Lost and Found

By the Lady Razorsharp

AN: Inspired by Granada Productions' version of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's stories The Final Problem and The Empty House.

Chapter 5: Solace

Quiet and sincere sympathy is often the most welcome and efficient consolation to the afflicted. Said a wise man to one in deep sorrow, "I did not come to comfort you; God only can do that; but I did come to say how deeply and tenderly I feel for you in your affliction".

--Tryon Edwards (1809 - 1894)

Watson moved woodenly through the motions of tying his tie, twisting the fabric over and under, and ending in a knot that echoed the one in his stomach. The black tie matched his suit exactly, the deep mourning colour broken only by the crisp whiteness of his shirt and collar. Bits of jet gleamed from his cuffs, and his black shoes gleamed softly from the buffing the housemaid had given them the evening before.

Thoughts of the housemaid at her work begat thoughts of the maid's mistress, and a slight frown marred the blank expression Watson presented to his mirror. Where was Mary?

Upon waking, he had turned to gather his wife into his arms only to find her gone, and for a heart-stopping moment between wakefulness and dreams he was sure he had lost her. Guilt immediately replaced the relief when he remembered that it was Holmes who was gone, and not Mary. Watson buried his face into Mary's pillow, wondering if anyone would mind if he never got out of bed again.

In the end, duty would not permit him to shut the world out, and he had duly risen and went about his morning routine.

Now he turned from his somber reflection and gathered up the items he had removed from his pockets the night before. He picked up his watch, and a smile briefly touched his lips as he ran his thumb over the worn case.

The W. suggests your own name. The date of the watch is nearly fifty years back, and the initials are as old as the watch: so it was made for the last generation. Jewellery usually descends to the eldest son, and he is most likely to have the same name as the father. Your father has, if I remember right, been dead many years. It has, therefore, been in the hands of your eldest brother.

"Poor Harry," Watson murmured, closing his hand over the watch. It had been a sad day indeed when he had received the message from the Scotland Yard morgue, asking him to come round and identify the body of his older brother, who had been found dead in a cheap boardinghouse. Watson bit back a grimace at the memory; though he had spent days knee-deep in blood and filth on the Afghan campaigns, the reek of stale whiskey that had risen from his brother's bloated form as the sheet was pulled back was enough to turn his stomach.

With a shock, he realized that his grief over losing Holmes was a hundred times greater than what he had felt for Harry or their father, and could only compare to how he had wept at his mother's grave as a child. Guilt stung him for the second time that morning, but this time it vanished in a bright, hot flare of anger.

I grieved for Harry's wasted life, not the absence of his affection, he thought, looping his watch chain across the front of his waistcoat and slipping the timepiece into his pocket.

He retrieved his black suit coat from the armoire and shrugged into the tailored garment. A telegram, its edges worn from its journey across the Continent in his jacket pocket, rested on the bureau before him. He scanned the block letters dully, having long since committed the message to memory.

6 MAY

PALL MALL

66 LONDON W

DR JOHN H WATSON

C/O ENGLISCHER HOF

MEIRINGEN VILLAGE

SWITZERLAND

RECEIVED YOUR MESSAGE STOP COME AS SOON AS YOU ARE ABLE STOP MYCROFT HOLMES END

Leaving the telegram on the bureau, Watson left the bedroom and made his way downstairs. He would go to the Diogenes Club as requested, but there was another errand that was more pressing before his interview with the elder Holmes.

I have my eye on a suite in Baker Street, which would suit us down to the ground. You don't mind the smell of strong tobacco, I hope?

With a sigh, the doctor pushed thoughts of the familiar rooms out of his mind for the time being—at least until after breakfast, though he was sure his appetite had not improved greatly since supper the night before.

Ivy was brandishing her feather duster over the furniture in the drawing room when Watson passed the doorway, and the doctor backtracked a few steps. "Ivy, have you seen Mrs. Watson this morning?"

The girl immediately turned from her work to face him, a few stray ostrich feathers floating in the air around her. "Yes, sir. The missus went out early this morning and said to tell you she'd be back soon. She said to have your coffee ready for you, and so it is."

Watson gave the girl a brief smile. "Thank you, Ivy. Coffee—and perhaps some toast—will suit me just fine this morning. I'll be in my consulting room."

Giving a quick little bounce of a curtsey, the maid rustled off toward the kitchen.

Turning down the hallway that led to his consulting room, Watson produced a brass key from his pocket and unlocked the door. Upon entering, he saw that everything was just as it had been the night Holmes had appeared like a specter on his doorstep.

Yes, I have been using myself up rather too freely…I have been a little pressed of late. Have you any objection to my closing your shutters?

The shutters were still closed, and he touched the latch that a set of long, white, nervous fingers had fastened, on a night that seemed like a lifetime ago.

You are afraid of something?

Well, I am.

Of what?

Of air-guns.

The bottle of carbolic acid was still on the washstand, with a tuft of cotton wool and a box of sticking plasters close beside. Slowly, he picked up the items and replaced them in the cabinet near the examining table.

It's not an airy nothing, you see…On the contrary, it is solid enough for a man to break his hand over.

He was startled by a knock at the door. "Come in."

Expertly balancing her burden, Ivy opened the door and brought in a tray large enough to contain the coffee-pot, a single cup accompanied by a plate of toast, the crystal butter dish, and a pot of marmalade. She set the tray down on a small table, and then poured the coffee from the gleaming silver service.

How did you know what I was doing? I believe you have eyes in the back of your head.

I have, at least, a well-polished, silver-plated coffee-pot in front of me.

The rattle of china brought him back to the present. "Are you alright, sir?"

Watson looked up to see the maid eyeing him with alarm, as if he might suddenly explode. "Yes, yes, I'm fine." He moved from the cabinet to sit behind his desk. "Thank you, Ivy. You can go now."

The coffee was cold in the cup and the toast was tough and stale when he heard voices in the hallway, and he slowly surfaced from the depths of his musings. There was a gentle knock on the door of his consulting room.

"John? May I come in?"

He rose quickly and went to the door. "Yes, come in, my dear." Mary entered the room, and Watson shut the door behind her. "How glad I am to see you."

She smiled and kissed his cheek. "You make me sound as if I'm one of your patients," she said, seating herself on the chair before his desk. "I do hope this won't be a costly consultation."

He leaned against his desk. "For you, my darling, I am at your disposal free of charge, now and forever." He grinned as she chuckled merrily, but soon they both sobered. "Where did you go so early this morning?" he asked.

His wife's happy glow faded as if a lamp illuminating her features had suddenly been dimmed. "I hope you won't think me foolish, but—I went to St. Mary's of the Angels and lit a candle for Mr. Holmes." Her restless hands sought out the great glass jewel of a paperweight engraved with a caduceus resting on his desk. She toyed with the object for a moment, then replaced it back on the desk and folded her hands in her lap. "I know there won't—can't—be a funeral, but I just felt that something should be done."

Her voice held all the helplessness and frustration that he himself had felt in the days that followed the terrible events at the falls. "There is precious little else we can do," Watson agreed. "One would think it would be easier to not have to go through all those…preparations, but…" He shook his head. "It almost makes it harder, somehow."

Mary withdrew a handkerchief from her sleeve and wiped her eyes, but the tears were coming too fast to be stopped by the dampsquare of lace. "We've no way to say goodbye, really." The honey-gold head bowed and the narrow shoulders shook with quiet sobs.

Watson knelt beside his distraught wife. "Dearest, don't cry." Despite his words, he drew her into his arms and let her do just that. In a few minutes, she lay spent against his dark woolen lapel, and he stroked her hair.

"I'm glad you remembered him," Watson said kindly into a silence broken only by Mary's occasional sniffle. "Holmes was not a sentimental man, as you know, but I believe he would have been pleased to be remembered."

"I know," Mary said thickly, pulling away to accept her husband's handkerchief to take the place of her sodden one. "I'm sorry, John. This must be a dreadfully trying morning for you, and I've made it worse."

"You've done nothing of the sort," her husband reassured her. "On the contrary, you've reminded me that I'm not the only one in this world who mourns him."

"The priest at the church said that the rain made it seem like the whole world was in mourning for Mr. Holmes." She ventured a sad smile. "I'm almost glad there isn't going to be a funeral. I don't think I could bear it."

"Nor could I," Watson murmured, pushing away a vision of a headstone chiseled with Sherlock Holmes 1852-1891 R.I.P. "Still, I feel it only right to go see Holmes' elder brother and offer my condolences."

"And you are unsure of what to say." It was not a question, and the doctor smiled grimly.

"Odd, isn't it? I seem to be able to put enough words together for The Strand, and yet everything I think to say to Mycroft Holmes sounds insensitive and callous." He stood and wandered to the window. "What can I tell him that will give him any sort of comfort?" He was silent a moment, and when he spoke again, his voice was little more than a whisper. "Perhaps he will accuse me of…of leaving Holmes to a lonely death."

"No!" Mary shot up out of her chair and crossed the small room with quick strides. "No one can say that." She ducked her head to look into his face, though he tried to turn away. "You had no idea what would happen. You were doing your duty by seeing to a sick woman, and the shame is on those who used your noble profession—and your kind heart—to their own evil purpose."

"But I knew, Mary," Watson retorted bitterly. "I knew Moriarty was after us; I'd seen him at Victoria Station. We barely eluded him at Canterbury—we hid like two mice behind a pile of luggage." He blinked back the tears that threatened to fall at any moment. "Holmes was forever telling me how I 'see and yet do not observe.' If I had just for one moment used some of the training he drilled into me time and again, he might be alive."

Mary's slender form went rigid, and she dropped her hands. "When I vowed to be your wife," she said, her eyes flashing blue fire, "it was agreed between us that we could discuss anything—anything at all, as long as it was spoken in love and truth. I trust you will remember that when I tell you that you are not, nor have you ever been Sherlock Holmes."

She could see confusion and pain underneath the astonishment in her husband's face, but she pressed on.

"You yourself have said that Mr. Holmes was a singular individual, and that he was, on the whole, immovable once he had decided upon a course of action. You have also told me that he was gifted with a sense of perception that bordered on the supernatural." She paused, making a visible effort to tame her strident tone. "Dearest, what I am trying to say is—do you honestly think for one moment that Mr. Holmes did not know what was to follow?"

"I…" Comprehension dawned in Watson's face, and he gaped at his wife in shock. "No, of course he must have known. Why didn't I see that before?"

Mary laid her head on her husband's shoulder. "You were his friend, John. He never would have allowed harm to come to you, if he could prevent it. That is why he let you go back to the village; he knew you would have tried to help. You might have…you might…" She turned her face into the dark wool, where the fabric soaked up her fresh tears.

The picture of what could have been loomed all too clearly in their minds. Watson wrapped his arm around his wife and pressed a kiss against her forehead. "He was a good man, Mary. He even asked to be remembered to you, in his last letter."

"He did?" Mary raised her head, puzzlement clearly written in her tear-stained features.

"Yes. Here, I'll read it to you." Watson let go of his wife long enough to reach into his inner jacket pocket and brought out the small packet of papers Mary had retrieved from the much-abused tweeds. "'Pray give my greetings to Mrs. Watson…'" The doctor's voice slowed, as if to linger over his friend's words. "'…and believe me to be, my dear fellow, yours sincerely—Sherlock Holmes.'"

For a moment, Holmes' presence was almost tangible in the room, and the Watsons stood silent, each lost in their own thoughts. The clock on the mantel chimed eleven, and they shook themselves out of their reverie.

"What time did you say you were meeting Mr. Holmes' brother?" Mary asked, going to the desk and collecting her husband's untouched breakfast dishes.

"I need to inquire about that," Watson said, folding and retying the letter, and then replacing it in his pocket. "It was my plan to go to Baker Street first and see Mrs. Hudson; I'll write from there."

"I see." Mary neatly placed the dishes on the tray, readying the service for Ivy to take back to the kitchen. "Do you think you'll return before teatime?"

"I plan to." He crossed to where his wife stood and kissed her cheek. I will see you later, my dear."

He was just about to leave when he paused with his hand on the doorknob. Turning back, he looked at his wife for a long moment, then moved back across the room and took her in his arms for a kiss that left her breathless. Her cheeks were pink and her smile was beatific when they parted.

"How I love you, my sweet Mary," he murmured.

"Mr. Holmes!"

The landlady's voice traveled up the stairs, and Mycroft halted midway through putting on his coat. "Yes, Mrs. Pierce, what is it?" he called down into the stairwell.

A short, plump matron, Mrs. Pierce was nearly out of breath when she reached the landing where Mycroft stood with his walking stick in hand. "I'm glad I caught you before you left, sir," she wheezed. "The boy delivered it just a few moments ago. I had him wait in case you would like to reply."

Mycroft hung the cane on his arm, put in his monocle, and took the envelope. "Might I trouble you for a hairpin, madam?" Mrs. Pierce obliged, and received the hairpin back ere the envelope was slit. "If you'll pardon me," he murmured, moving toward the window as Mrs. Pierce averted her eyes and stepped back.

12 MAGGIO 1891

COMUNE DI FIRENZE

ITALIA

MR MYCROFT HOLMES

PALL MALL

LONDON

BULLFROG STOP ONCE AGAIN I HAVE BROKEN YOUR SHAVING MUG STOP WOULD BUY YOU ANOTHER AS THEY ARE QUITE FINE HERE BUT MORE EXPENSIVE THAN I THOUGHT STOP I AM WELL OTHERWISE STOP TADPOLE END

He stared at the letters until they swam in his field of vision. He raised his head, barely aware that the monocle fell from his eye and clattered dully against the buttons of his waistcoat.

No, it was impossible! It had to be a cheap, foul trick by one of Moriarty's gang; there was no other explanation for it. And yet…

No one still living knew of the incident when a twelve-year-old Sherlock, bent on studying tadpoles one spring, decided that his older brother's shaving mug was the perfect utensil to scoop the wriggling black commas from the pond.

Sherlock led him on a merry chase—well, at least Sherlock was amused—but nineteen-year-old Mycroft finally caught up to the sapling-slender, fleet-footed twelve-year-old in the black-and-white tiled foyer of the manor house. Their footfalls rang hollowly as they dashed into cavernous space.

"Bullfrog! Can't catch me, you ugly old bullfrog!" Sherlock sang out, cradling the purloined crockery against his shirtfront.

"You're too old to be playing in the mud!" He caught the boy by the back of the trousers, and the sudden stop made the mug fly from Sherlock's hands. The porcelain shattered against the tile, sending murky pond water and tadpoles in every direction.

With a moan of despair, Sherlock crumpled to the floor and tried to scoop up the slimy young frogs. It was no use, and one by one the tiny creatures ceased their struggles. With tears in his eyes, he rounded on his elder brother. "Now look what you've done! They're dead."

"It's your fault, Sherlock. If you hadn't taken them from the pond they'd still be alive." Mycroft seized his brother by the arm and hauled him to his feet. "Now stop groveling on the floor and get the servants to clean up this mess."

The boy growled like an angry cat and tried to twist away. "Let go of me! I don't have to listen to you."

Mycroft gave his younger brother a vicious shake. "I'm the eldest and I'm the man of the house now that Papa's gone. Now mind!"

Still valiantly fighting childish tears, Sherlock trudged away in the direction of the kitchen.

"Mr. Mycroft, sir," Mrs. Pierce ventured timidly, and he whirled on her. She blanched, but stood her ground. "Will there be any reply, sir?"

"No, no, not at the moment, Mrs. Pierce; thank you." He quickly folded the telegram and stuffed it into his pocket, then brought out a bright silver coin from the same pocket. "Here, give that to the lad."

"Of course, sir."

Mrs. Pierce hurried back down the stairs as Mycroft clapped on his black felt hat and followed her down to the street level. The boy saw Mycroft approach and jumped out of the way as the large man strode through the doorway.

It was only behind the closed doors of his own office that he allowed himself a wide grin. "Sherlock," he breathed. "Well done, my boy! Very well done, indeed!"