The Seventeenth Step - Cauldron: A Love Letter (Part III)

Cauldron: A Love Letter (Part III)

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Feb. 12th, 2008 | 04:54 pm

About the characters: they are far too good to be mine.

Rating: PG-13

"You are entirely dehydrated, and half-starved," he declared later, in his bedroom, as he put the stethoscope in a drawer. "But let us not allow that to distract us from the equally serious points that you are running a fever, and that your nerves are all in shreds." He was sitting on the coverlet next to me. I was lying on top of it.

"And what prescription do you suggest?"

"A little food, and some water, which we have seen to already, followed by many hours of uninterrupted sleep."

It had been, to be truthful, years since I had partaken of what could be termed "many" hours of sleep at one go, for my mind if not my body had been ever on alert.

"I am not sleeping here for long. You will run too great a risk," I said at once.

"As you like," he shrugged. "Contract pneumonia or tuberculosis or brain fever. You are skirting the edges of a complete breakdown as it is."

"Forgive me for mentioning it, Watson, but you sound almost happy to report these unhealthful developments."

"I am more pleased about them than I can easily express," he replied amusedly. "It means that you are alive. Corpses do not develop illnesses."

I had been so very anxious about him that the question of whether or not he would be glad to see me had not truly entered my mind until I was standing terrified outside his dwelling. For my death had been a monstrously cruel trick, whatever practical motives impelled it. Yet here I was, in his room, a ghastly wreck of a man and deliriously happy. I still had very little notion of what to say to him, but the fact that he had not chucked me out onto the street in a rage was deeply encouraging.

"Believe it or not, I am far more alive than I have been in years. I did not expect to be so alive again, in fact. I am quite taken aback by it."

He smiled at this remark. "You are not the only one taken aback. I have always had the greatest respect for your capacity to surprise me, but I think you have reached your limit this time. We are going to take care you are not given the opportunity to surprise me in this particular manner again."

"And have you really worked out the threads of a mystery which might help lead me out of this morass?" I inquired.

"Moran returned to London some four months ago," he replied slowly, his brows contracting at the memory. "No doubt he had previously been tormenting you from the Continent, but finding himself in need of funds, he resumed those underhanded card-sharping activities of which you had informed me already. I will not bore you with my early efforts to enact justice upon him, but short of setting a gun to his head in the street--which was tempting, I admit to you--I was forced to bide my time. I knew of the air-gun, of course, for he has used it for many years, and the peculiar soft-nosed revolver bullet discovered at the scene of young Ronald Adair's murder could have come from nothing else. All signs pointed to Moran, for they played cards at the same club, and the sniper's methods employed were certainly his. In addition, the murder room was undisturbed, Adair had not been robbed, and the window was unmolested, pointing to the air-gun yet again. Why had Adair been killed? The answer was clear enough. I imagined he'd discovered Moran had been cheating at cards, and the threat of such exposure was enough to warrant a death sentence from such as Moran, who had little else in the way of livelihood. This morning, when you followed me--I did not see you, but I suppose you followed me?"

I nodded. My head was aching. In addition, it was a serious shock to be lying in London on the Doctor's bed listening to him expound upon a series of deductions. He sat there with a somber visage, worn with many trials but fit and sound, failing completely to see the irony of it. Despite my ill health and many deeply founded inhibitions, the desire to pounce on the poor fellow was growing startlingly strong.

"When you followed me, I was taking a look at the window to ascertain Moran's possible vantage points. I was thinking over the case as I returned home. I had nearly all the pieces in my hands, and had fit them together well enough, but I was working out whether to call in Lestrade. I am no lawyer, and could not have known whether my case would have stood up in court. Besides, as Lestrade well knows, I'd a very personal vendetta with the man."

The idea that anyone, let alone Watson, would have sought vengeance at my supposed demise had literally never crossed my mind. It was, taken all in all, profoundly touching. I placed my hand over his and left it there. If he wished it gone, he was going to have to remove it himself.

"What do you think of a wax model?" I asked.

"Whatever do you mean?"

"I mean a decoy--if your theory is correct, and I can prove Moran killed Adair, the mastermind behind all my tormentors will be rendered quite impotent. But would it not make for a touch of the dramatic if I could, at the same time, have him arrested for the attempted murder of Sherlock Holmes?"

He regarded me with blank surprise. "You have never once, in all the years I have known you, confided in me your schemes regarding a case."

"Relish the moment while it is yours," I suggested. "I am not well, as you have very astutely noted."

"It is nearly enough to make me suspect you some invidious impostor," he smiled. He looked nearer to his old self than I had yet seen him.

"Well, really, Watson, with the evidence you've furnished, I could say the same of you."

He caught my meaning at once, and his eyes regained still more of the thoughtful sparkle I remembered. "It was a very simple matter, my dear Holmes. In any event, I may not be the same fellow I was before, but I can assure you I am no impostor."

"You are the same fellow," I told him. I was growing more and more exhausted as we spoke, but did not so much as dream of abandoning the activity. "I was wrong when I said you had changed. And you were always clever, you are simply being more visible about it today. It was your world which changed, my dear fellow, not you. Your world grew quite unbearably dark, but you are as constant as the North Star."

"You aren't making a great deal of sense," he said gently.

"Perhaps not. But you are the one fixed point in a changing age."

"That does not leave much room for self-improvement," he observed dryly.

"No," I agreed. "Quite superfluous, I assure you. Was I having an especially visceral dream earlier, or did you say that Baker Street was equally unchanged?"

"It is just as it was," he grinned. "I thought your brother mad, but now I see he was merely exceptionally wistful. Mrs. Hudson must have thought him a lunatic, but she went along with him nevertheless. The bearskin rug is there, the Persian slipper, the table and the basket chair and the window and the bullet-scarred wall. To wander into it, one might have thought it a particularly immaculate museum. No less is your room the same, your wardrobe, your rogues' gallery covering the walls..."

I fear that I did not hear the remainder of Watson's speech regarding our former residence, for I lost the tenuous hold I'd had on consciousness. Doubtless this was for the best. I cannot be certain that it was anything more than a long wished-for dream, but I had the very vivid impression that while I was asleep, someone kissed me, and that person was possessed of a moustache, a pair of very warm, gentle lips, and an unaccountably comforting presence. I never sought to determine if this was a fancy of my overwrought brain or no, but neither have I ruled out that it was real, and that is the way I prefer to think of it. I could always ask him, I suppose. But there is no reason to risk ruining one of life's perfect moments, even if it occurred whilst I was sound asleep.

When I awoke, a number of things surprised me. I was in England, for one. It was clearly the next day, for the sunlight seemed to have run backward rather than forward and there was all the freshness of morning about the air drifting through the crack in the window. I was thinking quite longingly of food, which does not happen very often. And in addition, there was a set of my own clothing, three years old, pressed and quite clean, lying on the chair next to me. Tailored black cutaway frock coat, pinstriped grey trousers, a clean white shirt, fine black woolen waistcoat, silk tie, cuffs and collar. This was bizarre, but soon enough I recalled that I had left a change of attire at the Englisher Hoff when I had died. I had not thought I would ever need it again. It had evidently not been thrown away.

It sounds very queer to say such a thing, but after I'd washed and dressed and smoothed back my hair, I caught a glimpse of myself in the glass, and was absolutely dumbfounded. It was Sherlock Holmes looking back at me. I was Sherlock Holmes again. I hadn't seen the fellow in years.

I did not see the Doctor downstairs, and his consulting room door was shut. This fell into my plans, for I was beginning to see my way clear out of the mess I'd been in for so long. I placed an apple in each pocket from a bowl in his hallway, and slipped out the front door into broad daylight. The top hat from the old bookseller's costume was shabby and completely out of place, and so I set off down the street for a haberdasher's I knew of down the road. I would be entirely myself again, and within half an hour, I thought fervently. All the world would know I was there. And then I would see what was to be done.

I did a number of errands that day. I stopped by Baker Street and sent Mrs. Hudson into violent hysterics. It was marvelous. I visited a designer of wax models I've known for years, quite an artist in his way, and remained there for some few hours as he worked. I discovered I was being watched, and for the first time in three years, I did not care. The spies were finally irrelevant. I purchased several necessary items, as I hadn't packed when I left Prague. I also looked in on my brother.

"What do you intend to do, Sherlock?" he asked me after our familial greeting had been accomplished. We stood in the Stranger's Room of the Diogenes Club, exactly where I knew he would be at the time. It was terribly good to see him.

I told him. He looked worried, then approving, and then amused.

"The world has missed you, you know," he smiled. "England has missed you. It has been far too sensible since your demise. A great deal too few dramatic captures, elaborately wrought traps, impenetrable mysteries solved by observation of a stray wisp of dust."

"I have missed England as well. And it will have to deal with me again, like it or no. I will not live as I have lived all this time ever again."

"I should hope not," he sniffed.

"Mycroft..." I said hesitantly.

"What is it, my dear boy?"

"Thank you. For Baker Street. It is...." I struggled to express myself, for there was far too much to say. "It is the best thing you could have possibly done for me. You have always done a great deal for me, but this--I cannot tell you what it means."

"I thought it would be of use sooner or later," he smiled. "But what do you intend to do?"

"You've already asked me that, and I recall having answered you."

"Not about Moran," he stated. "About the other matter."

"I shall wait," I said softly. "I don't know what else to do. I shall wait, and I shall observe. Those observations will either lead to more waiting, or to something else, or to something else entirely. But the worst is over, isn't it? It must be. Now I must wait, for good or for ill."

He nodded, and clapped a large hand to my arm. "Don't run your head into danger. Be very cautious. You are right, my boy--the worst is over. But for God's sake, don't let that go to your head."

There is one other great love in my life. I have not yet spoken of it, and that is the city of London. It could have taken me thirty minutes to reach the Doctor's practice from my brother's club, and I saw to it that it took me two hours. I dove in and out of streets and alleyways, breathing in the air, listening to the crowds, recording what had changed. I memorize the things I love and London is no exception. Here was a new butcher shop, there a florist, a building damaged by fire, a new fence, a gate where there had once been a door. I strode through obscure corridors utterly thrilled that the names still fell through my mind in perfect order. This was home. This was London. It had changed too, of course, but not so that I could not navigate it. When I neared Baker Street, a series of mews and stables brought a sudden flash of inspiration to my mind. I looked up at the unoccupied old house and smiled. It had been the offices of a factory when I'd left. There it stood, empty and quite marvelously abandoned. I reversed my direction, having drunk my fill of the city, and was hanging my new hat in Dr. Watson's entryway a quarter of an hour later.

"Holmes!"

I turned swiftly to regard the Doctor, standing in a doorway having just heard me enter. He was very agitated and attempting not to look it. When he does this, he purposefully slows his breathing and presses his hands together, and then drops them casually to his sides once more. It fools many people, but it does not fool me.

"My dear Watson, how are you?" I asked, deeply concerned. I approached him. "Who has been here? What has happened?"

Greetings between men are a strange thing. If I had been his friend, I would have pressed a hand to his shoulder and left it there for appreciably too long, as I had done in the eighties. If I had been his lover, I would have kissed him. If I had been an acquaintance, I'd have shaken his hand. As it was, I stood there like an imbecile.

"Nothing," he said more calmly. "Nothing has happened. And you--are you all right?"

"I am far better, thank you. Your cure has been a marvelously effective one."

"That is excellent news," he said. He was taking me in, dressed in my new attire--or I ought to say, my old attire. He seemed every bit as struck by it as I had been. "You look...better."

"It is astonishing how fast a fellow can recover when placed in the right hands."

"I am very glad."

"Watson, what is wrong?" I asked him gently. I wanted very badly to touch him, but I did not.

"I--nothing."

"There is something, I think."

"It was quite foolish, no doubt. Let it be."

"Tell me what it was."

"It was the merest trifle, my dear fellow."

"I happen to think trifles tremendously important," I pointed out.

He sighed and shook his head slightly in resignation. "Well, I concede that I am very fanciful, but when I could not find you this afternoon, and I could find no trace of the old bookseller, and your clothes were gone, and--it was foolish. You will laugh at me, I trust."

"I will do nothing of the kind," I told him softly. "I had several matters to see to today, and I had determined to see to them as myself. Thank you for the clothing. It was very thoughtful. I threw the old bookseller in your dustbin, and no doubt that imaginary chap's gear was burned after breakfast. The books are under your bed where you would never think to look for them."

"No, I did not. And you were gone again."

I willed myself to stay still. I waited.

"It was absurd," he shrugged. "I could not force myself to understand that yesterday had been real--that you had truly returned, that you were alive and relatively well and had been sleeping in my room some few minutes earlier. The maid had already seen to the bed, you see, and everything was just as it was before you came back."

"Except that my clothing was gone, and you've two fewer apples in your hallway," I said kindly.

"I did not observe the apples," he said, smiling a little. "But Holmes, the thought that I'd dreamed it all--"

I nodded. "I ought to have left you a note. It must have been rather horrifying to wonder if you'd temporarily lost your mind."

"I don't give a damn whether or not I lose my mind," he cried. "I tell you, I have lost it before this. It wasn't me. It was you--to think you were still dead, and that I had--"

"I am not dead," I said instantly. One more statement like that from him and I would lose all self-control. "I wish I never had been dead. I shall not be dead again for a very long time."

"I am delighted to hear you say so," he told me. The wretched fellow was so impossibly beautiful, standing there willing himself into calm. "I shall make an effort to believe it."

"Watson," I vowed, "I give you my word of honour not only am I alive, but I have no immediate desire to relocate myself in a geographical sense. I am here with you. You are distressing yourself over the wrong issue entirely, in my opinion. I think you ought to worry about the lengths you may have to go to get rid of me. That is your present conundrum, friend Watson, and not the other. Of course, if you tell me to go, I shall do it with all possible speed. But you need not wonder whether the fancy will strike me of my own accord."

"I am sorry if I appear to be forcing you to repeat yourself," he said breathlessly, "but it you leave, if you ever leave me again, I don't know that I would survive it."

There are limits to a man's self-control, every man's, and that statement happens to have been mine. My mouth was on his an instant later, my heart pounding in my throat, and his hands hesitantly removing the clothes he'd kept hidden away during three years of suffering. I did not say anything, and neither did he. But he pulled me backward into his consulting room and locked the door and I set about learning every inch of him all over again. The fire was blazing, the carpet rather worn, the settee impossibly narrow, so many salient details, but I could pay nothing any mind except for him. I had him, all to myself. He was mine again. I finally had the only thing I had ever wanted.

I didn't deserve it. But I've learned very few of us indeed get precisely what they deserve.

"What was this one?" he asked later.

It was a good while later, actually. We had at long last repaired to his bedroom, then into our attire and back downstairs when he insisted we both partake of some refreshment, then up the stairs again to remove said attire for the third time and continue with what we'd been doing. I was now lying on my stomach, the Doctor sitting next to me, limbs rather pleasantly tangled, having the sort of desultorily intimate conversation other men have many times attempted with me to absolutely no avail.

"That was a knife," I answered, twisting so that I could see what he was looking at. It happened to be the back of my rather fleshless left arm. "From a hired brute in Egypt. Sadly, he is no longer with us. His betters were quite distraught to learn he had not killed me."

"The poor soul," he said wryly. "What did you do in Egypt? What possessed you to go there?"

"I was part of a team engaged by a scientist in Mecca to investigate the theft of a priceless Muslim artifact. The Khalifa was very helpful, in his own way. I communicated what I could of my stay to the Foreign Office, anonymously of course."

"How did they know you were a criminal investigator?" he asked incredulously.

"They didn't. I was a French scholar of ancient documents."

He shook his head at me, smiling. "And this?"

"That?" I asked, swiveling again. "That was my own fault. I was thrown from my horse and gashed the back of my leg on a stick."

"How was it your own fault you were thrown from a horse?"

"That is a very, very long story, my dear fellow."

"But you will tell it to me?"

"If you insist upon it, certainly. With all my heart. It involves a Norwegian damsel in distress, so I know it will appeal to your finely honed British chivalry. But it will take at least an hour to do it any justice."

"Perhaps another time. Tell me about this one."

I peered at the mark on my hip which Dr. Watson's fingers were exploring with fresh interest. "That happened at the Falls, actually. I was scaling the rock wall, and at one point I fell several feet onto an outcropping. I hadn't the proper tools for climbing. I don't imagine it would have scarred, but I couldn't dress it properly for days."

"That is because you had left your doctor behind," he said. I glanced quickly up at him, but he was only hectoring me, one side of his mouth vaguely amused. "This faint mark, over your shoulder and down your back. What did this to you?"

I reached up for him and pulled him down on top of me, but he quickly freed himself enough to continue his perusal of my collection of scars. "You've seen that a hundred times, Watson."

"I know," he said quietly. "I never asked you about it."

I sighed and rolled onto my side. "I was in a fight with two of the village lads, and one of them had a horsewhip. You will be gratified to learn that I won the battle, but I was young enough for it to scar. I convinced my parents to let me add fencing to my usual boxing studies after that, and the situation has not repeated itself."

"Why did two of the village boys come after you with a horsewhip?" he asked, appalled.

"Because I'd advised them to discontinue beating our stable-boy senseless. They were a pair of cretinous wretches. I haven't thought of them in years."

"How old were you?"

"Twelve. Really, Watson, my childhood was far, far less interesting than you imagine it, I assure you."

"If that were the case, you'd have told me of it by now," he corrected me, but he was laughing as he said it.

His preoccupation with my body caused me to glance down once myself and take stock of matters. I looked just as I always had--every muscle defined, every bone visible. I am far more like an anatomical diagram than a person, so it was only fit I should be studied so. I returned my attention to the worthier form, for Dr. John Watson is broad-shouldered, muscular, perpetually tanned, and in every way a fitter subject for the eye. How a creature like me managed to endear himself to a man who is very, very visibly an ex-rugby player as well as an ex-soldier is utterly beyond my powers of comprehension.

"What happened there?" I asked him teasingly.

"I was shot in the Afghan campaign, actually."

"When you were a soldier," I added languidly, solely for my own benefit. I had made no secret of my admiration, after he'd learned my true nature. Soldiers are no uncommon weakness, after all. "You haven't a military photograph, have you?"

"Holmes, do be quiet," he smiled.

"If such an object existed, I would go to very great lengths to obtain it. That would be the Holy Grail of my existence, friend Watson."

"The object does exist," he admitted. "It's in a trunk somewhere."

"And you never thought to tell me of it?" I cried. "That is one of the cruelest omissions I have ever heard tell of, and perpetrated on me, no less. How could you keep such a treasure from me? It is monstrous. I demand you hand it over."

"I shall, if I can find it," he laughed.

"And so, let us return to the scar. When did you obtain it?"

"The Battle of Maiwand, I believe it was."

"And you developed a fever, and nearly died, and were sent back to England, and I am very glad of it, for you would never have come to London otherwise," I recited, yawning.

"What on earth is this?" he asked, tracing a white line which now ran down my lower back.

"Watson, if you want me to recite every event which has befallen me in three years time, you cannot expect it all at one go."

"I can expect whatever I like," he corrected me, crawling into the crook of my arm. "I expect a great deal, if you want to know the truth."

"Ah. Well, then, it was the end of a sword-stick hidden in a cane."

"And how did it come to seek out your spine?" he asked me. I was running my hand down his shoulder, reflecting that I ought to be rather more surprised to be alive, in a physical sense.

"I let something slip, and there was a hired tough within earshot. He followed me to a river embankment, made his little effort, and wound up in the current. I am very lucky to be alive, my dear fellow. It was rather a constant exertion, and for a very long time."

"Yes, a very long time," I heard him say softly. "Far longer than my wife's struggle, for instance. And you won. I cannot tell you how glad I am you won."

Not knowing whether he wished to say a thing about it, I only held him to me. Finally I said, "If you wish to tell me, I am here."

For a long time, I thought he would ignore my offer. In fact, I began to believe him asleep. He stirred slightly at long last. "There is little to tell," he said. "She developed complications, at the end. She could not survive them, and neither could my son. There was nothing we could do but ease her pain. It is a very painful way to die, you know."

I said nothing. What could I have told him that would have made such a thing any more bearable?

"I did not think it could happen that way. You were already dead, after all. I did not think it possible for life to be so consistently heartless. You were dead, so one or both of them would live. That was what I imagined. But I was wrong."

"I would have saved them if I'd the power--I would save them now, if I could," I told him. "I imagined you safe, and happy, with them. It kept me sane. You have to know that, whatever else I've done to you."

"I believe you. But they are dead now, and there is no undoing it. As much a miracle as you are, they are beyond my reach. I saw them buried, in the same grave. A small cedar coffin and a smaller wrapped bundle inside it."

He did not sound emotional at all, or even grieving. He was merely reciting facts. The part of him that had mourned he had buried somewhere, and I wondered if even he knew where it was hidden.

"There is something I never told you," I said slowly. "There wasn't an opportunity, and I was a damnable villain at the end. But you would have made a wonderful father."

He was silent for some time. "Thank you," he said at last. "May I return the compliment?"

"You may not," I laughed.

"Why not?"

"There are several splendid reasons. For one, the thought of making love to a female, any female, even the most exceptional example of feminine kind, is utterly repugnant to me."

"So I have observed. In fact, your opinions on the subject could not possibly be more clear. Have you really never known a woman?"

"I made an effort at it once, as an experiment. I don't think two people have ever felt so mutually unsatisfactory. The project was aborted forthwith."

"Perhaps she was simply ill-prepared for such an elemental force," he pointed out equitably. "But I don't concede your argument. Simply because you would never engage in procreation doesn't mean you wouldn't make an admirable father."

"Watson, don't be ghastly. I would be an utter disaster. I am designed so to prevent my making a complete hash of a fellow human being."

He sat up on one elbow and looked sternly into my eyes. "We will neither of us be parents. But I have seen you with the Irregulars--they idolized you. More than half of them loved you. You are commanding, and sympathetic, and amusing, and brilliant, and you listened to them, Holmes. They were all at your memorial. You would have made a wonderful father. And a wonderful godfather, if--if given the opportunity."

I cleared my throat, which appeared to have tightened in a curious manner. I did not like to think of the Irregulars. They would be a collective thirty feet taller and would all have forgotten me by then, I was certain.

"Tell me about this one," I said instead, when I could speak effectively.

"Here?" he asked. "I was shaving, and the candle was guttering."

"How very shocking. What did you do then?" I grasped the edge of the quilt and pulled it over us.

The plan went every bit as effortlessly as I'd expected.

There it was, its perfectly sculpted head marred with a single hole, the window a wreck of shattered glass. I am accustomed to my schemes working out well. But I don't know when I have been so gratified. It was over. Moran would hang, and the rest of them would cease. And I could go back to being me again.

I don't know how long it had been since the Doctor had seen Mrs. Hudson, but they embraced as if it had been an age. Indeed, both of them were acting fairly peculiarly, and I soon determined the fault was probably mine. They would suddenly gaze at an object there in our old sitting room, or lose themselves in thought, and I would be once more forced to reflect that my existence was only unsurprising to myself.

"Did you observe where the bullet went?" I asked Mrs. Hudson eagerly.

"Yes, sir. I picked it up from the carpet. Such a noise the window made when it shattered, but I never heard a gunshot at all. But see for yourself--here it is."

I took it from her and held it out to Watson. He did not take it, only looked down at my hand. "There's genius in that, Watson, for who would expect to find such a thing fired from an air-gun?" He nodded but made no reply. When I looked at him curiously, he turned away toward the window.

"All right, Mrs. Hudson," I said. "I am much obliged for your assistance."

"It was nothing, Mr. Holmes," she replied, her eyes shining. "I was that glad to do it--I can't even say. Welcome home, sir."

When she had left us, I threw my old dressing gown from the dummy over my shoulders with yet another sigh of relief. I was still exhausted, but profoundly content. The world had never seemed such a wondrous place. Indeed, my mental life had been so full of the Doctor for so long that I was shocked at how good it was to see everyone else--Mrs. Hudson, Billy, who had grown distressingly tall, even Inspector Lestrade. I had not even realized I'd missed him. I hadn't missed him, I suppose. But that did not make the sight of him any less pleasurable.

"I must congratulate you, my dear Watson," I smiled, reaching for my pipe. "A very complete case, and the credit is entirely yours. Of course, I rather rashly gave it to Lestrade. But if you like, I shall wire him and see that your praises are sung from the morning dailies."

"No, thank you," he replied. He was still staring out the window. "I have quite enough to think about without such distractions."

He had been quite inscrutable for some time now. I traced back in my mind to find the moment his mood had changed, and the path led me to Moran's capture. I weighed the benefits of approaching him and decided to stay where I was for the time being.

"Surely you are rather proud of it," I suggested gently. "I could not have worked it out better myself, and the case was a singular one."

"It was far simpler than any case you have ever termed 'singular' in the past."

"But I've you to thank for resolving it," I insisted. "You wrapped it up splendidly, my boy."

"I am very happy you are so pleased."

"How could I not be pleased? I am quite safe, and all because of you."

"He had his hands on your throat," he said quietly.

This was curious. It was true enough, but the Doctor isn't one to shirk physical danger. In fact, he derives a certain visceral thrill from it. It makes him the single best fellow in a tight spot that I have ever known.

"Of course he did," I shrugged, lighting my pipe. "His dream of seeing me dead was fading rather quickly. But now that you mention it, I've reason to thank you yet again. I have never seen anyone beaten about the head with a pistol who deserved it so very thoroughly."

"I have been considering doing rather more businesslike things to Moran with a pistol for some time," he said through his teeth.

This, I surmised, was more to the point.

"Have you?" I asked him softly.

"Yes, I have."

It was beginning to grow clearer, and still my mind rather balked at it. Here was yet another thing for which I was responsible, yet another thing which had hurt the Doctor and his fine sensibilities, another grief placed squarely upon my shoulders. He had mentioned his desire for revenge upon Moran, but there was still a part of me that would not believe I could inspire such an emotion. And if I had, as seemed obvious, how does one go about convincing a fundamentally good man of his own nature? Good men are far harder on themselves than we rogues can imagine.

"And earlier, this evening," I continued hesitantly, "you felt so again, perhaps." I watched him very carefully.

"I cannot deny that shooting him would have brought me considerable joy. It is a terrible thing, perhaps, Holmes, but there it is. When one is left with nothing, one creates ways to fill the void. I have already told you that Moran was very frequently in my thoughts."

I wondered briefly whether, even if I managed to make up to Watson what I had done to him, I could ever forgive myself. My intentions had always been to protect him. What I had done, in essence, was prevent a creature from exposing itself to the harms of the wild by breaking all of its limbs. How does one apologize for such an act?

"You needn't avenge me any longer," I pointed out. "I am alive and well and in your debt. You needn't harm anyone, my dear fellow. You would not have done so, in any event."

"Would I not?" he snapped. "No, perhaps not, but that does not mean I never entertained the notion. It also, I have discovered, does not mean the desires have disappeared."

"A desire to do something is a very different matter from actually acting upon the impulse," I argued.

"That is also true. Why didn't I, then?" he cried. I do not think I have ever heard him sound so strained. "I had every cause to hunt him down the same way he'd hunted you, but I failed completely. For a very long time, it was all that I wanted and I did nothing. I am a miserable weakling, that much seems quite clear."

"Watson, that is the most ridiculous remark I have ever heard you make," I exclaimed, setting my pipe down. He was beginning to worry me. "Self-control and weakness do not even resemble one another."

"He took you away from me, and I wasn't even man enough to punish him for it."

"You aren't listening! I am standing right in front of you, and you have seen to it he'll hang. You can't kill him more than once, Watson."

"That changes nothing whatever. You are the one who caught him at last." He looked down at the wax model I'd commissioned and a small spasm crossed his features. "Look at this," he snarled, clenching his hands.

"I have. It worked perfectly," I began to say, but before I could finish, Dr. Watson had picked up what remained of the bust and thrown it savagely to the ground.

In another moment, he was beating it violently with his weighted stick. The head fell to pieces at once, for it was hollow, and my features shattered into smaller and smaller fragments on the floor. There went my eyes, and then my brow, and then my neck, smashed into malformed bits. There went my angular jawline and my widow's peak and my high cheekbones and my arched nose.

"Watson," I said, by now very alarmed.

I did not care about the model. In fact, I thought he might be better off in the long run thrashing an effigy of me to pieces. It was a perfectly valid activity. I should certainly have done so with aplomb, if our positions were reversed. But when he threw the bulk of it out the broken window, and then proceeded to sweep up the broken shards in his hands and jettison them as well, I dove toward him.

"Watson, stop."

He did not hear me. Or perhaps he did, and simply failed to pay me any mind. When I put a hand on his shoulder, he twisted away in a rage and picked up another handful of glass and wax. I had him by the arms in another instant and was wrestling him away from the window.

He is a strong fellow, Watson, but I have a certain kind of wiry tenacity which makes my grip very powerful indeed. In fact, my main concern was not that he would escape me but that in his struggles against me I would somehow hurt him. He was gripping the wreck of my head so tightly that blood was dripping to the ground from the splinters of glass.

"Watson, drop the glass. Drop it, and I'll let you go. You are hurting yourself. Watson? Drop the glass, my dear fellow. Please."

At last he relaxed, and allowed the bits to fall from his hands. He had cut himself rather badly in several places, I could see at once. But instead of escaping me, he simply turned his face to my shoulder helplessly.

I had been expecting something of the kind. How could I not? John Watson is a very feeling individual, and his lover had just risen from the dead. To be frank, I had expected storms of outrage, bitter arguments humbly conceded on my part, furious recriminations, and all before he would consent to take me back. Nothing of the sort had happened, and I was grateful only a waxen version of myself had been duly abused. But I knew when his head sought out the edge of my collar the crux of the matter was at hand. I held him very close. Needless to say, it was nothing like a hardship to me. He smells of cigarettes and wool and a sweet, clean scent not unlike paper. I love him more than anything and I always shall.

"What is it, my dear fellow?"

He took a moment to respond. "Why did you not simply leave me?" he asked at last. "I would have accepted it, I promise you. You cannot know what it was like, Holmes. Why did you make me believe you were dead?"

This was not the phraseology I had expected, for it nowhere contained the word "callous" or "heartless" or "monster." It was a valid question, however, and an easily answerable one.

"That is very simple, love," I told him.

"Well, one day I hope you can make it clear to me."

"I shall make it clear to you at once. I died because I could never have left you while I lived."

The statement does not bear up well under the scrutiny of pure logic, but the Doctor understood me. And for all its nonsensical veneer, it was perfectly true. I could never have left Watson as a living man. It required a ghost to manage such a feat.

He was gripping me by the shirt, and eventually raised his head.

"I've covered you with blood," he said a little ruefully.

"I've been covered with blood several times for less worthy causes," I shrugged. "Let me see your hands."

"Don't worry about them, I can see to it."

"Watson, give me your hands or I shall lose my patience," I said firmly. I turned them over. I pulled a vicious shard of glass out of his right, and threw it in the fireplace. "Sit down," I ordered. I strode towards the desk and retrieved the small medical kit we had always kept there. Then I poured a large glass of brandy and returned to seat myself next to the Doctor.

"Which hand would you prefer I deal with first?" I inquired, handing him the tumbler. "The other will be employed to provide you some refreshment."

"I am sorry I lost control of myself," he sighed. "I don't know what came over me."

"Nonsense. You've every right to be distressed. I have subjected you to a number of serious shocks by my unnecessarily dramatic reappearance. I am only glad you threw the bust out the window and not me."

"Forgive me, my dear fellow--that must have been an exceptionally bizarre spectacle."

I busied myself cleaning the cuts. They were bleeding freely, but none of them were jagged, which was helpful. He wouldn't be able to lift anything heavy for several days. There were four I could see on his right hand, and more on his left, but only one was deep enough for any concern. "As a matter of fact, it was rather unprecedented, but I hope it proved beneficial. You are welcome to take a swing at the genuine article if you like, provided you don't employ your walking stick. Fists only, and not the right one. This is a nasty gash, my boy."

"I have no desire whatever to strike the genuine article," he smiled.

"I can't think why not. But thank you."

"That needs stitches," he mused thoughtfully. "The others will be fine on their own."

"Agreed. Where is your bag?"

"There, by the door." I retrieved the bag and began rummaging around for a needle and thread. When I found it, I cauterized the needle and tied a small knot at the end of the slender line.

"You realize, of course, that if you were any other man, we would be seeking out a doctor," he laughed. "I happen to know that you are exceptionally dextrous with your fingers, and it isn't as if the principle is difficult. But be aware that your talent for mastering practically everything is the sole reason I am not rather nervous just now."

"It is true. I am a very convenient sort of chap to have around the house. How many?" I asked.

"Four ought to do it, I think. Holmes?"

"Yes?"

He hesitated, watching me sew him back together. "That Hungarian in Prague with the newspaper."

That was not a conversation I desired to engage in. "What about him?"

"I was thinking...."

"Yes?" I repeated.

"I was only wondering," he said slowly. "You had no plans. You raced here on impulse."

"Correct."

"On a whim, in fact."

"It was a particularly compelling whim."

"So you left everyone and everything very suddenly. Without warning or reflection."

I expressed a short and silent prayer of thanks that I possess exceptionally steady hands, for my friend was doing a very poor job of keeping perfectly still. The second stitch went quite well, however, in spite of this difficulty.

"Yes, I did. You might go so far as to say I disappeared."

"Was it...." He stopped abruptly. "Was he important to you?"

"Watson, please don't ask me questions of this nature. You will not find my answers reflect well upon myself. Nothing was important to me."

He began again. "Holmes, you must have had a life of some sort all this time, even if it was a very dangerous one. I am not demanding you tell me your secrets. But now that you are back, and that damnable bastard will hang, what are you going to do?"

I knew what he was asking me then, and it had nothing to do with jealousy. It was rather touching, not to mention a relief. But I pretended not to understand him.

"Do you mean, am I returning to Prague to enact bittersweet farewells with all my beloved acquaintances? Or to resume my blissful existence as a fiddler? I have not purchased any Channel tickets, if that is what you are wondering."

"I am merely interested in your plans."

I shrugged nonchalantly. "My dear Watson, you know already that my plans are quite minimal."

He nodded. "What happened between us when you returned occurred without any sort of consideration. But now, surely you see that you've a great many choices to make, my dear fellow. I have done a number of things to you over the years of which I am not proud. Still, I am very anxious to hear whether you intend to...."

He appeared to lose his focus. I smiled to myself. I have never stitched up a gash before, but I reflected as I finished the task that it was one more thing I could now consider myself rather good at. I took the brandy out of the Doctor's other hand and had a self-congratualtory sip.

"Well, I have not had long to consider the question. But this is what I propose." I was quite finished with his hand, but I kept it anyway. I did not think he would begrudge it to me much. "I have decided to reside in London. I am going to live here, in Baker Street. It is a very comfortable suite of rooms, I know where everything is, and Mrs. Hudson is hardly ever startled when questionable characters pay me calls. Of course, I shall need some money, and that requires an occupation. I rather think I might try my hand at being an independent consulting detective. Scotland Yard does not appear capable of solving every problem on their own, so it is only right that someone should assist them. I am going to purchase some fresh shag, because I will need to smoke if people are approaching me with conundrums. And I will need a partner, of course."

"Will you indeed?"

"I must find a chap who is also interested in the study of crime, an intelligent, courageous sort of fellow, but not so very skilled at deduction that I pale in proximity."

"You could not possibly pale in proximity to anyone."

"My blushes, Watson."

"No doubt there would be a large number of candidates for such a position," he continued quietly. His eyes were still glimmering. "Surely there are many such qualified individuals. You may even have met some on your travels. A great deal depends on you, of course. I am not being possessive, Holmes, far from it, in fact--but I must know what it is you want. We were not on exceptionally good terms when you left, and I am too battered not to look at this sensibly."

I think it was my lighthearted tone which prompted this speech. I adjusted accordingly.

"Would you like to know what I want more than anything I have ever wanted in my life?" I asked him, encasing his hand lightly with both my own.

"That would certainly interest me."

"I want my friend back," I said.

He smiled guilelessly at this, and then cleared his throat, and nodded his head.

"This partner you speak of, where will he reside?"

"I think I might enjoy the company of a medical sort of fellow. He is going to sell his practice, and all unnecessary belongings, and move into his old room upstairs. At least, he is going to distribute his belongings in such a way that it appears he lives in his old room upstairs. In fact, rather more is going to be required of him than of a typical business partner."

"How intriguing. Where will he live, in actuality?"

"I'll show you," I said, standing up. "My bedroom is just through here. I require a change of clothing, in any event."

"Then by all means lead the way."

"Watson," I added gravely, "if you like it, along with my other little proposals, it is yours. All of it is yours. I have a great many shortcomings of which I am well aware, but there is only one thing in this world I want and that is you. I will not say it enough, I shall remain utterly incorrigible, I will neglect any number of things you no doubt consider important, and I will prove distant, abrupt, and cold when I least wish to do so. But if you consent to be with me again, that exasperating fellow will be yours body and soul for as long as you want him. Do you think you might be happy with such an arrangement?"

He set his glass down and stood up to join me. "We shall find out, won't we?"

"You must let me know what you think of it, periodically. When you've had time to reflect," I murmured. I kissed him.

"I shall do just that, periodically. Over the years."

"Good," I said. "Then come with me."

By now, no doubt, you will have realized that I wrote this for you. It was an admirable notion to give me your diary, and I thank you for it, but surely you know you were not the only resident of the house longing for confession. I hope this makes all clear to you. It includes more information than you desire, no doubt, and I apologize if any of it hurts you. I am very afraid some of it will, which is not my intention. But I was never one for half-measures. I can only appeal to you to forgive me my debts as I forgive my debtors. For I most heartily do, my dear boy, I assure you. I am very preoccupied in my efforts to bring the murderer of Robert Jamison to task just now, and you have doubtless felt it. But rest assured I read your volume through, and I understand you perfectly.

I am returning you your diary, with this wedged into it, so that you may burn them, and good riddance to them both.

If you are loath to burn them as a precautionary measure, then burn them as a funeral pyre. You deserve a measure of peace, and I flatter myself I deserve at least an easing of the burden. You are too hard on yourself, and too good a man. I am too much preoccupied with myself, and too culpable for our troubles. Burn them. Be done with it. I am not asking you to forget, but to lay our pasts to rest. If you will do so for my sake, I will do so for yours.

Let us turn our minds to better matters.

Sherlock Holmes, 1894

P.S. I have not forgotten that a military photograph of you in your late twenties exists, and that it belongs to me. The next time you find a spare moment, I strongly suggest you hie yourself to the lumber room and locate it. You have quite a nerve to have put the task off for so long. I am not made of stone. --S.H.

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(no subject)

from: elina_elsu
date: Feb. 12th, 2008 09:59 pm (UTC)
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What??? There was a part three? X)

I'm very glad I reopened my puter before going to bed!

edit: I just wanted mention now that I actually read the third part (and slept overnight after that) that the smashing of the wax!holmes was possibly the best scene ever!

Oh, and I inist you to someday tell more about that picture of ickle Watson!

Edited at 2008-02-13 05:59 am (UTC)

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The Seventeenth Step - Cauldron: A Love Letter (Part III)

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Cauldron: A Love Letter (Part III)

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from: elina_elsu date: Feb. 12th, 2008 09:59 pm (UTC) Link

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from: katieforsythe date: Feb. 17th, 2008 10:11 pm (UTC) Link

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from: spacefall date: Feb. 12th, 2008 10:49 pm (UTC) Link

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from: katieforsythe date: Feb. 17th, 2008 10:13 pm (UTC) Link

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Brilliance.

from: anonymous date: Feb. 12th, 2008 11:34 pm (UTC) Link

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Re: Brilliance.

from: katieforsythe date: Feb. 17th, 2008 10:14 pm (UTC) Link

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Thank you!

from: pblazer date: Feb. 12th, 2008 11:48 pm (UTC) Link

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Re: Thank you!

from: katieforsythe date: Feb. 17th, 2008 10:18 pm (UTC) Link

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Caldron, chap 3

from: pbwhisperer date: Feb. 12th, 2008 11:49 pm (UTC) Link

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Re: Caldron, chap 3

from: katieforsythe date: Feb. 17th, 2008 10:21 pm (UTC) Link

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from: chatastic date: Feb. 13th, 2008 12:18 am (UTC) Link

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from: katieforsythe date: Feb. 17th, 2008 10:24 pm (UTC) Link

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from: semyaza date: Feb. 13th, 2008 12:33 am (UTC) Link

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from: katieforsythe date: Feb. 17th, 2008 10:27 pm (UTC) Link

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from: twistedsheets10 date: Feb. 13th, 2008 12:43 am (UTC) Link

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from: katieforsythe date: Feb. 17th, 2008 10:29 pm (UTC) Link

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from: sylvia_stout date: Feb. 13th, 2008 05:36 am (UTC) Link

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from: katieforsythe date: Feb. 17th, 2008 10:30 pm (UTC) Link

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from: onooyes date: Feb. 14th, 2008 06:38 am (UTC) Link

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from: katieforsythe date: Feb. 17th, 2008 10:33 pm (UTC) Link

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*loves this fandom*

from: glassteapot date: Feb. 14th, 2008 06:56 am (UTC) Link

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Re: *loves this fandom*

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from: elina_elsu
date: Feb. 12th, 2008 09:59 pm (UTC)
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from: katieforsythe
date: Feb. 17th, 2008 10:11 pm (UTC)
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from: spacefall
date: Feb. 12th, 2008 10:49 pm (UTC)
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from: katieforsythe
date: Feb. 17th, 2008 10:13 pm (UTC)
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from: anonymous
date: Feb. 12th, 2008 11:34 pm (UTC)
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from: katieforsythe
date: Feb. 17th, 2008 10:14 pm (UTC)
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from: pblazer
date: Feb. 12th, 2008 11:48 pm (UTC)
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from: katieforsythe
date: Feb. 17th, 2008 10:18 pm (UTC)
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from: pbwhisperer
date: Feb. 12th, 2008 11:49 pm (UTC)
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from: katieforsythe
date: Feb. 17th, 2008 10:21 pm (UTC)
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from: chatastic
date: Feb. 13th, 2008 12:18 am (UTC)
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from: katieforsythe
date: Feb. 17th, 2008 10:24 pm (UTC)
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from: semyaza
date: Feb. 13th, 2008 12:33 am (UTC)
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from: katieforsythe
date: Feb. 17th, 2008 10:27 pm (UTC)
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from: twistedsheets10
date: Feb. 13th, 2008 12:43 am (UTC)
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from: katieforsythe
date: Feb. 17th, 2008 10:29 pm (UTC)
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from: sylvia_stout
date: Feb. 13th, 2008 05:36 am (UTC)
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from: katieforsythe
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from: onooyes
date: Feb. 14th, 2008 06:38 am (UTC)
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from: katieforsythe
date: Feb. 17th, 2008 10:33 pm (UTC)
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loves this fandom

from: glassteapot
date: Feb. 14th, 2008 06:56 am (UTC)
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Re: loves this fandom

from: katieforsythe
date: Feb. 17th, 2008 10:35 pm (UTC)
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from: prapim
date: Feb. 14th, 2008 12:45 pm (UTC)
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from: katieforsythe
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from: daylyn
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from: katieforsythe
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