Chapter Text
I left Myrcoft's chambers in something of a daze and it was only as I was within sight of our rooms that I remembered the letters that Moffit had used to blackmail our client, Mrs. St. Stephen. I had quite forgotten that this entire matter was brought about by that plain lady and her plight. It was with an ill feeling in my stomach that I turned away at the last moment and hailed a cab to return to White Chapel. I had the driver stop at a small herbalist shop I had frequented before that was located a few streets away from the villain's flat and promised a handsome tip if he waited for me, saying I would not be long. It was no great feat to slip into the shop and out the back exit. It took only a few minutes to find the location of Moffit's rooms again. I slipped unnoticed through an open window and I was relieved to find that there was no body to greet me. Whatever the Club had done to end the matter they had not killed him there.
I found the letters tucked neatly into a hallowed out book. They were not alone and I took the small packet of photos and other documents as well as a considerable stack of bank notes that resided with them, lest another poor family find themselves in such painful circumstance. It took me several minutes of tense panic to find my way back out the open window, dodging several workmen that had suddenly appeared in the building next door. But eventually I was out and I had considerably less difficulty returning to the small store from which I had made my disappearance. The elderly woman who ran the shop knew me, for I occasionally called on her establishment for the handful of native remedies I had added to my practice from my time in India. If she noticed that I had made use of her back entrance she had the good grace not to inquire. I purchased a good amount of my typical order from her and returned to the cab where it waited. The entire matter took less than an hour to manage and the driver did not question me on my long absence once he saw the weight of my packages. The ride back to Baker's Street took longer. And it was only with a slight twinge of guilt that I paid my way with one of the banknotes I'd taken from the dead man's rooms. It was lucky that I had found them since it had escaped my mind that I'd used the last of my own coin to pay Wiggins for his trouble.
My tread upon the steps of our residence was heavy when I finally made my escape back to 221B, and I was relieved to find that Mrs. Hudson had yet to retire for the evening. She seemed to sense my bone deep weariness and only paused me long enough to provide an update upon Sherlock’s condition. The sedative I had supplied had worn off faster than I had hoped, but he was still weak from his misadventure and unable to make his escape from our rooms through any of his typical means. With Mrs. Hudson fairly blocking the door, he was left with little choice but to admit to his temporary frailty. Wiggins had indeed returned and his report had put Holmes into a fair state of agitation, but the knowledge that Mycroft was at my side had steadied him enough that he remained a bed, however reluctantly.
I gave her my thanks and wearily climbed the last of the steps to our shared sitting room. Holmes was ensconced in his chair, wrapped heavily in blankets, and sitting close to the fire. I could tell from the rapid movement of his leg and the way his head seemed to quiver as his eyes raked the room that he was not resting, but rather coiled like a cobra and gathering what strength he had to make a strike should his enemy make an appearance. His eyes caught mine and I saw in them a terror I had not beheld before or since.
“Watson!” He cried and made to stand, his blanket falling to his feet and nearly tripping him as he moved towards me. I quickly crossed the room and pressed him back into his chair and settled his blankets around him lest he catch a draft. I think it was then, as he caught sight of my expression in the flickering light of the fire, that he knew the full nature of the days work without my having uttered a word. He did not ask what had transpired. His dark eyes, so expressive to those that knew him well, clouded and his hand gripped mine tightly. “Oh Watson,” he breathed. “My dear, dear Watson.” He could not look upon me as he said it, instead turning his head away in a defeated movement. “Whatever have I driven you to.”
I made not a sound, choosing rather to pull the divan closer so that I might sit across from him without removing my hand from his grasp. He seemed to need the physical comfort and I was more than willing to provide it as it gave me a ready chance to feel his pulse again, which while more rapid than I would like, was once again steady and strong. I still feared the cause of his collapse and it would be some time before I was confident in the strength of his constitution. I did note that his color was vastly improved and that there was a mostly empty bowl of broth next to him, both of which I took as a sign of his continued improvement.
We stayed in that position for some time before Holmes finally broke the silence. “I take it that all is handled.”
“Nearly.” I responded softly, removing my hands from his only long enough to take out the packet of letters and other documents and setting them next to me before gently taking his hands up again, letting my thumb rub soothingly over his long fingers. “Your brother’s contacts were...” I trialed off, unsure of how to describe the events of which I had only scant evidence, but knew well had taken place. Holmes did not seem to require clarification, however.
“They are both dead, Samuel and his accomplice.” He stated it as fact and I detected a hint of remorse in his tone. “I knew it would come to this, but I cannot help being somewhat…” Holmes’ voice gave out on the last word but I saw his lips form the shape. Regretful.
“You cared for him once.” I acknowledged. “It is only natural that you would mourn this conclusion.” His hands shook slightly in mine as if he was vibrating with some constrained emotion.
“It was necessary.” Holmes let go of my hand with a harsh movement, turning his gaze to the pile of newspaper laid out on the table. “Samuel knew the risks and had he not chosen to return to my city with his schemes, I would not have been forced to take action. As it is, I am glad for Mycroft and the Club. They spared me the trouble of handling the matter on my own.” He pulled his worn gray blanket tightly around his shoulders and turned back to the fire. “I am only sorry you were dragged into this, Watson. It was not your burden to bare.”
I sighed softly and Holmes’ gaze shot up to me. I met it with resignation. “It may not be entirely over, Holmes. Last night, while you were resting, Lestrade came to question us. Apparently Moffit did go to the Yard, but by some divine providence it was the Inspector that took his compliant. And while Lestrade was willing to delay filing the report out of his grudging loyalty to you, I’m sure that by morning it will be with the magistrate. If he chooses to take up the case I am sure that I will be called to question along with you – regardless of guilt.”
Holmes did not flinch but I saw his jaw tighten. “I will not allow them to drag you through the proverbial mud. What political capital and influence I have, Watson, I promise I will use to keep you out of it.”
“My God man, use it to extract yourself from this…this nightmare!” I admonished. “I have no fear of the court. My brother Henry is dead, and any family I have left is remote at best. I sold my practice when I returned to Baker Street and I have yet to establish another. If needs be I can leave this country and return to India. You, however, have a life here, Holmes, a life you cannot so easily leave.”
He watched me silently for a long moment before finally speaking, his words making my heart clinch as they had not the first time I heard them, their intensity far more potent after our long years of companionship. “I am lost without my Boswell.” He stressed, his words growing firmer with a conviction I seldom heard him direct towards me. “Were you to leave London over this, make no mistake – I would hasten from these shores as if the hounds of hell had descended, regardless of the courts decision. Where you go, Watson, I will follow – until you tire of my company and request me gone.”
The echo of my words from those dark days when the threat of Moriarty hung over us sent a chill down my spine. “You shall have a long wait.” I informed him softly. “A very long wait indeed.” I could no more imagine my life without Holmes than I could imagine living without air. I closed my eyes as the remembered pain of his supposed death washed over me and I believe I may have let a bit of moister escape my eye. "I lost you once," I whispered, "I shan't do it again. I do not believe I would survive it."