Given a choice, I much preferred a worried train ride over a silently grieving one, and minutes stretched into long, painful hours as the train pushed through open fields. I tried to listen to the clacking of the train car instead of my own thoughts, but I did not care overmuch about my limited success. I had had very little time alone at the Sutherland house, and the empty compartment might let me work through some of my grief before I arrived home. With no traveling companions, there would be no questions, no pitying looks, and no pointed changing of seats, and if I could not control my expression every moment, there was no one to comment. I stared vacantly out the window, my thoughts on the fiery lady whose cold grave I was leaving behind.

Martha had started working for my parents a year before Harry was born, and she had often been more available than my parents could. Harry and I were not many years apart, and I had been born about the time he reached an age to really need watching. Mother had taken me with her while she helped Father with the business, and Martha had watched Harry to keep him out of trouble. As I grew to need my mother less frequently, Martha had taken over watching both of us. One of my first hazy memories was cooking lessons in her kitchen, and I vaguely remembered Harry calling Martha "Mother" for a year or two, though that had tapered as he grew older. I would have started doing so as well if he had not stopped when he did, and I had done so a handful of times anyway—sometimes on purpose, others on accident. She had always smiled and moved the conversation along.

And now she was gone. I was still trying to comprehend that, even four days later. How could such a vibrant lady be gone?

I fingered the black band I had put on my hat. The custom was ambiguous for family not related by blood—and the detective's assistant could hardly be seen in full mourning—but I would not ignore it altogether. Lack of blood relation did not negate that she was my mother, and I her son. My world would not be the same without her in it; there was some meager comfort in the idea that my wardrobe would not be the same either.

The conductor announced my station, and I ignored the cab stand, barely noticing the crowds around me as I walked slowly down the street. If I was fortunate, Holmes would still be out on his case, and I would be able to reach my room without any questions, but the station was not far from the flat. On the chance Holmes was not out, I needed to rebuild my wall before I arrived, before the understandable questions destroyed what little control I had left. The private hours on the train had done very little for my composure, and somehow, in a way that the funeral had not, being back in London was making it all too real. I needed some time alone—preferably with my viola.

"Hello, Doctor," I heard as the front door closed behind me. "I will have supper up shortly."

Mrs. Hudson had been visiting her sister and niece when I left, and her words suggested she did not yet know I had been gone for nearly a week. Good. I could postpone her questions that way—provided she did not notice my hat.

"Hello," I replied shortly, flashing a half-smile and trying to move past her. "Did you have a good visit?"

Mrs. Hudson…niece. Mrs. Martha Hudson.

"I always do," she answered easily, apparently failing to notice the way I turned to hang my coat—and hide my stinging eyes. "Convince him to eat something, would you?" she asked as I moved toward the stairs. "I do believe he forgot to eat at midday, working on that case of his."

Of course he had. His promise to me so many years ago did not always prevent him from outright forgetting, especially if I was not around to remind him, but my arrival should solve that. I doubted I would even have to bring it up.

I also doubted I would have much interest in supper myself, but that was hardly relevant.

I waved a reply as I mounted the stairs, and the door closed behind her, footsteps heading back towards the kitchen. With the silence permeating the sitting room, I dared to hope that Holmes was asleep or out, but he looked up from his half-reclined place on the settee when I opened the door. I traded my medical bag for my viola as he peered at me through the dense smoke of his pipe.

"Did you make it in time?" He thought the telegram had summoned me to a patient, but the question had another meaning. I answered that one instead.

"Yes." If nothing else, I had at least been able to say goodbye.

"Then—"

The door clicked shut before he finished the word, and I slowly climbed the stairs to my room. I needed an hour or two to myself before I could let him deduce where I had been. The telegram envelope now on the settee table rather than my desk would have provided few clues as to the sender or my errand, and I could not yet discuss it. Better to deal with it alone. I would not inflict my grief on him no matter how many times he had visited Mary's grave with me, and my viola would provide an anchor as I processed the last few days, keeping me from drifting too far into grief.

Tossing my valise to a corner—I would restock it as an emergency pack later—I freed my viola from its case and sat with my back to the locked door. One of the first songs I had ever learned soon filled the room, taking me back years and miles to a large country house in rural Scotland, and I drifted away.

"Watson?" I heard behind me when the rambling song ended, partially pulling me back to the present. Eventually, I would remember to brace the door with a chair instead of relying on a lock he could easily pick.

I did not turn around—I could not—but I tossed the crumpled telegram over my shoulder before starting the next tune. A sigh carried faintly over the notes a minute later. I had mentioned Martha more than once over the years; he would recognize the name, and that would provide the final clue for him to understand what I could not say.

His footsteps faded down the stairs, and I dimly heard him call something to Mrs. Hudson, but I paid them no heed. He knew where I had gone, and he knew why I wanted to be alone right now. I did not need to know their conversation. I let myself drift with the music.

His presence reappeared in the doorway within minutes, however, again pulling me out of my thoughts and into my grief, and I pointedly kept playing. I did not want to talk. I wanted to drift. Drifting allowed me to think without hurting, to grieve without cracking. To mourn without forgetting.

To say farewell without breaking.

I would have ignored him if he spoke, but he did not try to force conversation. A bow touched strings, and a higher version of the song I played spun a harmony around my melody. I relaxed slightly. Being alone was easier, but I did not mind the company, provided I did not have to speak.

He continued playing with me, eventually moving to lean against my headboard when I turned to face him, and the notes became both anchor and guide as I sank back into the thoughts drifting between past and present. I wandered primarily through old Scottish folk songs, but the newer classical tunes he had taught me occasionally flowed from my strings. Usually, I played the melody. Sometimes, he took it for a few bars before giving it back. He gently led me into a new song once, somehow realizing I had started slipping a little too far into a memory, and another time, I momentarily left him behind when one song unexpectedly melded into another. I paid little attention to the error, adrift on the music.

We played for several hours without a word, the notes filling the flat in tribute to the outspoken, motherly woman by the name of Martha Sutherland.

Farewell, Doris. Knowing I will see you again does not negate the space left by your absence here.

Thank you to those who reviewed the last chapter. I don't usually let Real Life influence my stories, but this one demanded to be written. I promise the next story won't be quite so sad.