Well, my friends, it is the end of this tale, one that I have enjoyed writing despite the moments when I wanted to pull my own hair out for lack of creativity and the constant cases of writer's block. I must say that I am going to miss writing this very much; all of these characters have become my friends and saying goodbye to this story is like parting with a dear friend, but no fear, I have tons of tales to tell, including my much anticipated Adlock Story, and some stories from my other favourite fandoms, so stay tuned!
Also, I want to thank my good friend on Tumblr, MissPoisonousLove for helping me create this beautiful epilogue.
The palace of the Indian Maharajah are truly a sight to behold, and if anyone is fortunate enough to be invited, though I don't expect myself to ever be granted such a privilege, it would be as if you had arrived in Paradise; it is most famous for its lush and lively gardens, a man couldn't have seen so green in his life!
Try to imagine, if you will, a veranda with a little bench right underneath it where you can sit and drink a cup of tea while taking in the hundreds of acres of breathtaking landscape, trees as tall as giant cypresses blooming with flowers and exotic fruits, mostly mangoes, which Her Majesty, Queen Victoria of England, enjoys the taste of; take a bite and it will be as if you are eating an orange and a peach at the same time; Turn your head just a little and you will see white marble carved statues of Greek and Indian deities, their expression ranked from the most tranquil to the most horrified, and take some time to appreciate the fact that all of these statues were carved by hand by the most talented artists, using a small hammer and a knife.
What is that sound?
The trickling sound of rushing water can be heard in the distance, these are the lakes and fountains providing the perfect ambience for mornings when you just want to relax; Wait, don't look away, you have a visitor. The gardens can accommodate more than ten different species of animals, including peacocks; these small and colourful birds are only ever seen in this small, yet significant corner of the world. A truly humbling aspect of Indian culture, is the way that people value the life of every breathing creature, from the smallest insect to the biggest elephant; they worship the animals as if they, themselves are descended from royalty. The Indian Maharajah was known for having a sweet spot for cats. Big cats. One of them is walking right next to you, but you know better than to reach out and pet it. Their job is to be on alert for any intruders who might attempt to attack their Master. He decided to lie down right next to the chair you are sitting in, eyes are focused on you, but since you do not pose any immediate threat, he lies down with his head resting on his gigantic paws, whose claws could tear you apart with one lethal swipe.
Once you have finished your cup of tea and you are about to leave, chances are you will want to take a leisurely stroll, so you stand up, with one of the guards accompanying you and you leave the veranda to come across a fork in the path, which one do you take? Stone pathways crossed this way and that, fortunately, residents of the palace know how to get in and out the maze gardens using a map, so you shouldn't have any trouble and become one of those unfortunate men, who didn't possess that map, and to this day have been lost in this maze.
Now that I have given you a brief yet hopefully helpful description of where this part of the story takes place, though don't expect to stay long because we will be leaving quite shortly, I want to introduce you to one man who refused to use the map, found himself - without trying hard, in and out the intricate labyrinth and suffice it to say, the guards accompanying him were perplexed as to how he had managed to find his way out on the first try, when he had come to return a certain emerald diamond. It had taken them many years of trial and error to figure out the best route to take in order to get out.
Of course, puzzles like this, were mere child's play.
This man was the infamous Sherlock Holmes, and I was sure he was lost.
A little boy, about eight years old, trotted happily alongside his aunties, Simza and Irene. He looked every inch like his father, with a mixture of myself, too; Rosie was trailing right behind him, her beautiful blond locks bouncing behind her as she walked; she was ten, an age in which most little girls started to imitate the airs of those around her, especially Mary. She giggled as William stuck his nose in one of the vibrant red roses and sniffed loudly. Both of them had a friendship that bloomed and became richer everyday.
"The roses smell good today," I heard him say as I continued to watch my husband; but there was no sign of him.
"They do, don't they?" said Irene. "But remember, we cannot pick them, we must leave them alone so we can continue to take care of them."
"I wish Father could see them, too. Where did he go?" William turned his curly head to the left and then to the right.
"He is probably lost in the maze again," Simza laughed.
"It wouldn't be the first time," said Irene, laughing along with her.
"Worst things could happen," said John, smirking a little.
"John!" Mary lightly scolded, but she couldn't help the smile blooming on her face.
"Father!?" William called, cupping his hands around his mouth. "Are you lost?"
"Uncle Sherlock!" Rosie yelled, as both of the children ran up ahead and started looking high and low. "Where are you?!"
Just then, there was a rustling sound coming from beside them, he pointed to a bush and just then, I saw him jumping out from behind it and I heard their delighted squeals as he reached down to pick them up but not quickly enough; they dodged out of the way, laughing as they continued to run.
I was watching him as his chocolate brown eyes met mine; and a small smile crossed his aging features; he was no longer the twenty-seven-year old boy who solved his first case with his dearest and loyal companion, a doctor, who mourned him more than anyone in the world when he died and who was now living a life of his own with his wife and daughter, but he was still as handsome as the day I met him. He was dressed with a traditional Indian uniform, in a pale brownish creamy colour, the fabric was silk. His ebony-brown messy hair was now perfectly slicked back. The mark of aging touched his fine locks: few angry graying-white roots at his temples. His strong law and sharp face had been shaven recently. A scar under his cheek. which he earned back in 1891 to save a Gypsy named Simza Heron from a hired killer - a Cossack, was still there, like a badge of heroism, though it had gradually begun to fade like the nightmares which haunted him once he had found his way back home.
He slowly and breathlessly strode over to me. "Darling, we must go; His Royal Highness is expecting us for tea." He linked his arm through mine and William jumped up and down, trying to catch a butterfly that had been floating mockingly in front of him as we walked along the stone path to an outbuilding where we could see a silhouette of another man drinking his tea - the British Government took the infamous English tea from her colony; beside him his mistresses and his servants: playing music or making sure that the gentleman was pleased.
Mycroft was sitting on one of the chairs opposite him. "Thank goodness, dear brother mine, we were starting to worry that we would have to send the guards to look for you," he said.
"Sherlock Holmes!" The figure stood up and his penetrative voice was heard and bounced off the walls. "Come here, my dear friend, and join me!" He was a man with vivid green-brown irises and dark complexion, a hooked nose, and a goatee black as coal, which twisted in the corners. From where Sherlock was standing, he could see that the man was dressed in the white costume of his homeland, a matching silk stole, and a cloth around his head was wrapped, and he wore many jewels. "Long time, no see."
"I couldn't agree more, Your Highness, we have much to catch up on."
He was the Maharajah himself!
The Grand Monarch, who was forty-seven years old at the time, was said to have the greatest, gentlest and warmest smile on the world, as much his hugs which could break bones, and at first, when William approached him, remembering at once to bow, admittedly, the child was intimidated, but the smile did not falter, in fact, it only grew warmer. "Come here, my children, don't be afraid." He opened his arms wide and William and Rosie looked to Sherlock for reassurance.
"It's alright, the Maharajah is a kind and generous man; he won't hurt you," he said softly.
William nodded once and then slowly approached the decorated man in front of him, one of his servants gently picked him up and placed him on the Indian gentleman's lap. "There you are." He turned to Sherlock. "I was not aware that you had a son; he looks just like the two of you. Come to think of it," At this moment, he turned to me. "I don't think we have been formerly introduced, Mrs. Holmes?" He looked back at Sherlock with a knowing grin, then back to me. "Tell me, how did you ever manage to steal his heart."
"It's a long story, Your Majesty. It would take a considerable amount of your valuable time."
"Oh! I want to listen!" He insisted and the expression on his face became one of curiosity; His big green eyes looked like emeralds.
"I wanna know, too, Mama!" William piped up and the Maharajah gestured to him.
"See? The child wishes to know also, don't you, young man?"
"Yes, Your Highness, I do! I do!"
"I do, too!" Rosie piped up, sitting nicely on her father's lap, and taking a biscuit from the plate one of the servants were holding out to her. William took one as well.
"As you wish, your majesties." I said with a small smile.
My husband and I found a seat close by and I straightened up, wondering whether I should tell the most interesting parts, or start from the beginning. "Let's see." And then, with family and friends gathered around us, the tale of how the two of us fell in love, had begun unleashing.
~ The End. ~