkerchief and spat into it. "That would never work, doctor. Von Bork may be a morally lax spy but he is hardly a fool. He would know instantly he had been betrayed and would kill you." He gasped and shuddered. "Besides, simply bringing him in is not my only task. There is a safe. A burglar-proof safe that is filled to the gills with stolen correspondence. Some of it phony, some of it genuine. I am not, after all, his only agent. It is beyond imperative that the combination of that safe be obtained, now. For in a day or two I fear our fair England will be too hot to hold him. He will return to the safety of his bosom friend, the Kaiser."

"And how the devil are you going to get it from him?"

I couldn't see his face, but I would be willing to bet he was smiling. "Oh, I have judged his egotism for some time now. He wants to tell me." Another cough and this time I heard the moan of the seat as he leant forward, bent over and hacked freely. "There, doctor. Stop short of the gate. And extinguish the lights."

I did as I was told and the engine quivered and died. I looked up at our destination, just beyond a highly polished gate, situated at the very top of one of the many virgin white cliffs. It really was a grotesque thing, a brick mausoleum. All pillars and statuary and trestles. To me it seemed beastly, a bit like building a monument to oneself.

Holmes wearily sat forward in his seat, and I could just make out his form, starring up at the house. He seemed to be watching for something. But when I looked all I could see was a lamp on the ground floor barely flickering inside the massive structure.

"What are we looking for?"

He pointed. "That light."

"What of it?"

"We dare not move until it is extinguished."

I silently debated with myself. The thought of Holmes going in there alone was repellent. Surely he must know that he is not strong enough to overpower him. What would he do—break the chloroform and hope that it would be enough to stager his opponent and then knock him out with his revolver? It sounded a bit ludicrous. "Why can the man not simply be killed, Holmes? I will gladly volunteer to do the deed myself."

Again, Holmes chuckled. "Good old Watson," he mumbled almost to himself. "The one fixed point in a changing age. But I have already told you that he cannot be killed. He must be interrogated. We must have the combination. If an assassination was all that was required, I can assure you brother Mycroft has any number of thugs and sharp-shooters at his beck-and-call. This was a two-and-a-half year assignation that required me to drop everything in my life, including my life, in order to assume a rôle that has been positively horrifying to portray. I have not had more than ten minutes to my own thoughts in all that time, Watson. I dare not even think as Sherlock Holmes, lest Séarlas Altamont become suspicious. Can you at all imagine what that is like, old friend?"

"No. I cannot." Just then, a large Benz automobile came charging through the open side of the gate, throwing up gravel and rocketing down the drive as if we, in this small car, did not exist. A few seconds later, the flickering light in the panelled window went dark. At that same instant, my pulse noticeably quickened. I spun in my seat. The detective sighed, mopped at his face with his handkerchief and put the other hand on the door latch. "Time to go. After I leave, bring the car to the front of the house and park it there. Wait until I come for you."

"Holmes, wait..." I grabbed his arm and held him back, feeling the pathetic thinness of the limb, the wasting strength and the burning fever. "As a doctor, I really can't let you do this. You are too unwell!"

"Let go of me, Watson."

"Bloody Hell, man! He is not going to go without a fight! He could kill you! I don't..."

He turned his head ever so slightly toward me and cocked it, as if I had said something foreign, something he didn't quite comprehend. He wiped the sweat that was cascading down his chin and upper lip, collecting like dew onto that hideous goatée. He raised his hand and placed the rough, burning palm on my neck. I thought he may kiss me. The way his eyes penetrated mine certainly suggested he would. He was close enough that I could smell his very essence. But instead he pulled away and coughed again, his wan face turning bright scarlet.

"You said you had my back," he whispered hoarsely.

"I do, Holmes, of course I do."

"Then I am in no danger." He pulled away and the car door banged. Standing still for a moment, I saw him take a deep breath and compose himself. A second later, it was almost as if Holmes were gone, transformed into some other creature, some player that did not have the debilitating illness. He began to sprint toward the house, parcel in hand. I sighed deeply, slamming my hand on the wheel. I turned to watch him go, but something metallic caught my eye, something tossed casually on the passenger seat. It was his revolver.

1 St. Bart's, of course, where Holmes and Watson met

2 The medical school of U of London

3 This is not Nigel Bruce-ing, btw. It says in His Last Bow, that Watson was a 'large' built man.

4 Secretary of War

5 This Watson family never ceases to astonish

6 Horse chestnut

7 Foreign minister at the time

8 A very popular song in the late 1800s