"Yes, I am sure. Stop here."
The man dubiously eyed the shadows as a grudging flick of the reins brought the horse to a halt.
"There's nuthin' back 'ere, sir," the cabbie tried again as Holmes gained his feet. "All the shops is closed."
"I know." Holmes did not remember cabbies caring this much before, but the man finally shook his head when a handful of coins landed in his outstretched hand. Horseshoes clip clopped on the cobblestones as the cab moved away, and Holmes started down the darkened alley, debating his plan.
How should he do this? If Mrs. Hudson was correct, almost all "his" Irregulars still lived here—even those that should have moved on after his disappearance. He doubted simply walking through the door would be a good idea, but should he try to call them outside? Should he enter via the tunnels? Could he just walk through the door?
And how would they react if he did?
The archway loomed, and he stopped at the corner, leaning against the alley wall to make up his mind. Children adapted better than adults. No matter how he revealed himself, none were likely to collapse as Lestrade nearly had, but they would also eventually mob him. How could he break the news slowly?
A hat caught his eye. Dust and dirt covered the article, filling the thinner spots in the rotting fabric, and it ripped slightly as he retrieved it from the pile of debris. The same color as the ragged suit he had donned to search London, the headcover gave him an idea. He gave his carrysack a good layer of grit, pulled the hat low on his head, and modified his posture to take a foot off his height. Within moments, he was a wandering vagrant seeking a place to sleep.
Trash and rotting wood still disguised their entrance, but signs of older inhabitants permeated the pile. Unlike in years past, Holmes had to move only one board to fit through the door. He quickly staggered to the right to slump against the wall, pretending to ignore the children near the other side of the courtyard. They would react better if he let them come to him.
"Intruder!"
He hid a grin as the alarm rose, glad they still followed the old protocols. Immediately, the youngest children scattered, while the ten oldest boys hurried towards him. They slowed marginally when he released a faint snore beneath his pilfered hat.
"Oi! What're you doin' in our house?"
He made no answer, hiding his face though he could easily see them. Surprise bloomed when they nearly skidded to a halt some fifteen feet away.
"Hold."
The word hit the air almost hesitantly, then a single pair of footsteps moved slowly closer. Jackson stopped about five feet from where Holmes sat.
"That's not possible."
Holmes quickly smothered a burst of pride. He had not expected any of them—even Jackson—to recognize him so quickly.
"What's not?"
Silence met Tom's question. Jackson took one more step. "Mr. Holmes?"
"I am pleased to know you still remember your lessons."
He sat up in time to catch every young face travel from caution, to disbelief, to utter glee. They barely let him stand before nine small bodies crowded far closer than comfort allowed.
"Mr. Holmes!"
"You're alive!"
"You're here!"
"Why did you leave?"
"I don't care about that. You came back!"
"What?!"
The loud cry echoed from the tunnels, and Doris barged out a moment later, leading the stream of younger children making straight for him.
"Mr. Holmes!"
Only his place against the wall prevented him from falling. Nearly thirty chattering children fought to touch him, pushing and jostling to tug on fingers, coattail, and belt loops. He gently captured a small hand rifling his pocket, but his gaze focused on the one boy still frozen in place.
"It can't be," Jackson murmured. "He said—"
"I had no choice," Holmes answered the unfinished question. "If I had returned, he would be dead, as would several others."
As he might be anyway, a thought reminded him. He shoved it away. He would deal with that in a moment, but these children—and young adults—deserved his full attention.
"You work as a bank clerk," he announced, "in the same bank Mycroft provided three years ago. You climbed the ranks quickly, and you are the youngest to reach your current position. Well done."
Disbelief faded behind a grin that grew with every deduction. "It is you!"
The others finally calmed enough to step back with a hint of embarrassment, but Jackson had no such qualms. He wrapped Holmes in a quick embrace of his own.
"What did the doctor say?" Doris asked when Jackson released him. "Mrs. Hudson? The 'nspector? Do they know you're here? Are you goin' back to Baker Street? Will we get to help you with cases again?"
"Slow down, Doris." Jackson's hand on her shoulder stopped the torrent of questions, and he looked expectantly at Holmes. He did not look up quite as far as he used to. "Well?"
Holmes barked a laugh. "Do you plan on letting me move away from the door?"
Jackson grinned but led the way toward their largest table. Doris unashamedly took the place on Holmes' right, and the others spread out enough to see. Obviously still the leader, Jackson sat directly across from him.
"Yes, I am going and have been at Baker Street," he said first. "Mrs. Hudson knows I am here, as does Inspector Lestrade."
"What about Doctor Watson? He missed you a lot, you know."
He swallowed a tangled web of guilt, worry, and fear. "I know," he replied, forcing the words to remain steady, "but he does not know I am in London, which is why I came here now. My original plan was to let you find me tomorrow."
Every grinning face immediately sobered, and faint trepidation leaked into Jackson's voice. "Please say he's not dead."
"He is not dead." Relief bloomed across the table, but Holmes continued before they could ask. "He is missing. He disappeared from his house sometime this morning. Were any of you nearby?"
Jackson checked the other boys, then shook his head. "I don't think so." He stood and faced the gathered young ones, all watching though the newer arrivals likely had no idea why the older children were so excited. "Hey! Was anyone at the doctor's today?"
"Coupla peelers were there this mornin'!" George pushed through the crowd, grinning at Holmes despite his news. "'Round ten, I think," he added. "One of them was Inspector Lestrade. I thought they were talking work again."
"Did you see anything before the officers arrived?" Holmes asked. "Did Watson leave?"
George shook his head. "I was Running. I only saw them go in. Never saw the doctor."
"What about last night?" Jackson asked. "You came home late."
"Nothing. Lights were on like always, but no movement."
"What do you mean 'like always'?"
George shrugged away Holmes' question. "The doctor never sleeps," he said indifferently. "We see his lights on all the time. If I didn't know how crummy his health has been, I'd think it was pretty nice not to have to sleep the night away. He must get a lot done."
No food. No sleep. Never spoke. The words rang through his mind, evidently showing on his face though he tried to prevent it. George's nonchalance quickly flipped to quiet concern.
"He wasn't getting stuff done, was he? And it's not good to be able to go without sleep?"
"No," Holmes answered lowly, "on both accounts. How many of you can spare a few hours tonight and tomorrow?"
All "his" Irregulars raised a hand, as well as many newer children.
"Excellent. Divide up the train stations, wagon rentals, docks, and every other method of transportation within five miles of Watson's house. Spread to ten miles if you do not find anything, and report to Mrs. Hudson if you do. Go as long as you can today, then resume tomorrow, but do not risk your jobs. Understand?" They nodded. "Good. I will be moving amongst the bars and pubs tonight and riding the trains north of the city tomorrow. We believe he left willingly, but the trail ends at his house. Keep your eyes open for anything, no matter how small."
"Yes, sir," Jackson said for all of them. "Where should we look after the stations?"
Holmes considered for a moment. "Libraries," he decided, pleased the young man was thinking that far ahead. "His note specifically said he was leaving London, and he might have leased a flat somewhere out of town. Do you still keep paper here in the courtyard?" Jackson nodded. "Copy addresses and contacts for anything considered 'countryside' and leave it at Baker Street. You can get more paper from my desk if you need it."
"Yes, sir," he said again before turning away. "George, you and Tom take the Kensington stations. Be thorough. He most likely went through there…"
Holmes slipped through the door, confident that if Watson had truly left the city, the Irregulars would find the trail. He needed to determine whether Watson might still be in London.
"Hey, you old codger! Get out of the road!"
He hurried to the opposite sidewalk, ignoring the cabbie's grumbles. The next driver stopped at Holmes' wave, and he named a pub on the river, one that used to carry the pulse of the city.
"D'yew mean The White Dog?"
"Next to the Tower?"
"Aye."
"Then yes, that one. My partner must have provided the old name."
"Oi'm not sure yew wanna go there, mate. Place isn't as nice 's it used ta be."
"Alright," Holmes replied easily. "I am looking for a place with a lot of people, where I might learn quite a bit, if I listen. I have not been to London in a while, and I need to know what the newspapers do not carry."
Understanding lit the cabbie's dark eyes. "I know where yew want, sir, and it's not fer."
Holmes nodded agreement, and the cabbie stopped outside a rundown bar and pub only a few minutes later. Holmes tossed him slightly more than necessary on the way through the door. He kept his head down to claim a table in the back and ordered a pint when the server wandered by. Conversation swirled around him.
"Arthur's on the move again. Best lay low. Peelers'll nab him any time now. He's gettin' cocky."
"That visitin' duchess got herself lost in the East End yesterday. Mebee nex' time she won't ditch 'er minders."
"Rumor has it the queen is planning a day on the grounds next month. Weren't you wanting to see her daughter? She's mighty pretty."
"I got a better rumor. Someone overheard two peelers tryin' ta figure out how some poor bloke vanished from 'is house. Door locked, exits guarded, but 'e's not there."
Holmes focused. Did they know anything?
"Really? Who?"
A pause. "Dunno. Wasn't nobody I knew, but did you hear about…"
They got up and left, taking their conversation—now about someone harassing the East End—with them.
"Mrs. Maycry's husband caught her with Mr. Cushman yesterday."
"That Jersey devil was down by the docks last week. Keep clear of him. Downright menace he is."
"Jersey devil?"
"You know. That nag from the States."
"Ah, that one. Did you hear—"
"I can hardly believe my eyes." A tall, broad-shouldered man slipped into the seat opposite, staring at Holmes with outright amazement. He noted Holmes' outfit. "Are you who I think you are?" he asked tactfully.
Holmes nodded, unable to kill a small smirk. Shinwell Johnson had done well for himself, if the gleaming watch and patchless clothes were any indication.
"Then how—?"
Holmes shook his head minutely, holding up a finger before scribbling on a pad.
I am here for information. Listen for any references to a stranger showing up in a new place—whether willingly or unwillingly. The man is unhealthily thin, bowed with grief, and largely silent. Meet me out back after they close.
Johnson agreed, disappearing into the crowd as Holmes resumed his eavesdropping, but Holmes heard nothing despite the constant flux of customers. Hours later, he tiredly stepped into the alley.
"The world thinks you are dead."
"Intentionally," Holmes replied, joining Johnson in the shadows, "but not for much longer. Did you find anything?"
Johnson shifted his feet, ensuring a passing drunk came no closer. "No. Your man hasn't come through here. Have you asked the doctor? Last I saw of him, he had so many patients he's bound to have heard something." Johnson studied him in the faint light. "I'm surprised he didn't color your eye, by the way. You deserve it after a stunt like that."
Holmes affected a smirk. "Perhaps," he admitted, "but Watson cannot say much. He is the object of my search."
Johnson's restless movements stilled, then grief appeared. "What happened?"
He thought for a moment, then briefly summarized all that had occurred in the last days.
"I believe he left the city," he finished, "but if you hear anything, take it to Baker Street or give it to an Irregular."
"Aye," Johnson agreed sadly. "I'll keep a look-out." He paused. "Get some sleep, Mr. Holmes. By your own account, you've not had much recently, and you'll need to be at your best to find the doctor."
He nodded. Well into the early hours of the morning, nothing would open for a while. He would catch a few hours' rest before taking the early train. If Watson had gone north, as Lestrade had suggested, surely one of the stationmasters would have seen him.
"Is your return a secret?" Johnson asked before Holmes could slip away. "I will recruit others," he continued when Holmes looked back, "but I need to know if I should leave you out of it."
"It is not a secret," Holmes replied. "I have already seen Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, and the Irregulars. The news will spread through the city by morning."
Johnson chuckled, but Holmes did not wait around. Forgoing a cab to stay awake, he still needed less than an hour to reach Baker Street. Mrs. Hudson had left the stair light on, and a dying fire dimly lit the sitting room.
His sitting room. He paused in the doorway, staring at memories brought to life. Whatever else might have changed in the last years, Mrs. Hudson had spoken truth when she said these rooms remained untouched. Only accumulated dust had been removed from knickknacks, letters, furniture, pieces of their lives he had thought lost forever. Watson had placed that chair specifically for Lestrade to drag closer when he visited. Watson had given him that picture in jest. Watson had left his sword cane on his last visit. A line of Watson's favorite novels lined the shelf, all here for the express purpose of showing Holmes that marriage did not break contact.
Watson. Everywhere. These were not his rooms. These were their rooms, for Watson lived here now just assuredly as he had years ago. He could almost believe he would find Watson dozing on the settee, waiting for him to return from a long night of "sleuthing," as his friend had once called it.
He would not, but he would find Mrs. Hudson at the table, teacup in one hand, head pillowed on her arm, and a platter in front of her. She roused as he quietly claimed a few pieces of meat, her large smile clearly announcing why she had waited up for him.
"Anything?"
A bite prevented immediate answer. "No." He took another bite, "but all the Irregulars and at least one of my old contacts search the city now. I plan to ride the trains for the next few days to ask at the stations."
"You will find something." She pushed herself to her feet and squeezed his arm, obviously needing the touch to confirm his presence. She had spent hours worrying that this afternoon had been a dream. "Thank you," she added quietly. "Stay long enough to eat something tomorrow? The early train is at seven, I believe. I can have something in the way of breakfast around six."
Food would probably be a good idea. He agreed, and she quietly descended the stairs as he drifted through the sitting room to end up in his bedroom.
Books lined one wall. Papers rested in the middle of his desk. One drawer stood open, noticeably missing the pipe that had gone over Reichenbach. He closed the drawer. The room looked exactly how he remembered.
His journals filled the empty places on the shelf, each telling a part of these years' journey, but the clothes and other items Mycroft had rescued he could put away another day. He sat on the bed, staring at the one thing that could not return to its place.
Watson stared back at him, seated on his left in the dingy, wrinkled photograph. The picture belonged in Watson's room, in the front corner of the top right drawer of Watson's dresser where he could see it every morning, but only Watson could put it there. Holmes would return it to his friend, not his friend's empty house.
A difficult goal when he could not find his friend.
One finger traced the image. Time and travel had frayed the corners and left creases in unfortunate places—as in their lives, Watson would say. They were not the same people from three years ago. What would he find at the end of his search? Would his friend welcome him or turn him away? Would Watson give him another chance? Would Watson even recognize him? Every piece of information pointed to steadily declining health. He might catch up with his friend only to still be too late. For their friendship. For Watson to listen to him. For Watson to come with him.
He had made his choice knowing he chose safety over friendship, but that did not make him willing to pay either price.
The thought stabbed somewhere in his chest. Watson had probably left willingly, but perhaps not. He had probably had a destination in mind, but Holmes had no way of knowing. Watson might never have reached it, anyway.
Would the memories be all that remained of his friend?
No. No, he refused to think that. Watson was out there somewhere. Whether in danger or simply trying to start a new life, Holmes could only guess, but he would find out. He would not stop searching until he found his friend. He would find Watson, and he would convince Watson to come home. Baker Street would never be home without his friend.
He would continue his search at dawn.
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