“I had imagined that we were bound for Baker Street, but Holmes stopped the cab at the corner of Cavendish Square. I observed that as he stepped out he gave a most searching glance to right and left, and at every subsequent street corner he took the utmost pains to assure that he was not followed. Our route was certainly a singular one.”
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
The incursion of memories was sudden.
Gérard dropped his head into his hands, gritted his teeth against the strange rush in his mind. It was fortunate that he was sitting in a carriage, or he likely would’ve been on the ground instead.
Perhaps a minute, or an hour passed before it all abruptly ended, leaving Gérard behind with a sense of horror, and a struggle to recognize what was happening at the present, and what had happened in the past.
Or - he realized as he stared at his opened journal, the day’s date displayed clearly - what was going to happen soon.
-
In which Gérard is granted a miracle, and is able to save his son.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
Abigail still hasn’t stopped crying.
Jack still hasn’t shed a tear.
And when John looks out the window, there are two figures he hasn’t seen in years.
—————
Abigail still hasn’t stopped crying
Jack still hasn’t shed a tear.
It had taken them the better of two hours to bury him and Uncle. And ever since then, they had remained in the sitting room as the sky turned dark and streaked through with scarlet.
Abigail had quit her sobbing a long while ago, but a tear could not stop slipping down her cheek every few minutes, even as she sat simply and stared distantly at the floorboards.
And Jack…
Tears shone often enough in his eyes, but stubbornly, they would not fall. All the more stubborn was the anger etched hot in his boy’s face, furrowed lines darkening it to a place not even shadows could cause.
John knew that look well. Had felt it burn in his own soul many a time. Seen it burn within one too many strangers too.
Nothing was forgotten, and nothing was forgiven.
He hoped it would fade. Prayed to whatever god there could be that Jack would leave it behind. If he could just be there he could…
But he wasn’t. And never could be now.
John stroked a hand again over his son’s hair, pressed a kiss to his wife’s temple, and tried his best to swallow his own bitter anger.
It took another long, horrible hour to pass before they retired to bed.
John had stood to follow the both of them, until a flame caught his eye from a window.
Alarm flared hot in his chest, and he stumbled to the glass. Surely they couldn’t have returned - surely killing him was enough -
John slammed his face to the window, and his alarm was doused by ice.
Two figures, dressed in their familiar blue, sat around a crackling campfire.
Something in his chest skipped hard. He slipped away from the window.
Arthur and Hosea looked up as John stepped out onto the porch floor. For a moment, there was silence.
Then Hosea smiled sadly, while Arthur looked on somberly, and gestured to an empty log that laid between them.
“Hello, John,” Hosea said, his voice a surprise to hear after so many years forgotten. “Come sit?”
Somehow, John numbly did.
When he was safe on the porch, he wanted nothing more than to stare. But now that he was close, with his brother on one side and his father on the other, he could only bear to stare at the fire, twisting at his fingers till they popped.
Arthur sighed, and Hosea said quietly, “Oh, John.”
A pressure suddenly grasped at his elbow, and John flinched away. Immediately Hosea released him, but John snatched his hand before he could withdraw completely.
Oh. John thought. Oh.
Hosea’s hand was solid, real, in John’s own.
“You’re here?” John managed to rasp through a tightening throat, “This is real?”
“We’re here,” Hosea replied, “This is real.”
“Alright,” John said simply. Then he bowed his head, and dark spots appeared in the dirt above his feet.
A shuffle sounded to his left, then warmth pressed against his entire side, another hand clasping at his shoulder.
“We never went far,” Arthur said gruffly.
John wheezed at that. Maybe sobbed.
“Oh yeah?” John snapped. Cried. “‘Cause I sure haven’t fucking seen you around nowhere.”
Hosea slipped his hand out of John’s grasp, then he too was pressed into John’s other side. John dropped his head onto the man’s shoulder, gritted his teeth sharp and hard to force his tears back.
“I’m sorry, John,” Hosea murmured, his own voice sounding thick and rough. A hand carded through his hair, and John could only cry anyway. “You did well, my boy. Damn well.”
“I killed them,” John said hoarsely, and for a second, he was back there, with the bodies dead before him. “I killed them.”
Bill and Javier and…
“You didn’t. We saw.”
“He…” John cleared his throat. “Where’s…?”
“Somewhere,” Arthur sighed, “Neither of us have spoken to him yet. You could, if you want.”
John said nothing. He let himself rest a few minutes longer on Hosea’s shoulder, let his tears run their course, before straightening up. He rubbed at his face, and was only a little surprised to feel scars under his fingers.
“You ready?”
John bit his tongue, shook his head firm and tight. “I ain’t gonna leave them.”
“Don’t got to.” Arthur patted at his shoulder. “We didn’t for you and them and everyone else either. There’s just some other folks who’d like to see you.”
“Like a certain little girl.” Hosea said.
John tried to breathe. “Oh.” He said again.
“Oh,” Arthur said back, not unkindly. He pulled John up with him, and Hosea stood too. “C’mon. We ain’t going far. And not for long.”
John inhaled. Exhaled. Stared hard at the home he had built, the family still left behind inside.
Then he turned, and just for a little while, the night was left dead with the living.
For a charming week we wandered up the Valley of the Rhone, and then, branching off at Leuk, we made our way over the Gemmi Pass, still deep in snow, and so, by way of Interlaken, to Meiringen. It was a lovely trip, the dainty green of the spring below, the virgin white of the winter above; but it was clear to me that never for one instant did Holmes forget the shadow which lay across him. —The Final Problem
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
Summary:
The story begins.
They make it to Reichenbach Falls, and so a Swiss boy comes, bearing a letter begging for Watson’s return.
Watson takes his leave, pausing at the bottom of the hill’s trail to look back. Surprisingly, where he had once walked a new man is now scurrying. The stranger turns his head just so, revealing himself to be a stranger not at all.
With the coldest sense of horror, Watson begins his race back up.
A little while later, Watson wakes up for the second time on the morning of May 4th, 1891.
—
In which Watson disrupts Moriarty’s murderous attempt on Holmes’ life. Except that is not how the story can go.
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