There was only one other man at the train station, and Sherlock Holmes immediately knew he was waiting for himself and Watson to arrive, would have known from the way his eyes lit up in admiration at the sight of Watson even if he didn't spy the three tickets the man held. He was young, many decades Holmes and Watson's junior, but his eyes were all at once deep and wise and innocent and hopeful without naivety. He was tall, taller than Holmes had been when he was young and his shoulders had no slump to them, his back no bend, and his legs no shake. He had broad shoulders and arms with ropes of muscle like any of the most feared prize fighters, but his hands were stained and scarred without being rough. His skin was nearly as dark as the night around them, and he was dressed in the casual clothes of a working professional.

"Sherlock Holmes," Watson introduced them as Holmes' deductions snapped into place, "this is Aadan, my colleague. Aadan, my friend Sherlock Holmes."

"It is my pleasure, I assure you," Aadan said as he reached out his hand to the detective, and his voice was soft and nearly musical in a way that contrasted sharply with his imposing figure. His hand in Holmes' hand as they shook was warm and firm without being crushing, as if he knew Holmes' once strong hand was now arthritic and fragile but that Holmes appreciated the gesture nevertheless.

"You are Watson's apprentice, I perceive," Holmes said, shaking the other man's hand. "It is fortunate for you, for you will be hard pressed to find a more dedicated tutor, or a better friend."

Aadan's expressive eyes widened, and he broke out into a wide smile as he glanced at Watson before focusing back on Holmes. "You're as brilliant as Doctor Watson has always said you are. Thank you for coming, Mr. Holmes."

"If John Watson is dedicated to your cause, then I assure you that I am as well," Holmes said, and it was true, would have been true even if he had less data as to what Aadan's cause may be. He hoped Watson would clarify what their purpose was soon, but for the moment he didn't need to know. It was enough that Watson had asked him to come.

The train had been slowing as they talked, and all conversation was cut off as the great metal beast ground to a halt. In the stillness that followed, Aadan handed two tickets to Watson. "I've taken the liberty of putting you both together, and I will sleep in a car with the luggage."

"Thank you Aadan," Watson said, and the look on his face was almost sorrowful. "Sleep well, and I will come wake you when it is time to depart."

"Why aren't we using your motorcar?" Holmes asked blandly as they boarded.

"Because I told an old friend he could come pick it up from your cottage."

"I see. And for what reason does your friend need to pick it up?"

"Because I won't be needing it anymore. Besides, I prefer the good old railway. Even the underground isn't as dangerous and filthy as it was in our day."

They moved through the strangely silent, seemingly empty train, and in short order Holmes and Watson were sitting across from each other in a comfortable first class smoking carriage like they had been many times before. They sat and smoked for a long time before Watson finally put his pipe away, wiped his eyes with the palm of one hand, and sat forward.

"You have the grand gift of silence."

Holmes smirked at his old turn of phrase being flipped back on him. "Hardly, Watson, and only in the right circumstances. But I do have the grand gift of observation and deduction. Tell me, the young man Aadan, he came to England when he was a child?"

Watson nodded. "You didn't deduce that," he accused without malice.

"No. Now that I cast my mind back, I do recall a young man sitting with your good lady around your dinner table many years ago, but my case had been urgent and it was not a social visit. And then, of course, we did not see each other for a period of some years, the instances in which we did being primarily you traveling to me."

"Aadan is not a secret," Watson replied and his countenance was open but his tone was serious.

"My dear fellow," Holmes said quickly, eyes wide with the realization of what he may have just implied, "I assure you that I did not intend to suggest anything untoward about either you or the good Mrs. Watson. Please, forgive me if I've caused offense."

Watson's shoulders dropped a fraction. "No, Holmes, please, it wasn't my intention to be confrontational. I simply feel the need to be quite clear about it: Aadan is no one's bastard, not mine and not my wife's. He's a good man, and I'm not ashamed to have him as an apprentice; I wouldn't be ashamed of him even if he was my child. I've never taken pains to hide him because there is nothing to hide."

"I understand, Watson, and you know full well that I agree. My own personal theory is that humanity will have transcended past trivial considerations like man-made borders and unchangeable considerations like the past and the color of someone's skin by the time man steps foot on one of the other planets in our sky."

"I thought your theory was by the time man steps foot on the moon."

Holmes waved his hand through the air. "I have recalculated, Watson. The advent of man landing on the moon is far too close at hand."

Watson laughed "Certainly not! Holmes, it took thousands of years of civilization for flight to be discovered. There will undoubtedly be many thousands more before man gets anywhere close to the moon."

"I would tend to disagree with you, Watson. I know that I myself will not live to see it, but if I could somehow expand my lifetime by a mere hundred years or so, I guarantee you I would pick up a paper one day to read that a man had stepped foot on the moon. Perhaps I wouldn't have to read about it; you have before, I think, heard my prediction that one day soon all wireless telegraphs will give way to a new form of rapid communication. Something like the telephone or radio, except broadcast to all people all over the world all at once. Perhaps even something like photography or moving pictures: now there is a industry which has a potential barely scratched, Watson! If I were a young man, I would embrace cameras instead of shun them like I have done. Mark my words, a day is close at hand where a picture taken in London will be sent across the world and viewed by a man in San Francisco that very hour."

Watson couldn't help it, he chuckled. "You have the strangest predictions, Holmes, but who am I to to disparage them? Who knows but that future very well may justify you."

"I believe it will. It is a future your Aadan will live to see, or even be a part of for he is clearly a determined and pioneering young man. How old was he when he came to England?"

"He was thirteen, and he came alone to learn English and study from a doctor so he could bring medicine and the knowledge of how to use it back to his small village in British East Africa. He lives near Lake Victoria in a part of East Africa which the native people call Uganda."

"I see. And I assume there was some tragedy which preceded his decision to leave Africa?"

Watson nodded sadly. "His father was the doctor of their village, but was killed by yellow fever along with several others, including his mother. Yellow fever, of course, is nothing new in Africa, but Aadan noticed that those in the British forts were less likely to die of yellow fever as well as other diseases, including malaria, even though there's no cure for either one. He wanted to follow in his father's footsteps and be a doctor, but instead of relying on traditional medicine he wanted to explore what advancements doctors and scientists from around the world have made. That was something his father taught him: to always seek truth. Unfortunately, he ended up with just me to learn from, but I've been doing what I can to teach him."

"And how was it that he ended up with you?"

"Four months after he arrived in London, he was struggling to learn English and was living out of a charity; my Jean found him there. She could tell he was bright and dedicated and simply needed a good teacher, and so after learning he was alone she brought him home. He's lived in the flat above my medical practice ever since. That was a year after our Beatrice married, and in some ways I think Jean was wanting someone else to care for."

"It was her nature to care for those no one else seemed to love," Holmes said softly. "I remember well her anxiety over me whenever I took a case without you."

Watson smiled sadly. "I know it, and I suppose I wasn't surprised when I came home to find a young man eating stew at my dining table. And, In many ways, he's been like a son would have been if God had granted me a son. He stayed steadfastly with me, even to a stubborn degree, when Jean died, and he's never given me cause to distrust him."

Holmes cringed slightly, knowing he hadn't been there when Watson was grieving, but that had occurred during his time abroad working incognito for England's sake against her enemies, and he hadn't known of Watson's bereavement until he'd come home. Watson did not blame him or hate him for that and Holmes knew it, but still he hated knowing that he'd abandoned his friend in his time of need. He was glad to know Aadan had not.

"You praise me to him," Holmes said with a smile in an attempt to lighten the mood.

"I don't have to," Watson murmured with a smirk of his own. "He picked up A Study in Scarlet one day when he was still learning English by reading, and by the end of that month I came home to find him crying because he'd just read 'The Final Problem.' Back then he was both struggling with every other word and thinking the stories were fiction and your death still affected him greatly. I had to sit him down and show him there were more stories. You'll have to imagine his shock when I told him you were, in fact, a real man who yet lived. I believe he's read my stories more times than I ever did while I wrote them."

"I'm quite popular," Holmes replied with a mock-serious tone. "They love me in America, you know. Perhaps one day I will be well loved in East Africa as well."

"If Aadan is any indication, you've not lost any of your appeal with the new generation. One day you'll be popular with all the world."

"You have always believed that," Holmes mused. "I never did; I believed that the next great detective would rise even before I retired and that I'd die in obscurity yet safe in the knowledge I'd done good for the world. And yet, though I have seen many great detectives rise, none have seemed to replace me in the public's collective mind. That, of course, is due to you, my dear friend, and your literary efforts. Future detectives need take note: if they desire either success or fame they need a Watson."

"Do you regret it?" Watson asked flatly, and Holmes' smirk fell away.

"I beg your pardon?"

"The fame? The recognition? Would you stop me from having written the stories at all if you could?"

"After you told me that a young man, many decades after the fact, was so moved by them he cried when he read of my death? No, Watson. I do not regret it, though I was not always happy about the fame or the stories in the moment."

"And what of..."

"If you dare," Holmes said, voice low and leaning forward and staring intently at Watson without anger, "ask me if I regret our friendship, I shall be more devastated than young Aadan reading of Reichenbach and shall assume your depressed demeanor is the symptom of a larger problem."

Watson leaned back in surprise and opened his mouth, then closed it before clearing his throat. "I was going to ask," he said, "if you are regretting coming with me on this train and leaving your retirement behind."

"I am not, but I would like to know what the problem is which we are on our way to solve on young Aadan's behalf," Holmes answered and was glad to change the topic back to the matter at hand.

"It's not quite a problem in the sense you mean, I'm afraid. There is no crime that has been committed, and there is no criminal who needs to be apprehended."

"I see. Well, well, we have solved several unusual inquiries in the past quite satisfactorily and I am certain I am not so old that I cannot tackle a new kind of challenge. And where are we going?"

"To Aadan's village in Uganda."

"I see. I take it this won't be a happy social visit, however."

"There is nothing that will prevent you from being happy. I fully intend to try to be as happy as possible."

Holmes sighed. "Watson, you have not lied to me in a very long time, but you do have a very annoying habit of obfuscating. Please, my friend. Tell me whatever it is you have been avoiding and do so without fear of my reaction for you know I trust you implicitly. Why are we going to Uganda?"

Watson looked away, then back at Holmes. "If I was a dramatic man, a pessimist, or a stoic," he said softly, "I would say we are going there to die."