Final Problem – AU

Holmes – Death

We were eight days into our trek to Bombay when my opportunity arose. They were eight of the most fascinating and yet at the same time frustrating days of my life. I had eight days to observe the bond between McLeod and his son – the casual yet firm handling the boy received from his putative father reminded me so strongly of Watson and the Irregulars that I had to bite my tongue at times to keep the words crowding my throat at bay.

McLeod was an accomplished sketch artist – be it landscapes, portraits or maps and studies, his hand was sure and his eye impeccable. His work would never be displayed as a master to be sure, and Grandfather Vernet would have had rather a lot to say on the matter of light, but the pictures he produced into his portfolio were a very vivid record of daily sights and activities as we travelled through the countryside towards Bombay.

On the eighth day of our trek we came across a forgotten temple, being slowly swallowed alive by the jungle around it. The relief's and carvings on the stone pillars and walls were as fascinating as they were unexpected and McLeod set up our small camp without fuss when I indicated that I wished a closer examination of the ruin. I had a cover to maintain after all, and this would be the perfect spot to hold our discussion. He maintained a cracking pace when we travelled, despite the pains it must have cost him and would brook no slacking of the pace.

"It's no' for me to interfere wi' a mans livelihood," he said philosophically as I thanked him for the delay and went to supervise his sons enthusiastic explorations, leaving me to reel from the small barb. Did he mean that he now resented the work we had done in England together? Had he come to view our partnership with bitterness and rancour? It was only by invoking the monks training that I managed to survey the ruins properly, recording what I could and marking the temples location on the map as accurately as possible. There was a man in Bombay that would be very interested in this find, and I would be able to use his resulting excitement as a cover to contact Mycroft once more.

Once we had eaten the evening meal and Watson had seen his son safely to sleep I took the opportunity to broach the issue that had been burning at the front of my mind since I had first seen him. I had spent the last eight days constantly in his presence and still had no idea how I was to begin the most important discussion of my adult life. I had never been known for my tact or ability to tolerate discussion of the softer issues of the heart. Yet it was left to me to initiate this tete a tete – Watson apparently had no desire to do so, though I had yet to confirm that he knew my identity one way or another.

"I need to speak with you," the words were out in the open before I had a chance to rethink them and the man opposite me chuckled and settled himself more comfortably against the pack he was leaning upon.

"Aye, you've had somethin' on yer mind since ye first clapped eyes on me," was the startling reply, "I e'en think I hae a good idea o' what ye want tae say, Laddie."

This was encouraging – if he had recognised me and somehow disguised his reaction whilst I was controlling my own shock, then he would also have been pondering this very conversation. My dear friend was much kinder to me than I deserved and if I was very lucky he would get us past the initial awkwardness of the moment with his usual gentility and compassion.

"However, I would advise ye agin it," the words dashed over me like a shock of icy water, stealing my breath. There was a very clear warning in the hazel eyes opposite me, a resolution that I knew I would not be able to break without destroying us both. There was nothing I could say that would reach the man I now knew lived behind the quietly amiable persona of Charlie McLeod. My grief, alleviated for such a short time, returned in a crushing wave, freezing the breath in my lungs.

"Whoe'er it is ye think ye see in me, tha man is no mair," he continued to kill me one soft word at a time, "Ye'll no get what ye are lookin' for wi' words, Laddie. Ye an' I both know its actions that are needed here. After all, I woul' imagine it were actions that got ye intae this fix in the first place."

"I've only a few days!" my despair tore the words from me unwillingly. I knew all too well that I couldn't redeem myself in the few days of travel we had left to us – my offences against him were too great for that and I had no right to expect that Watson would choose to continue our odd association once our contractual agreement was over, "We'll reach Bombay soon!"

"Aye," McLeod said softly, and for a moment there was the familiar compassion in his eyes. That small glint saved me more thoroughly than any other thing in the world could have, "But the bairn an' I have no compelling business in the city. We could travel on wi' ye for a time. If ye've a mind to it."

"Yes!" I gasped, "I do! I'll likely have work waiting for me in Bombay – I don't know where it will take me, but please… come with me, you and the boy!"

For I knew that McLeod or Watson, he would not leave behind the child that he had unaccountably taken responsibility for. Part of me also knew that to travel in such a group would make my true identity harder to discern – Moran's agents were searching for a man that travelled alone or moved from group to group. Besides, Neils was a good boy, curious and intelligent if a little skittish at times. He asked me questions constantly, when he wasn't asking his father, his mind fully engaged on the matter at hand for as long as my knowledge held out.

"Verra well," McLeod nodded and left me by the small fire, going into the low tent he shared with his son at night.

Though I wanted to rail against the fates that had brought me to this estrangement with the man closer to me than even my own only brother, I at least retained the sense to hear what it was that hadn't been said. Watson had known of my survival, which meant he knew of my betrayal of him at the eleventh hour. He had accepted this and for reasons of his own, had chosen not to return to England. He had 'killed' the old Watson, creating for himself a new life with a new name and for some reason, a son. We had spent two long and terrible years apart, but now that our paths had crossed once more he was willing to allow me to atone for my betrayal. McLeod – I could not bear to think of him as Watson any more and would not until the man was once more himself – was a good man. I had no need to fear that my work on my own and Mycroft's behalf would suffer with his presence. The longer I could convince him to travel with me, the longer I had to convince him to forgive me.

My challenge now was to work out exactly how to do that.

0o0o0o0

Think hard Sigerson!! Think REAL hard!!