Confessions of the Master Chapter 38, a sherlock holmes fanfic

A/N: Forgive all the footnotes, I got a bit carried away. And yes, there will be an end to this. Eventually. Before I die hopefully.

Though I do not consider myself to be a capricious man, I must admit that I allow myself one fancy—one that I grew to share with my friend—I have an aversion to discarding papers. You may recall that I have a tin dispatch box buried in a vault of Cox and Company. Contained within it are many notes on adventures I shared with Sherlock Holmes that for one reason or another were not made known to the public. I have notes on others that I know will never see the light of day. I have journals, diaries, correspondence, even the occasional old bill. They rot inside several cartons stored in my garden shed.

But the letters—well. I keep those with me. Letters from my mother, so old and faded as to be almost unreadable. A card and a poem from Mary. The occasional note from a fan of my writings that I found humorous. Several notes and letters from Holmes—those I shall return to shortly. And of course, the letters from my son.

I hadn't looked at them for years. When I extracted them from my little strong box and read them, a lump swelled in my throat. Particularly at one, the one addressed only to his Godfather.

After reading, I had to put them aside. My joints ached and I limped through my quiet house, fixed myself a cup of tea and watched the drizzle ping against the window. Holmes would have been appalled at the risk, plenty of fodder for blackmail contained in that metal box. Josh would have merely laughed, shaking his head, calling me 'sentimental' or some such. But I thank God now that I have them.

Some of the past is as black as the clouds that surround our cottage just now, but there is still no place I would rather go.

I wonder if an old man can be indulged momentarily. As I read back on some of my ramblings, it occurs to me that perhaps I have lingered a bit much on the negative aspects of my life. On all the trials that the relationship Holmes and I shared created. It wouldn't do, to me at least, to have it thought that there were only snatched moments of happiness. That the majority of our lives were spent in paranoia and misery. We did experience our fair share of the negative. More than our share. But there was joy. There was contentment. And if I may, I would like to re-live some of that now.

Holmes and I arrived back in Sussex in the waning days of August. The weather was still warm, but there was ample breeze rolling in off the cliffs. The heat that had so oppressed us seemed miles removed. The oppression removed, unfortunately, to France and Belgium where my son and thousands of his contemporaries were attempting to defend the honour of their countries. That thought preyed on me every time I opened a newspaper. Or looked at the photographs atop Holmes's mantel.

But I was determined not to let it ruin me. I had been given a second chance, a rarity in life, to repair a relationship I had thought hopelessly damaged. I was determined that this time—without the pressures of society, children and our all-too-well-known personas—we could have some private happiness.

My daughter waved and ran to meet us as the auto pounded down that God-awful road. She was considerably more brown than last I had seen her, her hair was loose and tangled in the wind. "You look quite the Red Indian," I said as I leaned down to kiss her smudged cheek after we'd stopped. "I hope you haven't been running too wild."

She laughed. "Oh, I have indeed! We've been having such fun! I suppose you must have been enjoying yourselves, to be away for so long."

"Not exactly." I caught Holmes's eye as he rose from the Ford and stretched himself.

"My fault, I'm afraid, Miss Watson. I took ill and required your father's attentions. I do apologise for keeping him away for so long."

"I suppose he needed it," she said, studying me. "He looks much healthier than he has in years."

Though I know she meant nothing untoward, I'm sure I turned scarlet. Why did God or fate or whomever feel the need to laugh as I was sent children who were far more observant than their progenitors? "Do I, indeed?"

"I think so, yes." She smiled innocently, taking my gladstone for me.

I turned to Holmes. "Well, if I am so heartily improved, I think I shall have to impose on your hospitality for awhile longer. If you will have me, that is."

"I refuse to have it on my conscious if you succumbed to the toxic air of London," he gave the impression of being in deep thought. "I think perhaps, Doctor, you had better make it a permanent occupation. It seems a genuine risk for you to return now."

"Hmm...yes, I suppose it would be safer."

"And at your age, of course..."

"Steady on! You're only two years my junior after all."

"Yes, but of the two of us, only one has the remnants of three bullets floating about his body"—

Lily was watching our rather ridiculous repartee, looking from me to Holmes and then back again. "So we are staying then?"

"If you can be persuaded, my dear," said I, amused at the sudden glow in her eyes. "Of course you will have to continue with your education. I don't suppose there is anywhere suitable in the area—that large sepulchre in the distance is for boys, no doubt."

Holmes forced an air of complete seriousness, raising an eyebrow and thrusting outward his jaw. "I suppose I could undertake the task myself. I cannot say that it is completely convenient, as the bees and my writing do occupy a fair amount of time"—

"You!" Lily looked horrified. "Oh, but, Mr Holmes surely you are...perhaps you were suitable for Josh. But I don't think you know anything about girls. I must go to school, mustn't I, Dad?"

The faintest shadow of a smile flickered on my friend's face. I cleared my throat to avoid a convulsion of laughter at her earnestness myself. "I think you must. Much as it will disappoint Holmes. The only question remains if a place can be secured this late."

"I think that shall not be a problem. Harold Shackleton, the headmaster of The Gables that you so aptly described, Doctor, is a friend of mine. It so happens that his sister runs Furcroft, a girl's school in Eastbourne. I secured a place there for young Barbara Kelly when she and her mother arrived to stay with Martha. I can easily do so for you as well, Miss Watson."

Lily's response was immediate and utterly joyful—as only a young girl's can be. She whooped and threw her arms around the detective (who contained his surprise in a very gentlemanly manner) and then me. "Thank you, Mr Holmes! That's just lovely...You know, I had thought you would be...in the stories...well, I was wrong. And thank you, Dad! Oh, I cannot wait to tell Barbara!"

Dropping my bag on the front step, she dashed across the lawn in the direction of the Kelly cottage. We watched as she climbed the rotting fence marking the edge of Holmes's property. When was the last time I had seen one of my children react thusly? And when had I been the cause of it? "Things will be different when Josh comes back," I said confidentially and then turned as something in my friend's expression caught my eye. His eyes darkened into shadows as the afternoon sun illuminated every line on his aging face. "There is something of Philippa in her," he said softly. "A spirit...I'd forgotten it."

Then he blinked and turned to me as if surprised I remained there, at his side. "Do remember that in your next publication, Doctor. Sherlock Holmes does not retain a low opinion of all female-kind."

"I will indeed," I promised as he ushered me inside. I did realise that it was high praise from the man. Just as I realised that the Holmes I had created was something far more black-and-white than the grey Holmes I planned to spend my remaining years with.

For the first time in years, I felt as though I were home.

September 1914

My dear fellow—

I do hope you are well. I reckon about another month of training or so? Aldershot is a lovely town, but of course you've been kept busy. Any ideas where exactly you're being sent? The papers here talk insistently about Lorraine and Leige—and whether Paris will be taken. But surely, at least it is the hope of a parent, that with your education you will be put to use in a hospital...

After Lily went away to school, the weather turned quite damp and grey. With the recent publication of my Valley of Fear, I felt no pressing need to write. Often I sat down with the intention of transforming some of my mad scribblings into a proper case and would while away the afternoon doodling, pacing about on my bad leg and listening to the rain ping off the roof. I usually ended up writing in my journal, trying to record all the weeks and months that I had bypassed previously. Often I would pen some pointless note to my son. Mostly, I didn't send them, but the ones I did I sent in care of the REF in hopes that they would find him. And that I would be rewarded with news soon.

The dry days I spent mostly outdoors. Occasionally I would help Holmes, but at the time his two focuses were rather more solitary pursuits. There was little I could do with him. I knew that I needed to find my own purpose at this new stage of my life, but I hadn't yet. Adjustments to change require time. And patience.

And unfortunately at times, acceptance.

I was in Eastbourne at my daughter's school the entire day that term started. The place had a very homey feel, and I found the headmistress, a Miss Stackhurst, to be both congenial and lady-like. I thought that the atmosphere could only improve Lily and left the place in a good humour, although this dissipated somewhat when I stopped for a bite of supper in a little café and read the late edition of the Times which was full of dark headlines.1 I quickly grew tired and a bit dis-heartened. A sudden consuming need filled me to sit with Holmes and have a drink and then fall into bed, his soft snoring lulling me into a false sense of calm about the world.

When I entered, my friend looked up and removed his reading spectacles and laid aside the book he had been reading. He made his way to the sideboard and poured us both a generous whiskey without my needing to ask. I gave him a grateful look.

"My dear fellow, sit down. Your leg is bothering you, I perceive."

It was and I nodded. "It has been a long day. Have you seen the afternoon papers?"

"I've not left the cottage all day. I've been doing some reading and keeping an eye on a sulphide I have cooking."

We collapsed on the settée with our drinks and I filled my friend in on the latest news from the front. Clicking his tongue, Holmes pursed his lips and shook his head. "Only the beginning of the innocent blood spilt, I fear. But we mustn't lose heart. Those lads are relying on cool heads back home to keep things from completely unravelling."

"I should be thankful. I am thankful. One child safely at school and the other more than likely still in Aldershot. Certainly not in a trench..." I groaned as Holmes began to massage the pain out of my leg.

"No doubt we shall have news soon."

"Mmm...yes. That's all I want in the world." My eyes closed as I straightened the stiff limb across his lap. Once again I felt all my resolve melt into the shadows and there were only his hands on me, the pain eradicating under his skilled touch. At least I still have this, I thought. I took a hold of his neck and leaned in to kiss him. "Shall we go to bed, then?"

His eyes flashed.

The gesture was so subtle that I shouldn't have even noticed, but his slightest idiosyncrasy was as familiar to me as my own body. "What?" I asked.

"Watson"—

"Whatever is wrong?"

He hesitated, licking his colourless lips, clearly not wishing to say. "I should make something clear to you. I do realise that Sussex is far removed from London. Furthermore, it is easy to assume the world is distracted by war and our personal lives are of no concern to anyone save us. But you know as well as I that it isn't true. Even here we are not unobserved. And the need for caution and discretion has not ceased. It was the case when dear old Mrs Hudson did our laundry and tidied our chambers—and it is the case with Mrs Kelly now as well. It would hardly be proper if she discovered we were sharing a bedroom."

I stared at him. I suppose I looked hurt—perhaps stunned—because he sighed through a clenched jaw and turned away. As for myself, I admit fully that at this point in my life, fear of exposure seemed a past concern. I knew almost no-one for thirty miles or more. And after my row with Josh, it seemed pointless to continue to live a false life. Where exactly had it gotten me?

Holmes was rubbing at his eyes. "I've angered you."

"No, no. I simply hadn't considered...of course our lives are not as private as I would prefer. It's only..." I sighed. "I shall sound completely callow but I will say it anyway. I want to share a bed with you. I refuse to be embarrassed or ashamed about this. I've wasted too much of my life denying this."

"Surely there is more to our relationship than the physical."

"Of course."

"But I do understand." He regarded me. "And I feel the same."

I rose to retire, wanting more than ever to end to this day, but Holmes caught my hand. "Doctor"—he said pulling me back hard enough to nearly hurt. "We will find a way. Just as we always have. I beg of you—don't lose heart now."

I didn't lose heart. I refused to. But I couldn't help but feel a bit melancholy as I packed my clothing and shaving case and hauled everything into the guest bedroom. We had of course kept separate bedrooms for the entirety of our friendship. This was the natural state of things, I suppose. And after so long apart, only a narrow hall, some 20-feet kept him from me. But that was the measurable space. The hypothetical space between us remained a great deal more speculative.

October 1914

Major General Josh Watson—

Surely you must be in charge of the entire army by now? Since I know you to be the best, the bravest, and most like the tiger, as King Henry said2 (remember when we did that one?). And do send a photograph of you in uniform, if you have one, I would like to brag to the girls of my handsome brother. School is alright, I suppose I have some of the same problems you used to tell me of, but I don't mind it. I wish they (meaning the girls) had a bit more imagination and spirit, but I have one good friend and a mess of trees and books, so it is as close to Heaven as I ever expect to get.

I wanted to tell you that Dad and I are gone from London—for good, I expect—he won't leave now. And I shan't blame him. He and I spent the last few weeks of the holiday at the beach and picnicking and such and it was lovely. He seemed really happy as he kept smiling and tugging at his moustache and he isn't rubbing his bad leg nearly as much. Did Mr Holmes always have that effect on him? Maybe it is just the change in air. I'm glad for him. He was lonely (although I wouldn't tell him so.)

So. Mr Holmes. I know you want my impressions of him. Well, I didn't spend much time with him—this was possibly accident AND design but just before I left for school we spent a few hours testing each other one warm afternoon. Dad was doing something with the auto—I forget what, but it was just he and I, with a battered chess set that looked older than its owner under a nice shade tree on a comfy blanket. There is something about his eyes, the way he looks at you and through you. I can only compare them to the water—inviting, yet always with the danger of drowning. Dad spent a great deal of time on his eyes in those Strand tales didn't he—I think I must re-visit them.

We played five or six games and barely said a word other than 'check' or 'mate.' I think normally this—and the fact that he was studying me more than the game—would have put me ill at ease but his presence was so relaxed and reassuring that I felt as though I my legs had melted into the cool grass and my mind into that battered board. Finally he gave a startling sort of laugh, pushed his fedora back on his head and said, "Your father said it would be a pleasure to play you. His judgment is typically astute in such matters."

I, for my sins, was left with the impression that if he hadn't 'let' me win, he had not at least played to his full capabilities. But I decided to re-analyze this hypothesis before ever saying so. And so I was immediately thrust into another sort of game, involving rational deductions based on an old photograph of a gouty colonel, his shrivelled shrew of a wife and three children: a doughy older son, a bristly younger one and a daughter like a dark and delicate stained-glass window. I played with him. But as much because I was comfortable under those shady boughs as because I was interested. Mr Holmes pushed each line of reasoning to its zenith (How do you know the woman is religious—what else besides the crucifix—how does that relate to the fraying hem.) You asked for my impressions but I shan't dissolve into flowers and poetry, I'll only provide the interesting bits.

I suppose I did satisfactorily. I received a curt nod and was told that the deductions I made were ones you would have done at 8 or 9. I told him (honestly as we both know) that I'm not as clever as my brother but he said that quite possibly I was more so—"when your brother was 8, he'd had five years of training with me, you've had none." And then those bloody eyes again! This time I think I almost feel it and he adds—"you are an interesting riddle, my dear. You play chess with an affectation of boredom, relying on cheap moves and endless traps when clearly you have the ability to play at a higher level than that. You also have a keen eye and trust yourself in your assertions, something rare in my experience."

And then perhaps I got a bit cheeky—" I suppose I think a lot of the things that are important to you are less so to me. I mean, logic and deduction are certainly important but there are so many other things in the world."

But the interesting bit—the one I continue to think of, the one you must offer me your opinion on is this: "What I tell you is simply my own opinion, take it for what it is worth. I only ask one thing of you, Lily—You Must Be True To Yourself. Some people, myself included, took far too long to heed that bit of advice from the Bard. Will you promise me that you will think on that?"

When I think back on it now, I find it strange that I had been living in Sussex for two months before I noticed the barn. Perhaps I had seen it, but no connexion was created within my brain; there existed no philosophical ideology about it at that point. It was merely a crumbling grey building that looked as though a strong wind could blow it into the sea and out of memory forever.

It was situated on the southern extreme of my friend's property and from it there was an unobstructed view of the white cliffs. The noise of the waves below is also quite perceptible and relaxing. There is something about the sound of the sea that puts one's life in perspective—we are very small and everything about us, especially our problems—are quite insignificant indeed when compared to the perpetuity of those waters. They were here long before we were so much as a spark in the darkness and when my line dies out, those same waves will still be dying against the rocks. Somehow, I find that comforting.

I pushed on the barn door but the frame was so warped that it jammed into the ground. The board containing the handle I found to be in such poor condition that I was able to wrench it off and just squeeze inside. And what I stepped into was a truly depressing corpse indeed. Ribs of sunlight stabbed through every crack and misshapen board, but it was still clammy and dank inside. The air was catching and smelled of mould and decay. The few remaining floorboards that hadn't been consumed by weeds groaned, inauspiciously threatening to break apart under my very feet.

But—despite all of this—I shuddered with the promise of it all.

Holmes and I hadn't spoken of the conversation we'd had the night I had returned from Eastbourne. I think he operated under the misapprehension that I was angry, but I wasn't. I suppose I felt a great deal in those days—guilt over my lack of participation in the war, disappointment over some of the choices I had made and resolution at the fact that nothing remains unchanged after more than a decade of neglect.

But mostly I was grateful. He had saved me from a disastrous fate. A life of melancholy and solitude would have awaited me had I not taken that telephone call last summer. The path I was on now was far more propitious; it was as ingrained within me as the tract of dead grass that had led me to this barn.

I pressed my bare palm to the rough scales on the exterior of the door. An idea was beginning to form. It was misshapen and intangible, but I could feel it taking shape within the root of my brain.

October 1914

My dear fellow—

Have you everything you need? I would be happy to send anything. I've a box ready, I shall have it out in the next week or two so that you'll have it for Christmas. I do hope you aren't anywhere near Ypres. There is a great deal of sympathy for the Flemish and there are already agencies being established to house the number of refugees arriving. I imagine it is hard to get access to accurate news, wherever you may be, so I will include the most relevant articles I've been collecting. The most maddening thing in the world is to be left in the dark.

As the calendar was about the turn to November, I sat with my friend at breakfast one morning.

"I wonder if I might have your permission to do something."

Holmes glanced at me. He had been scribbling at something in his commonplace book, his fingers drumming incessantly at the table. I was pleased to see a plate with the remains of a rasher and soft-boiled egg rather than a full ashtray. Since our return from Harwich he was not smoking as much. It is true that in the past he poisoned himself at an astronomical rate, but he all-but required the vice to perform at his peak. Nowadays he did still indulge in his morning pipe, though he was forced to supplement the plugs and dottles with fresh tobacco, and we still enjoyed a cigarette together after supper. Of course we were not always together, but I could hardly not notice that the amount of shag in the Persian slipper dwindled slower and that his silver cigarette case was not handled with as much regularity. If this was the result of his recent health scare or simply because the habit was superfluous to his new lifestyle, I didn't know. I knew better than to ask.

"I would like your permission to rebuild that dilapidated barn just south of the cottage."

"Why should you want to do that?"

"No particular reason. The challenge of it. Simply to see if I can."

"It seems a decided change from the fellow who once told me how exceedingly lazy he was."

I laughed. "That is true enough. But we wouldn't get very far in life if we stood still, would we? We all must evolve. And change, when necessary."

Holmes's hand paused in its tapping. "Hmm."

"I beg your pardon?"

For a moment, he seemed lost in thought. What he was thinking was anyone's guess, but that clear, penetrating look filled his face. "I told someone something similar of late."

I stared at him. "Who?"

He shook his head. "Never mind. I do hope you realise this property, the cottage and the grounds are your home now. You may do what you will with complete equanimity."

I was leaving the table to fetch my coat and hat when he spoke again. "Oh, and Doctor?" He had lost the battle against temptation and was pulling his cigarette case out of his trouser pocket. I was trapped by a bright grey stare that twinkled merrily. "Don't ask my permission for anything ever again."

November 1914

My son—

I want you to know your birthday did not pass without notice here. Twenty-three years ago I received a gift that can never be taken from me, and a few angry words that should never have been spoken would never change that. Latin was never a strong suit of mine, but I had reason when you were still quite small to refresh my memory. There is a certain poetry to it that attracts even the most methodical of minds.

'Sequiturque patrem non passibus aequis.'3

Please send us some news.

Your Father

I walked out into a frosted sunlight, the sad, sagging eyesore looming over me audaciously. All 700 square feet of it seemed daring me to act. I gripped my old rusted hammer tightly in one hand and loosened my shoulder with the other. Let it be said that John H. Watson never turned down a challenge, not even from inert buildings.

A week in, and I had managed very little, but I knew my limits and refused to overexert my aging limbs. The door hinges and other hardware lay in a little corroded pile, a small pile of rotted roof shingles next to it. I had found that certain parts of the innards of the beast were in rather surprising good shape, so I planned to reuse what I could. It was the outside that had suffered decades of neglect and had to be stripped-away.

Part of me had hoped that Holmes would join me. Of course, I realised that varied and eccentric as some of his interests were, he was not a fellow for wood-working, creating things by hand (other than chemical reactions) or indeed physical labour that was not cerebral in nature. I would have longed to hear "Surely the two of us can make better progress" or even "No, there is a better way of going about that" from his lips. I did not think this probable, but...

But.

There had been two library books abandoned next to his chair by the fire as I had left the other morning. He had taken no pains to hide them, the 'Property of Fulworth Library' that was printed inside the cover, or the fact that he never read books on carpentry. I said nothing.

Then, just yesterday, as I had decided to put in an hour after supper, I had spied him out of the corner of my eye. He was carrying his bee smoker as he walked across the conker grove. Stopping suddenly, he stared up at the barn. Or perhaps me, I could not be sure, I was on a ladder at the time. "Ought to move that hatch to the west wall," he called. "The sun will catch it there and increase the ambient temperature." I smiled inwardly, but again said nothing.

This morning, being Sunday, I had the entire day to plan a more secular place in which to worship. The weather was chilly, as I said, but two jumpers would have me perspiring before very long. I gathered what tools I had, sad shape though they were in, and trekked silently across the dried lawn to the barn. The early morning air swirled magnificently in my chest.

"Good morning, Watson."

I looked up and froze in my tracks. Dressed in old trousers and unbuttoned pea-coat, hair already tousled by the wind and wearing a sly smile was Sherlock Holmes. A jug of water stood next to him and he carried a sledge across his shoulders in much the same way he used to carry his leaded riding crop. Taking two or three steps closer, I watched as he leant it against a saw horse. A red-painted tool box was carefully laid out below. None of these items had been there the night before. I quickly walked over.

"How the Devil did you get out here without my noticing?" I asked. There was a saw—gleaming sharp and brand new. My own looked pathetic next to it. I picked it up and it felt wonderfully balanced in my hands. Hoping that I hid my absolute pleasure, I held it out to him in a mock-accusatory fashion. But he knew me too well and turned away purposefully. "You've done well with the shingles," he said, ignoring my question. "But we'll have to expose the cross-beams next and for that I suspect you'll require a help-mate."

I nodded. All of these tools were new or near to it. I was too pleased to trust myself to speak.

He picked up a crowbar and tested its weight. "With only one ladder we had best take turns. Surely that window frame is salvageable." He gesticulated wildly before taking a deep breath and starting up towards what remained of the roof.

I watched him. It occurred to me for the first time that my friend was not fond of heights. Had it always been so? Perhaps only since Reichenbach. Watching a man, even a mortal enemy fall off a waterfall in front of one after nearly doing so ones self had to leave a scar.

"I'm hoping a lot of the frame is as well." He balanced himself carefully on the top rung and began to pull at the remaining shingles with his crowbar. For some reason, I heard my mother's voice in my head: Actions speak louder than words, Johnny. It was one of her favourites and she would remind the entire family of it with regularity, a stern expression on her careworn face. Every time my father would promise to stay off the bottle, to try harder for her, she would clamp her jaw and blaze at him. Actions, Henry Watson. Actions speak louder than words.

They do indeed, Mam.

Holmes was throwing chunks of disintegrated wood down at an enviable rate. "Take care," I called to him. "We've no deadline. No reason at all to hurry. The minute you feel at all winded or sore, please come down." The weather had been cooperating of late, but winter was nigh, and I would not risk another bout of pneumonia with his fragile chest.

Nodding to show he understood, my friend wrenched another piece of gutted roof free, letting it crash to the ground. The front had been equipped with sliding dutch doors, which I had removed, and now I stood in this massive entryway, looking up. A tiny stream of greyish light was just trickling down through the blackness.

15 November 1914

I've included some chemistry equations for you. It has always been a maxim of mine that work is the best antidote to sorrow. And I cannot imagine that at this point you remain untouched by it.

As I have always been and always shall be,

Your Godfather

By the middle of November, we had brought the barn to its knees, so to speak. A grotesque skeleton remained, but I was proud of the hours of work put in and many an evening was spent with sore hands and feet held out to an healing fire whilst one or the other of us read aloud. Forgetting our ages, we probably abused ourselves to a greater degree than was appropriate, but if nothing else, my head hit the pillow every night with a vigour that was unknown to me since adolescence.

That morning the smell of freshly sawn wood filled my nostrils. A small load of golden beech would be used for the flooring and parts inside; a larger load of oak would hold up well against the heavily salt-infused air and would constitute the body of the beast. Holmes and I had spent two days drawing up plans and we had agreed upon two roomy stalls, a feed room and a smaller tack room, as well as a loft. The finished product would be somewhat smaller than its predecessor but it would also be modern and easier to manage.

We worked for hours separating and marking lumbar. By late afternoon, my hands had numbed and I was forced to sit and catch my breath. Like common workmen, we relaxed upon a dry patch of earth so that I could stretch out my leg and we passed both water and a flask of whisky back and forth until the sensation in our extremities returned. I looked at my friend—the top of his nose and chin were tinged red with exertion but his breathing was normal. There were wood-shavings caught on his collar and dirt covering his clothing. He was generally more dishevelled than I had seen him in quite some time. There was something about him then, elbow on knee, chin against fist, squinting at either the water or a notion beyond my comprehension that seemed to magnify his normalcy. Perhaps because I had spent so much of my life emphasizing his extraordinary characteristics, it now pleased me greatly to see him sitting there next to me on equal terms.

"You seem pleased."

His voice broke me train of thought and I realised I had been unconsciously studying him.

"Yes," I agreed. "I am."

"Not about the barn, however. Your mind was running along a more personal line than that."

"Reading my thoughts again, my dear Holmes? I warn you there will be no picture of Henry Ward Beecher to assist you out here."4

He laughed. "Some people are more censored than an Irishman's Catholic Bible would be in the hands of Cromwell. But others are so open and familiar as to have no need for a cover or index at all. You were looking down and to the left, a movement of the eyes connected to kinaesthetic memory. The physicality of those memories typically activates the limbic system, and no doubt you are well aware of the horrors contained within that.5" He chuckled at his own little joke. "Of course, after that you were naturally drawn to look at me, and in my experience one rarely looks at a body without the mind connecting to them. We have been culturally conditioned on the dangers of overt-familiarity with excessive eye contact."

I sighed and squeezed his shoulder. I was pleased to note that it was somewhat thicker than the last time he had been in my arms. It was nearly perfect. Or it would have been had I not felt a creeping sense of redundancy. Did I even have the right to seek happiness in the midst of so much strife? Wasn't it brazen and slightly ridiculous to attempt reconstruction at my age whilst so many of my younger countrymen were dying?

"It is difficult for me as well."

I blinked at him, the tinge of the whisky I had just swallowed still prominent on my tongue. "To know what my rôle is now," he added.

He had to be right (as he usually was)—I was without a cover, my pages available for anyone to read with impunity. But I didn't ask him how he had so exactly recognised this fear within me. It wasn't necessary. "Do you have regrets about retiring?"

He shook his head. "It was the only logical thing to do. You know my reasons, I have already given them. If I regret anything, it is only that in the sane world I existed in before this last dalliance as Altamont, I think I would have been satisfied living a life that is free from cerebral challenge. But it is hard to hide away here when my country is crumbling around me."

It was so close to my own feelings that to my embarrassment I felt my throat tighten. I stood up quickly in what I realised was a vain attempt at hiding my weakness. "Perhaps we both need a more useful hobby."

Holmes raised an eyebrow. "It is not a matter of surplus time on my hands. I have my bees, my books and bottles. And my doctor. That is not the issue."

I realised that. "Yes, but...Holmes, you would never return to an artificial means of coping? I, at least, shall hope you will not." I thought this may anger him, but I had long realised that what I had written in one of his adventures, I forget which6, was all-too true: the demon was not banished, merely sleeping. I hoped it would be a permanent hibernation but the choice ultimately lied with my friend.

"Watson," said he, folding his arms across his chest. His voice was strangely quiet. "I must tell you something. I will do nothing to give you cause to needlessly worry—though I realise it is your nature to do so. We all have our faults." He paused to see if this gave offense, but I took none. It was unfortunately true. "I have told you of my reasons for abusing those substances, I think?"

"Only that they rouse and excite your mind. When you had nothing else to occupy it. I have long suspected there was more to it than that. Though I never said so in any of my writings."

"Of course. Very good, Doctor. I was first given morphine as a teenager by our family physician, who was concerned over the fact that I refused to sleep. I would stay up for days at a time rather than allow my mind to replay the...what happened..."

"Your sister's death?"

"Yes." He blinked. "Thank you. The doctor was called in, I was injected against my will, but my parents were concerned—a word I do not choose lightly—that I was frankly losing control of my faculties. I found that, with the drug, the sleep was so profound and deep that the nightmares ceased. In a very short period of time, I could not sleep without it. Again, the physician was called in and it was decided that perhaps if my...I believe the word he used was 'meloncholia' was treated more directly, then I might decrease my need for the morphine and be able to sleep naturally. His idea was to give me a mixture of wine and cocaine, which would both stimulate and sterilize the mind."

I shook my head, hardly believing what I was hearing. "I realise how prolific the practise was, but the man should still have been struck off. The very idea! You were a child. It is positively criminal!"

He smiled his whippish grin. "I later found that injecting the substance allowed it to work much faster. And it allowed me to cope with those dark recesses of my life and the added benefit was it distracted my brain from returning to them. I was able to imagine myself in a world of perfect symmetry—where all the problems in the world were mine to solve and all the ones I knew had not solutions did not exist. That is what the drug does, my dear friend. It allows you to live a false life. A trouble-less life, but false nevertheless. That is something I no longer desire. Not in any way, shape or form. This life I have strived for may not be ideal on some levels, but I vastly prefer it. So the point is—you needn't fear, Watson."

I exhaled and nodded. Good man, I thought. "What you are saying, if I understand it"— I turned to the piles of boards and the frame of the barn, waiting patiently behind us. "It is a lot like this barn, I expect."

"Falling apart, you mean?" Holmes voice was biting.

"I mean that it didn't appear very ideal. It looked horrendous in fact. But things can be...exaggerated, worse than they appear. As we found it when we stripped away the walls. The basic foundation was strong. It has stood the test of time." Just as you did. Just as we have.

"Mmm...I say, Watson. That is quite poetic. Quite poetic indeed. Perhaps if you were to write some of these bon mots down and submit them to Punch. You may earn a quid or two."

"You know," I said in mock frustration. "You are developing a vein of pawky humour that I really must learn to guard myself against7."

Holmes laughter echoed merrily in my ears. He took my arm and we led each other slowly toward the cottage for our tea.

PS- You force me to include this: John Sherlock Watson is not resentful, embittered or cruel. Write to your father.

On a chilly Friday morning, a week before Christmas, I lay sprawled on the settee in front of a delicious fire, toasted cheese and tea in front of me, yesterday's newspaper on my lap. The cold had a dilatory effect on both mind and body and I was more than content to remain supine for the rest of the day. With warm food, heat and a pillow for both head and leg, there was really nothing in the world to disappoint me, with the single exception that the air smelled strongly of overripe fruit. My friend was doing something with isoamyl acetate, which gave off an overpowering odour of banana, and though I had feigned interest, his explanation involving the compound given off in the honeybee sting and an artificial pheromone seemed a bit over my head, so I deferred. I knew furthermore that he would keep on unless I found something to distract him with. Unfortunately, the paper was quite dull: the end of the Battle of Lodz; the Russians retreating; the re-capturing of Belgrade by the Serbians. Nothing that would interest my friend. I tuned lackadaisically to the advertisements.

One immediately caught my eye. "There's to be a concert at the St. James in April," I announced. "The proceeds will benefit the Belgian Relief Aid. Her Majesty is acting as patron as both The Prince of Wales and Prince Albert are serving in the military. Apparently it will be the event of years to come. The names of those who are expected to perform is a virtual Burke's8..." I looked to see if Holmes was paying attention. He was carefully dispensing drops of a bluish liquid from a pipette. I frowned.

"Ralph Vaughn Williams has written a new symphony expressly for the show," I tried. "It's entitled A London Symphony."

My friend scoffed. "Quite imaginative."

"Debussy will be performing."

He glanced at me. "The French are too...ostentatious for my taste. There is no emotion involved. And there should be emotion in music. It is the one thing in life that should be intertwined with emotion always."

"Well, Tchaikovsky and Wagner are dead, Holmes. Can you not adapt your tastes to suit the here and now?"

"No," he replied without hesitation. He lay down his pipette. "I do find it curious that they are advertising for a show four months from now. It would seem to run at cross-purposes with the rest of the government, still trying to force the public to believe this atrocity will be over any day now." He shook his head.

"Yes, well, as I said, this is not just any show, this is the show. And only a few weeks before my birthday at that."

"Mmm..." Holmes turned his back to me, resuming his hunched position over the foul-smelling bee extract. Subtlety was never lost on my friend but that did not mean he didn't occasionally choose to intentionally ignore it. I returned to the advertisements.

"Holmes!" I cried a moment later. "The man must be mad. William Gillette is returning to London9."

"Who, dear fellow?"

"Why, William Gillette!"

He spun around. "You say that as though the name should be familiar to me. I assure you it is not."

"It must be...fifteen-odd year now? I was...um, it was during my second marriage. I received a letter from an American actor asking for my permission to adapt a stage play of Sherlock Holmes. He wanted to use some of my writings as the basis for the drama, but mostly he wanted to write an original script. I believe he wrote to Doyle as well"—

Holmes raised his eyebrows. "He wrote to you and your literary agent for your permission?"

"I told the man he must seek your blessing as well. He evidently released what a hopeless cause that would be."

My friend threw up his arms and shook his head. He was not really angry, I could tell. Incredulous and slightly amused would be more accurate. "Should I sue for libel, do you think?"

"The play has been something of a success, I believe. Much to my disbelief, for I warned the fellow that I couldn't see how it could succeed. I thought the idea of putting you and your deductions on a stage for three hours would induce unremitting boredom upon a crowd."10

"I could not agree more," he interrupted.

"Besides, I believe he took a few liberties with, well, you as a character."

"Liberties?"

"He marries you off at the end of the drama."

"Ha!" Holmes laughed, leapt from his chair and collapsed at my feet. "Does he indeed? Well, I suppose there is no point in being litigious then. Any judge would immediately decree that I have no exclusive rights to a creation that bears me no similarities."

I smiled. "It would certainly put the fear of God into the man were we to show up at one of his performances."

Holmes snatched the paper from my lap and flipped to the agony columns, a vestige of pre-gone days. "The scene would no doubt be both melodramatic and sardonic. But alas, it will never happen. I wish the Yankee all the good fortune in the world." He was silent for a minute. Then he added. "To take, forgive me Doctor, a somewhat fictionalised account of a real man and again fictionalise him seems quite a double-edged sword indeed. Well. Perhaps he will trip on it and impale himself." He nestled his head into my hip with the Times and the remains of my tea, amused himself as I drowsed off with the thought, I got him away from the damned bee hormone at least.

The sound of the front door closing woke me. I blinked blearily and saw Mrs Kelly, arms burdened by parcels, stepping in from the cold. "Oh, forgive me, Dr Watson. I didn't mean to rouse you."

"No, no. Quite all right. I've been quite a lazy scoundrel today." A delicious smell was accompanying her into the kitchen. Scottish fish cakes. I recalled that it was Friday. "Can I help you with anything?" I asked.

"Oh, it's only yours and Mr Holmes's clean shirts and a spot of supper. And today's Gazette. I know you prefer the London paper, sir, but I'm afraid they were sold-out today."

"Were they indeed? How odd. But really Mrs Kelly, you shouldn't have bothered. It's far too bitter a day to be traipsing about to Fulworth in search of news."

Her head appeared from around the corner. "Too bitter a day? For a lady from Sutherland11? Ach, my Da would be rolling about in his grave to hear such blasphemy, sir."

I chuckled. "My own as well."

"And don't be destroying that paper when you're done with it. I haven't had a chance to see it myself yet."

"Yes, ma'am." With thoughts only of supper and wine, I unfolded it. And the headline nearly made my blood run cold. "Good God!"

Attack on British Mainland leaves dozens dead. Germans bombard Scarborough, Hartlepool and Whitby

Mrs Kelly appeared, her hands covered in dish suds. Holmes, too, was somehow there, having appeared ghost-like from somewhere. The paper was spread out in front of us. We were all silent for what seemed like a very long interval. Holmes was breathing in short, rapid bursts. My own hands were clenching and unclenching. It was Mrs Kelly who spoke first and her voice was barely audible. "Those are coastal towns, gentlemen." She looked nervously out of our window.

I was too angry to speak. How could our navy have allowed such a thing to happen? Civilians were not supposed to be killed. And though it pained me to think it, particularly my own countrymen. Women and children. It was unfathomable.

"This is a war the likes of which have not been seen," muttered Holmes. "I fear the past rules do not apply."

I recall little of the rest of that night. Mrs Kelly left with her shawl pulled nervously around her. The food was eaten at some point, but it was un-tasted. I drank several glasses of whisky. Holmes scratched at his violin moodily. This normally would have irritated me, but that night I was grateful for both his presence and the noise. The only positive aspect of a misfortune is having someone to share in the burden.

December 31, 1914

Dear Horatio—

I 'll write to you later about my darling little Christmas present, but as I'm back at school now (and bored) I thought I would tell you about this first: I received Hamlet from your Godfather for a Christmas present. Why did we never perform it? It's brilliant! And I think more so than the other tragedies—it is relevant. Could Denmark stand for Our Own now—particularly in war? And alas poor Yorick and the skull, how we lose the ones we love and we all eventually die and decay.

I read it in its entirety on the 27th—But only because I rode Blossom every minute of Boxing Day and was saddlesore. Dad and Mr Holmes were abusing themselves over a barn or some such. (Yes, I told them they were too old and to hire someone. I will leave the reaction to your imagination). Over tea, I asked the latter if his gifting it to me was a part of the test we had commenced over the summer. I received the smallest of grins in return. "I guess there is something of this prince in you," I told him. And I proceeded to list some of the similarities—which would take pages and pages here, so I will only give the most essential words to give you a bit of a think—drawn to difficulties, obsessive over trifles and philosophical melancholy. Oh, and More Things in Heaven and Earth...and all that. But we are all complex in our way, aren't we?...

The next morning I awoke from a restless night and dressed quietly. The house was silent and cold but I had an intense need to breath in as much free air as my lungs could hold. I walked aimlessly, following the rutty path that continued on from the edge of our property line toward the cliffs. Once there, I dug the toes of my boots into the soft, chalky earth and let my gaze spread from the grey waves below me to the white glassy sky. The air smelled both sanguineous and salty, stinging my cheeks and dulling my senses. After awhile, I smoked a cigarette in a futile attempt at warmth, but the only effect it had was to numb my fingers and my heart.

Something soft and thick crept upon the frozen exposed hairs of my neck and I turned my head slightly to see Holmes come up behind and wrap a muffler around me. I instantly felt warmer. "Thank you," I said as he tied it.

"Searching for German U-boats?" He asked.

"That's not the least amusing."

"Good. Because I didn't intend it to be."

I watched as a single gull swooped from the sandbank below and disappeared into the Heavens. It was mind-boggling. "How can such atrocities be allowed to occur?" A rhetorical question. I was a man who had seen too much of the world to be naive and to simplify hundreds of years of philosophy and theology with a few trite words.

"That is not why you are angry."

I stared straight ahead.

"You are angry, firstly, because you think there is nothing you can do to help. And as I know my Watson, his main purpose on this Earth is to be of use to his fellow man. And secondly, you fear that if women and small children are allowed to perish without reason, than it is pointless to ask God to protect your son."

Closing my eyes, I nodded. There were times when it was annoying to be so transparent. But at other times it was reassuring to be so easily understood.

"I have a Christmas present for you," said Holmes.

And of all the things he could have said, I thought that one of the least likely. "I beg your pardon?"

The slightest of smiles shaded his face. "I should re-iterate. I don't actually have it yet. But I will do. I called early this morning, the moment they opened, to get them. And damned lucky I did for apparently they are already nearly gone."

"What is?"

"The benefit concert, my dear chap! We shall be at St. James in April, dignifying row 37, seats D and E, orchestra side."

"But I thought you didn't wish to attend."

"I don't. But you do. And that is what is important."

"Holmes..." I said.

"Never mind, Doctor. It is too early in the day for shows of sentimentality. Now. I have to go to Fulworth today. I've exhausted my supply of copper sulphate. And I should stop in for tea at the local constabulary to make sure they are not suffocating under the tremendous weight of their own ineptitude. Will you come with me?"

As always, I would.

Fulworth, which readers familiar with Holmes's "Lion's Mane" story may recall as being a village that 'breaks the line' of beach in the view from his cottage, was only a mile from the cottage. When that curious tale occurred back in '07, Fulworth was a medium-size hamlet, but in the years proceeding it had grown somewhat and it was heartening to have civilisation within walking-distance. Holmes may have preferred this solitary existence, but I was pleased to have ready access to those comforts which make life so much more pleasant.

As I had no desire to watch my friend order foul-smelling chemicals, I agreed to meet him at an outdoor café in a few hours. "If you're up to it, do inspect those large houses just off the main street. I think you'll find them interesting," said Holmes as we parted company.

The library at Fulworth was a rather attractive Palladian building of brick with a narrow porch and very ornate gabling and pediment depicting the village coat-of-arms flagged by two angels. Although not large, the bi-level, oval-shaped design of the stacks allowed for much freedom of movement for patrons to peruse. I spent two hours reading every newspaper's account of the tragedy, but I felt no better for the knowledge when I finished. The answers I sought would not be found in print, I fear. But at least I enjoyed filling my nostrils with the pleasant smell of leather, ground pulp and slightly damp ink. As I was passing the head librarian's desk on my way out, I happened to notice a small display catalogued on an unused reading desk. A framed sign of gilt lettering read 'Of Local Interest.'

There were several copies of my own works, the blue-backed "Adventures" and "Memoirs" as well as the red-and-gold Hound that I always thought came off rather well, and the "Return" of course. None of these bore my name, allowing me to wallow in anonymity, but I always still felt a pang of pride whenever I saw them, the offspring of my pen. But my work was not alone on this stand. I was immensely pleased to see several paper-backed treatises of my friend—those little monographs that he occasionally wrote on esoteric subjects such as cyphers, the use of dogs in detection, and of course the infamous analysis of 160 types of tobacco ash.

I touched several of those curious objects d'art reverently, glancing about as I did. It being still early, the place was rather empty and the few patrons that were about paid me no mind. But it did prove one thing to me—that as usual Holmes was right. Even here, in this remote place, we—and particularly he—were not unobserved. There is always a price to pay for fame and celebrity.

After departing the library, I decided to heed my friend's suggestion and I turned behind the rows of shops to the wooden sidewalk that led to the large estates facing the beach. It was a mostly uphill ramble, but I knew my leg would trouble me less that night if I forced enough exercise into it. The houses were fairly expansive off the main street, and well-maintained, but I thought there was something cold and empty in each white grotesquery. They looked unloved.

One of the very last of these Regency-style buildings had a large wrap-around porch. There was not anything architecturally dissimilar from it compared to its neighbours, but thirty years of intimacy with Sherlock Holmes had developed my eye for details. There was a bath-chair abandoned by the railing, nearly hidden amongst the half-dozen deck chairs. Additionally, both the Union Jack and the Red Cross flag were positioned on either side of the entrance. Curious, I had just put a foot down on the first step to satisfy myself as to the purpose of the place when the door banged open and a young man flew out screaming, one hand clasped to head, the other swinging at the air as if something horrific and unseen were murdering him.

I was too startled to do anything other than freeze—but it was only for a moment for the fellow stumbled off the porch and all but landed in my arms. "Hold him!" A voice cried out somewhere behind me, but in vain. I would sooner succeed at dragging an elephant to its knees than subdue this man—a third my age and fully out of his mind.

"Now just wait"—I began, but barely had the words left my mouth before his fist filled it. I grunted and fell, managing to catch myself on the rail before landing on my face. My jaw immediately began to burn, a slight trickle of blood dribbling down my lip. The second man, the one who had yelled for the lad to be held, rushed to my aid. He was a young man as well, probably not much older than his patient (for it was immediately clear to me he was a brother medical man by his dress) with wildly unruly hair and a nervous, inexperienced expression on his clean-shaven face.

"What is it?" I asked, spitting onto the grass.

The young doctor tried to get an arm on his patient but the man screamed and backed away. With a sigh, he said, "Private Dunning. Poor fellow."

"Shall I go for help?"

"Other than a woman nurse and the other patients, I am alone at the moment." He looked about nervously. "By the time you return, he could seriously injure himself."

He seemed to insinuate or myself. Given his age, I could understand his reluctance in being left alone. "Is it fever?" I tried to get a better look at the boy. A high temperature, of course, can cause a man to act out of his senses.

"No, indeed. Neurosyphilis."

I raised my eyebrows in surprise, but before I could process this, the young private had stopped his ranting and made a turn for the road. There was thankfully little traffic but the doctor foolhardily reached for him and a received a blow to the nose for his trouble.

"Mama," the poor lad muttered. "Mama, why does it hurt so? Make it stop! Please!"

"Private Dunning." The doctor rubbed his face and kept his distance. "You are ill. You need to return to your bed."

"No, it hurts! Mama, please!"

He regarded me. "Do you think you can get his hands if I tackle him?"

I shook my head. He was a slight fellow and young Private Dunning had four or five inches on him. It seemed to me a sure way to end up with a broken jaw or dislocated shoulder. I endured enough daily pain as it were. I watched the poor lad, a vice-like grip on his head, calling for his mother and felt a pang of the deepest sympathy. He could so easily be my own boy.

And then an idea hit me.

"What is the lad's name?" I asked quickly.

"Dunning. He's a Private in the Second Royal Sussex."

"No, his Christian name."

"It is Edward, I believe."

I turned to him. Edward. No, that would never do. No farm-boy or fisherman's son from Rye or Hastings, clearly eager to be one of the first to fight, would be called Edward. "Eddie," I tried, adjusting my voice. "You've been told to get to your bed. Or is it a whipping you're after?"

Dunning turned to me, pink eyes bouncing in his skull, brow furrowed. He seemed to be thinking about this. "Can you make it stop?"

"I can, Eddie, but you"—

With a sudden growl, he turned away. I hadn't so much as taken a step toward him that the secondary connexion was broken. I looked to the young doctor—he'd had a glimmer of hope on his bruised face—but it faded as he sighed. Gingerly, I reached out to reassure him. "I've been practicing medicine for thirty-five years. The most expeditious method in gaining a patient's trust is to show them you see a person. Not a disease or a title"—I snapped back to Dunning. No, it wasn't Eddie at all. A news-boy in London would be Eddie. A big, strapping boy like him? "Alright, young Ned," said I. "You've had your game. But now you will go to your bed and nothing doing with your lip."

The transformation was remarkable and immediate. Wordlessly, and still rubbing at the side of his head, he turned on his heel and walked directly into the building, lumbering awkwardly. I motioned for the doctor to follow him, at a few paces back. "See that he goes to his bed. Give him half a grain of laudanum. That should put him out for nine or ten hours."

He raced up the stairs in the most obedient fashion, a thoroughly trusting fellow. He returned with his nose stuffed with cotton and held a rag that reeked of iodine out to me. "I'm sorry you happened to find yourself involved in this, sir. But I am grateful for your help."

"I was only too happy."

And it was the truth. For as Holmes said, to help anyone that may have use of me had always been my purpose in this life. I had first realised it when I'd been unable to help my little cousin. Or my father, my uncle or brother, all succumbing to drink. It was one thing that was sorely missed now, in my advancing years.

The young doctor, whose name was Spicer, chatted with me on the front steps of the Fulworth Military Convalescence Home for nearly half an hour. The place had only just opened and at that point consisted of the young doctor, a nurse and the owner of the house, himself a retired surgeon.

"We have only the six beds as yet," explained he. "But we have room for twice that and we shall certainly fill up by the start of the new year, I expect."

He evidently did not believe the government, who was trying in vain to placate the masses, still saying that the boys would be home 'before the snow flies' and other absolute statements that to anyone with a modicum of common sense could see were absolute bollocks. "You must be stretching yourself rather thin, if all of the soldiers are as badly-off as Private Dunning."

"Well, he is the worse. The other men are recovering from infections or bullet wounds."

"Yes, I believe you said neurosyphillis."

"That is what I was told."

"Untreated syphilis takes—at minimum—a decade to progress to the brain. That boy could not be more than one or two and twenty. Are you suggesting he was exposed at 11 or 12?"

He blinked. "It has been known to happen, sir. Though I grant you it is unusual."

"It is possible he is infected. I assume whoever diagnosed him saw the scar and thought no further. But it seems to me far more likely that he has incurred a head wound. A brain edema can cause insensibility. I have seen it myself, in both private practise and when I was an army surgeon. How are you treating him?"

"Mercury. But of course if it is neurosyphillis, little can be done."

"Have you not heard of 606?" I shook my head. Mercury still in this day and age? I felt as though I were in the dark ages. "Arsphenamine, it is also called."

"Doctor?"

We both turned to see another young man, this one still in the khaki braces and trousers of a uniform, standing in the entryway. His entire right leg was bandaged from hip to foot and he leaned heavily on a walking stick. Pain registered on every facet of his pink, clean-shaven face.

"The itching." He said. "I shan't survive it. Please, can't you do something?"

"You shouldn't be out of bed, Jackson. Putting weight on it can be dangerous"—

"Yes, sir, but please...I cannot..." His eyes met mine at that exact second. It simply could have been in my own head, but I swear I felt he was speaking directly to me. Even more than poor Private Ned Dunning, there was this lad, with his shaking chin and child-like eyes. His badly burned leg that was slowly healing, but his soul that was so fragile that even a few weeks of war had decimated it. He wouldn't be sent back to the trenches, but he died because of them just the same. I read of his death just weeks after the Armistice. It was ruled an accident. It was not.

I turned to Dr Spicer. "If you will allow me," I said. "I will help you."

It being a fine day, Holmes and I met at a little table outside the pub and sat with our pints and sandwiches. My mind was still firmly on the two young soldiers and as always, it showed in my expression. My friend took a long draught of his beverage, his eyes on me. "Productive day, doctor? You appear to have been involved in some sort of physical altercation."

"Nothing more than being punched by a man who has half a foot on me."

"Really? At your age? Shameful, Watson." He clicked his tongue and shook his head. But I saw the smile over the top of his glass.

I told my friend about Private Dunning and young Jackson. And in doing so, the anger I'd felt earlier evaporated. It was alright to feel outrage at injustice, but it was wrong to let it defeat you. "I'm very glad you asked me to come to Fulworth today. I've made a decision."

Busying myself eating for several seconds, I did not see Holmes glaring, flushed and unmoving. He was blinking rapidly. Unconsciously I edged my hand closer to him. "My God, what?"

"Surely...you are not thinking of enlisting."

"Enlisting?"

The colour returned slowly to his face. "After yesterday...I thought perhaps—don't do something rash, my friend."

The thought had not really even occurred to me. But the reaction to him thinking so was quite moving. "No...no, I wouldn't. Only they need help at the home and I'm going to volunteer my time. It's exactly what I need. Something to occupy me. Something useful. Besides, I really don't think His Majesty is much interested in thrice-wounded, 60-year old buggers for his army, Holmes12."

I had said it quietly, though there were no other diners near our table. My friend narrowed his eyes, probably at my invective, though I had meant it half-jokingly.

"His Majesty," said he, leaning quite close, "would be lucky to have you. But he shall not for ab initio13 you have already been sworn to me."

...Anyway, when I finished, Mr Holmes looked pleased with himself and our father looked gob-smacked. I thought it all just good fun (actually all I really wanted to do was wait for warmth enough to go and ride), and your Uncle said, "You see, Watson. I told you I was merely waiting for the right person." (I've no idea what that means) and Dad said (sighing) "I suppose it was too much to hope for ONE of my children to be like me." I thought to reassure him, but Mr Holmes patted him on the shoulder and said: "My dear fellow, one of your children IS like you." Who could that be, I wonder?...

Christmas was imminent. The bitter weather moved out and we were blessed with dry dusty afternoons and comfortable evenings that barely warranted a fire. This, coupled with all the exercise I was receiving had diminished the pain in my leg down to a dull roar. Nightly massages by Holmes and the limb felt better than it had in years. I could sleep without medication. I had lost half a stone. I felt like a new man. No. Perhaps I simply felt like a man again. That was ever so much more important.

Before I get to that most special of days, I should mention two things that occurred simultaneously. Or perhaps they did not, for I cannot remember exactly, but in my mind that it is how I see it. First, the telegram. He may have simply over-pitched it, he may have just crumpled it, assuming I would miss it on the grate of the fireplace.

Sherlock—it said

Fulworth Military Convalescence Home has just requested permit. Should be what you seek. You are retired, do your own dirty work next time.

Second, the picture. Had I noticed it when I stood leaning against the wall, reading that telegram? It may have been a different day altogether—I enjoyed studying the photographs atop our mantle, especially the one of Holmes and Josh, my little son in his sailor suit, looking wise beyond his years, his hand on his Godfather's knee. And Holmes in his prime, eyes radiating, one hand on his stick and the other fingering the chain of his watch. A coded sign intended for me alone.

Behind it was a faded cabaret of a young girl sitting astride a beautiful specimen of a Hackney. Though I had seen but one other photograph of Philippa Holmes, and she several years older in that, I knew that it was her. The picture had not held up well against time, but Holmes would value it nevertheless above little else. As I stared into her bleary, yet proud face, there was little to suggest the tragedy that was to come.

Perhaps we need a more useful hobby, I had said. I set it back upon the mantel.

It was nearing midnight. The bells of the Anglican Church at Fulworth were chiming solemnly, reassuringly. Holmes and I sat upon the overturned work bench outside the stable. I had smoked several cigarettes; My friend, just a single pipe, an indication he was in a very contented mood.

One would hardly know it was the end of December. A thin cardigan was all that was necessary to keep one's blood flowing. But without sounding too prosaic, I expect that the feelings of the season, the ones that gladden mens' hearts, or whatever Dickensian rubbish I was keen to believe this one day only, kept a man warm that day. It had to be true. For just a few dozen miles from where my son was spending his first Christmas away from home, the boys on either side were declaring a temporary truce in honour of the day and playing a game of football. Tomorrow they would go back to shooting each other.

The ladies had gone home. Lily, after accompanying them, returned to the cottage to goggle with glee over the several gaily wrapped bobbles that lay atop the writing desk—the cottage being too small for a tree. They were mostly gifts of necessity rather than sentiment—handkerchiefs, ribbons, lead pencils and a new pair of boots. I'd a mind to purchase them before leather became too dear. But there were also her favourite sweets (acid drops and toffee humbugs), a fine riding jacket that I'd put Josh's name from and a book from Holmes that I knew was the red-bound copy of Hamlet he kept at his bedside. "Won't you miss it?" I'd asked as he wrapped it in tissue paper. "It seems to have some significance for you."

"Not at all. I've merely been waiting for the right person to give it to."

There was something in that, but I declined to ask what. He would tell me in time. Or perhaps Lily would.

I was remembering that morning, Christmas Eve. I would never forget it.

My daughter had screamed. "Oh, Dad! The little one is mine, isn't she? She's the loveliest creature I've ever seen! And the stallion! He is...but who is he for?"

Luckily, the two Hackneys were well-bred and well-trained. They pricked-up their ears but neither startled at her exuberance. "He's a gelding, actually. And he's for Holmes, of course."

My friend flinched. Slowly he placed his hands into his trouser pockets and took a few steps forward. "I knew of your plans," he said. "Newmarket, isn't it? There were traces of the highest quality oat in the mud in your boots. Newmarket is the most likely place for racing and breeding. But...he is very like Carlo, Watson."

"Your sister's horse was called Carlo?"

"Indeed. I liked to think that he was named for Carlo Gesualdo, the 17th century composer and murderer. I think perhaps I had read something about him at the time, and he was a temperamental animal. He preferred only my sister. But Philippa told me Carlo stood for Can A Rose Last, Ordinarily?"

Lily had gingerly walked over to her mare and was holding out a gloved hand to it. The horse was gentle enough that it nuzzled at her, its tale flicking curiously. She looked at my friend. "Well, Mr Holmes," she said cheekily. "Can it?"

Holmes pulled his hand out from his pocket and handed her a small object. A sugar cube. She gleefully offered it to her animal whilst he did the same to his. The large gelding took it without hesitation. "It cannot, unfortunately, Miss Watson." He stroked the horse's neck. The look of contentment on his face was one I had seen only in the immediate aftermath of his solving some obscure problem. To see the two of them just then...two of the three people I cared for more than anything on this good Earth...

"But sometimes that does not matter," said Sherlock Holmes.

"Another successful holiday," my friend was saying, bringing my mind back to the present. He was tapping his pipe on his leg in time to the bells. They had just started their music.

"Mmm..." Images from previous yuletides rushed at me with every peel.

"It does seem as though this one day goes well for us, despite any extenuating circumstances."

It did, although the most memorable ones all seemed to have a sword dangling about us. In '94, his telling me of his true feelings in Switzerland or in '02, that last Christmas before he retired and we were one again to be parted. And now.

Well, it should have been the biggest problem of all. War. My son's involvement in it and no word since that row five months ago when I had driven him out of my life. And on top of that, trying to find the fine balance of change in a relationship that had worn many hats over the years. Surely this was the pinnacle of obstacles to overcome.

But somehow it didn't feel as such. Perhaps because we HAD always solved the mystery before (if you will permit an old man such an obvious pun). Perhaps because we were older—I was more assured, confident that this was right. Right for me, for Holmes, even right for my family. Holmes, too, was older; he was more stable, required less from life. The demons from his past seemed to haunt him less. They say confession is good for the soul, but it seemed to me to be stronger than that. It was the antidote to the poison of life. For though I never told him such, I realised that if he had never told me the truth—his entire truth that is—then he would have died years ago. From stress. From drugs. From perhaps even his own hand.

"I have something for you," he said as the last peel of midnight reverberated off the unfinished wall. He pressed something small and flat into my hand. Though it was too dark to see, I knew instantly what it was. And the breath that I'd unintentionally been holding for months was at last expelled from my chest.

I wish I could say that my hand was not shaking as I opened it. I heard a click and a hiss and a flickering light from Holmes's silver cigarette lighter illuminated both his face and the single piece of paper in my hand.

"It arrived Tuesday last," he said. "You'll forgive me for holding it until now. But as I knew it was the only thing you desired I thought the custom of the season demanded that I wait until Christmas Day to give it to you."

"You're forgiven." It was now less than a minute into the day. I was so filled with relief to have this that I wouldn't have cared if he had opened it, translated it into code and forced me to solve it. My eyes were still keen enough that I could just make out the scrawl in the dim light:

December, 1914

My darling little sister and family:

I've been terrible not to write sooner, I know. I've managed your letters (and Dad's) through the REF, though they all came at once. I've included my address for the foreseeable future—I'm at what used to be a nunnery (if you can believe that) in Western France, on the Somme River. When we arrived, they had only just finished outfitting it, and we sat around for about a month not doing much, counting bandages and playing cards. One of the orderlies owes me about £800! Now, though, we are run off our legs with patients. Nothing too near, thankfully, but truckloads of patients arriving daily. Several pretty nurses about at least. I've been made assistant surgeon, due to my training, and the doctor is a large bear of a man. I don't much care for him, but the lads are alright. Send me lots of letters and anything else you can manage (ie sweets, food, warm things, it is like an icicle here) and don't worry about me, It would be a proper holiday if only there were something better than bully beef to eat!

I read the letter twice. There was nothing in it that resolved our problems, no mention of forgiveness, but at that moment I didn't care. The connexion I had so nearly severed had a frayed thread that remained.

"Thank you," I said. And they were the most sincere words I had ever uttered. The hiss of the cigarette lighter became extinguished and the form of my friend melted into blackness, yet I could smell the smoke he exhaled in several short, noisy breaths. I could feel the bony arm he rested around my shoulder. We continued to sit there for another quarter of an hour—though in silence, in deference to both the day and the reassurance of closeness—a feeling that would have been ruined had words been spoken.

...Also, I was forced to fake a letter to Dad—my dear brother, he was miserable with no word from you. I can't say if Mr Holmes realised its spurious nature of not (I think I did a rather good job of it, using the letters you've sent me and re-affixing a new address on the envelope. Perhaps I'm meant to be a criminal?) But I wish I didn't have to do it at all. You WILL write, won't you?

I know of your row with him. (Yes, I spied) I suppose I understand why you're cross. But he's our Dad. What if he were to die from the injustice of it all and haunt you the rest of your days like Hamlet, Sr? Anyhow, he is happy. I know that much. And so is your Godfather, whose opinion I know you care about.

So please write. I miss you dreadfully and I'm worried you're unwell.

Your favourite sister Ophelia (or is it Gertrude I wonder?)

PS—

Please.

xxx

1 The first Battle of the Marne started September 5, and was the start of trench warfare.

2 'But when the blast of war blows in our ears,
Then imitate the action of the tiger;' King Henry V III.i

3
He follows his father, but not with equal steps. Virgil.

4
In CARD, Holmes performs his 'mind-reading' trick by deducing Watson's thoughts, based in part on a photograph the latter has of Henry Ward Beecher.

5
The Limbic system controls, among other things, emotions

6
MISS, in fact

7
If you don't get this, see ORAN

8
Published books every 19th century Englishman would have been familiar with, editions of both peerage and landed gentry

9
And he actually did return to London in 1915, albeit later in the year. He was 62 at the time!

10
Conan Doyle actually penned a play but it was thought unfit for production. Gillette asked for permission to both rewrite it himself and play Holmes, to which ACD agreed, albeit reluctantly. He originally thought, just as Watson says, that Holmes was not a good fit for anything other than the page. Shows what he knew.

11
County in the Scottish highlands

12
Of course, in LAST Watson apparently is about to rejoin his old regiment. I always thought this was odd given that he is about 15 years over the age of conscription. Could make sense though if it is a blind, an attempt to show Van Bork and his countrymen that he is out of their reach if they use Watson as a means of revenge.

13
From the beginning