April 1891

JWH

Steam swirled and billowed past my window. The clouds drifted by, obscuring the familiar structure of Victoria Station. It was here that I had embarked, with my late lamented friend, to the Continent only short weeks ago. How desolate was my solitary return there, the site of so many departures for our extraordinary adventures.

So mesmerized was I, a conductor came to nudge me from the compartment. Slowly, with my single bag, I debarked the train and walked to the street. The air was frosty and I shoved my hand into my pocket. The crinkle of paper jolted my thoughts to the telegram sent to me before I left the Continent. Mary's condition was worse and I would have to make a trip down to Southsea as soon as I finished my business in London. Just as well. Facing Mycroft, returning to Mrs. Hudson and Baker Street, would be agony. I would have to remove my belongings from our once shared rooms immediately. How could I return there after Holmes' death?

I was unprepared for the crush of men awaiting me at the curb. The reporters crowded round -- some of them with black armbands similar to the one wrapped round my own coatarm. Somehow their mourning for my friend was crass and vulgar to me. My grief was so intense, so private; I was loath to share it with any of these vultures that had never truly known my great friend, Sherlock Holmes.

With difficulty, I confirmed the terrible news that my friend was indeed dead. As quickly as possible I exited to a cab and went immediately to the Pall Mall offices of Mycroft Holmes. I had never met the man except in the Diogonese Club, and in Baker Street. Much as the portly occupant, the government offices were as stark and uninviting as any I had ever seen.

"Doctor Watson." Mycroft's greeting was subdued, but cordial. "I am sorry to hear of your wife's decline." On my surprise he explained, "Since you were so strongly allied with my brother, I thought it prudent to keep apprised of your interests."

The sober warning was an echo of Holmes' fears for my well being on the trip to Switzerland. As usual, his fears were so tragically misplaced. I had sent news of his brother's death to him as soon as I had returned to the Meingren Hotel. Keeping tight hold of my trembling grief, I now conveyed my personal regrets.

"Mister Holmes, may I relay -- I am truly grieved at your brother's cruel death." My voice was trembling so it declined to a bare whisper. "His was a noble sacrifice for justice. Too great a price," I finished, blinking back the tears in my eyes.

I had wept with a broken heart at the precipice of Reichenbach. For these past few days upon my return, I had been unable to keep at bay my tears. I had lost a friend who was anchored in my very soul. I doubted the mourning in my wounded heart would ever cease. Intellectually, I recognized the reaction was part of the numbing shock of the sudden death. Emotionally, I knew the grief to be irreconcilable.

"Of course, Doctor. Thank you."

He cordially offered me brandy and a chair by the fire. I gratefully accepted both. The cold May morning left my fingers chill and stiff.

"I thought you might want my personal observances of events," I quietly began. It was my oblique way of approaching this terrible story. Everytime I thought of the tragedy I wept. This relating would be no better and I felt very self-conscious of showing such weakness in front of the intimidating Mycroft. I felt compelled, however, to give this first-hand account to Mycroft, perhaps to absolve myself of my own guilt in the matter. Perhaps hoping Mycroft would offer some objective absolution that I was not to blame for abandoning Holmes at the Falls; that I could have done nothing to protect Holmes from Moriarty.

As was consistent with the Holmes clan, this brother was composed and displaying a placid and calm appearance. It was evident that he hardly cared for an explanation.

"If you are interested in the details --"

"No need, Doctor," Mycroft waved away. "I have read the accounts, of course. Most disturbing. Sad. But we must not dwell on this tragedy. Sherlock would never appreciate morbid sentimentality."

The cold, unfeeling attitude would have enraged me had I not been so engulfed in my own self-pity over the loss of my friend. As it was, I brushed it off as yet another example of the cold misogyny of the Holmes brothers. Years of Holmes' strange behavior prepared me for Mycroft.

My grief had sufficiently numbed me from questioning anything said or done. I mechanically trudged through each hour, each day, unfocused on anything beyond the selfish pain I embraced as my only crutch.

A knock at the door interrupted my dark thoughts. Mycroft apologized and indicated he had urgent business at hand. Part of my mind marveled that he could go on as if nary a tremor had disturbed his orderly world. With jealous pettiness I was angered that HE was the brother and I merely the friend of the man I considered to be the greatest gentleman I had ever known. He was seemingly unaffected by the tragedy, while I was distraught. Grief had a way of ravaging emotions with distortion, and mine were in an extreme state of disarray. The excuse was all I could mentally offer to forgive Mycroft of his cavalier attitude, and to forgive myself for not matching the reserve expected of a British gentleman.

I came to my feet and summoned the courage for my final, formal act of respect. Decency indicated the relative receive the belongings of the deceased. Ironically, Mycroft was entitled to the revered belongings of a brother he hardly talked to, hardly knew. One more proof that life was rarely fair or kind.

Since the day I had stood on the muddy ground edging the misty, fateful waters of Reichenbach, I had kept next to my heart a possession very dear to me. As I removed the silver cigarette case from my breast pocket, the absence of that comforting weight was like an empty space in my heart.

Ten years before I had given this to Holmes upon our first Christmas at Baker Street. I had observed it at a tobacconists and considered it the finest case I had ever seen. A lucky day at the races had produced some extra funds and scrimping in other areas had given me the money to purchase this very special gift for my very special new friend.

Even in those early days, I recognized Holmes as not only a wise and amazing man, but as my cherished friend. He had elevated me from a broken Army surgeon, to a chronicler with a purpose in life. His wit, his brilliance, gave my meaningless life reflected importance. With each passing year he had become more important to me than I could understand. Despite his sometimes confusing, cool or abrupt behavior, he never ceased to be my truest friend.

My hand shaking uncontrollably, I gave over the case to Mycroft. His eyes flickered on my betrayed emotions, but fortunately he pretended not to notice. Unsteadily I cleared my throat.

"Please notify me as to details for the memorial," I requested.

Just for an instant surprise flickered upon his face. "Oh. There will be none, Doctor. Sherlock requested we dispense with such maudlin practices."

"Uh, I see."

Once again I was taken off balance by Holmes' surprising nature. Even after death he did not fail to astound. Half of England and many from around the world would have attended his services. Perhaps it was better this way. I was robbed of a chance of a formal good-bye, but was granted the privacy of my grief.

"Neither shall there be a will," he added awkwardly. "Everything reverts to me."

"Of course," was my numb reply. Woodenly, I made my way to the door. I muttered some final words of condolence.

Mycroft thanked me for my loyalty to his brother, shook my hand, then slipped the cigarette case into my palm. "I am sure he would not object to you keeping some effects of his, Doctor."

"Thank you," was my sincere response.

Somehow Mycroft, without understanding it, had targeted my sentimentality. For that consideration, I felt a closeness to him I had never felt before.

I clutched the silver souvenir in my hand until I reached the street. Then I removed from my pocket the note which Holmes had left at the Falls. I placed the paper into the case, then tucked it back into my pocket and pressed it to my heart.