Sherlock Holmes And The Paradise Horror

by GWBear

In 1920, Dr. John Watson breaks his long silence on the darkest, most difficult case - actually a series of related cases which Holmes pursued for many months - that Sherlock Holmes ever worked on. Holmes believes it's his greatest failure, but Watson thinks very differently. He believes the cases showed Holmes at his very best.

21. Chapter 20: Misgivings and Loose Ends

Chapter 20: Misgivings and Loose Ends

Despite our best efforts, Holmes and I were not quite as successful as we wanted to be at extricating ourselves from the meeting with our Scotland Yard team. Everyone wanted a few minutes with us, to share thoughts or offer their own thanks and congratulations. We both knew that a minimal effort to be social with Carrigan and Bradford was not an opportunity to be missed, both for our own future benefit, and for our inspector colleagues. We owed them that much, and so the social necessities of handshakes and good wishes were liberally dispensed with.

Twenty-nine minutes later saw us both heading out the door and down the stairs to the lobby. "Lestrade tells me they all got the rest of the day off," I said. "Just as well, really, as they are all dressed far too well to head back to the Yard. There's no sense getting called out on duty while wearing your very best clothing, is there?"

"Indeed," said Holmes, clearly relieved to be freed from the social niceties of the Foreign Office. "Did you have enough lunch, Watson?"

"More than enough. Cake too, if truth be told," I replied.

"What say you to a walk then, Watson. It looks like it will rain again later, but not for a while yet, and it appears to have stopped for now, and even warmed up. I need to stretch my legs, clear my head, and think!"

"You are not the only one," I said. "A walk would do me a world of good. This meeting was not what I expected it to be – nor did the presentation on the case proceed even remotely along the lines I would have expected."

Holmes grimaced and said, "Watson, as always, you have a superb gift for understatement. If I had your undying attention for the rest of the afternoon, I still don't think I could adequately describe the many faults, failures, and omissions we were just a party to. There is not a shadow of a doubt that we only heard the smallest fraction of the story. Nor do I think that we even heard the truth about the part we were allowed. It's a dirty business, Watson, I tell you! There's so very much more to this story than we were told, so much that we have to let go on trust and faith alone. It smells as rotten as a fish market in August!"

We did not have too long to walk to Regents Park, and we both needed to walk off our nerves and restlessness. "It's both depressing and frightening, Holmes," I said, after a lengthy pause. "We should be used to it by now, you and me. The secrets, the untold facts, the coverups – and the evil. Jacob Dodd: he's a bit of a shock, I confess. Both to find that he's dead and gone, but also… he was such a normal looking chap. Rather handsome, even a bit rakish in his way. To think he was responsible for, or at least a part of such monstrous evil! I feel a bit foolish thinking like this, but it's the honest truth of what I'm dealing with right now."

"Ah, Watson. It's not that you are foolish or naïve, it's just your common decency showing through again. You so often thrive to see the best in every man and are disappointed when they fail to live up to your standards of humanity and civility. Me, I tend to see the potential for evil in every man, or at least any man. Nothing surprises me much anymore. For me, I see that same young, genial face, and all I have is questions." He stopped walking for a moment and looked at me. "Look at what we know, what we already really know, based on our own investigations, and the feckless pap we were fed by Mycroft's boys. That young man had read Biology at university, not advanced organic chemistry, not medicine, not any form of advanced pharmacology. He played a key role, I will grant that, but not the central role. He was nowhere near qualified or experienced enough to concoct toxins and poisons of such extraordinary delicacy and complexity. We both know this! We are both knowledgeable enough in our respective fields of medicine and chemistry to know he might have helped gather the flora involved, and he certainly played a key role in the con game, and in the distribution of those little monstrous toys. But, to create them? To dream them up?" Holmes laughed bitterly. "Watson, I tell you without boasting, that I am one of the top chemists in the country, at least when it comes to poisons, implementations, and practical applications and delivery. However, I would be hard pressed indeed to create those little poison pellets. It takes a genius to know and appreciate true genius. A mastermind, perhaps more than one, was at work here. And we know nothing of the disposition of those individuals!"

"We have assurances that the people involved have been 'neutralized' – whatever that means," I offered tentatively.

"Neutralized, Watson. Exactly. An interesting choice of words. Major Hemmings was open and free enough with his admission of having tossed Dodd to his death. I expect that he would have demonstrated his technique if we had but asked. But the others? Neutralized. What does that even mean? I have no doubt whatsoever that Mycroft and his infinitely capable minions did not lie when they said that the public was no longer in danger, but beyond that, who knows? I know my brother, his mind, and his ways all too well. This is a multi-chapter story, and all we got was chapter one, with assurances that the rest of the book is worth ignoring. It's damned hard to swallow!"

"My thoughts exactly, Holmes, but what can we do? Our hands are tied at this point. Mycroft made it clear that further details are not available, even to you and me. We have neither the time nor resources to pursue a locked up and completed needle in a haystack. I see no option but to leave it as it is."

"You have summarized our position rather well, Watson. Unfortunately, I don't see a way around this either. But every instinct I possess tells me that the far more important pieces of the story were left buried, never to see the light of day. It's galling to dedicate so much time and effort to a case, or series of cases, only to have it end so suddenly, and unexpectedly, with only vague platitudes and assurances that our efforts were a success."

"Can we call it a success, Holmes?"

"No Watson. We have been told we can, indeed we must, and that is what is so disturbing. As we both know, all we have to show is a handshake, a pat on the back, some commendations all around, and a lunch at The Foreign Office. We don't have closure, and we don't have true success. We are only deluding ourselves if we think otherwise."

Holmes fell into a moody silence and we walked on, both of us wrestling with our thoughts and misgivings. I was surprised by a sudden sarcastic snort from my companion. "Watson, it's going to be interesting indeed to see how the combined efforts of Scotland Yard's Special Branch and the Foreign Office tell this fairy tale, even a highly abridged one. A bare outline of a story won't hold together well, as we know. It fell to pieces all over the table in front of our doctors and scientist friends. The Yarders accepted it, because they must, and they are used to falling in line. Besides, the Commissioner was there; what else could they do? But England is full of doctors, scientists, and educated men aplenty. Then there's the Press. If they think the wool is being pulled over their eyes, they'll collectively howl for blood. I don't envy them the next several weeks of walking on eggs and telling bedtime stories."

"What if Parliament demands answers? All hell will break loose," I said, flashing Holmes a grin. I got a sharp bark of laughter in response.

The rest of our walk proceeded largely in silence. By now, we knew how to spend time in each other's company without the need for idle talk, especially when one or the other of us needed space. Today, it was both of us who needed time to think, analyze, and ultimately come to accept the new reality we had been handed. I needed time to digest the obscene horror of such evil medical abuse, while Holmes needed to carefully consider every aspect of the long meeting. I knew he was sifting each memory for clues, and hidden meaning, while also considering his brother to determine if additional details might be learned. After working these cases for so many months, I know being shut out by Mycroft was like a thorn in his shoe, or a bad toothache that could not go away. The afternoon wore on, with the temperature slowly dropping again – a warning that more rain was not far behind. We made it back to 221B Baker Street just as the first windswept drops were beginning to fall.

As we removed our coats and hung them on the rack in the foyer, Mrs. Hudson came out, announced she would bring up some tea and biscuits, and that a dinner of vegetable soup, curried lamb with potatoes, and a bread pudding would be along later. She took a long, hard look at both of us, and said, "Well I can tell you're not heading to the continent, or America either, but you both look right well displeased with the world. I take it that it wasn't a joyful meeting of minds then. Got a good scolding, did you?"

"Not a scolding Mrs. Hudson, but not a happy day either. More like hitting a brick wall," I said, as Holmes was clearly in no mood to elaborate. I got a grunt of confirmation from him, letting Mrs. Hudson know that my assessment of events had been a correct one.

She gave a sniff, displeased even without knowing the details, because 'her lads' had been poorly treated. "It's a good thing I refilled the decanters early this afternoon then. There's two different scotches, your favorite brandy, and both sweet and dry sherry. I'll bring along a bottle of your favorite claret to have with the lamb. Tea will be up shortly."

"You're a treasure, Mrs. Hudson!" I called after her, as I slowly made my way upstairs after Holmes.

I expected Holmes to be moody and morose all evening, but I was surprised that he spent most of his time reading the papers carefully, including a few of the earlier editions from the day before, which he had not perused thoroughly. The amount of tobacco he went though (excessive) and the type (a more noxious variety he smoked when doing deep contemplation) were the only indications that something was amiss. I read my pile of papers, frequently looking over at him to see how he was doing.

"I'm not going to take a dive into the cocaine bottle, if that's what you're thinking, Watson," he said at last. "If you must know, I have notes to finish compiling, but I'm not going to do it tonight. I have a practice of my own to manage, as do you. It's clear that our services are no longer required, at least as before, so it's time we both focus on cultivating our own affairs."

"As good an attitude as any," I admitted. "Until the Scotland Yard Brass, and the Whitehall Mandarins get their story straight, we have nobody we can even talk to anyway." I paused considering. "When the story – such as it is – comes out, I would like to be able to talk to the Gartlones, the Horton's, and Annie Kendell. I feel I owe them a personal response. I hope Mycroft can see his way to allowing us that much, at least."

"And Mr. William Sullivan, the former fiancée of the late Miss Miranda Wright," said Holmes, with a regretful note in his voice. "He's been the picture of long-suffering patience. Then there's the relatives of Miss Clara Higby. On a different type of discussion altogether, there's Mrs. Susan Crossford and her husband."

"Don't forget Doctor Ken Blakely, and both Anthony Fletcher and Fred Hill," I said, not liking the lay of the field before us. "Even Doctor Morton." I paused for further consideration, deciding to relight my own pipe, and at least compete with Holmes for the air quality of our sitting room. "It's all well and good for the high-ups to make pronouncements, but these people are our clients, friends, and close colleagues. It's going to be hard to sell them on a story we ourselves are none too comfortable with."

"It's going to have to be a good story," agreed Holmes. "For what it's worth, this is a story that I hope Mycroft's people take a great deal of credit for, in a vague 'for the good of the empire' type of way. I want nothing to do with this, and I expect for once, our friends at the Yard don't want to own it either. At best, I want to be in a 'what they said' position, not able to do much but shrug my shoulders at it all."

The rest of the night passed quietly, with Holmes taking a few notes based on articles. Twice he cut out a small clipping for his scrap book reference library. I took it as a good sign that he was minding his own interests rather than stewing in misery. The Holmes from ten years ago would have opted for the cocaine bottle instead. It was a definite improvement.

The next few days passed quietly. We waited silently, not quite sure how the publicity campaign to disclose Martin Bay to the country was going to be introduced, or play out. Holmes refused to speculate, saying "I have no more data or insight than you do. I can say that one of the things working in Mycroft's favor is that Dodd's parents are dead. He was an only child and apparently has not been in Belfast in recent years. There's not as many living people to readily come forward and dispute the identity of Martin Bay as one Jacob Dodd, former resident of Belfast. If they use the sketch of Bay, rather than the photographs of Dodd, they may be able to pull off this caper. I refuse to be a part of this in any way. I won't stop it, or block this effort, but I'll be damned if I will facilitate it in any way."

Holmes theorizing proved to be prophetic, as the news about "the suicide of Martin Bay, resident of London, lost at sea" showed up as not more than a public announcement in several London newspapers on Saturday morning, the seventh of March. This was followed by a statement on the evening of the nineth, which appeared in the papers, indicting that Bay had killed himself, as he was on the run as a suspect in an investigation based on peddling bad medication for profit, which had caused injuries. These public statements were followed by a more detailed press release saying that a joint investigation by the Scotland Yard Special Branch and the Foreign Office had uncovered a conspiracy relating to a chemist, masquerading as a doctor, who had worked with his wife, and Martin Bay to sell sleep aids which ultimately proved to be highly deadly. The chemist, one Pierre Renaud, and his wife Eilene, were foreigners who had fled the country back in January, using a rented ketch called the 'Kestrel.' Authorities believed they attempted to flee to either Belgium or Holland, but the Kestrel never made it, and the wreckage of the yacht was found at sea. Unlike the public notices, this series of press releases caught the public's attention. A senior press agent for the Foreign Office and Senior Superintendent Carrigan met with the Press in a special press meeting in the foyer of the Foreign Office, on Wednesday the eleventh of March. A slightly altered version of the sketch of Martin Bay was presented, along with two rather blurry photographs of a man and woman, both somewhere in their mid to late thirties, who were purported to be the Renauds. Grim pronouncements were made about people who had been driven to asylums, but who were now slowly on the mend, along with a number of tragic deaths of poor young women back in 1894 and 1895, all who had sought treatment for insomnia, and fallen prey to the evil machinations of these terrible people. Clara Higby and Miranda Wright were mentioned as likely victims, with vague insinuations that there might well have been others. Unfortunately, any records that Pierre Renaud had were with him on the Kestrel when the craft went down.

Carrigan waxed long and loud about the extraordinary relationship between Scotland Yard and the government, praising the 'unprecedented close cooperation' which had led to cracking the difficult case. James Linden, the Foreign Office representative, stood by beaming as pictures were taken for the newspapers. He also added his profound thanks for the successful investigation, the dedication and professionalism of the people involved, and no, unfortunately the finer details of the investigation could not be released. "The success of our joint team has led us to the understanding that this is a team which has considerable long-term potential as a crime fighting unit, to the benefit of the general public, and the strategic interests of the Crown. We would prefer to keep the identities of all the personnel involved secret for at least a few years, in order to allow them to continue their vital work on behalf of Her Majesty's government."

The story was a wild sensation for several days, as the papers seized upon the story and ran hard with it. The cover-up was successful enough that beyond the endless reprinting of the three images, and two additional photographs, one of the "Kestrel" taken in the harbor at Dover, and another rather blurry image of some of the wreckage found at sea, there wasn't much else to tell. A John Clemons was found to be the hapless owner of the Kestrel, and his picture was printed, along with his complaints that he was out the cost of a 'fine little ship' with insurance only covering half of the loss. In light of the public demand for more information, and the relative scarcity of real data, the press turned its attention to the dangers of sham medical practitioners, and those nere-do-wells who peddle snake-oil remedies. Prominent medical practitioners wrote opinion pieces, or were interviewed, for their point of view. All agreed to a man that the public needed to exercise far more care and vigilance, seeking treatment and remedies only from actual medical practitioners, and duly licensed chemists, who sold only proven products know to be safe and effective.

Through it all, Holmes and I just sat at home reading the twice daily media blizzard as the story ebbed and flowed over the following few days. We took turns reading each other some of the more salacious and hyperbolic coverage, cringing at the entirely misleading distortion of even the original narrative, while grudgingly approving of some of the opinions and articles regarding better and safer medications from only qualified medical professionals. "Perhaps some good will come of all this tempest after all," I said, after I had finished reading Holmes one of the better opinion pieces. "It was misguided hope and misplaced trust that got all our victims – such as we know them anyway – into trouble in the first place. Better practices, and better care, even better standards, all are needed. I can't help but agree with virtually all of the recent medical articles."

"It's not the medical articles that bother me, Watson. It's the entire circus that they created to cover their tracks," Holmes said, his disgust clearly evident. "I suppose it's for the best, but it's now rather obvious that the Powers That Be are going to be able to pull off this charade after all. The public bought it, as did the medical and scientific communities. You have to rather admire the sheer artistry of it all, even if you think they are nothing but rogues and scoundrels."

Throughout the week, both Holmes and I had quietly finalized our case notes and were now faced with the awkward decision regarding the safe disposition of the large pile of documentation we had created over months of painstaking effort. It was then that I made a decision that I still live with the consequences of: I increased the amount of storage space I had at Cox and Co. Bank, at Charing Cross. Holmes decided to store all his notes along with my own at this secure location, in deference to the sensitive nature of the subject matter, and its now classified status. I believe Holmes agreed to this largely because he didn't want the clutter of the case underfoot, especially since he considered the whole affair to be a dismal failure, even if it had still a noble effort undertaken for all the right reasons.

A fortnight later, most of the press frenzy had died down, although articles and opinion pieces about medical and pharmaceutical safety still made their appearance. As Holmes had predicted, it was now obvious that the presentation to the public of a plausible story would be entirely successful. Holmes arrived back at Baker Street later than usual on the evening of the thirtieth in an unusually surly mood. When I asked him what had happened, he told me he had met with Mycroft early in the evening at The Diogenes Club, and the meeting had not gone well. Mycroft had been aloof and dismissive, refusing to discuss the case further, and only gave Holmes and I permission to communicate with the victims or their families using the now well-established public narrative. "I am reduced to being a useful messenger service, nothing more," he said bitterly. "If we wish to communicate to our long-suffering clients at all, we only get to sing the one officially approved song."

He reached for his black briar, and spent much longer filling it and getting it lit than was normal for him. "This will be hard to live with. It's my greatest failure, Watson. In the end, I solved nothing, and the victims, both living and dead are being provided a whitewash. I wish I could have done more; I wish the government had given them more. They got a fiction, a fantasy, and that's not enough. I know it, and the terrible thing is that I know Mycroft knows it too. He offered up the official story, he led the charge, but he's far too intelligent to believe that true justice has been served. He as much as you knows how poorly this sits with me, but he is choosing to neither notice nor care."

I gave him the best answer I could. "I know it's not ideal, but we still owe them closure, even if we know the story is misleading at best. They won't know that, and at least there will be a way for them to move on," I said.

"I can't help but feel that I owe them something more, and that the missing element is simple honesty," replied Holmes, a note of pain and defeat in his voice. "Will I do it? Will I follow orders? Yes, but Lord, I do not have to like it! I am betraying an obligation and a trust that was given to me. They will almost certainly never know otherwise, but I will, as will you. This is one I will not easily forgive or forget."

And so, with heavy hearts, and sour stomachs, we both set about closing the books on our public obligations to our respective clients, colleagues, and contacts. Charles Sears and I made arrangements to meet with Mr. and Mrs. Horton along with Annie Kendell. Mrs. Kendell cried softly, as my colleague held her hand, and explained that she and her friend had been cruelly victimized. We did tell her that her memory and her pill models had been critical elements in apprehending the criminals. "You came back through adversity, You survived, and then stood up, not only for yourself, but so many others. You have our boundless thanks, and gratitude. You should be proud of what you have done," explained Sears gently.

"It's not for myself that I grieve," said Annie, still crying. "It's my friend Alice Roundtree. She's gotten much better than she was, but she's still not fully herself. Truth be told, I' not sure she ever will be. Her life has been forever altered. Worse, she's got what happened to me on her conscience. She's a gentle soul, Alice is, and this is not going to sit well with her. I don't blame her – how can I? But she's not likely to see it that way. I doubt she will ever forgive herself."

"Is there anything we can do for her?" I asked. "Would it help if we met with her?"

"I don't think so, Dr. Watson, sir. I might try meeting with her in the presence of her pastor. I want her to truly understand that none of this is her fault. Her healing will never be complete, if she has to carry this around like a ball and chain for the rest of her life."

After a little more time spent answering questions from the Hortons – all with Sears and I dancing around the fiction we were forced to maintain, we excused ourselves. Per prior agreement, we had decided that the least said the better, and that we didn't want to make the visit a lengthy one, lest we say too much, or inadvertently dig ourselves into a hole we could not climb out of.

Our ride back to Sears' home was a lengthy one, as Sears asked the cabbie to take a long and indirect route back, so that we could discuss the case privately. "It's been difficult, John, he said. "It's not great surprise to you that the secrecy and the false narrative have not sat well with me. I've had to lie to my wife, my colleagues, and especially had a devil of a time explaining all of this to our mutual colleague Kenneth Blakely. He's a brilliant man, and it absolutely breaks my heart to have to pull the wool over his eyes – if for no other reason that it reminds me that we all had the same thing happen to us! Let's not fool ourselves, John. We were fed a rotten stew back at the Foreign Office, and we both know it. We not only don't know the full story, I think it's likely we don't even know five percent of it! Secrecy is all well and good, but we busted our humps for the common welfare – and yes, Queen and Country. I can't help but feel we deserve better."

"I agree, Charles, but the hard reality of dealing with the government is that even within the government's highest circles, everything is on a strictly 'need to know' basis. Like I said back during the meeting, it really is like this: it just is. Everyone is used to it. Everyone understands the necessity. It's a simple fact that the best way to keep a secret is to not tell anyone, or to whisper it to the dead. Even then, you can never know who might be listening. You asked me how it felt to work with Sherlock Holmes, or to work on important issues. Much of the things we have dealt with have to remain secret. What I can say is that reality, the doings of the world well beyond what the public normally gets to see, is usually far darker and uglier than most would be comfortable with. Unfortunately, the world really is filled with bad actors. It's not necessarily textbook villains twirling their mustaches, but it can be a place where you are left feeling like you need a good hot bath afterwards, just to get the stench off."

Sears sighed. "It would appear I am not cut out for this, John. Cloak and dagger is all well and good, but I think I prefer mine in fiction, so I can close the book and walk away if the story gets too ugly. Like you, I suppose I understand the necessity, but I don't think I will ever be comfortable with it."

"Do you need any additional help making the rounds to see other doctors, the personnel in the asylums, or even with Ken?"

"No, I am squared with Ken, although I can tell that he's desperately curious for more information about the 'joint secret team' that Commissioner Bradford announced." He paused, "God help me, John, but even now I am confused! Do you think there actually IS a secret team that has been created by the Foreign Office and Special Branch – or is it all a fabrication?"

I sighed and considered. Holmes and I had quietly debated this point between ourselves, and determined that it was almost certainly a fictional element of the cover story. "Holms and I have already debated the point, Charles. We're almost entirely certain it's just part of the cover story, a palatable reason to keep so much of the truth under wraps."

Sears made a grunt, and sat back heavily in his seat, almost as if he had been struck, and was now in pain. "Lord, John. That's…" He paused. "That's cold!"

I knew that ugly as I found this, my background made this far more acceptable to me. "It's painful, Charles, believe me, I know. But it was necessary, and while we may not like it, you must admit, the effectiveness of the story speaks for itself. The thing is a complete fairytale, but it worked!"

"That it did John. That it did." My friend looked beaten down, with the look of a man who has lost something precious that he would never get back. I knew that this wasn't far from the truth. He had indeed lost something altogether precious: his innocence and trust.

"Are you sure I can't help you with the asylums, or with some of the doctor visits?"

"No, they are almost all done. Besides, there's more follow-up to do, and I believe it's going to be done by Scotland Yard."

"Seriously?" I was surprised. I didn't think the Metropolitan Police would be getting involved. I certainly didn't know this, and I expect Holmes didn't either.

"It rather makes sense," Charles said. "One of my colleagues with connections at Bethlem Royal told me that someone from Special Branch reached out to him, and a few others who work there. They either want to do real, actual interviews, or…" He shrugged. "Who knows. Maybe it's all part of the act. If this was a real investigation playing out in the real world, with no secrets, wouldn't you expect some senior police or inspector presence to be knocking on your door, to conduct at least something of an investigation?"

"Now that you say it, I suppose that I would. I would even expect it and find it odd if nobody showed up. I've been so close to this thing that looking at the finer details from the outside hasn't been my priority. Perhaps they truly want the data after all. This may not be a ruse. I say let them run loose and see what happens. It's not up to us anyway."

We switched the topic to something more pleasant, so that our mood would be brighter when we reached his home. I stopped in to have tea with his wife Andrea, and we passed a pleasant hour before I headed back to Baker Street. I had taken the day off from Barts, as I wanted to be available for Holmes throughout the day. He too was making an uncomfortable house call that afternoon. He was scheduled to see William Sullivan to follow up on the death of Miranda Wright. I knew he was dreading the meeting, and that he was not at all comfortable telling half truths to a man he believed he had failed. "I certainly don't feel comfortable taking his money. I don't believe I've earned it!"

"But you have," I explained. "You and in fact so many others, invested countless hours on his behalf. Remember, you never promised him 'results,' only your best effort. He knows that at least some of your efforts went into informing the senior levels of government about the nature of the problem – and that your information most likely led the government to act. That's nothing but the truth, and that at least you can be honest with him about. You don't have to accept a large fee – but some fee will provide him with a sense of control, dignity, and empowerment. It will let him feel like he actually DID something for Miranda. Trust me, Holmes. It would be far better for him if you take some reasonable level of compensation."

Holmes was still not happy, but I could see that he was carefully considering my words. "We will see, Watson. We will see…"

When I arrived back in Baker Street, I was met downstairs by Mrs. Hudson. She had a worried and fretful air about her. "He's not been back long. He's in a mood. Very low, as if he received bad news. I brought up some tea a few minutes ago. He said you would likely be back soon. Dinner will be in about ninety minutes."

I thanked her and slowly climbed my way up the seventeen stairs. Truth be told, I wasn't in a great place myself. Tonight, would be an evening of silence, pipes, brandy, and shared misery. I walked in to find Holmes sitting in his chair, his churchwarden pipe already lit, and the room unexpectedly chilly, but a warm fire working hard to make up for it. "Hello Holmes. It's been an afternoon for me, and I expect for you as well." I poured myself a cup of tea, refilled his cup, and sat down heavily opposite him in my chair: two wounded warriors, frustrated, angry, and even defeated without much of an idea what to do about it.

"Watson," he said. It along with a nod was all I got, but it was better than nothing and was even a little more than I expected. I decided to match him and reached for my largest briar. A simple, light blend was my usual choice before dinner, and I saw no reason to change my preferences tonight. We smoked in silence, and I knew that Holmes wouldn't say a word until I got my pipe well lit, with a few minutes to spare.

"How did it go at the Horton residence today?" Holmes asked at last.

"It went about as we expected. There were tears, questions, and plenty I could not answer, although nobody pressed too hard. The damn story in the papers did its work well it seems. Sears did most of the talking as he is her doctor. We thanked Annie for her help and told her that she could take comfort in knowing that her identification helped move the investigation forward. She was far more worried for Alice Roundtree, and the burden she will have to carry. She doesn't think the poor woman will forgive herself for passing her pills along. She will most likely meet with Alice along with the Roundtree's pastor, to help ease her mind."

"Annie is a very remarkable woman," said Holmes thoughtfully.

"Charles is not taking it well, as I expected he wouldn't. Secrecy doesn't sit well on him. He already met with Doctor Blakely, and while it went well enough, Blakely was left with more questions than answers. He's just going to have to live with them – as will we all."

A grunt from Holmes was his only response.

"He's been making the rounds among his colleagues, as has Blakely, once he knew. He told me one unexpected thing. It seems Special Branch is reaching out to the asylums for more information. Between us, we can't tell if this is all part of the ruse, or it indicates a genuine interest. The more we considered it, the more it seems likely that Scotland Yard will have to reach out regardless. It's what would be expected after all."

"Mycroft did make noises that something like an investigation would occur. He of course did not see fit to tell me if it was going to be a serious fact finding effort, or a smoke screen. My thought at the time was that it would be a smoke screen. He's got the actual information already – and that's from me, and all the information we uncovered. There's precious little Scotland Yard, Special Branch, or any government agent is going to uncover at this late date which they haven't already dug up and factored into their equations. Remember that for all of our work, we are the ones holding the least amount of important information. The rest, the part that matters, the truth, that's all within Mycroft's orbit by now." He frowned, fiddled with his pipe for a moment, and turned to look into the fire. "It's more than insulting, Watson. Maybe it's a territory move by Special Branch, or perhaps even a legitimate investigation. But they haven't asked me, you, or to the best of my knowledge, even their own inspectors for the critical details that would help such an investigation. They haven't seen fit to even tell us it's happening – and it was originally our investigation. There's being excluded, and then there's rubbing salt in the wound. You know full well which one this is!"

I considered my reply. "My two farthings… it's a sham. I can't see Mycroft allowing Bradford to send any of his own people out blundering around in public, asking probing, inconvenient questions, and perhaps saying far more than they should. If this is so sensitive that it has to be withheld even from you, I can't see Mycroft letting Bradford's not-so-bright hounds loose on this."

"Your point is well taken, Watson. Right now, I suggest we sit back and do exactly nothing. Let's just let the cards fall where they may."

"So how did it go with Bill Sullivan?" I asked.

Holmes sighed. "He was emotional, grateful, thankful, even a bit apologetic for all the time his investigation took. You were right that I should have had you along, as your skills in such things are far greater than mine. Still, I did the best I could, following what I thought you would do. Besides, I owed the man." He paused to consider. "He offered me a check. I took your advice and accepted it."

"How much?"

"He offered two hundred pounds, and thought it was too little. I told him I couldn't accept more than one hundred-fifty. I told him to make a memorial donation to a women's skills learning institution in our name if he felt the need to do more."

"Oh, well done man!" I exclaimed. Holmes gave me a weary smile. "I only followed your advice, and did what you would do, my friend."

The following day, I met with Doctor Fred Hill, and gently walked him through recent events, carefully keeping to the official narrative. Fred was kindly soul, more than most, so his immediate reaction was one of sympathy and abject horror for the three victims of Bay's heinous crime, and their grieving families. He was shaken and visibly moved, almost to the point of tears. "You were there, John, at the investigations. You saw the ghastly violence these poor men haplessly inflicted upon each other. You know. You KNOW the true horror of this! To think this was reckless mischief, for what? Fun? Profit? Personal entertainment? In all my life I could not imagine anything so deeply and profoundly evil! Even the Ripper, back in eighty-eight, that obscene group of killings was clearly done by a madman, someone profoundly disturbed. But this? What act of God or man can justify it?"

"I don't know, Fred. I'm as much in the dark as you. I have seen war. I have seen men blown apart. I was at Maiwand. But in the face of this I have nothing – nothing at all."

Fred insisted that we go to the same pub where the three men had been victimized, and buy a drink, so that we might toast the memory of the three victims. It seemed most fitting. The Pheasant and Quail no longer looked broken and damaged, it now being months after being fully restored. Only those who saw and remembered the raw, violent damage would even know where to look for the careful blend of the old and the new. We were there at a quiet time of the day. A man neither of us recognized took our orders for a glass each of their finest single malt. We drank two toasts: one to the three men and their families, the other to the numerous other victims.

"I shall pray for the peaceful rest of their eternal souls," said Fred fervently.

"As shall I, my friend. Even Sherlock Holmes, ever the rational man has told me he prays for their eternal peace. For all his logic and reserve, he is a far deeper man than most realize. He believes in an All Seeing Just and Merciful God. He prays for those he cannot bring justice to. This has all been hard on him. He would not show it to others, but I can see it, and he confides it to me."

"I don't doubt it, John. It would be a cold, unfeeling man indeed who could not pray for those so cruelly used. Those young women too, it's just…" He stopped, looked down, shaking his head, clearly beyond words.

"Now you know why I wanted to meet with you Fred. You deserved a way to come to grips with this. We all do," I said.

"Thank you for reaching out to me, John. You're a good man, and a caring medico!"

We parted company soon after, each to our respective homes, both feeling the weight of frustration, loss, and regret. As I rode to Baker Street in a cab through the surprisingly warm late afternoon, that whispered hints of the warmer spring and summer days to come, I thought of all the victims, families, friends, and the nameless many others who would be left forever scarred by this senseless crime spree. I felt deeply damaged in ways I could hardly identify, and yet I knew I was not the only one.

On Wednesday, the first of April, a lunchtime ceremony was held for the Scotland Yard members of the team. Every man who had attended the Whitehall meeting was there, including the Alansby brothers, Robert and Samuel, and all the Scotland Yarders. I was pleased to see that Ethan Finn, Mercer's assistant, and constables Frank Newton and Russell Campbell were also to be included in the ceremony, and would be receiving honors of their own, as would the other two former members of our team, Liam Faults and Brighton James. Nobody would be forgotten. "It's only right and proper," said Holmes to me quietly.

Commissioner Bradford, and Superintendent Carrigan both gave short speeches. A brief description of the team's work was provided, along with declarations regarding extraordinary effort and praiseworthy dedication. Maxwell Thomas was singled out for his efforts, much to his embarrassment. His skills and detailed approach to policing was lauded, and held up as an example to all, especially the young constables who hoped to make progress in their careers, moving from constable to sergeant, and later inspector. Inspectors Lestrade, Gregson, Bradstreet, and Radisson were not forgotten; each was called out, brought forward, and presented with a medal of commendation, as were the constables.

The civilian commendations came next, with every man called up and presented with a letter and a handsome wall plaque, and of course handshakes from both the superintendent and the commissioner. Finally, when all the awards were handed out, Commissioner Bradford stepped forward to speak yet again. "I have two final commendations to hand out. In their way, they are the most special and select of all, as these are awarded to two men who not only led this great team effort, but who have also provided years, many years of extraordinary service, mentorship, and leadership to the entire Metropolitan Police Force. For far too long, their efforts have been ignored, even dismissed and denigrated, even as they helped us solve cases, lifted us all up, and gave service to the general public that has largely gone unrecognized."

The commissioner then went on at considerable length describing the years of work Holmes and I did with Scotland Yard, focusing (rightly so) far more on Holmes than myself, although I came in for more than my fair share of praise. To my surprise, a few more notable cases from the past, even from years ago, were cited as 'just a few more notable examples.' I had to hand it to the man. He had been well prepared for this speech and fully intended to give credit and honor where it was due. I could feel Holmes standing next to me, for all the world looking calm and relaxed. Yet I, who knew him well, could feel the effort he was exerting to make this look natural and easy, when in fact he was extremely uncomfortable. It suddenly occurred to me that he had a certain air of practiced familiarity even in his discomfort. This isn't even close to the first time he has had to stand and endure uncomfortable public scrutiny. I then understood I was witnessing a glimpse of Holmes' past, a display of skills developed long ago at the hands of either an uncompromising parent, a demanding older brother, or harsh school masters. Holms rarely if ever spoke of his past; I now had a small understanding as to why.

I was gratified to hear genuine warmth, and appreciative regard in the loud applause from every member of the Yard, as each of us stepped forward to receive our commendation and handshakes. Holmes might be uncomfortable, but even he had to recognize the depth of the regard and gratitude in the room. I was feeling somewhat flushed and embarrassed, but I also felt proud, especially of Holmes. This is long overdue, especially for him. It's good that he is here to receive this. He might have missed this entirely if he hadn't made it back from his years as a hunted fugitive. In fact, so would I. The thought filled me with appreciation, and an unexpected pang of grief in equal measures. All these victims would have had nobody to even notice they can been abused, or worse, if Holmes had not come back to London in 1894.

Later that evening, as we sat in our sitting room at 221B Baker Street, a glass of good single malt in our hands, I shared my thoughts with Holmes. His response surprised me. "It's odd that you say that Watson. I also thought the same thing. However, as I stood there, feeling quite uncomfortable, I did reflect on our long association with Scotland Yard. Perhaps that ceremony was long overdue – but to be honest I thought more of you than myself."

"Seriously, Holmes? Why so?"

"Because I tend to get all the focus, praise, and attention. But you are the ever ready, forever present, and constantly loyal right-hand man – ready to stand by me, or any Yarder. Ready to wait in the dark for hours, or fight thugs in some god-forsaken ally or warehouse. Ready to protect and defend or patch up the wounds of a fight: either my wounds, or those of some unlucky constable. I am glad, more than glad, that you got your moment in the sun today, my friend."

"As I was feeling glad for you!" I said, warmed by his praise and regard.

"Ah Watson! We are a pair, are we not! After all these years together. Each wishing the best for the other! If a man can have even one friend like that in this world, he should be able to call himself blessed."

"I propose a toast Holmes. Two toasts, actually." I refilled our glasses. "The first toast is to friendship, and the second is for all the victims of the Dodd cases. It's seems only right and proper that we remember them at this time."

"Two worthy toasts indeed, Watson. May the good Lord grant them the justice and peace they so richly deserve."

We touched glasses and drank.

Holmes sat and quietly pondered as he filled his pipe. He still looked unsettled, and so I asked why. It took him a moment to respond. "I hope that we, that I did enough. May the Lord forgive me if I did not."

"Holmes, you are but a mortal man, just like the rest of us. The Lord doesn't expect you to have the powers of the angels – only to do the best with what you have."

Holmes gave me a weak smile. "It's good that I have you to remind me of such things!"

In the following weeks, we both did our best to put the cases behind us. Holmes kept himself more than busy with cases which arrived from all over Europe, and the steady addition of cases from Scotland Yard. I kept up my cycle of work shifts, moving between several private practices, and both Barts and London Hospital. I attended a medical conference on infectious diseases in Manchester, which coincided with a visit Holmes made to Paris to assist in the investigation of a major bank robbery. Holmes and I even went to Berlin for a week to investigate some sensitive missing documents, at Mycroft's request. It was good for both of us to be both productive and needed – and even better to be successful in our respective professions.

Since we had more free time, we both started attending concerts and the opera again. Several new restaurants had opened within walking distance or a short cab ride away in the past year. We finally got an opportunity to sample their menus, while giving Mrs. Hudson a much-needed break occasionally. And of course, we began eating at Simpson's again regularly. Holmes even took a brief trip to Cambridge, and spent two days with one of his many professor colleagues regarding early Anglo-Saxon linguistics, with the goal of writing a joint monograph later in the year.

In every way possible, life moved on and went back to normal.

More to come.

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