Author's Note:

Of all the chapters I've written thus far, this one is my favorite.

Btw, if you're not in the habit of reading author's review replies, feel free to do so with mine. I often give away little background bits of information and even spoilers. (I also keep my tone very lighthearted, so please don't be offended if something I say sounds a bit irreverent towards the characters.)

To my reviewers:

Pearlmaidenredskyla: Well, thank you! I guess it was an emotional chapter, wasn't it? (You think that's deep, you should see some of my older Star Wars pieces. ^^) Heeey, you know Christy? That's great! That's one of my favorites! …I don't think I really need to reiterate my love of LotR and SW, hmm? Oh, I love mysteries—my problem is that I can't write them. *gulp* And you know the Anne of Green Gables movies! Yay!

And, awww, thanks! I'm sorry the next DC chapter isn't up yet, but it really should be soon, okay? And be ready for many more updates on this story, because I've got enough inspiration to last me all the way through! =D

kissbee: Oh wow. Well, first off, thank you for your incredibly enthusiastic review! (Really, the best fanfic you've ever read? Wooow… I am very flattered!) That really made my evening! =) Okay… RDJ. Well, I haven't even seen the movie, so I can't offer an opinion on it one way or the other, except to say that if I ever did see it, I would probably still enjoy it just as a story in its own right and not necessarily as Sherlock Holmes. The only Holmes I ever have seen, though, is Jeremy Brett, and a more perfect Holmes could not be had. Thus, the template, if you will.

I only saw It's a Wonderful Life for the first time last Christmas but instantly fell in love with it, and it is absolutely one of my most favorite movies of all time. And Jimmy Stewart deserved a tribute: he was an excellent actor, a dedicated soldier and patriot, a loving husband and father, and a fine Christian man. Anyway… actually, I think the kids might someday lasso at least Watson into watching Pooh Bear with them… which is really a very adorable mental image. Indiana Jones… weeell, I've never seen it, so I don't know about that. Dr. Who, nope, 'cause I don't even know what the show's about, so… References are only going to be from things I know, y'know?

Well, the Duran family is drawn very much off of real life, and my Christianity is just too deeply ingrained in me to not make it into my bigger fanfics. I'm very glad to know that it means so much to you.

Oh, Holmes and Watson are going to be seeing a lot of shows, definitely (because while the overall story is very deadly serious, this is also supposed to be fun)—and Watson will enjoy a lot of them, and Holmes… not so much. xD Kathleen and I still need to work out if she's going to make Holmes sit through Star Wars, lol—I'm really not sure how he'd react to that. We'll see. ^^ Well, I can guarantee a viewing of the Granada series, and the other versions… well, Granada's the only adaptation I really know. I might kind of cop-out and say that Kathleen doesn't have any of the others (not entirely impossible). I'm not sure just yet. Holmes having an adverse reaction to interpretations of his character, though, is a perversely appealing thought. He might get to see The Adventures of Young Sherlock Holmes, 'cause I know a lot about it even though I've never seen it. And probably Sherlock, too (which should be interesting).

Well, I am definitely open to more ideas, so I look forward to hearing from you again! Thank you so much!

==Chapter V==

Just Over the Dawn

And I'll know what I've lost

And all that I've won

On this road that will take me home

—"Going Home," Mary Fahl, Gods and Generals (film)

(Holmes)

I did not go to bed that night, as it turned out—I did indeed have a good deal to think upon. Kathleen Duran's story, from beginning to end, had captivated and even unnerved me. That I should be the role model for a young woman who would go on to become a war hero was rather humbling in and of itself, and that I should continue to be her inspiration for all these years was duly gratifying. I also found that I could actually empathise with the loss of her husband in some small way: my three-year disappearance from the public scene had been a terribly lonely business without my Watson.

What unnerved me, however, was how closely her life had paralleled my own, at points, and just how much her husband had seemed to fill a role similar to my own dear Watson's. David had been his wife's Boswell, of a sort: the anchor that her fast-paced mind needed to keep itself grounded, the shield at her back, the hands that healed the injuries she invariably sustained. How Kathleen could live without that influence in her life for six years was beyond even my powers to explain. I supposed that she herself had said it best when she credited it to Providence.

At that point in my contemplation, I stood and began to study the room, finding a wealth of further information about the family in my surroundings. Either David or Kathleen were Jewish—I then recalled the fact that one or the other had family in the young State of Israel—for there was a menorah candelabra on one shelf, with a miniature flag bearing the Star of David standing beside it. There was also good evidence of Kathleen's Celtic heritage in the various items around the room that bore Celtic knot-work and other such symbols.

At one corner stood an odd-looking piano—ah, at least one of the children had musical inclination, judging from the beginner's music book resting atop the instrument. I had already surmised that Kathleen could indeed play the piano: her fingers were long, her fingernails were kept trim, and she had a habit of drumming her fingers in a way that was reminiscent of hands moving across the piano.

I had previously learned from the Internet that entertainment was an enormous business in this day and age, so the Duran family's vast collection of moving pictures did not surprise me. There was a large set of what appeared to be children's films, most of them produced by the same Walt Disney company. The adult films, however, were what captured my interest. It would appear that my hostess had quite the eclectic taste, from science fiction (Stargate SG-1 and other suggestive titles) to florid romance (Father of the Bride—what kind of horrid title was that?) and everything in-between.

What did surprise me, though, was a box bearing the title Sherlock Holmes: The Complete Collection. Ah, of course: the dramatisation of which Kathleen had spoken in her story! Eager, I pulled the box out of the shelf and blinked in further surprise to find that the star of the show resembled me almost perfectly. The back of the box bore a description of the thing: a "Granada television" production… Jeremy Brett, David Burke, Edward Hardwicke… definitive performance…

I returned the box to its place and strode from the room, intent on looking up this adaptation on the Internet.

(Kathleen)

Preparation for church that Sunday morning worked around Mr. Sherlock Holmes, seated once again at the dining room computer. So absorbed was he in his research that I doubt he even noticed. The usual noises of a large family getting ready to go anywhere fortunately did not wake Dr. Watson.

Clarice arrived early to take the children—if I arrived home from a case on a Saturday, I often stayed home the following Sunday morning. I was usually too tired to pull myself together enough to go out at all, much less to church. My ever-faithful helper would obligingly take the kids to church herself.

Clarice Evans was a retired Army veteran who had served in Operation Desert Storm as well as in Afghanistan. She was married, with one adult daughter and two grandchildren. She also attended our church, which was how we first met. Clarice was less than a mother to me but more than a good friend—perhaps an aunt? She was on-hand practically 24-7 when I needed her, and her service was invaluable. I owed Clarice Evans more than I could ever repay.

After the last kid—Cameron, incidentally—was finally out the door, I returned to the kitchen to fix myself a sandwich. Passing Sherlock, I called over my shoulder, "Breakfast?"

"No, thank you."

I shrugged, though he couldn't see it, and set about to make my own food. I was finished with my meal and on my second cup of coffee when I came back out to the dining room and leaned against the table. "Coffee?" I asked belatedly.

"That would not be amiss."

Something was wrong. Yes, I'd only just met the man—never mind knowing him through the stories—but something felt off. "What's wrong?"

"Subtlety, I see, is not one of your strong points."

"Don't sidestep me, Mr. Holmes—I'm too stubborn. Now, what's wrong?"

A sigh, more felt than heard. "Perhaps you can give a little insight into the matter." He swung the chair around to face me, and I hid a wince. He didn't look good—not bad, but he just didn't look like he'd had a good night, awake all night or no.

"Okay…" I said slowly.

"Jeremy Brett," he said without preamble.

"Ohhh." I pulled out a chair from behind me and sank into it, holding my mug in both hands. The warmth felt good. "You found out about what happened to him."

"If you mean his illness, depression, and death at a marginally young age for this time period, then yes," Sherlock snapped.

I exhaled forcefully and leaned back against my chair. "Oh, Sherlock… what can I say? Jeremy Brett was a brilliant actor—brilliant to the point of obsessive." I paused and set my mug on the table, wracking my brains for the right words. I was an excellent actress and a brilliant thinker myself, but though words came to me easily on the keyboard, they somehow failed quite often to aid me in one-on-one speech.

"I had always hoped," Sherlock interjected quietly into the silence, "that if I could leave behind a legacy, it would be one for the betterment of mankind. Instead, it brought misery and death to an innocent man."

"No, it didn't!" I snapped, concerned. Funny how words finally came when I got worked up. "Sherlock, you have to believe me when I say that Jeremy Brett's death was not your fault. He loved playing you—did you know that? How much did you read about him? Did you know that he had a tendency to depression? Did you know that he identified with you? Did you never once think that maybe if it hadn't been you, it would have been some other role? Did you know that his heart condition had started with illness as a child?"

"He said I stole his soul!"

I jumped as the sentence ended in a shout.

Sherlock (yes, somehow that really is what my mind has always called him) glared at me, his lips pressed into a thin, angry line.

I resisted the appealing temptation to match it, forcing myself to breathe slowly and focus on that. After a few moments, I said quietly, "I think you misquoted." He opened his mouth, but I held up my hand. "Wait, please." His mouth closed. "Sherlock… oh, boy… I… I grew up watching that show. I loved it."

He looked at me, not really a stare but a look of such powerful concentration… I found myself wondering if this was what it felt like to be on the receiving end of my own intense focus.

"I remember reading about Jeremy Brett for the first time," I continued, my voice still soft. "I was so shocked. I couldn't believe that… that the man I'd grown up watching, playing my hero…" I discovered I had a huge lump in my throat, and water in my eyes. Great, my rather tenuous hold over my own lachrymal glands was the last thing either of us needed right now.

I swallowed hard and pushed on past the mortifying croak that had crept into my voice. "With or without the task of playing you, Jeremy Brett still would have died 'marginally young.' He just wasn't a well man. And the fact remains that nobody forced him to do the role. He chose to, and he chose to continue that role, even when he knew he was deteriorating. He wasn't forced, and he wasn't trapped. There was something to it that was out of his control, and something to it that was in his control: health and choice. He… oh, doggone it, Sherlock Holmes, stop looking at me like that!"

His expression was controlled, but his eyes… The stories, I think, didn't give enough credit to the sheer expressiveness of those grey eyes. Grief and guilt lay in those sea-grey depths.

"I am afraid," he said slowly, "that I am rather ill-equipped to deal with emotion. My apologies."

I had to give him something to show that Jeremy Brett's life had not been a dark one before Sherlock would let go entirely, I could see that. But that would take a little doing, and he needed some kind of reassurance now. So I did the only thing I could do, entirely against Victorian propriety and his own nature though it was, and hope it would help a little.

I stepped forward and wrapped my arms around him.

He went rigid within my embrace, and my hand came up instinctively to stroke his back in an effort to relax him. After a (mercifully for him) few moments, I pulled completely away and gave him a tentative smile. He stared at me in something akin to shock (at least it was better than that awful, consuming guilt), and I sighed. "You can't blame yourself for something you could not possibly have any control over."

…Smoke, "Dear Lord, the babies!", fire, pleaseGoddon'ttakemysonfromme…

I pushed the memories back and pressed on. "I learned that lesson a long time ago. All that's doing is setting yourself up in place of God. There are some things we can't be responsible for at all." I sat back down rather heavily and sighed, clasping my hands together and staring at them. "I really don't know what else to say."

Silence fell between us—not comfortable, but neither was it tense or heavy or awkward. "I believe," he said at last, "that you have said all that you can say." I glanced up to see that he was staring at his own clasped hands. "At least you have given me a good deal more to think on, and for that, I thank you."

"You're welcome," I said in a small voice.

He looked up at me then. "Are all women of your time so insightful?"

I had to laugh, however terse the laugh was. "Don't I wish! Nooo, I don't think so."

"Pity."

"'Tis true," I agreed with overdone ruefulness.

I was rewarded with the softening of some of the lines in his face. "Coffee?" I offered again.

He barked a terse laugh of his own, not unlike the laugh Jeremy Brett had given his character. "Yes, indeed, if you please."

I stood up and gave him a real smile. "I'll be right back."

(Watson)

Kathleen had warned me the night before that breakfast in her house tended to be an informal affair, with the exception of Saturdays and holidays. Thus, I believed myself to be prepared for whatever I saw that morning, especially given the oddities that I had experienced firsthand the previous day.

I was wrong.

I shuffled out to the dining room in too-large nightclothes and dressing gown (David Duran's, I was sure) to come upon Holmes and Kathleen (clad in her own rose-coloured dressing gown) seated across from each other at the table and drinking coffee in a silence that did not by any means feel awkward.

For Holmes to hold a possibly comfortable silence with a woman was quite extraordinary—even more extraordinary considering the fact that they were alone.

"Good morning," said I.

Kathleen looked up first and smiled. "Buenos días, Doctor." I blinked—was that Spanish?

Holmes gave her an odd look before nodding at me, saying, "Watson," and taking another sip of his coffee.

"Where are the children?" I frowned, for I had neither seen nor heard them since waking.

Our hostess's eyes twinkled over the rim of her mug. "Church."

"Church? Good heavens, I'd forgotten today was Sunday!"

Her smile broadened. "Don't worry—you'll get your chance to attend an American church next week."

I laughed. "Are you here then to keep an eye on us?" I suggested blithely.

She laughed in return. "No, no… I don't often go to church if I've just gotten back home the day before from a longish case." She leaned back in her chair, her brown eyes dancing. "The good Lord created the world in six days and rested on the seventh. I think I'm entitled to a little rest myself, one day out of the week."

I chuckled. "Do you take cases on Sundays, then?"

She shook her head. "Nope. Not unless it's a someone-will-die-if-you-don't-get here-in-the-next-few-hours kind of case—or a quick armchair consultation. If it isn't, I can usually pick up the case early Monday morning—and I do mean early—and quickly make up for lost time." Kathleen stood and stretched. "Anyway… Doctor, are you ready for a sandwich and some coffee… tea…?"

"Coffee will do, thank you," I nodded. "And yes, a sandwich will be fine."

She gave me a hand-sign with her finger and thumb forming a circle—a gesture, I presumed, that she made on instinct and thus did not stop to think that it would have no meaning for me—and disappeared into the kitchen. I seated myself beside Holmes and folded my hands on the table.

"That dressing gown is not quite your size," my friend observed.

"Stunning deduction, Holmes," I retorted.

He grinned slightly at me. "Dr. Duran's, I take it?"

I nodded ruefully. "I think we shall have to buy ourselves some new clothes."

"Or rather, our hostess might do so for us." He and I shared a look—we already owed Kathleen for room and board, and to owe her beyond that rankled our pride.

"Don't worry, gentlemen—I'll think of some way for you to pay me back," Kathleen's voice floated from the other room.

"Do you make it a habit of eavesdropping on…" Holmes's voice trailed away as he realised what he was saying.

Her head popped back into the doorway. "Mr. Holmes," she said with a carefully deadpan expression, "I make a living off of it."

I chuckled quietly as she vanished again, and Holmes threw me an irritated look. "She is rather too free with her wit," he said in a carelessly loud voice.

A highly unladylike snort sounded from the kitchen.

"Holmes," I cautioned, still trying to repress further laughter.

Kathleen returned, bearing a mug of coffee and an odd-looking sandwich on a plate. "Here ya go, Doctor," she said brightly. "Enjoy."

"Thank you," I said slowly. "Erm, may I ask what this is?"

"Oh, that's peanut butter and grape jelly."

"Butter from peanuts?"

She nodded. "It's good—I'm sure you'll like it."

I shook my head. "Eating experiences are apparently yet another thing that has changed with the times."

"Oh, that's nothing," she grinned. "Just wait till you have pizza on Friday."

(Holmes)

Kathleen returned to her seat and set her elbow onto the table, propping her cheek with her palm as she turned her gaze to the window near the computer desk. Her dark eyes were distant, and she looked relaxed and utterly at peace, so unlike the passionate, grieving woman whose story Watson and I had heard the night before. I wondered what, if anything, was going through her own remarkable mind right now.

Watson caught me studying our hostess and raised an eyebrow. I shrugged fractionally and sipped the last of my coffee, which was really quite excellent, before returning my attention to Kathleen.

During the Irene Adler case, I had observed that the lady in question was lovely, with a face that a man might die for. I had not exaggerated. The Woman had indeed been possessed of striking beauty, firm intellect, and strong character.

Kathleen Duran, on the other hand, was not what any man would call lovely, but there was fire and passion in the woman. That, coupled with her acute intelligence and strength of character, served to make her admittedly attractive features a mere veil over her radiant spirit.

And now I was beginning to sound like Watson's romanticised memoirs. How wonderful. Mercifully, the object of my errant thoughts now interrupted them.

"We're going to have to get your paperwork in order," she murmured.

"I beg your pardon?" said I.

"Paperwork." She turned from the window to face me. "Identification, passports… you need that."

"And how do you propose we go about setting up identities for ourselves?"

She smiled slowly. "Leave that to me. I've got good connections."

"In Britain?"

She nodded firmly.

"You do have good connections," said Watson, surprised.

"I've had several cases in London," she said by way of explanation, taking another sip of her coffee. "Pretty nasty ones, too—London's got a high crime rate. 'Course, so does every other major city in the world." She rolled her eyes over her mug.

"You do keep case files, don't you?" asked Watson.

"Mm-hmm."

"I would like to see them—that is, if you don't mind."

Kathleen shook her head as she swallowed another sip of coffee, setting her mug down on the table. "Go right ahead—I'll show you where they are. I also keep an online record of my cases… David used to do it, too, and we'd say that the details that one of us missed in our accounts, the other would record, so between our accounts, you could get a totally accurate picture of the case. Or, at least," she added with a smirk, "as accurate as we can get sometimes without endangering privacy or national secrets." Her brown eyes twinkled with that last.

Watson was resting his chin in his palm. "I know what you mean."

She gave him a sympathetic look. "I'll bet."

I leaned back in my seat, steepling my fingers. "What is your style like in your accounts, Mrs. Duran?"

"Kathleen," she corrected absently. "Storyteller—very much storyteller. I do writing in-between cases, and I write a lot of fiction."

"Good heavens," I muttered. "More romanticised cases."

Kathleen and Watson traded knowing looks. "Yeah, and I'm not ashamed of it," she drawled, grinning cheekily. "I was born with a gift for words, I was born with a love of stories, and I combine that every time I record a case. Storytelling's in my blood—I have to let it out. And there's something about venting the emotions of the case onto paper—or the computer—that's very therapeutic."

I gave her a skeptical look.

She leaned back in her own seat and folded her arms. "I can lock my emotions away on a case well enough, Mr. Holmes, but I don't disregard them entirely. I just don't let them get in the way, is all. And later on, it does feel very good to see them typed out. I don't care that the whole world knows that I cried over the death of a young investigator that I was just getting to be friends with—what matters is letting it out."

"And this… 'let-out emotion'—" I leaned forward—"does not affect your reputation?"

Watson watched with undisguised interest.

"In some cases, it's helped," she said candidly. "People know that I care."

"How does caring matter to a case?"

"It doesn't," she admitted. "But it matters to people. And I'm here to help people just as much as I'm here to solve their problems."

"Help on an emotional level."

She smirked again. "Heaven knows they need it. I know you've had overwrought clients before—I get them, too. There's certainly nothing wrong with empathising with a young woman whose abusive father murdered her little brother in cold blood."

I understood her position, and even agreed with it somewhat. I had indeed had to comfort and empathise with my clients—and I also understood, though I would not have admitted it, that detaching myself from emotion on a case allowed me to carry on whereas giving emotion free rein might have been damaging. There are some horrors one must encounter with an emotionally-blank mind—to do otherwise could deter and even destroy oneself. "On a moral level, touché. On an intellectual level, such empathy might distract your mind."

"Or strengthen your resolve."

"Would your resolve need it?"

"Sometimes," she said quietly. "It's not something I'm ashamed of admitting, Mr. Holmes. Sometimes, I need more than the thrill of intrigue to keep me going on a case of serial murders or family betrayal, because those can get very ugly."

I sighed, leaned back in my chair, and gave a conceding wave of my hand. She was right on that last count, of course—and, being a woman who I believed felt things very deeply, she needed emotional as well as mental stimulation.

Emotions. And women. I would never understand either.

She shrugged fractionally and began to drum her fingers absently on the table in that piano-like manner. "You play the piano, do you not?" I said abruptly.

She glanced at me. "Yes."

"I don't suppose…" Oh dear. I discovered that I could not quite word that request properly.

I did not have to. "That I would play for you?" she smiled, glancing between myself and Watson. "I'd be delighted."

(Watson)

Kathleen—still in her dressing gown and her pajamas (female pajamas!) underneath—seated herself at the piano in the living room. "Anything in particular?" she asked Holmes, who shook his head. "Right then."

And without any music sheets before her, she began to play. There was a high, slow prelude, and then the piece began in earnest. And after a few moments, she began to sing.

They say there's a place

Where dreams have all gone

They never said where

But I think I know

It's miles through the night

Just over the dawn

On the road that will take me home

I know in my bones

I have been here before

The ground feels the same

Though the land's been torn

I've a long way to go

The stars tell me so

On this road that will take me home

I had expected her to sing soprano, and was duly surprised by her rich contralto. I noted that my friend was already lost in the world of music: his normally piercing grey eyes soft and dreamy, his lips curved in a gentle smile, and his long fingers waving in time to the song. It was not violin music as he was so fond of attending, but it was lovely, lovely music nonetheless, deeply poignant.

Sherlock Holmes was thoroughly captivated, and but for studying his reaction, I would have been, as well.

Love waits for me 'round the bend

Leads me endlessly on

Surely sorrows shall find their end

And all of our troubles will be gone

And I'll know what I've lost

And all that I've won

On this road that will take me home

There was an interlude, sweet and spirited and uplifting, and then the music faded to a much more sombre tone. The next lines of the song were hushed and soft.

And when I pass by

Don't lead me astray

Don't try to stop me

Don't stand in my way

I'm bound for the hills

Where cool waters flow

On this road that will take me home

I almost fancied that I could hear not only Kathleen Duran's own mourning in her voice, but the heartache of every death she had ever witnessed, the sorrows of every man and woman she had ever tried to help, as well. I attempted to shake it off for a silly, romantic thought as Holmes no doubt would, but it lingered on in my mind, long after the music had ended.

Love waits for me 'round the bend

Leads me endlessly on

Surely sorrows shall find their end

And all of our troubles will be gone

And we'll know what we've lost

And all that we've won

When the road finally takes me home

I'm going home

I'm going home

I'm… going home…

The music ended, gently, and Kathleen twisted around on the bench to look up at her audience. I nodded to her slowly, fully appreciative of her beautiful performance. "Thank you, Kathleen," I murmured. "That was lovely."

She smiled softly at me, and turned to Holmes, her expression now questioning, as a pupil to her master.

Holmes said nothing, merely regarding her for a long moment. At last, he lowered his head in what might have been more of a bow than a nod. "It was indeed a pleasure, Kathleen," he said in a low voice, and I knew that his soul was still wrapped up in another, kinder world.

"Thank you," she said quietly, brown eyes glowing. Closing the piano, she stood and said, "If you gentlemen will excuse me, I believe I shall go change my clothes." She glided out of the room, leaving Holmes gazing at the piano and myself gazing at him.

"Holmes?"

He lowered himself to the piano bench and reopened the instrument, placing his long, thin fingers on the keys. He found the first few notes of the song immediately, then resorted to trial and error to find the rest. I smiled and said, "I'll be in the library." A slight nod was my only reply, and I left the room, the halting notes of a bittersweet song haunting my steps.

Author's Note:

It had to be Watson narrating the piano scene. No one else could have done it. That was wonderful. I've used the song "Going Home" in a fanfic before (my longtime readers will know right away what I'm talking about), but that was not as much fun as this was. The Jeremy Brett scene and the piano scenes are my favorite here out of a long chapter. =)

And speaking of Jeremy Brett, you can read a more detailed account of his later years on Wikipedia, but I warn you that it's very depressing if you don't already know the story (and even if you do). I was inspired in this scene by the fic "Holmes from Home" (which I've mentioned before), in which Sherlock has quite a similar guilty, despairing reaction. This was my take on what I felt was an inevitable and IC conclusion to Sherlock finding out about Jeremy Brett, and writing Kathleen in this scene was just wonderful. Especially when she begged Sherlock not to look at her like he was doing.

My favorite lines in this chapter were from Sherlock and Kathleen in the next scene:

"Do you make it a habit of eavesdropping on…"

"Mr. Holmes, I make a living off of it."

…Almost can't believe I came up with that myself, lol.

Btw, my mind actually does call Sherlock Holmes by his Christian name (which is odd, since everyone else in the world calls him by his surname). But that's how it is, and it feels weird when I call him Holmes. Weird, isn't it? Watson is somewhat similar: he's always Doctor Watson to me, and I rarely think of him otherwise.

Please review! (I need encouragement for this next chapter, which is stalling on me!)