Dead. He fought to draw a breath around the grief lodged in his throat. Watson…might be dead. Whether illness or something else, Watson might not be there when Holmes returned.
Holmes might be more alone now than he had been over the last three years.
Just the thought increased his terror. He had done this for Watson. He had left his home, his life, and his friend, all to keep Watson safe, and he might have failed in the last twenty-four hours. Moran might have killed Watson without a bullet. Holmes would return to find his friend in the Yard's morgue, probably still warm.
That hurt the most, that he was hours too late. Weeks or months, and he might eventually convince himself that he could not have changed it, but hours? Perhaps minutes? He should have been faster, escaped Moran, messaged Mycroft, returned sooner, something—
"Sherlock."
The name pierced the near panic dominating his awareness. He found himself staring through the note, Mycroft watching him with something like sympathy.
"What did I teach you about data?"
Do not form a conclusion without proof, Sherlock. Nothing in this world is black and white. Just as the brickmaker needs clay, so you need data.
"The last time I saw the doctor," Mycroft continued, "he did not look healthy. He is thinner now than you described him when you first met, and he walks with a gait of constant pain."
He could simply be ill, that said with different words.
"He caught pneumonia this winter, and the illness left him with a lingering cough. He rarely takes off his coat, even inside, and the maid's last report noted that he had purchased several more blankets."
Pneumonia. He could be very ill.
That was still better than dead.
"Why did the maid leave?"
"The doctor has not had enough patients to warrant a maid since February," was the reply. "About a month ago, her week's pay included an apology that he would not have enough money for another week."
Holmes contemplated that as they reached the city. If pneumonia had left Watson with a cough, he could have had a relapse. That would have prevented him from answering the door. Lestrade would check on him and call another doctor, and Holmes would find his friend bedridden but overjoyed to see him. Illness could account for the missive.
Watson was alive. He had to be. Holmes would cling to that for as long as he could.
The special slowed, winding through the stations as people jumped to their feet only to sit back down. After several minutes, their station came into view, and Holmes waited by the exit well before they stuttered to a stop.
"You will get there faster if you stay with me."
Holmes halted with one foot out the door. Mycroft had already gained his feet when Holmes turned, and he raised an eyebrow at Holmes' questioning look.
"Do you really believe a cabbie will stop for a dead man?" A line of amusement appeared by Mycroft's eye. "My hansom should be the other way."
Mycroft led him out the other exit to the four-wheeler gleaming in the late-afternoon sun. They lurched into motion as Mycroft took a seat, but he spoke only once over the speeding ride.
"Others in addition to the doctor mourned you." Do not let Watson make you neglect Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson.
He nodded. He could do that. He had left to protect Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson too—though they had been in less danger than Watson—and he knew they would be equally glad to see him. Whatever Watson's situation, Holmes would separate it from his reunions with Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson. He owed them that much and more.
Holmes darted from the hansom the moment they reached that familiar house. Light green bushes grew wild in front of a door with more chips than paint. Roses climbed the trellis, obviously untrimmed, and the small patch of yard on the front and side of the house had not been mowed this season. One broken shutter swung in a faint breeze. Every evidence of neglect further confirmed Watson's recent struggles, but something still lurched in his chest on sight of the front door.
Splinters protruded from the frame. Lestrade had forced the lock.
"Watson?"
The hinges creaked, shattering the silence within, but still no one answered. He entered cautiously.
Footprints on the carpets indicated at least two Yarders, probably three. They had stormed through the front door as if entering a hostage situation. Boots cleared the rooms one by one, then began a search pattern. Both hall closets stood open, their contents strewn over the floor to reveal the yawning cellar entrance, every kitchen cabinet had been emptied onto the counters, and fingerprints on the walls suggested a hidden door.
Watson's house did not have hidden compartments. Holmes had checked years ago. He peered through the waiting room into the consulting room—just as cluttered, but ultimately empty—then continued toward the bedroom.
"Watson?"
He would find nothing. He knew he would find nothing. Watson would never leave his house destroyed, and the Yard would have fixed their mess on finding his friend, but he had to try. If any chance of finding Watson in his room remained—
He sagged against the frame. The room looked as if a windstorm had swept through, dumping the contents of Watson's wardrobe to the floor and rearranging the few things on his end tables. Someone had balled the bedcovers near the footboard, but an empty room stared back at him. Watson was not here.
He might be somewhere else, though, and Holmes clutched that thought. He saw no body and no blood—no fluids at all, as one might find in a fatal illness. Watson might be in hospital, or maybe with Mrs. Hudson or Lestrade. He had to be somewhere.
"Hello, Mr. Holmes. I thought you were on the continent right now."
Lestrade's subdued voice carried from the front room, and Holmes pushed himself away from the doorway. The inspector would know where Watson was.
"We returned less than an hour ago," Mycroft answered. He paused, probably noting Holmes' approaching footsteps. "Where is the doctor?"
He heard no reply. Holmes rounded the corner in time to see Lestrade sadly shake his head.
Loss exploded a gaping hole in his chest. Watson was dead. If Lestrade could not say where Watson was, then Watson must be dead. Holmes had returned too late.
"What do you mean 'we'?" he faintly heard Lestrade ask.
Lestrade. He needed to focus, to not cheat one friend in favor of another. He could mourn—and face his guilt—later. He took a deep breath.
"Lestrade."
The word came out somewhat strangled despite his efforts, but the inspector heard anyway. He froze, then spun so quickly he made himself dizzy. One hand braced against the wall as the color drained from his face.
Holmes took a step closer, stopping only when Mycroft moved within range. "Lestrade?"
Lestrade swallowed, hard, still staring. "Am I hallucinating?"
"No, Inspector," Mycroft rumbled. "I went to the continent to pull him out of trouble."
Holmes moved a touch closer, wanting to help but having no idea how. Lestrade still looked far too close to fainting.
"Moriarty had a lieutenant," he explained. "The professor died at the falls, but Moran has chased me ever since, bent on revenge. My presence would have put everyone here in danger."
Some of Lestrade's color returned, then a faint smile followed. "I should have known you would never fall off a waterfall, Mr. Holmes. It's not dramatic enough."
Holmes felt the corners of his mouth turn in the smallest grin. "Mycroft found me in southern Germany yesterday. He helped me take care of Moran, and we took the first train back." He waited a beat, judging whether he could ask his question yet. "Where is Watson?" he voiced when Lestrade said nothing else.
Anguish banished the smile, and Lestrade's shoulders slumped. "I don't know," he said heavily, though his gaze never left Holmes. "I came back here intending to clean. We left a disaster this morning."
"Why?"
"Trying to find him." Lestrade was making no effort to hide his grief and worry. "He returned from an errand just before suppertime last night, but he never got out of bed this morning. The guard knocked, then sent for me when the doctor didn't answer. He was gone by the time I arrived."
Sorrow tried to punch him again, but the inspector seemed more worried than grieved. Something did not match.
"What do you mean 'gone'?"
"Just that." One hand gestured toward the nearby table. "I found his keys in their place, his doors locked, and the curtains drawn as he does every night, but the house was empty. He simply vanished."
People did not 'vanish.' "Is anything missing?"
"A single bag, his revolver, and his cane," Lestrade replied, "but the guards had covered every exit. He never left the house."
Inaccurate. Watson was not here, therefore he had left the house. The only question was how.
"How many men stood watch?"
Irritation flared. "Do you really believe us that incompetent?" Lestrade shot back. "They did not leave a door unguarded to send for me."
"No," he agreed. He had not meant that, and Lestrade would realize as much once his mind caught up with his emotions. "Did you guard the cellar? If he discovered the guards, he might have left through a window."
Movement caught his eye in the kitchen. A towel fell as he glanced over, but only a dishware-covered counter met his gaze. He looked back at Lestrade in time to see the inspector sag against the wall, head in his hands as remorse replaced anger.
"Yes, we guarded the cellar," he said thickly. "At least one guard stood within sight of every door and window, and they would have seen him leave. He has made for the river too many times to go very far without notice."
"Even at night?"
"Even at night." Heartache lined his face when he finally looked up. "You've been gone too long, Mr. Holmes. Doctor Watson walks slower than a child crawls. I doubt he could make it out a window, but if he did, he could not leave sight of the house without stopping to rest. Someone would have seen him—or heard him. The guard swears he heard coughing shortly before he knocked."
Holmes made no answer, searching for something else he could ask. Watson had left a trail somewhere.
"Of all the cases for you to return to," Lestrade sighed before Holmes could find his words, "why did it have to be this one?" His shoulders remained bowed with grief, but hope tried to bloom when he shoved his hands in his pockets. "But you have solved the impossible before. Maybe you can figure it out. Here." He passed Holmes a scrap of paper. "How does a man pack a bag and write a note that he's moving, never leave the house, and yet vanish before I force the door not ten minutes later?"
Lestrade stared at him, half-hoping for an answer, for Holmes to magically produce an answer as he had so many times over so many years. He obviously believed Watson still lived, and Holmes would never consider Watson gone until he saw a body. He unfolded the scrap labeled "Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson."
"This will have to serve as goodbye. London just isn't home anymore. I wish you the best. Doctor John Watson."
He flipped the page over, but the back was blank.
"That is all he left," Lestrade confirmed when Holmes glanced up. "I found it next to his keys."
Holmes returned his attention to the scrap of paper. The nearly illegible scrawl wandered over the page in a manner far from Watson's normal handwriting. The pen needed sharpening, shakiness announced Watson's lack of meals, and a drop on the left side of the scrap indicated a search for words. Watson had struggled to write even this short message, then left it where anyone would find it quickly.
He glanced again at the table. If Watson had left without notice, "next to his keys" would mean he had purposely—worryingly—locked himself out, but Holmes believed Lestrade's insistence that Watson had not exited through door or window. If that was true, how could the house be empty now?
"Could he have reached the roof?"
"How?" Lestrade replied. "I told you that he can barely walk, and where would he go from there if he did reach it?"
If his goal had been to get rid of the guard, he would not have needed to go anywhere else. Lestrade directed a sigh at his feet when Holmes said as much.
"I did not think of that," was the grudging admittance. "There is a roof hatch in the second bedroom. This is the only house in the area that has one."
"Show me."
Lestrade's expression announced what he thought of Watson climbing to the roof, but he willingly led the brothers to the spare bedroom. Trim outlined the hatch in the far corner, and a knob protruded from one side. Holmes easily revealed the attic ladder. Another hatch took him above the house.
A small rabbit nibbled grass growing between the shingles, but thick dust showed Watson had not come through here. Holmes slowly descended the way he had come.
Lestrade's vindication did not hide his disappointment. "What next?"
The hatch closed with a thump, and Holmes brushed the dirt off his hands without answer.
"Well?"
A glance at his brother received a nod from the doorway. Mycroft would help however he could.
"You think he is still alive?"
Lestrade's tone gained a large portion of incredulity. "Will you really give up without a body?"
He breathed a soundlessly abrupt laugh. "No."
"Good." A wide gesture referenced the ransacked house. "Where do we start?"
Hope you're enjoying, and thank you! to those who reviewed the last chapter :D