Disclaimer: I don't own "Sherlock Holmes" or any of its characters. That all belongs to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Guy Ritchie, etc.

Inspired by: "Blackbird" by the Beatles.

December 31st, 1892

There was a small memorial service for Sherlock Holmes three days after the news was broken to Madeline. A literal handful of people came, at the behest of Watson and Lestrade. The city would be in an uproar to find out its most prized detective and citizen had passed away at the violent hands of a madman. It was better for them, at that time, to go on not knowing and live in blissful delusion.

Madeline only wished she could've been that lucky.

The only positive during all this was that since no body was recovered they wouldn't have prolong the sorrow and suffering by waiting for the days to turn warmer for burial. At the service, John introduced her to Mycroft Holmes for the first time. The startling similarities between him and his brother just made her heart ache even more so; he was brilliant at deduction, even more so than Holmes had been, but he treated his ability as more of a pastime than anything else. He was several inches taller, and a bit heavier with his face rounded out accordingly, but the familial traits were obvious.

"So you're Mrs. St. James…Sherlock has spoken of you. You appear to be one of the few females he doesn't abhor," he murmured, not bothering beating around the bush. The lack of past tense in his sentence sparked in Madeline's brain. She only nodded and looked askance, staring at the man curiously. "Clearly you don't abhor him either."

"No, I didn't. He was a good man, and a good friend," she whispered, straightening the skirt of her dour black dress. "I will miss him dearly."

The older Holmes began to look slightly uncomfortable. "Indeed."

Madeline smirked, with no real mirth reaching her eyes. "Worry not, I won't sob all over you, sir. I've done enough of that already."

And so the conversation went around, with the topics drifting from one thing to another. Eventually, Mycroft steered her away from the rest of the group, and confided to her that he would continue renting out the Baker Street residence for a time, as he could not bear to remove his brother's things from the place just yet.

"You can visit anytime you like, when you…" he trailed off, pausing to collect his thoughts. "I wish for you to hold onto a copy of the key."

She frowned, but she could hardly refuse the offer; neither her heart nor her manners would allow it. Her hand reached out on its own accord, accepting the key to 221B and turning it over with her fingers.

She did, however, have the gall to wonder aloud, "Why give me a key, sir? Since your brother has passed, it would make more sense to just leave it all be. I don't have a purpose for being there anymore."

Mycroft shrugged, his blue eyes glowing in the low lighting of the church. "I don't agree with you."

Her frown deepened as she contemplated the object in her hand, the lines on her brow pronounced. This…was all so strange to her, and she couldn't quite put her finger to the pulse as to what. Brother Mycroft Holmes was a peculiar fellow, offering her something like this. As he walked away, tipping his hat in farewell, she regarded his back with dull interest.

Immediately she went out and made a copy for Watson, who'd reacted similarly when she gave it to him. After a few weeks, the two of them agreed it was safe enough emotionally and physically to venture into the flat, greeting Mrs. Hudson with a polite hello before meandering up the stairs. Ignoring her muttering, they were both overwhelmed when they crossed the threshold. The ghost of Holmes wandered all over the place. He was bent over the untouched chemistry set by the front window. He was lying on his worn down tiger rug, staring at the ceiling and going over the clues collected at a crime scene.

Sherlock was everywhere, as if he'd never set a single foot beyond the door.

"It's so surreal, being here without him," John mused, tearing his eyes away from the stepladder. "It's like he'll be back any moment, after he's popped 'round to get some tobacco."

Madeline sighed. "And for Mycroft to just leave it all like this…you would think this would hurt him the most, having anything to remind him of his brother just sitting around."

"That's with the understanding that Mycroft feels anything beyond boredom and hunger," Watson quipped, weakly attempting humor. "Perhaps he just doesn't want to go through everything. Not yet, in any case."

The doctor shrugged it off, being a man and pretending nothing was amiss, simply gathering up Gladstone and heading home to Mary. As she was left to her own devices, Madeline risked another look around. Everything in its place, she was always told, nothing to be moved. The rooms were poised, as if waiting for the master to return. Her mind turned this over as she snatched up the violin case, taking one thing she knew had sentimental value. Even though her mind was at work, a few tears managed to slip out as her hands cradled the instrument case. She still had a very human heart, and it was still aching deep down.

Life had gone on, and she wouldn't wallow in pity and death. Her father's life was a testament to killing oneself slowly because of lost love. She'd gone out, seen other friends, and even travelled to the continent for a spell when the furor about war died down. Still, the hole in her heart was there and couldn't be ignored no matter how hard she tried. Outrunning it did no good; she'd learned that from her brother-in-law's example. All she needed was a medium, and soon enough she found it right back where she started: at home in London, surrounded by the Watsons, Julianne, Constance…and the violin.

A few months on in the year, Madeline was still unsure why she'd taken the violin. Perhaps because it was just something he supremely cared for, and she wanted to hold onto that. The best she could do with it was to pluck atonal clusters. She had no idea how to play, and wasn't really learning how. The strings made her fingers burn and become callused, but she still didn't know a single song.

There was something about it, in the moments of quiet and peace that her mind began troubling over the facts of the last days of Holmes' life and the present circumstances. Mycroft still had control of the rooms on Baker Street, demanding that things be kept in order and only cleaning around the stacks of items. Oftentimes, he'd asked Madeline to stop by, make sure that his will was respected. He kept it tidy, in the loosest definition of the word, and she puzzled over the reason why. Why did he insist on her specifically reviewing Mrs. Hudson's work? Why couldn't Mycroft let go? Questions with no answers circled in her brain, and the brother would not answer any of them except with a shrug and a smirk, frustrating her to no end. When the violin met her fingertips and the strumming commenced, she felt she knew what Sherlock was about whenever he began to play it.

That brief moment of connection was what she treasured. She was a smart woman, but she felt as though she touched the brilliance of Holmes' mind when she manipulated the Stradivarius. Curious how Mycroft never demanded its return, with her having no doubt that he knew where it went. She thought he supposed that she would return it one day, or at least he understood that would be in safe hands.

Her fingers clumped together, her body curled up in her armchair late one evening. She never could outrun that first conversation with Mycroft, the only significant one she'd had with the man. She knew it was important, but why?

"He doesn't abhor you, like other females…"

A, then to G, but she didn't know it. She just kept going, furiously thinking.

"You don't abhor him, either."

The bodies had disappeared at the scene. Neither was found, so logically both men were dead.

"Sherlock has spoken of you…"

Suddenly her fingers stopped, and there it is. The single clue of why she can't forget, why she can't leave behind the memory of a friend and a deeper feeling she won't put aside.

The present tense. Mycroft, an intelligent man, a man who knew how to choose his words carefully, had spoken in the present tense that day. As if Sherlock were still alive. Something in her soul began to burn, and then the violin slid carelessly out of her grip and banged to the floor.

The next morning, Mycroft Holmes had to suppress a smile when his manservant placed a note on his breakfast tray.

MH,

Rooms are in order. Ready for what's in store.

MSJ.

After that day, the violin stayed locked in its case, safe and sound. Madeline's eyes were cleared, and though she'd been laid low, she was still able to figure out an answer.

The end of 1892 arrived, a full year gone by and her hope of the truth still burned secretly. Days came and went where she would panic, wonder if she was going a bit mad for wishing and hoping, but she was resolute. Silently resolute, that was. She didn't want to run the risk of being wrong and the by-blow of it tearing John and Mary down. Though they still grieved somewhat as well, they had moved on at the birth of their son. Little William Sherlock was a happy lad, cooing and gurgling whenever she went over to visit them. Cradling William close, Madeline would think of the times she and Simon had tried time and again to have children, and how alone she was. The doctor's practice was busier than ever without Holmes running around, but he still carried the obvious pain wherever he went. Her heart twisted at keeping her theories to herself, but giving John a possible false hope was something she couldn't do to him. Not even if Madeline could bring him a little moment of joy with the thought.

On New Year's Eve, the Watsons had been invited to a patient's home to ring in the New Year, and they wanted to extend the invitation out to her as well. Madeline refused, the cold chill of the night making her nostalgic for that moment last December. Her excuse, though, was that she didn't know the man and wouldn't impose, which was partly true in any case.

Buried underneath an old afghan willed to her by Nanny Bray (poor woman had passed in November, just adding to the list of loved ones lost), she sat staring into her own fireplace. The snow swirled beyond the windowpanes, coming down inordinately hard that night. Kicking her shoes off, she curled up on the chaise longue and kept playing, the cracking coals popping and echoing throughout the house. The hands on the mantel clock ticked by, bringing her ever closer to midnight, ready to take her into the future. She grinned, pleased with herself for being slightly poetic if not a touch clichéd.

The cook and the maid were in their own homes celebrating the holiday, and her butler was about to knock off for the night as well, when a harsh pounding at the door caused her to jump. An eyebrow quirked up; who in their right mind would come visiting in the midst of a snowstorm?

"Mason?" she called out tentatively, her head turning slightly when the butler's mumbled apologies reached her ears. The door creaked open, and a blast of cold air wound from the entryway into the sitting room.

"Can I help you, sir?" Mason asked politely, gritting his teeth against the cold. It was also a means of asserting his authority over the intruder.

"Please, could I trouble you for the use of your fire?" croaked a man's haggard voice. "I'm on me way home to Lewisham, but got lost in this horrible weather. I've knocked at several houses down the way and no one answered. I'll be in and out before you know it."

Intrigued, Madeline rose from her chair and stepped out into the hallway. Slowly she eyed up the stranger, her heart pounding away in her chest in a refusal to calm down. The man in question had coal dust smeared over his face, his clothes, everything. A chimney sweep was settled against the doorpost, belying his occupation. Dirtied blonde hair spiked out from beneath his ragged cap, his face clean-shaven. Next to Mason's tall, lithe frame, the man appeared small and weak, but that was mostly because he was stooped and hugging himself in an attempt to warm up. She couldn't just let him freeze out there; the wind could very well have blown him away.

"Let him in," she commanded lightly, showing the way into the sitting room. A poor man out in the cold, knocking on her door, specifically the front door rather than the servants' entrance…this was a man that would bear watching.

"Much obliged, mum," the chimney sweep muttered as he kneeled before the fireplace and tried to get warm again. He flashed a quick smile, the melting snow streaking past deep brown eyes. Mason attempted to follow him in, but with a curt gesture from his mistress, he was sent off to his room with the promise of coming to her aid should she need it. The chimney sweep shrugged his shoulders and shook off some excess ice while he regarded her again. "Sorry to intrude on ya, missus. It's bloody cold, pardon me language."

"It's no trouble," she waved him off, studying him closely. Choosing her spot in the armchair, she began to fish in the pocket of her dress before pulling out a handkerchief. "Here, you might want to clean yourself up a bit. At least, get some of the coal off your face."

His gaze flicked from the proffered cloth back to her, before he turned back to the fire.

"Nah, couldn't, mum."

Pressing closer, she peered into his face for a second before he shuffled sideways. "I insist. You must want to be a little clean when you get home later."

"No point, missus. Just going to be dirty again by tomorrow night, anyway."

Coolly, she pocketed the handkerchief again, allowing herself a rueful smile. "You're from Lewisham, correct? My brother-in-law has a house there. I've never been, but interesting things happen there, or so I've been told."

The man's head tilted back, and he scratched his neck. "Suppose so, mum. Just a place to live."

He pulled his cap lower, attempting to obscure his face some more, but Madeline ignored that in favor of settling her gaze onto the untouched violin case. Tentatively she stretched her fingers towards the instrument case, looking out the corner of her eyes to see if she had an audience watching her movements. Satisfied in that regard, she plucked up the Stradivarius and idly toyed with the strings. The stranger's dark eyes narrowed under the brim of his cap, and his hands clenched into fists briefly.

"Can you actually play that?" he asked. Madeline smiled and shook her head, fingers splayed across the instrument's neck.

"No, I cannot. I collected it from a friend's home for safekeeping," she said, shrugging her shoulders. "I've been strumming on it to keep it in form until he returns. Although I reckon I may have to get it tuned soon. It's been abandoned for over a year now."

The chimney sweep scoffed. "Such a lovely thing could hardly be abandoned, mum. Maybe your friend has had other things to take care of to ensure its safety. Important things must have required his attention first."

The index finger flicked at a string. "Maybe. Perhaps if he had been inclined to tell me how long it would be before he returned for it-"

"Maybe he was unable to name a date for good reason."

"You are presuming quite a bit, sir, but I'm feeling charitable this evening and won't bring you to task. My argument remains that he must not really care about it, seeing as how he's stayed away willingly for months without bothering to pick it up."

The fellow rose to his full height, a few inches above hers. "I'm not sure, madam, but you ain't giving the man full credit. He isn't here to answer to those things you've been saying against him."

She stared back at him, just looking blankly into his face until the air shifted back to a tense calmness. Turning around towards the fire and crouching again, she dropped her eyes onto the body of the violin and tutted under her breath.

"Oh dear, looks like there's a dent in it. I must've dropped it at some point."

Whirling fast on his heel, he snatched the violin out of her grip before she had time to register what was happening. Green eyes stared at her would-be companion, his jaw tightened in a controlled fury.

"Woman, you know how vital this Stradivarius is. Hours of dedication and time have gone into making it worthy of a first chair of the orchestra; to think that you could be so careless…"

He stalled out, not finding a single scratch on it. Looking up, he witnessed the wide smile spreading across her lips, her green eyes sparkling as the reality of his faux pas hit them both.

She had him, forced him to break cover and admit who he really was. He gaped, stunned by her achievement. It was not an idea that was wholly unfamiliar to him; Watson and Irene had done much of the same thing when they suspected him in disguise. But with Watson, he wanted to prove his own skill at deduction. And with Irene…she was out to simply prove she could play the game as well as he. It's what attracted him to her in the first place, her devotion to being just as crafty as he was, if not better.

Madeline was crafty in her own right, he mused, but the motivation was different. She sought no personal prize, she did not desire the chance to prove she was better than him. It was no game to her.

At that moment, Mason rounded the corner and announced that the storm outside had turned into a blizzard. Nodding at the news, Madeline granted the chimney sweep the use of the spare bedroom, her conscience unable to send a poor creature out to his death. Mason was hard put to allow such a thing, but the sweep, once he regained his tongue, swore up and down that he would do nothing to harm the lady or her reputation. He was sent off ahead of her to the room with a washbowl and a towel, the violin still in his possession. Feet shuffled in the hall, with murmurs of thanks from the chimney sweeper and Mason just harrumphing back.

Madeline allowed the man twenty minutes to clean up, sending her butler off to bed with a handful of promises to call for his help if she were harassed by the stranger. Up the stairs she went, sliding into her room just as Mason locked up for the night. Her shaking hands unbuttoned her blouse, shucked off her skirts and undergarments, before the corset stymied them. Failing to remove it, she slung her nightdress over it and took down her hair. The shock was pulsing through her veins, followed by the ecstasy of being right. The house went still for a time, before the strains of an actual melody floated down the hall. Judging her moment to be right, she crept out of her bedroom and tiptoed to the spare room's door. She tapped lightly once, and immediately a familiar voice on the opposite granted entrance.

The man pivoted on his heel as she pushed the panel open, the instrument still in hand. The coal-stained jacket, hat, and gloves had been removed, the boots kicked off. The dark suspenders were slung off the shoulders and hanging at the man's waist. Most importantly, his blonde wig had been removed, as well as the excess dirt, his real hair nearly black. His face was almost totally devoid of expression, save for the spark of admiration in his eyes.

Sherlock Holmes stood before her, alive and unharmed.

"You," she murmured, entering swiftly and shutting the door. His calculating gaze stored away the fact that she had effectively closed them both off from the outside world, and positioned herself between him and the doorway so he couldn't get out easily. "I hope you weren't planning on going anywhere tonight."

He raised his eyebrows. "I assure you, madam, that I am not inclined to do so at this moment."

Author's note: This is but Part 1 of this night's revelations, and you will get the second half next week. It's been a crazy week; thankfully I had time to work on this today, since I'm sick and had to skip work. Anyway, hope you enjoyed it, please review, and I'll see you all next week!

EDIT: Major, major thanks to Zenyatta19 for the editing of this chapter and the next, as she helped me realize that I had some big revisions to make in this story. She is awesome, and I cannot thank her enough for all the help she provided. Thank you so much!