Hiatus, Gen, G
Title: Hiatus
Author: blue_eyed_1987
Characters/Pairings: Holmes, Watson. Gen
Rating: G
Warnings: None, except possibly confusing shifts of POV, and references to canon character deaths.
Summary: Snippets from the hiatus. Spoilers for 'The Final Problem' and 'The Adventure of the Empty House'.
Beta thanks go out to goldvermilion87 and humantales, all remaining mistakes are mine. As always, I own nothing. Written for penguin474 for the Holmestice exchange.
Hiatus
Definition: An opening; an aperture; a gap; a chasm; esp., a defect in a manuscript, where some part is lost or effaced; a space where something is wanting; a break.
There was no service. Even if there had been a way to retrieve his body it wouldn't have seemed right - Holmes would have deemed such as sentimental and unnecessary. Instead I returned to Baker Street one last time, sat in my customary chair, and drank to my friend's memory, lost in my thoughts until well after the fire burnt low in the grate.
Mrs. Hudson was distraught - despite Holmes' many eccentricities, she respected him, and he had always treated her well. I had received no word from Mycroft as to what would happen to the rooms at Baker Street or to Holmes' many and varied possessions, and I didn't expect to. I had had very little contact with Mycroft, after all.
I had fully intended to leave my friend's cigarette box and walking stick in the rooms, so that there might be a complete memorial for however long the elder Holmes decided to leave the rooms thus. I stood the stick up against the chair, but then I hesitated, the cigarette box still suspended between my fingers.
I looked at it, turning it over in my hand. It was a plain silver box, there were no embellishments or engravings. It was battered and scratched, a testament to the amount of travel and use it had experienced. I flipped it open, it was still half full. It was associated with a myriad of memories, as Holmes and I often indulged in tobacco during our time together. After a moment I placed it back in my pocket. I could almost hear my friend's voice quietly mocking my sentimentality, but I knew he would not begrudge me this memento mori, even if he would think it trite. I scanned the room one last time, said my last goodbyes, and closed the door behind me.
----
Sometimes, I dreamed of a violin playing Mendelssohn.
---
During the course of my career with Holmes, I had become acquainted with many members of London's constabulary, and they often called upon me to perform autopsies, or read evidence at trials.
Since the passing of my dear friend, Inspector Lestrade had occasionally called on me to examine scenes of the more baffling crimes that were perpetrated as if the constabulary assumed (or, rather, hoped) I had picked up some of Holmes' extraordinary talents. More often than not, I had little to contribute to these cases, and was left walking the streets of London feeling bereft and holding onto the cigarette case in my pocket.
It was at those times that I felt the aching gap left by Holmes' demise most strongly. It was not necessarily the loss to society, that I mourned, although that was great indeed. No, it was more personal. I missed the thrill of the chase - of being at his side, even if it meant carrying my service pistol almost constantly. I missed the surprisingly easy camaraderie we shared, despite his sometimes brusque retorts or his silent nature when he descended into his black moods.
----
It was two years later that my wife fell gravely ill. Despite my best attempts, and the attempts of the finest doctors St. Barts, it was to no avail, and she slipped away in her sleep on 15th May.
I had almost forgotten what loneliness was like.
---
I was still in mourning when the first letter appeared. The prosecution of Moriarty's gang had gone well, and Lestrade had a fair number of convictions under his belt. Before he died Holmes had gathered enough evidence to implicate Moriarty in several criminal affairs, but it was assumed that he also perished along with Holmes. I was reading the paper at breakfast when a letter caught my eye. It was signed 'Colonel James Moriarty', who claimed to be the younger brother of Professor Jim Moriarty. In this letter he laid out a defence of his brother. He did not explicitly insult Holmes or his intelligence, but he certainly cast aspersions on the man and his methods of gathering information.
Although I was enraged, I ignored the first letter. I was confident that Holmes' good reputation would survive these obvious falsehoods. I went about my day as planned, firmly pushing the anger from my mind.
Over the next week more letters appeared. The accusations became more outlandish.
I sat in my chair by the fire one evening, and read all the letters once more. I could not - would not - remain silent any more. I moved to my desk, picked up my pen, and started to write.
It took me days to finish my narrative. I lost count of how many pieces of paper I crumpled up and threw into the fire with disgust.
Eventually I had something I was willing to release to the public. It wasn't perfect, but it was the truth, and that was enough.
~~~
I watched Watson walk away from Reichenbach falls, safe in the erroneous assumption that I was dead. I would have preferred his assistance in getting myself to a suitable place to start planning my next move, but knew that it was imperative that he, of all people, believed me to be dead. Watson was one of the most dependable people I had ever encountered, but he was also wont to let his emotions get the better of him. I had no doubt that he would eventually pen the tale of the demise of Moriarty and myself, but I did not believe he would be able to lie about it convincingly.
I dragged myself up and away -away from Watson.
---
I corresponded with my brother regularly. He kept me apprised of the case against Moriarty's gang, and after the trial’s disappointing conclusion, our talk turned to my next move.
Although Moriarty was gone, I knew that the remaining members of his gang were clever and dangerous-more so, now that they sought vengeance as well.. I needed to catch them. If I could rid society of these two remaining criminals, I could rest easily in my bed, knowing that my life's work had come to fruition. In my more fanciful moments I even contemplated retiring to the country.
The worst part of the plan was the waiting. I knew I had to bide my time for my enemies to make a mistake - to give themselves away. I distracted myself with study and travel. My extensive experience with disguises was invaluable here, and I must admit that I enjoyed employing new guises. I eventually settled on one persona-Sigerson, a Norwegian Adventurer. It was by far the most comfortable of my disguises, the accent felt natural, I did not have to stoop and only required a small amount of costuming.
I was travelling through Germany during the first year of my exile. I had a wait between trains and so decided to take a stroll through the town. It was there that I purchased a new violin. It was not my Stradivarius - not the instrument that had brought me comfort and clarity for years - but it was a good enough instrument for its purpose.
When I arrived at my destination I went straight to my rooms and unpacked my purchase. I meandered through some Paganini and Mendelssohn and then the notes tumbled into something of my own making. The familiar movements and sounds soothed my nerves, and I soon found myself relaxed enough to sleep for a while.
----
I read of a few cases that piqued my interest, and I shared some of my thoughts on them with Mycroft in lieu of Watson. My brother was able to exert his influence in one or two instances, and, whilst he could not solve the cases outright, he certainly guided the authorities in the correct direction.
It was frustrating, but at last I felt I could still exercise my skills, even if it was from a distance.
Of course, there were times when the boredom became too great, and I slipped into one of my darker moods. Watson had been trying to wean me off cocaine, citing the danger to my metal capabilities. I had put it away to indulge him, since it was no hardship, - more a habit than an addiction but now the quiet was intolerable.
I pulled my kit towards me, laying out the instruments, inspecting them all as I did so. I could imagine Watson's frown quite clearly as I inserted the needle into a vein at the crook of my elbow.
I lay back on the sofa waiting for the drug to circulate my body, and sighed as the effects began to take hold. I breathed deep through my nose, as everything sharpened, and my blood began to sing in my ears. I could feel the familiar rush of elation thrumming through my body - I felt truly brilliant whilst under the influence of cocaine. My bodily needs were diminished, and I could work for hours without any need to stop and sleep or eat.
~~~
My feet took me to Park Lane, past the house at the centre of the latest crime to grip London. There was, as to be expected, a crowd around the house. I briefly felt sorrow for the family, not only had tragedy struck the household, but the public were also hounding them, full of morbid curiosity for all the details of this - admittedly singular -- crime.
The people on the street traded theories and counter-theories, most of which were patently absurd. I turned away, wanting to distance myself from them as soon as possible. I had made as many observations of the house as I could. but they mainly confirmed what I already knew.
As I turned, I bumped into an old man, causing him to scatter books all over the pavement.
“I'm sorry! Here, let me help.” I tucked my walking stick under my arm and crouched, starting to pick up the books. The volumes were old, but well-loved. Obscure titles too; 'The Origin of Tree-Worship', and 'The History of Cement'. However, I had barely had the chance to pick the books up when they were snatched out of my hand. The man growled at me, and turned away, pushing through the crowd at a startlingly fast pace, given his stoop and limp.
I frowned at his ill-manners but soon brushed it off and continued my journey home.
~~~
It was the murder of Ronald Adair that in some part prompted my return to London. I recognised the trademark air rifle of Moran from the reports. Moran was the only member of Moriarty's gang left in London, and I could not ignore the opportunity to put him behind bars.
I contacted Oscar Meunier, and commissioned a wax bust of my head and shoulders. Once I had this, I headed to London to put my plan into action.
I did not disguise myself on my journey back to Baker Street, since I wanted to be observed. I knocked on the door and waited for Mrs. Hudson. The poor lady worked herself into hysterics when she saw me. It took an hour -- and two cups of tea, one with a hefty slug of brandy -- for the shock to wear off. Even then she continued to exclaim in disbelief at my presence in her house once more.
Eventually she left the rooms, and I was alone once more. As I looked around, I noted that Mycroft had ensured that the rooms had remained exactly how I had left them. I smiled as I sat in my customary chair. Watson's empty chair sat opposite, and the bust I had placed there earlier seemed to mock me. I wished to have Watson by my side once more, now I had come back to London.
I placed the bust at the window, and ensured once more that Mrs. Hudson was going to follow the plan I had laid out. I then decided to walk to Park Lane to gather data. I disguised myself as a bookseller - uncomfortable, as it meant I had to stoop - but effective. I knew I would be ignored as I travelled through the city.
It was there that I caught my first glimpse of Watson in almost three years. He had stopped, listening to the babble of the inevitable crowd.
He had put on a little weight, and had aged around the mouth. His bereavement was evident in his eyes, and in the way he held the shoulder that had been wounded so long ago. I wished to speak to him, but as I had not yet set my trap, it was too dangerous.
He turned away so quickly that I had no chance to move out of his path. He bumped into me, scattering my books all over the road. He immediately apologised and started to gather up the books. I could not afford for him to have any inkling to my identity. Watson had never been able to see through my disguises in the past, and he had even less reason to think that now, but still I could not take that chance.
I snarled at him, making him rear back. I gathered up my books, and stalked off.
----
Once I had finished at Park Lane I made my way to Watson's rooms. I was led into the house by the maid, and ended up standing in Watson's study. It hadn't changed much in the three years that I had been absent.
I apologised for my gruff behaviour, and offered to sell him some books, pointing to a convenient gap on his shelves. Once he had turned his head to look, it took no time at all for me to remove my disguise. He turned back, and blinked when he saw my true identity. As he rose to his feet, the blood drained from his face and his eyes rolled back in his head. He fell back into his chair and I rushed to his side to ensure he didn't fall to the floor. I quickly undid his collar, and checked that he was breathing easily. I opened my flask of brandy and tipped some into his mouth to help revive him.
I knew that revealing my identity in this way would prove dramatic - though I could not have travelled to Watson's house not in disguise, I could've made it clear who I actually was before this moment - it was clear that I had been too dramatic.
After a minute Watson stirred, I apologised for the shock I had given him. I was hesitant to tell him the story of my escape - he had already had one shock this evening, and my story was not a pretty one. However, after gripping my arm to ensure he wasn't hallucinating, he insisted I told him everything.
I sat across from him and lit a cigarette and started relaying the events at Reichenbach falls.
~~~
Once I had roused, I could barely contain myself. That Sherlock Holmes was in my study, alive and well, was frankly unbelievable. It was only his presence in front of me that stopped me from believing I had lost my mind completely.
We sat for a while, and over a meal we shared anecdotes from the last three years. When I reached the point at which Mary died I faltered slightly. Holmes sowed his sympathy through his manner, he clasped a hand over my knee, remarking that work was the best antidote to sorrow. When Holmes then offered the opportunity to join him when he went to catch Moran I could hardly refuse.
At half past nine I was sitting in a cab next to Sherlock Holmes, pistol in my pocket, travelling towards Baker Street. On the journey he told me a little of his plan; that he was sure Moran would make an attempt on his life tonight, and we were to catch him in the act. I wrapped my hand around the butt of my pistol, thankful I had brought it with me.
To my surprise we didn't not stop at Baker Street, but instead at Cavendish Square. Holmes took off at a great rate, taking a meandering route down side streets and mews. I followed the great man, happy to be back at his side.
Author: blue_eyed_1987
Characters/Pairings: Holmes, Watson. Gen
Rating: G
Warnings: None, except possibly confusing shifts of POV, and references to canon character deaths.
Summary: Snippets from the hiatus. Spoilers for 'The Final Problem' and 'The Adventure of the Empty House'.
Beta thanks go out to goldvermilion87 and humantales, all remaining mistakes are mine. As always, I own nothing. Written for penguin474 for the Holmestice exchange.
Hiatus
Definition: An opening; an aperture; a gap; a chasm; esp., a defect in a manuscript, where some part is lost or effaced; a space where something is wanting; a break.
There was no service. Even if there had been a way to retrieve his body it wouldn't have seemed right - Holmes would have deemed such as sentimental and unnecessary. Instead I returned to Baker Street one last time, sat in my customary chair, and drank to my friend's memory, lost in my thoughts until well after the fire burnt low in the grate.
Mrs. Hudson was distraught - despite Holmes' many eccentricities, she respected him, and he had always treated her well. I had received no word from Mycroft as to what would happen to the rooms at Baker Street or to Holmes' many and varied possessions, and I didn't expect to. I had had very little contact with Mycroft, after all.
I had fully intended to leave my friend's cigarette box and walking stick in the rooms, so that there might be a complete memorial for however long the elder Holmes decided to leave the rooms thus. I stood the stick up against the chair, but then I hesitated, the cigarette box still suspended between my fingers.
I looked at it, turning it over in my hand. It was a plain silver box, there were no embellishments or engravings. It was battered and scratched, a testament to the amount of travel and use it had experienced. I flipped it open, it was still half full. It was associated with a myriad of memories, as Holmes and I often indulged in tobacco during our time together. After a moment I placed it back in my pocket. I could almost hear my friend's voice quietly mocking my sentimentality, but I knew he would not begrudge me this memento mori, even if he would think it trite. I scanned the room one last time, said my last goodbyes, and closed the door behind me.
----
Sometimes, I dreamed of a violin playing Mendelssohn.
---
During the course of my career with Holmes, I had become acquainted with many members of London's constabulary, and they often called upon me to perform autopsies, or read evidence at trials.
Since the passing of my dear friend, Inspector Lestrade had occasionally called on me to examine scenes of the more baffling crimes that were perpetrated as if the constabulary assumed (or, rather, hoped) I had picked up some of Holmes' extraordinary talents. More often than not, I had little to contribute to these cases, and was left walking the streets of London feeling bereft and holding onto the cigarette case in my pocket.
It was at those times that I felt the aching gap left by Holmes' demise most strongly. It was not necessarily the loss to society, that I mourned, although that was great indeed. No, it was more personal. I missed the thrill of the chase - of being at his side, even if it meant carrying my service pistol almost constantly. I missed the surprisingly easy camaraderie we shared, despite his sometimes brusque retorts or his silent nature when he descended into his black moods.
----
It was two years later that my wife fell gravely ill. Despite my best attempts, and the attempts of the finest doctors St. Barts, it was to no avail, and she slipped away in her sleep on 15th May.
I had almost forgotten what loneliness was like.
---
I was still in mourning when the first letter appeared. The prosecution of Moriarty's gang had gone well, and Lestrade had a fair number of convictions under his belt. Before he died Holmes had gathered enough evidence to implicate Moriarty in several criminal affairs, but it was assumed that he also perished along with Holmes. I was reading the paper at breakfast when a letter caught my eye. It was signed 'Colonel James Moriarty', who claimed to be the younger brother of Professor Jim Moriarty. In this letter he laid out a defence of his brother. He did not explicitly insult Holmes or his intelligence, but he certainly cast aspersions on the man and his methods of gathering information.
Although I was enraged, I ignored the first letter. I was confident that Holmes' good reputation would survive these obvious falsehoods. I went about my day as planned, firmly pushing the anger from my mind.
Over the next week more letters appeared. The accusations became more outlandish.
I sat in my chair by the fire one evening, and read all the letters once more. I could not - would not - remain silent any more. I moved to my desk, picked up my pen, and started to write.
It took me days to finish my narrative. I lost count of how many pieces of paper I crumpled up and threw into the fire with disgust.
Eventually I had something I was willing to release to the public. It wasn't perfect, but it was the truth, and that was enough.
~~~
I watched Watson walk away from Reichenbach falls, safe in the erroneous assumption that I was dead. I would have preferred his assistance in getting myself to a suitable place to start planning my next move, but knew that it was imperative that he, of all people, believed me to be dead. Watson was one of the most dependable people I had ever encountered, but he was also wont to let his emotions get the better of him. I had no doubt that he would eventually pen the tale of the demise of Moriarty and myself, but I did not believe he would be able to lie about it convincingly.
I dragged myself up and away -away from Watson.
---
I corresponded with my brother regularly. He kept me apprised of the case against Moriarty's gang, and after the trial’s disappointing conclusion, our talk turned to my next move.
Although Moriarty was gone, I knew that the remaining members of his gang were clever and dangerous-more so, now that they sought vengeance as well.. I needed to catch them. If I could rid society of these two remaining criminals, I could rest easily in my bed, knowing that my life's work had come to fruition. In my more fanciful moments I even contemplated retiring to the country.
The worst part of the plan was the waiting. I knew I had to bide my time for my enemies to make a mistake - to give themselves away. I distracted myself with study and travel. My extensive experience with disguises was invaluable here, and I must admit that I enjoyed employing new guises. I eventually settled on one persona-Sigerson, a Norwegian Adventurer. It was by far the most comfortable of my disguises, the accent felt natural, I did not have to stoop and only required a small amount of costuming.
I was travelling through Germany during the first year of my exile. I had a wait between trains and so decided to take a stroll through the town. It was there that I purchased a new violin. It was not my Stradivarius - not the instrument that had brought me comfort and clarity for years - but it was a good enough instrument for its purpose.
When I arrived at my destination I went straight to my rooms and unpacked my purchase. I meandered through some Paganini and Mendelssohn and then the notes tumbled into something of my own making. The familiar movements and sounds soothed my nerves, and I soon found myself relaxed enough to sleep for a while.
----
I read of a few cases that piqued my interest, and I shared some of my thoughts on them with Mycroft in lieu of Watson. My brother was able to exert his influence in one or two instances, and, whilst he could not solve the cases outright, he certainly guided the authorities in the correct direction.
It was frustrating, but at last I felt I could still exercise my skills, even if it was from a distance.
Of course, there were times when the boredom became too great, and I slipped into one of my darker moods. Watson had been trying to wean me off cocaine, citing the danger to my metal capabilities. I had put it away to indulge him, since it was no hardship, - more a habit than an addiction but now the quiet was intolerable.
I pulled my kit towards me, laying out the instruments, inspecting them all as I did so. I could imagine Watson's frown quite clearly as I inserted the needle into a vein at the crook of my elbow.
I lay back on the sofa waiting for the drug to circulate my body, and sighed as the effects began to take hold. I breathed deep through my nose, as everything sharpened, and my blood began to sing in my ears. I could feel the familiar rush of elation thrumming through my body - I felt truly brilliant whilst under the influence of cocaine. My bodily needs were diminished, and I could work for hours without any need to stop and sleep or eat.
~~~
My feet took me to Park Lane, past the house at the centre of the latest crime to grip London. There was, as to be expected, a crowd around the house. I briefly felt sorrow for the family, not only had tragedy struck the household, but the public were also hounding them, full of morbid curiosity for all the details of this - admittedly singular -- crime.
The people on the street traded theories and counter-theories, most of which were patently absurd. I turned away, wanting to distance myself from them as soon as possible. I had made as many observations of the house as I could. but they mainly confirmed what I already knew.
As I turned, I bumped into an old man, causing him to scatter books all over the pavement.
“I'm sorry! Here, let me help.” I tucked my walking stick under my arm and crouched, starting to pick up the books. The volumes were old, but well-loved. Obscure titles too; 'The Origin of Tree-Worship', and 'The History of Cement'. However, I had barely had the chance to pick the books up when they were snatched out of my hand. The man growled at me, and turned away, pushing through the crowd at a startlingly fast pace, given his stoop and limp.
I frowned at his ill-manners but soon brushed it off and continued my journey home.
~~~
It was the murder of Ronald Adair that in some part prompted my return to London. I recognised the trademark air rifle of Moran from the reports. Moran was the only member of Moriarty's gang left in London, and I could not ignore the opportunity to put him behind bars.
I contacted Oscar Meunier, and commissioned a wax bust of my head and shoulders. Once I had this, I headed to London to put my plan into action.
I did not disguise myself on my journey back to Baker Street, since I wanted to be observed. I knocked on the door and waited for Mrs. Hudson. The poor lady worked herself into hysterics when she saw me. It took an hour -- and two cups of tea, one with a hefty slug of brandy -- for the shock to wear off. Even then she continued to exclaim in disbelief at my presence in her house once more.
Eventually she left the rooms, and I was alone once more. As I looked around, I noted that Mycroft had ensured that the rooms had remained exactly how I had left them. I smiled as I sat in my customary chair. Watson's empty chair sat opposite, and the bust I had placed there earlier seemed to mock me. I wished to have Watson by my side once more, now I had come back to London.
I placed the bust at the window, and ensured once more that Mrs. Hudson was going to follow the plan I had laid out. I then decided to walk to Park Lane to gather data. I disguised myself as a bookseller - uncomfortable, as it meant I had to stoop - but effective. I knew I would be ignored as I travelled through the city.
It was there that I caught my first glimpse of Watson in almost three years. He had stopped, listening to the babble of the inevitable crowd.
He had put on a little weight, and had aged around the mouth. His bereavement was evident in his eyes, and in the way he held the shoulder that had been wounded so long ago. I wished to speak to him, but as I had not yet set my trap, it was too dangerous.
He turned away so quickly that I had no chance to move out of his path. He bumped into me, scattering my books all over the road. He immediately apologised and started to gather up the books. I could not afford for him to have any inkling to my identity. Watson had never been able to see through my disguises in the past, and he had even less reason to think that now, but still I could not take that chance.
I snarled at him, making him rear back. I gathered up my books, and stalked off.
----
Once I had finished at Park Lane I made my way to Watson's rooms. I was led into the house by the maid, and ended up standing in Watson's study. It hadn't changed much in the three years that I had been absent.
I apologised for my gruff behaviour, and offered to sell him some books, pointing to a convenient gap on his shelves. Once he had turned his head to look, it took no time at all for me to remove my disguise. He turned back, and blinked when he saw my true identity. As he rose to his feet, the blood drained from his face and his eyes rolled back in his head. He fell back into his chair and I rushed to his side to ensure he didn't fall to the floor. I quickly undid his collar, and checked that he was breathing easily. I opened my flask of brandy and tipped some into his mouth to help revive him.
I knew that revealing my identity in this way would prove dramatic - though I could not have travelled to Watson's house not in disguise, I could've made it clear who I actually was before this moment - it was clear that I had been too dramatic.
After a minute Watson stirred, I apologised for the shock I had given him. I was hesitant to tell him the story of my escape - he had already had one shock this evening, and my story was not a pretty one. However, after gripping my arm to ensure he wasn't hallucinating, he insisted I told him everything.
I sat across from him and lit a cigarette and started relaying the events at Reichenbach falls.
~~~
Once I had roused, I could barely contain myself. That Sherlock Holmes was in my study, alive and well, was frankly unbelievable. It was only his presence in front of me that stopped me from believing I had lost my mind completely.
We sat for a while, and over a meal we shared anecdotes from the last three years. When I reached the point at which Mary died I faltered slightly. Holmes sowed his sympathy through his manner, he clasped a hand over my knee, remarking that work was the best antidote to sorrow. When Holmes then offered the opportunity to join him when he went to catch Moran I could hardly refuse.
At half past nine I was sitting in a cab next to Sherlock Holmes, pistol in my pocket, travelling towards Baker Street. On the journey he told me a little of his plan; that he was sure Moran would make an attempt on his life tonight, and we were to catch him in the act. I wrapped my hand around the butt of my pistol, thankful I had brought it with me.
To my surprise we didn't not stop at Baker Street, but instead at Cavendish Square. Holmes took off at a great rate, taking a meandering route down side streets and mews. I followed the great man, happy to be back at his side.