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 6: Memorial
Truly, to tell lies is not honorable;
but when the truth entails tremendous ruin,
To speak dishonorably is pardonable.
--Sophocles (496 BC - 406 BC), Creusa
Though it had stopped raining by the time Billy ventured forth from 221B Baker Street, he still felt the heavy press of gloom weighing him down as if his wool uniform had become drenched in a downpour. Even under the grey overcast skies of London, the world seemed too bright, the manner of passersby too brisk.
Dodging girls in servant's livery armed with market baskets, he thought back over the events of nearly a week past, scowling as he made his way through the streets.
The door to the kitchen opened, but he kept his eyes and hands on the task of polishing the last of the silverware.
"William," said Mrs. Hudson, closing the door behind her. "Put that aside for a moment."
As she settled into a chair across from him, Billy put down his polishing rag. The formal address plucked at him uncomfortably, and he shifted in his seat.
"I have just had a telegram from Dr. Watson in Switzerland," she said, tears welling in her eyes. "Mr. Holmes is dead."
He felt a brief, intense pang of sadness, but then it was as if the feeling was whisked away just beyond his reach. With dry eyes, he glanced at the envelope, then back at Mrs. Hudson. "What 'appened?"
She sighed. "Apparently he and Dr. Watson journeyed to Switzerland, and there was an accident at Reichenbach Falls."
The way she said the word 'accident' raised the hair on the back of his neck. "Ma'am, you don't think--?" He gave an involuntary shiver. "That man you told me about, what came to see Mr. 'olmes—"
Her answer was too quick to have been the truth. "No, of course not." She managed a half-hearted smile. "Besides, doesn't—didn't Mr. Holmes always say that it is wrong to jump to conclusions before you have all the facts?"
"'Never theorize wi'out data,'" Billy quoted numbly.
"I'm sorry." She covered his hand lightly with hers. "I just thought it best to tell you before you hear the paper sellers shouting about it." She pushed the telegram across the table toward him. "Here. You may read it if you want to."
He did not want to, but his fingers seemed to reach for the envelope of their own volition. The block letters printed on the paper confirmed what simply could not be: his brilliant mentor—his friend—was gone forever.
Both landlady and errand boy went about their duties in a haze of shock for the rest of the day. Mrs. Hudson prepared a cold supper for them, but neither had much of an appetite and the few dishes were soon washed and stowed in the cupboard. After supper, as was their custom, they sat in her parlor while she knitted and Billy read to her.
He was in the middle of a sentence when he realized she was speaking to him.
"Master William."
He looked up sharply to see her winding her excess yarn. "You've read the same sentence three times," she said gently, as she stuck her needles into her ball of wool and returned her work to the basket at her feet. "I think it's time you went to bed. We can finish the book another time."
Billy marked the page with a piece of scrap yarn and laid the book on a side table. "Then I'll say goodnight, ma'am."
Later that night, the world tilted crazily in his dreams. He felt the vertigo of falling and jerked awake seconds before being dashed to pieces on wet, jagged black rocks. His heart pounding, he huddled under the quilts and shook with silent sobs.
The greengrocer, butcher, and chandler all knew him by name, and it was almost more than he could stand to see the sympathy written on their faces. When he passed the bakery where he sometimes spent his tips, the baker insisted that he come in and pick out a cream bun to take home.
It was on the tip of his tongue to say, 'no thank you,' but the little pastry was in a box and the box was in his hand before he could protest.
"Just the thing to cheer you up, my boy," said the baker. "It's on the house."
Billy looked at the box as if it contained a rotting fish. "Thank you," he said, feeling queasy.
He could not simply get rid of the treat; despite his lack of appetite, memories of hunger from his days on the streets of London compelled him to keep it. As if in answer to his unspoken dilemma, five rag-tag boys came running down the street and gathered around him.
"Oi, it's Billy!"
"Wotcher got there, Billy boy?"
For the first time in many days, the former street urchin cracked a smile as he recognized several of his fellow Irregulars. "It's a cream bun." He held out the box. "Here, you blokes can 'ave it."
Before anyone could take the box from Billy, an older boy with a mean face stepped forward, and the younger children edged away from the tall newcomer in the ratty tweed cap.
"We don't need your charity, Mr. Brass Buttons," he sneered, slapping the box out of Billy's hands. "I'd say go on back to that Baker Street dandy—if 'e weren't dead." He laughed, a rude guffaw that showed a mouthful of broken teeth. "Look at you, all prettied up, puttin' on airs like you was too good for the likes of us." He advanced until Billy could smell his rank breath. "Let me tell you somethin', boyo. When your missus turns you out, don't you be thinkin' about comin' 'round 'ere."
"Leave off, Parker," one of the younger boys cut in, but the bigger boy whirled on him in fury.
"Shut up!" Parker turned back to see anger and pain simmering in Billy's eyes. The bully gave a derisive snort. "Aw, did I 'urt its feelins? Is it gonna cry?"
Billy stared at Parker for a moment more, then turned and walked away.
There was an indignant roar from the ruffian behind him. "Get back 'ere! I'm not finished with you yet!"
"Maybe not, but I'm done with you," Billy shot back over his shoulder.
He counted to three before one of the boys shouted, "Look out!"
Billy turned, fists up and at the ready, but Parker launched himself in a flying tackle against Billy's chest, and they hit the grimy paving stones hard. Parker twisted one meaty fist into the front of his opponent's uniform and buried the knuckles of his other hand into the younger boy's left eye.
It was then that a familiar voice cut through the roaring in Billy's ears.
"What's all this? 'ere, get off, you!"
He sucked in a grateful breath as the heavy weight against his chest was lifted away. There was a momentary scuffle and a yelp of pain, and then the angry voices of the other boys faded away as they chased Parker around the corner.
His eye was already beginning to swell, but he could see Wiggins looming above him, a worried expression on the young man's face.
"All right, Billy boy?"
"All right," Billy groaned, his head pounding so hard that he was sure it would fly off. In a few moments, the buzzing between his temples had diminished to a bearable level, and he slowly got to his feet.
"Your landlady's gonna do a better job on you than Parker did when she sees you," Wiggins chuckled, noting the missing buttons and the torn sleeve of his friend's uniform. "Wotcher brawlin' out in the street with the likes o'him for?"
Billy joined Wiggins in trying to brush off the worst of the dirt. "I was just tryin' to be neighborly," the younger boy scowled. "The baker gave me somethin' an' I wasn't hungry, so I gave it to the fellows. It wasn't charity, like Parker said." He squinted up at Wiggins, noticing for the first time that his friend was wearing a heavy leather apron and a clean, coarse shirt. "What're you doing 'round 'ere, anyway?"
"Same as you, workin' to earn my keep," Wiggins said, puffing out his chest a bit. "You remember Calloway, the carpenter, right? Mr. 'olmes wrote a letter sayin' I'd be good to help out around the shop. Been workin' for nearly a year now." He indicated the corner shop, which bore the sign Calloway and Son over the door. "When you two started brawlin', Mikey ran in yellin' that Parker was set to murder you."
Billy winced in pain, though it was not from the injuries Parker had inflicted. Wiggins fell silent a moment, then sighed.
"So it's true, then, what the papers say," he murmured. "Mr. 'olmes is dead."
Billy nodded. "Yeah. Dr. Watson sent the missus a telegram from Switzerland."
"It's a damn shame." Wiggins shifted uneasily. "So you think you'll stay on, then?"
"I've not been turned out yet, at least." The younger boy looked up at his friend. "Speaking of, I'd best get back." He shook Wiggins' hand. "Good to see you."
"Likewise." Wiggins turned to go, then stopped and turned back. "If the missus ever would turn you out…well, come see me. Mr. Calloway's always looking for good lads."
Billy smiled andtook off at a run back to Baker Street.
The drive from Watson's home to his previous address was short, but it allowed him enough time to collect his thoughts and compose himself for the difficult hours ahead. As the cab turned onto the familiar thoroughfare, Watson noted that the neighborhood was as busy as ever. However, as he looked closer he saw that many men on the street—both those who he knew to be locals and those who were merely visitors going about their business—sported black armbands over their suit jackets. Many of the women wore black plumes in their hats, despite the spring weather that usually dictated much more cheerful ornament.
He sat back, shaking his head in amazement. Surely Holmes' influence did not reach so far as to plunge an entire city into mourning? As they rolled past the windows of the bookseller and the wine merchant, a conversation he had had with Dr. Doyle a month before came back to him.
"The issues that feature your stories do very well, Dr. Watson," said the medico-turned-literary agent. "In fact, several have sold out within hours of their appearance on the racks."
Watson cast a dubious look at Doyle. "I thought they would be entertaining to the general public, but—sold out?"
"Yes." Doyle smiled. "Mr. Holmes, well—he's become something of a national hero." He produced a letter from his pocket and handed it to Watson. "This is a letter from Harper's Weekly, an American magazine. They wish me to ask you if you'd consider allowing them to publish the stories."
Where he had been merely dubious before, Watson was now amazed. "America?" He chuckled. "Mr. Holmes is always telling me how he wishes I would put more emphasis on the analytical rather than the emotional in my accounts of his adventures. I'm sure it will cause him no end of consternation to learn that my 'emotional' accounts are so widespread!"
To Watson's recollection, Holmes had never read the stories in their author's presence, but Holmes was able to cut them apart so precisely that Watson was sure his friend had read them.
Now as the cab pulled up to the door, the smile died upon Watson's lips, and his heart sank. Never again would he listen to Holmes' sharp-tongued criticism of those stories. Gone forever were the evenings of sharing brandy and conversation with his friend. Gone, too, were the days of wielding the Army revolver, of lying in wait for an unsuspecting villain, of seeing firsthand that justice was done.
Feeling hollow and yet leaden, Watson paid the fare and extricated himself from the cab. As the cab clattered away, he approached the familiar portal, which was adorned with a wreath of dark red roses and twin tails of dull black ribbon. Though his key still resided upon the chain in his pocket, he felt it imprudent to use it after so long an absence, and therefore rang the bell.
"Good morning, Mrs. Hudson," said Watson, when the lady of the house opened the door. Mrs. Hudson's dress of somber black seemed to age her, and for the first time Watson noticed that her hair was fading from pale ginger to snowy white.
"Good morning, Dr. Watson," she returned evenly, her face composed as serenely as the Sphinx. "Won't you come in?"
He removed his hat as he stepped over the threshold. "Thank you."
The sound of the door closing behind them wrought an immediate change in Mrs. Hudson, and she turned back to him with eyes brimming. "Oh, Dr. Watson," she choked out. "I'm so very glad to see you."
He folded her into his arms and let her cry. "Dear Mrs. Hudson," was all he could trust himself to say.
After a few moments, she pulled away and fumbled for her handkerchief. "And I was so sure I had no more tears left." She wiped her eyes and tucked the handkerchief back into her sleeve. "Here I am, carrying on as if I had no manners at all; let me take your hat and coat, Doctor."
As Mrs. Hudson busied herself with hanging up her former lodger's outerwear, Watson took a moment to reacquaint himself with 221B. For a moment the house seemed unfamiliar, and then he realized what was different: The large mirror in the hallway was covered with a shroud of white canvas. The brass pendulum of the grandfather clock hung motionless in the case, stilled by Mrs. Hudson's hand at quarter after eight. The hall table was covered in black cloth, and the only photograph Watson had ever seen of his friend was in a silver frame set in the very center of the table. Almost without thinking, Watson reached out and plucked the photograph from its perch.
The photograph was a few years old, but the sight of his friend's unsmiling, hawk-like profile jarred him. It had only been a little more than a week, but Watson was shocked to find just how many of the details of Holmes' face had already begun to slip into the mists of memory. He held the frame a moment more and then replaced the photograph on the table as Mrs. Hudson stepped up beside him.
"The day before we reached Meiringen, Mr. Holmes told me, 'If my record were closed tonight I could still survey it with equanimity,'" Watson said softly. "He said that the air of London was the sweeter for his presence."
"And so it is," she agreed, in a tone that dared anyone to say otherwise.
They stood silent for a few moments, and then Watson turned to his former landlady. "Mrs. Hudson, I—well, I should like to go upstairs for a little while. Would that be all right?"
"Of course, Doctor," said Mrs. Hudson kindly. "This will always be your home; stay as long as you like." The handkerchief appeared again, but this time she merely dabbed the tears from the corners of her eyes. "I'll put the kettle on, and when you come down we'll have a cup."
Watson smiled. "I'd like that very much."
As in the hall, every mirror in the sitting room was covered, but the clock on the mantel, having no pendulum, displayed the correct time. A new pane of glass had been set into the damaged window, but the burned shade had yet to be replaced. However, its twin was unharmed, and its drawn shade cast half of the familiar room in somber shadow.
It both pleased and pained Watson to see that nothing had changed in his absence. The chemistry set in the corner still gave off its scent of danger, the bookcases still groaned under the weight of a myriad of books. Only the desk beneath the naked window was not as it had been, its piles of paper having fueled the small fire set by Moriarty's gang. Now the desk stood bare, soot polished from its water-damaged surface by Mrs. Hudson's industrious hands.
The Stradivarius and its bow lay against the leg of Holmes' chair almost as if their owner had hastily laid them down and left the room for just a moment. Slowly, Watson crossed the room and carefully picked up the instrument. His fingers slipped against the strings, and the violin seemed to give a plaintive, discordant cry.
He looked down at the beautiful object, noting the deep red-amber colour of its varnish and the graceful scrollwork of the f-holes carved out of the violin's top. Reverently, he carried the instrument over to its case and laid it in its bed of worn royal blue velvet, tucking the bow into place close beside before lowering the lid.
After a few moments, Watson moved away from the violin and wandered to the chairs before the hearth. Above the fireplace, the etching of Reichenbach Falls was draped in black bunting. It struck Watson how ironic it was that for years, Holmes had literally stared into his own grave.
The doctor was in the middle of these maudlin thoughts when the door opened behind him. He turned and was astonished to see Mycroft Holmes walk through the door.
"Dr. Watson, good of you to come," said Mycroft, shutting the door behind him. "I'm glad you're here; it will give us a chance to talk before the others arrive."
"Others?"
"Yes, I invited Inspectors Lestrade and Gregson to come 'round this morning at—" he squinted at the timepiece on the mantel—"eleven o'clock. That gives us fifteen minutes, plenty of time to talk."
Watson cleared his throat as Mycroft divested himself of outerwear. "Mr. Holmes, I…I wanted to tell you how deeply sorry I am for your loss."
"Sherlock always spoke well of you, Doctor," Mycroft said, hanging his hat on the rack by the door. "I thank you for your kindness in remembering my brother." He lumbered toward Watson and gripped the doctor's hand in a firm handshake. "I knew Sherlock could always count on you, and for that I am grateful."
The elder Holmes' ice-gray eyes held no accusation, and Watson fought to keep from turning away in shame.
"I fear that in this instance…I may have fallen short of that noble sentiment." Watson said softly as Mycroft released his hand.
Mycroft frowned. "Doctor, how could you ever say such a thing? Knowing the danger, you willingly accompanied Sherlock to Switzerland. Not many men in your place would have done likewise."
Watson felt a twinge of surprise at the elder Holmes' insight, but then remembered that Mycroft, swaddled in a red-tipped cloak, had driven the brougham from Lowther Arcade to Victoria Station.
"Not many men have had the pleasure to call Sherlock Holmes his friend," observed the doctor. "I was very privileged to have that opportunity." He crossed to the chair he had occupied on so many long nights and sat heavily, staring at the worn carpet between the toes of his boots. "Mr. Holmes, I must tell you—I was not there at the end. I did not see your brother fall."
There was an uncomfortable silence, which Mycroft broke by clearing his throat gruffly. "It was a Provident hand that spared you that dreadful sight."
As if he were a penitent confessing some unpardonable sin, Watson sat with his head in his hands. "Moriarty deceived us; he sent a boy with a message that there was an ailing lady at the inn. When I got back to the inn and realized that it had been a hoax…" He shook his head. "I ran as fast as I could, but it seemed an eternity passed before I could get back to the falls. When I arrived upon the scene, I could see evidence of a great struggle, but of the two combatants there was no sign."
The doctor's voice cracked on the last word, but he swallowed and continued.
"I spent quite a while calling out to him, hoping that if there was even a chance—"
"Doctor, you mustn't take on so," Mycroft said kindly, as Watson lifted his gaze to the other's mist-pale eyes. "On the morning he came to see me, Sherlock said he would have you with him rather than take the chance that one of Moriarty's gang would do you harm."
There were several moments of silence in the room. "'Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends,'" Watson quoted softly into the stillness.
"The Gospel of St. John," said Mycroft. "The fifteenth chapter, unless I am much mistaken." He moved to the window and pulled aside the curtain just in time to see Lestrade and Gregson alight from a cab. "Good," he nodded, letting the curtain fall back into place. "They're here."
Inspector Tobias Gregson pulled out his pocketwatch and read the time: twenty minutes to eleven. Collecting his hat and coat from the rack in the corner, he left his office and went downstairs to hail a cab. When he arrived at the kerb, he was only mildly surprised to see Inspector Lestrade set upon the very same task.
"Morning, Lestrade."
"Gregson." Lestrade spoke his colleague's name with only the thinnest veneer of politeness. "And where are you off to? Not neglecting some item of import at your desk, I trust?"
"No, sir." Gregson produced a small envelope from his pocket. "Going to Baker Street, at the request of Mr. Mycroft Holmes. And yourself?"
"The same." Lestrade smirked. The cab pulled up, and Lestrade swung open the partition. "After you, Inspector." When they were both situated, Lestrade glanced up at the cabbie. "221-B Baker Street."
The cabbie tugged at the bill of his cap and shut the porthole. The reins twitched against the horse's back, and soon the cab was engulfed in the bustling London traffic.
They rode in silence for a few minutes, until Lestrade said dryly, "Well, it seems as if Mr. Sherlock Holmes has truly outpaced himself this time, if he's asked both of us to come round."
The sandy-haired Inspector blinked at his dark-eyed rival. "I don't follow you, Inspector."
Lestrade fixed Gregson with a sardonic smile. "I wouldn't expect you to be familiar with Mr. Holmes' methods, Gregson; you haven't worked with him on as many cases as I have. Mr. Holmes is a master of elaborate ruses, although once or twice he has overdone things a bit."
"But...to fake his own death?" Gregson's right hand twitched as if he meant to cross himself. "The papers said that Dr. Watson was too distraught to give comment. Surely that means--"
"All part of the plan, I assure you. Though it does irk me that Mr. Holmes excluded Scotland Yard from something this serious," Lestrade mused. "He's always doing that, you know. It's a most irritating habit he has, going over everyone's heads, completely ignoring procedure. I think this incident justifies some very sharp words on my part," he sniffed.
Gregson sighed. "I do hope you're right," he murmured.
The wreath that adorned the door of 221B Baker Street was made of roses--roses of such a deep red that they looked almost black. Gregson was oddly heartened to see puzzlement in his colleague's face at the sight of the floral tribute; this looked to be, as Lestrade had said earlier, a bit overdone even for Sherlock Holmes.
The frown lines on Lestrade's face only grew deeper when their ring was answered by Mrs. Hudson, the landlady, who was clad from collar to hem in black silk.
"Come in, gentlemen." She stood aside to let them pass into the dim foyer, then took their hats and laid them on the round table in the hall, which was draped with a black cloth and bore a silver-framed photograph of Sherlock Holmes. All the mirrors in the hall were draped in canvas, and the pendulum of the clock hung silent and still. The landlady herself was pale and drawn, though her eyes were clear, and she led them up the stairs.
"Now you'll see something," whispered Lestrade. Gregson shot him a dubious glance, but said nothing as they continued their ascent.
Mrs. Hudson opened the familiar door at the top of the stairs. "Inspectors Lestrade and Gregson to see you, Mr. Holmes."
Lestrade's face lit in triumph, and he pushed past her into the sitting room. "Well, Mr. Holmes, I--"
Gregson's heart sank as he saw what his colleague had already seen; the imposing form of Mycroft Holmes, clad in black and standing near his brother's empty chair by the hearth. Dr. Watson, also in somber attire, sat in his usual place to the left of the hearth, his features leaden with grief.
"Hello, Mr. Holmes." Gregson moved toward the former, his hand outstretched. "We met about six months ago--the affair in Beckenham. My deepest condolences for your loss, sir."
"Thank you, Inspector," Mycroft returned gravely. "You remember Dr. Watson?"
"Of course." The doctor rose from his seat, and Gregson shook his hand. "My condolences to you as well, Doctor."
Watson nodded. "Thank you for coming, Inspector."
Lestrade had not moved from his spot during the entire exchange, and his expression had moved beyond puzzlement to utter bewilderment. "Just what is going on here?" he demanded.
"It's the truth, Inspector," said Watson from his place near the hearth. "Sherlock Holmes is dead."
Lestrade's rat-like face went pale. "Jesus, Mary and Joseph," he murmured.
Mycroft cleared his throat. "Now then, I think it's high time to attend to business. Gentlemen?" He indicated the pillow-strewn sofa with a massive hand, and the two newcomers sat. "Dr. Watson, would you do the honors, please?"
With slow, deliberate movements, Watson went to the cabinet where the younger Holmes stored his finest liquors and poured four glasses of ruby-red port. Two of these he delivered into the hands of Lestrade and Gregson, then kept the third and delivered the fourth to Mycroft. The Inspectors rose to their feet, glasses in hand as Mycroft turned to face the black-draped etching of Reichenbach falls above the fireplace.
"To the memory of Sherlock Holmes," Mycroft said solemnly. "Friend, brother, and loyal subject of Her Majesty. May he rest in peace."
"To Sherlock Holmes," intoned the others, and the toast was drunk in reverent silence.