Epilogue to The Adventure of the Devil's Foot

LAND'S END

by

GM

---

Far below the ragged cliffs, the roiling waves of the Atlantic were chilly-gray. Whipped by the wind, they crashed against the rocky coast with brutal force by the approaching tempest. Clouds obscurred the sky; the briney air tasted of rain, the wind stung with a wintry bite and smelled damp, felt wet with the advancing storm.

Holmes kicked at a chunk of the Cornwall ledge, dislodged the rock from its promontory, and sent the stone cascading down the slope to land on the beach. He stared at the ocean- front shoreline comprised of millions of little pebbles. He buried a part of himself, a part of his past here. Not just the syringe and cocaine were interred on this beach. Burdens weighting his soul for years were left here in gravel graves -- shallow graves.

Over the few weeks of the 'holiday', Holmes' counselor, aide, confidant, friend -- Watson -- had helped peel away years of hauntings. The invisible refuse of old spectres would be left here. Holmes had, at first, worried that unburdening his soul to his friend would be embarrassing, or worse, would diminish his standing in the eyes of the finest gentleman he had ever known. His fears were unfounded.

Watson had made it clear he would stick by Holmes under any circumstance, and had certainly lived up to his word. Many times Watson was forced to extend tolerance to long suffering; patience to blindness -- never more so than in this trying ordeal at Cornwall. Watson never failed in his duty to Holmes. How could he have ever doubted the good doctor?

Holmes stabbed the soft earth with his walking stick and started a slow, thoughtful stroll along the cliff edge. His eyes glanced out at the sea where the gray of sky and ocean merged and he saw none of the beauty. His mind's eye instead viewed the now partially opened window of his past. Strange how the sea was the same unforgiving, cold gray of his father's eyes.

He had discussed so much these few weeks, but not all. Holmes could never, not even to Watson, completely unburden his soul. There would always be a secluded place deeply buried in his heart where no one would ever tread. Those remembered horrors, the core of his hauntings, were best left untouched. For now it was enough to know that he could deal with those memories and not hide from them behind the destructive curtain of cocaine.

Watson stood with him to Hell and back, but he would not subject his friend, or himself, to the ugliest past he kept hidden. He would never forget the betrayal, mistrust and pain which lived in his childhood. He could cope with it all now because Watson had provided antidotes to those poisons. Coping with -- ignoring -- the past was best for now.

Through unending, patient affection, Watson taught him how to live with painful memories which were once unbearable. Where was closed and afraid to trust, Watson responded with loyalty. When Holmes would defend his feelings by lashing out with cutting remarks, Watson replied with respect and patience. When he felt threatened and afraid to connect to anyone, Watson countered with undemanding friendship. When he chose to run from responsibility and pressure by deserting his friend at Reichenbach, Watson responded with unquestioning forgiveness.

A chill coursed just under his skin and Holmes clutched the blankets tighter round his chest. They were returning to the real world today. The healing isolation of the seaside would be replaced by the bustle of London and work. He would be facing the challenges of his existence without the crutch of cocaine. Failure would have to be risked now without the cushion of the drug as a saftey net.

He did not fear the days ahead. The false security of cocaine had been replaced by a surer understanding of something more stable and dependable than the daily sunrise: John Watson.

As Holmes balanced along the edge of the rocky path, it occurred to him that he was leaning on Watson too much, trading one destructive crutch for a mortal support. To completely bury his past and stand on his own strength, logically he should throw away all crutches. Not possible now. He had invested too much of his heart, soul and dependence into Watson, who was now not only a keeper and companion, but an inseparable part of his life.

"Holmes!"

The detective turned and waved his stick at his friend, who stood at the bottom of the path.

"The trap is waiting."

He waved the stick again in acknowledgement, then turned back to the sea for a final look. The ocean was strangely calming and soothing; dangerous and disturbing, many things and many moods. Perhaps that was why he was so drawn to it -- the surging complexities of the sea were so like his own confusing, inner tides. He thought, though, that he would not return here. Not to this stretch of coastline. The ghosts here must remain undisturbed.

"What are you looking at?"

Watson was beside him, gazing out at the sea. Holmes wondered what spectres the good doctor saw dancing through the gray waves. Holmes visualized his past -- as murky and gray as the rippling water. He glanced at his companion and observed such an introspective expression that he knew his friend contemplated some kind of parallel to his own thoughts.

"The past."

Watson turned to study him. "It is behind us now."

Holmes glanced back to the gray horizon. "So it is."

"Then we should be leaving."

It was a comprehensive statement of finality. The closing of an act in Cornwall. The raising of a curtain for further, yet still entertaining dramas yet to unfold at Baker Street and beyond. Holmes turned his back to the sea and strolled down the path with the walking stick alternately resting on his shoulder or whipping the foliage of the hillside.

"We shall be in Baker Street by supper time."

Watson hurried to keep up with his taller companion.

"Did you wire Mrs. Hudson that we would be returning? Do come along, Watson. I am looking forward to the cool spring fog of London and our housekeeper's unimaginative steak and kidney pie."

"You are?"

"Certainly. This remote little piece of land's end was YOUR choice for a holiday, remember? You know my centre is Baker Street."

"Yes. It is high time we returned."

They were nebulous words which seemed not so much an answer to Holmes' specific comments, but a review of what had been: a statement of what was yet to be in their lives.

THE END