Chapter Notes: This is the most intimidating thing I have ever written. You have clamored for it, and anticipated it, I hope I delivered. Just one quick note. I and my sounding board for all my fiction went to see the Sherlock Holmes movie. As soon as we came out the door she turned to me and said, "That Watson is your Watson!" I thought as much but I wanted to see if she thought the same thing. It was great to see that capable, irascible, and in some cases DANGEROUS foil to Holmes's genius on the screen. I just wish they had my Lestrade! I think the constable they added by the name of Clark comes closest to my Chief Inspector, oh well can't have everything LOL!
I hope you guys like this chapter as much as I do. I think it is worthy or I wouldn't be posting it.
Here's hoping you agree.
These are Arthur's characters but this is the scene I wish he would have written.
thanks!
Bart
Doctor John Watson, Police Surgeon: Scotland Yard 5
One Last War
Chapter Three
In what has become a long and enjoyable association with John Watson, I have been witness to his readers asking questions about his writing many times.
Without exception, the most frequently questioned work has concerned The Empty House account, and the return of the Great Detective to the ranks of the living.
"How did you forgive him so easily?" they ask with their voices thick with incredulity. Watson developed a pat answer that has always seemed to sooth. "I was just so grateful to have him back, to hold a grudge would have been petty in the face of such a miracle," he will remark with his warmest smile. That lopsided Watson grin has gotten him through many tight spots over the years, and it never fails to work its magic as they walk away with all doubts sated.
We always exchange a wry smile and go on our way.
What really happened, why Holmes now sports a gold incisor, are matters kept in strictest confidence, and since this account will never see the light of day, it shall remain so.
Forgive Holmes easily? It is always difficult to forgive, even those we love with no reservation. In this instance, John Watson had more to forgive than any man I have seen in all my long years.
In the end, I don't think he ever has forgiven Holmes entirely.
---
Watson paused at the carriage door as they disembarked in front of his practice; he lit a cigarette cupping the match against his palm.
"On the corner, to our left leaning casually against the lamp post with a gray overcoat," He informed Lestrade before shaking the match out.
Lestrade bent down to flick a bit of detritus off his spit shined boot, with a glance he took in the very man Watson had indicated.
"Yes," he confirmed.
Watson paid the cabby and graciously ushered Lestrade to the door, which was opened by Watson's fiery Spanish day maid.
"I have been sending your patients to Doctor Ferraro like you asked, so many we can't get anything done! Some French bloke came by earlier asking after Mrs. Watson, I bent his ear."
Watson was up to that moment listening with half an ear stubbing out his cigarette, at that last statement she had his full attention.
"Someone was asking for Mary?" he inquired with an edge of anger, but with a hint of pain showing that grief was still hovering.
She nodded. "I told him to sod off before I called a constable. It was inappropriate for a gentleman to call on a lady without her husband anyways."
Watson nodded his face impassive. "Thank you Isadora, the Inspector and I will be in my office.
"Be sure to ring if you need anything," she reminded Watson in a tone that almost sounded commanding. Watson gave her a smile and waved Lestrade on in to his waiting area and through to the modified parlour that served as his office.
Watson took off his hat and coat settling into his office chair with a sigh, Lestrade sat across wishing he had stopped home to get out of uniform.
"So you think Moran killed Patterson?" Lestrade inquired.
Watson pulled out a sheet of paper and wrote something holding it up to Lestrade, it was the letter M in the same angle that Patterson had smeared in on his kitchen tile. "I think that the man who shot him did so standing under a gas lamp at the end of the lane so Patterson could see who he was. The shooter has an enormous ego, so much that he is willing to take dangerous risks just so the victim knows who killed him."
Lestrade crossed his legs while giving that some thought. "Why else would Moran fire the shot himself when he has that Pierson bloke to do his bidding, he is practically an attack dog, did you see how Moran had to call him off?"
Watson flashed that sly grin that Lestrade had come to know very well. "Why do you think I was trying so hard to provoke Moran? I needed to see the nature of their association."
Lestrade laughed. "So you pushed Moran to see if they were fellow soldiers or if he was the general?"
"Exactly," Watson replied with a wink, "I am never rude unless there is intent."
"Otherwise you would be James?" Lestrade teased.
Watson winced as he stood and crossed to the decanters and poured a small brandy. He offered to Lestrade, but was turned down with a wry smile and point to his badge. "Alas, on duty. Who is that bloke out front and why is he watching you?"
Watson sat back down and took a sip. "Diogenes Club, according to my source, sent by Mycroft. I noticed that he was more interested in my companion than he was with me; I'm not sure of the implications."
They were startled by a commotion at the door.
"He tol me to come here, I got his card don I?" came the familiar raspy voice.
"He doesn't waste much time,," Lestrade remarked with a grimace as the old bookseller came barrelling through the door fending off a determined Isadora.
"I'm sorry, doctor, he just pushed his way in, said you know him," she informed tugging on the old man's tattered sleeve.
"It's allright, Isa, I asked him to come by," Watson informed her with a placating smile.
"Next time you've got crazy charity dropping in you might want to inform me of it," she sputtered with her hand on her hip.
"I forgot to mention, would you bring us our tea in a little while?" Watson inquired in his most placating tone.
She glowered at the mumbling old man and stalked out, arms crossed angrily.
"Dats one mean lass you got theah doctor," the bookseller complained as he began while unstrapping his books. "I got bent pages on three of my books, Marlowe, Nicholas Nickelby, and this here firs edition of Proust's Captive."
Lestrade was appalled at the man taking advantage of Watson's generous nature, he was about to say so when Watson turned to his bookshelves to make room.
Suddenly the bookseller's bowed back straightened and he began removing hat, glasses, a fake beard and false nose and wig. He only saw the man in profile but the face was unmistakable. Lestrade sat down in his recently vacated chair with a whoosh. He wanted to call out to warn Watson but he could not get the breath.
---
In numerous times over the course of my career I have been called upon to perform duties that take me through the night to dawn. I know that the new day officially begins at midnight but there is something about the sun peeking over the horizon that informs a man that the next day has arrived. There are always portents, a lightening of the sky, shapes once vague begin to focus, the birds begin their morning conversation...all of them telling you that the sun is approaching, no matter how closely you watch the sun manages to slip by, daybreak comes from the dusk.
For me in that moment things slowed down, I saw the whole picture for the first time.
The attempt to destroy Holmes's reputation, his tight knit support and his lodgings in one fell swoop, Mycroft's knowledge of law concerning those once thought dead, the way Mrs. Hudson maintained 221b Baker Street precisely how Holmes had left it, minus the fire damage. I had never thought to ask, but odd now that I think about it.
However, there was one omen...one portent that trumped them all, words spoken to me from a man so close to a mental collapse I could almost see him crumbling before my eyes.
"I'm tired, Lestrade. So tired I can barely function. Too tired to sleep, too exhausted to think, and so worn out that I often imagine I am becoming transparent. Wishing I were transparent, so then I could be a ghost, like I already feel I am."
"I see him, Lestrade, in my dreams; I often feel he is still on this earth somewhere. I keep expecting him to show up in my office, whip off one of those dreadful disguises and ask me for a smoke. At times, I wonder if I am going quite mad. Other days, I wonder if I have been mad for some time and was not aware."
Deep in his heart Watson had known, but could not allow hope to take root. He had seen the empty pool at the bottom of those falls with his own eyes.
He had even told James his brother on the docks when they went to see him off.
"The only brother I have ever known died three years ago. If he should choose to return from the grave, him I would welcome,"
What connection did he have with Holmes that gave him this knowledge? I cannot hazard a guess. There are some things beyond the realm of my humble understanding.
All I do know is that my first impulse was to warn Watson, but when I saw Holmes, it was clear to me that my warning should be for him. I could see that he did not know just how changed his Boswell had become...
---
"I can take the Marlow and the Proust, but I'm afraid I have everything Dickens ever wrote..." Watson stated as he turned back.
His eyes met the familiar gray gaze, and the sight of the dead brought to life transfixed him, proof of resurrection standing in his parlour wearing a familiar grin and tattered clothes.
"Hello, Watson, I hope you have not missed me overmuch," Holmes said with a smile.
Lestrade saw Watson's face go white, it was too soon after his side injury and subsequent infection, the man was still not in top form.
Lestrade leapt up and shoved Holmes out of the way managed to get Watson over a nearby chaise before the man collapsed.
Holmes strode over to the decanters to pour Watson a brandy while Lestrade steadied him. "Watson, can you hear me?"
"I had no idea he would be this affected," Holmes mumbled as he handed Lestrade the brandy which he passed to Watson's unsteady hands.
Holmes seemed almost put out about the scene that Watson was causing. "Where's Mary? Perhaps she can help set him right," Holmes supplied his eyes roaming the office as if she was standing nearby.
"Where's Mary?" Watson asked in a shock-tinged tone completely devoid of life and vitality, handing the brandy back to Lestrade.
Lestrade saw his hazel eyes flashing with a naked rage unlike any he had witnessed before. Holmes was typically oblivious to his peril.
The tall, slender man walked closer to Watson, animated as he recounted his earlier visit. "Yes, where is your wife, I inquired after her earlier and your impertinent maid was rather rude to me."
"Holmes," Lestrade began.
The next moments were a blur to Lestrade, he was about to say something soothing to Watson, but until he saw Holmes on the floor his stunned eyes staring up at his former flatmate standing over him trembling in rage, he had not even seen the man move.
Watson turned to Lestrade. "See to him, I...I'll be..." He lost his train of thought in the midst of anger so red as to be capable of murder, but aware of it enough to know he should walk away before acting.
He pointed to the door and began striding out, stopping Lestrade from following with a trembling hand, the office door slammed and he was gone. There was another muffled crash from the street door, and Lestrade saw him headed off up the street sans hat and cane, head down, in a direction that allowed Lestrade to guess the destination. Lestrade's eyes caught a movement in the shadows across the street, but when he glanced up it was only a trick of the light.
"Wha...What happened, Lestrade? Has the man taken leave of his senses?" Holmes grumbled as he picked himself off the floor and examined his jaw for a dislocation.
Lestrade immediately thought of some very vicious things to say, Holmes clearly deserved it, however, maybe it was his own association with Watson that allowed him to see Holmes in less sinister light. It was possible that Holmes really did not know all his friend had endured in his absence, or had failed to gauge just how much he meant to the man with whom he had shared so much. It was this theory that stayed Lestrade's tongue.
"You are the deductive genius, Holmes, what do your eyes tell you? Look about," Lestrade replied goading Holmes's intellect.
Holmes glared at the Inspector wiping the blood from the corner of his mouth, and then his trained eye began travelling the office, roaming over the furnishings and the newest books, the papers on Watson's desktop, his eyes settled on the coat and hat that Watson had left behind. He went white when his intellect informed him of its verdict.
"How long?" he asked just above a whisper.
Lestrade drank the Brandy that Watson had set down; he would drink on the job just this once.
"She died late winter last year."
Holmes leaned on the back of a nearby chair his shoulders slumped in misery. "Reoccurrence of Rheumatic Fever?" he postulated.
Lestrade answered with a grave nod.
If someone had told Lestrade what occurred next, he would have thought them mad. He had just turned away from Holmes to pour another brandy when he heard a loud thump. He spun around, his hand stowing into his coat for his trusty revolver, but it was only Holmes on the floor with his back to the desk, pale and wane.
"He will never forgive me this, Lestrade, how could he?" he stated with a voice so thick with despair that Lestrade's chest clenched in sympathy.
Lestrade hesitated for a few moments, then he pulled a chair over to Holmes, handed the seated man the brandy he had poured and sat down, his hands on his knees letting the amateur regain his strength.
"He nearly drowned trying to find your body at Reichenbach, a devotion that pure and earnest will not be swayed easily, don't lose hope," Lestrade informed Holmes in the kind tone he used when called upon to notify families.
Holmes eyes flashed with anger. "I am aware, Lestrade, I pulled him from the pool myself disguised as a shepherd, they were watching so I could do no more,"
Lestrade sighed. "They?"
"There are matters that are beyond you, Lestrade, things I cannot discuss, and you would not understand even if I could." Holmes replied in his cold arrogant tone.
Lestrade felt much of the old anger returning, however, he restrained himself, asking what would his friend Watson do in this moment. He had his answer.
"We know there is a larger organization at work, Holmes, we have thwarted several of their plans already, Watson determined earlier today that Colonel Moran may just be the mastermind behind it all, before your sudden resurrection we were discussing our next move."
He was studying Holmes's face for reaction, Holmes gaped at the Inspector his eyes wide with surprise.
Lestrade leaned back, crossed his legs with a contented look on his face. "So, we were correct."
"You did not know for sure,?" Holmes sputtered, outraged.
Lestrade gave Holmes his most infuriating grin. "Not until your reaction, really Holmes I thought you would school your features better than that."
"Damn it, Watson," Holmes grumbled.
"I may have a tell, but your face is like reading a book," Lestrade replied warming to the tease.
Holmes smiled. It took Lestrade aback. "Actually Lestrade, you don't have a tell in the strictest sense, you are just so dearth in duplicity that you lack the capacity to lie effectively. So when you seek to be less than forthcoming your lack of expression in the attempt to show no sign is rather obvious."
Lestrade glanced off in the direction in which Watson had gone. "Damn it, Watson."
Holmes's head tilted to the side as his mind began to assimilate what had just occurred. "You did say that you determined Colonel Moran was the mastermind, how did you come by that assumption, or even come into contact with the man?"
"Watson determined that Patterson, the Diogenes guard, and Ronald Adair were killed from some distance by a man with some sort of silenced rifle. Suddenly a man with a reputation for his abilities in such matters comes through the door this morning having been the last to see Ronald Adair alive outside of his family, a man in the company of a soldier of some stripe who defers to his will," Lestrade recounted watching Holmes at work, realizing with amusement that he had actually missed the sight.
"Occam's Razor, very good Doctor. Watson has made many accurate guesses from very little information; he was always good at doing just that. I may be one of the world's finest at deductive reasoning, but Watson is the best I have ever seen at inductive," Holmes fishing out a pipe from his coat pocket.
Lestrade winced at the nearly forgotten smell of Holmes's foul shag. "What is the difference?"
Holmes blew out a contented cloud as he responded, "Deductive takes concrete fact into account and thus educated in the facts of the case makes his theories. Inductive is less exact and relies on instinct, with very little information or clues makes leaps of deduction then seeks to prove the theory with the facts, essentially making guesses at the first when there is little to follow and finding the thread to the truth rather than going where the clues lead from the beginning."
Lestrade considered the implications. "Inductive sounds dangerous; if you guess wrong you exhaust your resources in the wrong direction."
Holmes pulled out his pipe to punctuate the next words with the tip. "Precisely, Lestrade, but that presupposes that you guess wrong, in your experience, how often does Watson commit that mistake?"
Lestrade found he was smiling fondly. "Rarely," he confirmed. "I must tell you about his first autopsy for the Yard sometime."
Holmes nodded. "Now you know the secret of our partnership. The reason I am never baffled entirely is that when the clues have not been there for me to follow, I always had Watson's instinct on which to rely and to plan our next step, the man is rather excellent at strategy as you might have discovered."
"The Great Detective of the Strand accounts is not one man after all," Lestrade mused.
"It is two," Holmes finished. "Tell me, Lestrade, what was Moran and Watson's reaction to one another?"
Lestrade was still absorbing the information and attempting to change his way of thinking about the partnership between these two men. "Not well, Holmes, Watson pushed him to see the nature of the man, his actions were not appreciated."
Holmes dropped his pipe his eyes suddenly frantic. "We must find Watson immediately, Lestrade! Moran has killed men for far less, and if you have thwarted as many of his mechanizations as you presume, he will seek out Watson for his own personal vengeance!"
Lestrade reacted to the terror in Holmes's eyes. "I know where he is, follow me!"
They departed, past an upset and adamant Isadora, who nearly fainted when she saw the man leaving with Lestrade.
I think that reaction is going to happen frequently in the next few days!
Lestrade thought with a grimace as he hailed the next cab by.
Story Notes: I know many of you think you know what's coming, I am going to do my best to prove you wrong!
Stay tuned!
