"I still can't believe you're making me do this."
Holmes smothered amusement beneath a raised eyebrow. "You wanted to help. Watson might have told her his plans."
"And if he didn't," Lestrade finished, "she still needs to know he's missing. I know. I just can't believe you're making me tell her."
"She is less likely to color your eye," he answered dryly.
The inspector barked a laugh. "You think she will hit you?"
"Probably." Lestrade halted a foot from the step, too busy laughing to continue, and Holmes scowled. "I could let you tell her alone. I do not need to return to Baker Street yet."
Lestrade quickly straightened, though the wide grin took a touch longer to disappear. "You would not do that to her," he accused as he knocked. "She has missed both her 'crazy lodgers,' not just one. I think only helping the doctor kept her moving those first weeks after Switzerland."
Helping Watson? Footsteps sounded inside before he could voice the question, and he changed his posture, becoming the junior Yarder that was his disguise as Mrs. Hudson opened the door.
"Inspector Lestrade!" she greeted with a smile. "What a surprise! Come in. Come in." Her gaze lit on Holmes a moment later. "Hello, sir. I don't believe we've met."
"Const'ble Hines," he replied, carefully tipping his hat to avoid losing the hastily applied facial hair. "I wus workin' wit' th' 'nspector when th' news come."
Greeting quickly changed to worry. "What news?"
"We should probably sit down for this, Mrs. Hudson," Lestrade answered. Sadness at Watson's disappearance mixed with pleasure at Holmes' return, and even Holmes could not tell which dominated. She led the way to the kitchen despite her obvious confusion.
"What's going on?"
Lestrade knit his fingers on the table, apparently deciding how to respond. His dissembling skills had grown while Holmes was away.
"I have good news and bad news. Which do you want first?"
"Bad," she said immediately, as Holmes had known she would. She always wanted the bad first, to temper the grief with the good. That eternally positive outlook made her the lady she was.
"Doctor Watson is missing."
She stilled, staring at the inspector in surprise before her expression crumpled. One elbow rested on the table to put her hand over her mouth. "What happened?"
Lestrade sighed as his own grief came to the fore. "We don't know. He returned from an errand before suppertime last night, but the guard never heard him get out of bed this morning. The house was empty when I arrived. He left this."
He slid the note across the table. She read it once, then twice, her sorrow growing.
"Did he tell you anything?" Lestrade asked when she finally looked up.
"No." The word choked in the middle, and she scanned the note again. "No, I've only seen him a few times since Mary died, and one of those was pure luck catching him on the street. Either he's never home, or he ignores the door. He's really gone?"
Lestrade nodded slowly. "We searched that house top to bottom," he told her. "Several belongings are missing—typical travel items—but for all that he never left the house, he's not there. The Yard doesn't have any leads."
She bowed her head, fighting for control against silent sobs. She had called Watson one of "her boys" for years, but "Constable Hines" could not help her. A glance at Lestrade hurried him along.
"Do you want the good news?"
"Yes!" She swallowed a sob to look up, still wiping reddening eyes. "Please. Tell me something good."
"I am going to find him."
Wet astonishment focused directly on Holmes, changing to joyous surprise when he removed the hat and facial hair. "Mr. Holmes!"
"Hello, Mrs. Hudson."
A delighted sob escaped as she gripped his offered hands, but shocked amazement prevented her from saying anything else. She stared, mouth moving silently.
"I am going to find him, Mrs. Hudson," he promised again, mostly to give her a chance to master herself. "He cannot hide from me."
"But—How?!"
"Moriarty had a lieutenant under orders to target Watson—and anyone else he could," he added. "I could not return without putting you in danger."
She still stared at him, though one hand transferred to his shoulder. "So you came back because—"
He nodded, briefly explaining his last three years. "Mycroft caught up yesterday," he finished, "and he trapped Moran. I did not hear about Watson until we were almost to London."
Her grip grew painfully tight, but that was better than a black eye. He let her find her words.
"I can't believe you're here," she murmured. "Simply can't believe it. Oh, if only the doctor could see you!"
"He will," Holmes swore. "How many times did he gripe that I could find anyone in London?"
She chuckled despite the tears in her eyes. "Too many, but what if he is not in London?"
"I will find him," Holmes repeated. "He left a trail. I simply need to identify it. Has he mentioned anything to you? Do you know where he might have gone?"
"No." Moisture welled again though her grin never wavered. "I haven't seen him in too long, since early April, at least. He responded to Mary's death differently than he did yours."
Her words recalled Lestrade's. "What did he do?"
"This time or last?"
"Both," he replied. "Either could give me a clue, but I will not know until I hear it."
She finally released his shoulder, and he tried to hide his relief. At least she had refrained from hugging him. "He retreated from the world this time," she told him, now gripping his hand in both of hers. "Stopped leaving the house except when he had to. He startled at the strangest things, and sometimes he stared at nothing for seconds or minutes. I saw him on the sidewalk once, apparently sleepwalking. He looked right at me but never saw me. The officer a few feet behind him signaled me to silence."
"Did he ever tell you why?"
She shook her head. "And I never asked. It was hard enough to visit him. I would not risk him avoiding me because I spoke of something he wanted hidden."
Holmes could understand that. He had made the same choice with Watson's war memories.
"What about last time?"
Lestrade looked away. He had not intended Holmes to know this.
"Brain fever," Mrs. Hudson said bluntly, apology appearing when Holmes tried to smother shock and grief. "Instead of retreating from the world, he retreated into himself. Your brother met him at the station, and he spoke only once, on the way home. He did not respond again for nearly three months." She hesitated, probably noting the guilt he could not conceal. "I don't think he became truly aware until nearly the fourth month."
Four months. His friend had been ill for four months. Simple grief would not do that. No wonder Watson still struggled years later.
"He blamed himself."
Understanding sparked in her eyes, followed quickly by another round of sorrow—this time for both of them. "Yes, I suppose he did," she murmured. "I never saw it that way."
"Could he have gone back to the falls?"
She thought for a moment. "I doubt it. Why would he go to the falls when he still refuses to go upstairs?"
Confusion flickered past his worry. "Why will he not go upstairs?" Why would he want to? Surely, she had another lodger by now?
She gave a faint chuckle. "Your brother did not tell you about your rooms?" He made no answer. "They are untouched," she said gently. "The elder Mr. Holmes repaired the damage caused by the fire the day you left, and he has paid your rent all this time in exchange for leaving everything alone." She squeezed the hand she still held. "I knew it might only be his way of mourning, but I hoped—"
The words caught, and she swallowed, fresh tears in her eyes explaining her difficulty. He saved her from trying to continue.
"Thank you."
A nod sufficed as answer. "I expect you here tonight," she ordered thickly, voice full of far too many emotions to name. "You need to sleep eventually, and I will leave cold cuts in the sitting room. I don't care where your search takes you or when you creep in, sleep here." She paused to swallow again. "Please."
"I will," he promised, "but we have strayed from our original topic. Is there anywhere he might have gone? Any friends he might visit?"
She sadly shook her head. "I have not seen him in too long. I don't have any leads for you."
"He never left his house except for patients and his work with the Yard," Lestrade said. "I have not even seen him at the cemetery this week. I wrote it off to the storm." He quickly noted Holmes' questioning look, adding, "He always went to Mary's headstone on Sundays. He stopped by your memorial on his way out."
That might provide a place to start. "Tell me his routine."
"He got up shortly after dawn," Lestrade answered. "Usually made coffee, but not always. His appointments were always in the morning, but he went home for the lunch hour to hide that he never ate. If I telegrammed about an autopsy, he arrived at the Yard around one, and he stayed until he finished—usually around six or seven. He always declined supper with me, and the guards reported he went home to stare through the fire until about midnight, when he moved to his room. Sundays, he spent the afternoons at the cemetery."
Holmes gently convinced Mrs. Hudson to release his hand. "What about before Mary's death? What was his routine then?"
Realization appeared on Mrs. Hudson's face, and they shared a glance. She looked at the table. Strange.
"Patients until two or three," was the simple reply, "evenings at the Yard, and Sundays trying to write. It pained him to draft those cases, but aside from a sense of duty to his readers—and to you—he was putting the money away for an eventual little one." Lestrade eyed him. "You knew about the child, right?"
He nodded. "Mycroft told me she died from eclampsia."
"Less than a month after she told him," Lestrade finished. "He was lying in bed next to her when she started convulsing. She was dead within a minute, as best I can figure."
"Watson did not tell you?"
Lestrade shook his head. "The doctor barely knew I was there. The maid had the day off, but I stopped by to ask him about an autopsy the previous week. He was still in shock when I entered."
"Did he retreat immediately?"
"No," Mrs. Hudson replied. "He put up a strong front until after the funeral, and he did not retreat quickly. This happened over a period of about a fortnight."
Something in her words sparked an idea in Lestrade. "He tried to leave London about a month ago," the inspector supplied. "I timed my arrival to when I thought he had a patient, but I found him halfway out the door, his bag packed and a telegram in hand to tell me he had left with forwarding address pending. Only some quick thinking convinced him to stay."
"Did he tell you where he intended to go?"
"No." Lestrade's disappointment matched Holmes'. "I'm not sure he knew a destination himself—except for 'away'—but I would bet money he would have gone north. He despises crowds and hates the city because of it. Rural Scotland would be semi-familiar."
Excellent. He would check the train stations first.
"Do the Irregulars know you are here?" Mrs. Hudson asked before he could try to leave.
He sank back into his chair. "Are they not working? The careers I outlined should have scattered them around the city."
"They still live in the courtyard," she replied, "and they are home by this time of night. Please go to them, Mr. Holmes. Those children refused to leave the courtyard except to search for food after you disappeared, and most of them insist on living there still, purely in memory of the old days. I can't tell you how many times they have visited me. They need to know you are here, and they might know where the doctor went. I have seen several of them playing near his practice many times."
He nodded. They would be able to cover more ground, as well. He would go to them first.
"Do you know of anything else?"
Silence answered him, then Mrs. Hudson touched his hand again. "Bring him home."
He intended to. London was only home if Watson was here, too.
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