Disclaimer: The events and characters recongnizable from YSH belong to Paramount, though I have
reason to believe that Holmes belongs solely to himself....
A/N: Alright, guys, here's the next installment, brief though it is.
**********
Further Adventures of the Young Sherlock Holmes
**********
Near the Thames, London
Winter, 1871
It was the last time I ever saw Holmes cry willingly, sitting there in the new snow and clutching
Elizabeth to his breast. I felt helpless. How could I console the boy--the man, really--who
had, to that point, seemed emotionally impermiable. It was then that I realized that there could
be no real comfort for Sherlock Holmes, not now, maybe not ever. So I resolved to do what I
could for him.
With what I hoped was a reasuring squeeze on his trembling shoulder, I ran off to find a
constable. Having located one walking his beat only a block away, we were back within minutes,
police whistle screeching, to find Holmes still holding Elizabeth. She seemed somehow only to be
sleeping as he craddled her against his chest. For a moment, I even imagined that I saw her
eyelids flicker briefly, but dismissed it in the next instant as wishful thinking. I wasn't a
doctor yet, but I knew very well that Elizabeth was dead.
I glanced at Holmes as the sound of many heavy footsteps and carraige wheels began to converge on
our location. His face was burried in her hair, probably to hide his weeping. I was absurdly
glad he hadn't seen the minute movement on Elizabeth's face, if indeed it had been more than my
traumatized imagination.
Almost before I knew what was happening, a horse-drawn ambulence had arrived and its attendants
were gently prying Elizabeth's body--I shuddered to think of her in such a manner!--away from
Holmes. For a moment, it looked like he might fight them, but then he visibly reined himself in
and loosed his hold on her still form.
I watched helpelessly as he slowly stood, and almost absentmindedly wiped the remaining tears
from his long face. I took a step toward him, not at all sure how to comfort him, wanting to
comfort myself, but hesitated as his eyes became dull and shuttered. Apparently noticing my
uncertainty, he went so far as to lay one long, elegant hand heavily on my shoulder, letting it
rest there for a brief moment.
After that small gesture, Holmes was all business. He calmly related our adventure to Inspector
Lestrade, systematically explaining the criminal movements of Ehtar and his strangely coiffed
followers. He hesitated only briefly when it came time to tell of Elizabeth's final heroic act.
I watched with some trepidation as his eyes lost their focus for a moment, only to snap back
with an almost-audible click as he resolutely shoved his grief aside and pressed on.
I have never admired Holmes so much as I did in that moment, standing in a sodden, dingy
back-alley near the Thames. In all of our adventures before and since, he was ever a figure
greatly to be admired, with a boundless intellect, a rapier-quick wit, a natural grace of
movement, and a surprising though ready kindness of heart.
But in those next days, when he was laid so low by the abrupt loss of the person dearest to his
heart, I became the fortunate witness to the deep-seated and unflagging courage of Sherlock
Holmes.
J. H. Watson
**********
A/N: Hmmmm.... At the moment, I'm exploring the character, I suppose, but the action is fast
approaching. What could it be, I wonder....
Thanks for all of the wonderful feedback, by the way. I love SH readers!
reason to believe that Holmes belongs solely to himself....
A/N: Alright, guys, here's the next installment, brief though it is.
**********
Further Adventures of the Young Sherlock Holmes
**********
Near the Thames, London
Winter, 1871
It was the last time I ever saw Holmes cry willingly, sitting there in the new snow and clutching
Elizabeth to his breast. I felt helpless. How could I console the boy--the man, really--who
had, to that point, seemed emotionally impermiable. It was then that I realized that there could
be no real comfort for Sherlock Holmes, not now, maybe not ever. So I resolved to do what I
could for him.
With what I hoped was a reasuring squeeze on his trembling shoulder, I ran off to find a
constable. Having located one walking his beat only a block away, we were back within minutes,
police whistle screeching, to find Holmes still holding Elizabeth. She seemed somehow only to be
sleeping as he craddled her against his chest. For a moment, I even imagined that I saw her
eyelids flicker briefly, but dismissed it in the next instant as wishful thinking. I wasn't a
doctor yet, but I knew very well that Elizabeth was dead.
I glanced at Holmes as the sound of many heavy footsteps and carraige wheels began to converge on
our location. His face was burried in her hair, probably to hide his weeping. I was absurdly
glad he hadn't seen the minute movement on Elizabeth's face, if indeed it had been more than my
traumatized imagination.
Almost before I knew what was happening, a horse-drawn ambulence had arrived and its attendants
were gently prying Elizabeth's body--I shuddered to think of her in such a manner!--away from
Holmes. For a moment, it looked like he might fight them, but then he visibly reined himself in
and loosed his hold on her still form.
I watched helpelessly as he slowly stood, and almost absentmindedly wiped the remaining tears
from his long face. I took a step toward him, not at all sure how to comfort him, wanting to
comfort myself, but hesitated as his eyes became dull and shuttered. Apparently noticing my
uncertainty, he went so far as to lay one long, elegant hand heavily on my shoulder, letting it
rest there for a brief moment.
After that small gesture, Holmes was all business. He calmly related our adventure to Inspector
Lestrade, systematically explaining the criminal movements of Ehtar and his strangely coiffed
followers. He hesitated only briefly when it came time to tell of Elizabeth's final heroic act.
I watched with some trepidation as his eyes lost their focus for a moment, only to snap back
with an almost-audible click as he resolutely shoved his grief aside and pressed on.
I have never admired Holmes so much as I did in that moment, standing in a sodden, dingy
back-alley near the Thames. In all of our adventures before and since, he was ever a figure
greatly to be admired, with a boundless intellect, a rapier-quick wit, a natural grace of
movement, and a surprising though ready kindness of heart.
But in those next days, when he was laid so low by the abrupt loss of the person dearest to his
heart, I became the fortunate witness to the deep-seated and unflagging courage of Sherlock
Holmes.
J. H. Watson
**********
A/N: Hmmmm.... At the moment, I'm exploring the character, I suppose, but the action is fast
approaching. What could it be, I wonder....
Thanks for all of the wonderful feedback, by the way. I love SH readers!