DISCLAIMER – I didn't own any rights then, and I don't know.

A/N – 3/ 19/09 – I was revisiting this fic when I realized I had somehow accidentally replaced the content of Chapter 23, "The Case of the Missing Master" with a chapter from another fic. As the original chapter has been lost forever, I have tried to recreate it here as best as I could remember.

Bruce Wayne sat huddled in front of the fire, watching the orange and red flames dance wickedly. He thought of how he had felt when he discovered what had been his home for the better part of a year was on fire. The fire brigade had done what it could. Now, Bruce tried to imagine how Holmes, if he were still alive, would feel once he had discovered his house was burnt down. All of the mementos Holmes had kept over the years, all of the earthly possessions stored in that house, and all of the memories with them, possibly lost forever.

Bruce looked away from the fireplace. He and Jamie Watson were sitting in Chief Inspector Tobias Gregson's flat, heavy blankets draped over their shoulders, cups of steaming tea in their hands. Bruce studied Jamie's face. The shock from their initial discovery had faded. Now, there was just a blank expression.

"Can I ask you something?" Bruce said, gently. Jamie nodded. "What's your story?"

Jamie sighed.

"I always wanted to follow in my father's footsteps," she said. "Be a great doctor. No one thought such a young girl could pull it off. But my father had connections. A reputation. I was considered a medical prodigy by the time I was thirty years old."

It dawned on Bruce that Jamie was at least seven years older than he was. He was falling in love with an older woman.

"My mother died not long after that," Jamie continued. "And then my father. They said he died of a heart attack. I say more like a broken heart. Sherlock Holmes was like a surrogate father to me ever since." She turned to Bruce. "How about you? What's your story?"

"My parents died when I was ten," Bruce said, slowly. "We had gone to see a movie. Nosferatu. I got scared somewhere in the middle and asked if we could leave. Outside of the theater, a hood tried to steal my mother's pearl necklace. There was a struggle, and both my mother and father were shot, and the man who shot them got away. I made a vow that night. A vow to fight those who breed fear and prey on the weak and the innocent."

There was a moment of silence, punctuated only by the crackling of the fire in the fireplace.

"What was Holmes' story?" Bruce asked.

"I always wondered what motivated him," Jamie said. "I think my father knew, but he refused to talk about it." She looked at the floor. "Now I guess we'll never know."

Chief Inspector Gregson entered.

"Is there anything else I can get you?" he said. "More tea? Something else on the fire?"

"No thank you," Bruce said.

"No thank you," Jamie agreed. "You've been very kind to us, though."

"We've been trying to retrieve what we can from the fire," Gregson said. "It's looking fairly hopeless, though. We did manage to retrieve these documents, however." He placed a box filled with papers down at Jamie's side. "I believe these bear your father's handwriting. He would have wanted you to have them."

Jamie couldn't speak. She merely nodded her head in gratitude. The Chief Inspector went back outside and Jamie began reading through the papers. After a few minutes, she found one that she showed to Bruce.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

December 1st, 1988

Holmes and I had just bid "Good night" to our friend Inspector Gregory Lestrade after finishing up the rather trying case of Sir Theodore Ferguson. The case had taxed us both mentally and emotionally. We were sharing a bottle of port and warming ourselves by the fireplace when I endeavored to ask Holmes, as I had many times before, what event had started his rather extraordinary career before I met him.

I thought he would wave away the question as usual, but that night he was finally willing to confide in me. He refused to make eye contact with me, but as he stared at the fire he began to tell his sad story.

"My father was a well respected member of Parliament," he began. "My mother was an actress. She was the most beautiful person I've ever known. As my father's political career grew more agitating, he descended into alcohol and paranoia. He regularly beat my mother accusing her of being an adulteress and a whore. He beat me as well, calling me a whore's son."

Holmes paused at this point of the narrative, leaving an uncomfortable silence in the room. I wanted to coax him, but I was afraid if I said anything the moment would be shattered forever, and I would never know the full truth.

"I was sent off to a boarding school in Switzerland when I was of age," he continued. "While I was away, my mother died. The police officially declared it a suicide. But there was gossip that my father had murdered her. I suspected this was the case, but I had no way of proving it. I never spoke to my father after that. But at that point, I swore I would never be fooled, that I would train my mind to be able to work out any puzzle, to solve any mystery, and to always find the truth."

I thought I saw tears in his eyes. I had never seen Holmes cry before, though I'm sure he could argue that it was merely the fire agitating his eyes. I was worried that Holmes, in his despair, would reach for the needle, but instead, he reached for the violin. That night, I heard the most beautiful and melancholy improvisation I have ever heard on that instrument, and I doubt I shall ever hear anything to match it.

I am deeply moved that my friendship with Holmes has become such that he would confide something so personal in me.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

For a moment, Jamie and Bruce just stood staring at the piece of paper, taking everything they had just learned in. Then, Jamie spoke.

"Do you think he's still alive?" she asked.

"Holmes?" Bruce said. "I know he is. There's no way he could have been killed this easily. He's too strong. Too clever."

His voice shifted tone. It became low, guttural, and gargling.

"Holmes is still out there, somewhere," he said. "And I'm going to find him."

A/N – 3/19/09 – I'm afraid that's the best I can remember it. I know the original chapter had a much better literary flare, but this is enough to at least fill in the plot gap.