A/N: Okay, so I might have combined prompts again, but there will be about 3-4 chapters! So really it's a prompt a chapter, just a bit... muddled?

From W. Y. Traveller: Ashes

From A Very Holmesian Christmas: Séance: To humor the Baker Street Irregulars, Watson and Holmes attend a séance

From Domina Temporis: Include Arthur Conan Doyle in a story

The period following my extended hiatus and subsequent return to London was one of much irregularity. Of course I was simply glad to be back home where I belonged, but there can be no denying that things did not return to how they had been before I left. Watson still lived in his house in Kensington and continued to run his practice, but the satisfaction he gained from it was not worth the effort he expended. He visited Baker Street many times and assisted on my cases often, but at the end of each adventure I would take note of the weary slump that set into his shoulders, the sorrowful dimming of his eyes. His house held only dismal loneliness for him, of this I was certain.

Tonight was a clear example. Mrs Hudson had shown him up only minutes ago and already he was happier than when he had first entered, the stresses of the day visibly rolling from his shoulders as he relaxed into the flat's - admittedly stuffy - atmosphere.

"You really should keep this open, you know," he advised, strolling over to throw open a window. "No doubt you've been at your chemistry table all day. The room stinks of sulfur!"

"My experiments came to little," I responded despondently. "Just something to distract me from the paucity of casework."

"Hm." He stayed at the open window, breathing in the evening air and surveying London through the falling dusk. He had his back to me, making it difficult to gauge his mood.

"You'll stay the night?" I enquired, a tad tentative. "It's too late to do much else."

"Yes..." he murmured, but his tone seemed too thoughtful for a one-word answer. He was clearly deliberating over something, and after a few moments he turned back to me. "Holmes, I believe I might have a case for you. Rather a strange one."

"Oh?" This was not what I had been expecting, but I gestured him to his customary armchair. "The stranger the better."

He sat, still hesitant in his manner. "A patient of mine, Colonel Philip Warburton. His, er... well his daughter is missing. In a manner of speaking."

"And what manner would that be?"

"She died in a terrible accident three years ago."

I stared. "You shall have to explain that further. If she died in an accident, surely there is no case?"

Watson shifted in his seat. "Warburton was referred to me through a mutual friend of ours after his daughter's death. He didn't eat, barely slept... His wife had died years before in childbirth. With his daughter's death it was only Warburton who remained, and a son with whom he has a strained relationship. For weeks Warburton looked set to follow the fate of his wife and daughter, no matter what treatments I prescribed, until a few weeks in when he suddenly began to improve. I hoped it was grief running its natural course..." Watson worried his lip for a moment before continuing, "This is where I believe you may lose interest, Holmes. The mutual friend through which I met Warburton was Doctor Doyle."

I had little liking for Doctor Arthur Conan Doyle, Watson's literary agent, although he was not so different from Watson himself in the more superficial aspects of his identity. He was a medical man, of Scottish heritage, and of course maintained a keen interest in literature. When it came to other aspects, however...

"The truth is that the reason for Warburton's marked improvement was that he believed he was able to talk to his daughter," Watson revealed in an embarrassed rush. "He attended séances with a club that Doyle is a member of."

"Séances?" I echoed scornfully and Watson raised a hand to forestall my automatic criticism.

"I do not believe in the practice either, Holmes. But Warburton did believe and his health did improve. Today I was called to his house for the first time in two years as he had suffered a nervous collapse, prompted by the alleged theft of the urn which held his daughter's ashes."

"An urn?" This was indeed looking to be a most singular case. "So when you said his daughter was missing, this is what you meant?"

"That was how Warburton phrased it to me, yes." He cleared his throat self-consciously. "Now the ashes are gone, he claims that he cannot communicate with his daughter as before. He believes that another member of The Ghost Club-"

I couldn't stop my derisive snort. "The Ghost Club?! That is the name of the club Doyle is a member of? [1]"

Watson shrugged bashfully. "I did say the case was strange."

"That is certainly one way of putting it..."

"Holmes, this may seem silly to you and I, but it is a serious matter to the Colonel," Watson insisted sternly. "He believes the ashes were stolen by a jealous member of the club. Others in the group who have already buried their loved ones or scattered their ashes find it far harder to communicate, apparently. They try to use items of importance inherited from the deceased, but it is - so he says - not as effective."

I smothered the unkind retort that instantly leapt to my lips, for I could see Watson was invested in the fate of the poor Colonel. The earnestness with which he presented the case had me wondering... had he ever attended a séance? He had lost many close to him, after all. His brother, his wife, a young daughter I had never had the chance to meet. He had even grieved my own loss. Had he ever been tempted by this so-called 'Ghost Club'?

"So?" Watson watched me nervously, for I had grown suddenly silent and serious as I fell into this train of thought. "Will you help him, Holmes? I know, of course, that you don't believe in the supernatural... but surely the purpose of helping a grieving man is a noble one?"

I looked sympathetically at my friend, still dressed in his own mourning black. "Of course I will help all I can. But Watson, we must consider that the ashes have already been disposed of. After all, what use would they be to a thief?"

"I had considered that too," Watson acknowledged. "But even the reappearance of the urn alone would give some comfort to the Colonel. It was a small, ceramic container his daughter had kept in her bedroom since she was very young. Its return could work wonders for his health."

"Then we must do all we can to locate it," I said, although in truth I could not empathise with such sentiment. It seemed perfectly clear to me that the objects left behind by the dead held only as much significance as we ourselves ascribed to them. Still, Watson looked pleased at my decision to investigate Warburton's case and he smiled his gratitude warmly.

"Thank you, Holmes. Where do you believe you will begin your investigation?"

Already a plan was forming in my mind. "We must begin by contacting Dr Doyle."

"Doyle? Whatever for?"

With a smirk, I replied, "To ask if he and his club would host a séance here, at Baker Street."

[1] Yes, The Ghost Club is real, and still going today!