Skeleton in the closet:

1) A scandal a family hides in order to avoid public censure

2) Anything considered a damaging secret.

221B Baker Street:

“You won’t find any answers there, my friend.”

Watson slowly released his gaze from his plate to look at his breakfast companion. “I’m sorry, I was woolgathering, Holmes. What did you just say?”

Holmes nodded at the plate. “I was saying you won’t find any answers there—well, at least you won’t find too many. Other than the fact that Mrs. Hudson’s way with sausages are to be commended. They accompany her gift for coddled eggs and toast.”

Watson snorted softly and picked up his fork again. “Very true.” He admitted.

Holmes did not quite sigh, but his eyes glittered in a strange way. “Watson, whatever is the matter with you? Was the convention that dreadful?”

Watson’s response was to put down the fork and rest his head in his hands.

Holmes committed himself to an heroic act of will and forced his lips shut.

“In some ways, going to that convention was one of the worst mistakes I’ve made in my life.” The doctor confessed.

“And you’ve had the opportunity to make so many mistakes at the ripe old age of twenty-six.” Holmes observed.

Watson lifted his head and managed to skewer his room-mate. “In the course of things, Holmes, one doesn’t need to make many mistakes. One is all that’s required.”

“While I’ve often said as much in tracking criminals from those very mistakes, my dear Watson, it is upsetting in the extreme to hear such a pessimistic philosophy from your lips.” Holmes' concern, when he was able to express it, could be difficult to combat. "Pessimism does not become you, Watson."

“I’m afraid you are the philosopher among us, Holmes.” Watson regarded his plate and finally began cutting his food. “I’m the frustrated writer.”

“Better frustrated than frustrating, and that you never are.” Holmes’ desire for neatness led to his using the toast to clean up what remained on his plate. “As it is a medical convention you returned from in such a fell mood, I will not press you to speak. Matters could be confidential, for all I know.”

Watson almost laughed, but it was not the kind of laugh anyone wanted to hear. “What would you say to a doctor who is blood-sick, Holmes?”

Holmes would never admit it to anyone but himself, but Watson had a gift for flattening other people with the sheer intensity of his gaze. This was one of those times.

“I would say it is a rare physician who never feels that way.” Holmes picked his words with care; a chasm had yawed open between them, and he was not certain of his path. “One of the finest painters I know cannot bear the sight or smell of his art five months out of the year; an accountant in my family is prone to the silence of a stone two-thirds of his waking day in balance of what he refers to as ‘the chatter of mathematics’ in his head…you have seen for yourself how stale I become when the mood overtakes me.” Holmes abandoned his clean plate for his teacup. “The contradiction of your profession, Watson, is that you as a physician are sworn to uphold life, and yet that oath requires you to be constantly exposed to death and miasma. You would astonish me if you were immune to it.”

Watson appeared to be slightly mollified by Holmes’ observations. “That convention was full of death.” The words were nearly blurted out. “Edinburgh medicine is no light thing, Holmes. It has been holding its own ground among its peers since before it was established. I was witness to the most brilliant minds of our time, and I heard their thoughts, saw their demonstrations, came out of it intellectually inspired and encouraged…but that was only the intellectual aspect.

"For every living man there, I swear there was a skeleton, or something that was once alive preserved in jars. There were endless dissections, and I heard enough tasteless jokes and witnessed enough childish pranks to last a lifetime!” He rubbed at his forehead against the tight band that had appeared. “Where was the reverence?” He finally whispered. “Why was it so rare?”

The doctor had closed his eyes. Holmes could see how his eyes still moved behind the lids, seeing things that had passed.

“I can stand being a locum.” He said at last. “I can build on my practice in a year or two, enough that I can purchase something around Paddington or even Kensington…but I tell you Holmes, I see more respect for the dead when I’m with you, or in the cool-room at Scotland Yard.”

Paddington Street:

Bradstreet took the news well, all things considering.

Lestrade had slept poorly; every few hours he would realize he was lying wide awake in bed, staring at the black of the ceiling. He would force himself to relax and gradually drift into a doze—but then the enormity of his task would rise up again and undo all the good of the light rest. Bradstreet had commented on it as soon as he’d knocked on the door, melting snow evaporating off his broad shoulders like a dirty mist.

And that, of course, had led to the purpose of meeting with him.

The big man listened in perfect a wordless state, dark eyes intent on the other man, and never once asked a question. Lestrade was glad when he could finally finish, and the silence steamed between them as Lestrade served up some of Mrs. Collins’ hot coffee and raspberry scones.

Bradstreet chewed his way through two of those scones, his face wrapped in the deepest concentration Lestrade had ever seen in him. His thoughts were so absorbed he couldn’t even let his emotions out; his eyes clicked like cogs, making Lestrade recall the way Holmes was when he was body and soul into a case.

“We had thought of that.” Bradstreet finally said.

Lestrade shivered, relieved that the silence was now shattered.

“There had been a few people who were interested in her…from a medical viewpoint.” Bradstreet spoke to his coffee, not to Lestrade. It was easier that way. “I still have the list of names of the ones who were willing to pay our parents for the honor of examining her.”

“Dr. Watson said he was collating the names of the scientists who were the most outwardly involved.” Lestrade pushed the butter dish to Bradstreet, mostly to give his hands a task.

“Watson has family up there, doesn’t he?”

“I have no idea.” Lestrade confessed. “Why?”

“Well, he’s a Watson.” Bradstreet said as if that explained everything. At Lestrade’s expression of utter blank helplessness, the thinnest smile touched his lips. “Watsons were first registered up there in Edinburgh. Some four hundred years or so…it’s a war-name. Battle commanders. They’re about the worst family you’d ever want to trace, I think there’s about fifty different septs and the Edinburgh strain suddenly vanishes as if it never existed around the first part of the 19th century. But as much as the Crown lavishes on its wounded soldiers,” Bradstreet’s second emotion of the day was sarcasm, “I can’t imagine he would have gone up there and paid for a place to stay when there was family to stay with.” He rapped his fingers on the table. “And if he’s so determined to be in on this, I’d say we avoid the fantods for his sake. Anything Watson does for us up there could still cause a backwash to any kith or kin.”

“I hadn’t thought of that.” Lestrade muttered.

“I daresay most of your usual procedural thoughts fled at his news.” Bradstreet said softly.

“Would you rather stay out of this?” Lestrade blurted.

Bradstreet did not hit him, merely looked amazed at the idea. “My family has disowned me, Geoffrey. I am dead to them until I find my sister.”

“Forgive me, Bradstreet.” Lestrade hated himself for forgetting.

“Geoffrey…” Bradstreet suddenly looked awkward. He cleared his throat. “Forgive me for asking this…and you don’t have to answer…”

“No, do go on.” Lestrade couldn’t imagine refusing Bradstreet in lieu of what was happening.

“This could be very dangerous…a doctor who kills for his own glory can surely do it again. Are you certain you want to be a part of this?”

“Roger, for God’s sake. How could I not be?” Lestrade’s face tinted his embarrassment.

Bradstreet only grunted. “On that sentence…Have you made peace with your kinfolk yet?” He probed.

Lestrade felt words dry in his mouth. It was his turn to speak to the coffee cup. “There doesn’t seem to be much point in my trying any longer.” He said at last. “A rope is a final argument.”

Bradstreet did not compound his confession with words of sympathy. There was little need, after all.

221B Baker Street:

Watson had never felt guilt for poking through Holmes’ papers before. Holmes had certainly never even cared—his only confidential writings were locked up in a trunk half the size of his own bed, and Watson would certainly never touch that. He had every faith it was its own level of organizational Waterloo. But this was the first time he was actually employing Holmes’ own research for a personal matter.

Just because Holmes had no rhyme nor reason to his creative filing system, and just because he could never find a blessed thing without covering the carpet in four inches of tossed foolscap, didn’t mean Holmes wouldn’t have a sudden attack of genius on something that was different from the day before. Watson eased the leather binder off the shelf and gave it a stern examination before opening it up.

He sighed hopelessly. Holmes was a neat and hygienic creature when it came to his own skin, but when it came to the way he ordered his life…obviously the detective had been smashing all notes under the ‘B’ category in these pages, in no alphabetical order at all, until some sporadic fit of common sense seized him and then he would put everything in order with the paste-pot.

Watson reminded himself that the next time he was trapped inside their apartment, he had a new option with which to creatively while away his time. He gingerly leafed through several inches of paper, searching for a particular name.

The name he did not see—it was the word ‘body-thief’ that illuminated itself across his eyes like a cannon’s flare. In another second, he realized he was on the right track.

He glanced at the clock. Another hour before he would be expected at St. Bart’s. If he was careful it would be plenty of time.

He settled down and began to read.

To Be Continued…

The Accountant in the family...hmn, sounds like Mycroft...

I love words people forget to keep; fantods is a great one. It is an Anglicised take on fantique, which combines fantasy and frantic and fatigue.