Disclaimer: the characters of Holmes and Watson belong to ACD.

Chapter 3

Monday, August 18, 1919

Sherlock Holmes had awoken from the nightmare with a start, bathed with sweat, shouting. He had dismissed Watson as he burst into the room, who was obviously thinking that a work of murder had been in progress. They had both been sorely affected by Gregson's revelations.

Holmes had not slept the night after the former policeman's visit, nor on Saturday, but the Sunday night he had finally resigned to the compromise of exhaustion that older age had inevitably brought. But the night had brought him no rest.

It was the nightmare that sometimes played itself out in his mind at times of high stress. It had caught him by surprise this time – it had been more than four years since he had last had it, and he had hoped that he had, at last, grown out of this singular weakness.

He did not relish it, and was left with the numbing sense of frustration that it always brought. His mind rebelled against the sense of uncertainty and lack of clarity it left behind. Every time he was left deeply perturbed and upset, not at the contents – he had worked out long ago what it was about – but the lingering sense of doubt that it left.

He never saw the assailant's face. He saw his brother Mycroft of course, and he saw his parents' bodies (never clearly, his subconscious had buried that image so deep that even his highly attuned mind could not fathom it); but the murderer's face was always hidden. All he could remember was the smile – and a vague, unsettling feeling that the smile did not convey merely the emotion of a cold killer. It a very strange way, it was almost as though the smile was his own.

As the morning passed, he spent a great deal of time in the garden, alone in his thoughts. Watson had tried to engage him in conversation over breakfast but had at last retired to the small morning room, a safe distance from Holmes' testiness. But every time a vehicle had driven past on the lane, throwing up clouds of dust from the dry ground, both of them anxiously looked to see who was the driver.

Watson was starting to get quite concerned about the mental state of both himself and that of his old friend, and now that Holmes had experienced such a troubled night that concern was redoubled. He was now eager to return to London. What should have been a pleasant weekend in the country had turned into a nightmare.

At last Holmes returned from the garden, seemingly calmer, as though he had spent the lone hours rationalising and confronting the experience, and had found a degree of solace at last. Watson resolved to speak to him, and made his way through into the kitchen.

"Holmes!" he exclaimed as he entered. "This dream. I want a straight answer. Have you been using ... you know .... it?"

Holmes met his gaze steadily. "The cocaine? No. I have not used it for some years, my friend. Although, of course it is sleeping, never banished. I am sorry, I have not been good company this weekend, have I? But you must admit that the manner of Gregson's interruption was enough to throw a dark shadow over even the brightest of celebrations." He was trying to lighten the mood, having seen how upset Watson had been earlier.

"My birthday being ruined has nothing to do with it," replied Watson. "I am merely concerned. Even at your age – especially at your age – I don't know how you do it. You don't sleep for seventy hours, and then the sleep you do get finishes with the house in uproar. I thought Moran was here and a murder had been done."

"The body, once trained, should never lose its ability to prevail over tiredness, Watson. The power of the mind. But I am old, Watson. I feel it in my bones of late."

Watson turned the conversation to a new route. "Are you any nearer a conclusion about my suggestion?"

"Of returning to London? Yes, I have, and yes, I will, thank you, Watson. My bags are packed."

"Train?"

"Horton went past an hour ago and I asked him about a lift. He has business in Croydon this morning, so he is going to give us a run in his car, from where we will catch the Brighton train into Charing Cross. We should be safely tucked up in our old digs before lunch."

"I'm glad you decided to keep the rooms, Holmes."

"They have been useful, have they not?" smiled Holmes. "It is good to have a professional base – however much I try, I find that I have never really been allowed to retire. Oh, I know I was a trifle short with Gregson on Friday, but really, I've been in Sussex these past fifteen years, and still at least four times a year I'm at the beck and call of those who should know better."

Watson smiled, encouraged by the improvement of Holmes' mood, and the news that the reason for his disturbed night was not, as he had feared, caused by a return to 'the habits of old'.

"It is only so because you will not allow yourself to retire, Holmes."

Holmes returned the smile. "Is it really that obvious?"

"Yes, it is. Publish as much as you like, Holmes, and I must admit you do seem to have built up as fervent an academic following over the past decade or so as I used to have with my records of your criminal detection; but you'll never be happy unless you're setting the world to rights."

"You will join me of course."

"I assumed as much. This business with Moran concerns us both, that much is clear. It will be like old times again. These last few years you have cut me off somewhat."

"You were busy with your own efforts in the War, my friend," replied Holmes. "And then, of course, on your return ... let us not speak of it again. But I recall you spending this weekend remonstrating with me that you were getting 'too old' for this kind of thing."

"That may be so," replied Watson reluctantly. "but that doesn't stop me showing an interest. Just don't ask me to save you from any precarious situations. I am not up to it. So, what time is Mr Horton calling?"

"Ten minutes."

"Holmes!" Watson saw the smile in Holmes' eyes. "You're impossible! Some things never change with you, do they?"

Later that day the two friends were settled into their old rooms at 221B Baker Street. The view from the bay window had changed from when Holmes practised from the address at the height of his fame – gone were the horses and carts, replaced by cars and lorries. But the same bustle was still there in the streets. And there were a lot more people about.

Mrs Hudson had long since handed over the keys of the property to her niece, a pleasant enough young lady by the name of Miss Violet Harrison; one of the first ladies to be educated at Oxford, and an accomplished musician, who on his previous stays had spent some evenings with Holmes, experimenting with violin duets. She had greeted them warmly, and they had found the rooms exactly as they had always been; Holmes' instructions that nothing was to be disturbed had been followed to the letter, albeit a weekly clean kept the worst of the dust off the furniture. Mrs Hudson had made it a condition of handing over the management of 221B to Miss Harrison that Holmes' word was to be followed, exactly.

Once the gentlemen had had time to settle in, she brought them a pot of tea.

"I'm going out later, gentlemen," she said, "and I will not be returning until late evening. I have arranged for my friend Emma to sit the house whilst I am away. She's an old school friend, perfectly capable, so if you need anything please just ask her."

"A very capable young lady herself," mused Watson as she left the room, closing the door carefully behind her. "Now, Holmes, you can speak freely. Your concern is obvious regarding our return here."

"Of course. Moran knows where this place is; when we last met he was shooting a bust of me through this very window."

"So why the concern? I thought that, but you seemed resolute in coming."

"Well, I am starting to wonder whether there is, as they say, 'safety in numbers'. I thought of returning here because somehow, with all the hustle and bustle of the city, it seems more unlikely that an attempt would be made on us by Moran. Rather here than in the depths of the Sussex countryside!"

Watson laughed. "Indeed, Holmes! So, again I ask, your concern?"

Holmes thought for a moment. "It is just that, now we are back, I am unsure you should be involved, my friend. He will come after me. I am the cause of his last arrest. He will reason that it is through me that he has suffered. So I am wondering whether having you here is such a good idea."

Watson looked in surprise at his old friend. He had rarely heard Holmes speak in this way. There seemed genuine fear in his voice – more than just passing concern. "You fill me with dread, Holmes," he replied at length; "But you shall not be here alone. We have been through too many situations together for me to leave now."

"I knew you would say that," replied Holmes with a resigned smile. "But I had to try, you understand."

"Of course. Let us put such thoughts out of our minds and see what there is to be done."

They spent the rest of the morning, such as was left to them, with Holmes lying prone on the floor, poring over his old files which still lined the wall of the room. Watson went out and bought a paper, and on his return spent the time quietly reading through it, checking for any word or indication of events which might be linked to the release to freedom of Moran. But there was nothing. The world seemed to be making a point of ignoring bad news; people had perhaps had enough of war and disease, and now were desperate for good news. Sport, society gossip and the latest dance craze were the meat of the news today. Watson threw the pages away with disgust, and walked over to the window, absent mindedly casting his eye over the milling crowds.

Almost subconsciously he realised that two men standing on the opposite pavement were acting suspiciously; they were clearly watching the house, without being too obtrusive. "Holmes!" he whispered, moving away from the window. "We are being watched."

Holmes did not raise his head from the papers he was examining. "Yes, I know."

"You are not concerned that we are discovered?"

"Hardly. They are police. Whilst you were getting your paper I phoned Junior Lestrade to advise of our arrival. I may worry somewhat about being here, but I am not above taking some minor precautions."

"Well, that's a change!" laughed Watson, relieved. "But I thought you never had much stock in the Force? Or do you have greater confidence in young Lestrade than with his father?"

"'Never had much stock in the Force'? My dear fellow, whatever gave you that idea?" smiled Holmes in reply. He got up from the floor and stretched, still as cat-like as in his younger days. "But it is useful for the other party to see we are not a ship sailing alone."

"I am relieved to hear it," said Watson. "Otherwise I would think that old age has started to soften you. And that would not be the Sherlock Holmes I know."

They broke for lunch, spending a comfortable hour in the Bakers Arms, a respectable public house which, since their earlier days, had gradually changed from being a drinking house to a restaurant. Holmes paid the bill for them both; his means were still supported by the fees he charged for his services. Watson started to wonder whether Holmes was as retired as he made out to be. Perhaps he kept from his 'Boswell' the full scale of his ongoing workload. On the way back to 221B Holmes bought a variety of newspapers from the stand.

The afternoon came and went, until nearing tea time Holmes at last completed the task he had set himself. He drew himself up to his full height, stretched, turned to Watson and said the single word - "Nothing."

"Nothing? You expected this?"

"I did wonder. It is a good sign – it shows that whilst in the care of His Majesty Moran has indeed severed all links with his previous lifestyle. At least as far as I can see."

"You can tell?" Watson knew he was mistaken to speak thus, as soon as the words had left his lips.

"Of course!" exclaimed Holmes. "Every criminal mind has its own unique way of expressing itself. The timing of crimes, the methods used, places, associates; even the class of person against whom the crime is committed. Of course I have had to spend some time with my records, getting reacquainted with Moran's modus operandi. But nothing in my papers, or the day's newspapers, fits Moran or his influence. Bearing in mind that the good Professor was always one step removed from the 'front line' as it were, the actual crime, I have a good idea of what Moran's influence looks like. And there is nothing."

"That is good, then."

"I will rest easier, yes."

The knock at the door was followed by the entry of a shy, dark haired young woman who introduced herself to them as 'Emma'. She left the tea things quietly, and Holmes and Watson settled down. Above the noise of the street, they could hear a growing sound of voices, and after a short time they heard that it was a newspaper vendor, working the street with the late edition. Watson finished his food and went downstairs to get a copy.

"I know there is something wrong from the pattern of your footsteps on the stair," said Holmes as Watson re-entered the room a few minutes later. Then - "Great heavens, man, what is the matter?"

Watson's face was as white as a sheet, and handed the paper to Holmes. His eyes clouded over as he read the headline.

COLD BLOODED MURDER

RESPECTED TRADER 'EXECUTED'

HUNT ON FOR ROBERT WIGGINS' KILLER

"So it starts," said Holmes softly, as a tear ran down his cheek. "The Baker Street Irregulars. Who is next?"