The morning of April eighteenth dawned bright and clear. Since the first announcement that the Titanic had sunk, rumors had been flying about the White Star Line's most celebrated new ship. One newspaper even reported that the Titanic was just fine and would be docking as planned. The ship, it seemed, had passed into legend before her survivors could even depart from the ship that had saved them and tell their own stories of that horrible night. What a long few days they must have had. All of them, the survivors and the passengers aboard the Carpathia alike. What horrors they must have seen.

Holmes was but one of a great crowd of people who gathered to watch the Carpathia dock. He chose a spot a little ways away where he could sit and watch the proceedings and smoke at his leisure and think about Watson. He had more right to be there than some of the gawking citizens who had come just for the spectacle of the thing, but he was not bothered. He supposed he should be justifiably angry, but he wasn't, and he felt no need to force his way to the front of the crowd.

Why should he? He was not some young woman with a toddler on her hip who clung to shreds of hope that her husband was among the few men who had escaped the Atlantic's grasp. He was not some child looking for his parent or parent looking for their child. No, he knew that no one would be stepping off the Carpathia and scanning the crowds desperately trying to find him.

He settled back, watching with a detached air as if he, too, had not lost someone dear to him. He hardly even felt the cold, as if a little bird had perched in his soul and built her nest there to keep him warm from the inside out.

A great murmur swept across the crowd of onlookers as the gallant Carpathia first stopped at the White Star Line's dock where the Titanic would have. She unloaded the pitiful number of lifeboats the Titanic had sent out, but no passengers. The White Star Line had demanded its property back first. And so, the Titanic, a tribute to man's hubris now had its only remains become a tribute to man's greed. Neither, Holmes knew, could ever stop the march of man's progress. Perhaps though, he let himself hope, next time men would be humble before nature. It was foolishness to imagine humans could ever be truly the most powerful beings on the planet. Nature would outlive their stupidities.

Finally, the Carpathia docked at her own place, and Holmes watched as her passengers departed, the survivors of the Titanic with nothing but the clothes on their backs and the blankets wrapped around them. It was chaos, everyone grappling at once to see and talking over each other and newspaper men shouting questions through megaphones.

Homes noted that the sick and wounded were taken to be cared for in hospital, but on the whole the survivors seemed fit enough, if, quite understandably, tired and scared and sick in spirit. Holmes watched a woman with her head held high and babes in both arms march past a group of gawkers. Another lady knelt and kissed the ground, weeping. Children from the crowd broke away from their mother's grips and went in search of their fathers. A woman found her husband, a sailor, and collapsed into his arms for joy. A husband fell to his knees as the last survivors departed and his wife was not among them. A young boy walked away from the scene alone.

On and on it went, a hundred different stories being told at once. There was a certain beauty in the chaos; joy stood next to sorrow, and for once the whole world was kind. Strangers embraced, and for the moment humanity seemed to shine with its own potential which could not be completely smothered by the weight of grief. Holmes watched it go on and on, wondering how Watson would have described it had he lived to see it.

"Mr. Sherlock Holmes?" the voice came from his left, and Holmes turned as his brain finally registered it had been repeating itself for some time and he should acknowledge it. He found a young boy staring at him. About twelve, he was still fresh faced and yet in a few short years would be a man. Holmes had seen it happen to his own dear band of Baker Street Irregulars, one day street urchins and the next husbands and fathers and hard-working members of society. He had a feeling this lad had just grown up faster than most through his ordeal, and his body was simply yet to catch up.

He had been on the Titanic, that was clear enough, if not by the slightly haunted look in his eyes then certainly by the fact that he had been wearing the same set of clothes for the past few days which had been quite new but now were stained and ragged. He had, judging by his shoes and the sheen of sweat on his forehead despite the cold, disembarked from the Carpathia quickly, run through the streets of New York, and then come back just as quickly. His destination had been a bookshop, if the brand new copy of The Hound of the Baskervilles sticking out of his jacket was any indication. So, this young boy's first action after coming to land after surviving a shipwreck had been to buy a book. Why? Several possibilities arose in Holmes' mind, but then it clicked. Him. The boy had used the pictures in the book to locate him. The deductions took but a few moments and then he addressed the young man.

"Yes my lad," he said, giving the boy his warmest smile to put him at ease, "I am Sherlock Holmes. You must be very clever to have thought of using that book to find me and to have recognized me from such an old drawing. The Hound of the Baskervilles is one of my favorites, too. You must have been hurrying, buying that copy in your pocket as quickly as you did. So tell me, my fine young man, what can I do for you?"

The boy's eyes had grown wide as Holmes spoke. "Yer just as wonderful as 'e wrote ye were," he breathed with a noticeable Scottish burr. Then, he blinked rapidly and straightened himself in the next moment, standing tall and proud and unlike the wonder-struck boy of a moment ago.

"Mr Sherlock Holmes," he said, carefully articulating every syllable. It was clear the boy had some education. "I have a message for you from Dr. John Watson of London. To prove I am a true messenger whom the doctor trusts, he has given me this to deliver into your hand." The boy fumbled for a moment and produced a very familiar pocket watch. He held it out shyly, clutching it tightly as if unwilling to let it go.

Homes took it from the brave, resourceful young lad very gently. He could feel the boy's hand shaking with barely controlled emotion; he didn't want to give the watch up. But, bravely, he did. Holmes nodded his understanding to the boy and turned the watch over in his hands almost reverently. Watson's watch, more than he thought he'd ever see of his friend again. A more precious memento than any gem could ever be. He smiled, and was content.

"What is your name?" he asked the boy who still stood straight and tall before him.

"Alphie," replied the lad. "Alphie McEntyre."

"I'm pleased to meet you, Alphie. Please, sit down. You must tell me everything, how you came to know the good doctor and what message he trusted you with. That's it, make yourself comfortable. Here, have my scarf. That's better. Now, from the beginning, lad."

Alphie nodded, sitting close to Holmes. He took the scarf from Holmes gratefully, wrapping it around his neck. He fidgeted once more under Holmes' gaze, sat on his hands to stop them from shaking, bravely looked up and met Holmes' eye, took a shuddering breath, and began his story.

Author's note:

To Dr. Who, thank you for reviewing. I agree.

Historical Clarifications:

There really was a newspaper that reported the Titanic had not sunk.

The Carpathia was flanked by other boats filled with reporters shouting questions through megaphones as she came into port that morning. I am only assuming that they also did so on land. The Carpathia had actually just left New York on April 11, headed for Trieste. When she picked up the survivors, however, Captain Roston didn't want to take them through even more water filled with dangerous icebergs, and they didn't have enough supplies to go far (now carrying double the passengers she set out with). So, they came back to New York.

The Carpathia did return the White Star Line's lifeboats to the dock where the Titanic would have been.

None of the survivors described disembarking are based on real persons; the entire scene is an imagined scenario of how it may have been. Any resemblance to real persons is coincidental.

I have never been Scottish, and certainly was not a Scottish child in 1912. My apologies if Alphie's vernacular is off.

I am only assuming that in a place like New York City there would be bookstore within reasonable running distance for Alphie.