Final Problem – AU

Holmes – Relief

We travelled back into Europe, spending six months working on a rather intriguing puzzle. Young Neils talent with languages was not restricted to the modern – he would make an excellent assistant in Whitehall or several museums, provided he went to the right schools – and McLeod's unexpected skill with soft pencil and tablet proved to extend from drawing to map and chart work. Once the rather strenuous climax had passed and McLeod deemed me well enough to travel after an unfortunate brush with a poisoned blade we returned to Asia – travelling in a leisurely fashion down from Bombay to New Delhi on the trail of a jewel thief. It was the work of a moment to place him in the path of the right authorities once we arrived, something we did in a manner that was so well practiced as to be almost casual.

It was in New Delhi that brother Mycroft's missive finally reached me. Five years into our wandering exile, we were at last free to return home. Mycroft had sent my fare as well as instructions to catch up with the English papers, something that LeBeau was able to do by way of accessing the New Delhi library archives. I pressed McLeod and Neils into attending with me, wanting to see the look on my friends face when he realised that we could go home once more. He had never once in all this time betrayed a desire to do so, but our wandering was taking its toll on his health and I wanted him under Mrs Hudson's excellent care so dearly that I could almost taste it.

The English papers were not hard to find. We had of course been keeping track of Moran as he tried to rebuild Moriarty's empire; much of our wandering had been devoted to foiling each new attempt to re-establish certain connections and lines of wealth. We were responsible – anonymously in most cases – for the incarceration of a great number of high born criminals and the lower class men who served them across all of Europe. In addition, we had assisted in securing the Queen's interests in several delicate matters – payment in a way for the funds that Mycroft had sent me from time to time.

Neils was settled with the French and German leading papers to practice his reading while McLeod settled comfortably beside me to go through the English ones. Had I been a stranger, I would not have seen the subtle tensions in his shoulders and hands as he touched these printed links to home. Truthfully, I was no better.

It was not difficult to find the articles Mycroft wanted us to read, the headlines shouted the news for all to see. Moran had finally been caught, by Sherlock Holmes no less, for the murder of Ronald Adair. He had used an air gun to murder the young nobleman through the second storey window of the young mans sitting room. Using a bust and a cunningly designed trap, Sherlock Holmes had lured Moran to Baker street where he had been apprehended by Lestrade of the Yard. The fact that I had captured our last great foe whilst in India pursuing a petty little gem thief was an amusing whimsy that I turned to share with Charlie. The slight smirk on my face faded as I beheld his puzzled scowl.

"Tha's impossible," McLeod muttered, a statement that was so unusually brainless that for a moment I worried that the import of the news had unsettled him, "I've got his bloody air gun – I stole it from him three days after th' Professor went over th' bloody edge."

I stared at him in shock and he rolled his eyes. The affectionate exasperation was clear upon his face, a welcome difference from all the times that I had truly irritated him.

"Come now, Laddie – surely ye knew it was I that delayed Moran at the Falls while ye got a head start?" the soft brogue sounded faintly amused. Once again I had under estimated him and he'd caught me at it. This tantalising hint of the past was something that I could not pursue, though. I would not know the full chain of events that had led to the creation of Charlie McLeod until I had my dear friend Watson at my side. I would only speak of the Falls with my Watson – it was a deeply personal matter for his ears alone, no substitute need apply.

"Where have you been keeping the gun?" I asked instead, receiving a purely wicked smirk in reply. I was long familiar with that smirk – it meant he wasn't going to tell me what I wanted to know: I would have to work it out for myself. I sighed and turned back to the papers, conceding the issue wordlessly and receiving an approving chuckle from my friend as I did so. We had a system of give and take that was like nothing I had ever experienced – and our experience had been very hard won at first.

The papers went on to detail the trial in London, revealing that Sherlock Holmes had been abroad these five years working to prevent Colonel Moran's attempt to re-establish the late Professor Moriarty's crime ring. When the Colonel's defence had demanded that Mr Holmes be brought to the court rooms in person to testify the judge had agreed to see that demand met. The papers reported that the court had been sealed for Mr Holmes' testimony, though interviews with several members of Scotland Yard had confirmed Mr Holmes' presence. I wondered if Mycroft had stepped in at that point, hence the closed courtroom – certainly he would not have been able to locate someone to impersonate me well enough to withstand the Colonel's scrutiny and instructions to his defence. It had been further reported that I had since returned overseas to wrap up a final case, but that I was expected to return to England permanently soon.

Moran was sentenced to death – something that was almost unheard of. A man of his class and connections – though many were quick to downplay past associations with the condemned man – was not hung like the common man. Although the defence did try at the last moment to plea for life incarceration due to insanity they were thwarted by Moran himself. He was due to be hung soon – it would occur whilst we were at sea, voyaging home to England at long last.

"Well Laddie – that's th' end o' that," McLeod sighed, "The monster is dead."

"The monster?" Neils looked up from his reading, his eyes wide. McLeod winced beside me and held out his arms for the now pale and trembling boy.

"Aye bairn, the monster is dead. He'll no' harm anyone else," McLeod pulled the boy to stand between our chairs and I allowed him to take my hand. It was a learned response – though I was uncomfortable with the overt expression of comfort and concern, McLeod had made it clear that my usual aloof nature would not be tolerated where his son was concerned. In reward for my efforts I had become the boys Uncle, or Oncle as he preferred to call me; I was a playmate and co-conspirator, two roles that I had found more comfortable as the years had passed.

"This Moran is the man that killed Mama?" Neils touched the papers with a single cautious finger, as if the ink itself could impart harm. McLeod nodded, unsurprised by the revelation. I myself was frozen once more in a state of shock. My nephew was the shepherds child that had fled the murder of his parents the third night of Moran's pursuit of me! How had Watson found him? How had he known the terrible events that had occurred… of course! He had taken the airgun from Moran on the third day – the Colonel had flown into an unreasoning rage and attacked the shepherd and his woman in their home. When the boy had fled in the opposite direction to my hiding place, towards the other side of the valley, Watson had been there – he may well have seen or heard enough to understand what was going on in the hut below him. He had intercepted the boy and ... though it was conjecture I would imagine that the boy had refused to part from the man who had rescued him. Thus Charlie McLeod had gained a son, the perfect accessory to hide his true identity.

Charlie's eyes met mine over the boys head and he quirked an eyebrow at me. I nodded to show that I understood and filed the thoughts away for later. Once I was with Watson I would be able to ask my questions – I would hear the truth from him and no other.

"Well now, I suppose ye'll be headin' for the shores of home, Laddie," McLeod said quietly and I felt my blood congeal within my veins. That did not sound as if he intended to return with me.

"I will not return alone. When I go home I will have my oldest friend with me," I replied firmly, "Come home with me… please."

I was not so proud that I would not beg. Whatever it took, that was what I would do. After three years with the warm ghost of Watson at my elbow, three years of striving to make amends for my crimes against him, I would not leave him now.

0o0o0o0

I don't think he'll have to beg… do you?