"Distant Thunder"

Watson

As the door shut behind our little friend Alfie, I passed a hand over my eyes and sat heavily down in my chair. Holmes had walked over to the desk and was once again studying that devilish knife, being careful to not get near the blade.

"I do wish I could know what I am looking for," he growled, "I cannot perform experiments at random, hoping to isolate some germ."

"Where do you suppose Smith is now, Holmes?" I asked wearily.

"I have one of those odd feelings, Watson, that leads me to believe he might even be in London. Perhaps – perhaps he might even be taking the Friesland back to India and so on to Sumatra."

"He – he might be on the ship?!"

"Especially if he has found out that I am alive, I would think him to be in London now. And he has ways of finding out what I am up to. It is very possible."

The seaman looked at me worriedly, then at Holmes, and stood, cautiously stretching himself.

"Well, gentlemen. If I am to be aboard the Friesland this time tomorrow, I have a good many things to see to first. I shall bid you both good day."

"Let me call you a cab, Lachlan," I said, rising from my seat.

I was surprised when the man grasped my shoulders and pushed me back down into my chair with a firm grip.

"You've done quite enough for me, Doctor," he said, his blue eyes losing their twinkle and taking on an earnest gaze, "and I thank you. But I shall be perfectly fine now, have na fear."

"Promise me you will call a cab then, Lachlan – you cannot walk all the way back to the dockyards, no matter how well you feel right now," I said, looking up at him warningly.

"I am not such a fool as to chance a relapse when you and Mr. Holmes are expectin' me ta show tomorrow, Doctor," the man assured me, pulling on his cloth cap.

"Then until tomorrow, Mr. Lachlan," I said, shaking his hand firmly.

"Until tomorrow. Good day, Mr. Holmes?"

"Good day, Lachlan," Holmes pulled himself out of his study and showed the man to the door, shaking his hand as he left.

I leaned back in my chair and closed my eyes; that confounded headache was only just now starting to subside, but I could still feel the throbbing behind my eyes from stress and fatigue.

I felt a hand on my arm and opened my eyes to look into a pair of worried grey ones a few inches from my face.

"How's your head?"

"It is getting better," I said, smiling at his concern – he probably had been worried at the beginning that I might have contracted that horrid fever.

No, I had had stress headaches before, many times because of Sherlock Holmes; that was part and parcel of the deal of living with the world's greatest consulting detective!

"You know I'm a little worried about that headache."

"Holmes, for heaven's sake – anyone who has to live with you is prone to headaches with fair regularity!" I teased, now that the pain had subsided slightly.

"Watson! Are you implying I am responsible for it?"

"You are the deducing machine, Holmes – figure that one out for yourself."

I let my eyes twinkle at his indignation, and he snorted a laugh. But then his gaze darkened again.

"Are you sure you have no other symptoms –"

"No fever, Holmes, I promise. I would know. And besides, I have had this lovely little headache for nearly six hours now – your and Lachlan's symptoms showed up after only two. It is only a stress headache, nothing more. Now you are the one who needs to stop worrying, not I."

I saw a look of relief cross his face, and he sat back on his heels to inspect my condition and deduce it for himself. What he saw must have taken away his worry, for he smiled and spoke again.

"Do you feel up for a walk?"

"A walk? Holmes, your stitches –"

"Come on, Watson, I want to get us both out of this sitting room for a while," Holmes said earnestly, "we've spent far too much intense time in here the last two days for my taste. Will you come? Please?"

I was not about to offend him by declining his offer – and I never have been able to tell him no when he turned that particular pleading look in my direction, reminiscent of a tiny puppy dog begging for its daily treat.

"Don't throw my coat at me again," I warned, pulling myself out of my chair slowly.

Holmes laughed, fetched the article, and patiently held it until I took it from him.

The throbbing in my temples had begun to at last recede, and I actually was very glad to be walking about London with Holmes once more, forgetting about the case for a little while at least and just strolling round like we used to so often.

We wandered up Oxford Street, Holmes pulled me into that curiosity shop to show me that microscope he wanted so badly, and I made a mental note to come back and get the thing so that I would not be forced to hear a lecture about it every time we passed the shop. Then we made our way to Hyde Park to see some of our old haunts.

I fell into a nostalgic mood as we walked along, in silence for the most part, letting the warm breeze blow away the stress and pain of the last few days and clear my mind wonderfully.

I let out a contented sigh as we reached the gates of the park – we had not been here since Holmes's return yet, so busy had we been.

"Feel better now?"

"Yes, indeed," I replied.

"Just what the doctor ordered?" he asked teasingly.

I chuckled – one could not stay in a bad mood for long in the company of Sherlock Holmes.

The silence broken and my good humor restored, we began to talk about the most odd topics in the world, as we used to do. Holmes had the somewhat frustrating habit of bringing up the most randomly assorted pieces of information and jumping back and forth among them without giving my slower brain time to catch up – but I just walked and listened and let him ramble, for that was what we had always done.

We sat on a bench for a while to give Holmes a chance to rest – I was very worried about those stitches pulling loose, though my friend insisted that they were fine. And as we sat, he entertained me with trying to coerce me into a deducing game with him about the people who passed us.

"What of you make of that fellow over there, the one in the brown coat and bowler?"

"Holmes, I am not your brother, and as such I am not going to play brain games with you!"

"Thank the dear Lord you are not Mycroft, I could not live with you if you were," Holmes muttered.

I laughed aloud at that, and my companion snickered as well.

"I cannot imagine how you two got along as children, Holmes."

"Or rather didn't get along," he said with a grin, "Mycroft was never tolerant of someone who tore the blank pages out of the back of his books to make litmus paper for experiments."

"Oh, is that why the back pages of my dictionary are missing?" I asked, eyeing him for his reaction.

"I never touched your dictionary!"

I laughed again, the warm contented feeling spreading over me and finally banishing the vestiges of that black mood I had been in earlier.

"I was teasing, Holmes," I told him with a grin, and I saw a look of relief cross his face.

"What did Mycroft do to you when he found out?"

"That, my dear chap, will forever remain a classified secret in my brother's archives," Holmes said uncomfortably, "suffice it to say, he was rather less forgiving than you are, Watson."

I laughed again at that as Holmes pulled me gently to my feet and we set off again through the park.

"Holmes?"

"Yes, my dear fellow?"

"About this Meurnier chap."

"Ah. Your story sensors went up at that, did they?"

"Mmhm."

He laughed easily and began to tell me of the case in which he had traced Meurnier's missing art halfway across France, finally ending in Paris.

"You've not been to Paris since '87, have you Watson, when we were in that stolen tiara investigation?"

"No, I have not. We did not hit Paris on our trek through the continent running from Moriarty, did we?" I asked, trying to remember hazy events of that dreadful week.

"No, no. We went through Dieppe and then Belgium. We shall have to go back to Paris sometime, Watson, just the two of us – it has changed rather much in the last seven years. I think you would enjoy it," my friend replied thoughtfully.

"Are you actually offering to take me on a holiday without a case to arrest your attention?" I asked in astonishment.

"Well…"

"That's what I thought," I said with a laugh.

We wandered on into the more fashionable district of town, just enjoying each other's company and conversation, until I realized I was exceedingly hungry. I had been in too much pain to eat much breakfast, and Holmes's exuberant plans of earlier had negated any possibility of having lunch. I determined that we would end this day in rather more a pleasant fashion than our last two had begun.

"Holmes?"

"Hmm?"

"How does dinner at Simpson's strike you?"

"Simpson's, Watson? I am afraid that after those steamer tickets…"

I laughed and smiled. "Never mind, Holmes; I am paying."

Holmes frowned. "I can't let you do that, old fellow."

"Yes, you can." I said, stepping out of the way of even more foot traffic. "I sold my practice not more than two weeks past and I, as our colonial relatives so colorfully put it, am loaded."

Holmes let out a short bark of laughter.

"Still, Watson, I cannot -"

"Yes, you can." I repeated firmly, "we are almost there, and I am hungry - your mad dash did not allow for any lunch. Unless you choose to join me, than you shall simply have to stand about waiting while I eat."

Holmes let out a resigned sigh and smiled.

"Oh, very well, Watson. You can be infernally stubborn."

"I'm surprised it has taken you this long to deduce it." I said, eliciting a glare from him.

We walked in comfortable silence for a few moments, needing no words to fill the empty air. Then I broke it, spotting my chance to resolve a little matter that had been bothering me for over a week.

"Quite a generous chap, Mr. Verner."

Holmes was watching the crowd distractedly. "Hmm?"

"You remember the gentleman who purchased my practice; he took it at the first price I suggested. Not a bit of haggling. Young and ambitious, but he did not strike me as being particularly wealthy."

I observed my friend out of the corner of my eye. He had stiffened slightly, and was staring at the man in front of him with a good deal more concentration than was usual.

I went on, "Do you know that the surname Verner was originally French? I meant to ask the fellow about it but he vanished; seems he did not need the practice after all, for now it belongs to a Mr. Blackwell, an aging country Doctor with too much money."

"Hmm," Holmes said again, still staring determinedly ahead.

"That fellow's coat must be truly fascinating, Holmes, if you can stare at it for five minutes straight."

The detective cleared his throat.

"Nonsense, Watson, I was thinking."

"Mmm…still, I wouldn't have been surprised, for you cannot stop yourself from deducing the most embarrassing facts about every poor soul that passes beneath your gaze."

"One becomes accustomed to it." Holmes said, looking at me and then away again. It was quite clear that he wished the subject to pass. "I did not choose my powers of observation."

"No, no of course not…art in the blood and all that."

Holmes opened his mouth but I beat him to the punch.

"Vernet, wasn't it?"

"Pardon?" His voice was rather tentative.

"Vernet, your grandmother was the French artist's sister? You claim to have inherited your talents from her."

"Yes, Watson, I am quite aware of my own relatives." His thin face was flushed slightly, he was truly not looking at me now.

"Odd, it seems to me you don't know them quite as well as you should, considering the fact that your distant cousin makes a habit of going about London buying up medical practices at the asking price!"

We had reached Simpson's by this time and I entered before Holmes could reply, grinning at his surprised face.

He regained his composure quickly and hurried after me.

"Watson."

I frowned and fixed him with a stern gaze, trying desperately not to laugh at his semi-panicked expression.

"Really, Holmes."

"Watson, let me explain."

"Your own cousin."

"Watson…"

"Your own money as well, no doubt. To think that you objected to my paying for dinner."

"Watson!" he stopped and glared at me in frustration. "Will you listen to me for a moment?"

"Yes, but at the table - I am famished."

Holmes growled but followed and soon we were seated at our customary table beside the windows, where Holmes could observe the flood of humanity as it filed past, like specimens for his examination, his cold gaze the tool that he used to dissect the mystery surrounding them.

Only tonight he was not looking at them but glaring at me, his elbows on the table and his hands clasped before him.

I struggled to sober my expression.

"Really, Holmes, Verner? Did you just expect me to let it go at the drop of a hat? That I might not be the least bit curious as to how my practice was progressing under his hand? He's not even a medical student, is he? I imagine the degree was forged?"

Holmes held the glare for a moment and then sighed.

"You know, Watson, you were a good deal easier to fool in our earlier years at Baker Street. No, Verner is a genuine practitioner…but he plans to go to South Africa on a relief mission; he did this as a favor to me. I never believed you would be tenacious enough to check his background. You used to be far more trusting."

"Yes, I know. Which is why I believed you when you first said the upper room at our flat would be far more quiet and so beneficial to my then fragile health. One gets exceedingly weary of those stairs after years of traipsing up and down them, old fellow," I replied, very much enjoying seeing my friend's face as he seemed to splutter for words.

Holmes indeed looked extremely sheepish and had opened his mouth to say something…but was interrupted by the arrival of our waiter, and then the subsequent serving of our meals.

By the time our table had settled again Holmes's irritation had mellowed somewhat and he looked at me directly for the first time since the subject was introduced.

We locked gazes…and started to laugh, earning a severe and very disapproving look from an elderly gentleman seated across from us.

We quieted on the instant like two guilty little schoolboys and Holmes cut into his woodcock, quivering with silent laughter.

"Forgive me, Watson. I feared that if you did not find a buyer…"

I waved it off.

"Never mind. I am sure that Mr. Blackwell paid your cousin a handsome price and that you were subsequently reimbursed? I must say, Holmes, that thespianism runs in your family as well. At the time Verner took me in entirely. As you have done many times…"

I trailed off as a new and very sobering thought pushed itself to the forefront of my mind, and I placed my utensils on my plate, my appetite somewhat lost.

Holmes had been eating quite tenaciously but now took notice of my silence and his brows drew together in concern.

"Watson, are you all right?"

I sighed. "Are you not the least bit worried, Holmes?"

Holmes laid down his fork and turned his full attention to me, his brow furrowing with concern.

"What about, my dear fellow?"

I felt a touch of irritation but brushed it aside…now was not the time for such things.

"About Smith, Holmes."

Holmes frowned.

"Watson, I have already told you, he did not succeed in killing me the last time – I was on my guard, and now I am even more so. I have you, and Mr. Lachlan also it seems, to watch my back."

"He has killed whole ships of men, if your deductions are correct."

"Because that idiot Muir refused to take precautions."

I sighed and rested my head in my hand. I almost preferred the headache to this dread. But my head was perfectly clear now, and I understood fully the implications of Smith's involvement.

"Watson."

At his quiet voice I looked up to see my friend staring at me earnestly.

"I promise you nothing will happen to me. We have beaten him once. We shall do so again."

His words were steady, and meant to be reassuring, but somehow I could not quite believe him. Tomorrow we would be on a ship that was going to be at some point attacked by one of the most dangerous madmen alive…a man who had caused me to quiver with the greatest of fears.

I could almost see the storm clouds beginning to loom over us and the distant thunder of danger on the horizon.

I met Holmes's steady gaze and could not repress the memory of him delirious and in pain upon his bed, the sound of Smith's voice as he leant over the man I thought to be helpless, while I hid in the same room, witness to every word of what could have been my friend's death sentence. I dropped my gaze, not wanting Holmes to see the emotion I knew must be evident in my features.

The years had not dulled the pain and horror of that awful night. Act or no, it had been all too, too real to me.

This time it could be…it almost had been already.

"I pray you are right, Holmes." I said at last, glad my voice was steady, lifting my fork so as not to worry him further. "For all our sakes."