The door closed slightly harder than I had intended, and I moved toward the stairs, trying not to drop the bag of medicines in my left hand. My medical supplies had been greatly depleted by a series of severe patients over the last week, and I had spent the morning visiting various pharmacies in search of what I needed. I still had not found one ingredient used in pain relievers—among other things—but I would deal with that later. One shopkeeper had suggested they might have the compound in a couple of days.

"Telegram!"

A sharp knock by a small hand accompanied the call, and I turned halfway to the stairs, scowling at the closed door. Mrs. Hudson was away for several days, and judging by the silence filling the flat, Holmes had not yet returned from prowling the dockyards as he had been the last three days. I would have to set something down to open the door.

Finally setting my cane aside rather than risk losing my grip on my purchases, I opened the door to find a boy about twelve years of age standing on the front step.

"John Watson?" he asked. I nodded, and the yellow envelope landed in my hand. He turned his bicycle around as I clumsily closed the door.

I had not been expecting a message, but my bag prevented me from opening the envelope immediately. The missive disappeared into a pocket to let me navigate the stairs. I had combined several shops' worth of purchases into one large bag, and while not necessarily heavy, the bag was awkward. Several minutes passed before I set the bag on my desk, ignoring the clinking of bottles to tear open the note.

REGRET TO INFORM YOU STOP MARTHA SUTHERLAND DECLINING STOP HURRY FINAL STOP

I stared at the words for a long moment, trying to comprehend what I was reading. Martha had replied to one of my letters just a couple of weeks ago, and she had made no mention of any problems. How could she have…

HURRY

The word finally snapped me out of my shock, and the paper crumpled in my clenched hand as I rushed up the stairs. It did not matter what she had done a couple of weeks ago. What mattered was now, and now, I needed to move.

I bolted into my room, my game leg protesting the smooth, wooden floor when I hit my knees next to my bed, but there, exactly where I remembered leaving it, was the emergency bag I always kept packed. I had three changes of clothes, some money, an old check book, and a single train voucher. A stop back in the sitting room provided my medical bag as well as the supplies I had just bought, and a glance at the clock showed I would have just enough time to catch the next train north. I would have to transfer the new supplies to my bag once in the train car.

With both Mrs. Hudson and Holmes out, there was no one to question my dash out the door, and twenty minutes later saw me in a first-class car pulling away from London. I would reach Edinburgh in nine hours, and another hour from there would take me to the small town where I had grown up and where Martha still lived.

I hoped.

Restocking my bag took minutes, and I spent the remaining hours in restless movement, unable to sit still when I had more questions than answers. Would I arrive in time? What had happened? Martha had always shown her age—her letter had complained about looking seventy the year she turned sixty—but when I had last seen her, she had not looked old. She had looked remarkably healthy, considering her years.

Martha Sutherland had been my childhood housekeeper, but she had all but raised us with Mother so busy helping Father. In charge of everything from "patching up" minor injuries to overseeing the cooking lessons I had thoroughly enjoyed, Martha had been more of a second mother than anything else, and we had kept in contact even after I had moved to London. I would always remember her as the sharp-witted lady whose thick Scottish burr had taught me first Scottish Gaelic, then Irish, and her accent had only grown thicker when scolding Harry and me for some boyish mischief. Her lessons had kindled my interest in other languages and started my path to the multilingual fluency I now enjoyed.

Martha had supported us after the loss of our parents, stood by Harry when I went to war, and provided me a home and as much stability as she could in the first days after my return. She had listened, offered advice, revealed everything she knew about why Harry was drunk in the local tavern, and had even managed to rescue a few of my belongings from the auction that had sold the house. She had been a steadfast confidante and a motherly ear when I worried about my upcoming marriage, and she had scolded me roundly for not telling her about Holmes' death, then Mary's, in time for her to come help. I had never admitted that I had hardly been in any shape to write her during those times, but she seemed to understand. Her scolding had faded behind sorrow a moment later, and she had made me promise to write regularly, threatening to "tak' herself tae London" if ever I went too long without answering. To my knowledge, she had never left that small town, but that would not have stopped her from showing up at 221B Baker Street if she felt the need.

We had spent many evenings together over the years, both when I was younger and during my infrequent visits, and she had never missed a letter. Sometimes her messages consisted solely of small-town scandals and what she had eaten for supper, but I treasured every one of them, replying with as many stories of our cases as I could allow to circle the town several times. I had noticed a difference in her handwriting recently, but I had not realized—

I pulled my thoughts back to the passing countryside. Guilt would not let me arrive any faster, and I could not have changed anything even had I seen it coming. Martha was well into her eighties, and her husband had passed nearly three years ago. It was only a matter of time.

I was glad I had found a few days to visit the year before, and I buried my thoughts in those memories as the train pushed north.

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