Final Problem – AU

Holmes – Limbo

"Don't start wi' me, Laddie, I've had a full day!" the admonition was familiar and welcome. In the last two years I had become accustomed to McLeod's gruff admonishments at the end of one of our peculiar cases. This one had been a little more dangerous than most, though his unexpected knowledge of Arabic had been more than helpful at the eleventh hour. He had taken on the role of protector and sometimes leader of our partnership and hated to be 'coddled' in any way.

However, I could not quite restrain my worried reaction to the bloody streak on his arm, nor the tightly tied strip of fabric just above it. Neils was waiting for us and would not be best pleased at the damage done to his Papa. McLeod took the worst care of himself than anyone I had ever met when working – Sherlock Holmes included – though he had not become lax in dealing with any injury that he or any other member of his party might incur.

We had been separated at the last moment, when our quarry had unaccountably changed their well established plans. The irony was that we were not engaged by my brother to investigate this particular ring of smugglers – McLeod had stumbled across it in the course of his work for a trader. He had been supervising the transportation of silks and other such materials for this man and stumbled upon the smugglers, in his words 'by chance'. Naturally, I had not believed him for a second. McLeod's chance looked a lot like another mans deliberation, so I had treated that little declaration with all of the sincerity it deserved.

I pushed him onto a nearby stone wall and took firm hold of his arm, partly so I could examine the wound and partly to ensure he didn't just get up and walk off. I was risking a punch thrown with the arm that was free and uninjured, but he must have been in more pain that I had thought as he merely growled and subsided, glaring at me with all the force of the summer sun at noon when focussed through a lens.

"Charlie, where's Mr Swindon?" I asked as I cautiously probed the short but deep gash that ran through the meat of his upper arm. Mr Swindon was the representative of the Cairo museum that we had been saddled with when we had presented our evidence to the authorities. He was supposed to be helping us thwart the gang's final shipment and then checking that everything was properly catalogued before being moved to the museum and its staff.

"Ask me why they changed their plans," McLeod suggested in a stern voice, apparently deaf to my question. I paused in my cautious prodding, which allowed him to swiftly resituate the rough bandage, to look at his face. There was a faint line of pain on his forehead, but he was not in any great discomfort. Our wandering lifestyle had allowed the sun to have its way with him once more, turning him browner than I had ever seen him. He was still underweight but there was nothing that even young Neils could do or say to get him to eat more.

"Why they changed their plans?" I echoed, still not used, after two years of travel, to the way McLeod changed a subject. He was as tight as an oyster when it came to answering questions at times, which could be more than a little frustrating. I hadn't dared call him on it though. I knew what his motives were. I knew what I had done to deserve it, too.

"Now ask me where Mr Swindler is…" McLeod sighed, "I do hope he isnae afraid of close spaces."

"You shut him in a crate?" I snorted, though it was probably no more than he deserved. I did so dislike men in a position of trust that abused their powers for personal profit. The mental image was an enjoyable one and I spent a few moments savouring it.

"Tha' doesnae sound like somethin' I'd do," McLeod reproved and stood up, shaking his light cotton robes out so that the sand fell away from them. I had to admit that what would have looked ridiculous on just about any other Englishman you cared to name looked perfectly natural on him. There were times that I longed to see him in his usual tasteful grey suit and frock coat though, wanted it so badly that I could almost taste it. It was like having a warm ghost constantly at your elbow, though his absence was not something that I could bear. Should he leave me I would not survive it, of that I was sure.

"Of course not, Charlie. My mistake," I agreed patiently, falling into step with him. There was a commotion further up the docks as the local police force arrived and McLeod sighed. He was tired and I wished I could spare him this last chore, though he would never allow it.

"Come along, Laddie, we've got some explainin' to do," he shook his head, "I do hope yon policemen are reasonable – I've better things tae do than sort out a corrupt squad…"

By which he meant incarcerate in their own conveyance and wait for the next contingent to turn up. McLeod did not tolerate lies or corruption at all. Though he knew better than to demand it from the strangers around us, from myself and Neils he expected the full unflinching truth and nothing less – no shading of the facts or omissions were permissible. The Norwegian explorer Sigerson had found that out to his cost – there had been a blazing row and a parting of ways only a month into their uneasy association. Sigerson had died a lonely and unlamented death and was buried in an unmarked grave. Monsieur Jacques LeBeau – a French expert in documents and antiquities travelling Europe and Asia – had run across McLeod and his son several days later and the three of us had been travelling together in perfect amiability these last two years.

Fortunately the police officers that had arrived proved to be honest and competent, which meant that Monsieur LeBeau and Mr McLeod could depart at a reasonable hour for the small and modest set of rooms they had rented upon their arrival in Cairo. Consisting of a common room and a bedroom, we fit in like a hermit crab into its shell. I had not slept out of McLeod's arm reach in two years and found it difficult to settle without young Neils soft snores in the background. Of the three of us, the boy was the heaviest sleeper, followed by myself – McLeod had deemed himself our protector and slept very lightly indeed on the occasions that he did sleep. I had come to rely on him to a degree that I had not thought possible with another person – had it been anyone else I would not have been able to give myself over to his care so easily. The lesson had been hard won and would endure for the rest of my life, though only with him.

"Papa! Your arm!" Neils exclaimed in French. Today was Tuesday, which meant he was only to speak in French. Tomorrow he would speak his home language; on Thursday it was to be English. The rest of the week the child could speak as he liked – within the bounds of good manners that was.

"Don't fret bairn, I'm fit as a fiddle," McLeod gathered the boy into a one armed hug and then went to fish out the kit we kept for just this occurrence. He allowed me to assist in laying out the things he would need and the removal of his arm from its sleeve, then I was shooed away while he cleaned and stitched the cut shut.

To distract Neils, I went over his daily lessons with him – both McLeod and I were teaching the boy as best we could, which meant his education was very detailed in some areas and he had picked up an eclectic range of facts in others – before seeing to the evening meal. McLeod finished his task and cleaned up after himself, going into the bedroom to change clothes and taking Neils with him, listening to the boys chatter with the patient ear of a doting father.

It was a very different life to the one we had built in London, but to my surprise I had found that it was possible to be content. I was learning what it was I truly needed to live and live well.

0o0o0o0

**Snickers** Laddie… I couldn't resist!