In the Midst of Life

"Cruel his eye, but cast/ Signs of remorse and passion to behold"

Paradise Lost

The embers were low, just an occasional red speck between what remained of the coals and would soon disintegrate into grey ashes. However, the temperature in the room was such that neither of the men felt the need to rekindle the fire, much less put additional firewood into the stove. Divested of the heavy black coats that were slowly drying on the fender, the shirt-sleeved mourners raised their glasses to a toast - the last in a long succession.

"To Mary! To her memory", Watson spoke solemnly, and with a wordless gesture, Holmes included himself before downing the brandy that, in combination with the fire, had been intended to save both of them a severe cold.

The doctor flung himself down into an easy chair, an air of exhaustion on his worn features, while his guest remained standing, and, his head sunken to his chest, chin resting against the rim of the glass that was still in his hand, gazed into the dying fire.

"Oh by Jove, I am glad this is over", Watson uttered impulsively, correcting himself immediately. "Not that I wish you to take this as evidence of a lack of respect for my deceased wife, old man, I just mean to say…"

"She wouldn't have minded you saying that." Sherlock Holmes understood better than most people the ordeal of unwanted attentions, being the center of everything for hours on end against your will. "It has been a long day."

Watson allowed his head to loll to the side a little. His neck ached. Maybe he would be sick tomorrow, the sustaining merits of the brandy notwithstanding. From tired eyes, he watched his guest, who, his face slightly illuminated by the glowing embers, slowly placed his glass on the mantelpiece, next to the large-frame photograph of John's and Mary's wedding, which had been draped in black gauze by a conservative set of domestics.

Holmes slowly revolved to take in every detail of the room where he had been persona non grata for so many years. Nothing much had changed since the time when fate had prepared to turn him into a widower - only the room was much more silent than it used to be. The big grandfather clock had been stopped; likewise the bonny golden show-thing of a timepiece on the sideboard and the german cuckoo clock on the wall, prone to chime every quarter of an hour, had been silenced. A semi-circular table in the gazebo, almost hidden from view, overflowed with wreaths and cards from condoling friends and family members.

A brief, malicious surge of triumph disturbed his solemn tranquility: Here he was, back again after a seven-year exile, decreed by the wife that was now in her grave, growing colder by the minute, losing her grasp on the only person that was left in his life. But he quickly shrugged off the impious thoughts, frowning at his reflection in the grandfather clock glass case. Watson cleared his throat.

"I think it went well though, all things considered. The weather might have been better, of course. But we do not get any say in this, do we?"

"I am afraid no. And yet, everybody was there, I suppose. Everybody...of importance." He gesticulated vaguely, indicating all sorts of human relationships the deceased might have had, and, unable to elaborate further, took the seat opposite to his friend's.

"Yes." Watson sighed."Listen, old pal, I'm awfully sorry about Fanny. If I had known she would attack you in this manner...only, to be quite honest, I didn't think about you and her meeting at all…"

"So you keep saying." Holmes' voice turned slightly acrid. "However, repeating an explanation eternally does not add any relevance to it. I did not complain."

"And yet, I must excuse her." the doctor had flushed a little. "As you said, in some sense, she is my daughter, my responsibility. I cannot have her behave like this toward you, much less in a public place, and on this day of all days. A severe letter is the least thing - "

"My dear friend, you are hardly responsible for the way she was reared. An ingrained impudence such as this is well-neigh impossible to erase - and what is more, I cannot deny the truth of her words, uncultured brat though she may be. I deserve exposure to this hostility. Why complain, in the face of facts? We might as well bewail our lack of wings, or that apple trees will not carry oranges."

He extracted a cigarette from his case, for the umpteenth time today. Watson fixed his eyes on his face, brows painfully creased.

"Holmes", he said gently. "Holmes, my dear friend. You are not to blame for Kitty's death."

A bitter little smile. "Your 'daughter' seems to disagree with you on this point. However, I do not require anybody's opinion to know that if I did not cause Catherine's death in so many words, I very much provided the grounds for it." His voice was steady as he said it, but the hand that lit the cigarette appeared to tremble, as far as Watson could judge it in the dim light. He leant forward in his chair.

"This is not true, just not true. It is your conscience that torments you, that makes you think of the times you treated Kitty unfairly. It wants you to believe the fault is yours, but it's not! We cannot even know what happened on this day, the day that she died. We will never know. It might have been a mere unhappy accident. You know what she was like, old chap. She was a wild child, forever longing for Ireland, for the causeways, for the cliffs to climb in. Her foot maybe just slipped that day. You see, it's as simple as that. It had nothing to do with you."

And that, for Watson, was the truth. Holmes' fault, if there was any, did not exceed his own. He, as a medical man, had not realized his wife's need of an instant operation. White clouds of smoke swirled in front of his concerned eyes, providing a veil for the face of his guest, evanescent, but intransparent. "As you said, doctor. We will never know."

Watson reclined. He knew there was no point in trying to convince his friend, who had stubbornly resolved to take all the blame he possibly could, and was deaf to all evidence of the contrary. And there was evidence. Not only had the fisherman who had seen Catherine Holmes fall of the cliff heard a cry - a clear indication that accident, not intention, had been at the bottom of it. Also, he had studied her diary, a thing Holmes had refused to do. The last page had mentioned a desire for a walk and fresh air; hardly a trace of suicidal intent there.

But most important, there was the evidence of Kitty herself: Kitty, the strong, merry woman, always thirsty for life, afraid of nothing but death. Even under the most disheartening conditions, courage had never failed her. Not when she learned her husband had put high stakes on her life twice, not when she was told that the son she had had despite all adversities was an idiot child, unable to live up even to the most undemanding father's expectations. She was as far a cry from a suicide candidate as was possible, too defiant and too obdurate. Not even Sherlock Holmes had been able to break her.

He knew they had been lovers - whatever else might have motivated their union, she had been devoted to him. She had risked everything to satisfy his unholy hunger for progeniture. And he - Watson mused. He had always had his goal in view, always. Whatever there was beside his mad idea to survive in a homunculus of his making, came second in his priorities. And yet! Nobody, before or afterward, had touched his heart as Kitty Winter had. He just knew. Knew it from the intolerable weeks after Kitty's death, when every being that could remind him of her had had to be removed from his Sussex home: Fanny, the baby, even poor old Ginger Jack, her pet companion.

And Watson had been there to pick up the pieces. Of course he had been there. He had given Fanny a new home, respecting Mary's demand that Holmes was never to see the little girl anymore, never to enter her house. But he had also looked after his old friend, in Sussex, in London, wherever his unsteady life drifted to. And Holmes had changed. He had, if possible, become harder and more reserved. Never more had he betrayed emotion, not even when the asylum gave notice of his young son's death, predictable, yet tragic. The dream of Sheridan Holmes, the child prodigy of unlimited possibilities, had been over long before that.

His friend's voice roused him from his bleak thoughts. "What is she doing these days, anyway? I think you mentioned her living on the Continent. Is she married?"

"Who, Fanny?" Unsuccessfully, the doctor tried to appear as though he had not missed a beat. "Oh no. Mary sent her to Paris to improve her French initially, but in the end, she wanted to stay permanently. She found occupation with a fashionable dressmaker's…" Watson slightly ducked, unsure whether to consider this decision decorous or not. He remembered Mary protesting against it, but it had never been any good to discuss decisions already made with Fanny, and moreover, she had been of age. He had to admit her talent with the needle was considerable...at least as far as he could judge that. He had no eye for lady's couture.

Holmes did not betray whether he considered Fanny's choice unseemly or not. At least, he did not seem surprised. He took another draught of his cigarette, asked one or two more polite questions, and then changed the subject. The silent house gradually grew darker. The trees outside the windows painted their long shadows on the carpet. It was the hour that usually, Mary would have come in with a light, admonishing him not to strain his eyesight so. He would have sighed by the fire, and put away the medical volume he would have been reading, calling it a day. Another nightcap, and he and Mary would have retired for the night. But that was over now, and would never come again.

oooOOOooo

Three weeks later, Holmes thought no more about the funeral. Life had assumed a new - or old? - pattern that was to his liking, it had, so to speak, relapsed into the way things had been twenty years ago, the way that was "normal" to his mind: Life before women had intruded into his and Watson's comfortable bachelor's routine. A good life.

He even swirled his cane a little as he walked down Oxford Street, just wondering a bit at the internal changes of the city - people seemed to find it acceptable to bump into his side and hurry on without an apology, young men and women seemed to have no sense of decorum whatsoever - one only had to look at the way they dressed today, and the inevitable "Votes for Women!" everywhere! And the motorcars, of course. He had come up to the City for the weekend, but already he began to think wistfully about the quiet Sussex Downs, where motorized vehicles were as yet quite unheard of.

Still, he was glad he had not given up the old place in Baker Street. Mrs. Hudson preferred the country life of course, but on his usually short visits to the Capital, he could manage very nicely with a page and a scullery maid. The train connection had become very speedy and convenient; that at least was an advantage of the modern days. He could dine tonight with Watson at Simpson's in the Strand, and be easily back home tomorrow before noon - or so he thought.

He was mistaken. Holmes did not anticipate any sort of attack, he paid no attention to the nondescript coach that trawled at some distance behind him as he proceeded on his way. He was not in London on business, but to run errands: An appointment with the dentist, some legal affair he wished to settle for the Sussex property, a measurement for a new suit. Not that this would have left him less wary in earlier years. But nowadays, rogues did not pounce on you in the open street anymore, nor did arch criminals send their henchmen to finish you off by light of day. Like everything, also the fiends had become more sophisticated, they resorted to a level of activity that did not necessitate clubs, sticks or baritsu moves: So much the better, considering his age. In no more than two years, he would hit the fifty mark, and any form of combating crime that could not be handled from his easy chair would be increasingly out of the question.

Willing this horrid vision to quit his mind, Holmes fell back into the cane swirling mood - sunshine and the prospect of dinner with his friend, what could be better? He just wondered what else he could do on this pleasant most ordinary of days….maybe browse the gentleman outfitters' for a pair of new gloves?...or look in on his favoured tobacconist? Too late did he turn toward the show window of the jeweller to double check his tailor's findings - had he really put on weight? He only ever lost it - or was that the beginnings of old age?! Had he done so some seconds earlier, he might have seen the cab stop and the men jump out before they hooked their muscular arms under his sinewy limbs and dragged him into the vehicle. Before he knew what had happened, they were rattling away. Quite an ordinary day, in fact. For earlier years.

Angrily, he glowered at the men from the bottom of the cab. The blazonry on the inner side of the doors told him everything he needed to know about them, but still, he bore them a grudge for the undignified beginnings of their acquaintance. His bones ached, and in an instinctive attempt at self-defence, he had torn a button from his immaculate frock coat.

"What is it now?" He ungraciously cried in a language that was not English. "Not your art again?"

One of the men told him, and Sherlock Holmes worked himself up on his elbows, a smirk of contempt on his face. "Oh for heaven's sake! Can't you look after your belongings like any other nation?"

Hi!

Sorry for another mostly sad chapter! I needed to clarify some things about the past, but the future looks brighter and we'll be there quite soon! Hang in there!

Love, Mrs. F