Merry Christmas!

The following letter was added by Lily Watson at a later date:

To Mr. Sherlock Holmes, to be held in trust for my daughter, Martha Lily Rose Watson, until such a time as she may be old enough to appreciate what her mother has to say:

My little Lily Rose,

I will not ask for your forgiveness. I must say that, first off. You will not give it and I will not entreat upon you to offer. Indeed, even if you were to say, 'But I have had a wonderful childhood and my father has done a good job of raising me to young womanhood. So I do forgive you, Mother,' I would say No, You Must Not. It is the worst crime in the world to deprive a child of her mother. I know. I was deprived of mine and it was through tragedy rather than folly. Still, I never forgave her. You should never grant me pardon for such a sin.

But I did want to explain WHY your mother left, even if I will be unequal to the task, as I fear.

I never had a mother and indeed, other than sporadic visits to my Grandmother (for whom you are named) I never had a female influence in my life. My father, bless him, did try his best, but no man can compensate for what a girl needs. Because I could not find at home what I desired—I began at an early age to seek out other women that I could emulate. The theatre was my first choice and I was enraptured at what I saw there. The beautiful ladies and their costumes, standing toe-to-toe with their male counterpointes, making them fall in love with them, getting what they want with relative ease. You see, to a young girl, it did not appear to be smoke and mirrors. It was real life. It was the life I wanted.

Yet an actress never really has a home. Or rather, she has a home, the stage. But she has no family. Only the fickle members of her company or troupe are there to talk to, to care for her, to give her support. It can be a very lonely life.

When I met your father, I was still very much a young, innocent girl. And he was a soldier (like my own Papa) and so very brave and loyal. He was there for me every second when your Grandmother died, and I thought that I needed that in my life. I thought that I could be a good wife to him—if only he would continue to care for me. What I didn't reckon was that he would want his own life as well, and while I could be a part of that, I could not be all of it. He had other duties: To his work. To your brother. To Mr. Sherlock Holmes. And he was resolute in those duties.

And he was resolute in another way—how much he wanted and loved you. I saw that immediately. Do not mis-understand. I, too, loved my child. But while he had such an easy way with you, every moment to me felt as though I were doing something wrong. I never felt what other women call that 'motherly instinct.' I felt only the mistakes. I felt that I had to go back to the one place where I DID know how to behave and belong—the theatre. I'm afraid that I have always been so much better at imitating others' lives rather than living one of my own.

Obviously, I could not take you with me. The only alternative was to leave you to your father's care, as I had been so left when I was a girl. But no doubt, you are a better, stronger woman than ever I could be. You will not make the same choices I made. Your children will have a good mother someday. John Watson would see to that. Julia Hudson could not.

/x/

I should say, first off, that though you may think me living a life of perfect misery knowing what I just confessed about seeing only my son and Sherlock Holmes as my family, I want to say that before I go further, that was not always the case. There were happy times still in store for me. My wife may have been indifferent, moody, but she still gave to me the greatest gift—a second healthy child. A daughter. A perfectly formed girl, large and loud, and for months after she arrived I was so euphoric that I hardly noticed Julia turning her face from me and locking her bedroom door at night. My son, by this time returned to school, wrote weekly so as to hear of the baby's progress. He was genuinely interested in his sibling, and his letters to me seemed more of the son I had known—joking, filled with random trivial facts he had acquired, misspellings and braggings of how the various masters adored him and how he avoided being pummelled by the others boys for it.

I was happy. The image of the sad look in Holmes's eyes, the vice-like grip he had had on my hand, the red-eyed, dirt-stained tears on Josh's face that boiling night in June when the realisation that one bullet, this time, had not nearly shattered my own existence, but my family's. A fluke of aerodynamics, the slight correction for wind-resistance, and my only son would have died in my arms, always to remain the greatest joy and the greatest puzzlement to me. And with his death, I know that Holmes would have receded into himself, never forgiving, never again allowing himself anything akin to emotional attachment for another human being.

And for myself, I never would have forgiven him either.

I am an old man now. An old man with no obligations, nothing pressing my time, no one I must rush off to see. As I continue this narrative, I sip a cup of Earl Grey in a chipped cup, long gone cold. Nothing but the wind throwing sand against our sitting room window to listen to. In an hour or two, my grandchildren will arrive by train, clad in beach attire, ready to jump and smash my old bones to pulp with their hugs and kisses. I will take them to the water, but I will sit in the sand on an old deck chair and watch them frolic about, yelling "Grandad! Watch me! Watch what I can do!" I will watch them. I will watch the oldest dunk the youngest, I will watch their swimming contests and sand-castles. I will yell at them to "be careful" and to not swim out too far. I have no greater joy than that as a Grandfather. But despite it, I know that my mind will remain here, with these words, trying to force my ever-growing feeble brain to say exactly what it means to say. To try and explain the contradictions of a man's life.

For example, I am now past eighty years old, and I am eager for Death's arrival. Yet I am still happy in this life. I miss those I have lost with such intensity that the pain it brings on is real, and I have to take aspirin tablets to steady the ache in my chest that I know will kill me soon. My doctor tells me my arteries are clogged and my heart is weak. I should eat plain, nourishing food like mush and apple-sauce and sleep as much as possible. I shouldn't allow my grandchildren to over-excite me. In fact, it would be better to not allow any small children around me at all. Pure rubbish. What the bloody Hell reason would I still have to live for then?

Here is another contradiction. I no longer have much if any desire to woo or make love, yet I still notice a gold head of hair or a buxom chest clad in these skimpy outfits that these days pass for beach attire. I can still remember as a boy my mother in her long, dour black swimming dress, looking suitably nun-like, unwilling to show more than an ankle or an arm. Modern young girls prance around with barely a thought to a leg or the small of a back attracting a man's attention. But for it all, a young fellow could be thrashing about right in front of me and I never feel anything akin to sexual.

And yet the greatest love of my life was a man.

'What a piece of work is man .' A quote from the Bard I have stuck to and occasionally repeat to myself. I disremember from which of his dramas it came from. But it has to be a universal truth.

/x/

My little daughter, a born humanitarian, once asked me what the happiest time of my life was. She was seven or eight at the time. Twenty years later, I return to that question posed by a gap-toothed, pig-tailed little child. Here is what I have determined, my darling:

Childhood is a disingenuous time to praise. Morally and emotionally undeveloped, we know nothing of the great pleasures nor pains that are in store for us as soon as hormones have morphed us into a more permanent state. I admit that I have a sense of peace remembering the taste of my mother's sour-dough bread, her soft kiss on my forehead and the sound of my father and uncle singing Scottish love songs as I sat on a quilt by the fire, listening. But these are far too simplistic memories to ever equate to true happiness.

The years that God saw fit to grant me with Mary and Josh are something I am thankful for every day. When I remember his chubby little face asleep at my wife's breast, a droplet of milk sliding down his cheek; Mary's delicate mouth humming softly as her blue eyes reflected love for me and love for the child she had suffered so to bring into this world. I know this is a vision of perfection. The memory of it would never fail to warm me on the coldest of days.

Then there are the years with Holmes—both before and after we became lovers. Of course, we never discussed how we felt. I prefer to think of those years as mostly positive but there was so much conflict (societal, moral, internal) that I fear we never were allowed a full happiness. I dare say Sherlock Holmes never knew the true meaning of the word. His childhood was horrid; his adulthood an ever-changing extreme of highs and lows defined by whether his mind was engaged, by drugs, by problems and clients, by myself, by his godson, by the nightmares of his past. We were happy. But only as much as those restrictions would allow. How could there be much room for joy mixed in all those variables?

As for Julia and I, we really could not have willed ourselves happiness anymore then a chunk of coal can will itself into a diamond. I take complete blame for this. She was so young (too young I now realise) and I was foolish enough to believe she saw in me more than just affection and security. She thought of romance as a page out of a Miss Austen novel1, I daresay. Instead, she gained a step-son who scrutinised her every move, a daughter she barely knew what to do with and a husband full of black secrets. We were the illusion of happy. But I was not illusionist enough to pull off a convincing act.

The point of this dissertation is not to try and dissect my life, looking for the exact moment of perfect bliss, but to try and say through these ramblings that there is no answer. I have been blessed enough to know happiness many times, from many people.

But with that joy comes anguish, and I have also known that well. If I have dwelled on it in these pages, I offer my apologies. I do not mean to. It is only that through the pain we see clearer the pleasure: it is keener, more real. And we are more appreciative for it. It took an event of immense pain for me to realise this. Namely, my wife leaving me. But if she had not, we probably would have endured another two decades of misery and I have my doubts that my heart would have held out this long. You, reader, would not have this account as it never would have occurred to me to write it.

/x/

In late '03, Holmes was still at his rooms in Baker Street, despite informing me of his retirement two years previous. Yet every time I had reason to pay him a visit, I saw signs of change that led me to know he had not changed his mind. The occasional packing crate appeared, stuffed with old correspondence. A length of rope to tie up a trunk lay ominously on the bear-skin rug one day. When I stopped to drop-off a Christmas present last year, I caught him carefully wrapping some of his pipes in butcher paper. I said nothing about this, asked him no questions about time and place, but we both knew that the date was nearing. Josh told me that he had made an offer on a little house on the Sussex Downs and would probably be there before the year was out.

I think the realisation that he really was going to retire caused something of a small panic in me. Suddenly, I couldn't bear to think I would never see 221B again; that I would never get to accompany him on another case; even that we would never again sit in our wicker chairs, smoking strong shag, silently watching the fire die down. So despite my new commitment to my daughter, a growing practise and the illusion of marital fidelity, I made any number of excuses to drop in. Holmes, for his part, did not ask why I suddenly was enamoured to be by his side constantly, but he would discuss a case over coffee, or even ask me to come back with my revolver and meet me at such-and-such an address. I was thrilled to accept, no matter how small a part I played. Sometimes I found it easier to stay in my old room at Baker Street, as I could more easily go straight to my consulting rooms next morning from there.

When I did see fit to return home, my wife rarely spoke besides the expected social niceties. She spent her nights at the theatre or the opera; she spent her days chatting with her girl-friends and taxing my pocketbook with shopping orgies. And besides sleeping and eating, I spent my home hours playing with the baby—reading her stories, taking her on outings to the garden, tucking her in her little cot at night. I was determined to have a child that I understood and one that fully sympathised with me.

On a warm day in October, I returned home tired, dishevelled and hungry. There had been an outbreak of German measles, and it seemed as if every little tyke on Tyte Street had caught it. I had called on no less than six houses—thirteen infected children altogether—and I wanted nothing more than a stiff drink, a hot bath and a soft pillow.

Our maid, Peggy MacLeod, served me a cutlet and a full glass of whisky, and I ate it in large mouthfuls whilst asking her the business of the house. "Is Miss Lily asleep yet?"

"Aye, sir. She went down lack of a sack of potatoes, the little dear," she answered, smiling. Though still quite young herself, both she and my daughter's nurse were fond of my little girl. I know many a nurse or maid will resent their charges as spoiled or bratty, but I think both ladies genuinely cared about Lily Rose. She was a very good, if vocal, baby.

"Is she still bothered by that tooth?"

"Aye. A bit, sir. But Nurse gave her the rubber to chew on, and she stopped fussing."

"A brilliant invention, that." I downed the last of my drink, feeling proud that I was a being such a good father. "Did she ask for me?"

"When she goes down, she does cry a bit for her 'Da.'"

I smiled. She was all of 16 months, but it was my face that made her light up like the sun. The few times I went to her with Julia, she was all but indifferent to her presence. Wrong and petty of me, I know, but I took a perverse pleasure in knowing that the baby preferred me to her mother. And in turn, her mother preferred the theatre over both of us. I suppose, in retrospect, I was a complete ass for not predicting what was soon to occur.

"You and Nurse may have the evening off, Peggy. I'll soon be retiring and if the baby awakens, I'll see to her myself."

Peggy thanked me, curtsied, and then hesitated at the doorway. "Sir? May I ask when you expect Mrs. Watson back? Only if she's to be gone for several days, Cook has the dinners to plan…" She trailed off. The girl had a bad habit of doing so.

"Back? What do you mean, Peggy? Has she gone?"

My maid fidgeted a bit with her collar. "Well, yes, sir. Surely you knew. She left soon as you this morning, or near to it. Took her largest trunk and that big blue case beside. We figured she may be…on holiday for a bit, sir, seeing as how she took so much. Well, I know I shouldn't conjecture…" Her head lowered.

"No, no…do you recall…she took a cab, surely?"

"Yes, sir. To Victoria. But she said hardly a word to the servants. And no message for you, sir."

I was trying to wrap my brain around this. Julia had said nothing to me about a holiday. And the girl, though an odd one to begin with, was acting so queer. As if she knew something and was afraid to say it. I shook my head. Where would my wife have gone? And why would she take both a trunk and a big case with her? Nearly everything she owned could fit.

And why wouldn't she say something? A day trip I may have mis-heard, but if she were going for days or weeks, surely my memory could be counted on to remember that. "I…er, it's fine, Peggy. Tell Cook…tell her that I'm not sure how long her mistress will be gone, but not to include her for the next few days, at least. If that changes, I'll personally let her know."

Again, Peggy curtsied, this time with a silly smile on her face. She all but ran for her chamber. I heard her door close firmly before it occurred to me I should stand up and find out what the Devil was going on in my own house.

The next morning I was supposed to make five house calls and had no less than eight consultations scheduled, but I ignored all of them. I made a great effort of pretending all was well—ate some breakfast, played with the baby, even telephoned my assistant. But as soon as I left the house, I went left rather than right and ordered a cab to Baker Street. I was nearly numb.

I had spent the better part of the night in my wife's room. Like a scientist with a microscope, I had examined every inch of it, looking for answers. I had found none. Most, but not all, of her clothes, hats and toiletries were gone. A photograph of her, I and the baby remained on her dressing table. Surely she would not leave that, would she? Her jewellery was mostly gone, but a few pieces of paste remained. Her diary, which she left locked in her desk drawer, was gone. All I could find were some old bills, a birthday card, and a letter from her father that revealed nothing. In a small notebook on her bed table, I had found the telephone numbers of many people—some that I recognised, some I did not—but I couldn't bring myself to call any of them, even the ones I knew. What could I say? And her wedding ring. I felt the blood drain from my face. Was that to be taken as a good sign? (She did not wish to sell it) or a bad (our marriage was over?) Finally, finding nothing better to do, I had collapsed on her bed. I slept poorly and tried not to dream. I knew there was only one place I could go for help. Surprisingly the realisation did not distress me as much as it should.

/x/

I believe I began to breathe again when I flung open the sitting room door. It must have been the shock of seeing it so empty.

The stained deal table lay abandoned by Holmes's bedroom door, a small trunk marked 'poison' and 'handle with care' sat next to it. The bookshelves ran amok with gaping, untidy holes. His crime library was in a thousand pieces, bulging out of cardboard cartons. There were many bright, clean spots in the wall paper where framed pictures had hung undisturbed for years. The most ominous was north of the fireplace, the large etching of Reichenbach having disappeared as surely as he himself had 12 years previous.

"We have at last come full circle, Watson."

I spun around to see my friend come in from the WC carrying his toilet case. He wore a singularly calm expression that suggested he packed to leave his home of twenty years every day.

"Full circle?"

"Indeed. We moved in together. You left. And now I leave." He motioned around with one finger. "Our endings collide with our beginnings."

"I think, technically speaking, it was you who left first." My eye motioned to the large empty space above the fireplace.

His mouth twitched. "Fair enough. But I did return. Just as you have now."

Ah, irony! Any mortal man could postulate that I did indeed want to return to Baker Street, to Sherlock Holmes. It was like coming home. But I had to think about other things. My wife. I had to concentrate on my wife. One of my children had already lost his mother. I did not want the same to happen to the other.

"Holmes," said I, trying not to let my voice shake. "I find I need your help."

His grey eyes flashed momentarily but he looked away and continued dropping handfuls of papers into a trunk. "Indeed?"

"Yes. I, er, your professional services, that is."

"I see."

"If you would be so kind."

"Of course."

He sounded so calm and uninterested I was nearly angry. With a grunt of impatience, I said, "Holmes, do you think you could turn around? There is something awkward about addressing the back of a head."

He dropped three last books and let the lid slam shut with a bang. Rubbing his hands together, he began scanning the room. "Hmmm…oh, a thousand apologies, dear boy. It is only that I already know what you wish of me."

I stared. Surely now of all times, he wouldn't…

"Your boot-laces."

Yes, he would.

"You see, when you are in a hurry, as I have observed numerous times in the past, you tie your boot-laces in a simple double loop knot," he began, his voice gaining speed and precision as he entered into one of his many realms of expertise. "However, when you are not pressured with your toilet, you generally employ a non-standard, but more functional hidden knot. I have found this a common practise among military men."

"So they won't come"—

"Untied if you have to run," he finished. I smiled, shaking my head. He offered me his whip-fast grin. "In addition, I see that you did not shave this morning. So you were in a hurry, but still had time make sure your tie and boot-laces were adequate. If the emergency involved Josh or yourself, you would have come immediately and your dress would be a mess. But you hesitated, deciding whether or not I was the appropriate person to come to. You have the key to your consulting room on your watch chain therefore you wanted someone, no doubt your servants, to think you were on your way to work. If she were murdered, that ruse would of course be unnecessary"—

"Holmes!"

"So you were distracted, yet you had time to consider. You are alone, so discretion is involved. It involves your wife, but if she were hurt or killed, I would have Scotland Yard trampling over my stair carpet even as we spoke. Therefore I would say she has disappeared."

"Holmes…" I paused. What could I say? It was ingenious. But then again, when wasn't he?

"I am right, am I not?"

"I wish you wouldn't do that just now," I muttered, crossing my arms so he could not see them shake. "I mean…my wife is gone. She's left me. Of course you are right. But you could…it is distressful to me."

Saying it aloud was horrid for me, but I don't think Holmes understood. I don't know why I would have expected him to. He motioned me to my old chair and he slowly climbed into his. These two chairs were nearly all that remained of two decades of familiarity.

"She's been gone now, let's see, 26 hours," he said, peering over clasped hands at me.

"Thereabouts."

"And you are sure she left no word—no letter, no telegram, no word to her lady's maid?"

"Nothing. I spoke to Peggy MacLeod and Mrs. Duffey, the nurse. Other than the cook, those are all the servants we have."

"Had she her own maid?"

I shook my head. "She had one, but she was discharged more than a month ago. Peggy has been a sort of jack-of-all-trade in her stead."

His left eyebrow jutted. "That is singular. Who discharged her?"

"Why, Julia. Something about a missing ten pound note…I didn't really ask her the details. I left domestic matters to her." I felt a flush of embarrassment at that. Of course, the real reason was that I was too busy with my practise and dropping in on him, trying to find some middle ground on the new life I was weary of and the old life that I missed.

But he merely nodded, his eyes not having left me. I remember the day he would have leapt over the setée to stop a client from leaving. But it wasn't aged he appeared to me or lethargic anything of the sort. It almost seemed as if he were distracted.

Or unwilling.

And really, why not? When Julia came into my life, I had tried to distance myself from him, from what he and I had been. I had never the nerve to ask what he thought of Julia and I, and even if I had he would have been too much of a gentleman to tell me. It would have been cruel to do so. Perhaps it was cruel for me to ask him to find my wife when no doubt that was the last thing he wanted to do.

"Uh, Holmes," I unwillingly began.

He was scribbling something at his desk. "Yes?"

"I shouldn't force you to do this. I mean, if you are uncomfortable…Perhaps it was wrong of me to ask you. After all"—

He jerked up, ripped the paper from the pad and stuffed it into his pocket. "My dear Watson," he said, slapping my shoulder. "If you have need of me, I would never refuse you." He dashed out the door, taking the stairs two at a time.

I sighed. No. He would not.

/x/

He was out the door before I could utter a single word. At first, I was unsure if I was expected to follow, but as there was no yell of 'Watson! Come!' back up the stairs, I assumed I was not. So I waited. After several uncomfortable minutes in my old chair, Mr. Robert Hudson's wife appeared and asked if I would like some tea. I wished with all my heart that I could will her into a more familiar landlady. I told her I would not, thank you, and she went away.

I felt a bit awkward wandering about my old flat (although in fairness I had lived here a great many more years than the current residents). But after ten, than twenty, than thirty minutes passed, I was completely bored. Almost burglar like, I climbed the stairs to my old bedroom. I cannot say why, or what I expected to find, but there was little there. My mattress lay stripped of its linens. My old dressing table was shoved to the corner, the chipped pitcher and basin still atop it. I ran my finger over the deep scratch on the surface where Holmes had burst in one morning whilst I was shaving, causing me to drop my razor in surprise. I smiled at the memory.

The same heavy plaid curtains covered my small window. And from it, my eye was drawn across the wall opposite to where a mathematical equation had once been written in blue wax crayon. Not my own of course, although I never did learn if it was the small detective or the full size version who had been responsible. I had been a bit agitated at the time, and I had stormed downstairs to confront the culprit. But once below, I fell prey to Holmes and Josh so virulently arguing the merits of autodidactism verses a standard British education that I had instantly forgotten to be angry. After failing to remove all the stain on the wall, I thereafter hid the mark behind the framed photograph of Her Majesty that had always hung in my room.

Again, I smiled.

Back downstairs, I resisted the urge to see Holmes's bedroom. Heaven knows why I had this strange desire for when we lived together I rarely went in there. Even after our relationship changed, I still never entered uninvited. And invitations were few and far between. I was never overtly sentimental, but a part of me still wished to see it one last time. Were the framed pictures of his criminals still on the walls? Was the floor still covered with discarded papers and books, the ashtrays overflowing with cigarettes and pipe plugs? The tiny bed that I had to once hide behind when the devil Culverton Smith appeared would be there still. He and I would never lay upon it again, motionless. Unspeaking.

I swallowed heavily, a bit angry at myself. What was the good in thinking of all of this? I should be a man and focus my mind on where it needed to be. But I couldn't.

An hour had passed since Holmes had left. The Grandfather clock chimed the hour and the noise nearly made me jump. How strange and silent Baker Street was alone! I could not remember the last time I was there by myself. It was an odd feeling—this silence, these strange empty shadows moving on the walls, on the worn carpeting. A cold tingling sensation drifted down the skin of my back and I jumped to my feet, eager to find something, anything to do.

I wandered over to Holmes's desk. For years, he had kept the drawer to it locked, the key on his watch chain. He had kept my chequebook safe there, (safe from me and the occasional black mood that made me eager to gamble). Now it was un-locked. I had to look.

No doubt, reader, you will have little difficulty in guessing what I was searching for. Was it there? That damned letch.

It was not there. Irene Adler's photograph was, jammed into a corner. Part of a false nose and beard. A small notebook with chemistry equations. A set of brass knuckles. A pocket-knife. And a stack of letters. But the cocaine, the needle were both gone.

I breathed a sigh of relief so loud I wouldn't doubt it's audibility down-stairs.

"Thank God, Holmes," I muttered, meaning it from the bottom of my heart.

I glanced again at the letters just prior to shutting the drawer. Something about them caught my eye and I quickly realised what it was. The familiar scrawl. Curly, un-even script. After a glance over my shoulder, I snatched up the entire pile. There were more than thirty of them.

A true gentleman would, of course, never read another's mail, not even if those letters were from his own son. But I had to know what was in them. I was far from a logician, but I did possess a small amount of intuition. And for some reason, I suspected that I may find some answers there.

I began to read. I started with the earliest letters, dated more than five years ago, and read words in a hand that would give even a doctor a headache. I read, and through Josh's words I saw my son grow from an observant little child to a quite brilliant boy. But as his intellect grew something within him clearly shrank. His innocence.

When he's seven he sounds like a son of John Watson:

'The boys are all huger than me. They are like giants in the grimm fairy stories Papa would read to me. Their feet are like wooden padles good for smashing us smallest boys and some of them have hair in strange places. I am afraid but not to much afraid. I only wish that I was back in baker street with you. Have you finished the poisens yet? Oh I had a thought on that. What about different snake poisens?'

And then eight:

'I hope that you are all right and not ill. Your writing was shakey and uneven—so I know you have been ill. I hope that if you are to bad you will get Papa to take care of you.'

By ten my heart was in my throat:

'I know that you said I should not be cross with him but I still think that we were better when it was he and you and I all together in Baker street. And I think that Julia does not much like me. When it is just she and I together she doesn't much speak to me. I will try to be a better man as you told me I should but it is so hard and some times I wish I could just leave and run very far and never come back.'

John Sherlock had recently turned twelve. I had sent him a card, a fiver and a letter containing my hardiest congratulations. I had yet to hear back from him. But there was a letter for Holmes that had arrived only days ago. When I finished reading it, I nearly cried. It distresses me to admit it, but it is so. I won't bore you by repeating it word for word, as indeed I doubt I could recall it verbatim. But one passage sticks in my old mind like tar on a hot summer day.

'I worry for Papa, Uncle. I worry what will happen when she leaves. I know you are not convinced that she will, but I am. When I was home last, she avoided me completely. She seems reluctant with my sister. She gives terse answers to Papa. I think he is too absorbed in his practise and the baby to notice, but I did. She is a person not designed to bear an intolerable situation. I think he will need you soon.'

The letter fell from my hand. I quickly picked it back up, as if afraid someone would catch me at my misdeed. Perhaps that thought put a fear of God into me, for I jumped to my feet and shoved the letters back into the drawer, slamming it so hard that the handle knocked violently. I, myself, shook slightly. He's barely twelve, I thought. How can a twelve-year-old boy…know these things? When I was twelve…but then again, my son was on a level quite different from me.

'I think he will need you soon.' What the Devil did that even mean? For moral support? To find Julia? How could I know? I wished I had him here with me now. And not even really to ask him. Or to rebuke him. Simply to speak to him, quietly. To see his mother's eyes look into mine, those charming fat cheeks break into a knowing grin. Soon, too soon, nature would cover that chubby face with hair. Already he was growing into his large head, his spindly legs developing the first sign of musculature. And although he was still short for his age, I could signs of the man he would be. His golden hair had darkened. His Adam's apple protruded a bit. He wrote letters that even a man would not know what to make of.

I heard the front door slam just then, and I flew to resume my seat. I had left the sitting room door open when returning from my excavation upstairs, so I could hear Holmes and Mrs. Robert Hudson speaking. No doubt he was confirming my continued presence. A few seconds later I heard him on the stairs. He was moving swiftly, taking them two at a time. Never was he so ageless as when on a case.

"Well, well, still here, are we?" He asked, fiddling with a pipe he had pulled from the pocket of his waistcoat. It was lit, and he was flopping onto the settée, slowly sucking on it before he looked up at me, eyebrows raised.

"Where else would I go?"

He gave a small shrug. "I would think home. To see if any messages had come in. Or to check on your child. Remember your nurse thinks you are at your consulting room."

"It hadn't even occurred to me," I answered truthfully.

He nodded, almost indifferently.

"Well?"

"Well, what?"

"Well, where have you been? Have you discovered anything?" He was being exasperating and I was hardly in the mood.

"Just the train that she took. And where she most likely is."

I blinked, sure that I had misheard. "I beg your pardon?"

He was studying his pipe. It was a rather expensive, amber-tipped maple with silver fasteners. A birthday present from me about eight years ago. I hadn't recognised it at first as he rarely smoked it. Occasionally, he would take it down from the rack and finger it and I would feel a sudden burst of hopefulness. But more often than not, it would be switched out for the cherrywood, the briar or the revolting oily clay. I had no idea why now, of all times, he should be smoking this particular pipe.

I think he caught me staring at it. Taking it from his mouth, he slowly made his way over to the mantle and tapped the bowl into a tray. Then he spun around and crossed his arms in front of his chest. "You really had no need for me at all, doctor," said he, his voice curiously detached. "You could easily have found out what I did by a mere trip to Victoria Station. You knew that was her destination. You had the approximate time. There are a limited number of trains that she could have taken"—

"But"—

He would not let me speak, though, and waved his hands wildly. "Come now, Watson. An attractive, young, red-haired lady travelling unaccompanied and with a small army of luggage. How could she not be noticed? I merely went up to the first manly-looking porter I came across and inquired. Oh, yes, sir, of course he recalled the lady. Quite a lass. He hadn't had the good-fortune to assist the young lady with her bags, but he recalled the bloke who had. Another swarthy, hormonally charged gentleman was introduced to me. He vividly described assisting the 'bird' as he put it. She boarded the 10:47, bound for Dumfries."

"Scotland!" I expostulated. "She is going as far as that? Oh, but she never visits her father…he is in an institution for the aged. He is quite infirm and I have never even met him."

Holmes narrowed his eyes. "Why do you think she is going to Scotland to visit her father?"

I felt my neck flush. "Why else?"

"Hmm…I can hardly answer that. Yes. Not just yet," he seemed to be talking to himself, his finger to his lips and I could feel the pulse of his brain as it turned the situation over. For quite a long moment, he didn't speak. At one point, his eyes closed and his mouth became a thin, contemplative line. I waited in patience, trying to turn the situation over in my own mind. She was in Scotland. But not to see her father (as Holmes was apparently convinced). She had led me to believe she had no other family, neither kith nor kin anywhere else in that country. In fact, with the exception of the Robert Hudsons, she had no family here, either. And they were by no means close.

"Holmes," I ventured, feeling a strong need for action, to do anything rather than sit around as my friend was apparently comfortable negating me to do. "Would it do any good to speak to Mrs…er, Hudson? I doubt she would have went to her, but"—

Holmes suddenly jumped to his feet. "No, no. I must go with you to Chelsea. I am certain the final pieces will be found there. Come!"

/x/

Two minutes later, we were in a cab heading south and west. It occurred to me it would have been faster to take the Tube, but neither of us bothered. In fact, Holmes, unless he was in a specific hurry, was reluctant to employ any mode of transportation in the city other than train or cab. I think the privacy of the hansom appealed to him.

"Did it really not occur to you to go to Victoria yourself?" Holmes asked after a long silence. He studied my face with narrowed eyes, a sure sign he was in earnest about my reply, and not simply mocking me.

I thought about it before answering. After last night and not finding anything in Julia's room, my first instinct had been to come to him. When he put it that way, it would have been so simple for me to find her train and destination. But when one's world is crumbling around them, one seeks the assistance of friends and loved ones. When one's closest companion is Sherlock Holmes, the decision is not one to even ponder. "I thought to come to you. Nothing else occurred to me," I said.

He seemed to be searching for something in my eyes. After a moment he either found it or gave up, for he gave a terse nod, and spent the rest of the journey with chin on hand, watching as the river shrunk into a small, dirty grey line behind us.

/x/

When we walked in, it was quite apparent from the loud wailing that my daughter was awake and not in the sunniest of moods. Holmes flinched as he removed his hat but offered no comment. I apologised to him.

"She is teething right now," I explained. "First molar. Unfortunately for her, she inherited the large Watsonian teeth set in a rather thick gum. Nurse finds it hard to settle her some days. I'll go and check on her, if you don't mind."

I had thought that Holmes would avoid a nursery at all costs. Even when Josh was small, he left most of the more unpleasant tasks to either me or Mrs. Hudson. When the boy needed help in the toilet or when he scrapped his knee after falling down, it was I who had to set matters right. Holmes was interested only in the intellectual facilities of the child. Over time that did change somewhat. But it was my opinion he viewed him a something like an heir, someone to be trained rather than raised. I could never imagine him showing even the slightest concern for an infant, even if it was my child. And a girl at that. But as I limped toward the baby's room (as I aged my leg sometimes ached in stressful situations) he stayed right beside me, hands folded behind his back. He could have been taking a guided tour of the house.

Nurse was trying to quiet Lily in the rocking chair, but my daughter would have none of it. Her face fell in relief when she saw me. "Oh, sir, am I ever glad you've come home. I cannot do a thing for her today. She simply won't settle."

"That tooth again?"

"Aye, she keeps trying to chew on her fist, poor little darling. It's hurting her dreadful."

I picked her up from Nurse's lap and took my handkerchief to wipe her face, something she normally liked. She was fond of waving it and saying 'Look, Da, flag,' or some such thing. Today, though, she merely swatted at it, rubbing at her cheek.

"I'm sorry, darling," I told her. "I know your mouth hurts. Would you like your rubber?"

She shook her head, her tufts of brown hair flapping about. "No, no Da." Her poor face was sticky with tears and beet red.

"Here," said Holmes, reaching into his waistcoat and extracting something. Before I could even see what he was about, he had taken the amber-tipped pipe he had been smoking just prior and placed it in the baby's crying mouth. Lily, surprised, bit down, her brown eyes growing large with shock. She looked up and him, her chin still shaking, her expression one of infantine incredulity. But she stopped wailing almost immediately. She turned to me, her little jaw working up and down on the pipe.

"Holmes…" I began, but was unsure how to finish my statement. I adjusted the baby on my hip.

"Amber is a natural pain remedy," he said as if what he had just done was perfectly obvious. He turned to Nurse. "Clove oil. A few drops applied directly to the gums."

Poor Nurse appeared to be in shock. She looked from her charge, chomping on the amber tip of the detective's pipe, and then to Holmes. "Sir?"

"I understand chamomile is also advisable. But I have seen first-hand that clove oil works well for all dental pain." He bowed slightly to Nurse, smiled briefly at my daughter and tapped her under the chin. He did not move to take the pipe back, which was slowly being covered with large quantities of drool. "I would think Mrs. Watson's room is at the other end, am I not correct, doctor?" Without waiting for me to respond, he continued with his tour.

With a small shake of my head, I kissed the top of my daughter's head before handing her back to Nurse. For a moment, I pictured John Sherlock sitting at a desk in his short pants, stocking feet kicking at the legs, as he easily defined the tortuous life-path of his father with a few sheets of letterhead and a leaky pen. God above, please spare me the same fate with this child, I thought. Women may be the gentler sex, but five years of marriage to Julia Hudson had taught me that if there was anything of her mother in this girl, I would be up against a will of steel.

/x/

"This bed has been slept in," was the first thing Holmes said when I walked into Julia's room. He was systematically surveying the room, his cold grey eyes studying it as if he expected it to speak to him.

"I slept in it," I admitted. For some reason, the admission embarrassed me slightly.

"I see. You thought to search the room for any clue, eventually grew weary and fell asleep on her bed."

"Er, yes."

"And what did you find?" He was standing near her dressing table, holding the photograph of her and I and the children, taking on Lily's first birthday. There was an expression of grim impatience on his face. His godson wore a similar look in the photograph.

"Nothing," I said. "At least, nothing of any importance."

" 'Nothing?'" He glanced at me, throwing me something small that flashed in the light. I barely caught it. "You would say that her wedding ring is 'nothing?'"

"Well, not nothing, of course. I saw it, but…I mean…" I cleared my throat. "Is it a good sign or a bad sign? Why would she leave it behind if she were…leaving me." God, I wanted a drink right then. The words stuck in my throat and I barely got them out. Leaving me. What on Earth did the woman want? A divorce? How the Devil was I supposed to afford that? What if she meant to return? Was that why she left the ring? My head was swimming with unanswered questions. I need whiskey, I thought, rubbing at my mouth. I wanted to be drunk very badly.

Holmes reached out and gripped my arm. He did not do this in what I would call a particularly friendly manner, but rather roughly, as if he were irritated with me. Indeed, he wore a rather annoyed frown on his face that seemed to be saying you did this to yourself. But of course, he would not have said such a thing. "Sit down, doctor," he ordered me, pulling me slightly toward her vanity chair. "Do you require some water? Or something stronger?"

I shook my head sadly. He took out his silver cigarette case, tapped it several times in one hand and then removed two of his strong hand-rolled Turkish blends. He placed both in his mouth, lit them and then handed me one. I could feel the slight moisture from his lips as I put it in my mouth and let the vice settle my nerves. "Thank you."

"Not taking the ring can indicate several things," said Holmes, slowly inhaling. "First, that she is not in need of money. Although I am far from an expert in jewellery, I would estimate that she would still get £20 for it at any decent pawn shop.2 Not a figure a woman with no discernable income could leave behind on principle. Had she her own money?"

I shrugged. "A small annuity from her father. Not much."

He narrowed his eyes. "Did she ask you for money? For things beyond dress, toiletries and normal household expenses?"

"All the time."

"Did you inquire as to what she needed these funds for?"

I felt like such a fool right then. I'm sure my neck was red. Theatre tickets, cab fares, a new frock…all the hats in the world will still not equate to all the pound, fiver and tenners I handed over to her. Her taste in fashion was not overtly expensive, I would say, and although she enjoyed shopping as much as any woman, she must have been setting some aside from the household money. For how long? "So she's been intending to leave for some time." I chose to ignore what he already knew was the answer to his question.

"Let us think. What is the earliest you can recall a change of temperament in her? Perhaps a sudden disinterest? Even a furtive streak—especially with money and where she might have been?"

The question did not require much thought. From almost the day Lily Rose had arrived, Julia had lost her vivacity. At first, she was tired and kept to her room. But to me, this was normal. Women frequently developed depressive moods after the birth of children, any medical man could tell one that. But it normally took only time, a steady diet, the return of her figure and the baby to bond with to see her right. That really hadn't happened in my wife's case. She enjoyed watching me with the baby. She would touch her, sometimes hold her. But as soon as she got her strength back, she seemed to lose even that basic interest in her child. She returned to her theatre trips, visiting, shopping and left Nurse to tend to the child. But as a doctor, I had seen that some women had less maternal feelings (for lack of a better term) for their offspring than others. I couldn't expect every woman to be like Mary, with whom I had to strong-hand Josh out of her arms for the first six months of his life, so happy was she to have this baby.

"Shortly after giving birth," I told him. "In fact, from the time of her arrival she has seemed changed."

Holmes considered this. "So we reason that she had a minimum of sixteen months in which to save money." He paused for one or two seconds, his steel mind computing. "She will have 70 to as much as 100, maybe £110, if we consider she probably saved an extra £5 a month, factoring in her father's money. That is a sum a young woman could live on, but a woman who has developed a certain lifestyle these last five years will find it intolerable after a few months. She must—and not doubt will—find work."

I was barely listening. I believe I nodded. But Holmes evidentially did not require an answer, as he snubbed out his cigarette on my wife's vanity, and began to tear up her room. I knew better than to ask questions.

He started in the wardrobe, throwing the few remaining garments over his shoulder. I watched, wondering if this was necessary to his search or if his opinion of Julia compelled him too. The latter, no doubt. His hand swooped over the top shelf, but it sent nothing down except clouds of dust. He snorted, wiping his hands on the bed quilt. I felt myself start to smile, but quickly stifled it.

A few old receipts, some cosmetics, a ticket stub and a single peacock feather soon joined the clothing. Watching the damn garish thing slowly fluttering to the ground, I nearly burst out laughing. There was something so intensely ridiculous in this that I had to either laugh or cry. Holmes caught my eye, saw me biting my lip, and broke out into a wide grin. "Shameful, Watson. Absolutely shameful."

That made me laugh even harder. That stupid feather, floating on a sea of dust, on top of all those abandoned dresses. Who knew how much of my hard-earned money lay in that pile? The abandoned clothes—abandoned, like me.

I felt the tears fighting the back of my eyes. I think it was a combination of Josh's letter, the ridiculousness of having Sherlock Holmes here in my wife's room, and the realisation that, once again, I was going to be the only parent to my child. Good God, how wretched I had been to my first born! How would I destroy this one? I had lost my son his mother and now…now I had done the same to my daughter.

I put my hands to my face. The first and only time I had cried in front of Holmes had been during his return. I had just lost Mary. And then he appeared, right in my own consulting room, a move that had caused my nerves to explode and a well of anger to bubble-up within me so completely I never realised it existed.

Men should not feel such depths of emotion. It is unmanly, ridiculous that they cannot control themselves like women. But then again, what sort of man takes another for his lover? Why shouldn't a bugger act like a woman? The thought—that word—made my skin crawl. I felt my stomach lurch.

He did not hug me this time. Thank God, because the last thing in the world I wanted right then was a man touching me, even Holmes. He studied me for a moment and seemed to come to this realisation. His rigid expression and metallic eyes softened, but he was as composed as ever. I think he wanted to touch my arm. I could see the very slight tremor in his hand, but he remained where he was, standing by the far side of the bed. "I'm sorry," he said. His voice was oddly quiet. "I truly am. If you would like me to leave"—

Vigorously, I shook my head, mopping at my face with my handkerchief. No, I did not wish him to leave. There had been enough of that. In fact, had I not done so in the first place…

I opened my mouth to tell him to stay. But the words that came out were so totally dissimilar that I surprised myself as well as Holmes. "Agnosco veteris vestigial flammae3."

Really I muttered them more than spoke them. Where they came from, I had not the least idea. Latin was never amongst my better subjects neither as boy nor man at University. I concentrated on the medical necessities of the language and promptly forgot all the verse I had been forced to translate and recite. Or, apparently, almost all the verse.

Holmes cocked his head, a motion frequent to the man when he was turning over a problem in his brain. "Watson," said he. "I wonder if I may be permitted to ask you a question…that is a bit impertinent."

I flinched in way of answering. He took this for acquiescence.

"Do you really want Mrs. Wa….her to come back? Or do you merely not want to face the embarrassment of a wife who has left you?"

Five years ago, I would have punched a man who said such a thing to me. In fact, I had once hit Holmes for something equally impertinent and even more ridiculous once.4 But time had tempered me, and I barely cared. In fact, he was probably right. So much so that I answered without thinking, merely saying whatever came into my mind before anything rational could hold my tongue.

"How can I want my child to lose her mother? But if she is done with me than…well, what can I do? I'll not force her, Holmes."

It was his turn to flinch. I think the word 'force' may have caused it. We both cleared our throats, embarrassed. Holmes's colourless face gained just a twinge of scarlet and he looked away. "Hardly an answer to my question," he said.

I shrugged. "It's the best one I can give."

His eyes narrowed in a way that never ceased to unnerve me slightly. It was the expression he wore when he was reading my thoughts. "I certainly know that you care very much about society's opinion of you. Tongues will wag, it will cost you patients, your children may be ostracised. You will not deny that this will devastate you."

"Yes," I admitted. "No doubt it will."

He frowned and brought his hand to his face, rubbing his chin. I thought I saw the smallest of smiles appear on his face, but I couldn't be certain. In a sudden movement, he picked up the telephone on Julia's night-table.

"Hello," he said. "Operator? Yes, I need long-distance. Dumfries railway station, please. Yes, thank you." Placing the cradle of the device in the crook of his neck, he waited.

"What are you on about?" I asked, but he ignored me.

In silence we waited, Holmes sitting on my wife's bed, drumming his fingers on the stand and me studying him, trying to figure out his plan. But as usual, I could not. There was nothing to fear, I knew. There was simply to wait and let his genius emerge.

I hadn't long to wait.

"Yes, hello? To whom am I speaking? MacDougal? Indeed. This is Superintendent Chaffey with Scotland Yard. I need to speak with the station manager, please. I believe his name is Rhodes. Yes. Yes, thank you." He spoke in a completely authoritative voice, not unlike his own, but in a more simple and Yard-er like brogue. Were I the man on the other line, I would not have known that I was speaking to my friend.

"Hello, Rhodes? Superintendent Chaffey here. Yes. You received my telegram? Oh, yes, I know, my boy, easier to call, but we must be by the book. Paper-trial, you know. Have you the luggage? Oh, well, I had no doubt that you would, my boy, no doubt at all. Yes. Hmm, I see. Supurb, supurb. Jolly good…"

This queer little conversation continued for several moments with Holmes in his 'Yarder' voice purring peculiarly into the device, a smug expression on his face. When at last he was finished (a 'Queen and country thanks you m'boy' as he hung-up), he turned to me with a blistering smile.

"Well, well, Watson, I told you some years ago that we were In the midst of the greatest century yet known to mankind. This device and those like it show the conveniences our children will have in their lives that we have barely known. Sometimes I wish that I were a young man…just think what I could accomplish if I had the next twenty or thirty years to immerse myself in the newest weaponry available to the detective. John Sherlock could have advantages that I never dreamed of at his age."

The mention of my son made me nervous, remembering his letters. Although something in Holmes's voice made his last statement sound more wishful than factual. I shook my head. "Who the Devil is 'Superintendent Chaffey'?" I asked. "And why are you parading as a Yarder?"

I was surprised when he laughed a little. At first I thought he was laughing at my stupidity, that it was so obvious what the plan was that I should have known, but Holmes slapped my shoulder. "Chaffey is merely a nom de guerre. To gather information. In my experience civil servants often respond well to the established pecking order. I could have sent the telegram in my own name—and of course, there is the chance it will be recognised and I will have to answer a slew of inane questions. But by merely sending a telegram gram from a professed Yarder'superintendent' asking to hold a certain young lady's baggage, I dealt with no opposition whatsoever."

"Baggage…you mean Julia's?"

"Of course."

"But why, Holmes? What good does having her bags do?"

This time he did look at me as if I were slightly daft. "Do we or do we not desire to know her location?"

I blinked several times. "Oh…yes. But…you mean, you know where she is?" I felt my pulse race slightly.

He shrugged. "The bags are to be held at the station until called for. Not surprising. This suggests that she has no permanent plans. A young lady on her own with all that luggage would do precisely this. I told Mr. Rhodes that I suspect the young lady of a…certain crime and will be there with the necessary warrant. Naturally, he was eager to help."

"Naturally." I cleared my throat. "So what now?"

It should be noted here, and very likely reader, you will have already noticed this, but I was not at all eager to dash off to Scotland after my wife. Most husbands would have jumped in the nearest cab, and sped off red-faced and hot after what they considered 'theirs'. Julia had never expressed any 'woman suffragist' ideas as is becoming popular these days, but she was very much opinionated and aware of her own mind. In fact, in our whirl-a-wind courtship and marriage, we had had little time to discuss our views on marriage, the ideas of home and career, husbands and wives. I assumed, wrongly it turned out, that as young as she was, she was still impressionable and would go along with whatever I believed.

Clearly, of the two of us, who was the more naïve? On the train to Paris, where we honeymooned, one of the first things she had said was, "I hope, John, that you are not like some men who will put me away like some pretty play-thing, only to trot me out to impress your friends when it suits you."

"My dear! Of course not!"

She smiled primly. "I will do my best to be a good wife to you. And a mother to your son. But I will not be shut in my house, however gorgeous it is, never to be allowed to see the light of day."

"Then you do not believe in the wife being the angel in the home5? I asked, more in jest than anything.

The smiled practically melted from her rose-coloured lips. "I think, my husband, if you desire an angel, you should look in a church and not a home."

And perhaps I should have at that.

"I don't know, Holmes." I said.

His eyes narrowed.

"I cannot. I don't know if it is…indifference." Or fear, I told myself. "Or anger. I am angry. And I have a right to be, damnit! She left me with an infant and no rhyme or reasons! What am I supposed to tell my daughter when she is old enough to understand? That I have no idea what became of her mother?" Angrily, I shoved my hands in my pockets and let out a huff. "It is ridiculous, isn't it? I should not have drug you into this at all. And now I…"

"What is it?" He asked. "What is wrong?"

"Josh," I said. His eyes flashed concern. "No, nothing is wrong with him. While you were…I mean, while I was…alone at Baker Street, I found some of his letters to you. Yes, I realise how caddish it is to read another's mail, but I have done many things I am not proud of over the years. Most of them concern you."

A smile whipped across the thin lips. "The latest one bothers you, I take it?"

"How, Holmes? How could he know such things? That Julia would leave, that I would need you? He is far too…" I could not think of any appropriate adjectives. "Well, whatever he is, it is far too much for a twelve-year old."

"Some would say…he is very much like his father."

"His father? Me?" I laughed. "How the Devil is he anything like me?" If I didn't know better I would have questioned his paternity.

Holmes glared at me awhile. Then, rising from the bed, the look on his face turned from cruel to amused. He paced about, circling me. "Well…they have not very much in common," said he. "And of course, I am hardly observant about such things. Let me see…oh, this is very difficult"—

"Come now,"—

He held up a hand. "They both tend to interrupt, for one thing. But I am sure I have come across more favourable traits. Ah! Yes. I remember now. Loyalty…bravery…decency…trust…"

Now it was my turn to stare.

"They are both far too dedicated to certain peoples who do not deserve such fidelity."

I opened my mouth.

He stopped in front of me. Looked me directly in the eye. "Without them, I would have no-one. Now, some would call such devotion lunacy and not necessarily a trait one should aspire toward. But I am somewhat proud of their lesser as well as their greater genetic gifts."

Again, my mouth opened. A warmth spread through me. Despite our relationship, Holmes was still one to lean more toward criticism than praise. It was very nice to hear. So nice that all I could manage was to blink a few times and gape about like a fish out of water.

"Um…th-thank you."

He gave me a terse nod. "It is as much as you deserve."

Deserve. What did I deserve? I knew. I deserved nothing. Holmes was the one who deserved my praise. Granted, I had published his laurels many a time over and all who knew me knew of my admiration for him. And indeed, some knew it a little too well. My sister. Lestrade, perhaps. Parks. Maybe even dear old Mrs. Hudson, gone to a better place. Should I number my wife among these? I didn't see how.

But even so, should it matter? Was I ever asking the right question? I was worried for myself, for my sake, for my reputation. What of Holmes's feelings? When was the last time I had considered them?

It had been nearly a decade since Moriarty and Reichenbach. And we had gone from flatmates to colleagues, friends, devoted friends to lovers and then back to…what were we now?

He had saved my son from my sister. And I had left him.

He had stood by my side, wordless, as I married away from him. Twice. And I had left him.

He had confessed his soul to me, shown me his past, why he was the man he is. And I had left him.

He had given me every opportunity to bind myself to him permanently—to know him, to protect him and he me, to be as much as family as was possible to be.

And I had left him.

/x/

1 According to Arthur Conan Doyle: A Life in Letters Sir Arthur read at least one of 'Miss Austen's' novels and thought them 'very good.' Really good book if you haven't read it.

2 Truth be told, I have no idea how much a ring should have cost at the turn of the century, despite a fruitless search. Any experts in Victorian/Edwardian finances out there, chat me up!

3 I feel once more the scars of the old flame

4 I.e. chapter 21, some years ago…lol

5 An idea derived from a Coventry Patmore poem that a woman was supposed to be 'an angel in the home' and that her sphere should consist of submitting to and loving her husband and raising her children.