Many apologies for the wait. (glares at muse) And for some reason the chapter seemed to constantly be nodding at the BBC radio dramas; upon a final reading I can spot three small nods to the series, so if a line is vaguely familiar to you that is probably why.


Holmes

Watson has told his countless readers that I am one of the most reticent of men regarding my past; and I knew he was suspicious at the very least as to my motives for not telling him from the beginning all and sundry I knew about Victor Trevor.

The simple truth of the matter was, that I did not know the man as he was now very well myself, and could scarcely remember with any clarity after twenty years of no communication even what sort of chap he had been.

I knew well that I had been extremely self-absorbed during that period of time, due to the death of my parents and my consequential move to London, where I floated round for a year or so before settling in Montague Street. Readers of Watson's exaggeratedly florid stories probably have spent far too much time speculating on the mystery of why I left Cambridge, and why I decided to live in London, thinking that I am hiding some dark secret about my past. An idea which is, of course, so much pure rubbish.

The truth of the matter was, I left because of finances. A prosaic and unromantic reason, but quite true. Mycroft by that point was already established in his workplace as an accountant, and I was unemployed, barely scraping by on what I had saved and what little our parents had left us upon their untimely passing. It was good business sense, in addition to some small sense of companionship, that made me accept Trevor's invitation to spend a month at his father's estate – that was merely one month's worth of board and utilities that I did not have to pay to my landlord. The fact that he was at that time a good friend was merely a pleasant side benefit.

I had met the man at the end of my second term, thanks to his nasty little dog, and while we had indeed become good – I might go so far as to say close – friends, that had trailed off after he left England for Terai; after a few initial half-hearted attempts at communication we both had merely gone our separate ways into our own lives.

His leaving had been something of a shock, and a very unpleasant one. I am very loathing of change, and specially of loss, and that coming so soon after the death of my parents (though we had never been close) made me think twice before ever forming such a close relationship again; it merely was not logical and sensible to set one's self up for such painful disappointment a second time.

Work was a much more preferable way of occupying my time than trying to make a new acquaintance and companion, and so it was to work I had turned, throwing myself into this new idea of consulting-detection rather than the chemical science in which program I had originally enrolled in the University.

When my money gave out, that negated my chances of entering the world of science as we knew it. Therefore, I would have to enter into the scientific world as we did not know it. And thus was born my singular occupation.

The problem was presently (and why I was sitting on a polished deck in the sun, mulling over these unusual thoughts in my orderly brain), that now I had once again allowed myself to open up to another friend, and somehow I was very reluctant to admit both to quitting my education, not finding some way to continue; and to losing track of the only man I had made friends with in my college years, for the fault did lie at my door and not Trevor's, I well knew.

Were I to be entirely honest with myself, I would not wish Watson to know what an insensitive lout I was capable of being – though probably he well knew already – or that I had withdrawn so far into myself due to personal disappointment because I was incapable of handling grief properly. Both of those disappointing characteristics, the failure and the grief, he had all-too-clearly beaten properly in his own life; I had always known he was a stronger man than I.

But I would not admit it to a soul, and therein lay my reticence to discuss that time of my life with a man more intimidating to me than he knew, or ever would know.

Sometimes I wonder if the good Doctor is truly as obtuse as he appears sometimes regarding my ability to read thoughts from a man's features, for on several occasions (the present one included) I have been aware of his keen eyes upon me, and felt that perhaps I am not quite as good at concealing my thoughts and feelings as I have always believed.

True to form, though, and also due to a faint lingering bout of seasickness (we had hit another heavy wind off the coast of Africa last night), he merely closed his book with a small sigh, after raising a quizzical eyebrow at me as if to ask why I looked so studious.

"Still feeling poorly?" I asked, stretching my legs out in front of my comfortable chair.

He nodded ruefully, his face still a bit pale. "I am just glad the first part of the journey was by train."

I nodded, stifling a yawn. This voyage had been rather uneventful so far, merely train after train. I was glad for the diversion a ship and its passengers offered, though I was sorry Watson did not enjoy a rough sea as much as I. But the weather was now, after two days, clear and balmy and sunny, and hopefully would stay that way until we reached Bombay.

Out of respect for Watson, who was obviously not feeling well, I had made the monumental effort to refrain from even thinking of the cocaine concealed in his black bag, instead prowling about the ship at all hours when I could not sleep, exploring and generally attempting to occupy myself while he was so miserable in his stateroom.

This fine morning he had at last ventured out, the storm having blown itself away equator-ward in the wee hours of the morning, and we were seated along the deck in two comfortable chairs, enjoying the sun and fresh air (or at least he was, I was just there for him).

My eye caught the book he was in the act of slipping a marker into and setting on the table between us, and I stared even as he caught the bent of my gaze and blushed a more healthy color than he had been since being sick.

"What on earth, Watson." I tried to hide my amusement, but did not restrain the broad smile in time.

"Well, it is relevant…in a way," he cried defensively, trying to shove the book out of sight under him.

"In a way."

"Holmes…"

I laughed at his consternation, but I was glad to see the color stay in his face. "Really, Doctor – Kipling's The Jungle Book? Isn't that a bit below your reading level?"

"It's for the atmosphere," he protested feebly, squirming in his chair before subsiding into a small fidgeting, looking sideways at me like a child caught snooping in his father's private papers.

I merely laughed and turned my chair so I was facing him, steepling my fingers in a gesture of concentration. "Speaking of which, you said you would tell me about it," I began cautiously.

Relieved to drop the subject of his reading material, he also turned his chair, and a thoughtful look fell across his eyes. "India, you mean?"

"Yes, in a general sense. I am aware that Darjeeling is not actually India but rather Nepal, but it is basically the same, from what I remember on my brief travel through it to Tibet," I answered. "Give me a snapshot of the atmosphere, as you put it."

"Well…it's hot, for one thing, this time of year; though not as bad as it will be in August," said he pensively. "I don't know about the Darjeeling area, but I have been to Bombay; just before I was sent back to England. It's…a potpourri of people, a melting pot of all nationalities. Bombay is not what you would expect when you think of India; too diverse, too industrialized a port and city, you know. But once you can get below the surface of the industry and the military, it is beautiful. Tall palm trees and exotic plants dotting the gardens of the larger houses, the islands in the distance sparkling in the ocean…the smells are more exotic, and the colours brighter, somehow…" he trailed off suddenly, blushing again. "Shall I cut out the poetry?"

I blinked out of my reverie and smiled instead. "Not at all; I wanted a picture and I got it. Perhaps you should write for the travel guides instead of a sensational magazine?"

I expected him to laugh and make some standard response, the way he always did when I tweaked his writing, but to my surprise he merely looked suddenly ill-at-ease…even worried.

"Something wrong, Doctor?" I asked, tilting my chair more toward him and pushing the brim of my light hat back to better see him.

"Well…" he paused with a troubled expression, pinching his nose in a gesture I recognised.

"Go on."

"Well…" he swallowed, finally looking at me with worry flickering in the back of his eyes. "Holmes, what am I going to do about the story I published in the Strand?" he asked, speaking all in a rush as if wanting to get the words out before I could answer. "I changed dates and names and even pertinent facts, I promise, but – I had no idea I would ever even meet the man…no idea that I would even ever see you again…what if he is angry about the story?"

It took me a full ten seconds to process his rapid words, uttered in a tone of unease so deep he did not care if I were going to make some snide remark about his scribbling. Then another ten seconds to realise the issue at hand, and then I put a hand on his arm to stop the half-frantic explanation.

"Watson, do calm yourself," I reassured him. "For one thing, the Strand is advertised as fiction, is it not?"

He nodded uncertainly. "For the most part, yes."

"Then legally there is nothing that you have to worry about. For another, I read the story, and you changed nearly all the facts except his name, for heaven's sake. I barely recognised the story itself, so far did you deviate from the cold hard truth in your usual romantic fashion. By the way, you made a mistake on the dates, you know."

He blinked, suddenly coming back to the present with a start. "I what?"

"You said the papers Trevor, Sr. left behind read something like 'Some particulars of the voyage of the barque Gloria Scott, from her leaving Falmouth on the 8th October, 1855...'"

"And?"

"And earlier in the story you said the seaman Hudson told Trevor's father that it had been 'thirty years or more' since he had last seen him."

He stared blankly at me for a moment, before doing the math in his head and settling back with a moan, his chin in his hand as his elbow rested upon the chair-arm. "Wonderful. So not only did I write a story about someone I am going to meet in person in a week and a half, but I also misplaced the dates."

He looked so disconsolate that I was almost sorry I had distracted him with his own error. "Be that as it may, Watson, you changed nearly everything about the story. And for another, I doubt that the Strand sells many copies outside of England."

"True…" He perked up hopefully. "You think he hasn't seen it?"

"I highly doubt it," I affirmed. "And even if he has, he's a deucedly good-natured chap; I doubt he would take offense. Do not worry yourself on the matter, Watson."

My friend nodded uncertainly, but he did relax slightly, the lines of trouble in his face smoothing out at last; this had obviously been preying upon his mind for some time.

"Good-natured, you say?" he repeated in an obvious effort to keep the conversation moving in that direction.

I nodded cautiously. "To a fault, actually. Fairly easy-going, and while he did have a backbone he didn't assert himself unless thoroughly aroused." I glanced pulled out my watch and glanced at the time, then rose to my feet. "Come, Doctor. I shall give you all the information you require over breakfast."

--

Watson

I was slightly dubious over the wisdom of attempting a hearty breakfast so soon after an upset stomach, and so contented myself with a fortifying cup of tea (carefully requesting green for its healthful values as well as to avoid the usual black) and some toast and marmalade.

Holmes bolted his sausage and eggs with a good enough appetite, talking between bites to me all the while in that peculiar sporadic fashion that made him one of the most fascinating and one of the most aggravating conversationalists I have ever come across.

"I do believe that fellow is running from the authorities for smuggling," he said confidentially to me, pointing with his egg-spoon to a young chap at a nearby table. "Pass the salt. What exactly did you want to know about Victor Trevor?"

I blinked dubiously at the harmless-looking youngster, passed the salt-shaker, and then focused in due turn on the third sentence. "Well…describe him, first of all. What does he look like?"

"Or rather, what did he look like twenty years ago?" my friend corrected, tapping the fingers of his free hand upon the table in thought. "Well…about your height, strongly built. He was an athlete; I believe I might have told you that. Sandy hair, blue eyes, strong jaw…his voice is, or was, higher-pitched than yours, but not so high as mine. Just a normal, average young Englishman, no remarkable features. Are you going to eat that toast?"

I shook my head and passed the remaining piece to him, leaning forward in my eagerness. "What was he like, his personality?" I questioned, watching Holmes's eyes flit about the room briefly before returning to my face.

"Energetic, ridiculously energetic. Always doing something; not the type to sit around and while away the hours with a book," Holmes replied around a mouthful of toast. "Odd thing, that he was rather a good-natured chap, had no undesirable qualities really; but he was a bit on the shy side, and so had not many friends. He had a magnetic, humor-loving personality, he just did not allow it to show unless he was comfortable with people."

I nodded, thinking about my friend's words and appreciating his taking the time to tell me about the man; I knew speaking of his past never was a task he enjoyed. "So he was as friendless as you until you found each other?"

"You needn't make it sound like a sordid storybook, Watson," Holmes snorted, draining his coffee-cup. "But in essence, yes. I was far too busy with my studies for a social life, and he, while he was involved in the athletics and so on, had no close friends. Many acquaintances, but no close friends."

I understood that, certainly, for when I had returned to London from the army I had been in the same position. Stamford I knew, as well as a few of my fellow medicos at St. Bart's, and even a few of the Scotland Yarders in the ensuing years; but Holmes had been the only close friend I had until a few years later, when I could afford to have a social life.

"He was so ridiculously careless," Holmes chuckled. "It was quite refreshing, from the drudgery of studies and schooling, his sense of humor and love of life. Oh, and that horrid little dog of his – ugh. He loved the little monster like a child, and it always hated me. Even after that initial attack it came after me every time it saw me. Chewed up my anatomy textbook as well, the little blighter."

I laughed at this last, though I was beginning to feel ever-so-slightly troubled about the ease with which the detective cheerfully referred to this old friend of his, and what enjoyment was evident upon his face as he warmed to the topic; a brighter, happier sparkle had appeared in his eyes than I had seen in quite some time, and one that I had not been able to elicit no matter the effort I had put into the endeavour.

Holmes had been silent for a long moment while these conflicting and childish thoughts had been taking over my common sense, and he was now toying with his napkin-ring. Suddenly he looked up at me, and offered me a lop-sided smile. "In many ways, you remind me of him, Watson," said he warmly. "With one very significant difference."

"Which is?" I asked dubiously, after he had paused to shove the remaining toast into his mouth.

In a rapid fluttering gesture, he tossed his napkin down onto the table. "Are you up for a walk around the deck, old fellow?"

"You are so dashed infuriating!" I cried, glaring at him as he rose and left me, throwing a mischievous grin over his shoulder even as I scrambled to rise and follow.

I caught up with him on the polished deck, and for a moment we stood at the rail, watching the sun glint off the blue water. The warmth and the fresh breeze did much to banish the remaining cobwebs around my brain and made me feel quite a lot better in body, as had our frank conversation this morning in spirit.

"What is the difference?" I asked curiously, after Holmes had leant forward for a few minutes, his forearms on the rail beside mine and his hands clasped in front of him, his fingers twitching nervously.

"A highly significant one," he replied softly, and his eyes remained on the water rather than turning to me; an evidence that the admission he was about to make was rather closer to his heavily-guarded heart than he would prefer anyone to enter except under unusual circumstances.

I waited patiently, and was rewarded when the mask over his features lifted slightly, and he offered the ocean below us a sad smile. "The difference is that, when a tragedy struck, you stood and fought it, and came out the other side still standing as strong as ever. Trevor could not stand to live with the memories of his father and his home, and so sold the estate and left the country, never intending to come back. He said the memories were too painful, and he wanted a fresh start."

I was touched by the compliment, offered in his own peculiar way, but also realised how childish it was of me to be even slightly envious of the man's connection with my friend's past life; obviously his leaving had affected Holmes deeply, and both of them had been so young, to lose a family like they had.

"We had words to that effect," Holmes muttered, almost inaudibly; I was not certain at first that he had even spoken to me. "Before he left. I wish…" he stopped, shook his head. "Never mind, Doctor. At any rate, you now know most of everything about the man. I think you shall get along well enough."

I had been watching his face, and especially his eyes, which were slightly melancholic and filled with what I would have termed regret in another man. I impulsively laid a hand on his arm as we stood there in the balmy morning, the salty breeze whipping about the ship as she steamed steadily toward our destination.

"If he is as good-natured as you say, Holmes, then you should know that he will not be holding against you anything that happened when he left," I said firmly, logically. "I am certain he will be happy to see you."

I felt him start in surprise under my hand, and his grey eyes slid over to meet mine, slowly crinkling at the edges in amusement. "And you believe I am the only one of this partnership capable of deductive reasoning, Watson."

"I've had a good tutor," I replied flippantly, very pleased to see the uncertainty in his gaze vanish into the previous cheerfulness I had seen. Regardless of who put the twinkle back into his eyes, I was merely glad to see it after these weeks of doldrums and black depressions.

"Oh, the best," he agreed complacently, smirking at me when I rolled my eyes. "Now that we've done interrogating each other, shall I beat you at a game of chess, or are you still intent on pursuing Kipling's child-rearing animals through imaginative India?"


To be continued