Case file—no. Interviews—doubtful. Gregson's parallel case—definitely not. Ah, the autopsy. Finally.
Or not. The small scrap no longer stuck to the page where he vaguely remembered seeing it, and a frown escaped as rapid movements shuffled papers and shifted folders. If not with the autopsy, then where had he put that note?
Not under his calendar. Not atop his filing cabinet. Not on his wall. Had it fallen on the floor?
If it had, someone else had already thrown it away. Frustration escaped in a low grumble. He really should find a better notetaking method than small slips of paper easily misplaced.
"Lestrade, do you—" The question faltered as feet stopped in his doorway. "Why are you under your desk?"
"Have you seen my notes on the Greening autopsy?"
"No." Hopkins' smirk bled into the words. "I doubt the floor has, either. Have you checked your bag?"
No, but another moment ruled that out, too. Hopkins' chuckle left his original question for later as Lestrade continued searching.
To no avail. Wherever he had put that scrap, it no longer lay in his office. A resigned sigh finally gave up. He would just have to stop in Kensington on the way home. Doctor Watson would probably remember the piece of information Lestrade sought.
And he could use the opportunity to mention supper next week. Liz had remonstrated him just the other day for neglecting to pass her invitation along. Too many weeks had slipped away since the last time they had enjoyed an evening of company.
Better yet, he would go there now, between the other errands he intended for this morning. With any luck, he might catch them early enough to plan the visit for tomorrow, and a moment retrieved his hat before he hurried out the door. An empty cab a hundred feet down the sidewalk let him use the journey to refresh his memory.
A restaurant owner had found Greening in the pub's washroom. Still warm and reeking of alcohol, the owner had initially assumed Greening asleep, but an attempt to wake him had produced only the limp thud of hitting the floor. The owner had sent for a doctor, who in turn had called the Yard. The attending physician had cited a probable mixture of alcohol toxicity with an unfortunate airway blockage, but with nothing in his mouth and throat, he had been unable to find the true cause of death. Doctor Watson's autopsy should have determined that.
And his notes clearly outlined several important factors. While Greening had undoubtedly drunk himself far past intoxicated, he had not drunk himself to death. Most of his liquor remained in his stomach, water in his lungs explained the small amount of froth around his mouth, and the lump on the back of his head announced a second person involved. Lestrade's job involved discovering just who had tried to pass Greening's death as an accident. And why. With no clues.
Some days, he really missed Mr. Holmes.
Later. He knew better than to arrive at the doctor's with Mr. Holmes on his mind. A firm shove relegated the desire to memory as he flipped to the next page. While Doctor Watson had done the autopsy late that night, the unusual hour had not diminished his thoroughness. Small, slightly looping handwriting outlined general injuries, chronic illnesses, and the attacker's actions, but it omitted Doctor Watson's reply to Lestrade's last question. Lestrade had written that on the now missing slip of paper.
No matter. He would find out soon enough, and two stops quickly ordered the office treat and gathered pertinent information for a different case before the cab bounced towards the doctor's practice.
The doctor's shuttered practice. All thoughts of the case dissipated behind a worried frown. Doctor Watson's morning patients would start arriving any minute. Why had he not yet readied the consulting room?
And why was the door locked? The doctor should have opened the public entrance half an hour ago, appointments or no.
An emergency patient, perhaps, but this did not feel right. Lestrade knocked once more then moved to the living quarters.
"Doctor?"
Silence answered him. A harder attempt audibly echoed down the hall.
"Hello?"
Still nothing, but five steps to the right confirmed a faint light flickering in one room. Mary, at least, should be home.
"Mary? Doctor? Is everything alright?"
Distance and a mostly closed window muffled an answering noise, but still the door remained closed. A long moment finally sent Lestrade to where Mary had mentioned hiding a spare key. If all was well, he would simply apologize and surrender the key.
Something in him doubted all was well.
"Doctor? Mary? If you do not answer, I'm coming in."
Nothing. The lock clicked to put Lestrade in a dark, silent hallway. Loud footsteps announced his presence as he carefully checked every room, but only a dripping rag challenged Lestrade's search. He finally spotted a familiar outline kneeling by the bed.
"Doctor?"
The figure never moved, even when knuckles rapped the door in greeting. Another step found a stethoscope abandoned on the covers, various items spilled from an open medical bag, and the doctor's broken gaze staring at a lifeless form flat on the mattress. Two-fold grief bloomed in Lestrade.
As well as a large portion of fear. He had seen that blank stare once before. "John, can you hear me?"
Yes, that glance replied, but only just. The hollow agony of a new widower met Lestrade's question, and slow steps joined the doctor at Mary's bedside to find her still warm. A hand on his shoulder shared the heavy sorrow.
"Will you permit me to handle things? So you do not have to?"
Several worrying seconds received only shattered anguish, but the question slowly infiltrated John's shock. Another moment provided a hesitant nod.
Though nothing else. Continued unease made Lestrade open a window to send the first constable he saw running for the Yard. Hopkins should still be available, and he did not dare leave the doctor alone. Not like this. Not after last time. He would stay close until he knew John would not fall ill once more. They no longer had Mary to pull him back from another brain fever.
Nor would Lestrade be able to treat a more physical ill. A mental note resolved to send for a doctor if that cough continued.
Teachers, governesses, a large number of children—mostly Irregulars, but not all—countless shopkeepers, a few doctors. Dozens of people gathered at the small church and cemetery listed in that short funeral announcement, each funneling around the large carriage and making the horses slow. A tug of the reins finally lurched to a halt off to one side, and his few guards scattered into the press as Mycroft stepped to the ground. He had not expected such a large turnout.
Though perhaps he should have. Between Doctor Watson's occasional trips through the East End, treating ills as he went, and Mrs. Watson's bubbling kindness, the entire city knew the Watson name. Most knew them better for themselves than they did the doctor's status as a published author—or his association with Sherlock. Of course they would want to pay their respects and offer support.
The crowd still made the doctor rather difficult to find. Several minutes passed before he spotted the pain-bowed form near the church doors, and a slow walk across the grounds noted a variety of information. Easy movements acknowledged condolences and shook offered hands. The occasional nod returned spoken sorrow. He leaned on his cane no harder than the normal Mycroft remembered from a couple of weeks ago. He appeared grieving but well enough, on first glance.
Except black crepe only highlighted the deep mourning tracing his eyes and slumping his shoulders, and a closer look realized he stood against the wall instead of simply near it. Mycroft struggled to conceal his concern. The utter grief in the doctor's posture echoed that horrible day at the train station three years ago. If he fell ill again…
No. Relief filtered through several other deductions. Mycroft need not worry about that, not when another look noted a half-smile responding to an amusing memory and murmured responses to the many greetings. Doctor Watson had not spoken at the train station. Mycroft would need to keep watch, but he did not yet have to worry about the doctor retreating completely.
Unless this new grief took him the other direction. The final guests sought their seats to let the doctor wander toward the front row, where hollow eyes lost focus almost immediately. He stared through a nearby table even after Mycroft stopped beside him. Pained longing declared him days or weeks behind the present moment.
"Hello, Doctor."
"Mycroft." The near murmur returned the greeting entirely on instinct. Another moment passed before empty sorrow tried to meet his gaze. "I appreciate you coming."
"Do not hesitate to ask if you need anything."
A single nod sufficed as reply, but his thoughts just as quickly returned to his loss. The short exchange told Mycroft far more than he had wanted to find. While he had already known that Doctor Watson would not ask him for anything, much less a true need, the wordless acknowledgement combined with the lack of eye contact pointed to a more worrying situation. He doubted the doctor would remember the encounter tomorrow.
He doubted the doctor would remember the funeral tomorrow.
A seat in the back avoided inconveniencing his guards while also providing a usable angle, and he spent the ceremony gathering more data. The doctor nearly fell into his chair, hand still tightly gripping that cane. He kept his head bowed as if hiding emotion from onlookers, but the slump of his shoulders announced the broken grief keeping his face dry. He remained seated for both the traditional hymns and the ones his wife had evidently requested, and a silent negative met the preacher's invitation to speak a eulogy. Mycroft did not miss the smothered flinch at the idea.
Nor did he miss the slow, limping gait traveling from the church to the grave itself. The doctor unhesitatingly took his place near the coffin's head, but he kept his eyes on his feet despite the frozen wind. His elbow muffled the cough not yet banished from last month's pneumonia. Chilled trembling only increased with his unbuttoned coat. One shaking hand tossed winter greenery past the first shovelfuls of dirt, but another flinch suggested he heard the two women discussing memories behind him.
He appeared far more withdrawn than Mycroft considered healthy, even considering the grief of the proceedings. Mycroft may need to do more than watch him.
But what?
The question chased him all the way back to his office. How could he help? While this negated Sherlock's reason for hiding from the doctor, Mycroft's more irritating brother had not yet answered his telegram. Mycroft had no way of knowing for certain if Sherlock had reached the safe house. Did he have another way of establishing contact?
Not via mail, but he had no reason to believe Sherlock would not arrive within the next day, and they had agreed on the next place Sherlock would go should something compromise the one in France. That meant two opportunities for a messenger to reach him before time and distance caused a true problem.
In two countries, for Sherlock would not handle the doctor's loss any better than the doctor had handled Sherlock's. If Mycroft misstepped, he would lose both of them. Should he send someone to recall Sherlock to London?
Or should he arrange for the doctor to meet Sherlock in France?
Doctor Watson's appearance pushed itself to the front of his mind. Hollow eyes. Empty voice. Broken grief. Such misery followed one of only two paths—either the doctor would close himself in his home and slowly fade away, or he would vacate the house and disappear into the countryside.
Mycroft would never be able to prevent the doctor from leaving, nor did he want to risk catching up to an unexpected trip too late. Several minutes sent a series of messengers to the bank, to the train station, and finally to Kensington, and he retrieved some paperwork to occupy the time. He would have company shortly.
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