Chapter Seven: Epilogue
March 20th, 1943
Dearest Annie,
Just as promised, I am writing from London. Yes, I know, it has taken longer than expected for me to respond, and you have probably spent hours at the post box, waiting for our letter. Our journey, though wet and dreary, was rather uneventful. There was one episode that my dear friend Watson had the time to jot down and sell to the newspapers, giving us the precious money we need to rent out our flat. Though the story may seem, how should I say, dangerous, do not fear for our heath. I assure you that both Watson and I are in prime condition, save for a minor wound on my opposite shoulder. The episode did, however, provide us with a powerful ally to whom we owe our London flat. Mr. Neville Richardson has provided us the necessary money to rent out a flat, allowing minimal room for his sleeping quarters. He is a very genial man, and I am sure that you would approve of him. He assures our protection until I have accumulated enough money to provide for Watson and myself on my own.
Now, about the episode that you might read in the paper... I do not want to spoil the ending for you, but Watson and I stumbled upon an unsolved mystery in the English countryside. I will take no more credit than is due, giving enormous gratitude to Watson and his bravery. If we were back home, I would insist on your baking of those delicious cookies for him. He escaped without injury, you will be glad to hear, which cannot be said for either Mr. Richardson or myself. I know that you are probably packing your bags for London as I speak, hearing this news, but I implore you, put your laundry down and stop your fretting. Once you read Watson's story, I am sure that you will be infinitely more calmed.
Perhaps you would like a bit more information on our dear friend Mr. Richardson? If you find any old articles mentioning an unhappy affair at the Ostendorf Inn of Ricketts, then you will find his account present. He was suspect to murder for a time, before the supposed killer of the poor woman was found. But even then, Watson and I had to search out the woman's true murderer. So, Richardson has been acquitted of all charges. In fact, that may have been the reason he agreed to take us on. At first, I took him for a callous old man who had no love for much of anything, but upon spending time with him, I learned that he thought a great deal of Watson and me. I don't know exactly why he agreed to house us, but I thank him and all of the stars in the sky.
I have begun my great integration with the city! My first advertisement has been printed in the local paper, and I have had two callers this day. Unfortunately, one was drunk, and the other wished to know if I was pulling a hoax. It is a bit discouraging, given my last name and my chosen occupation, but I hope that once news of my previous triumphs surfaces, that I may be given more professional respect. Watson, on the other hand, may be quite in demand when his fame begins to circulate. I have enlisted him as my personal journalist, recording any case that we have the chance to work on together. He has great promise, and I look up to his writing abilities a great deal. You would be proud of him.
I wish you health and the greatest of luck with the home. Give my dearest regards to Rose, and a kiss if you can spare. Tell all of the children that I miss them and think of them every day, and if you think it fit, you may even read our story to them. I'm sure they would love it. I have enclosed my advertisement, clipped from yesterday's paper, so you may do what you see fit with it. I look forward to your response, and perhaps those of my fellow orphans.
With Much Love,
Jack
I folded the piece of paper carefully, molding it to fit in the envelope sitting beside me on the writing desk. I slipped it into its package and closed it tightly, sealing the flap so as to keep its contents from escaping. I addressed the envelope in a neat hand, and turned my head as Mr. Richardson limped past my room.
"When does the post come?" I asked him, showing my letter. Our keeper turned and looked at it carefully.
"At about noon, if I remember correctly," he said in a quiet voice. Ever since the events at the Ostendorf Inn, he had grown strangely quiet and withdrawn. Not that I minded, his normally abrasive and sharp exterior calmed to a normal man's level. I felt ashamed for once suspecting this man of murder. I pushed myself up from my desk, peering at the clock on the wall. It was 10 in the morning. Shrugging, I moved out of my room, following Mr. Richardson into the main room. I looked about the room, expecting to see Watson eating his breakfast, yet he was nowhere to be seen.
"Mr. Richardson, have you seen Watson?" I asked, opening the door and peering out into the hallway.
"I've told you both that you can call me Neville while we live under the same roof," the elderly man said as he sat himself down at the table. "Your friend shot down to the market to buy himself today's paper. Said he couldn't wait." I smiled.
"I'm going to slip this into the post box," I told him as I shied out of the door. Perhaps I would wait for Watson's return on my way, or even meet him at the market. He would be the first in our "family" to read his story, or there would be Hell to pay. Just as I felt confidant in my abilities, the boy believed that he could write anyone out of house and home if he tried. And I didn't doubt him.
I walked out of the complex and out onto Baker Street. The location of our residence had been Holmes' idea, though it had come from my mouth. He told me it was just down the way from the flat he had shared with Watson in his own time. It was strange how used I was getting to having a deceased man speaking to me in my head. Smiling, I walked to the post box and dropped my letter into its slot. After wishing it a safe and happy voyage, I looked out at my surroundings, taking everything in.
So much had changed since Watson had walked into the orphanage. I had not only gained a powerful ally, but a true friend who would see me farther than anyone in my family wished to see me. As a sparrow flew close by and landed on a nearby tree, I heard the smack of shoes upon the concrete. I knew that it was Watson's voice ringing in the air.
"Holmes!" he cried. His voice was full of joy. "Holmes, Holmes!" Just as I looked up, he grabbed my shoulder with both of his hands, causing a strangling cry from me, pain shooting through my right shoulder. He immediately recoiled, remembering the wound that Mr. Warrick had so kindly bestowed upon me. "Sorry! I didn't mean it, I-"
"Just get on with it, Watson," I muttered through gritted teeth, feeling the tender wound gently. "What has you so worked up? Did they publish your story at long last? First page?"
"You're being regaled as a hero, Holmes!" Watson said, holding up the newspaper, open to the second page, with pride. There was a small picture of both Watson and me back when we had had our pictures taken for the incident at the orphanage. Not only was most of Watson's account of the Ostendorf Inn episode accounted for in print, but even some of the events from our first mystery were included. It seemed as if the editors had gotten their hands onto our local paper and deemed it necessary to include alongside our most recent adventure. Indeed, I was mentioned as a sort of hero, along with the bravery of Watson. A smile lit my face and I inhaled deeply the mild London air. I was vaguely aware of some battle in the Atlantic reaching a climax on the front page, but all of my being was focused on the words printed in honor of my friend and me.
"E-excuse me," a quiet voice came from behind me. Both Watson and I turned to the source of the meek call. It was a young woman, probably no more than five years older than myself. Her hair was blonde and filled with bouncing ringlets falling past her shoulders. She had great, round, blue eyes that seemed to take up all of the space on her face. She was holding her hat nervously in white-knuckled hands, and when we turned to her, her face flushed. "I'm sorry to ask you, sirs, but is this where Mr. Holmes lives?" A swell of pride filled my chest.
"Why, yes," I said matter-of-factly, taking her gently toward our flat. "In fact, may I have the pleasure of introducing him to you?" The girl's blue eyes flashed with happiness.
"Oh, could you, sir?" Her voice was sweet and high-pitched in anticipation. "I would be so thankful to you, for I'm not sure what he is like. Is he coarse?" I smiled.
"No, not so much," Watson offered, his own mouth occupied by a smile. "He is an easy man to be friends with."
"Oh, that makes me so much more confidant." She beamed. We stopped by our door, and she turned to me. "Are you sure that Mr. Holmes is in?"
"Of course. Hannah Brooke," I told her, bowing, "my name is Jack Holmes. How may I be of service?"
-------------
AN: I can't believe it's done! Whew! It was a lot of work, but I pulled through for my readers. I have an idea for the next part of the Jack Holmes Saga, but I need to confer with my friend on just how it will work out. I hope everyone is happy with the ending, albeit a short one. (don't kill me!) Thanks for getting me through this, and love to all my fans who saw me through! Until next time... Farewell!
March 20th, 1943
Dearest Annie,
Just as promised, I am writing from London. Yes, I know, it has taken longer than expected for me to respond, and you have probably spent hours at the post box, waiting for our letter. Our journey, though wet and dreary, was rather uneventful. There was one episode that my dear friend Watson had the time to jot down and sell to the newspapers, giving us the precious money we need to rent out our flat. Though the story may seem, how should I say, dangerous, do not fear for our heath. I assure you that both Watson and I are in prime condition, save for a minor wound on my opposite shoulder. The episode did, however, provide us with a powerful ally to whom we owe our London flat. Mr. Neville Richardson has provided us the necessary money to rent out a flat, allowing minimal room for his sleeping quarters. He is a very genial man, and I am sure that you would approve of him. He assures our protection until I have accumulated enough money to provide for Watson and myself on my own.
Now, about the episode that you might read in the paper... I do not want to spoil the ending for you, but Watson and I stumbled upon an unsolved mystery in the English countryside. I will take no more credit than is due, giving enormous gratitude to Watson and his bravery. If we were back home, I would insist on your baking of those delicious cookies for him. He escaped without injury, you will be glad to hear, which cannot be said for either Mr. Richardson or myself. I know that you are probably packing your bags for London as I speak, hearing this news, but I implore you, put your laundry down and stop your fretting. Once you read Watson's story, I am sure that you will be infinitely more calmed.
Perhaps you would like a bit more information on our dear friend Mr. Richardson? If you find any old articles mentioning an unhappy affair at the Ostendorf Inn of Ricketts, then you will find his account present. He was suspect to murder for a time, before the supposed killer of the poor woman was found. But even then, Watson and I had to search out the woman's true murderer. So, Richardson has been acquitted of all charges. In fact, that may have been the reason he agreed to take us on. At first, I took him for a callous old man who had no love for much of anything, but upon spending time with him, I learned that he thought a great deal of Watson and me. I don't know exactly why he agreed to house us, but I thank him and all of the stars in the sky.
I have begun my great integration with the city! My first advertisement has been printed in the local paper, and I have had two callers this day. Unfortunately, one was drunk, and the other wished to know if I was pulling a hoax. It is a bit discouraging, given my last name and my chosen occupation, but I hope that once news of my previous triumphs surfaces, that I may be given more professional respect. Watson, on the other hand, may be quite in demand when his fame begins to circulate. I have enlisted him as my personal journalist, recording any case that we have the chance to work on together. He has great promise, and I look up to his writing abilities a great deal. You would be proud of him.
I wish you health and the greatest of luck with the home. Give my dearest regards to Rose, and a kiss if you can spare. Tell all of the children that I miss them and think of them every day, and if you think it fit, you may even read our story to them. I'm sure they would love it. I have enclosed my advertisement, clipped from yesterday's paper, so you may do what you see fit with it. I look forward to your response, and perhaps those of my fellow orphans.
With Much Love,
Jack
I folded the piece of paper carefully, molding it to fit in the envelope sitting beside me on the writing desk. I slipped it into its package and closed it tightly, sealing the flap so as to keep its contents from escaping. I addressed the envelope in a neat hand, and turned my head as Mr. Richardson limped past my room.
"When does the post come?" I asked him, showing my letter. Our keeper turned and looked at it carefully.
"At about noon, if I remember correctly," he said in a quiet voice. Ever since the events at the Ostendorf Inn, he had grown strangely quiet and withdrawn. Not that I minded, his normally abrasive and sharp exterior calmed to a normal man's level. I felt ashamed for once suspecting this man of murder. I pushed myself up from my desk, peering at the clock on the wall. It was 10 in the morning. Shrugging, I moved out of my room, following Mr. Richardson into the main room. I looked about the room, expecting to see Watson eating his breakfast, yet he was nowhere to be seen.
"Mr. Richardson, have you seen Watson?" I asked, opening the door and peering out into the hallway.
"I've told you both that you can call me Neville while we live under the same roof," the elderly man said as he sat himself down at the table. "Your friend shot down to the market to buy himself today's paper. Said he couldn't wait." I smiled.
"I'm going to slip this into the post box," I told him as I shied out of the door. Perhaps I would wait for Watson's return on my way, or even meet him at the market. He would be the first in our "family" to read his story, or there would be Hell to pay. Just as I felt confidant in my abilities, the boy believed that he could write anyone out of house and home if he tried. And I didn't doubt him.
I walked out of the complex and out onto Baker Street. The location of our residence had been Holmes' idea, though it had come from my mouth. He told me it was just down the way from the flat he had shared with Watson in his own time. It was strange how used I was getting to having a deceased man speaking to me in my head. Smiling, I walked to the post box and dropped my letter into its slot. After wishing it a safe and happy voyage, I looked out at my surroundings, taking everything in.
So much had changed since Watson had walked into the orphanage. I had not only gained a powerful ally, but a true friend who would see me farther than anyone in my family wished to see me. As a sparrow flew close by and landed on a nearby tree, I heard the smack of shoes upon the concrete. I knew that it was Watson's voice ringing in the air.
"Holmes!" he cried. His voice was full of joy. "Holmes, Holmes!" Just as I looked up, he grabbed my shoulder with both of his hands, causing a strangling cry from me, pain shooting through my right shoulder. He immediately recoiled, remembering the wound that Mr. Warrick had so kindly bestowed upon me. "Sorry! I didn't mean it, I-"
"Just get on with it, Watson," I muttered through gritted teeth, feeling the tender wound gently. "What has you so worked up? Did they publish your story at long last? First page?"
"You're being regaled as a hero, Holmes!" Watson said, holding up the newspaper, open to the second page, with pride. There was a small picture of both Watson and me back when we had had our pictures taken for the incident at the orphanage. Not only was most of Watson's account of the Ostendorf Inn episode accounted for in print, but even some of the events from our first mystery were included. It seemed as if the editors had gotten their hands onto our local paper and deemed it necessary to include alongside our most recent adventure. Indeed, I was mentioned as a sort of hero, along with the bravery of Watson. A smile lit my face and I inhaled deeply the mild London air. I was vaguely aware of some battle in the Atlantic reaching a climax on the front page, but all of my being was focused on the words printed in honor of my friend and me.
"E-excuse me," a quiet voice came from behind me. Both Watson and I turned to the source of the meek call. It was a young woman, probably no more than five years older than myself. Her hair was blonde and filled with bouncing ringlets falling past her shoulders. She had great, round, blue eyes that seemed to take up all of the space on her face. She was holding her hat nervously in white-knuckled hands, and when we turned to her, her face flushed. "I'm sorry to ask you, sirs, but is this where Mr. Holmes lives?" A swell of pride filled my chest.
"Why, yes," I said matter-of-factly, taking her gently toward our flat. "In fact, may I have the pleasure of introducing him to you?" The girl's blue eyes flashed with happiness.
"Oh, could you, sir?" Her voice was sweet and high-pitched in anticipation. "I would be so thankful to you, for I'm not sure what he is like. Is he coarse?" I smiled.
"No, not so much," Watson offered, his own mouth occupied by a smile. "He is an easy man to be friends with."
"Oh, that makes me so much more confidant." She beamed. We stopped by our door, and she turned to me. "Are you sure that Mr. Holmes is in?"
"Of course. Hannah Brooke," I told her, bowing, "my name is Jack Holmes. How may I be of service?"
-------------
AN: I can't believe it's done! Whew! It was a lot of work, but I pulled through for my readers. I have an idea for the next part of the Jack Holmes Saga, but I need to confer with my friend on just how it will work out. I hope everyone is happy with the ending, albeit a short one. (don't kill me!) Thanks for getting me through this, and love to all my fans who saw me through! Until next time... Farewell!