"Then away out in the woods I heard that kind of a sound that a ghost makes when it wants to tell about something that's on its mind and can't make itself understood, and so can't rest easy in its grave, and has to go about that way every night grieving."

- Mark Twain

Watson

For a period of time, the length of which I paid no attention to, I remained in that small room, occasionally stoking the fire and more occasionally pacing up and down, wishing that I had been able to go with Holmes. Waiting has never been a pastime I enjoy, and being alone with my thoughts ranked even higher on that list of unpleasantness at the moment…

…especially with thoughts such as these, dark and troubled and flooded by that constant, gnawing undercurrent of grief and loss. I was more numb than anything else by this point, the shock having worn off and left a sort of deadness in its place, just an emptiness that I was more than familiar with by now. I slumped down again into the hard chair, resting my chin in my hand as I looked down at the sleeping form of the seaman's dearest friend.

I did not relish waking the lad or dealing with him once he had woken and the realisation came flooding back, but evidently the same cruel hand of Fate that had dealt this deadly blow was at work again, for Haight stirred uneasily, moving his head, his brows furrowing deeply. After a few moments, during which I refrained from waking him from whatever he was dreaming about because I was hoping he would remain asleep, the young reporter suddenly started, his hands jerking slightly under the blankets. He looked about wildly, breathing very rapidly and rubbing his eyes.

"Easy, Haight," I murmured softly, laying a hand on the young fellow's shoulder with a reassuring grip.

"What – oh, Doctor," he gasped in relief, slumping back to the pillow. "I was dreaming…" he trailed off suddenly, his face blanching as quickly as it had coloured. "Oh, good Lord!"

The blankness on the reporter's face suddenly melted into a grief-stricken hopelessness, as I could almost visibly see his memory churning up what had occurred last. I watched, helpless, as Haight turned over and hid his eyes in the pillow, his whole frame shaking with the knowledge that he had finally woken up and had to face the reality of going on alone now.

I flinched instinctively, knowing all too well what it felt like to realise life actually dared to go on despite a heartbreak; and that despite not wanting to ever do anything again, one had to get back into the routine of said life, for it stopped for no one.

"I'm…I'm so sorry, lad," I said faintly, keeping a steadying hand on the reporter's shoulder as he shook with smothered emotion. "It…will not always be so painful…someday you will be able to –"

"How in blazes would you know what I feel like or what I'll do, Doctor?" Haight nearly shouted, the words half-choking in his throat as he whipped over to glare at my saddened face, though his anger not actually aimed at me.

When I merely raised an eyebrow, the blind rage drained from his face, leaving it even paler than before.

"Yes, of course you know…I'm s-sorry, Doctor, that was a thoughtless thing to say…"

"Nonsense, Haight," I said soothingly. "You must deal with this, and if lashing out is your method of releasing your grief then by all means please do it, you'll feel better after you do. Not all right, for you may not feel right again for months; but better."

The young fellow took a shuddering breath and scrubbed angrily at his face with his sleeve before lurching upright to sit against the bedstead, looking about him and trying to control the small hiccoughs of grief that still ran through his trembling form.

"Where's Mr. Holmes?"

"He's been out since we came to this inn, looking for those men," I said softly.

"Have they – have they found – the – the body yet?" Haight gasped through stammering lips.

I shook my head wordlessly, and his face fell in misery.

"We can't just leave him out there, we have to – to find –"

"I know, I know, my boy," I said calmly, patting the young fellow's arm with gentleness and at the same time inspecting the bandages round his wrist; apparently perfectly sound still. Good. "Holmes has every available policeman in this hamlet out searching, and he said we will not leave this town until we find him. That much we can do."

Haight nodded numbly, trying to whisper a small thank-you which I shushed. "I need you to try to eat something now, Haight," I said kindly.

"I'm not hungry, Doctor, if it's all the same to you."

"It is not all the same, Haight. You are going to eat something, or I will not let you up out of that bed when Holmes comes back with news about those men," I informed the American sternly.

One thing the American had in common with his late colleague was that confounded mulish stubbornness. It took me a good fifteen minutes to convince him that I was in dead earnest about not letting him up, another ten to convince him to eat something, and another hour to actually get some passable soup, crackers, and vegetables sent up from the mediocre kitchen the inn sported.

Under my insistence and watchful eye, the young fellow managed to choke down an acceptable amount of food, and I finally gave in to his plea to be allowed to stop. I had no desire to force him into any more discomfort, but nor would I let him collapse from malnutrition or weakness.

Were Lachlan still alive, I had no doubt he would have shaken some sense into the reporter. Since he was not, and there was no way in heaven or earth I could ever take his place – that anyone could – with Haight, I had to resort to gentle pleading and firm persuasion.

Not that either of those was doing the poor American much good. I watched with a deep sinking feeling of helplessness as Haight pushed his food away with a deep swallow, clenching his jaw as he looked up at me.

"What am I going to do, Doctor?" he whispered brokenly, putting his head in his hands. "Where am I going to go, what – what am I supposed to do now?"

I closed my eyes for a moment in silent sympathy, wishing I knew what to tell the young man that would ease the pain – but I knew better than he did that nothing really would ease it, not for a long, long period of time. Well I remembered the harshness of returning to a London that still expected my medical practice to go on as usual and the rest of my life to proceed as if I had not left part of my heart in a waterfall in Switzerland.

I had, I was still slightly ashamed of the fact to this day, I had cracked at last, falling ill under the strain. I refused to allow that to happen to Haight, for his sake as well as for all of us; Lachlan would want me to make sure the reporter was well taken care of, and I would do it. My own grief could wait.

I was about to offer some words of sympathy (heaven knew exactly what, but I was going to try), when the door was suddenly flung open and Holmes stumbled into the room, shedding his snow-soaked overcoat as he went straight to the fire and began to blow on his hands.

His eyes met mine for a moment, but I let my gaze drop in despondency, glancing back to Haight who had not moved from his former position to even look up at my friend.

"What news?" I asked wearily.

"We have our men."

"What?!" Haight's head shot up at that, his tear-filled brown eyes flashing. "You have them?"

"One of them, at any rate," my friend said calmly, pouring himself a drink from the decanter on the table. "By all accounts, the two men who accosted you on the train were not natives to this area; in these unique little hamlets everyone knows everyone, and no one appears to know those two."

"But the man they met at the station?" I asked eagerly.

Holmes's eyes smiled slightly at me. "I have him, for he was evidently a somewhat local man, living outside of town and only rarely stopping by, which is why it took me so long to find him in my search. After three hours of wild-goose chases, red herrings, and a dozen uncooperative natives of the area, I finally have the man's name, his address, and I've already ascertained that he is residing within the house's walls at this moment."

Haight snarled something and then bolted from the table with an energy that I stood astounded at, going to the washbasin and splashing his face, then fumbling for a towel and his jacket.

"Unless you fear for his health, let him, Watson," Holmes said softly, watching the reporter's near-frenzied movements.

I nodded with a small sigh and felt his hand upon my shoulder. "Watson," he said in a suddenly low voice close to my ear. "There is something about this that I do not like."

"It is still too easy, isn't it?" I returned softly.

"Quite. Surely this man, Albert Fleischer by name, would realise how easily he could be traced. It is almost as if…"

"As if he was supposed to be traced," I replied slowly.

"Precisely. This could be a very simple trap for all of us," he whispered as Haight finished and started toward us, stopping at the bedside table on the way.

"No, Haight," Holmes said sharply, "I should much prefer that the Doctor carry the firearm."

The young reporter's face flushed angrily. "His hands are injured, and besides those murdering dogs took mine. I'm every bit as good a shot."

"But I do not trust you not to overstep the role of reporter into that of executioner, Mr. Haight," Holmes stated coolly. "Hand over that gun, if you please."

For a moment, during which I could almost hear the tiny slaps of snowflakes upon the window in the chilly silence, Haight glared at my friend with an almost savage ferocity. Then I stepped forward slowly and held out my hand. And with a slight curse, the reporter reluctantly relinquished his hold on my revolver.

"You are a brave man, Haight, and a good and loyal one. Do nothing now that will mar the reputation you and your friend have done much to uphold," Holmes said softly, clapping the young fellow on the back as we left the room.

Holmes had kept the trap we had rented for the rest of the night, and we were soon rattling away through the gloom, down the brick streets and snowy buildings. The snow was falling softly and in large fluffy flakes that automatically made one think of Christmas Day in London and all that went with it…until one remembered that a friend would never again see an English Christmas.

I shivered, and Holmes shot me a questioning look before continuing in his explanation of how he had finally tracked the man down, first through the description given by the wagon rental boy and then through a myriad of merchants and public houses until he had struck a lucky break at a pub, where the local gossip said that one of the outlying farmers had suddenly come into a deal of money and no one knew how.

"From there, it was the work of less than an hour to ascertain where the man lived and that he is there, apparently alone, right now," Holmes said, flicking the reins to move the horse onward.

"Should we not notify the police?" I asked.

"After we talk with the man. It will take that slow bungling force at least another hour to get a warrant out, and we have not the time to waste on such things if we are to track down the others," Holmes snapped, and despite my qualms about bursting into things without official backup I acquiesced; argument would have prevailed nothing against both him and Haight, anyway.

The address in question was a rambling farmhouse, a one-story squat edifice sitting in the midst of a stand of evergreens and surrounded out back by fields of snowy white, dotted with occasional bushes. Although clean enough, the place was rather shabby and obviously had seen much better days; I could see why the owner suddenly coming into money would certainly attract attention in the village.

"I thought you said he was in there," Haight whispered eagerly over my shoulder as we stood in the snowy trees, peering at the dark house.

"So he was an hour ago," Holmes replied, frowning deeply, "and although dark it is not really late enough for the man to be abed."

"I don't like it," I breathed, not seeing a single light or hearing a single sound from the house ahead.

"Nor do I, but we are not going to simply stand here and freeze. Follow me, and Haight, keep quiet and make no moves that I do not tell you to, understand?"

The American muttered something under his breath but obediently followed me as I followed Holmes up to the wooden porch, which creaked and groaned like a ghostly moan itself as we stepped upon the rotting boards.

I stiffened and felt Holmes freeze as well, for suddenly in one of the side windows a light had been lit, sending a warm beam of glowing yellow out into the darkness of the winter night.

"Now what, we just knock on the door and say, 'By the way, sir, we'd like to ask you if you murdered my best friend'?" Haight snapped, his voice taut with suppressed anger and emotion.

Holmes and I both winced at the young fellow's choice of words, but before either of us could answer the light was extinguished as swiftly as if it had been suddenly blown out.

"He probably heard you, Haight," Holmes hissed in irritation.

"Now what?" I asked patiently, trying to smooth over the ruffled feathers.

"I shall go in first, Haight following, and you stand by the door with the revolver, Watson, to prevent his escaping us. Do not argue with me, either of you – this is no time to stick at scruples!"

I bit back another protest as Holmes tried the doorknob. "It's unlocked," he whispered, turning a puzzled glance back to me.

"I've never seen a situation that spelled trap like this one," I muttered, holding the pistol as tightly as I could in my bandaged hands.

"Nor have I, but it's our only lead and I refuse to wait until morning. Now for it. Ready, Haight?"

"Right behind you, Mr. Holmes. But remember, this Fleischer fella is mine," Haight snarled, his hands clenching into balled fists.

My friend opened the door and stepped warily into the dim room. From behind him and the reporter, I could barely see articles of furniture scattered round the room and a ghostly white light from the moonlit windows the only illumination within.

Holmes advanced a few paces, looking cautiously round him for signs of a trap, and Haight walked to the side, peering at the layer of dust upon the table.

The detective was about to call for Fleischer to show himself when suddenly a long dark shadow loomed over him.

Before I could call out, I heard his startled cry as a hulking figure dropped on him, landing a sound blow to his back as they began to grapple on the floor.

For a few seconds they fought, in a scuffle far too furious for me to aim my revolver. Haight started forward and I began to search for a lamp when I was arrested in my plans by a sudden voice.

"Stop!"

Holmes's somewhat breathless voice rang through the room at its most imperious pitch, and due to its remarkable, commanding quality there was almost instant calm, and we all crouched in the darkness uneasily.

Fleischer's gasping breaths were the only sound that followed and after a moment's hesitation to regain my own breath I got to my feet.

"Holmes…what the blazes is going on?" I asked, but my friend did not respond, as though he himself were struck dumb. In the silence that followed, I was able to vaguely make him out, climbing off his attacker and settling back.

His attacker lay there to get his breath a moment and then very slowly sat up with a grunt, propping himself up on his left arm.

He was breathing heavily as well, and not very deeply, his breaths quick and shallow as if…as if…

An impossibility…a horribly wonderful impossibility crept into my mind and I swore softly.

"Watson," said Holmes in a faint voice. "The lamp…"

I couldn't, I was frozen to the spot, my eyes locked on the shadowy figure.

Haight brushed past me, took two steps, and then stopped, frozen just as I was.

At last the shadowed figure broke the silence, shifting with another slightly pained grunt and he gasped out quietly.

"The least you can do after knockin' a man down, Holmes…is to offer him a hand up again."

The familiar voice was enough to send me stumbling to the lamp at once and I lit it with an unsteady hand just as Holmes finished complying with his attacker's request, helping him to his feet.

I do not think that any evidence, not even his voice, would have convinced me as the sight of him did, standing quite erect, his face flushed from the fight, his eyes alight, leaning slightly on Holmes and holding his ribs with his good arm. A far cry from the lifeless individual I had thought him to be for the last day and a half.

William Lachlan was not dead, and the freely running blood from his split lip attested to that fact.

He blinked for a moment in the sudden light, spotted me with a rueful grin and then his gaze fell on Haight, and it cleared into utter relief.

The midshipman let forth a string of expletives that I had feared I would never hear again and pulled away from Holmes to approach his friend. I watched in an astonishment so complete that I could not think to move or even breathe. I felt that it could not be real, and I was loathe to move and dispel it, to break the spell, banishing the amazed joy that flooded me.

"Renie…thank heaven, lad…"

Haight had stood rooted to the spot throughout this display, white as a sheet and gaping at the man whose death he'd witnessed…at this ghost of his friend who had appeared seemingly out of nowhere.

Lachlan noticed his look and his blonde brows drew together in concern; he drew closer, his good hand outstretched to grip the American's shoulder.

"Are you all right, Renie? You look like you've seen a…"

The blow came suddenly and without warning, and my reaction to it was far too slow to even catch it.

One moment Lachlan was upright and looking at his friend with tender concern, the next instant he was seated on the ground, clutching his face.

I shouted and hurried at once to help him, realizing belatedly that the blow had come from Haight and that the lad was red with indignation. He moved faster than I, however, and in an instant he was kneeling beside the very puzzled seaman, who looked at him with a slightly dazed gaze, his hand covering his nose, from which leaked a stream of wonderfully, bright red blood.

Haight was quivering, his eyes bright with tears and his teeth set in a snarl of what I could only describe to be rage. I looked to Holmes, who was watching the exchange with raised brows…he had not made any move to intervene and even now, catching my look, he shook his head, his thin lips twitching.

Haight reached out and gripped Lachlan's shoulders tightly giving him a firm shake.

"You were dead! You're dead! I saw you die!"

Lachlan blinked at him a few times, squinting because of the damage to his nose, and in a muffled, subdued voice he said.

"I hate to disappoint, lad…" he brought his hand away from his face, revealing that while his nose was not broken it had suffered a solid blow. "…But I think this proves otherwise."

Haight was shaking in earnest now, the color fading from his face once again to leave it almost sheet-white, and tears streamed freely from his eyes.

He did not loosen his grip on his friend but rather squeezed his arms as though to reassure himself of their solidity. He looked over the still-puzzled Lachlan's face then shook him again.

"You idiot…you danged idiot…"

It just then reminded me of another similar occurrence and I sent a look towards Holmes, who had suddenly found an interest in a fading picture upon the wall. When I continued to glare at him he looked up with a sheepish grin and stepped closer to stand by me, resting his elbow casually on my good shoulder as we watched our two friends' unbelievable reunion.

"I must admit, Watson…I have often wondered why you refrained from striking me in a similar manner. You would have been greatly justified."

I stifled a laugh, too overcome with happiness and relief to allow any sense of grudge. "I didn't want to hurt my hand - your skull's too thick."

He scoffed, feigning offense, and then smiled at the two before us, Lachlan gingerly holding his nose and Haight babbling almost incoherently and swearing worse than the sailor himself.

At last the American seemed to wear himself down and Lachlan managed to quiet him, sitting up more fully.

"Dead?" he asked, his brows furrowing. "What do you mean, lad?"

Sudden anxiety struck me as I remembered Haight's description of the night's events. What further damage had been done to his injuries already? And what new ones had he sustained?

I interrupted their reunion and knelt beside them, belatedly observing that Lachlan's sling was missing, and that he sported one or two new bruises on his face.

"What do you mean, 'what do you mean?'!" Haight gasped indignantly. "I saw you get hit! With my own two eyes! And then you fell down into the ravine and you were as still as a corpse…there was a storm picking up! I thought…"

Lachlan's eyes grew stormy grey with concern and he paled slightly. "You saw?"

"They made me look."

Lachlan cursed lightly and sighed, raising his arm automatically to allow me to check his ribs.

"Perhaps since you are obviously not dead, Lachlan," Holmes interrupted, handing the handkerchief to the seaman, "you would be kind enough to tell us exactly how you did survive?"

Lachlan frowned, his puzzlement replaced with sudden understanding. "You all thought I was dead…blazes…I didn't mean…"

He looked round as though desperate for forgiveness, his gaze lingering especially on Haight.

"What happened?" the reporter asked, under some control now though he still held Lachlan's shoulder.

"I was shot," the seaman said, "but not badly. I fell down the bank, lost my breath and maybe my consciousness for a few minutes because of these blasted ribs, and when I pulled myself out of the ditch you were gone. I had no choice but to make my way back the way we'd come."

"What about the second shot?!" Haight demanded sharply, looking to me as I finished my examination.

I tried to smile reassuringly. "There's not much new trauma to the ribs, Lachlan; you're lucky, I told you the rest would do you good and if you get a bit more the swelling shoulde go down again. Your arm seems all right, the cast is holding nicely, though I'll need to get you another sling. And though there is some bruising the only other injury you seem to have sustained is a small graze on your leg."

I motioned with some distaste at the very crude bandage that the midshipman had fashioned out of who knew what.

"You are in need of a fresh change of clothing, some rest and minor medical treatment…not too bad for a dead man."

Haight let out a long sigh and the rest of the tension left his thin frame. "You saw the second shot."

Lachlan nodded, reaching up to grip the American's shoulder. "I saw the lubber's rifle, and tried to duck to avoid, but I went too far and rolled off the edge…Renie…I'm sorry…I didn't know that you didn't realize. I would never have left only…Blazes, boy, I'm sorry."

He took the handkerchief from his nose which had finally ceased to bleed.

"Guess I deserve this after all."

Haight smiled shakily and with all the impulsiveness of his countrymen pulled the seaman into a sudden hug, making him colour slightly, and myself to laugh with relief more than anything else.

Holmes stood by watching the exchange with a small, satisfied smirk, aloof but no doubt feeling the same relief as Haight and myself though he naturally would not show it.

He waited until Lachlan had managed to push the American off of him and then spoke, nodding toward the door of the bedroom which lay ajar.

"I trust, Lachlan, that you were here for the same purpose as we…did you manage to find Fleischer?"

Lachlan smiled and accepted Haight's arm, climbing slowly to his feet.

"Aye, Holmes," he said with a predatorial glint that I had often seen in my own friend's eyes. "We have him…and yer welcome to question what I've left of him."

-smirk- Mkay, admit it, how many of you thought we really killed him? Didn't think so...