A/N: So once again I emerge from the depths. I find it odd that were Josh real and had he been born when I started this, he would be practically the same age as he is now in the story. Geez. Sooo…anyway. Thanks to all those still putting up with my sub-tortoise speed. Oh, and the 'XXX' indicates a break. Apparently, astericks don't work anymore.

Baker Street had never looked so deserted when we arrived to it. Holmes and I had wasted no time, of course, in coming back, but neither of us could imagine what had happened. Holmes, who seemed to have regained much of his strength in previous days, had shrunk back into misery once more, or so it seemed to me. Throughout the train ride home, he had said very little. He sat wrapped in a woolen coat, muff and scarf, despite the fact that the weather had warmed considerably and watched the passing country-side ramble past.

“Surely it can’t be that serious,” I said to him, thinking of Mrs. Hudson. “She always had the energy of a woman half her age. It must not be that serious.”

Holmes looked at me sharply. “Are you trying to convince me or yourself?”

I didn’t reply. I left him to his miserable mood and tried to think positive thoughts.

But to return to Baker Street. Not in all my memory had I seen our little 221 B flat looking so dark and abandoned. Evening was upon us yet no one had lit the gas lamp adjacent to the doorbell. The steps had a week’s accumulation of dust and dirt. When Holmes gained us entrance with his latchkey, the entire house was black as night. A burst of cold crept through my backbone. Something was very wrong.

“There’s no one here, Holmes.” I said quietly.

“Indeed. Nor have been for several days, at least.” He shoved his hands in his trouser pockets and frowned into the kitchen where the remains of a breakfast and a sink of dishes lay abandoned, all covered in white grease.

It suddenly occurred to me that if no one were here at Baker Street, I had no idea where my son was. The telegram has said only to return immediately but nothing more. If Mrs. Hudson was very sick and in hospital, then who was caring for him? Had he been left to fend for himself? I retained a charwoman for my new flat, but I had given her the month off as there was no sense in cleaning an unoccupied house. There was no one here, no one there, and where else would he go?

Holmes sneered before I could say a word and returned his topper to his head. “Well, we will learn nothing here. It’s Sunday, and we can assume that your new partner will know what has happened. Have you his home address?”

“Home address? Oh, yes…of course. He’s on New Cavendish, I believe.”

But he was already speeding down the steps and motioning a cab over. I swallowed hard.

XXX

I truly think Linwood Askew was surprised to see the pair of us, though he hid it well. A bachelor, he answered the door to his flat himself in the comfort of his shirt sleeves, his coat just being pulled on. I much later had time to reflect on why I was so certain he was shocked to see Holmes and I on his stoop. I concluded he reasoned we were not coming back to London.

He offered me his hand and shook mine warmly. He merely nodded at Holmes. Although truly I cared little for measures of grace right then.

“I really am very sorry, John,” said he, motioning us inside. “I wish I could have contacted you sooner, but there seemed to be some confusion as to your whereabouts.”

Always the discreet fellow—that was me. “Yes, well, Holmes here, he was…rather ill and needed to convalesce. I had told Mrs. Hudson where, but, perhaps we should have”-

“The fault lies completely with myself, Dr. Askew,” Holmes interrupted my rambling. “I had need for a brief holiday do to overwork and wished, for obvious reasons, not to publicise my momentary lapse of constitution.”

“Of course.” Askew’s left eyebrow cocked. “I am sure that secrecy is an invaluable tool in detective work. It is only a shame that you could not have been back in time.”

I felt the breath leave my lungs. “In time? For what?”

He blinked as if it should have been obvious. But before he could reply, Holmes did the honours. “Mrs. Hudson has died.” His voice was soft, unlike the man. He averted his gaze and offered no further comment as to how he knew this.

“Died?” Askew nodded. “But you said she was ill! Simply ill! Good God!”

How could she be dead? So suddenly? Rationally, I knew of dozens of ways and could dispassionately describe the symptoms as a medical man. I had seen hundreds, if not thousands, of bodies—young and old, some disfigured beyond recognition and others as beautiful and unmarred as they had been in life.

It had been some time, though, since a death had hit me so hard.

“It appeared to be apoplexy1. Your boy came running to the practise Wednesday last, screaming that his ‘Mrs. Hudson’ was ill, that she was dying. I came with him to your flat”-

“My old flat,” I spoke involuntarily. I could almost feel Holmes stiffen beside me.

“Yes,” said Askew. “Of course. Well, I am sorry to say that she was already deceased when I found her. The blockage must have been quite severe, but fortunately I am sure she went quickly. A mercy, this day and age.”

“Quite.” Holmes growled.

Askew cleared his throat. “You must think me a perfect cad for the misleading telegram. I thought only to bring you back and reasoned it would be more appropriate to break the news in person. There was no need to shock you when there was nothing you could do.”

“Quite,” said Holmes once more. All I could do was shake my head.

XXX

My son was staying at the James Parks’ residence. Of all the bloody places. But then I remembered that I was indebted to Parks for the help of a tight situation. He thinks you are bugger.

I climbed into a cab behind Holmes. I nearly laughed at the irony. I bloody well am!

“Something amusing, Watson?” His voice was flat.

“No. Nothing. Of course not.”

Askew had been far more confident than ever I had seen him. And I could not believe his behaviour towards Holmes. It had taken me weeks to simply cease his excessive questions about him. And now, his chance to see him in person, and there had been nothing. No excitement, no nervousness. He had seemed sincere, but…

Suspicious. Was this James Parks all over again?

“Josh.”

“What about him?”

“He will hate me forever,” I mumbled. “Good God.”

Holmes shifted about in his seat, quiet, until just before we pulled up in front of a fashionable Kensington home that I had been to many times with my late wife. He suddenly reached out, squeezed my uninjured shoulder, and said, “Don’t speak rubbish.”

XXX

Mrs. Parks, whom at one point I was on intimate enough terms to call ‘Sarah,’ answered the door personally. I had not seen her in more than a year now, but she still retained a sincere smile and warmth when she took my hand.

“I am most sorry about your landlady, gentlemen. I understand she was a good friend of you both.”

I thought on all the abuse hurled at Mrs. Hudson over the years. By Holmes inane mumblings about her being in the way, yelling at her for cleaning his ‘organised’ messes and for hot water. She always put up with him. Her hands had been shaking when she had told me once Holmes was dying2. He was not of course, and I knew she had never completely forgiven him for it. Yet she allowed him to stay. And more importantly, he had remained. “Yes,” I said. “She was indeed…good to us.”

Holmes gave no reply. Merely shifted slightly from one foot to another, hands clasped tightly behind his back. I looked away from him. “I cannot thank you enough, Sar…Mrs. Parks, for caring for Josh. And I should offer my thanks to James, as well. Is he..is he home?”

“No, I’m afraid he is not.”

Thank God.

“Josh is a delightful boy. Quiet. Well-behaved. Boys can be such hellions.” She smiled. Holmes snorted.

Three small heads appeared then—or two, rather, at first. A boy and his sister, Parks’s children. James had been my assistant when each was born, yet now I could hardly recall their names or ages.

“Jimmie. Fannie,” Mrs. Parks went to take each one by the hand, “Mind your manners. You must say hello to Dr. Watson and Mr. Holmes.”

They both mumbled something inaudible to the carpeting and then ran off, whispering to one another. Both had very much the look of their father. I had forgotten.

The third child appeared. My child. He looked bathed, well-fed and his suit of clothing laundered. He had not grown nor aged more than a few weeks. Yet there seemed to be something different about him. His skin was pale; his face shrunken, completely blank. “Well, there you are.” Mrs. Parks beamed. “Look who made it home to you.”

Josh looked at her, and then me, his eyes bright for one brief second before they clouded over again. He ran straight at Holmes with a cry of ‘Uncle’ who had no choice but to seize the boy in his arms or be trampled under.

I patted his back awkwardly, telling his ‘there, there’ or some other nonsensical parental pacification. Thankfully, I was spared further embarrassment as he did not pull away. He did, however, grip Holmes’s neck as tightly as he could with his small hands, his face buried in the man’s shoulder. Anyone would have thought he was the son of Sherlock Holmes. After all, who the deuce was John Watson? What did he matter in the scheme of things?

XXX

I thanked Mrs. Parks again, conveying my gratitude to her husband as well, however thankful I may have been that I did not have to see him. I took my son’s little bag while Holmes took my son, still clutching at him like a drowning man might a passing boat. I hailed a cab with my stick, and as the hansom lazily made its way to us, I started to give the address as Baker Street. The reality of the situation made itself quite clear.

You no longer live at Baker Street, you old goat. I closed my mouth. Holmes and I regarded each other, myself in perplexity and he in a strange patience the cabbie obviously did not possess.

“Well, and what’s it gonna be, gents? Ain’t got all day.”

“Perhaps,” Holmes said in an oddly even voice, “perhaps, doctor, you would be good enough to stay at Baker Street with me for a few days.”

I hesitated as two very wet blue eyes turned to me, pleading. “I don’t think that would be quite appropriate. Josh and I should probably return to Wimpole Street. I mean, home.”

My son let out a yell that nearly spooked the poor horse to the devil. “No! No! I won’t go with you! I’m going with Uncle!”

I was so shocked I reeled backward. I never would have dared to speak to my own father in such a manner. It would have meant one hell of a lashing. But before I could reprimand him, Holmes had put on his sternest expression. “Be still, boy,” he said firmly. “There is no need to scream like a banshee. Now, stand here by the cab and don’t move!”

Amazingly, he obeyed in the instant he was set on his feet, standing still and wiping his tears onto his sleeve. “Watson, a word, if you please.” He grabbed my arm roughly and led me a few feet away where we would not be overheard. Even so, he spoke directly into my ear in little more than a hiss. “Now is not the time for misplaced manias on your part”—

“Misplaced manias!”

“Mrs. Hudson is dead.” He gripped me tighter. “Right now, we are the only people who are able to do anything for her. Her body is lying, unclaimed, in the morgue, even as we speak.”

“I—well—yes, I suppose it is.” I hadn’t really thought about that.

“There are letters and telegrams that must be sent, undertakers to see, arrangements to set forth, not to mention the fact that we have no idea what John Sherlock may have been exposed to.”

“What?” I glanced back at his small shape. “How do you mean?”

“For God’s sake, man! No doubt he saw her dying in front of him. And we were not there. He had no one.”

I swallowed, unable to look at him any longer, remembering. Remembering that Phillipa Holmes had died in front of her brother. And now something similar had happened to my own child. “Bloody Hell,” I mumbled, rubbing my eyes. “Yes, yes, of course you’re right. As usual. We will come to Baker Street with you. At least until—until—the funeral.”

XXX

There was no time for rest over the next day or so, let alone worries or ‘manias.’ The boy, after his outburst, refused to speak, even to Holmes. I was bewildered what to do, my head already spinning from the sudden shock.

To begin with, I was forced with the unworthy realization of how little I really knew of Martha Hudson. She had cooked, cleaned and dare I say cared for us for sixteen years and I had to madly sort through carefully preserved papers and letters trying to find the names of friends and relations. Holmes, of course, who remembers every fact he is exposed to, was more helpful and immediately procured the name of Judith Turner. She had briefly kept the flat for her sister when Mrs. Hudson had left to care for her dying son. She lived in Surrey and a telegram was immediately dispatched to her.

“I certainly hope she will know who else we should contact,” I said to Holmes late the next night, as we sat in the sitting room as we had a thousand times before. “I’m embarrassed to say I don’t even know which of her children are alive.”

He snorted, holding up a battered Bible. “You forget the obvious. According to this, of her four sons, only Andrew, named for his father and the eldest son and Robert Hudson, the third son, are still of this world. The second boy, Seamus, died in ’88—surely you remember that? And the youngest son was called Ian. His date of death is listed as June of ’77, when he was all of twenty years.”

Holmes paused for a moment, and it seemed as though he were watching me without looking at my person. “Surely this Andrew Hudson will be able to get in contact with his daughter, Julia,” he said. There was an address for him among our landlady’s papers.”

“Julia?” I exclaimed, sitting up a little straighter.

“Yes. I’m afraid I could find no address for the young vagabond.” He rose to slowly make his way over to the gasogene. “It is probable that she is still roaming about the country with some acting troupe.”

Of course, later I realised that he had brought her up merely to gage my reaction and I was certain that he had put no mighty deduction into searching her out. Right then, however, I was struck completely dumb—partly from the fact that I had nearly forgotten the charming Miss Hudson. And partly from the guilt that remembering her naturally accompanied. I would not deny it, now at least, that in my desire for her I behaved boorishly with Holmes.

“I…I had forgotten Julia, I mean Miss Hudson,” said I, accepting a second whisky from Holmes.

“Did you?”

“Well, not forgotten. I meant merely I hadn’t thought of her. She’ll be devastated, no doubt.”

“No doubt she’ll have the comfort of many a strong shoulder to cry on.” He sat hard in his armchair, spilling some of his drink, eliciting a soft French curse.

“Yes, certainly she will.” I intentionally ignored the accusational tone.

We were both still for some hours after that. There was no pressure for words and perhaps the enormity of the last 48 hours pressed upon us at last. None of the three of us had dined on more than some slightly stale bread and some overripe fruit. None of the three of us had spoken to the future either. How altered it would be with Mrs. Hudson gone.

Any decisions, any new plans or changes that I may have been contemplating, whether consciously or otherwise had become garbled, scattered like so much dust upon a stiff breeze. I could only manage one sensible thought among the many that gnawed at me: Julia.

XXX

Early the next morning, after a sleepless night, Mrs. Judith Turner arrived to take charge. She was a kind-faced woman, thin and leathery, and much to my relief immediately began to put things right in the kitchen. The delicious smell of fresh porridge, fried potatoes and ham was enough to ingratiate the lady to me, as I was starving. We had met, of course, many years previous, as Holmes said, when she had briefly replaced Mrs. Hudson, having returned home to care for one of her sons who eventually succumbed to consumption. She smiled warmly, laying the breakfast tray in front of me, as I offered her both my thanks and condolences.

“Martha has gone to her home, gone to her Andrew and her wee ‘uns. I’m sure she’d want no tears from the likes of us, sir.”

I was sure she was right, although I noticed her dabbing her eyes with her apron as she left me to my solitary meal. Neither Holmes nor Josh had risen yet. Nor still had by the time I was finished. Not wanting to bother either or them, I dressed quietly and thought to check on my flat, it having been virtually abandoned for nearly a month now.

Having found that everything was as it should be, and wanting to avoid Askew, I purposely did not check in with my practise. I was ill-equipped to deal with him at the moment.

Julia.

Her face, which had lain dormant in my mind for the six months since our first and only meeting, was beginning to return. As I slowly walked back toward Baker Street, I allowed my mind to remember: the beautiful skin and the auburn hair. Lovely blue eyes. I had always been enraptured by blue eyes. The easy manner and charming grace. Surely anyone could have seen how easily we had taken to one another. And yet…

What the deuce was I doing? She was still practically a child, could not have been more than one and twenty and I was, well…quite old enough to both know better and to be her father. In addition to that, what the devil made me think she would not have gained some success as an actress? She would surely not be staying long in London and in a few days she would go off and I would probably see her infrequently if ever. And then, of course, there was Holmes…

Not to mention Josh, who may never speak to me again.

I called to both of them as I was home, but there was no answer. The door to the sitting room was slightly ajar and just as I was about to open it, I heard voices. I froze to listen.

“I do wish you would speak to me,” Holmes was saying. I inched closer to the door so that I could see them. Josh sat in my chair, legs hugged to his chest, chin rested on knees. His face was hidden from me by one arm. He muttered something; I could not understand him. Both of them were still in their pyjamas.

Holmes sat across as he often did with me in his own well-worn wicker seat. He was surprisingly not smoking, a sure sign that he was concerned. His expression certainly seemed so. Or was it? Perhaps merely curiosity. The eyebrows were knit, the pale eyes slightly narrowed in study. The lips were twisted, as arrogant as ever, as was the damn stubborn chin.

But the voice. The voice was calm. Gentle, even.

“Josh, my dear boy, there have never been any secrets between us. Have there? I only wish to help you.”

My hand slipped slightly from the molding. Three years ago I never would have believed it possible for Sherlock Holmes to speak so…kindly.

The boy raised his head. His cheeks and eyes flushed pink and his nose dripped slightly. “No secrets, Uncle.”

Holmes handed him his handkerchief. “Tell then. You would be amazed what confession does for the soul.”

Not confession, Holmes. I felt my eyes close.

Josh had blown his nose and flopped his head against the back of the chair, wet eyes settling on the ceiling. I have never seen such a put-upon look by a child.

“We were in the kitchen,” he began, his voice husky with crying. “She was making a pie. A lemon pie. And it smelled quite lovely. But Mrs. Hudson kept rubbing her head. She said she felt off today and hoped you and Papa might be home soon so she could take to her bed for a week”—

Holmes’s arm twitched closer to his chest. “She did not mean you were a burden.” His interruption was said so completely masterfully and sudden that I knew he thought the complete opposite. Guilt pooled in my stomach.

Josh’s voice raised an octave. “She fell on the floor…and she was screaming. She grabbed at her head and then stopped screaming but kept moving. There was blood on her face and ear. Blood and I…I covered my eyes and ears. I didn’t wanna see her. I wished she would stop. To get up and finish making the pie.”

Holmes blinked in silence for near a minute. “What then?”

“Well…it got dark. No one came. Mrs. Hudson didn’t get up and I was dreadful hungry. Also, I couldn’t move. My legs had frozen from not moving. I tried to get up ‘cause I needed the lav. But my legs wouldn’t work in time. I…had an accident.”

His ears and cheeks burned red, but he kept on: “I changed my clothes and went out. I knew Papa’s friend, Dr. Askew, might come if I could find him. I wanted him to fetch Papa so he could make Mrs. Hudson better.”

“I found him as he was latching the bolt at the consulting room and asked him to see Mrs. Hudson. He asked wasn’t I Watson’s son? I said, yes, I was and that Mrs. Hudson was sick. I said she had blood on her and I waited too long…”

“I knew that I should have came earlier, but I didn’t tell him ‘cause I thought he might hit me. He asked was Papa back yet and I said no. He came and we went…she was still there and he asked how long she was dead…”

He paused to gulp and his words began to run together and he seemed very child-like.

“He was very angry with me and shouting. He said I was to go to my room and stay there until he figured out what should be done with me. I guess he figured I should be taken arrested since I killed Mrs. Hudson”-

“You certainly did not kill her! Good God, you certainly did not!” Shaking his head, Holmes reached out and grasped the boy upon his shoulders. His eyes were wild with tremulous emotion. “Quite the curious strain that seems to run from father to son to make each think of themselves as the purveyor of deaths they could have no more prevented than they could have the sun from shining!”

He sighed deeply, seizing the boy and placing him on his lap, a long arm wrapped around him protectively. “And as for myself, the very catalyst of another’s untimely demise, I have spent the better part of my years convinced of the very opposite.”

Purposively, I disallowed his words to make any sort of impact in my mind.

“So how came James Parks into this business? Ah, never mind! Surely he was the police surgeon assigned to remove the body and investigate the cause of death. How long did that reprobate Askew leave you alone?”

Josh shrugged. “It seemed very long. I was so very hungry, but I didn’t dare make him angrier by asking for supper. So I went to sleep. I could hear men downstairs shouting sometimes. There was furniture moving, too, I think. I wondered if maybe no one would come for me. Ever.”

I felt as though someone had given me a stiff blow to the gut.

“When I woke up, Mrs. Parks was there. I didn’t remember her, but she said who she was and then I did. I was in her home. She was very nice and fixed me soup and bread and milk. Everyone asked me a lot if I knew where you and Papa were, but I didn’t. So she sent me off with Fannie and Jimmie and their nurse, but they were strange. I didn’t like them.

“And why did you not like the Parks children?” Holmes’s question mirrored my thought.

“They couldn’t read. And they hit me. And each other. Sometimes their nurse. Once Fannie threw a book at me.”

Holmes raised an eyebrow. “What did you do?”

“I said that no man would ever marry her ‘cause she was quite mean.”

“Ha! How true!”

“Uncle?”

“Yes?”

“Did you and Papa come back just because of Mrs. Hudson?”

I thought I saw Holmes’s eyes narrow. But I could have been wrong. “What are you really asking, lad?”

He hesitated, his throat contracting the last of the sobs. “Well, I thought…maybe you were never coming back. Maybe you were leaving me here forever.”

“Quite the extreme reaction.” Holmes’ voice was stern, then softer. “Yet one can hardly blame you for it. Surely you don’t think your father would abandon you?”

He shrugged, merely shrugged, as if the question of whether or not he felt abandoned was no more important than a choice of ice cream flavour. “I suppose not,” he eventually concluded.

“I never would. Josh.” I could no longer remain an eavesdropper. As I stepped into the room, he turned his wet face to me. His mouth opened slightly. I felt like my feet were nailed to the floor. Neither of us moved.

“Josh”—my voice was growing hoarse—“Please.”

He rose to his feet, taking a step toward me. But one hand remained on Holmes’s knee. I could hardly bear to weep before my own child—to show such weakness, but in the end, I failed and broke completely down. “I am sorry, son. So very sorry.” He suddenly was in my arms. I hadn’t seen him move. He gripped my neck as he had his Godfather’s the other day, squeezing the life out of me. I did not mind.

XXX

When I at last stopped blubbering like a fool, I saw Holmes standing by his chair. Smiling for the first time in days. Maybe weeks.

The day before the funeral, I left Baker Street to meet Julia Hudson’s train at Victoria. In response to my asking if he wished to accompany me, I received a hard stare from Holmes. Josh, however, begged to come along and I could not refuse him. It was the first time in recent memory he chose my company over his Godfather’s.

Being now nearly April, the weather had taken a favourable turn, and we were content to walk. The boy trotted along beside me, quiet, his hands in his pockets. He kept staring at the sky.

“What are you looking for? Birds?”

He shook his head. “Do you think Mrs. Hudson is in Heaven? With Mama and my baby sister?

“Of course I do.”

His eyes narrowed at once and he looked very much like someone familiar. “But how do you know that Heaven is a real place? Perhaps it is only imagery.”

“I don’t believe it is.”

“You can’t know for certain.”

“Well, I suppose that is true enough. But I do know that both your mother and Martha Hudson were fine women, ladies of the highest caliber and if Heaven does exist, which I believe it to, than certainly they are both there, now.”

He looked unconvinced even as he nodded.

“Might one ask why you so suddenly doubt Heaven’s existence?” I frowned. “Did Holmes convince you otherwise?”

“Oh, no. Uncle says it does, to be sure.”

I was shocked. “Really?”

“He said there are a few people too good for this world who simply have to belong to…I think he said paradise. Forever-lasting paradise. This world is too damnable for their spirits to remain on. So there must be something like Heaven…I don’t know. He was saying a lot of things.”

Dumbfounded, I merely nodded. I never imagined Sherlock Holmes holding an opinion such as that. Of course, in his way, it made sense. He would have to believe that his sister was in such a place. His guilt over her death (which I firmly believed fallacious) forced him to imagine her in a place better than he had made for her on Earth. Just as I had a similar need with regards to Mary.

How eerily similar we two were at times.

Josh did not force the subject again, and we chatted pleasantly about the sorts of topics a father and son should speak on: holidays away to fish, books (he was keen on Arthurian legends at the moment), football (which he knew almost nothing) and animals (which he knew a great deal).

XXX

As we reached the station, the smell of coal filled our nostrils and stung at our eyes. I was suddenly filled with strange insecurities. About six months had passed since I had seen her and I worried about what I should say or do. We had known each other all of one day. I wondered as to why I was being such a goat. ‘She isn’t even here to see you, you old fool. She has lost her grandmother. I told myself this, but I didn’t believe my own words. My hands were slick with sweat.

She was the first off the train and remembered me immediately. Although dressed suitably for mourning, there was a distinct cheerfulness her countenance could not hide. I saw nothing of fault in that. She could hardly help being natural vivacious. Her cheeks and eyes glowed and her hand was put into mine before I’d had a chance to speak.

“How good of you to meet me, John! You must be so distressed over Grandmama”— She paused, pressing her other hand to her mouth.

“We all are, my dear Miss Hudson.” Squeezing her hand, I reached for her valise. “And I do wish that it were under better circumstances Baker Street is to be graced with your presence.”

“Julia,” she reminded me. “Ah, John! I cannot tell you what it means to be amongst friends once again. I’ve been with strangers for so many months…but of course, that is a story for a more appropriate time. Little Josh, my darling boy, you are indeed a sight for sore eyes. How have you been?”

He shuffled from foot to foot, probably in embarrassment at the “little Josh” remark. In his manliest voice, he answered, “I’ve been very well, ma’am. And you?”

She laughed merrily. “Such the perfect gentleman! Like father, like son, they say. But you must call me “Julia” as well. I hardly feel old enough for “ma’am” yet. And we are friends, aren’t we, Josh?”

“I suppose we are.” He looked curiously at her arm on mine before meeting my gaze. In an instant, he had relieved Miss Hudson of her smaller bag and scuttled off ahead of us. I wondered what that look meant.

“You must excuse him,” said I, as we walked slowly into the sunshine. “He feels his oats of late. And he’s had a rough patch since Mrs. Hudson’s passing.”

“Well, of course boys will be boys.”

I offered to hail us a cab, but Julia insisted that after the long train ride she was eager to stretch her legs. The boy trotted along ahead of us, frequently stopping to wait until we had caught up and then taking off again. If I didn’t know better, I would swear it was his childish way of keeping tabs on us. But I doubted that Miss Hudson noticed, so I let it go.

“It really is good to see you, John,” she said after some little time. “Despite the sad circumstances. I feel as though…I am amongst friends once again.”

“You are indeed. And I believe your Uncle Robert should be here this evening. No doubt you are eager to see him.”

She smiled. And did not reply.

“Er...” I hurried changed the subject. “A shame your father could not make the trip with you.”

The smile faded. The grip on my arm tightened. “Oh, I’m sorry, my dear. Did I say something wrong? Is your father…not well?”

She nodded slowly. “He hasn’t, well, been sound for years. The curse that affects too many otherwise healthy men.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Alcohol, I mean.”

I nodded, thinking of my own family. “I am sorry. I know first-hand of its evil powers. Not myself of course,” I added quickly. “But both my father and brother.”

It seemed to me that she was relieved to hear me say so. We spoke not again until just after turning onto Baker Street. “We do seem to have much in common, John.”

XXX

Robert Hudson and his wife, Anne, were perfectly agreeable—rather a reserved lot but certainly polite and amiable given the circumstances. He was a blue collar man—foreman at a limestone quarry in Surrey, where Martha Hudson had spent much of her married life.

They begged off some supper to retire to their hotel, claiming fatigue. I protested that might take my room, but they wouldn’t hear of it. The reality of the funeral loomed over us all.

“Well, they are certainly a devoted couple,” said I, as our remaining party of Holmes, Julia, Josh and I sat down to a lovely beef Wellington.

Julia readily agreed. “They were childhood sweethearts, in fact. Auntie was the daughter of the Campbells, good friends of the Andrew Hudsons. She and Robert were quite inseparable.” She carefully licked a dab of gravy from her lip.

Holmes snorted. “Perhaps they are not as devoted as they seem.”

“What, Mr. Holmes?” She seemed shocked.

Josh giggled, caught my eye, and immediately shoveled some potato into his mouth.

“Forgive me, Miss Hudson. I meant only that appearances are frequently deceiving.” He laid aside his fork and I knew that we were in for a long exposition. “To the detail minded logician, you see, one would take into consideration how far apart a couple sits, whether they face each other when speaking or look away, whether they touch each other on the hand or arm to show support, or even if they falsify sadness in order to garner sympathy from a mate.”

“Are you suggesting”—

“Do shut-up, Watson. Also, Miss Hudson, one wonders if it is conjugal duty or true devotion that leads one partner to unquestioningly follow another, despite the danger or the fear of the unknown. How fascinating it would be indeed if one could see how a couple behaved toward each other if a vow of love, honour and obey could be laid aside. That would be a truly controlled environment, free from outside variables. If one deferred their own gain, even risked public ridicule or damnation simply because they trusted and loved one another, even to the point that they knew they were going to hurt another, then we could truly see how devoted a couple was, in fact.”

Julia blinked several times. “Are you speaking from personal experience, Mr. Holmes?”

“Merely a theorem, Miss Hudson. Merely a theorem.”

All I could do was manage a sigh that turned into a groan. Josh glared at me.

XXX

The funeral was quiet, dignified. Just as Mrs. Hudson would have wanted. Held at St. Stephen’s, a dilapidated little building in Marylebone that our landlady had occasionally attended.

“She was not regular,” Julia was telling me as we waited for the service to begin. She had been inseparable from me all that day. “Grandmama had rather…oh, how does one say such a thing about the dead? ‘Lost her faith,’ I suppose is the polite term? She had, at least somewhat.”

“One can hardly blame her. Burying a husband and two children before her”—

“Three, actually.”

“Three?”

She nodded her quivering little chin. “There was a daughter in the family. Between Da and Uncle Seamus. Lillian, her name was. She died of influenza at the age of three.”

“How tragic.” I shook my head. “The poor woman.”

“And no wonder she so fancied your little son as much as she did. Blond and blue-eyed, just like her Lillian. The only in the family not red-headed, she once told me. She was partial to Josh, you know.”

“Yes. I do know.” I looked over at the boy, sitting across the pew from us. He was standing stoically next to his godfather, hands clasped behind his back. He was trying desperately to match his elder’s cold expression. He looked older than his five and one half years. Perhaps it was the black suit. The eyes, I thought, although not with a clue as to what that meant. He looked up and said something quietly to Holmes who gave him a curt nod before turning in my general direction. I avoided eye-contact. I knew he detested funerals. Detested churches, for that matter. And more than likely detested the time I was spending with Julia. Neglecting him, I suppose.

Or was that it at all? It was unlike the man not to intimate when he desired my company, albeit without coming right out and admitting he needed me. His reticence these last several days might not be jealousy. Melancholy? He was fond of Martha Hudson; no one would deny that. Perhaps sadness that now we were back in civilisation, he knew our rather odd arrangement would continue. I sighed heavily. He was too complex a puzzle to solve.

Julia patted my hand affectionately. “I know, John. How impossible it seems that she is gone.”

Nodding, I was a little ashamed at my thoughts. Today is not supposed to be about Sherlock Holmes. I could not resist watching him though.

The parish priest was finishing his dissertation on the fickle nature of life and death, how the good shall be rewarded and the sinful…well, surely one hears sermons of this kind dozens of time. I confess I barely listened to his words.

Robert Hudson, Holmes, myself and three other men I later learned were the sons of Judith Turner, and therefore Martha Hudson’s nephews, moved to take our places as pallbearers, carrying our landlady to the carriage that would ride her to her final resting place. Holmes glanced at me briefly, his expression seeming to indicate he wanted to say something, but decorum forced his silence. We marched to the weary chords of an ancient organ outside, side-by-side.

XXX

The burial went by very fast, as memory serves. I had a splinting headache, feeling the burden the casket had placed on my various injuries. Poor Julia was beside herself, weeping into a handkerchief, the other hand on my arm for support, which I freely gave. How could I not? The poor lamb was so alone in the world.

I managed to avoid watching Holmes by diverting all of my time to Julia, but towards the end, as the coffin was being lowered into the ground, I could resist no longer. His eyes were dry, however downcast and stormy. The boy was another story, though, silent streams cascading down pudgy cheeks. But like a little soldier, he refused to make a spectacle. It occurred to me that perhaps I should not have allowed him to come. I’d forgotten his youth.

Perhaps that should act as my excuse, then, to explain why I offered him no words of comfort. Perhaps I thought he didn’t really need me, as clearly he had gotten by several times without me. Whatever excuse I allowed myself, it was once again Holmes who saved the day.

He thumped a hand down on my son’s shoulder, muttering something out of the corner of his mouth. Josh sloppily ran his shirt sleeves over his eyes and moved closer to his uncle. His arm remained on my son for some minutes, until the last shovelful of dirt was in place and she was truly gone from this world.

I silently led Julia away as Holmes led John Sherlock. Both the latter were bawling. None of us dared to speak.

XXX

The following day, I took Miss Hudson for a walk in Regent’s Park. Though Josh begged to come along, I shrugged him off onto Holmes who had a strange, woeful look about him as if he dreaded being left alone.

“You might occupy his time until he has a case,” I told the boy.

He looked at me suspiciously. “But he already has cases. Look.” Sure enough, there was more than one telegram jack-knifed to the fireplace ledge.

“Well, I suppose none interest him then. No matter. One surely will come along he that he will not be able to resist.” I swatted him on the bum, shooing him away before he could tell me anything I didn’t wish to know.

XXX

The weather had warmed as March came to an end, despite the idiom that it roars out like a lion. I was pleased to switch from the heavy black broadcloth suit to a light seersucker and felt quite at home with the beautiful Julia Hudson on my arm in public. It was a freedom I could never know with Sherlock Holmes.

We chatted lightly, easily, avoiding the emotional issues we’d been subjected to yesterday and concentrating on our histories.

“Your father raised you in Aviemore?” I asked as we circled the Outer Circle. “A beautiful town. I had been through there, in my college days. On holiday. On my way to Inverness.”

“We moved a great deal, Da and I. He was restless. A relic of his days in the Army. Always he was looking for a new start, a fresh beginning. And always, no matter how promising the circumstances seemed, it was the bottle that ended his prospects.”

“He never really was the same after Mama died,” she continued. “And he, a proud military man, hoped for a son to mold into a more successful version of himself. Oh, I don’t presume to say he does not love me. I know he does, in his way. He chose to raise me himself, rather than send me to Grandmama or some other relation. But I know he always felt a hint of sadness that I wasn’t a son.”

For a moment there was silence and I wondered if, in telling me this, she was comparing me to her father. Perhaps even saw me as a father figure. Rubbish. That’s completely unworthy. It must be.

“How happy you must be with your son,” she was continuing. “It must have made the loss of your wife slightly more bearable to know that you have a namesake.”

I had never thought of Mary’s death in that way. “I don’t…well…I would have been quite happy with a daughter.” I cleared my throat. “In fact, my wife had just given birth to a girl when she died.”

“She had?” My arm was squeezed tighter. “Oh, John! I am so sorry.”

“As am I. Mary had had…difficulties in her maternal condition. Josh’s was terrible for her, and both mother and babe nearly died. I had told her we shouldn’t”—I stopped. “But she insisted. She wanted more children.”

“Quite brave of her. To risk so much. I am sure you loved her very much.”

“Indeed.”

We walked in silence until we reached a bench near Primrose Hill upon which we sat to rest a minute. Beautiful bushes of pink roses grew all around our seat, and I was compelled to pick one for my companion. “I have always thought roses the loveliest of flowers,” said I, as I handed it to her.

“Oh, yes.” She innocently pecked my cheek. “Although I am passionately fond of lilies as well. Particularly Oriental Lilies. Papa and I grew them at home. Rather successfully I might add.”

“Well, I shall have to remember that.”

That day, I felt as though I was perhaps only twenty-one myself. I convinced myself I was.

The following scene, written by John S. (Josh) Watson was added to the original text at a later date

Mycroft Holmes sat in the Stranger’s Room surrounded by a large tea service. Indeed, he rarely entered his club this time of day without some sort of nourishment. And the Diogenes Club offered a particularly good tea. As one of the founding members, he had insisted on it.

He was just about to enjoy a particularly lovely looking raisin scone when his brother entered the room. Entered as nonchalantly as if he had been doing it every day of his life. Mycroft was not surprised, though. Indeed, nothing Sherlock did surprised him. Seeing him was a bit…perhaps disconcerting was the appropriate word. Made more so by the fact that there was some sort of infant with him.

Mycroft Holmes had little experience with children. He preferred them in schools, in prams, anywhere that was away from him. His massive face studied his brother’s gaunt one. He has been ill. That damned cocaine, I expect. And the infant is no doubt the property of the good doctor. If only it were not true that love saw with the heart and not the mind. He had read that sometime, somewhere. Shakespeare, more than likely.

“Well, Sherlock. I suppose you are not dead then, after all. I thought the only way you would return to Cornwall would be over your dead body. But here it is, still intact.”

“As is yours, amazingly.

He was not, apparently, in the mood for ill humour. Mycroft chortled. It wasn’t that he enjoyed seeing his brother suffer. Of course that was not it. He had encouraged him, after all, against his better judgment and against the laws of the country he had dedicated himself to. He took no joy in seeing his only brother suffering. But he could not say that he hadn’t expected this. He had. And he knew Sherlock had as well. The weight of all and his last hope.3 “Tea?” He offered. “And you must sit, to be sure. What is this?” He waved his hand in the direction of the boy.

He brother poured some tea, added a liberal amount of sugar and handed it to his companion. “My conscience. Also my Godson. Watson, junior.”

“Hmm.” Mycroft studied the boy, slightly amused that someone would make a Holmes Godfather to their only child. Particularly given that he was not thought alive at the time to do his duty toward it. A telling feature. Surely Sherlock would have noted how telling. Of course he would. “I suppose it is of some interest to you.” His attention returned to the scone.

“Uncle says that you’re his brother and that you’re smarter even than he is.”

“Oh, it talks, does it? Well, youngster, if that is what…Uncle says then it must be so.”

Sherlock snorted. “You are being quite a stupid ass.”

“’Twas you who invaded on my own sanctuary.”

“Surely you see why.”

“Do I?” He shoved the last bit of sweet into his wide, toad-like mouth.

“Of course.”

Because the love of your life has decided he does not prefer a masculine touch after all. Only ‘the love of his life’—no, that would not do. Not do at all. The only person whose presence he can tolerate for longer than a few minutes? Mycroft smirks. The truth was no doubt somewhere between the two. “Well, perhaps we should ask the conscience. Tell me, boy, what do you think?”

But the boy is afraid to offer an opinion. His Uncle’s brother is not kind, not like his Godfather at all. He thinks he may be sat on or eaten with the same relish that the huge man destroyed that scone.

“Go on, Josh.” His Uncle’s expression remains stony, but his tone is encouraging.

“I think,” the boy says, “that you work near by to here. Nearer than where you live. I can tell because you sleep in the chair here. And the wicker made that mark on your neck. If you lived near to where you worked, you would go there to nap. Not here.”

Mycroft snorts. His brother grins.

“And you don’t have a wife.”

“Why? Because you see no ring?”

Josh shakes his head. “Your collar is crooked in the back. My papa’s was always like that and my mama would fix it for him. If you had a wife, she would fix your collar, too.”

“Hardly scientific,” Mycroft growls.

“Also, your papa liked you more than Uncle.”

The brothers both stared. “One can hardly argue with that,” said Sherlock.

But Mycroft waves it away. “Surely he sees that I have our father’s watch. The fact that I am elder to you and therefore entitled is lost on him.”

“But you have his ring, too.” The boy pointed to the signet ring worn on the man’s smallest finger. “It is an old ring and even though you are old, I think it was your father’s. And Uncle does not have anything from him.”

Sherlock was laughing now.

“Well,” said Mycroft. “You might have seen that I am employed by the government, suffer from gout and drink too much Bordeaux or numerous other deductions far more useful than the obvious that I am lazy and without a wife.. But satisfactory for a child still in his infancy, I suppose.”

“I am five. Nearing six,” the boy said wryly. “I am not an infant.”

“Here, have a tart.” He pushed the large silver platter towards him. To his brother, he added, “So I see you have found a pet project to occupy your mind. When it is not pining away for”—

Sherlock silenced him with one look.

“You mean it doesn’t know?”

“Per the wishes of his father.”

Mycroft rubbed one of his chins, watching as the child shoveled some barm brak into his mouth. He chewed suspiciously, but his eyes were completely alert. He could almost see his ears straining so as to not miss a single word the adults were saying. It was an expression quite familiar to the man. He was reminded of his younger brother. “I think he already knows.”

His brother nodded. “Very probably.”

“Hm! Then what would your gallant doctor say?”

“Papa is going to marry Julia Hudson.”

John Sherlock said the statement so exact, so obvious that Mycroft Holmes nearly choked on his tea. Somehow the statement shocked him. A foolish error—why else the misery, the cocaine, the child’s presence? If all of this and the fact that he was here, then it surely was rather hopeless. Well, it should have been obvious. He should have deduced it. He wrote it off to the distracting presence of the child.

“Is that so, Sherlock?”

His brother nodded, his face garnishing an exhausted look. “The first of September at St. Michael’s. I’m to be”—he smirked—“best man. For the second time, I shall stand next to him and offer my congratulations as he concedes to societal norms.”

He always was a deuced good actor. “As he leaves you, you mean.”

“That’s so.” He smiled his whip-fast grin and patted his godson’s head. “But he’ll be back. He is the one fixed point in a changing age. In the end, he always comes back to me.”

1 A stroke

2 As in “The Dying Detective” of course

3“ On whom we send, the weight of all and our last hope relies”. Paradise Lost