Chapter Text
“Mail for you, Dr Watson!”
Watson took the small bundle from the housekeeper and gave it a cursory glance. “Thank you, Mrs Hudson. Also – could we have some more kippers, please?”
“Certainly, doctor.” She smiled indulgently, then lowered her voice to a conspiratory whisper. “And please do see to it that Mr Holmes eats more than toast today?”
“Would that I could, Mrs Hudson,” he replied and rolled his eyes. She giggled and closed the door.
Watson took another draught on his cigarette and rifled through the stack of letters while stretching his legs. The usual fare: one of Holmes’ periodicals – the one about philately this time – as well as several letters of various size and shape, probably from potential clients. A bill or two, a thank-you card from that man with the counterfeit books problem… and at the bottom of the pile, a letter addressed to him. Watson put the rest of the correspondence on the mantelpiece and turned the letter over in his hands. It was brown, stained; a long envelope adorned with many stamps. Frowning, he extinguished the cigarette on the grate and slit the envelope open with a penknife. He read the contents in silence. Then, walking to and fro in the sitting room, he re-read them, then finally sat down by the tea set to think.
It was a long way, but it had to be done. It simply had to be done, no two ways about it. He owed it to the man, and to the world, at that. He glanced over to his friend, who sat curled up in his favourite chair, pipe in mouth. His eyes were closed, but Watson had no doubt that he was completely aware of the situation. But not of the contents of the letter, the doctor reflected. He tucked the envelope under the teapot, stood up and pulled the Bradshaw from the sideboard and started to leaf through it without looking at the detective.
“Pack your bags, Holmes – we need to catch the... 15.26 out of Waterloo.” He closed the volume with a decisive slap.
At the sound, Holmes finally opened his eyes and raised one eyebrow. “And where, exactly, are we going?”
Watson suppressed a small smile. “Surely you’ve already deduced the answer to that question yourself?”
For an answer, Holmes only grunted and unfolded his long limbs in what looked like a slightly miffed fashion.
“You can always take the easy way out,” Watson continued and tapped the letter. “If not, best get packing, my dear fellow.” He grinned and retreated to his own room to pack, leaving Holmes alone in the sitting room.
The detective stood up and glared after his friend. Then he took two long strides over to the tea set, and loomed over the teapot. His long, delicate fingers twitched over the letter for a brief moment; then he drew them back with an irritated snarl and turned on his heel to stalk into his own bedroom.
As the two men were well accustomed to leaving at but a moment's notice, the preparations took little time. Mrs Hudson was engaged to call for a hansom, and the ride to Waterloo was conducted in silence. Watson spent most of his time staring out the window, pondering the contents of the letter; Holmes spent his time studying his friend as well as the time-table. His body language belied his irritation – a stiff back, fingers tapping on the head of his cane; but by the time they reached Waterloo, he had relaxed considerably. He stood back as Watson paid for their tickets but permitted himself a small nod. When it was time to enter the platform, he threaded his arm into the crook of his friend’s arm.
“Gibraltar is quite beautiful this time of the year,” he offered, nonchalantly.
Watson laughed. “Oh, well done, Holmes!”
The detective made an irritated gesture. “Pish-posh! Any dilettante with a timetable can arrive at that conclusion, along with a simple extrapolation of the amounts you’ve paid for tickets and the size and contents of your luggage.”
As they kept walking along the platform, Holmes turned to Watson. “But why, if that might be seen as any of my business, are we going to undertake a journey as perilous and laborious, not to mention time consuming, as the one to Gibraltar?”
Watson smiled slightly and gave him the smallest of ‘well done’-nods. “That, my dear fellow, is an excellent question, the answer to which might, if I dare to suggest it, be easily deduced by a sufficiently analytically inclined mind from clues already readily present by keen observation and a body of facts available to the suitably knowledgeable gentleman.”
Holmes harrumphed. “So, it’s to be a challenge, then?”
“If you wish to accept it,” Watson replied with a grin.
The train arrived, wreathed in steam. As soon as they were comfortably situated in the compartment, Holmes leaned forward, steepled fingers to his lips, and fixed Watson with the stare that was otherwise reserved for clients, miscreants and members of the law enforcement.
“So. Let us dissect your little riddle, Watson. Judging by the fact that you have brought not only your revolver, but also the little memento case that contains your medal; as well as the fact that the envelope was military-issue, a connection to your background in the military service is obvious.”
Watson nodded. “Obviously.”
“However, a reinstatement of said service would not come in the form of a summoning to travel like a common merchant to Gibraltar. Greenwich at most.”
“Another keen observation, my dear Holmes.”
The detective leaned back and tapped his index fingers against each other. “Which suggests a business of a different nature altogether.”
“That seems like a reasonable suggestion.”
“Which would either mean personal or clandestine.”
Watson spread his hands magnanimously. “Yet again, your deductive powers humble me.”
“And the urgency with which you haste us away on this – which I for the sake of decency refuse to think is a fool's errand – suggest an importance of the highest order.”
“Strongly suggests that, yes. And I’m gratified that you don’t think of my business as foolish,” Watson added with a slight hint of reproach.
Holmes gave him a sideways glance. “Never, my dear fellow. Never. Now, if one is to guess what kind of urgent personal business might induce one such as yourself to travel the globe at a moment's notice… perhaps the imminent death of someone of great personal importance?”
Watson looked wistfully at the horizon through the window. “That is not dead which can eternal lie, and with strange aeons even death may die...”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Oh, an old saying I have had cause to muse over these last hours.” The doctor rubbed his leg distantly.
Homes looked at the doctor’s hand sharply. “You did not answer my question.”
“I did not hear a question.”
Holmes gritted his teeth. “An old acquaintance, then. Someone from your military past – someone in potential dire straits. You’re anticipating violence; you’ve brought your revolver.”
Watson smiled. “Good work, Holmes. It is indeed an old friend from Maiwand we’re racing to meet, and he may indeed be in trouble – there is precious little reason he would contact me otherwise.” When Holmes started to speak again, the doctor put his hand up. “And there our riddle ends. There was nothing more to the letter, save for the location in which we could find him – the Bristol Hotel.”
Holmes sat back more comfortably and studied the doctor more calmly. “Oh no. No, no. There is something else to this, Watson. I’ve known you for too long. I can read you like one of your regrettably fanciful books.”
Watson looked back at him, then out through the window again. His hand wandered back to his wounded leg, tracing the scars under the fabric unconsciously. When he spoke again, the playfulness was gone from his voice.
“You have, on several occasions, described to me how your field of expertise works. You have vast knowledge in several specialised fields that are of interest to you as a detective, yes?”
“Indeed.”
“But in other fields, you claim complete ignorance. Astronomy, I recall, was the one that made the largest impression on me at the time,” Watson added with a chuckle.
“Yes, yes, I do recall you admonishing me for that,” Holmes replied and shrugged.
“Well, if you happened upon a case that required you to have an extensive knowledge in astronomy, you would find yourself baffled, would you not?”
Holmes made a dismissive gesture. “At first, perhaps, until I had the time to read up on the subject.”
Watson smiled. “Doubtlessly. Well. This is just to say that if you do find yourself frustrated at some point during this journey, consider that the fault may not lie in your faculties of deduction, but rather in the width of your preexisting knowledge.”
“You’re hinting at a mystery, my friend.”
“It may be. It may not. I want you at my side, but I don’t want to saddle you with any preconceptions.”
Holmes’s eyes narrowed. “You’ve piqued my interest, doctor.” He sat back and closed his eyes. “Well then. Since you have no more facts to furnish me with, I shall refrain from theorising further until we reach Gibraltar. Let us enjoy the journey, instead.”