Chapter 18

Author's Notes: OK, so you're all waiting for some action... Haley Macrae, thanks as always. Just for you, here's a little "back in London" bit, with some Watson POV, at your suggestion. I have to confess that I didn't want to try Watson's voice, but it came quite easily. I must, however, agree with Holmes that the Doctor is a very maudlin writer. Unfortunately, it's contagious – apologies for the dripping sentiment. Sailor-fussion, welcome back! I hope to read more of your fanfic soon! (Hint, hint!)

It had been a little over a month since the death of my old friend Sherlock Holmes at the hands of the arch-criminal Professor Moriarty. Their mutual destruction at Reichenbach Falls is a story so fantastical that few dared to believe it. My own witnessing of it, however, and the swift action of the British law against those who had supported Moriarty in his villainy, left no doubt in my mind of the finality of my friend's demise.

Though we had seen little of one another in the years following my marriage, still the knowledge that I would never again assist Holmes on one of his brilliant investigations weighed heavily upon my mind. For some time, I was unable to read accounts of crime in the newspapers without regretting that Holmes would not be able to come to the aid of the helpless victims of such heinous acts. Were it not for the tender concern of my dear wife, I feel I would have fallen prey to a terrible melancholy in those weeks.

I had the courage to return to Baker Street only once to deliver the sad news to Mrs. Hudson. Her shock and grief so overwhelmed her that I was obliged to stay and comfort her instead of venturing upstairs (seventeen steps, as Holmes had so often reminded me) to pay my last respects to the rooms we had shared for so long.

And so it was that I isolated myself from the world to which Holmes had introduced me, and concerned myself chiefly with my patients, to the diagnosis of whose ills I applied the very methods that my old friend had taught me. I filled my hours of leisure with a new hobby, suggested to me by my wife. I became deeply interested in the doings of the Royal Geographical Society, and particularly the exploits of a Norwegian explorer named Sigerson, whose nationality allowed him access to the very places from which Britain had been barred...

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It was late when Holmes returned to his rooms after hours of planning with Lord Lansdowne. The moon shone brightly across the carpet, and the curtains moved slightly with a breeze from the open windows. As was his habit, Holmes moved cushions from the sofa to the floor, and sat with his legs drawn up to his chin. He lit a cigarette and the smoke melted into the moonlight.

From her bedroom, Miss Bassano heard the door open and close, and at length, the familiar smell of tobacco drifted into her chamber. The scent told her that Holmes had not retired to sleep, so she stood up and drew a dressing-gown about her. She froze momentarily as she heard the footsteps of a passing servant in the hallway outside. As the sound faded, she opened the door slightly, and whispered,

"George?"

There being no answer, she tried again, stepping into the common sitting-room. "George?" she called softly.

"Holmes!" she hissed finally, rounding the edge of the sofa to find him seated, immobile as a statue but for the glowing end of his cigarette.

The sound startled him, and he looked up at her. With her black hair and white gown she looked like a spectre illuminated by the summer's full moon. He nodded in acknowledgement.

"What did he say?" Miss Bassano asked, kneeling before him in concern.

Holmes let out three smoke rings into the air above before he replied, "I leave tomorrow with an expedition to Tibet."

"Tibet?" she repeated, surprised.

"There has evidently been some confusion in diplomatic circles of late as to who exercises power in that country. Although the Chinese claim suzerainty, none of the diplomatic conventions over the past 15 years have opened foreign contact. Lord Lansdowne is particularly concerned that the Calcutta Convention of last year has been repudiated by the Tibetans, even as the Russians expand into Central Asia."

"So the British fear the loss of their influence to the Czar?" Miss Bassano queried.

"Our influence," Holmes corrected. "Precisely."

"And the Russians are building a railway to cross all of Siberia and to link the two sides of the continent..." she mused, and Holmes nodded in assent. "But what have you to do with it?"

"I am to infiltrate Lhassa, and to apprise the Foreign Office of any encroachments by Russian authorities. I am also to determine how much control the Chinese have over the region, and the possibility to regaining official relations with the Tibetan state, if such a one exists."

"It is an ambitious agenda," Miss Bassano said. "How will you do it?"

"I am to pose as a Norwegian explorer, doing work for the Royal Geographical Society."

"That is truly ingenious!" Miss Bassano exclaimed. "But what of me? How am I to help?"

"Help?" Holmes looked truly surprised.

She gave him a cold look. "If you will recall, you suggested that my presence was to be of inestimable assistance to you in your work."

Though she expected him to be flustered with guilt, he was unfazed. "And it will be," Holmes assured her. "I will write letters to my patient wife, and they will contain the details of my mission."

"Very well," she said, seemingly mollified. She stood up, and headed toward her bedroom. "Good night, George."

"Good night, Martha,"he called after her softly.

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They stood again at the crowded railway station. The Lord and Lady Lansdowne had wished him a safe journey earlier, but had tactfully stayed behind at Government House. No doubt, they had wished to give more privacy to the farewells of a young married couple about to be separated by a dangerous journey.

Miss Bassano had been silent on the way to the station, but as they stood now, she handed him a small leather-covered case, and said, "This will make the trip easier."

"I have already packed the writing case you gave me," Holmes replied in surprise.

"This is not a writing case. And it is not cocaine, either, "she added bitterly. "It is my camera. If you are to be an explorer, surely you will need to take photographs?"

Looking down at the little woman before him, Holmes admitted defeat. "Yes, I will. Thank you."

Miss Bassano nodded shortly, and looking around, said to no one in particular, "You will write?"

Instead of an answer, Holmes extended his hand. She shook it briefly, and gestured toward the train platforms.

"Goodbye, then."

"Goodbye."