"What happened?" Holmes finally asked when they were safely in a first-class car, headed west. "Why are you here instead of sending a message?"
Mycroft scowled, quickly deducing everything that had happened in the last week with a simple scan.
"I did send a message," he answered after a moment, a scowl clear in his tone though it no longer showed on his face. "I have sent several messages. When you did not answer, I warned you that if I had not heard from you in four days, I would come for you. Did you not receive any of them?"
Holmes shook his head, reflexively ducking out of sight of the window as they passed through a station. "I have received nothing from you since the holidays. I had no reason to believe anything but that there was nothing to send. Is that why you felt the need to break down my door?"
"Of course," was the reply, conveying without words the worry that had been plaguing Mycroft for the last several days, if not weeks. Holmes let the topic drop, understanding that worry in a way he would not have a decade ago.
Mycroft continued studying him, his worry subtle but apparent on his face as he sank into his thoughts, and for the first time since seeing his brother in his room, Holmes knew a tendril of fear. He had other questions he wanted answered, of course, but those could wait. There was only one thing that could worry Mycroft now that he knew Holmes was alright.
"What happened?" he asked again, his gaze locked on his brother's. "What happened to Watson? Is he—?"
He could not bring himself to finish the question, dreading the answer he feared was coming.
"He is alive," Mycroft started, and Holmes nearly let his relief show before Mycroft continued, "as of two days ago."
No. Please no.
"And now?"
Mycroft shook his head, still more focused on his thoughts than on the conversation. "I do not know. I left a guard with him, but any messages Riston sends will be at the station telegraph offices."
"What changed?" Holmes pressed. "Is he sick? Why is Mary not caring for him? What is wrong with Watson?" Holmes sat forward in his seat, the last part coming out in a tense near-hiss as he focused solely on his brother.
Finally, Mycroft snapped out of his internal debate, realizing that Holmes was moments away from physically claiming his brother's attention.
"Mary is dead," he answered, "and the doctor is not handling it well. I have been telling you to return for nearly two months."
Holmes studied his brother, searching for what Mycroft would not say. "You believe we may already be too late," he breathed.
Mycroft hesitated but nodded. "He has faded more every day since her death, but more than ever in the last week. My guard had to wake him out of a sleepwalking spell a few days ago." Mycroft paused, gauging how Holmes was taking this. "He was headed straight for the river," he finished quietly.
Holmes leaned back, sitting limply as the knowledge washed over him. He might return hours too late to prevent utter failure.
Very little remained in that empty house that I cared to keep, and I had my bag packed within minutes. Several changes of clothes, all my money, my revolver, and one picture each of both Holmes and Mary fit easily into a small carrysack, and I scribbled a quick note before locking the door behind me. I would telegram Lestrade, asking him to inform my agent I had left with forwarding address pending and promising to let him know where I ended up, but I saw no reason to send the message until just before my train left. Lestrade had tried several times to convince me not to move, and I did not have the energy to listen to his arguments now. It was much simpler to inform him only when it was already too late for him to try to change my mind.
A cab dropped me at the station less than five minutes before the next train was due to leave, but I hesitated, staring at the list of trains displayed behind the ticket counter. Where did I want to go?
North, I decided after a moment. I knew the more rural areas of Scotland better than I did anything around London, and I would easily be able to find a small cottage in a town where I could live out whatever remained of my days in privacy.
And if it happened to be close to the sea, all the better, if only for the irony of a desert killing me in the ocean.
Ticket in hand and my telegram on its way to Lestrade's office, I settled in an empty first-class car a few minutes later as the train pulled out of the station, hugging my carrysack in my lap and staring blankly out the window. A ten-hour ride would see me in Edinburgh, with another two hours to reach Aberdeen, and I leaned back in the seat as I thought about where I wanted to settle.
I had no interest in a large city; a city would be too similar to London for comfort. I wanted a village, somewhere completely different than anything I had known for the last ten years, and I started thinking through the areas I knew, looking for a place to suit my needs.
There were some rural areas just north of the Scotland border, I remembered, but a glance at the schedule showed that the closest stop to the border was Carlisle, about ten miles south of Scotland. I would have to disembark in Carlisle and catch a ride between towns unless I wanted to chance that the train would slow down enough for me to disembark between stations.
Amusement coursed through me, dying before it reached my expression. There had been several times over the years that Holmes had decided to forgo a station when the train slowed around a corner. I was convinced that most of those had been simply his idea of fun, especially when I grumbled about the stations being there for a reason, but occasionally, we had used such a trick to escape a tail.
That memory bled into another, pushing other considerations away for a while as the past came alive around me yet again.
Hours passed in silence as they traveled west. Even the fastest train felt like crawling, and Holmes eventually stood to pace the compartment, chasing his worry around in circles and ignoring how much his pacing rankled his brother.
"Sit down, Sherlock," Mycroft finally snapped, breaking the silence as they got closer to where they would catch the ferry. "Wearing a hole through the carpet will do nothing but exhaust you before we even reach London."
Holmes scowled but sat heavily, fidgeting in his seat until Mycroft's serious gaze pinned him in place.
"What is it?" he asked when Mycroft remained silent, wishing he could read Mycroft's thoughts as he did everyone else's. Various scenarios ran through his mind, each discarded as too improbable.
"Ronald Adair was found dead in his room," Mycroft replied, "shot in the head with a soft-nosed revolver bullet."
Holmes frowned, momentarily perplexed at why Mycroft would bring this up. A thought crossed his mind. "Did he still live on Park Lane?" Mycroft nodded, and Holmes' gaze lit with interest. "Only an air-gun could fire a revolver bullet into that room."
"My men cornered Moran last night," Mycroft replied simply, and Holmes raised an eyebrow, the silent question easily crossing the compartment. He would have thought Mycroft would want him to do the legwork to capture Moran.
"You would have had to choose," Mycroft answered just as Holmes realized that for himself.
Relief coursed through him, and he nodded his thanks. He would have chosen Watson, of course, but that meant they would both have had to go into hiding.
If he reached Watson in time, that is.
He returned to pacing the compartment, and this time, Mycroft did not stop him.
The train was nearly to Carlisle before I came back to the question of where I wanted to go, and I ignored the announcement that the dining car was ready as I considered my options. Should I get off at the station and rent a cart to reach a border village, or should I go further into Scotland, looking for a rural area close to a stop?
The train jolted, breaking me out of my thoughts, and I pulled myself upright to look out. We slowed significantly, and the engineer walked the corridor, informing us that there was an issue with the engine. We would be slightly delayed pulling into Carlisle.
I shrugged it off, returning to my seat. I did not much care when we arrived, or even if we did, honestly. I did not want to be in a city even that size.
The train slowed even more, and I looked up as the realization bloomed. We were going far too slow to worry about injury, and several small villages in the distance were the only towns in sight. Why wait to reach a station when I could disembark now?
Strapping my carrysack to my back to avoid losing it, I grabbed my cane and stepped back into the hall. Several people crowded the door to the dining car to my right, and I turned left, casually making my way toward the back of the train and ignoring the shouting that lifted from the crowd behind me. I cared more about reaching a safe opening I could use to leave the train than someone causing trouble in the dining car.
The back of my car opened to a wide, empty platform, and I walked to the edge, checking for anything that could hinder my plan. There was nothing, however, and I allowed a faint grin. This would work nicely.
Smoke billowed from the engine as we slowed even further, and I took the opportunity. Within seconds, I was walking through the field, my back to the tracks as the train traveled on without me.
"Mid-morning train to Edinburgh," the telegram read. "Carries only a small valise. Another sleepwalk to river last evening."
The paper shook in his hand, and Holmes paid no mind to the sea spray quickly wetting the missive as he looked up at his brother, uncaring that his worry shone in his gaze.
"Mycroft?" he finally asked, the single word conveying the question burning his mind. Why would Watson leave everything if not to…
"He will not suicide, Sherlock," Mycroft cut off the fear billowing through him. "He has been trying to move out of London for months. I have been blocking the sale of his practice, but Jackson has already taken most of his patients. He must have decided to leave with it unsold."
Holmes relaxed as his largest fear diminished, but that left another question in its wake. "Where is he going?"
Mycroft shook his head. "Only he knows. Riston will update us as he can."
A short walk easily carried me out of sight of the tracks, and I paused to get my bearings. The rolling fields and occasional trees behind me gave way to large hills and valleys further west, and I continued toward the shore. There would be fewer towns away from the sea, and if I wanted to restart a practice somewhere, I would need patients.
The sound of water carried on the breeze, and I adjusted my direction, more interested in exploring my surroundings than anything town had to offer. No matter how little the idea of food appealed to me, I would have to eat soon—if only to stay upright—but that could wait. Spending a few hours on the banks of a stream sounded like a much better idea than dealing with the stares inherent in a new town.
Sitting heavily on the rocky bank of a large creek, I relaxed as my mind eased minutely for the first time in weeks, and the evening slipped by.
"Well?"
Mycroft finally tore his gaze from the paper, passing him the telegram with a comment about engaging a special, and Holmes forced himself to read the missive in his hand as Mycroft gestured to one of his guards.
"Jumped from train 20 miles from Carlisle. Uninjured. Last seen headed west."
Jumped? Last seen?!
"Riston lost him?!" he nearly snarled.
A lad hurried up to them before Mycroft could reply, handing over an urgent telegram envelope in exchange for a coin, and Holmes read over Mycroft's shoulder as he quickly unfolded the paper, revealing four words.
"Moving toward River Eamont."
Only his brother's large hand on his shoulder got him to the special, and Holmes paced the length of the car, trying to convince himself that Watson could not be planning what Holmes feared he was.
I jerked awake, breathing heavily. This was not my sitting room. Where was I?
Stiffly pulling myself upright, I looked around, ready to run. Which memory was real? Was I still at war?
Moonlight glinted off water, grass, and stones, and only the soothing sounds of flowing water met my ears.
Yesterday came rushing back, and I relaxed again. I was safe enough here. The stars said it was sometime shortly after midnight, and I leaned back against the rocks, using a convenient patch of grass as a pillow. I saw no reason to leave the creek now, and, while I was surprised I had even fallen asleep, a night spent under the stars was still better than one spent in that empty house.
Movement caught my eye, and I pushed myself halfway up to see a familiar form pacing the other bank, his armchair seemingly resting next to a hollow behind him. I laid back down with a sigh. Even in wide open country over two hundred miles from London, I still could not leave the ghosts behind.
I eyed the creek, wondering how deep it was.
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