Chronicles of the Lost Years (The Sherlock Holmes Series) (7 page)

The events that culminated in that week are well chronicled. On May 4th, 1891, Holmes and Moriarty met, grappled, and fell into the fatal depths of the Reichenbach Falls. Elizabeth’s fate as an innocent bystander appeared to be as deadly as Holmes had predicted, for her body was not found, either.

Although I could only speak publicly of my grief over Holmes’ death, privately I was mourning for both of them. Even then my sorrow for the loss of Elizabeth was no less than that I felt for Holmes.

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Holmes’ dramatic return, three years later, was the dawning of a new era after a long dark night. I believe that from the moment Holmes revealed his identity to me in my consulting rooms and I was acquainted with the gigantic deception he had played on the world, up until the time of Moran’s arrest, I was mildly bemused and possibly even a little hysterical.

I took no notes of the events at all and later had to prompt Holmes into reminiscing when I came to write up the case. I spent most of that evening watching Holmes and marveling that the man was actually alive and here in London. Later that night when we were settled in front of the fireplace at Baker Street, the solid reality of it began to filter through.

Holmes stretched himself out in the chair. “Ah, Watson. It is good to be home.”

I sat back, sipping my brandy. “Holmes, you have been very good to give me the broad spectrum of your journeys, but one glaringly obvious particular has been overlooked.”

Holmes smiled. “Nothing has been overlooked.”

“Well then: What has happened to Elizabeth? You assured me she was well and safe. But where is she?”

“Standing behind you, John,” Elizabeth said quietly, right beside my shoulder.

I jumped to my feet and turned, startled beyond measure. “Elizabeth. It is good to see you,” I said truthfully.

She held her hand out to me in greeting and I drew her closer toward the fire so that I might look at her. She was quite as tall as I remembered and her hair the same glorious burnished copper. My recollection of her had not diminished in the slightest.

“It is so very good to see you, John,” she said, smiling. “You do not know how hard I found it to watch you from that ledge above the Falls. It was only Holmes’ own more dangerous situation that kept me silent.”

“I am glad you survived. When I thought Holmes dead, I believed you were, too.” I paused, hesitating to voice the next natural question.

Elizabeth smiled, and answered my unspoken thoughts. “Yes, I traveled with Holmes on his journeys.”

I glanced at Holmes and some of my shock showed, I know, because a glimmer of amusement pulled at his mouth. I am afraid my gentlemanly instincts proved too ingrained and I sought a change of subject.

However, my curiosity was provoked. Although no plain answers surfaced that night no matter how I might probe with my eyes, certain insights were afforded me as time went by; small signs that would have gone unnoticed had I not cued myself to look for them. Chief among them was Holmes’ barely perceptible air of contentedness.

He had never been a demonstrative man and he treated Elizabeth with no more affection than was normal, at least in my presence. Yet often I would catch him following her with his eyes, or observing her closely when she spoke. His pride in her potential and expanding abilities was boundless and could have served as applause for his own apprentice.

Because of my recent widowhood I often found myself in the well-remembered rooms at Baker Street, toasting myself by the fire. During those hours, Elizabeth was always there, a new partner in the old friendship. Outside, when Holmes was working, it was much as I remembered. Only now I spent much more of my time following his career. I confess my motive for doing so was almost purely so that I may attempt to understand his now-reserved personal life.

The first step toward the more comfortable affection we used to share came from Elizabeth. I should have expected that, but I was surprised when I called at Baker Street one morning, to find Holmes already gone about his business without waiting for me, and Elizabeth standing at the top of the stairs, looking out for me.

She drew me in toward the fire for it was a cold wet March morning. She settled me comfortably, pouring me tea from the silver pot sitting on the tray.

“I confess I am surprised Holmes is about so early,” I said.

Elizabeth stood before the fire, a hand keeping her skirts from the grate and the other against the shelf, as she studied the dancing flames. She lifted her head at my statement and smiled. “That was my idea,” she admitted.

“I have no idea why you would suggest such a thing,” I replied carefully.

“I felt it was time I broached a subject you find distasteful so that Holmes may have his old friend Watson back. Some truths need to be aired.”

I arranged my answer carefully. “Distasteful is inaccurate. Awkward would perhaps be closer.”

Elizabeth nodded her consent at my amendment. “So I am afraid I am about to make you feel awkward. You are jealous of me, John.”

That was the very last thing I had expected her to say, yet immediately she spoke the words I finally recognized the barrier that had arisen in my dealings with Holmes. I felt words of protest bubble to my lips but honesty made me force them back. Elizabeth was watching my mental struggle as it appeared on my face and I answered with the unadorned truth for I knew she would accept no less.

“Perhaps you are right. I was Holmes’ friend first and I never expected someone would take my place as his closest confidant.”

Elizabeth nodded sympathetically. “And I miss the John Watson I learned to like and respect while trooping around Europe. We were companions and comrades in the fight for the wellbeing of Sherlock Holmes, then. He misses the old familiarity, John, although he will never speak of it. I am afraid that is my fault.”

“Perhaps fault is too strong a word,” I suggested.

“Perhaps. You are the wordsmith.” She moved away from the fire and refilled my tea cup. Unexpectedly she changed subjects. “I read your account of Moriarty’s death in
The Strand
. It reached us in Khartoum.”

“I was forced to give an account. James Moriarty was raising a dreadful fuss in the papers.”

Elizabeth sat in Holmes’ old armchair. “You carefully edited any mention of me. Why is that?”

I forced myself not to prevaricate despite my discomfort. “I didn’t know how to include you. Your conduct was….”

“Unbecoming?” Elizabeth asked, with a smile.

“I was about to say courageous and admirable. But the truth would have caused a furore in Fleet Street, to say nothing of the public reaction, if
The Strand
had dared publish it at all.” I shifted uneasily. “Elizabeth, I admired you immensely for your perseverance and courage. If there had been some way of making that clear I would have done so. All three of us understood the necessities that drove us, but the public is less sympathetic.”

“Don’t apologize,” she said. “Your wisdom is going to prove far sighted. But that is another matter. For the moment we are dealing with…well, with the future. Tell me: You were hurt when Holmes did not immediately ask you to move back here to Baker Street, weren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“You do know that he will never ask?”

“I have suspected so for a while.” I felt myself beginning to relax. Although we were nearing the core of the matter, Elizabeth’s straight forward commonsense attitude made it seem very easy to deal with the blunt truth. It occurred to me that this was in part what attracted Holmes to her. He had always preferred dealing with logical facts than with slippery emotions.

Elizabeth eyed me. “There is no point in resenting the fact, John, or resenting me. New facets have been added to Holmes and if you look past these new facets, you will find you still have the efficient thinking machine you admired so much in your writings.”

“I cannot see where I fit into these new facets,” I confessed. “I have spent six months attempting to understand.”

“I know. That is why I am trying to help you now. You were once Holmes’ self-appointed chronicler. Have you retired from the position?”

“How can I chronicle what I do not understand?”

Elizabeth sat back. “Given time, there is much you will understand. That is clear in your work, that you grasp subtleties. But to begin…why not write up a story from when you both shared these rooms? I am sure going through your notes and revising your old friendship will show you just how much things haven’t changed.”

I considered her words. “A sound suggestion.” I could feel the old enthusiasm beginning to warm my bones. There were notes of several cases of Holmes’ laying in the bottom of a trunk in my rooms that were worthy of being written up. I immediately recalled the details of the case on the moors, and the beset Baskerville family. “Yes. I will do that. Then, perhaps I should deal with your return from the dead.”

“Holmes’ return from the dead,” Elizabeth amended. She sat forward. “And now it is we reach the matter I spoke of earlier. I cannot exist on the printed page, John.”

I stared at her.

She continued quietly. “Remember Moriarty? Remember how I became involved in the adventure? Because Moriarty is dead is no guarantee the same cannot happen again. As long as Holmes is out there making enemies in the criminal world we must minimize any risks that he may be distracted.” Then she laughed. “Besides, as you have pointed out, it is awkward attempting to explain me away.”

I found myself beginning to smile. Elizabeth offered me another cup of tea and we settled down comfortably. “May I ask you something?” I ventured.

“Of course.”

“Did you really walk all the way to Constantinople?”

Elizabeth smiled. “Every step. With Moran on our trail we didn’t dare risk using the rail system.”

“Tell me about it,” I coaxed.

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Holmes strode into the room sometime later to find us deep into a discussion of their journey. Those uninterrupted hours were invaluable to me and will forever be enshrined in my memory as the start of a new and wholly fulfilling stage of my life. They also served as the key which unlocked the floodgates. Both Holmes and I were enriched professionally by having Elizabeth as part of our lives.

On that wintry day I caught a glimmer of the complexities and depths of Elizabeth’s character. Like Holmes, she was bohemian and hedonistic in her attitudes, as their shared experiences in some of the more remote regions of Asia and Africa served to underline. Yet she had learnt through hard lessons in life as a foundling and woman to contain these attitudes inside an outwardly demure, proper and altogether beautiful exterior, and her practiced charm and grace also served to baffle the unwary.

In contrast, Holmes had never attempted to hide his bohemianism. In his chosen career it had not mattered and he cared little for reputation, save professionally. I don’t suppose it mattered either way, but Elizabeth was easier on the eyes and had learned patience.

As I was to discover more fully later, Elizabeth was Holmes’ intellectual equal. She had not had the advantages of a broad education, nor the training Holmes had put himself through. But she had been taught to read and write by the Sisters at the orphanage she was raised in and she read voraciously. She soon devoured Holmes’ extensive reference library and she even worked her way through my more obscure medical works. She had Holmes’ quick observant eye and she practiced assiduously all the many techniques he employed in his career. Holmes aided and abetted her in this education and they would compete endlessly with each other in intricate mind games.

Holmes’ supervision of her education did not neglect the physical skills. Elizabeth was already a marksman with the revolver, as we had both discovered in Salzburg. I do not believe Holmes went so far as to teach her boxing, but I do know he taught her all his martial arts skills, which proved useful to her, by and by.

I discovered them one day dueling with Holmes’ foils. I paused in the doorway until the round had finished and coughed.

“Good morning.”

They both turned to face me, Elizabeth with the smile I like to believe she reserves only for me and I kissed her temple in the little ceremony that completed our pleasant greeting ritual. She was wearing trousers and shirt, a costume I had become used to and even secretly enjoyed seeing her wear.

“You appeared to be giving Holmes worthy opposition,” I observed.

Elizabeth laughed. “Never. I don’t have his reach, to start.”

Holmes took the foil from her and after pushing the sofa back into place, threw both foils beneath. “She could have been a champion if she had started young enough and been a man.”

“Well, there you are,” Elizabeth said simply.

I tossed a copy of
The Strand
I had brought with me over to Holmes, who caught it deftly.

“The celebration of your return to Baker Street,” I told him.

Holmes sank into a chair with his sleeves still rolled up and began to read the story.

Elizabeth exchanged a glance with me. “Excuse me,” she murmured and left quietly. She returned, the men’s attire swapped for more elegant skirts and turned her back to me. “Would you mind? I can never reach the top button.”