AN: Inspired by Granada Productions' version of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's stories The Final Problem and The Empty House. This particular interlude inspired by "Beautiful" from the Sarah Brightman album, "Harem" and the arrangement of "Libera Me" from the Sherlock Holmes OST. Thanks as well to the kind folks at the dispatchbox LiveJournal for their encouragement.
Lost and Found
By the Lady Razorsharp
Interlude: Remembrance
Mary woke the morning after her husband's arrival to the sound of rain splashing against the cobblestone street. Carefully, so as not to disturb him, she slipped out of bed and wrapped herself in her warm flannel dressing gown. A quick glance between the curtains confirmed her suspicions; John would face a grey and dreary London as he ventured forth later that day.
She let the curtains fall back into place and turned back toward her slumbering husband. She took a few aimless steps toward the bed, hugging her arms about her as if chilled, her pretty face clouded with worry. Could she convince him to stay with her, just for one day? She watched as he moved restlessly in his sleep, listened as half-formed syllables tumbled from his lips, and her heart ached for him.
She crossed to where he lay and smoothed his furrowed brow with a gentle kiss. Whether he knew somehow that she was near and drew comfort from her presence, she wasn't sure, but he immediately calmed beneath her touch.
Mary straightened with a smile and moved to gather up the well-worn suit he had laid on the bedside chair the night before. Out of habit, she checked the pockets before Ivy could collect the suit for washing, and Mary noticed that an inside pocket crackled at her touch. Her questing fingers gently pried out a small packet of thin white paper, much like the leaves of the notebooks John himself favored. She smiled as she remembered watching him laboriously copy his notes onto sheets of foolscap from the penciled scribbles in his book. Sometimes he read bits of his adventures with Mr. Holmes to amuse her, and once again it pained her to think of how those adventures had come to an end.
The papers were tied with a bit of rough twine and were slightly ragged on the edges, and Mary darted a glance at the gently snoring hillock of quilts before undoing the knot. As she unfolded the pages, her breath caught in her chest as she scanned the lines that had been penciled in a clear, firm hand.
My dear Watson,
I write these few lines through the courtesy of Mr. Moriarty, who awaits my convenience for the final discussion of those questions which lie between us…
Mary's lips formed into a silent O of astonishment. This was Mr. Holmes' last missive to his friend—very possibly his last words to the world, she realized—and she shut her eyes to avoid intruding any further on the privacy between the two comrades. After a few steadying breaths, she opened her eyes and carefully refolded the papers, then refastened the twine around the precious bundle. The hem of her gown whispered against the carpet as she crossed to John's side of the bed, and she laid the packet on his nightstand.
Mary washed her face and dressed quickly, then brushed and plaited her waist-length honey-coloured hair. She coiled and pinned the shining tresses in her customary style, and a rosy flush spread under her freckles as she remembered the look of wonder in her husband's eyes when, on their wedding night, she had removed her hairpins and let the heavy braid tumble down her back.
Her toilette completed, she turned in her seat at her vanity to regard her still-sleeping husband. He was so brave, she mused, and yet so kind and gentle. Remembering the night she had stood hand in hand with him at Pondicherry Lodge, she wondered for the thousandth time if something inside of her had instinctively known him to be her champion. She would never have dreamt of telling him, lest he think her given to outlandish fancies, but sometimes she had the feeling that she had known John Watson for a time longer than the life she could remember.
Now as she turned her thoughts to her other champion—the man who had done much to clear the dark clouds surrounding her father's death—Mary wondered if Mr. Holmes and her husband might share the same ageless association. If that were the case, then perhaps the two comrades would meet again on some distant turn of the Wheel. Tears sprang to her blue eyes at the thought of such a joyful reunion, but she just as quickly shook her head as if to clear away those thoughts.
Listen to yourself, Mary Watson! She pulled a handkerchief from the top drawer of her vanity and dashed away the tears. What would John say if he knew you, a Christian woman, were thinking of such things?
It must have been the years she spent in India, she mused, as she rose from her seat. Truly, the smell of incense in Thaddeus Sholto's house had immediately brought back hazy memories of her Indian nanny, a short, wiry woman with skin the color of rich coffee, draped from head to foot in bright silk. In a letter to her shortly before his death, Captain Morstan had recounted to Mary with amusement how as a very little girl she could chatter in the local vernacular before she learned to speak a single word in the Queen's English. Indeed, one of her earliest memories was of one such conversation with—what had been her name?—and the feeling of understanding that had passed between the Indian woman and the sahib's daughter. Mary had no doubt that the tiny jewel of belief she carried had been set in her young soul by her nanny's work-worn hands, and at this moment, she blessed the woman for it.
A distant church bell tolled nine, and as the sweet, sad notes died away, she made a decision. With barely a rustle of skirts, she left their chamber and quietly closed the door to keep the noises of the waking household at bay for just a little longer. She met Ivy at the foot of the stairs, and laid her hand lightly on the girl's shoulder.
"Ivy," Mary began quietly. "No doubt you know the doctor's just come home from a very long and tiring journey."
The girl nodded. "Yes'm."
"He's still sleeping, but make sure his coffee's ready for when he wakes. I'm going out, but I'll be back in a short while, if he asks."
"Yes'm."
"Thank you. And one other thing: Don't open the door to anyone while I'm gone. I will have my key."
In answer, Ivy dropped her mistress a small curtsey and moved toward the kitchen. Mary went to retrieve her gray hooded cloak and sheer silken veil from the hall. After pulling on her pearl-grey gloves, Mary made sure her key was in her bag and hung her purse on her wrist before venturing out into the drizzly morning.
Luck was on her side; the first cab she raised her hand to pulled up against the kerb, and she managed to bundle herself inside without getting too wet. "St. Mary's of the Angels, please," she called up to the driver, and they were on their way with a clatter of hooves against the cobbles.
St. Mary's of the Angels was a young church compared to many, having been built less than forty years before, but its stone walls and high, square tower spoke of solidity and permanence. The cabbie scrambled down to hand Mary out of the cab, and after receiving her fare, tipped his hat and went on his way. As the cab pulled away from the kerb, the door of the church swung open, and a young black-cassocked priest hurried down the steps toward Mary with an umbrella.
"Thank you, Father," said Mary, ducking gratefully under the protection of the oilcloth dome.
"You're most welcome, ma'am. Father William, at your service."
"Mary Morstan," she supplied. With the public revelation of Mr. Holmes' death, she was determined to do all she could to give John his privacy—a difficult prospect at times, when one was married to a member of the popular press.
"A pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Morstan," the priest replied, as Mary modestly raised her hem to avoid tripping on it as they climbed the rain-slicked steps. "I'm afraid it's not much warmer inside, but at least it's dry." The priest held the door open for Mary, following her as she swept into the narthex with a damp swish of skirts against the flagstones.
As he folded the umbrella and set it in the corner to dry, Fr. William's hazel eyes took in Mary's solemnly cloaked form at a glance. "You are new to our parish?" Raindrops, glistening like spangles, had settled in his dark, neatly trimmed hair, and he brushed them away with a swipe of his hand.
Mary let her hood fall back and raised her veil from her face, letting the sheer grey silk stream from where she had pinned it into her coif. "When I was younger, I was employed as governess for a family who worshipped here. That was many years ago, though I see little has changed." She smiled, glancing around at the stately, well-worn furnishings, and then shifted her attention to the young priest once more. "I've come today on a very specific errand—a rather sad one, I'm afraid."
"I don't mean to pry," said Fr. William kindly. "You may think it odd, Mrs. Morstan, but I was just thinking how the rain makes it seem that whole world is in mourning for Sherlock Holmes."
To Mary, the light from the stained-glass window set in the north wall became jewel-bright as her eyes filled with tears. "It does indeed seem that way," she murmured.
"It sounds silly, doesn't it? Mourning someone you never met," he said, taking her silence as permission to continue. "Perhaps we are mourning not only a particular soul, but the death of an ideal, and the defeat of a champion of the light in an age that grows ever darker. Although I shudder to think what his dear friend Dr. Watson must be going through," he added gravely.
The tears threatened to spill down Mary's cheeks, and she closed her eyes briefly to keep them in. "Dr. Watson must be heartbroken," she whispered.
After taking her leave of the young priest, Mary walked solemnly down the north aisle. When she reached the front pew, it seemed natural to her to sink to one knee for a moment. Rising gracefully, she crossed the wide expanse that led to the north transept, and stopped in front of a rack of votives that cast a brilliant ruby-hued pool of shimmering light at her feet.
It was then that she noticed movement in the choir; a group of priests in black cassocks, trailed by a group of fresh-faced boys in long black robes and crisply starched white surplices, were filing in for choir practice with a shuffling of feet and stifled coughs. Mary stepped back into the shadows, her grey velvet cloak dappled with scarlet as she watched the aged choirmaster make his arthritic progress to his music stand. There was much flipping of pages and nods of assent, but the company stilled as the choirmaster raised his gnarled hand. Quiet settled over the empty church like a gossamer mantle, and then the choir began to sing a capella.
"Libera me, Domine, de morte aeterna, in die illa tremenda..." Deliver me, O Lord, from everlasting death on that dread day…
"Quando coeli movendi sunt et terra..." …when the heavens and earth shall quake…
"Dum veneris judicare saeculum per ignem..." …when thou shalt come to judge the world to come…
As the music soared to the rafters, Mary withdrew a coin from her purse and placed it in the box near the orderly pile of votives. Selecting one of the plump ivory candles, Mary seated it in an empty ruby glass holder and lit it with a spill set aflame from a large beeswax taper that stood nearby. The flame flickered and then caught and held steady, and she blew out the spill.
She watched the tiny flame wink and dance before her, and thought of the sparkle of wit she had seen in Mr. Holmes' eyes as he laughed at the empty box of the Agra treasure.
"Libera me…"
She listened to the solemn, beautiful music, and thought of the rich tones of a solo violin spilling over her and John from the first floor window as they came to call at Baker Street one evening.
"…libera me…"
She caught the traces of incense on the air, and remembered the scent of shag tobacco that lingered on John's coat.
"…libera me…"
Bowing her head over her gloved hands, Mary breathed a prayer for the soul of Sherlock Holmes.