Lost and Found

By the Lady Razorsharp

AN: Inspired by Granada Productions' version of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's stories, The Final Problem and The Empty House.

Part 1: Aftermath

What's gone and what's past help
Should be past grief.

William Shakespeare, "The Winter's Tale", Act 3 scene 2

He's gone. He's gone…

The wheels of the train seemed to repeat the words over and over, a mournful cadence that only grew louder and stronger as the train drew nearer to London. Watson laid his head back against the padded seat, weary to the soul. He was half asleep when a familiar voice cut through the layers of fatigue.

Two hours and we'll be back at Baker Street. It will be good to get home after this messy business, eh, Watson?

"Yes," Watson agreed. "Thank God—"

The sound of his own voice echoing too loudly in an empty compartment brought him fully awake.

He's gone. He's gone…

Someone passed by the compartment, their shadow rippling indistinct along the folds of the drawn curtain. A few moments later, the door at the other end of the car slid open and shut. Watson felt as if he were trapped in a similar hallway, a door to Reichenbach at one end and a portal to Baker Street on the other.

In his heart, Watson knew that Holmes was long gone from that terrible place, though the detective's earthly remains would dwell in the depths forever. Going back to Reichenbach would solve nothing, though the desire to stay and comb the surrounding area for any sign of Holmes had been almost overwhelming. However, facing the empty rooms at Baker Street—along with the inevitable questions from Billy and Mrs. Hudson—was an equally wrenching prospect, and Watson curled himself against the wall of the train in hopes of slipping into forgetful sleep for the remainder of the journey.

He's gone. He's gone…

Holmes!

His friend's name, torn hoarsely from his throat, was whisked away on the roar of the falls. He flung himself down on the edge of the cliff, straining to reach his friend who hung suspended between Heaven and a foaming, churning Hell.

Holmes! Grab my hand!

Under a sheaf of dark hair plastered down with mist, the pale face below him twisted in pain.

I'm trying…Oh, God, Watson, I'm so tired…

Their fingers were almost touching.

You mustn't give up, Holmes! Just a little farther!

The gray eyes fluttered closed.

Please, Watson. Let me go.

NO!

Holmes was there, and then he was not. It was as simple as that.

Watson jerked awake, his shoulders heaving as if he'd run a mile. The compartment was suddenly stifling, and he ripped back the curtains and shoved his way through the sliding doors. He dove out the door at the end of the car and into the moist, cool air, leaning heavily on the railing. He stared, transfixed, at the smooth iron ribbon of track stretching away into the distance.

Dreaming, he reminded himself. I was dreaming.

The whistle shrilled, breaking his hypnotic reverie. Glancing up at the sky, which looked as gray and cold as he felt, Watson ran a hand over his face, trying to banish the fatigue for just a bit longer. Clouds were gathering overhead, promising days of rain that, while pleasant in the countryside, would turn London into a miserable mess of sludge and grime.

With a sudden flare of anger at how the world dared go on as if nothing had happened, Watson turned and went back inside.

The stone steps up to the front door of his home had never looked as inviting as they did that night, nor had the windows ever glowed so warmly with peach-colored light filtering through the sheer drawing-room curtains. The door, painted a deep, glossy green that looked black in the twilight, stood as proudly as a sentry, proclaiming safety and peace for all whom it guarded. Propping Holmes' Alpine-stock against the jamb, Watson fumbled for his key, his surgeon's hands made clumsy with fatigue. Before he could put the key in the door, however, the portal was torn open to reveal Mary Morstan Watson, her shoulders wrapped in a crocheted shawl over her day dress.

Without a word, Mary threw her arms around her husband, heedless of how such a display might look to passersby. Over her shoulder, Watson caught a glimpse of a thoroughly startled parlour-maid who had, no doubt, found herself nearly bowled over by her mistress' mad rush to the door.

"Oh, John, thank God you're safe." Mary pressed her smooth cheek to his, heedless of his roughened chin.

Watson held his wife for a moment, inhaling her lavender perfume, and it was only by summoning all his chivalry that he refrained from kissing her soundly right then and there. He pulled away long enough to collect the walking stick and his carpet bag, then gently guided his wife back inside the house. He handed his meager luggage to the maid, who quickly shut and locked the door behind them. "You can go now, Ivy," he said to the girl, and she dropped him a quick curtsey before scurrying away into the back of the house.

When they were safely behind the drawing-room door and the drapes pulled, Watson dropped his coat in a heap of wool on the rug and pulled his wife into a tight embrace. Even through the layers of stiff corset and rustling petticoats, she was warm and pliant, and sank against him with a sigh that made him ache all over. They stood together for several heartbeats, the ticking of the clock on the mantel the only sound beyond their breathing.

"Poor Mr. Holmes." Mary's words were little more than a hot flutter against his neck. "It was all over the papers yesterday."

"Yes." A wave of anguish crested within him, leaving him utterly numb in its wake. He let his hands slip from her shoulders, and she pulled away to regard him with a worried frown.

"Are you all right?"

He stared at her mutely for a moment, then took her face into his hands and gently kissed her. When they parted, she caught his hand in hers and turned her face into his palm, leaving the imprint of her kiss there as well.

"I know," she murmured. "I know."

Supper was brought in, but Watson picked at what little his wife (at his request) had lain on his plate. Soon the dishes were cleared away, and he sat staring into the fire, thoughtfully fingering the polished wood of Holmes' Alpine-stock. Mary retrieved her knitting from a basket at her feet, and Watson let the clicking of her needles lull him into a comfortable drowsiness.

A young boy—tall for his age, slender, dark hair, gray eyes—was standing before him at the edge of a misty green meadow. The child grinned up at him. "Come on, Watson!" he piped. He grabbed Watson's hand to lead him into the sea of dewy grass. "The game is afoot!"

Feeling an echo of the boy's grin spread across his own face, Watson found himself following along. "Slow down a bit," the doctor cautioned. The old war injury was already beginning to twinge from the damp. "I won't be able to keep up with you for very long, at this rate."

The child's only response was to giggle and increase their speed. "Come on! Come on!"

Now the leg was cramping in earnest, and Watson jolted to a stop. "I can't keep up with you. You've got to slow down."

Laughing, the child hurried on, his hand slipping out of Watson's. "Come on!"

There was a roaring in his ears as he limped after the boy, and his blood ran cold as he realized what the sound was.

A waterfall.

"No," he whispered. Though every step was agony, he gave chase.

His lungs burning from the cold air, Watson burst through the ring of pines that edged the meadow only to find himself at Reichenbach. On an immense granite boulder near the boiling flume of whitewater stood a tall man in a dripping cloak.

"NO!" Watson howled, matching his fury against that of the falls.

The figure turned, revealing the face and form of Moriarty, and he was carrying the limp form of the young boy. With an icy shock of horror, Watson knew the child was dead.

Without warning, the menacing figure launched himself into the air, his cloak billowing around him and the boy as they plunged into the mist.

"Holmes!"

For the second time that day, Watson was awakened by the sound of his own voice. There was a soft cry followed by a rustling of fabric, and he opened his eyes to find his wife bending over him.

Mary laid her cool hand against his cheek. "It's all right, John. You're home now."

"I'm sorry, my dear." Watson glanced around at the familiar furnishings of his own living room. "I was dreaming. Did I frighten you?"

"Just a little." She smiled gently. "You've been asleep for almost an hour. Go on up to bed, dearest."

He nodded and slowly got to his feet, stiff and sore from falling asleep in his chair. "Will you join me?" He raised his wife's hand to his lips and brushed a kiss against the bright gold of her wedding band.

She blushed prettily. "I'll be along presently."

The clock downstairs chimed, echoing in the silence. The master and the mistress of the house did nothing to break the stillness, and instead let their touches and glances communicate better than any words. A kiss became a question, a sigh the answer, and so they passed the watches of the night until the gray light of dawn slipped around the edges of the window shade.

Mary was dozing lightly against her husband's shoulder when she felt something wet, like a drop of rain, fall on her cheek. She stirred and looked up to see her husband staring at the ceiling. Tears were welling in his eyes, and it was one of these tears that had escaped the confines of his lashes to dampen her face. He made no sound as yet another tear fell, but his throat worked as Mary shifted against him. He closed his eyes, the motion pushing twin droplets down his face.

"Tell me," he said in a tight whisper. "Tell me how it is that I can be glad to be alive, while he is dead?"

"I don't know," Mary answered. She wiped his tears away with gentle fingers. "It is the way of mankind, I suppose. When we are faced with death, it makes us ever more determined to hold on to life."

He opened his eyes and turned his face to hers, reading nothing but love and deepest sympathy in his wife's serene expression. "If only I could be contented with that."

She rose up on her elbows, her hair falling around them like a curtain. "In time, you will be." She dipped her head to touch his lips with her own. "Sleep now, my dear."

Sheltered in his wife's embrace, John Watson slept.