Crackling paper woke him. He grumbled and rolled over. He wanted to sleep. The sun would not rise for at least a few more minutes.
The noise came again, snapping and popping beneath his ear. Whatever the cause, it was under his pillow. One hand released its grip on the blanket to blindly feel for the scrap he had left in his sheets. He nearly tossed the item to the floor before the shape registered.
Smaller than his hand. Rectangular. Glossy. He opened his eyes. How had the picture ended up under his pillow?
It had not. He held an envelope, not the picture. The picture still rested on his table, but flipping the envelope over found his name on the front. Why had Mrs. Hudson left a note in his room?
Someone might have left it during the Moriarty case, he supposed, but he doubted it. The paper was new, relatively unwrinkled. Moisture would have found it if the paper had been under his pillow for three years. He broke the seal with a curious frown.
"Your friend is with me. Follow the rabbit."
He stared, then read it again. That was a strange ransom note. Had Watson been kidnapped?
He had no idea, but the unfamiliar handwriting denied any clues. He read it again, searching for a code, a signature, anything that would reveal the meaning of such a note. Was this someone's version of a prank?
Unlikely. For at least a few more hours, he would recognize a note from anyone that knew he was in London. Mrs. Hudson either had placed the note herself or knew the one who had. Perhaps they had made her promise to let him find it before she said anything. She could not have known it contained directions to Watson. He would ask at breakfast.
"Mr. Holmes?" Her voice carried up the stairs. "Do you want eggs?"
Or now. He stretched and stood, quickly finding his slippers before padding out to the landing.
"Mr. Holmes? Ah, I thought I heard you wake," she said when he reached the landing. "Do you want eggs?"
"Please," he replied, displaying the envelope. "Who left the note in my room?"
"What note?"
He frowned but descended the stairs. "The one under my pillow. You did not put it there?"
"No." Confused fear appeared in her gaze. "No one has been upstairs, either. Who is it from?"
"It is unsigned."
She caught sight of the envelope as he cleared the last stairs. Her eyes widened, then her smaller fingers plucked the note from his hand. Tension fled to allow utter relief to wash her expression.
"Oh, thank Heaven."
He stepped closer at the breathed gratitude. "You recognize the handwriting?"
"Yes." The word came out halfway between a sob and a sigh of relief, and she leaned against the wall, eyes on the paper. "Yes, I recognize the handwriting—and the wording. And the paper. Oh, I never thought—he left it under your pillow?"
"Someone did," he agreed, "but you still have not told me who."
"A friend," she answered breathlessly. "A wealthy friend of the doctor's. Doctor Watson's in no danger. Not with him. Never with him."
A laugh bubbled out, one born of complete release. Whoever had left the note, Mrs. Hudson trusted him implicitly.
"Who is 'him'?"
Mrs. Hudson shook her head, finally regaining control though she could not kill the wide smile. "I cannot tell you," she said without looking up. "You have to find him yourself."
"Why not?"
"Because you would not believe me. You have to take your own path."
Her hand fell from the note to check the envelope, but she still leaned heavily against the wall. Their conversation yesterday came to mind, along with a bit of clarity.
"Is this what you and Lestrade refrained from mentioning?"
"Who," she corrected shortly, still smiling at the note, "not what, but yes."
She silently read the note yet again, and irritation flared at her evident pleasure. The question came out as a growl.
"You knew Watson was with a friend?"
"No!" Mrs. Hudson's gaze finally met his. "No, sorry. I'm just so relieved—Doctor Watson meets this friend every December, and he introduced me a few years ago. Your question about his routine reminded us that someone would need to be available next December should the worst happen. Correspondence is sometimes…sporadic."
The anger faded, though frustration at her vague wording did not. "Where is he?"
"I cannot tell you that either." She held out the note. "If you want to find Doctor Watson, I suggest you follow the rabbit."
"What rabbit?"
"Try near his house," she suggested. "Be careful, though. Things are never as they appear with those creatures."
He scowled. "They are rabbits, yet they are not as they appear?"
She laughed at his tone. "Join me in the kitchen. I can describe the creatures to you, if you will listen."
He tucked the note in a pocket and followed. Bacon, sausage, and toast landed on the table, and she cracked two eggs into a pan.
"I saw my first when I was a girl," she started as he claimed some meat. "A friend of mine wrote all the time, and the creatures followed her. I loved watching them—and her with them. The creatures are not your typical rabbits, Mr. Holmes. One fits in two cupped hands—at first—and I have always seen them as small, brown European rabbits, though some say they have horns. They are incredibly smart, and they are not pets. They understand everything."
They were rabbits. "Now, Mrs. Hudson—"
She cut him off with a look. "I tell you the truth. If you don't believe me, it's on your head. I doubt the doctor will come back to London without you there to convince him."
That quieted him. "If you pay attention," she continued, "they can choose to communicate with you as well. As he ordered one to lead you to the doctor, you can be sure the animal will do so, and you do not need to speak aloud for it to hear you. You must learn to listen, watch, and stop questioning. If you see something strange, believe it."
"What do you mean?"
The eggs slid onto a plate, and she joined him at the table. He left the meat in favor of the food that would not survive travel.
"Not everyone can see them," she finally answered, "and the rabbits will not let you touch them. They will vanish from your reach. Try too often, and your guide will not return."
"Mrs. Hudson—"
"Mr. Holmes." She held his gaze. "Several of these creatures lived in the upstairs wardrobe the entire time the doctor shared rooms with you. Afraid of your reaction, he flatly told them to hide from you and made me promise the same. This letter," she tapped the paper, "negates my oath, but that does nothing if you will not put aside your love of tactical logic to see what truly exists in this world." She leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms. "Would you rather believe only what is 'logical,' or would you rather have Doctor Watson back?"
He stared. What kind of a choice was that? He wanted his friend, of course, but why were those exclusive?
"Because the doctor is not in a logical place," she answered. "Mentally or physically, but I refer mostly to physically. The animal will guide you as far as it can, then you will have to wait for a ride. Do not give up if you are waiting for a day or two. He is busy as it is, and hosting the doctor will make him busier."
"Are you going to tell me this man's name?"
"No. He can introduce himself when you are ready. You are not ready yet."
"Why not?"
"You have too many things to learn first. If I tell you his name now, you will decide I am insane. Instead of following directions, you will continue your futile search, and you will never find the doctor."
He stared at her, stunned. She thought he would choose to follow a wrong path because of the man's name? Who was this person?
"I will recognize his name when I learn it."
"Definitely."
"Is he a criminal?"
"No, but that is all I will tell you." She claimed a spare piece of toast. "For now, are you going after the doctor?"
"Yes," he said immediately. "Yes, I am going, but I still do not understand how I am supposed to find him. How can an animal guide me to Watson?"
"Those creatures guide people all the time," she replied, "though usually to plot lines. Have you never heard birdsong when you compose?"
What did that have to do with anything?
She grinned. "Here's your first lesson: every creative art has a creature of inspiration. The canaries that follow you are simply more likely to stay invisible than the doctor's 'plot bunnies.' Have you seen a rabbit yet?"
"There was one on Watson's roof," he recalled, "but you cannot seriously—"
"I can," she interjected, "and it will. Whether you will listen is up to you." She glanced at where he had hidden the letter, then stood to take his plate to the sink. "At least if you don't," she admitted quietly to the soapy water, "I know he is safe. I will tell the inspector the next time I see him." The cleaned plate returned to its place on the shelf. "Wrap up that meat. If the creature leads you as far as I think it will, you have a bit of a journey ahead of you."
Napkins and a paper sack quickly bundled the meat for travel before he bounded back up the stairs to freshen up. Several changes of clothes joined the meat and a few other things in his carrysack, and Mrs. Hudson met him in the entry.
"Your brother sent this last night," she told him, an envelope in one hand. "The messenger relayed that you should have access to your bank accounts by midday."
He nodded, slipping the money into an inside pocket. "I told the Irregulars and Johnson to come here if they found anything."
"I will tell them you have a lead," she promised. "Now get going. That impatient creature won't wait on you forever."
He barked a laugh but swung his bag over his shoulder. A convenient cab soon trotted toward Watson's practice.
Lestrade had fixed the door by the time Holmes arrived, as well as cleaned the practice and sitting room. Small noises led Holmes to the kitchen, and Lestrade glanced up at his entrance.
"Hello, Mr. Holmes. Any luck?"
The greeting hit the air almost terse. Yesterday's relief had turned to anger that stiffened Lestrade's shoulders and shortened his words. Holmes needed to tread carefully.
"I believe so, but I am not sure yet. Mrs. Hudson said you would understand this?"
He retrieved the note from his pack, and Lestrade willingly stopped working to read it. Relief bloomed instantly.
"Lestrade!"
The shorter inspector waved him off. "Fine," he muttered, leaning heavily on the counter to read the note again. "I'm fine." He flipped the paper over, then pushed himself upright to pass it back to Holmes, refusing to make eye contact. "Thank you."
"Of course. Can you tell me what it means?"
"No more than Mrs. Hudson could." Lestrade ignored the way his knees had buckled as he returned to his task, barely stifled irritation keeping him looking anywhere but at Holmes. He had worried over Watson far more than Holmes had known. "Doctor Watson made me promise the same thing he did Mrs. Hudson."
"She said the note invalidated her oath."
"It does," Lestrade agreed, "but only about the creatures. As you have come here—" One hand referenced Watson's home, "she has already told you anything I might say."
"Can you tell me why?"
Lestrade stilled. "Why what?"
What would make Watson go to these lengths to keep a secret? Why had Watson sworn them to silence? Why could they tell him nothing even now?
How should he word this?
"Why did he hide this from me," he asked cautiously, "whatever this is?"
"Probably fear," was the blunt reply. Lestrade chose a cabinet on the other side of the kitchen.
"He was—is—afraid of me?" He cursed himself for the slip of the tongue, but Lestrade did not seem to notice.
"More afraid of your reaction." A pot went back to the counter to place a casserole dish behind it. "You came close to the truth a few months after you met, and he said you ridiculed him for its mention. He quickly erased all clues, fearing that discovery would drive you away. Even then, he thought highly of you." Lestrade finished with that cabinet, but he stared through the wall instead of looking at Holmes. Fury crept into his words as he added, "more highly than you seemed to think of him, at least until recently."
Holmes found a sudden interest in his shoes. He had not expected Lestrade's anger to be on Watson's behalf, but that did not negate the truth of his words.
"I have much for which to apologize."
The soft admission eased some of Lestrade's evident ire. He kept his back to Holmes but moved to a closer cabinet. "Try the back bedroom."
He appreciated the guidance, but he could not leave yet, not without fixing something of what he had caused. The words did not stumble quite as much as they used to.
"I understand if you cannot accept it," he said quietly, "but that apology includes you as well."
Lestrade hesitated, then nodded. A pan clanged against the back of the cabinet as Holmes left him alone.
Seems Holmes is finally on the right track. Hope you enjoyed :)