Final Problem – AU

Holmes – Shock

I luxuriated in the first hot bath I'd had in three months. Shallow as it was to admit it, but I missed the comforts of Bakers Street more and more as my exile dragged on. The pass had unexpectedly snowed us in and we'd had more important uses for our supply of fuel than to heat bathwater. Our hosts had insisted that we clean up upon our arrival, and I for one did not blame them – we were more than a little odorous. Of course, I was not planning to stay here long – in fact the sooner I could engage a guide for the rest of the journey down into India the sooner I would depart. I had not had a home in two years as I traced the subtle and elusive web of Moriarty's overseas network – I wished for no home other than that of dear old Baker Street, haunted as it would be with the ghosts of my failures.

This rather large tea plantation was the first civilised outpost I'd seen since leaving the monastery, and even here my exploits as Sigerson, the Norwegian explorer, had travelled ahead of me. They were quite isolated here, the news and periodicals were perpetually out of date, not to mention rather eclectic in taste; I had even spotted a very old and dilapidated copy of Beecham's Christmas Annual, one that offered a story from a 'new' author, entitled 'A study in Scarlet'.

The sight had wounded me in ways I had not anticipated, and I had spent several desperate minutes maintaining control of my features. Watson had died at the Falls two years ago, throwing himself off the edge of the ledge where I had struggled with and unexpectedly defeated the late Professor Moriarty. I had not considered that my dearest friend was so far gone in his terrible grief that he would take his own life in such a manner – had I thought for an instant…

I took a series of deep breaths and waited until my hands were once more steady and the constriction in my chest eased. The monks had at least taught me to manage my grief, also breaking me of the chemical addiction that was slowly eroding my health. I confess that I had resented their efforts at first, barely suffering the presence of another where previously only my dearest friend had been privileged to nag and soothe in turns. They had succeeded though, ordering my wild emotions and taming the demons that lurked in my mind. I had not planned to spend so long there, as I had been passing through on an errand for Mycroft. However my health and the monks had dictated otherwise – I would at least be able to use some of the time spent there to enhance my cover as an explorer now.

There were clean clothes on the rail beside the towel and I slipped into them gratefully. My own gear was being tended to and I had sufficient funds to replenish my supplies before continuing down the mountains and into India. I was met outside by one of the plantation managers and led to the common house where the families of the plantation met for their evening meals and amusements. In some ways it was reminiscent of a London club, excepting that women and children were admitted to many of the rooms.

"You're looking for a guide, I understand?" the manager, I believe his name was Archer, inquired as we entered the main hall. It was decorated in a manner typical of its type – potted plants, wide windows for ventilation and a variety of skins, hunting trophies and weapons on display.

"Yes," I nodded, the Norwegian accent tripping easily from my tongue, though we were speaking English, "Or I would join with a party of men going to the low lands."

"There is a man looking to return to the lowlands at the moment. Very safe and reliable – although he travels with his son… but I am sure he would not mind a famous explorer joining his small party. They do not leave until the day after tomorrow, if that is not too late for you?" Archer pulled out a cheroot and readied it for lighting, offering me one. I declined – I had not sunk so low as to smoke cheroots – and asked the mans name.

"Charles McLeod – Charlie," Archer replied, blowing the smoke he'd inhaled towards the ceiling, "His son would introduce you, I am sure… if we can find him. He is somewhat ungoverned, though of course what else could you expect from a child of his background… Mr Sigerson, you may be interested to know that the boy is not the product of wedlock… I trust that wouldn't be a problem for you?"

"Not at all," I refrained from rolling my eyes. It seemed that here at this particular Outpost of Civilisation they insisted on the Proper Form of things… I had seen it among my fellow countrymen before, a level of pretension that was all the more pronounced the further away they were from any large centre of their home culture. What cared I for the marital status of a mans parents? If he and his father were willing to accept my inclusion in their party then that was all I cared for.

"Neils!" Archer called, attracting the attention of a small boy with a flop of pale brown hair and arms and legs longer than he knew what to do with. He was seven or eight – the height made it hard to tell as he was evidently in the midst of experiencing a growth spurt – and sturdily dressed. I began to revise my expectation of the age of the father, if this was the son. I had been imagining an aging adventurer and his youthful indiscretion grown to manhood – it seemed that was not at all the case.

"Good evening!" he piped, trotting over to Archer. His accent was Germanic, though he'd learned English from an Englishman. His dark blue eyes swept over me from head to toe curiously. It was something that I had done myself on any number of occasions – I wondered if the boy had drawn any accurate conclusions, though my clothes were borrowed… I was dragged back to the present by the voice of the man – the wrong, man, always the wrong man; the right man would never be with me again – beside me.

"This is Mr Sigerson – he wishes to travel to the lowlands. Take him to your Papa, Neils," Archer instructed and took another deep pull at the cheroot. A wary expression accompanied Neils McLeod's second appraisal of my person, but he nodded obediently and beckoned me to follow with a wave of his hand.

We wove through the people thronging about, apparently aimlessly, to reach a table in the corner. It was well lit and occupied by three men – two of which were playing chess and the third who was sketching in a battered travelling portfolio.

"Papa, Herr Sigerson wishes to travel with us!" Neils announced to the table at large and all three men looked up. The two chess players were an accountant and a former Army Sergeant respectively, but the artist was John Watson. Though he wore a full beard and was thinner than I had ever seen him, I recognised him at once. The world went away in a terrible rush as my mind struggled to confirm that it was indeed my friend before me and not some hideously ill-fated double that fate had cast cruelly in my path. But no, it was he – there were the faint scars on the back of his hand that he had incurred in the case with the mad glass blower, and he held his shattered shoulder in the familiar way. His colouring was correct and the ears were a perfect match. He even held his pencil the same way!

"Sit down, Laddie, before ye fall o'er," the accent of a Scotsman tripped from his tongue as if he'd been born to it – in Baker Street we only heard it if he was very ill or very drunk. The Sergeant kicked out the fourth chair and the accountant waved a hand at someone. I retained enough sense to know that I must speak, to cover my reasons for acting in such an odd fashion, but it took me precious seconds to do so.

"Forgive me, we had been snowed in for some time," I managed to get the lie out of a throat that was too tight. McLeod – for there was no trace of John Watson in his eyes or manners, no matter that he wore my dearest friends face and body – snorted and leaned back, dropping an arm casually over his 'sons' shoulders. Watson would have been fussing, his medical instincts rising to the fore. McLeod merely waited until a plate of hot food had been placed in front of me before pulling the boy onto his knee and resuming his sketching. The child leaned into his chest easily and watched with interest no less intense than myself as the scene on the page took life and form.

Eating the meal – a dish of curried meat and vegetables that was stronger than anything Mrs Hudson had ever served us – gave me time to regain my composure entirely and so it was that Sigerson was able to negotiate his inclusion in McLeod's trip to the lowlands. He and the boy were headed for Bombay, which suited me as I would be able to re-establish contact with Mycroft there for my next assignment. It would also give me time to study this new man in Watson's body – to search for any trace of my dearest friend. Once we were entirely away from all eyes and any chance of being overheard or observed I would call him by name and attempt to repair the damage that I had done.

I was not heartened by the fact that Watson had not recognised me at all. Was it possible that I had undergone such a complete transformation in our time apart? I wore my hair a little longer, my nails shorter and sported a wretched little goatee that repulsed me every time I caught sight of it. I had dyed my hair lighter, but that was the only cosmetic effect that I favoured. It was all too dangerous to rely upon wigs and false hair in an environment as harsh as some I had traversed – things had a way of coming adrift at the worst moment. However, the changes were small, inconsequential. Surely he knew me?

"So, ye wish to join us when we leave day after tomorrow?" McLeod broke into my musings as I mopped the plate clean with the last of the bread. I had been starving hungry, so the meal had been doubly welcome.

"If you have room to spare," I nodded, "I am heading to Bombay."

"As are we!" Neils exclaimed brightly, then clapped a hand over his mouth and gave his father a very apologetic look. McLeod merely rolled his eyes and raked his glance over me once more.

"Well, as ye've heard we're headed in the same direction. We'll be a party of five tae start wi' – I'm escorting a couple o' lads down to a lower plantation first if ye can bear th' diversion," McLeod drew a map from the front of the journal that rested in its usual place in his inner pocket, an action that made my heart twist and jump in my chest, and handed it over. There was a route marked in pencil upon it and I examined it for a moment before nodding.

"I can manage that," I affirmed and we settled into negotiating a travel price.

I still didn't know how he'd come to be here, or why he travelled with a boy that was clearly not his by blood despite the polite fiction he maintained, or even yet why he hadn't returned to England, but there would be time enough for those things later.

After two terrible years of grief I had found him once more – alive!

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Ooooh, shocker!!!!