Confessions of the Master

by amalcolm1

Watson looks back on his relationship with Holmes after Reichenbach, recanting what really happened and the truth about his dear friend. Will eventually contain HW slash.

37. Chapter 37

xx

I debated twenty minutes—perhaps half an hour, I cannot be certain as it was too dark to see my watch, and then tucked the gun into my trouser pocket. Holmes may have known what he was doing; I can hardly remember an instance when he did not, but silence combined with complete darkness is maddening. And it reeks of fear. I began to walk as rapidly as my bad leg would allow across the black lawn.

I stopped when a flickering light on the terrace was near enough to graze me. There were voices.

"Well, mister, it is a business proposition." The voice was American with an unmistakable hint of Irish. Holmes knack of an accent was almost uncanny.

"All right. Have your way." This voice was heavy, guttural. Distinctively Germanic. A scrapping sound, as if a chair had been pushed back. A thin scratching sound. I leaned forward, trying not to miss a single noise but to still stay invisible. "After all, since we are to be on such terms, Mr Altamont. I don't see why I should trust you any more than you trust me. Do you understand?"

I felt a twinge of anticipation. Something wasn't right. All my years of experience suggested it.

"There's the cheque upon the table," the German was saying. "Now give me that parcel!"

The next few seconds were completely untenable to me. I really cannot recall what happened and in what order. There was a scuffling noise as if something had been thrown to the floor and the ripping sound of paper. Then there was the sound of glass breaking and of both men yelling out simultaneously. An angry string of German invectives followed and then—and then a loud gasp, a gasp that may have been a scream had it come from a man that was not desperately ill and totally off his game. "Hurensohn! Ich werde dich toten!"1I heard Von Bork roar and with that I could not remain hidden any longer. One didn't need to speak German to interpret rage.

He saw me the minute I saw him. A large, well-built man with a balding head, a full face of black hair and two dark eyes that at that moment could have belonged to Satan himself. The face was fully red, the arms outstretched and in one of them, the limp body of my friend. I held my gun aloft and he Holmes, almost like we were going to make some bizarre trade. The mere act of doing so caused the coritied artery in the side of his neck to bulge and turn his neck purple.

"Let him go, Von Bork," I said, trying not the gag on the fumes of the broken bottle of chloroform that was permeating the air. "I promise I will not hesitate to kill you if you do not."

He looked at me as if I were mad. "Why should I not break his neck right here and now? He is a traitorous thing, this Altamont. He deserves no consideration."

I stepped closer. I wasn't thinking, wasn't feeling, just acting. I kept those two grotesque eyes directly in my sights. "If you do not drop him this second," I said calmly. "I will splatter your brains on the wall."

He laughed. It was an unnerving sound, that laugh. A sound that made me think that although I had a gun, he had the serious advantage of me. In a single move, he thrust my friend in the direction of a large sofa and pulled a pistol from his trouser pocket. He kept it levelled at the injured man. "You will not kill me, Dr Watson. I am sure that Mr Sherlock Holmes here has already told you that I am not to be killed." He tapped his head. "There is too much in here that your England desires to have."

I felt the breath leave my body. I looked at Holmes, but he was prostrate and barely conscious. He knows, I thought. How in God's name did he know? My heart was like a freight train but I did not allow my hand to waver in the slightest. I moved slowly toward the sofa, the Bulldog aimed at the heart of the German whilst his own Mauser was aimed likewise at me. "Have a seat, doctor. See to your friend, if you wish. I must ask you to give me your gun, if you please. There is a chance that we can end this as civilised peoples, but if you do something foolish, I must deposit a bullet into Mr Altamont. And I do not think that is something you would care to witness."

Of course, I did not believe him for a second. He fully intended to kill the both of us. But I had faced certain death before and from less spine-less creatures than Von Bork. I gingerly raised Holmes's head and felt for a pulse. It was there although his skin was like fire. Several black bruises were already forming on his throat. His eyes slowly rolled from the ceiling and met my own. "Watson?" He whispered.

"Don't try and speak," I told him, undoing his tie and collar to make him a bit more comfortable.

"He's right, of course. We can't kill the German. We're going to kill many Germans soon but not this one."

Von Bork was standing over him, a posture of triumph. He motioned for my .44 and when I hesitated, he cocked his own and held it an inch from Holmes's face. Holmes gave a whimpering cry and turned away. He's afraid. He's actually afraid. I could recall only a very few instances when my friend had shown actual fear on a case. But a fever was violating his reason and boiling his mind. He had been so ill-used he could barely hold grip on his own consciousness. "Do what he says, doctor," Holmes whispered. "Please...just don't let him kill me."

I was so stunned by those words that I immediately handed my weapon over. What choice did I have? Von Bork snorted rudely and tossed the Bulldog onto his desk. "A cheap English weapon. The product of a crumbling dynasty." He paused. "And a crumbling detective."

Those words almost literally made my blood boil. How dare the blackguard! "Both my country and my friend may not be what they once were. But I can assure you, sir, that both have more honour and value than could ever exist in your blood!"

Holmes grabbed my hand and squeezed it, hard. I turned to him but he was looking at our mutual enemy, glowering above us. "How long have you known?" He mumbled.

"How long? How long have I known that Charlie Altamont is merely a myth? Well, I would like to say that I have known all along. But alas, you did it very well—in the beginning at least. I suspected nothing until Hollis. I knew the fellow was a bit unstable, but he would never have...what is the expression? 'Turned tail and run'? I will say, you English have such expressions! That was the first clue. And then my man in Whitehall told me he had his eye on Mycroft Holmes. I had heard the name of course. Who has not heard of him? Even the Kaiser speaks his name with maddening reverence. But my man had heard that the genesis of Mr Altamont was not Chicago or indeed even Dublin. He was born at...perhaps Downing Street?" Von Bork chuckled. "I wanted to run you in from that moment. To think, that such a wonderful worker as he could be a double traitor! But I am very glad that I resisted. For you see, I realised that if I did not have an Irish-American anarchist in my employ, than who did I have? He had to be someone of note, if Mycroft Holmes and his government had personally hired him."

"I warned him," Holmes rambled. "I warned my brother. You were cunning. He thought both of the secretaries were inviolate. But I knew that Aubin was rotten."

Von Bork's brow knitted. "Aubin? You think that I would waste my energies over a mere secretary? Oh, my dear sir, you do me a disservice! I have the resources of a great empire at my back! I could have bought half the cabinet if I had chosen. But that would have not been necessary. One good man is frequently enough." His dark eyes twinkled.

"One good man," Holmes whispered under his breath.

Von Bork was clearly growing tired of this. Knowing we were helpless, he moved over to a sideboard containing liquor bottles of every shape and size. A variety of crystal goblets and glasses glistened temptingly. He chose a topaz-coloured bottle with a shield and cross-sword upon it and poured some into a cup. I could just make out the word 'Tokaji' from where I sat. As he drank it, he was confident enough to keep his back to us. I eyed the desk. It was about ten feet from where I sat. Could I get to the Bulldog? Probably not. Particularly given the fact that my leg was now so stiff I could not bend it. It stuck out awkwardly and painfully under the arm of the sofa. But why not take the chance? It was clear enough that he meant to murder us. I sat forward as quietly as I could, putting my weight on my good leg.

But the instant I made to stand I felt Holmes's hand, which was still in my mine, bear down with such strength that I started. He grabbed me by the collar and pulled me toward him. At first, I thought he meant to whisper some word of plan into my ear. My heart lightened. But it quickly turned to ice when I saw the pink, feverish eyes roll into his skull and the jaw slacken. He began to shake all over, his mouth making a horrible clicking sound as his teeth repeatedly knocked together. "Holmes!" I yelled. It seemed to me that his pallor had almost instantly gone from bright red to deathly white.

Von Bork spun around, the empty glass in one hand and the Mauser in the other. He came toward us. I saw the arm straighten, the muzzle taking aim. Of course. He had needed a drink to steady his nerve and now was the moment to act. He was a spy, but a man not accustomed to carrying out such a filthy thing as murder. But the alcohol would have readied him.

I have heard it said that you do not hear the bullet with your name on it, but I always found that to be a bit fanciful. The first two bullets that tore through me I cannot recall if I heard or not. One does not distinguish gun reports in the middle of a war. The third and fourth I definitely did hear, but both those times I was convinced the intended target was not myself. As it was this time. Because the Mauser was not pointed at me. When it went off, the acrid smoke mixed with the addling chloroform and my mind went a bit foggy. I believe I yelled out. I believe I grabbed my friend and tried to throw myself over him. But he was reaching under the sofa cushion for something metallic—a small pistolette. He was no longer seizing but was sitting up, a determined statue-like expression on his sweat-drenched face. He fired the little .22. It made a sharp popping sound. Von Bork grunted, surprise filling his ruddy face. I saw a stream of blood shoot up from his arm, the arm that had been holding the Mauser. It clattered to the floor.

"Watson!" I heard my friend gasp, but he didn't need to say anything. I threw myself at the German, ignoring my numb throbbing leg and drove my fist as hard as I could into his jaw. He jerked back and we both fell hard to the floor. He went for my neck, damning the wound, and he was not a man whose strength could be trifled with, despite the slick of blood dribbling down his arm. With a growl, I grabbed at the wound and squeezed. His howl of pain splattered my face with spittle and I almost relented. But the image of him holding the gun an inch from Holmes's face flashed through my mind, and I all but gave my hand a permanent injury as I smashed it into his face. He groaned, tried to sit up but in the end he rolled on his side and was silent.

Something squeezed my un-wounded shoulder and I tensed. But it was only Holmes. His face was like a ghost and he was drenched in perspiration. He may have been exaggerating his illness for Von Bork's benefit, but it clearly was not all for show. "Are you alright?" I asked.

He nodded and leaned on me hard. "We need...something to tie his legs. Can you see to that wound? It wouldn't...do to have him exsanguinate...before the officials arrive." He was panting hard and the first thing I did was to go to the sideboard and pour us both a generous helping of the German's Tokay wine. It was really quite marvellous. A sweet fire rushed down my gullet.

Using a few drapery cords, I managed to tie Von Bork up as well as I could, but I doubted that even if he regained consciousness he was going anywhere. The wound was superficial but he had lost a fair amount of blood. With Holmes's knife, I ripped up a curtain and managed a make-shift tourniquet. Despite my friend's ascertains, I really didn't much care if he lived or died.

I was surprised to see a lady of advancing years in the room when I finished with the prisoner. She had a head of steel-coloured hair and a face to match, but she looked at my friend with genuine concern. Holmes introduced me to her as 'Martha,' the mother of Mrs Kelly who had been in Von Bork's employ (and so by proxy Holmes') for the last year and a half. "I hadn't realised that it would end this way, sir," said she, looking from the prostrate body to Holmes, who was holding himself up with the help of the desk. "What happened?"

"Yes, Holmes, what the devil did just happen?"

He dropped the pen and paper he was scribbling upon, pressed it into the maid's hand and collapsed on the sofa, head thrown back, eyes closed. "Watson, would you be so kind as to pour me some more of that Tokay? It really is too good to go to waste."

I did as he asked, pouring more for the both of us and offering some to Martha as well, but she declined. His hand shook slightly as he downed it but his face regained slightly more pink in the cheek and nose when he finished. "My brother had realised some months ago that there was a spy employed by the government. We had already identified five of Von Bork's men but we knew that there was at least one more and that this one had access to information that was most damaging. A week ago, it became clear that my cover as Altamont was blown and the German realised who he was in fact dealing with. But we were far, far too committed at that point to simply cut and run."

He turned to me. "I have put your life in danger, my dear friend. I never intended that, but you were the only one I knew I could trust. I could not risk bringing a firearm into the house on my person—he would have killed me on the spot if I'd been discovered, knowing as he did my true identity. I had Martha hide that little pistolette there last week on the chance I would be too weak to chloroform him. Which did prove to be the case. Still, I needed both your steady nerve and steady fist or I would no doubt be sitting here with a large hole in my skull. I had thought...well, rather, I had hoped..." he cleared his throat. "Martha, before I lose the power of speech completely, please ring that number and give whomever answers the instructions I've written down. Please forgive the horrendous script. A doctor would have been more legible."

I eyed him with the smallest bit of mirth and concern. "You don't need to explain anymore, Holmes."

"I once told you it is as much a departure from the truth to underestimate one's abilities as it is to exaggerate them. Well, I have been untruthful it seems. I exaggerated my ability in this case. I informed the government that I could bring about a successful conclusion to this matter. I underestimated the danger. To myself. To you. I have been a complete fool." He began to cough once again.

"Yes. You have." He opened his eyes wide. "You might have included me in the plan. Really, Holmes, I thought we had gone a bit beyond all this. Why didn't you tell me? You might have trusted me."

He brought an arm up, studying his hand for a few seconds, peering at it as if someone had switched it for a different one without his knowledge. He plopped it down upon his face, covering his eyes, grunting in pain and frustration. "My dear fellow," he said, his voice nearly hoarse at this point. "I have always trusted you. I think if you reflect on it, you will find that you are the one that has not always trusted me. But if I had told you that Von Bork knew of my true identity and I was carrying on despite that, would you have allowed me to come tonight?"

"If I had known, you'd had Buckley's2 on that, Holmes. I'd have knocked you out first."

He smiled and closed his eyes. "I would expect nothing less from John H. Watson."

xx

I was kept busy for the next two hours. I retrieved my medical bag from the backseat of the Ford and examined Holmes. I knew he had to be bad off as he didn't even try to protest, he simply lay limp as a rag while I took his temperature and listened to his lungs, the former of which was elevated and the latter of which sounded as though fluid were present. In addition, he had lost at least one stone of weight that his thin frame could scarcely afford. His musculature had paid the price of his ill-care. The man who had once straightened a poker with his bare hands could now barely lift one.

"You are not to move from that sofa," I instructed and received a cough-addled grunt of complacence in return.

I built a small fire in the fireplace and opened the brass safe per Holmes's instructions. I dragged armfuls of papers and documents over to him and held each one up in turn while he blearily pointed at either the fire (to be burnt) or the floor (to be saved for the government). Once, Von Bork started to stir but I took advantage of the broken whisky bottle of chloroform and managed to put him back out. By the time I was finished with all of that, I had to admit I was a bit done in. Martha, bless her, was kind enough to bring in some strong coffee and bread and cheese, which was much appreciated. Though Holmes drifted in and out of sleep, I woke him and forced him to drink a large glass of water and eat a bit of bread. The waxy colouring to his skin suggested dehydration on top of everything else.

When Mycroft Holmes arrived, the large Bavarian clock in the entry way was booming midnight. He looked nearly as haggard as his brother—the folds of fat and skin on his face were yellow and wrinkled, his clothing askew, his eyes puffy and bloodshot. Three younger men followed him into the house. One wore the official togs of a Yarder, the other two plainclothes tweeds. He offered me his hand which I took but he glared down at his brother, who did not acknowledge his presence. "Well, sir," he said, his Stentorian voice as usual a bit disconcerting. "You have made a ripe mess of this thing, Sherlock."

Sherlock did not disagree. "My apologies. The next time I am asked to do myself to death in the service of my country, I will try and do a more thorough job."

"Your biting wit is not appreciated." He 'hmphed' and glanced down at Von Bork. "I hope that wound is not too serious."

"I am well, brother, thank you for asking." Sherlock choked so hard that I fetched him more water as he spat up more green sputum. Mycroft looked so annoyed that I began to let my temper get the best of me.

"You know, Mr Holmes, I really don't see how you have any cause to be angry with your brother. He has done all you have asked. He got the combination to the safe. We have all of the papers not burnt here, in this valise. And Von Bork is safely in your custody. The bullet is easily removed from the brachialis and if you take him directly to hospital there will be no lasting concern, I expect. What more do you require?"

I thought I saw a hint of a smile upon my friend's lips at this, but it was gone as fast as it appeared. Mycroft snorted and went over the side-board, taking the last of the Tokay for himself. He gave a grunt of approval when he tasted it. "You have interrogated him, then?"

"No, but I have the name," replied Sherlock.

"Do you? Is it Aubin?"

"Certainly not. And before you ask, it was not Cummings, either."

"But that means it is"—

"I tried to warn you."

"Damnit." Mycroft swore quietly and downed the rest of his wine. "This really could not have come at a worse time. Tuesday next will be a day that will live in the minds of every man and women of English sympathy and to loose...well, I suppose I have no one but myself to blame. One does not like to think that such a high-ranking, long-served man can be bought, but I have been put to some distraction of late."

"No doubt," Holmes mumbled, closing his eyes. He turned to lay himself out on the sofa, crossing his arms on his chest, the pain causing him to press down on it. I saw his mouth open, I saw words leave his mouth but I could not make them out. I heard only 'distraction' and 'my life.' And then the wheeze grew somewhat regular and he was asleep proper.

His brother was watching him, turning the little goblet he had drank the Tokay out of over and over in his massive flipper. The expression on the face was somewhat curious, different than I expected. He pressed his lips together and bowed his head. He seemed resigned. Perhaps a bit...apologetic even. He set the glass on the table and motioned for the two plainsclothesmen to come over. In an authoritative tone, he ordered them to take Von Bork and place him in the automobile. "And make sure the bindings are completely secure." He placed his hand on my shoulder. "Would you be so good as to take that valise, doctor, and walk out with me?"

xx

Although the sun had retired hours ago, the temperature had not. The air seemed heavy, bogged down with salt and uncertainty. The events had exhausted me but I felt as though I were twenty-years younger. Just two days ago I had fallen asleep in a chair after too much shepherd's pie and tonight I had faced what had seemed an almost certain death, wrestled a man to the ground and permanently damaged my fist in his concrete-like face. In the face of death, I felt alive for the first time in years. Perhaps that is why I said what I did to Mycroft Holmes:

"I want to ask a favour of you, Mr Holmes."

"That is ironic. Because I have the same to ask of you. Decorum dictates that you should go first."

I fully intended to. "You nearly cost your brother his life. Certainly, you could not anticipate what would happen. But"—

"On the contrary, doctor, I anticipated exactly what would happen."

I stopped in my tracks. "Now, now, we mustn't rush into a bolt of emotion," he continued, unconcerned, still bounding down the terrace steps. "Why do you think I had the Premier appoint Sherlock to this thing? Any other man would have been dead or would have bolted ages ago. He was the only one who could see it through to the end. His energy and perseverance have always been amongst his most employable traits."

"His brain is certainly a factor. His methods and reason."

Mycroft shook his head. "This case required neither logic nor reason. It required a man who could act a part so well that no one could even suspect he was anything other than what he appeared. It required sacrifice. It required dedication. In short, doctor, it required Sherlock Holmes." He turned his watery gray eyes to me. "I certainly did not want my brother to die. But Von Bork is the most formidable man we have come across. Perhaps Sherlock would say that his fanatical mathematics professor was the more formidable opponent, I cannot say. But to the government, to the current state of affairs, Von Bork was the one we needed to eradicate. And the only one I knew who could achieve that goal was my brother."

"Leave him alone. I want you to leave the both of us in peace."

"I beg your pardon?"

I cleared my throat. I hadn't meant it to come out in such a way. "Forgive me. That favour I wanted to ask. I would like you to leave Sherlock to a complete retirement. Whatever your motives and reasons, I only know that he very nearly completed this thing with the cost of his life." I took a deep breath. "And I can't abide that."

Mycroft was quiet for a minute or two. We turned and headed down the drive to where a long black Daimler puffed impatiently, his three accomplices inspecting the prisoner and preparing for the 120 kilometre journey back to London. Almost as if he anticipated the dreary night he had ahead of him, Mycroft exhaled and leaned a bit heavier on his stick. "I will do as you ask, doctor," said he. "And are you willing to grant me a similar request?"

"Of course. Providing I am able."

"It is something in your very oeuvre, I should think. I require a record of this case. With...some subtle changes of course. And not right at the moment. I shall telephone you in Sussex when the time is right. We have a responsibility to the morale of the public and unless I am very much mistaken, we shall require much in the way of morale."

It was so unexpected that I agreed immediately. I had anticipated something grander, something...along the lines of not disgracing his family name. But he was so focussed on the coming war that there was no room in his eyes for anything but. We had reached the limousine and Mycroft grunted and groaned, arranging his bulk next to the driver. He reached through the window and tapped his hat, bidding me a good-night. Just as the car was shifting into gear, preparing to depart, he once again stuck his head out the window, yelling to be heard over the engine. "By the way, doctor! This entire premise will be remanded to the custody of His Majesty in the next month or so as the property of a war criminal. In the meanwhile, if my brother is not well enough to travel, I seen no reason why you shouldn't remain here with him, if you prefer!" The Daimler turned then and headed at a clip toward the open gate, not even providing me time to reply. I could think of nothing better to do so I laughed, long and hard before returning to Holmes.

xx

My friend spent the rest of that night on the oak-panelled sofa, shivering and waking up frequently to hack and spit into his handkerchief. Just as the sun was reddening the sky, I threw my arms around him and dragged him upstairs to a room roughly the size of my flat in London. I realised the adrenaline would stop pumping at some point but that I should take advantage of it while it lasted. I drove back to Sussex for clean clothing and instructions. Lily was digging around in the garden when I drove up and proceeded to muddy my shirt with her hug. "Where is Mr Holmes?" She asked, holding up the basket of carrots and radishes for my inspection.

"Oh, he's back in Harwich. He has a few things to finish up there. This case was a...spot of bother for him. We're going to need a bit of time to finish it up right. Will you be alright here with Mrs Kelly?"

She gave me a queer look but didn't press the issue. "I like it here, Papa. There are so many things to do and see. Barbara and I are going to swim later, down at the beach. She was telling me about her school here. Actually, it isn't here but in Eastbourne. She says it's brill and they even allow for riding as exercise. Do you think we may still be here when the term opens?"

I threw in another shirt and closed the clasp on my Gladstone. "I really cannot answer that, my dear. It's a bit premature. Won't you miss London?"

"There isn't a horse to ride in London. Or Barbara. Or the sea. Or Sherlock Holmes." I glanced at her. "For you, Papa. I know how pleased you were to see him. You really should have some companion at your age."

"Oh, I should, should I? At my age?"

She smiled. "Well, with Josh gone off and of course I won't be here to take care of you forever"—

"Josh. What do you mean? Have you heard from him?"

My harsh tone surprised her and she blinked a few times. She disappeared into her room and returned with an envelope. "It came this morning. Wasn't even forwarded. I still haven't worked out how he knew we'd be here. But my brother is always good at these things."

It was addressed to her. A single sheet, ripped from an exercise tablet. He looked as though he had written it in hurry. He began by telling her he missed her, take care, pay attention in school, don't fall out of any trees, keep reading the Shakes, he wanted to do King Lear with her when he got back...

Got back.

I'm going to train with RAMC3. It'll be a few months at Aldershot and then Eastward Ho! Don't know yet where we'll end up but I can't see it being anything other than French or Flemish soil. I'll write again when I know more details. Don't worry about me, Marts, I'll be just fine and this thing will be over before the pond freezes. I just hope they leave something for us to mop up. Take care of the old man. I sent a copy to London and Sussex, just in case, but I hope he did drag you there. It's lovely, eh wot? Hugs from your brother.

PS-Don't give my Uncle an easy time of it if you are there. He may be growing a bit feeble these days.

xx

For three days, his fever having spiked, Holmes did little besides sleep. It reminded me of the lethargy he had shown in previous years after a particularly gruelling case. Often before the boredom would seize and he would look for stimulation wherever he could, he would take to his bed for a week and I would hardly see hide nor hair of him. But whereas prior I would have left him alone to his queer habits, now I had a patient. I checked on him every few hours, a pile of limbs nearly invisible in the massive bedstead that dominated the master chamber. He would grunt and groan, turn away from me and at last, ignore me as I examined him.

Those days were hot enough to scorch the Devil and if I were hot, I could feel for my friend, baking under the weight of a particular unyielding August as well as his infected body. I sat next to him, bathing his forehead as he moaned and hacked, emptying cups filled with sputum and watching him as he shivered and tossed restlessly. He was so caked with perspiration that by Tuesday I could stand it no longer and I pulled him out of bed and all but carried him to the lavatory for a bath. He was barely aware of his surroundings, eyes pink and glassy, and he hadn't really noticed my presence. I stripped off the sodden pyjamas and helped him into the bath. He yelped at the shock of the water but I forced him in. "Lie back and have a soak, old fellow," I told him, holding him under the arms. "The water will do you some good."

He grunted, but acquiesced without a fight, sinking slowly until his entire body was submerged. Closing his eyes, he sighed as I found a flannel and doused his hair and face, washing away the physical remains of his illness. After several minutes he at last stopped shaking.

"I'm sorry," he mumbled as I dropped the cloth.

"What?"

His opened one eye but it seemed to be concentrated on the tap. Raising one long, thin arm up out of the water, he brought it to his mouth and began to cough. I grabbed him, fearing in his weakened state he wouldn't have the strength to hold his own weight out of the water. "I'm...sorry..." he seemed to say again, between spells of hacking.

"Don't try and talk," I told him, tightening my grip on him. "It only makes you cough more. Just relax, Holmes."

For the first time in three days, he opened both eyes and met my gaze. For an instant, a spark of recognition seemed to alight there, despite the fever. He grabbed my arm quite a bit more forcibly than I would have thought him capable of just then. "My God," he mumbled, as if to himself. "Do you have any idea how much I missed you?" Then his chest seemed to unwind itself and he sucked in a wet, sticky breath. His body collapsed against the curve of the German's brass tub and he soaked up the cool moisture his abused body so desperately needed while I simply sat at the foot of the fixture, mute, watching him and occasionally adjusting him when I thought he was slipping a bit too far into the water.

xx

The fever remained stubborn for two more days, refusing to budge, but I was equally unyielding, bathing the patient in surgical spirit, waking him to drink lemon and sage tea and wrapping cool rags around his neck and ankles. Finally, on Thursday, the day after the headlines of the Harwich Standard were heavy and dark with that one word that we had all so feared4— Holmes opened his eyes as I removed the thermometer and asked in a voice that was hoarse from coughing, "Well, doctor, what is the verdict? Will I live?"

I was so pleased to hear his voice—indeed, any voice—for the museum was far too large and empty for my taste—that I grinned like an idiot down at him. The fever had dropped three degrees. It still was there, but it was looking desperately for a bit of white to wave. "The odds are improving all the time. If I were a betting man"—

"You are," he interrupted. "That is why I used to lock up your chequebook." He yawned, turned over and buried his head under the gold-brocade velvet coverlet and went back to sleep.

xx

By Friday, the first of 70 thousand Expeditionary forces had arrived in France, only to run into a gauntlet of Prussians in Lorraine and southern Belgium. After two fruitless weeks that cost many men, mainly French, their lives, we would read of a retreat that was hard to discern as victory or loss—the actions had allowed our new allies time to regroup and defend Paris but it was a foreshadowing of what was to come. Thousands and thousands of troops charging and retreating, gaining ground and losing it, killing and dying over a small area of land that might fly our colours one day, the Kaiser's the next. It reminded me of the game of marbles, something I had played at extensively as a boy. At school, all the fellows would fight to have the most, winning and losing, then winning and losing again. One day I might have the most, the next a different lad. But the point was we were always gaining and losing the same marbles.

I was sitting on the terrace, the morning edition folded on my lap, a cup of cold tea next to me. A few hundred feet away the tide was coming in, crashing and roaring against the white rocks. Although I couldn't really see the water from where I sat, sometimes the act of hearing was stronger. There was a quote about seeing with one's ears but I could not recall it.

"Art thou mad? A man may see how this world goes with no eyes. Look with thine ears."

I turned, stunned, to see a freshly-shaven Holmes slowly making his way across the terrace, wearing a dressing gown and slippers. His hair was wet and freshly combed, it shone in the afternoon light and the face that had seen no sun for a week was already pink with exertion. "Or something to that effect," he added, dragging a chair to sit next to me.

"How the devil did you know I was thinking that? I mean, it was just a thought that flashed in my mind. I was trying to recall some line about looking with one's ears. You really are psychic."

My friend chuckled, but as it threatened to bring up a coughing fit, he cut it off and swore, thrusting his hands into his pockets. "I am pleased to see that after all these years I still have the power to astonish you, my boy."

"As am I pleased to see that you have shaved."

He gently touched his pale cheek as if he had forgotten that it had hair upon it previously. "I am starting to feel myself again." He paused. "Although I am quite disgusted to admit that a bath and a shave has all-but exhausted me."

"I could have helped you."

He blinked and I saw for the briefest of seconds the light that burned there. I doubted he could even recall my bathing him the other day. He turned slightly, trying to hide it, but was unable. He licked his lips. "Yes...well, I thank you for that, doctor, but when a man cannot even shave himself without aid he really should be put out to pasture, so to speak." Somewhere above us, a seagull screamed. Holmes cocked his head, watching it, curiously. "You were reading Von Bork's leather-bound Shakespeare," he said. "I noticed it back on the shelf slightly askew."

"Most of his library is German."

"Lear, I expect." I squinted into the bright sun at him. He pulled out my son's letter, carefully folded, from his pocket. "It was on the side-table. Next to another open bottle of the Tokay."

I had forgotten I had left it there.

"Your son references it in here. You looked it up. You glanced through it but did not read it thoroughly. Whilst sitting out here, listening to the waves die against the rocks and the birds expressing their agony, your subconscious was reminded of the line. I am familiar with the expression on my doctor's face when he is trying to bring forth information—head slightly askew, left eye squinted, jaw tensed. I am usually able to draw a parallel line through his mind."

"Are you indeed?" I asked with some little amusement.

But he was not in the mood for levity. Perhaps it was the illness that had so sapped his strength, maybe it was the realisation that we had both very nearly been killed. I couldn't say. But it was clear enough that he was agitated and not himself yet. Gingerly, he touched his neck, where several ugly looking bruises stood out prominently against the white skin. Their outlines were distinctly finger-shaped. "What did my brother tell you?"

"Your brother?"

"Clearly he is the reason we haven't left chez Von Bork. You would never be so presumptuous if he hadn't asked you to stay."

I explained Mycroft had suggested I remain to care for the invalid. Now, in the calm of the afternoon and after having time to think, it sounded a bit ridiculous. Holmes chuckled. "I suppose I have not been the best company. How do you find Von Bork's mansion? I myself have seen little of it."

"I have had a look around this...grotesquery. I must say I am not much impressed with it, other than its size. Most of his décor seems to be hunting trophies. That huge lion for example," I shook my head, recalling the beast. It was a fully stuffed large male mounted on a wooden scaffold that I'd encountered in the German's library. At first, the creature had caused me to start, it had been so expertly done—the mouth forever frozen in a roar, the yellow teeth gleaming, the canines as large as my fingers. I had examined it, but there was no plaque to indicate when or where it had been killed. I put the monster at over 500 lbs when it had been alive. "Do you think your brother had another reason for asking us to remain?" I asked him.

His mouth twitched. "No doubt he had his own reasons."

"Well, probably for the best. So you are not infecting the whole of Sussex with that cough. It's quiet here and I can do with a bit of that. London is more polluted with people and noise by the day."

"I am not keeping you from your other obligations? Your daughter? Your practise?"

I shook my head. "The surgery is closed. If I decide to reopen it again, so be it. If not...well, and as for Lily, I hardly think she'll even notice my absence. It is a bit extraordinary how different two siblings can be. They are alike in some ways, as you noted the other day, but very different also. Josh detested change. He thrived on instruction, structure and guidance. My daughter can hardly stand to not have something exciting about. She is the type...who would drown herself rather than ask for a swimming lesson."

Holmes began to cough again and without asking, swiped the remains of my tea and downed it rapidly, gagging as he did so. I frowned at him and touched his hand. "You should be back in bed. A little sea air may do you some good but too much will have the opposite effect. Please, let me help you back in the house."

He shakily drew a breath. "Yes...but in a minute or two. I find the sun delicious today, doctor, and I am going to cough whether it be here or in that dank tomb, so let it be here, in the company of my only friend." He pressed his lips together, seemingly trying to come to a decision about saying something. "After all, Watson, it's been a decade since we were last together." His voice was so nearly—well, I suppose sad was the only word. I couldn't think of anything to say. I squeezed his wrist. For once, he did not attempt to pull away from me. "Ten years, my friend. Ten years, and our boy has become a man. We have become old men. Or nearly so." He laughed to himself. "I didn't think I was until these last weeks. Perhaps that will pass, though. But with the world on the brink of war, it seems likely not."

Despite the sun baking my skin red, I felt a sudden chill. That one word—war—was contrary to all that I loved and cherished. And to be so useless in the face of it! "That is the damndest thing about aging. We have nothing to do but wait...the young men will go off to die and we, who have seen something of life and have the wisdom and experience...we have to let them."

Holmes nodded wearily. He seemed exhausted all of a sudden.

"We are anachronisms, Watson. In a futile age. Although I acted for my own benefit more than anything, I cannot say that I completely neglected my duty to my country when it called—and now it seems as if our whole way of life was..." he trailed off and did not complete his sentence. I knew him to occasionally get in these sorts of black moods, he had for as long as I'd known him. He had once told me it was better to leave him be and soon he would be alright again. But I couldn't help but feel it was my fault he was in one now.

"You will never be an anachronism, my friend. The descendents of Lestrade and Gregson and Stanley Hopkins will be praising your name and instructing on your methods for years to come."

My friend sniggered. "The country is in enough peril, Watson. Must you doom Scotland Yard as well?"

We would have had a good laugh over that in the past, the idea of the regulars functioning successfully without Holmes's aid and mentorship, but in the light of growing gray and accepting the inevitabilities that come with it, it seemed less amusing. Also the fact that as my friend sat next to me, hands shaking, eyes puffy and clearly distracted, all the levity in the world seemed to have dissipated. "Holmes," I said as I reached to straighten the collar of his dressing gown. "I know that all seems black at the moment. Believe me, I feel it as well. But brooding about it will not solve anything. We have to trust that...that what will come will be a better, stronger land after this is over."

He watched my hand like a starving man would the last piece of bread. "You come to that word again. The very one that always seems to waver between us."

I dropped my hand with a groan. "Not this again. God, man, I have known you more than thirty years now. Of course I trust you! I know that there were difficulties in the past...I will not deny that after learning of your feelings for me, I had doubts. Can you honestly say you blame me? You lied to me about something so monumental...And in coming so soon after your disappearance. Don't forget—it was you who did not trust me enough to tell me you were alive."

"Those situations do not apply to the issue of trust—or rather mis-trust—between us."

I laughed. "Of course they don't! Because you cannot weave them into your web of blame!"

But, as I have already said, Sherlock Holmes was not in the mood for humour. He was completely black and depressed and given all that had occurred, I understood. But I was still not compared for what he said next. He looked me directly in the eye. He took a deep breath. "But I blame nothing on you. How can you think that? After everything you have done...risked for me? You gave me something I never thought I would have. Something I didn't even deserve. You devoted your life to me, John. I can't ever begin to repay your faith and love..." He swallowed and made his way shakily to his feet stopping about halfway and tightening the belt on the dressing gown. He leant against the ornate metal railing for strength. He spoke without turning 'round.

"The reason that...those two instances don't apply is because I was not in my right mind. I cared only that I would not ruin you anymore than I already had. But alas, 'Now gods, stand up for bastards'5...there is another bit of Lear for you, Doctor. I know what I have been after all. And continue to be." Again, he paused, this time to take several shallow breaths. His voice seemed to regain some normalcy when he spoke again, as if the scene and costume had changed and he was now playing a different rôle in the drama.

"You must forgive my ungentlemanly behaviour, my dear Watson. I...thought I was feeling more myself but I fear the blackguard Altamont still resides in here." He tapped his head. "A few more days will see me right, no doubt."

He was almost through the door before I found my voice again. There was something I had needed to tell Holmes but never thought it was appropriate or anything he cared to hear. But if there was ever a chance, it was now. "Wait, my friend." He stopped but did not turn. I could see his face reflected in the glass of the terrace door. "There is something I have wanted to tell you for many years. Just, well, I have no regrets. I need you to know that. I...I am proud that you told me the truth at Reichenbach. It is not easy for me to say that. Would my life have been simpler if you hadn't? Certainly it would have been. But I have never particularly yearned for an easy life. And you—you Holmes, have defined me. Professionally, socially. As a writer. Even as a doctor, to some extent. And most importantly, as a man. I owe the man I am today in large part to you. I...hope that you take some pleasure in knowing that."

I could just make out the shock on the reflection of my friend's face. He brought his hand up, almost as if his intention was to block my view. His breathing was so loud that I could hear him rasping from where I sat. It was so loud that I couldn't make out his response before he went into the house. It was hardly more than a whisper. But I am fairly certain the words were 'thank you.'

xx

I found that I wasn't particularly tired that night. I tried to relax on the massive Queen Anne6 in the library with a series of books—taking down anything I could find in English. But I ended up throwing them all down after a few pages, unable to focus on the small black text. The quiet was not as welcome as it had been the past few days. I felt a heavy responsibility to fill it with all the things that should have been said years ago and were now a bit too little too late.

My eye caught a glint of amber. The glistening eye of the beast in the corner, watching me, silently roaring. It was a symbol of the empire —the greatest since Rome—that I had lived and devoted all of my strength and honour to. England was a lion. It had to be. Now more than ever did we need every ounce of its power.

Stiffly, I made my way to my feet and stretched. My bad leg tried to rebel and buckle but a few minutes of walking made it slightly more tolerable. As I paced about in an attempt to dilute the pain, my mind reflected on what had happened the last month. The way Josh had twirled his whisky glass over and over as he talked. The pit of ice that had grown in my stomach and the way I had spit it back out at him, telling him to go and get himself killed. That he was no longer my son.

I wished Mary were there right then. Though nearly two decades had passed since her death, I still thought of her quite often. Her gentle smile, her brave spirit. The way she had taken my hand without reservation during the events of the Agra treasure. Sometimes, I was convinced that I could still feel it there, the soft, tiny hand in my own rough one. But most of all, I missed talking to her. She would sit me down and talk, touching my knee, holding my gaze with her eyes—ladylike in every respect but determined and strong-willed as well. He's our son, dearest John, she would say. He will be forever joined to you through me. And therefore if you sever your bond with him, you sever it with me. And I know you would never want that.

"No," I said softly. "I would never want that." I made my way over to the German's roll-top desk, surprisingly unlocked and found a plethora of plain writing stationary and envelopes. I thought for some time before I began, choosing my words carefully. Writing from the heart, not the mind. I wanted him to appreciate what I had to say not just as a father to a son, but as a man to another man. As I wrote, a memory of the boy came into my mind. It was spring of three years ago, on what would have been Mary's fiftieth birthday. Josh, nineteen then, was home with us for the Easter holiday.

I had realised the date was approaching, but didn't think he remembered. He rarely talked about her and once mentioned that he had no memory of her—except a very vague sense of her smell. He did keep a photograph of her in his room, though. And also a well-thumbed copy of Blackett's first edition of my Sign of the Four. "Almost feels as though I know her a bit when I read it," he told me once.

"She would be so proud to see you," I replied a bit sadly.

He looked at me sharply, as if I had said something wrong. "I hope that she would."

I should have asked him what he meant. Just as I probably should have done something that spring morning when he and I solemnly walked to the cemetery bearing a bunch of hyacinths—Mary's favourite flower. We placed the flowers on her grave and stood respectfully, silently for some time. At last, I removed one of my gloves, kissed my hand and pressed it to the cold marble. "Happy Birthday, my darling," I whispered and stepped away. Josh made no move to follow. He stood with hands folded behind his back, his posture rigid. He glared at the maker as if staring hard enough may make her return to life. "Are you coming?" I asked.

He shook his head. "Go without me. I'll stay for awhile if I may."

I should have stayed. I should have insisted on it. I heard him crying the minute I turned the corner. At the time, I thought it would only make him uncomfortable if I returned. The last thing a boy his age wants is to show weakness in front of his father. But I suppose the second-to-last thing he wants is to think his father doesn't care.

When I finished the letter, I felt drained. It was not an unwelcome feeling, knowing as I did that it was caused by the outpouring of feeling I had put into the thing. The newspaper headlines were curiously bombastic and self-assured, but I could not buy the prattling placates that I knew would become far blacker before the smoke cleared. Surely Josh would be safe...but being a veteran myself I couldn't dismiss the idea that he may not. The hand of fate was a decisive bastard when it came to war. The young and idealistic could be mowed down just as certainly as the oldest battle-hardened colonel.

I sealed the envelope and let my hand linger upon the address. Please God, I thought. Please let this reach him safely. Please protect my son. If I were to lose him now, with this lingering between us...what would be the point of my life? It was difficult to imagine a deity cruel enough to do that. But I had also seen far, far too many horrors in my life to be naive about such things.

xx

Before Holmes had risen the next morning, I took the Ford back into London. I had business that required my attention there—and I wanted to be done with the lot of it. I went first to my surgery. My neighbour, a young, quiet fellow called Arkadian, was in and I spoke rapidly. We were not on intimate terms, but being united in occupation and proximity, we had occasionally discussed an interesting case over a cuppa. He knew that I had the more lucrative cliental. My name had helped in that regard. Every since I had begun to publish for the Strand again I was recognised everywhere, despite the fact that my literary agent Doyle was the name on the cover.

As I named a price, he blinked several times, dumbfounded. "Surely you jest."

"I am in earnest. Also a hurry."

"But the practise is worth twice that! I...I would feel like a criminal, John."

I smiled, amused by his choice of words. "I have devoted a good part of my life to crime and criminals," I told him. "And I think I can safely say that you are one of the least criminal men I have come across." I pulled my fountain pen from my waistcoat and took out one of my cards. Upon it, I wrote down Holmes's telephone number in Sussex. "Take a few days and consider. I suspect I will be able to be reached here within a week."

At my flat, I sent word to both Edna and my cook that I was no longer in need of their services, but I promised each a sparkling reference and two month's salary. I packed what I could into the small boot of the auto, but obviously I could not take the furniture or large items. I would decide what to do with those later. After that, I drove through a surprisingly quiet City toward the financial district where I visited my house agent. My property would be listed and my lease paid up. I stopped for a quick bite at a café and to fill the tank, taking an out-of-the-way detour that allowed me access to Hyde Park Corner, where St George's had been located for going on two centuries. I thought I may park and go onto the campus, to ask for a tour or to simply walk about the grounds myself. But that would have been inconvenient and a bit peculiar given the fact that we were now at war. I didn't stop. I was quite sure the college would empty significantly over the next few weeks. And I was already sure that the only person I desired to see was long gone.

My heart was a little heavier as I headed back toward Harwich. But I had to realise that it was Josh's choice to make. I had to trust in him—in his intelligence, his goodness, his desire to serve. He had made a decision with his life.

As had I.

xx

When I got back to Harwich, the German's mausoleum was as dark as the day a week ago that Holmes and I had first driven up to it. I frowned as I parked the Ford, a slight foreboding rising in my blood, as anyone would experience entering a house that was not their own. At night there seemed to be a thousand eyes watching every move one made. But it was more than that.

I stepped into an entryway dark as a tomb. What the deuce is he doing? Could he still be asleep? I suppose it was possible. As quietly as I could, I removed my coat and hat. I hoped he hadn't taken a turn for the worse. It pained me deeply to see him so depleted and depressed. Damn Mycroft and the government for getting him into this. For getting us all into this. Yes, it was an unworthy, unpatriotic thought. One that should not occur to a former soldier and loyal nationalist. But the decisions Whitehall had recently made had repercussions that had never so personally affected me before.

A hand jutted out of the shadows and grasped my shoulder; I nearly jumped out of my skin. "Holmes," I cried, more relieved than perturbed. "My heart really cannot take that."

His only response was a flash of a grin and a sheepish thrust of a hand into his pocket, the nearest thing to a gesture of apology he made. He wore only an old shirt, uncuffed and rolled to his elbows and baggy trousers held up by braces. He was without the brilliantine that normally kept his hair in check, causing tufts of it to fall into his face. His feet were bare. Despite his age, he looked something like the street urchins he used to employ when we lived on Baker Street. "You are made of stronger stuff than that, my dear doctor. But I am sorry, nevertheless." He kept his other hand upon my person, leading me by the arm into the shadows, toward the library where I saw a faint flickering of candlelight.

When I realised what it was, I stopped in my tracks and blinked at my friend, dumbfounded. He had set up a formal dining room complete with starched tablecloth, candelabra, centrepiece of flowers from the German's garden and, of course, a dinner. There was even a small fire burning carefully in the fireplace—despite the fact that the weather was still quite warm. Perhaps that was why Holmes had chosen a cold fair for the food—jellied eel with white pepper, pickled walnuts and stilton, fruit and biscuits. Several perspiring bottles of champagne sat in an ice tureen. "What...what have you done?" I asked softly.

He fiddled nervously with his collar. When that did not satisfy his idiosyncratic compulsion, he dug into his pocket and pulled out his cigarette case. As he flicked his lighter, he said, "I woke up early this morning, feeling...well, a bit guilty for everything that has happened, I suppose and you were nowhere to be seen. Surmising that you had gone into London, I decided that"—he motioned in a wild swirl of smoke at the table—"this was an appropriate way of making it up to you."

"You have done nothing to feel guilty about." I cleared my throat, feeling slightly embarrassed. "It looks very welcome after a long day. Shall we eat, then?"

We ate in silence for some time, the food fresh and flavourful, the champagne a pure pleasure for the tongue. I was quite hungry and would have eaten well to begin with, but there was also the welcomed distraction that it provided. I had much I wanted to discuss with my friend. But they involved subjects that were delicate and demanded some discretion. And perhaps after yesterday's emotional dalliance, Holmes's heart would be drained. We had been apart for so long that it was unrealistic to expect that nothing had changed in our relationship. Time is a great equaliser, so it is said.

But it is also said that isolation is the sum total of wretchedness to a man. And that was what I most wanted to avoid for the both of us.

"How are you feeling?" I asked Holmes as I accepted another glass of champagne.

"I've had more rest this last week than in the last year, I expect."

It was not much of an answer to my question, I thought. But it was so much like the Holmes-of-old that my heart lightened. "Still coughing?"

"Some." He was lighting a second cigarette. There would be no point in trying to convince him of moderation. "And how did you find our fair city? Still standing, I hope?"

"Well, it did seem...a bit off is the only way I can think to explain it. As if everyone was standing still. Afraid to move. No doubt it was my imagination."

"We have been isolated here. You, in particular. Perhaps you saw what you wanted to see."

That made sense. I downed the remains of my glass. It was lovely. "Perhaps."

Holmes slowly blew out a long strand of smoke. I could tell that he was struggling not to cough, but he hid it well. The tip fell on the remains of his food and he pushed his plate away. He had eaten, at least. I had already decided that when we returned to Sussex, I would work on building him up, getting some weight back on him. As soon as he was well enough, there were certainly options to re-building all the muscle he had lost. Swimming. Long jaunts across the Downs. Perhaps I could convince him that we needed a pair of horses. Certainly Lily would love that and I knew Holmes was fond of the animals. In the spring, we could plant a larger garden as well. That could prove a necessity if the war lasted very long. The entire country, save the Holmes brothers seemed convinced that it would not. But I trusted their opinions over every politician and newspaperman in all of Britain.

"Doctor?"

I blinked several times, his calm voice eradicating my revelry. "What...sorry?"

"You were miles away." He studied me with the slightest narrowing of his now fever-free eyes. "Fancy a game of chess after supper?"

"Oh, yes. Delighted."

The German evidently had a splendid set—hand-carved rosewood set upon a table of gilt with spiralled legs that tapered into an eagle's claw at the bottom. Holmes and I took our glasses nearer to the fire and sat across from each other. "I'll be black, if you don't mind," said I, prompting raised eyebrows from my opponent. I was always white in the past when we played. I smiled slyly at him. "I think you will find that I have improved since the last time we've played. Not only do Josh and I play regularly but my daughter is something of a prodigy. I have learned a lot from her. You really must play her when we get home."

He flinched noticeably on my use of the word 'home.' I couldn't possibly have missed it. He bit his lower lip. "I most certainly shall look forward to that." He all but threw his opening pawn forward.

I countered. "What is that supposed to mean?"

He cocked an eyebrow, but did not raise his eyes from the board. "Can you be more specific as to what 'that' is?"

"The flinch you did not take pains to hide just then."

He smiled but didn't answer. Instead, he became absorbed in the game and we were transported back to the days when we were younger and anything might happen. We played three games in rapid succession, chuckling devilishly at each other, sipping champagne and clucking in mock annoyance when one or another of us made some particularly bold move. I surprised myself by winning the first game—Holmes seemed taken aback by my bold gambits and fearless strategy—a distinct difference from my previous cautious gamesmanship, but he quickly adjusted and took me handily in the next game. The third game, I too, attempted to adjust, remembering some of the traps I had learned. I didn't really expect my friend to fall for any of them, but I hoped to throw him off balance. It seemed to be working at first. Holmes' brow furrowed and he was forced to retreat more than once. In the end, it was a close, but he managed to pin my queen down and I lost her. Three moves later I was in mate.

My friend thrust back into his chair and folded his arms across his chest, a happy smile on his face that matched my own. It was brilliant to be able to be with him like this. "You have improved mightily, my dearest doctor. I am proud of you."

Another man might have felt he was being condescended to, but I could tell the difference from Sherlock Holmes. He was serious. "Thank you," I said, returning the pieces to their proper places. "But we have time for one more, I think. And perhaps we might make this last game a bit more interesting?"

"Are you suggesting something in the nature of a bet?"

"Indeed I am."

He chuckled. "I said you were a betting man, did I not? How much?"

"No, not money."

His smile faded somewhat. "What, then?"

Copying his posture, I, too folded my arms and regarded him evenly. "If I win...no, I will speak with more confidence than that. When I win, you will answer any question I put forth to you for the rest of the night. Honestly and openly. Whether you want to or not. No matter how much it pains you to have to be direct about your personal affairs."

I swear the tips of his ears reddened, but I could have been mistaken. It was warm, after all. His jaw tightened. "And if I win?"

I spread out my arms. "Whatever you choose. You will not win, however."

For a moment, I saw the hint of a grin try to force itself back on his lips. He brushed it away almost as quickly. In reading that smallest of signs, it occurred to me that he could ask me for something equally distasteful. I couldn't imagine what, though. There was only one instance in our relationship that I never wanted to repeat7 and that I knew he never would. I was game for anything. At that point in my life, with everything that had already happened, I really felt as though I had nothing to lose.

Holmes nodded, having come to some solitary conclusion. "Alright, doctor, you have a wager. I agree to your terms if you are the victor. If it is I, than I will ask that you do something for me. Given that I do not get the questions in advance, you do not get the task either. You have to agree sight unseen." He held out his hand. I shook it without hesitation. And then we commenced into one of the quietest, most careful and longest games of chess I have ever played. I did not have the eidetic memory of my friend and certainly did not have hundreds of manoeuvres and attacks floating through my brain, but I think I played with more heart than he. And I suspect we both realised before the opening gambit had been played how it would end. I had offered him a gentlemanly way of relieving his conscience whilst keeping his self-respect. A gambit if you will. He had said he could draw a parallel line through my mind. Well, I could bloody well do the same.

And I won.

"Checkmate."

Holmes's body froze. Only his eyes moved. I watched them travel from each of the few pieces that remained on the board and upward until they locked into my own. He didn't need to say anything. He was amused for a moment, grinning. There was shining pride. But it faded rapidly. His eyes darkened. He remembered the deal. And now he was nervous. His Adam's apple bobbed and he knocked his king over, ceding defeat.

"Alright, Watson," he said in an oddly quiet voice. "Gently with me."

"Oh my dear fellow," I tried not to smile. "You are made of stronger stuff than that."

He rose to help himself to another of the wet bottles of Bollinger resting in the rapidly melting ice. Bringing the bottle with him, both of our glasses were soon bubbling to the brim. "Touché," he said as he took a long draught and then glanced at that hideous lion in the corner, leering obscenely at us. His next comment seemed addressed more to the beast than to me.

"For this one night only, John, I will open my soul to you. It is not something I would willingly do. The closest I came was the ghastly return to the place I spent my childhood and you no doubt recall how well that went. But for you, I will try. Ask me anything. I will speak as honestly as I can. Though I do not know that you will always like the answers."

"I suppose I can handle candour. I suspect I even prefer it."

"Splendid. But would you mind, in fact, if we played while you ravage my brain? Simply sitting here chatting like a pair of biddies at a Sunday tea is beneath our dignity." He quickly shuffled the chessmen back into place without taking his sights from the creature. I noticed with some amusement that I was relegated white. I picked up my king's pawn and studied its smooth surface for a moment.

"What happened to you? In taking this assignment, I mean. You have had difficult cases before...cases that have stumped you, beaten you, but this..." I frowned. "This almost destroyed you. Didn't it?" He was staring at the beast so intently that I felt I was taking too much liberty. I had wanted him to feel unburdened, but I certainly did not wish to cause him further pain. "Never mind, Holmes. Forget I asked. It is obviously too painful for you."

"Painful...yes, it is painful. You see, there are certain things one must do in order to ingratiate himself into a gang. Particularly as rough a gang as I infiltrated." He grunted, flicking his opening move into place. "Everything I did was for the greater good. I realise that. And it was made quite clear to me from the start that I would have to get my hands dirty, to use the American vernacular. And yet...somehow that does not make the reality any easier."

We played quietly and the game was over far quicker than the previous one. I couldn't concentrate and managed to lose my queen in five moves. What could he have been forced to do? Kill? He had done so before, but perhaps he had been made to kill an innocent. That could haunt a man. I nodded. "I understand. As much as I am able to anyway."

"Another man might have told me that I was being ridiculous and weak. Or that logistically speaking, I acted rationally. Sacrifice the few to save the many. That I am growing soft." Taking no pleasure in his victory, he rose and sat next to me. "But you have never done that to me. Even when I deserved it, I daresay. I suppose that is one of your many qualities I find... superlative."

I have to admit, seeing him like this, the vulnerability he had allowed me to glimpse these last days had resolved any misgivings I may have harboured over reuniting with him. Had he anticipated that I may have reservations and acted accordingly? It would be something I would expect from the man. But it was just as likely that time and tide had changed him.

I pulled him toward me and kissed him then. I have no idea why I did it, other than the fact that I was filled with an unrelenting need. When we pulled away, his eyes were wide and the remains of my folly glistened on his white lips. For once, he had not anticipated me. "I'm coming home with you," I told him. "To Sussex. To stay. And you will not refuse me this time. I won't spend another day separated from you. I've been alone too long. As have you, I daresay."

He blinked and nodded. "It is true."

There was something in his voice. "What, then? Do you not want me to come with you?"

"It is what I want most in the world. Good Lord, if you only knew how many nights I spent in Chicago and Buffalo and Skibbareen wishing..." he cleared his throat, obviously embarrassed. "I would have gladly handed my soul over to the highest bidder to have you at my side. I say that without exaggeration. The unending days would have been almost bearable if I could have had you to come home to, but alas, I did not."

Guilt stabbed at my chest. "I'm sorry, Holmes. If only I'd known."

"No, no...I don't blame you. It was my decision. I should be made to pay the consequences for turning you away in '03."

I looked down at my glass. I knew the question that needed to be asked. It could not be avoided. "There is something I have to know. And since I already feel a complete ass...Holmes, did you regret my leaving? I mean, surely I hurt you. But you never—you never told me so. You never tried to prevent me." It was a ridiculous question. Of course I had hurt him. But I wanted him to tell me that I had. Perhaps I felt he was letting me off too easily.

But he had a perplexed look on his face as he shook his head. "We had a deal. That was made quite clear from the first. If ever the pleasure is not worth the pain, I believe is how it was worded. I would never prevent you from living your life as you chose, Watson. I admit that I was occasionally selfish with you. But surely you will admit that I never tried to prevent your happiness. And since I am sworn to complete honesty this night, I will also admit...well, I lived much of my life trying to prevent feeling anything, let alone commonplace human trifles such as affection, desire or love. They were anathema to logic and reason. When I felt them first penetrate, I was unable to cope with their power. I overworked myself, employed sheer force of will and, when they failed, injected stimulants to cope. My resolve was a castle of pure tensile steel and still it buckled under the pressure." He paused and licked his lips. Clearly this had not been rehearsed for I could tell he was not speaking from his brain. He frowned slightly as if realising I sensed this.

"You see, doctor, when one is granted such a thing—such a powerful and life-altering thing—a man such as I know myself to be cannot simply discard it like a broken toy or a torn photograph. I know now and knew then full-well I would never feel this for another. God, I wouldn't want to!" He chuckled. "So much vital energy is spent merely keeping it in check. But the point, John, of all this mindless drivel is that my feelings for you remain exactly what they were ten years ago, twenty years ago and dare I confess, probably even thirty years ago. I am as certain of this as I am of the First Law of Thermodynamics8-there is no way to purge them from my admittedly rusty heart now."

I swallowed heavily. I knew I would remember every word of that for the rest of my life. It was the speech he had wanted to tell me, years ago, when he had dog-eared a poem in a book and added a few phrases in Latin at the end. He had not been able to find his own words then. Now, an older and wiser man, he could.

But I realised something within his words. I looked at him out of the corner of my eye. "You are right, then. I never truly did trust you. God, I am a blackguard. I left you...I thought of only myself all these years and..." I added several words that typically I do not find the need for in polite society and slammed my glass down. "Not only did I ruin my son's life but I cost us our one chance at happiness, Sherlock!"

I was the reason we had been put through so much misery, so much time apart and so much mis-trust. I hadn't trusted him. If I had, we would have retired to Sussex together. Josh would not be in Aldershot right now, intentionally defying me in order to prove his manliness to the world. I shook with horror at the thought that perhaps even old Mrs Hudson may have lived, for there was a chance that had I been there she could have been saved. True enough, I would not have my daughter. But that was the only star visible in the blackest of nights. Limping over to the window, I stared at my reflection in the glass. As always, I was surprised that the man in it was no longer young. His hair was thinning, his face lined. But still, I thought I should have at least recognised him.

Holmes was suddenly behind me. I felt his warm breath on the back of my scalp. He spoke into my ear as if not wanting the furniture to overhear our conversing. "Circumstances being what they were, you could hardly have acted any other way. It is only now—with hindsight—that you despair. Only a fool despairs at his lack of foreknowledge, John. And I would never love a fool." He hesitated and I could feel the nervous energy radiating from him. His breathing quickened. "And well...perhaps there is still a chance at happiness yet, doctor. I daresay we aren't dead yet."

Before I could even fully turn, before the words could make an imprint on my brain, he grabbed me then and kissed me with so hard that it was nearly painful—it was as if he were trying to bind our two bodies together permanently. I was used to that. Much as he was in all things, Holmes as a lover was thorough, determined and often harsh. I suspected even now he feared that I would suddenly decide that I could not abide him in a sexual way and would discontinue our activities.

I brought my hand to his cheek, trying to slow him down, to reassure him with my touch that I was fully committed, that I would not abandon him as so many others had. "Are you sure you have strength enough for this?" I asked. "It has brought me so much joy simply to have you in my life again. If you are not well enough yet"—

He grabbed my hand and pulled me toward the Queen Anne. "I will find the strength," he said, pushing me down. He paused in his kissing long enough to peer at me hard. "Please, John. I...I have wanted this for so long."

I was a little taken aback. As I have said, our relationship was all too brief and when we were carnal in the past, he had never initiated it, save for perhaps that first time when we acted jointly. He had certainly never refused me and indeed was always an eager participant, but this was the first time he had confessed to actually desiring this with me. He did not admit need easily. It made me...well, lustful and all the more eager.

With an almost hypnotic expression, he watched me wide-eyed as I carefully removed his clothing piece-by-piece. His lungs rattled in their bony cage when I freed his chest of its shirt, and his skin was so white with lack of sun that he looked like some wasted prisoner. But there was no earthly way I could deny him now. I put my arm around him, pulling him close to me and I could feel every ridge and knob of his spine. "Holmes," I whispered as he buried his face into my neck. "Why..."

His only reply was to trace a solitary line along my wrist with his thumb. He seemed to understand my unasked question. Swallowing hard, I placed my hand where it would give him the most pleasure and he flinched, sighing loudly. Like most men who have been denied for too long, I knew he would be unable to last. I held him tightly, one shaky hand massaging his neck, the other firmly stroking him. His gasps quickly became cries and I was rewarded with the feeling of a spasm that shook his entire body and the reflexive thrusts that one's body cannot help but obey as orgasm begins to erase conscious thought. In the past, we had never been at liberty to loudly voice our appreciation to the other, living as we did, but now, as there was not a single living person for two miles, Holmes jerked his head back, slamming it into the arm of the sofa and howled like some beast who had been cut down in the prime of life. It was such a marvellous sight for me to watch and I admit reluctantly that I would have liked to spend myself right then and there.

Though it was dark, we were so close that when he at last opened his eyes, turned and looked at me, I could see the dilated pupils and exerted flush upon his cheeks. He panted against my neck for several seconds until a strange groan escaped from the back of his throat, almost a sound of despair. "What is it?" I whispered, flipping his sweat-drenched hair off his forehead. "I haven't hurt you, have I?"

"Yes," he at last admitted, swallowing hard, still trying to force his lungs to obey his will. Seeing the shocked look on my face, he quickly placed a finger on my lips. "But do not despair, dear friend. I forgave you long ago. Just as you have the many times I have ill-used you. Just...promise me. Promise that you will not"—he hesitated, placing his hands on my chest.

"Promise you what?"

"I know that it is unfair of me to ask. But"—

"For God's sake, man, just tell me."

"I...don't think I could stand for you to—to leave again. I realize that our agreement specified that if one of us desired to do so, we were free, but I just," he flushed in embarrassment, "don't think I can endure that again. I'm sorry, Watson."

I studied the body that rested atop my chest. The strong, stained hands that had so often held my old army revolver. The thin arms still scarred years later with dozens of tiny white nicks from where a needle had penetrated the skin. The nearly hairless chest that housed the noblest heart I had ever come across. The jaw that could become steel when he was resolved, the eyes that danced when they came across an unsolved problem. How often I had seen them blacken at the sight of the frightening barbarity man is capable of inflecting on his fellow creatures. But equally had I seen them glow with realised joy, as I had just moments before. "I promise," I said as solemnly and honestly as I was capable of.

His jaw clamped down in that familiar way of his, an inward habit he had developed to prevent any unwanted influx of emotion. Shakily, he nodded, thanking me with his eyes before slowly sliding his hands down my bare body until he was nearly straddling me. "You don't have to"—I started to say, feeling my cheeks grow warm.

Although it embarrasses me to have to mention it, at that point in my life the pain in my thigh from my original bullet wound had worsened considerably. I had been to a specialist but he suggested that it was merely neuropathy brought on by deep scar tissue and that, other than pain killers, there was not much to be done. Unfortunately being in a supine position (or really any position for long periods of time) caused me pain and pain prevented me from being able to retain an erection.

Holmes did not need me to tell him this. His long fingers probed the wound and he looked at me, a questioning look in his dark eyes. I nodded, feeling the need to apologise, wanting to tell him that he was not the reason I was unresponsive and that I wanted relief from his hands as much as he had moments ago. But I could think of no way to say so without sounding the fool so I merely lay, avoiding his gaze, fuming mutely.

"Sit up, Watson," my friend said, tapping my knee. He agilely pushed himself to a squatting position at the foot of the sofa, a move that I watched with some jealously. Still, I did as he requested.

"Now relax." Once again he sought the source of the pain and began to massage it vigorously with the palm of his hand, causing me to almost jump with pain. But before I could tell him so, he added, "Yes, I realise it is unpleasant. You will have to simply trust me. Close your eyes and try to pretend all of your bones have...turned to jelly or some such nonsense."

I chuckled and leaned my head back. The feeling of a thousand knives stabbing at me caused me to grind my teeth but Holmes only pressed harder, forcing the blood to the affected area. I breathed deeply and regularly, concentrating on nothing else. Very soon, the chemicals of relaxation began their slow descent from my brain and the pain dissipated somewhat. Holmes was manipulating the tissues surrounding the wound in such a way that, although it hurt, it also was strangely satisfying as well. The sharp needle-like inflammation was soon replaced by a warm washing away of tension through my friend's talented hands. I grunted appreciatively and was soon able to completely straighten the damned limb for the first time in a year with almost no pain. I soon felt like limp as a rag, tired and pulsating with the various endogenous chemicals that Holmes's massage was allowing free passage throughout my body.

I was so enjoying the lack of pain that when he took me in his mouth my eyes flew open in shock and I cried out. In an instant arousal and the need for gratification replaced any gentler sensations I had been enjoying and I blinked down at the tousled-haired head of my friend with mouth agape. This was not something we had ever done before. I suppose we were both conventional in our ideas of sex (as far as can be said of the activity between two men) and we were satisfied with employing the most basic means of achieving the end goal upon each other. It had occurred to me that fellatio was an option, but it did not seem a gentlemanly thing to discuss, so I never had. Sounds tried to escape from my throat, my poor brain tried to form them into coherent words but I was unable. Instead I gave a sort of winded cry and reached down for my friend's head. He chuckled softly, continuing with the ministrations of both my leg as well as my manhood.

Having gone from anger at my rebellious body to the completely intoxicating manoeuvres of my friend so quickly, coupled with the fact that I had been unable to enjoy even my own company in some time, I was doomed to finish far faster than I would have cared to. His name was soon echoing off the vast walls of books in the room as the crescendo of the night erased every bit of tension and doubt from within me with one powerful climax. I was left gasping, a collapsed pile upon the Queen Anne. Holmes moved to sit next to me, a clear look of smug triumph upon his face. I forgave him his laurels though after what he had just given me. And given that the next thing he did was to help straighten my bad leg in the gentlest, most loving way he was capable of. I stared at him and he smiled that whippish grin. "I never get your limits, Holmes," said I, and he laughed.

"The most important aspect of any successful relationship is to both know a person completely and to be in absolute ignorance about them at the same time." He yawned. "Forgive me, doctor, but I am positively done it. Might I request that you join me in a few hours respite?"

With that enigma left hanging over me, I took his hand and we stretched out together, still both naked as the day we were born, but warmed to our very souls. Holmes threw a protective arm over me and buried his head into my good shoulder, asleep in less than a minute. I was feeling the forceful pull of Morpheus myself, though I didn't want the feeling of complete and utter bliss to pass. Just as my eyelids were becoming lead, the jagged brown bruises on my friend's gullet caught my sight. Careful not to wake him, I brushed my fingers over his skin. We are imperfect beings, I thought. Even the best of us has his scars. "Thank God," I whispered to the dark head before I allowed my eyes to at last close.

xx

A day later, Holmes and I left Von Bork's house for home. I cannot think on that week as a holiday, but more of a reconnection. We had needed the solitude, the unfamiliar atmosphere in order to know each other again. It couldn't have happened in Sussex or perhaps even at Baker Street.

We telephoned the cottage to inform the women of our plans and then headed north toward the City. Holmes had to see his brother, he said, and then at last he could put the whole 'American stunt' behind him for good. I let him off at Whitehall and went 'round to speak to Arkadian about my practise. I had determined that he would have it, at any price. I was done with London. But I feel as though I should relate the conversation that occurred between the Holmes brothers, as it is the more crucial:

At the end of one of the governmental buildings endless gold-painted recesses, two desks sat across from one another in a large windowed alcove. An excess of pillars (and pillory), gilt wainscoting and royal blue brocade carpeting made the building almost indistinguishable from the palace that shared its name and location, and indeed the majority of the men that frequented the building had an air of blue blood about them. Holmes forced his expression into one of stone—governmental procedures had little interest to him and if he were being honest, he found the majority of it distasteful.

There were two secretaries—both under the employ of Mycroft Holmes—a screaming symbol of the importance of this clearinghouse of the government. He may still technically have a junior post who draws £800 a year, but there was but one other man who had need of more than one secretary—and he was the PM himself.

Both looked up when Holmes approached. The younger was technically the senior, he had been with Mr Holmes since the last one had retired seven years previous. Cummings, the older man whose most distinctive features appeared to be a set of white side-whiskers and a very dismissive squint in his myopic eyes, deferred to his colleague and remained silent, though he frowned suspiciously at my friend. Holmes was dressed in wrinkled shirt and trousers and his coat made him look like a loafer. He clearly did not belong amongst the elite.

"May I help you, sir?" Aubin asked. He was a slight, but well-built man with the most carefully trimmed beard Holmes had ever come across. His age was past forty, but he looked a great deal younger than that—the crooked teeth and the freckled nose perhaps juvenilising him. Unmarried, devoted to his work, and, Holmes was surprised to note, probably Uranian in sympathy. Mycroft did love a dangerous game—that is, as long as he did not have to play it himself.

"Sherlock Holmes," he replied. "I require a word with my brother."

Aubin scoffed. If he were even aware that his employer possessed a brother, he did not betray it on his face. And despite their physical similarities (if one overlooked build), the way the secretary stood with arms folded squarely behind his back gave the impression that he thought my friend the last person Mycroft Holmes would share a bloodline with. "I am very sorry, sir. Mr Holmes is quite busy at the moment. If you would be so kind as to"—

"Yes, he is rather, thank you. Kind of you to look to notice, Mr Aubin. I'll leave you to your war-mongering then." He brushed the man aside and stepped through the unmarked door just left of his desk. If the two guards had not been present, a casual observer may have thought the door led to a broom cupboard.

Mycroft Holmes looked up warily at the intrusion. Seeing that it was his brother, his jaw flinched with slight interest, but only a Holmes would have noticed. Unasked, the younger man fell into a chair and pulled out both his silver cigarette case and the banking documents he had stolen from a house in Harwich. The latter he threw atop the elder man's desk with a flourish. They provided a detailed assessment of the many foreign accounts and companies that Von Bork did not wish to make known to his host country. And now, in a complete stranglehold, he would gladly exchange all of his money for freedom.

"Hmm...I expected you yesterday. You do realise that the country is in a fragile state, do you not?"

Sherlock lit his vice. "I do. And I also realise who is to blame for this...fragility." Mycroft narrowed his eyes. "After the last two years, brother mine, surely I can be allowed one day to myself."

"Were you by yourself then? I think not."

Sherlock glared at him through a cloud of smoke. But the competitive rivalry between them had waned with time and age. My friend was closing in on 60 and his brother was past it—somehow it was no longer worth the energy to be petty and combative. He allowed the masterful spark in his eyes to diminish and smiled wistfully. "No," he said quietly. "Nor shall I be again."

"I feel duty-bound to say this, brother, but I do hope you are discreet."

"Mycroft!" Sherlock's eyes blazed.

The elder brother sighed and dropped his pen, rubbing at the folds of skin around his eyes. It had been years now, but he admittedly felt some responsibility for his brother's relationship with me. He had encouraged it, against his better judgment. He didn't understand it, but he understood that it was what his brother needed. "Forgive me," he said.

Sherlock's posture softened. "I am not Wilde, after all."

"Thank God for that."

The two brothers smiled at one another. The illness no longer clogging his brain, he noted what even I could when the elder man had arrived in Harwich to take charge of the prisoner: that Mycroft was not a well man. The lines around his eyes, the yellowing of his skin, the bowing fingers. Sherlock tapped his fingers on the desk nervously. He did not want to interfere in his brother's life anymore than Mycroft did in his. But the nature of the man's occupation and the fact that he had always felt a responsibility as the elder brother meant he would on occasion. "How is your health?" Sherlock asked casually.

"Insinuations do not become you," said Mycroft, resuming his scribbling. "Say what you mean."

"If you prefer, then. You look God-awful. You've lost weight—hm, eleven pounds, I fancy. You haven't slept the night I would expect, since this thing began, probably before. You recently starting taking digitalis, there is a slight rash just there, on your neck. So, heart problems. That much is clear from the shape of your fingers. Good Lord, I've seen sausages less swollen...I do hope you, well, you aren't...do take care, Mycroft."

"Concern, brother mine?"

"Self-interest. If you die, I know bloody well I shall have to deal with that estate in Devon. And I am not prepared to do so just yet."

Mycroft flexed his stiff fingers. His brother was correct of course, in every way. "We all have our time and place, Sherlock. I will continue to be of use to my King and country until the day my heart gives out. It could be tomorrow, it could be a decade from now. My doctor has his conjectures, but unlike you I have less faith in medical men. Rest assured I am doing what I can in the meanwhile. But I do appreciate your noticing, nevertheless." He made a neat pile of the documents he had just been delivered and stored them neatly in a drawer. The minister would need to be briefed later. "I thank you for these. I realise that you have not had an easy time in obtaining them. The offer stands of an honour, if you are willing. Your country does owe you a debt, brother."

Sherlock let out an exaggerated breath. "I would honestly rather have my skin peeled with a molten fire tong."

"I can see there is still something of that obstinate boy in you. Had you any difficulty in finding the documents?"

My friend smiled. "You can thank the doctor for these, brother."

"Really? You amaze me."

"He noted a particular grotesquery within Von Bork's library—a large stuffed lion setting upon a pedestal. An amazing kill, that. Yet no plaque, no date upon it, nothing to indicate size or place. Admittedly, it was his comment that first aroused my suspicion. It took me an hour to discover the hidden compartment. He does enjoy irony, our German friend. A lion, of all things."

"Yes, we have come to discover he is a man of many talents...but never mind, you need think of Herr Von Bork further. Go off and enjoy your retirement, Sherlock. I've no doubt you've earned it."

"No doubt." Sherlock rose from his chair. He had a distinct impression he should say something brotherly to Mycroft, but after the last week, he found he preferred to save his emotional connexions. They did get a bit tiresome after awhile. Still, he was his brother. And he did care about him. "Do try and get a bit of rest," he said. Just as he was about to go through doorway and face the wrath of Mr Aubin again, he paused. "I do hope, Mycroft, that I can rely on you to use your influence in keeping my Godson safe. We did have a deal, after all."

xx

When Holmes and I met back at the Ford and drove slowly toward Sussex, he told me of this conversation. We chatted as I drove along and I was the happiest I had been in years. I shouldn't have been. We were at war. A war that in four years would cost us millions of dollars and hundreds of thousands of lives. But right then, the only cloud I could see in our sky was my son. Perhaps that was why my friend did not mention the last line he had said to his brother. It was something I would learn much later, on the darkest day of my life.

1 Son-of-a bitch! I'll kill you!

2 No chance— an old Austro expression

3 Royal Army Medical Corps

4 Britain officially declares war on Germany

5 King Lear .

6 A type of large ornate sofa

7 See Chapter 18

8 That energy can neither be created nor destroyed