Thank you for your reviews and your patience!
Igiveup: Thank you for your review, sorry I took so long to post updates! I agree that Holmes' thinking about women is irrational, whether in his childish or adult manifestations :-P
VHunter07: Glad I could make you a happy fanfic reader In answer to your question, yes I do write poetry and had a poem published a LONG time ago (though I have to say that my confidence in my poetic ability is hardly sky-high, as much as I like to paint pictures with words)
Chewing Gum: I hope that quantity of posts makes up for length! The last chapter was confusing to write, let alone to read. The first section is ambiguous- the person in the coffin is both Sherlock in his own nightmare and Sherlock in a symbolic sense (for the symbolism, see Bakerstreetirregular's revue- it's explained there better than I could
Moonlitpuddle: Sorry about the length! Hope you enjoy this part
Bakerstreetirregular: Oh yes, I love playing with Sherlock's mind cackles. Glad you like my jigsaw-like slotting- I don't like gaps although I'm sure they will appear! Ooo, what would you like to teach at Oxford? Good luck with that! Hope you enjoy this chapter
From the diary of John H. Watson MD, 15thDecember 1884
It is with drooping lids and a heavy heart that I come to recount the tale of the past four and twenty hours. If I had known yesterday what I know now, would things have been different? Could I have stopped Holmes- my dear, dear Holmes- from... But wait, I am too hasty and am once again committing the literary sin for which my friend has so often berated me: starting a story from the tail end. I must, therefore, revoke the previous paragraph and start from whence I last left off.
After having set down my pen yesterday morning, I donned my clothes and winter coat and left 221b Baker Street. Holmes was nowhere to be found but this was by no means an unusual occurrence. Rather than worried about his absence, I was relieved that I did not have to explain the reasons for my own; his presence would have doubtless impeded my progress to the Diogenes club and I fully intended on keeping to my earlier vow. I had to meet with Mycroft- for my own peace of mind, if nothing else.
I was shown through the familiar halls to the hitherto vacant Strangers' Room and left alone while Mycroft was summoned by the porter. I was nervous, justifiably so perhaps, given the nature of the information I intended to extract from the brother of one I esteemed so greatly. Needing something to do with my hands, I picked up the morning paper. I wasn't really reading it but my mind registered the headline vaguely; the previous evening a catastrophe had been narrowly averted as some brave- or suicidal, as I thought to myself- gentleman had placed himself between a frantic carriage pair and a busy street of pedestrians.
I was prevented from finding out how the beleaguered hero had fared by the entrance of the man I knew to be my companion's brother. If I had not known this to be the case, I would not have believed it. Mycroft Holmes is as portly as my colleague is sinewy, as languid as he is restive, even his eyes are a different colour- watery blue in opposition to sharp grey. In terms of intelligence, however, the familiar relationship was clear to see; both men radiated intellectual power. Mycroft's countenance, I noticed with a frown of consternation, was also reflecting something altogether more unsettling although I could not for the life of me figure out what emotions had caused such a visage.
I was drawn from my analysis but the sound of chair legs scraping against wood. Looking up I met with the cool, amused gaze of one who had clearly read my thoughts "my eyes are my mother's, Sherlock's are his father's". I knew better than to ask how he had known what I was thinking; long experience of one Holmes had given at least some insight into the workings of the other. Even so, I felt disconcerted and even more so when I realised that I was not the only one. While I knew Mycroft to be fond of a tipple, I never expected to see him gulping back undiluted whiskey as if it was water.
He knew what I was here for before I had had the opportunity to utter a word. "I wondered when you would call", he stated, his educated burr soft. Raising a hand to halt whatever I had been about to say, he spoke again. "I have seen your interactions with my brother and I feel that I can trust your discretion on the delicate matters about which you are here to converse." He put a halt to my pleas that he had my word by raising a hand once more, "I am not often wrong about a person, don't let this be one of those rarest of occasions". With his point made clear he settled himself back in his chair and I waited nervously, filled with no small amount of trepidation about what was to come.