I had often perceived that my companion Mr Sherlock Holmes would fall into a most unfavourable depression during the run up to Christmas. I had considered it to merely be a consequence of his reticent and reserved nature when it came to such celebrations however, some short time after his reappearance after the incident in Switzerland for which I am eternally grateful that he survived, it came to my attention that he was in a somewhat worse humour than usual at this time.

Usually a case would materialize to occupy him but no such distraction was forthcoming this time. Matters came to a head when I at last persuaded him out to take in some seasonal entertainment at a nearby musical hall. I had observed before that despite his great love of classical music he was to be equally amused by the lowest of vaudeville acts; and if the acts displeased then a study of the various patrons present was enough to ease him. This evening I felt I had been mildly successful in cheering my friend and we were in the process of exiting the theatre when a most strange circumstance befell us.

Upon stepping into the crisp December air in search of a cab to return us to Baker Street we inadvertently collided with a young woman, hurrying in the opposite direction. She was small of stature and dressed in black from head to toe. During the minor collision her bonnet came undone and fell to the ground revealing a head of charming tawny ringlets. While I stooped to retrieve the bonnet Holmes had drawn back from the apparition in an apparent state of shock. The young woman took her bonnet from my hand and waved away my apology with a recrimination that fine gentlemen ought to be more careful where they tread. Her thick cockney accent seemed to calm Holmes, from whose troubled countenance my eyes had not strayed even while rescuing the bonnet, although he remained pale and silent during our return to Baker Street.

When we reached home Holmes slammed into his room, though the hour was not that late. He did not reappear until late the next morning when he appeared haggard and freely confessed to not having slept well. However the few questions I put to him as to what was troubling him were bitten off and spat back in my face with the greatest ill-temper. Taking myself away I determined not to return till later in the day when I hoped my companion would be more disposed to be pleasant. I also prayed that, during my absence some suitable case would present itself to occupy him.

I traversed the streets and parks of London for some time until, looking around suddenly I realised I was only a street or two's distance from the Diogenes Club that haunt of my companions elder brother Mycroft Holmes. I decided to call upon him both to convey the greetings of the season but also to question him as to whether he knew the cause of his brother's more than usually ill-spirits.

Mycroft, an older and more portly version of his brother was only too pleased to receive me in the Strangers Room; the only room in the Club in which conversation is permitted. We exchanged a few pleasant phrases before Mycroft, even more astute and to the point than his brother if that were at all possible asked me the reason for my visit.

"It is not that I dislike your company in any way Doctor and I hope you will not find me rude but, as the one element of our lives that we hold in common is my younger brother, and as he is absent from this meeting I can only assume that he is troubling you in some way and you wish to speak to me about it."

"I rather fear it is the case." I answered, nodding my assent.

"I do not pretend to know my brother's mind Dr Watson but if it is possible for me to help you then I shall do my level best."

I took some time to explain Holmes recent behaviour culminating in the occurrence of the previous night, outside the theatre. Mycroft nodded slowly, almost sadly.

"Yes doctor," he said when I had finished my narrative, "I believe I know what ails my brother. However it is in the nature of being a private family matter and one which causes him great pain, therefore I am afraid that I cannot tell you. On the other hand, should his behaviour worsen and you become in any way alarmed please comeback to see me and I shall do what I can to remedy the situation."

"And what do you advise I do in the meantime?" I enquired, feeling rather like one of my own patients asking about the treatment of a sick relative.

"In the meantime? In the meantime I advise that you leave him, interference would only anger him." And with that warning I left.

It was not difficult to follow Mycroft's instructions during the next few days as I was seasonally busy at my surgery with various aches, pains, coughs, sores, sniffles and all the other infirmities that are brought about by the cold weather. I left early, before Holmes had risen and returned late when he was either already in bed or out on his own business in which case he would return after I had retired for the night. However we had not entirely lost contact during that time. Late one night I awoke with a dry throat and went downstairs to fill the empty water jug by my bed. On my return I was passing Holmes bedroom door on the lower landing when I heard an odd noise. It sounded like someone weeping quietly.

Thinking that perhaps it was Mrs Hudson I went back towards the stairs but the noise grew fainter. Then I turned and went into our living room at the end of the corridor wondering perhaps if the noise was coming from outside via an open window but the windows were shut tight and the street outside deserted and yet the noise was very much in evidence. It was like the inconsolable weeping of a child and it filled me with a deep melancholy. I placed my water jug down on Holmes little table which he used for chemical experiments. The noise was louder in this part of the room and it was then that I realised that it was coming from Holmes own bedroom. Was he crying in his sleep or was he awake, was this the reason he had not been able to sleep? The questions began to buzz in my head like a hive of bees. But I was getting ahead of myself; perhaps the noise, though it came from his room did not come from him or if it did was it definitely crying? Could it not be some nasal whine brought on by a bad cold or some other bronchial condition which he had neglected to tell me of? However I doubted all of this very much. I was tempted to look in on him in order to satisfy my curiosity but I knew Holmes to be an extraordinarily light sleeper where the noise of his bedroom door was concerned so I determined another plan.

I returned to bed and to sleep and rose at my normal hour the next morning. Over breakfast I charged Mrs Hudson with a special mission I was sure even Holmes, had it not concerned him, would have been proud of. I asked her to take a good look at my companion's face when he arose that morning and to note if his eyes and the area around them were in any way red or inflamed. I further asked her to check his pillow for any sign of dampness that may signal that he had been crying in the night. However I pressed her not to mention these things to him and to instead inform me upon my return home in the evening.

Although she was uncomfortable with the idea of spying on her lodger she agreed to my plan on the understanding that it was to do with his health, a subject that was always close to her heart. I left shortly after for my surgery where I believed I had a very mundane day ahead of me, but that was not to be.

I had not been at my surgery for long, a few hours at most, when a note arrived from our estimable landlady. It read: Please come quickly, Mr Holmes is terribly ill and I do not know what to do. Mrs Hudson.

I paid the messenger and, after quickly checking that my good colleague could bear the brunt of my patients for the afternoon I hurried back to Baker Street. I found Mrs Hudson pacing the hall just inside the door awaiting my return. She was in a dreadful state.

"Oh Doctor," she cried upon seeing me, "I am at my wits end!"

"My dear Mrs Hudson, what has occurred?" I asked.

"It is Mr Holmes sir. He has been injecting himself with that vile drug again but this time I fear he has taken too much for I found him on the floor of the living room, quite unconscious and with his sleeve all rolled up and that little bottle on the table next to him."

As she spoke I took to the stairs, she behind me. When I reached the living room I threw open the door and saw the scene as she had described it. Holmes, in his dressing gown lay unconscious upon the floor, one sleeve rolled up above the elbow, his little glass syringe clasped loosely in the other the empty bottle on the table. His face was thin and pale but the area around his eyes was red and puffy and his eyelids twitched continuously as though he were watching a horse race on the inside of his heavy lids. His lips too were moving, mumbling silently. I removed the syringe and makeshift tourniquet he had used to stem the blood flow and managed to shift him to his own bed. As I carried him I realised how slim he had grown of late and Mrs Hudson confirmed that he had not been eating.

I settled him as best I could and returned to the living room. I collected his syringe and bottle and returned them to their morocco case which I then placed in my medical bag. I went again to his bedside where I ascertained that he was in a stable condition having obviously too much sense to administer enough of the drug to harm himself overmuch. I gave some instructions to Mrs Hudson as to what was to be done should he awake and informed her that I if she needed me I would be found at the Diogenes Club. I felt sure that a near overdose of cocaine and crying in his sleep could be construed as alarming behaviour.

When Mycroft entered the Strangers Room he divined from my face that something had occurred.

"What has he done Doctor?" he asked, his voice betraying a little anxiety which even he must have felt.

"He has fallen heavily upon his addiction." I replied. I carefully outlined the circumstances I had encountered at Baker Street and added the facts that he had not been eating and had been crying in his sleep. Mycroft nodded sagely during all of this.

"Indeed," he said when I had finished, "it is as I had feared, although perhaps not the worst he is capable of."

"You believe he will grow worse?"

"No good doctor I do not think he will get much worse, but at one time I may have worried that could be the case."

"Please," I begged him, "will you now tell me what it is that ails him so?"

"Yes, please be seated doctor. I know that my younger brother means much to you so for both your sakes I will tell you of the events which have caused this depression in Sherlock."

I sat myself in one of the high-backed chairs of the club room and prepared to listen to his tale. Before beginning Mycroft reached into and inside pocket of his jacket and produced a small photograph which he gazed at for a moment before handing it to me.

"It is to do with the young lady in this photograph," he said passing it across the table, "perhaps the only woman my brother could ever be said to have loved."

I looked at the face in the photograph before me. It was small and pretty with large eyes and a head of ringlets. Despite the fashion of expression in most photographs at the time the girl was wearing a broad smile and clutching a small poesy of daisies in one small lace-gloved hand. Charming as she was I could hardly see that hers was a beauty Holmes would have found in any way alluring.

"Who is she sir?" I asked, still gazing at the photograph for any sign of what may have attracted my friend to this lady.

"Her name was Imogen, Dr Watson and she was our unfortunate younger sister."

"Your sister!" I exclaimed. "But Holmes never mentioned that he had a sister."

"No, but then as I understand it he remitted to tell you he had a brother until it was convenient for him to do so."

"Well yes I suppose that was the case, but still…"

"But still you would have thought that he esteemed you enough to tell you that he had also a sister when my existence came to be known to you?"

"Yes."

"And no doubt he would have told you, had circumstances been different."

"Different?"

"Had she still been alive dear doctor."

Mycroft then began to impart some information to me which I have copied here as best I could although you will realise that the whole matter had left me in a slight state of shock.

"As you know doctor I am some seven years Sherlock's senior, rather a great disparity of ages between siblings. However some two or three years after the birth of my brother our mother gave birth once more, this time to a little girl, Imogen. Because of the relative closeness of their ages compared to myself the two became firm friends. She was an invaluable ally in Sherlock's constant battles with our father, indeed it was due to her that he was returned home from boarding school, where he had been sent in a form of disgrace, after only a few weeks."

"She adored Sherlock completely. He was her idol, her god, everything she did she did for him. I will not say that this did not make Sherlock a little conceited but only marginally more than any privileged child. But he did love her very much, of that I am certain. I rather fear that the divide between them was my fault."

"Divide?" I asked, breaking my silence.

"Yes, during the last few years of her life the two barely spoke."

"But how could that be any fault of yours?"

"Quite simply doctor because I introduced her to a peer of mine with whom she fell in love and eventually married."

"But how did that cause a rupture between brother and sister?" I pressed. Mycroft gave an aggravated sigh and I could see that my questions made him uncomfortable.

"Because Sherlock felt that he had somehow been replaced in her affections, although it was clear to everyone else that was simply not the case. Aside from that he never felt that the gentleman in question, one Captain Montgomery of the British Army, was good enough for his dear sister. After she married he ceased all communication with her which I know was a cause of much sadness to her. However the marriage was not to last. After only two years the Captain died of wounds sustained during a mugging on a rare visit to London. Our dear sister never recovered from his death; a combination of grief, a bad fever and a somewhat weaker constitution than either my brother or myself are blessed with carried her off within the year. A widow and dead before the age of one and twenty."

We two sat in silence for some time as I contemplated this sad tale.

"And when," I finally dared to ask, "did she die?"

"Christmas Eve," he replied softly. "This year will be the twentieth anniversary of her passing. That is why my brother is more than usually upset."

I nodded, understanding dawning on me. I thanked Mycroft for his time and for relating the story to me. I caught a cab back to Baker Street and stood facing the door for some minutes before entering. Now I knew the reason for Holmes depression it was now a question of how to relieve his distress and I fancied that this might be the more difficult task in the long run.

Holmes, despite my earlier protestations that he should remain in bed if he regained consciousness, had risen and was ensconced in his favourite armchair by the fire, his cherry-wood pipe clenched between his teeth but unlit. His attitude was one of relaxation and his mood calmer then he had been these last few days although he still looked pale and taxed but I judged him to be feeling slightly better. When I entered he opened one lazy lid and smiled thinly.

"Have you returned to reproach me for my unorthodox habits Watson?"

"No," I answered dryly for I was still irked with him for his behaviour.

"You have not been walking in the snow at any rate."

I must admit to feeling somewhat relieved that he had returned to his little games and so decided to play along before questioning him as to his sister.

"And how do you know that?" I asked, falling into the familiar rhythm.

"Your shoes and the bottoms of your trousers are dry. As the snow is now some inches thick, even on the pavements it would have been impossible for you to walk without getting them wet."

I nodded and smiled. "Simple really," I said, "but can you tell where I have been?"

"Indeed from the strong aroma of cigar smoke I would surmise that you had been at some gentlemen's club, yes?"

I nodded my assent.

"At my guess you have spent the time at the Diogenes Club, no doubt discussing my recent behaviour with my brother Mycroft. Is that not so?"

I must admit that I was taken aback. "But how could you possibly know that."

Holmes gave a sudden laugh and removed a small piece of paper from the recesses of his dressing gown. "Telegrams, doctor, move faster through London than the quickest cabbies horse."

"And tell me, what has your brother said of our conversation?"

"Very little I'm afraid. "The good doctor has visited me with regards you recent behaviour. Do try not to be angry with him. Merry Christmas. Mycroft." However as to what your discussion entailed I do not know, although I am sure I can guess."

Reaching into my pocket I removed the photograph which Mycroft had kindly let me borrow and handed it to Holmes. He set his pipe back upon the rack and took it from me and gazed at the face for some long minutes. He bit his lower lip and shut his eyes tightly before laying the photograph down upon the sofa.

"And what do you make of her Watson?" he asked. His voice was calm, emotionless as though she were no more than a client but I saw that it took some effort to produce this effect. It sat in my customary chair opposite him and poked at the fire, drawing more heat from the coals.

"I think she was a very beautiful young woman." I answered. A thin smile flicked across his face.

"Yes she was, very beautiful indeed and kind."

"I know she was very fond of you." I said carefully. There was a pause before he answered.

"She had the greatest capacity to love of any human being who has ever lived, of that I have no doubt. I consider myself to be the luckiest of men to have known her love during my life, although why she chose to grace me I have always wondered."

"Your brother thinks it had something to do with a greater closeness in your ages."

"That, I am afraid shows my dear brother's lack of imagination where such things are considered. Had there been as many years between she and I as there are between Mycroft and myself I have little doubt that we would have felt the same about each other."

"Then what do you put it down to?"

"Necessity."

I sat for a moment and considered his answer. He was gazing into the flames of the fire with a slightly distant look.

"I'm not sure I understand."

"Of course you don't understand," he snapped viciously, "because you do not know the circumstances in which we were brought up. Circumstances I have little wish to relate." I must of looked hurt at his outburst for the next instant his face softened. "Forgive me Watson but my family and early life have never been favourite topics of mine. My reticence has nothing to do with any doubt in you my dear fellow, please believe me."

"Of course."

"Perhaps what I meant by necessity was that I felt a certain responsibility towards her and she in turn felt indebted to me."

"Mycroft told me that she was something of an ally to you."

A small smile crept onto his face as he spoke. "Ah yes, in the ever waging war between concerned parent and erring child. My parents could refuse her nothing a talent which she put to use on my behalf more often than her own. Did my brother tell you she petitioned for my return from boarding school?" I nodded my assent.

"He mentioned something of it."

"Both Mycroft and myself were educated at home by the most excellent tutors, all of whom despised us both; Mycroft for laziness and myself for impertinence and we took great care to despise them in return. However after some misadventure the details of which I can no longer recall my father decided that I should be sent away to be taught some discipline. I was packed off to a boarding school many miles away but my sweet sister had other ideas. For two weeks she cried, she forwent all but the most meagre amount of food and drink and refused to speak to anyone in the house save on one subject, my immediate return to her. I must congratulate my parents on having the nerve to withstand her for so long but in the end they could not stand the thought of being estranged from her for the sake of a little discipline. And so I was returned, although I will admit that only my sister and my mother, who adored us all, were pleased to see me return."

I could not help but laugh a little at this story and Holmes returned the sentiment by tossing his head back in a sharp guffaw at the memory.

"She does seem to have had a remarkable power." I ventured when my laughter had subsided.

"And that was only half her talents my dear chap. She had a degree of intelligence which was astonishing although it employed itself in a different form to either that of Mycroft or myself. She understood the finer points of humanity on a grand scale, not any of you cryptic medical psychology but a simple and deep understanding of the human condition. She could spend five minutes with the most reclusive cabinet minister and have him telling her the most intimate wishes of his heart. Not only that but she made the simple quality of femininity into an art form. She was a truly enchanting creature in every way and I will not deny that I loved her dearly with a wealth of feeling I have not felt since she passed."

Here he stopped and began to stare once more into the flames in the grate. I let him take a moment before I continued. Indeed I saw that Mycroft was right and this was the only woman, perhaps the only person Holmes had ever truly loved in his entire life, or at least the only one he had allowed himself to love.

"You have more questions for me doctor." He said softly after some time had passed. "Pray what else has my brother been telling you?"

"He said that you disapproved of her marriage to Captain Montgomery."

"Yes. It seems selfish and unkind now but at the time…" He looked me sharply in the eye. "You must understand our family were very much the only people my sister ever saw. She had few friends and received few visitors. I had for so long been an object of adoration for her it came as a shock to find that she could love another as fiercely as she did me. For a long time I refused to believe it, choosing rather to suppose that she had ceased to love me altogether and that the Captain had replaced me entirely in her affections. But much as I wished to believe it I knew it not to be true, she loved me just as she had always done and it was I who was incapable of sharing."

"Mycroft mentioned something about you not thinking he was good enough for her."

"Of course I didn't think he was good enough for her, I was horribly jealous. Besides an elder brother would think a king not good enough for his younger sister. That is not to say that Montgomery did not have his faults; as a friend of Mycroft he was intensely political in his thoughts and the army had made him a trifle gruff in his manner. Aside from that I found him to be staggeringly boring in his conversation but as I told you my sister had a great capacity to love and she saw none of this as a problem."

"You were upset at their marriage?" I was interested to see Holmes more bursting with emotion than I think I had ever seen him. Obviously the death of his sister had been part of the cause for his reticence which I had always taken to be natural.

"I was furious," he replied, "I used her own tactics and refused to speak to her until she gave up the notion. However, like so many others I underestimated her steel. Never underestimate a woman Watson, they have many unique and indiscernible advantages over us."

"Point taken Holmes."

"But… yes, for my eternal sins I stopped all communication with her. I received a letter every day, begging me to talk to her, to be reasonable. However, as I'm sure you know Watson, if one knows that one is being unreasonable it makes one even more determined to stick to your guns in the face of a complete lack of a raison d'etre for our behaviour. You will find it more often in adults than children who seem to possess a strange type of logic with which they can answer all charges."

It was not unusual I must say for Holmes to admit he had been wrong on some point. In his cases he often constructed incomplete or erroneous theories which were quickly enough put right with the discovery of some new piece of evidence. However I doubt I had ever heard him admit to holding an opinion which was completely illogical and without reason, based only on feelings of jealousy and betrayal. This was a different Holmes altogether to the one with whom I had, for so long shared lodgings.

"You are staring Watson. Yes, as a young man, before I had properly trained my mind to function only with the use of data and logic I was capable of such an outrageous imbalance of opinion. Of course as soon as I had made the pledge never to speak to her again I regretted it. Every day her letters brought me great pain, unwilling as I was to admit my wrong and yet wanting so much to be with her again. I was too proud, a weakness and vice which seems to run in the male line of our family somewhat."

"What about after the unfortunate fellow's death?"

"Ah yes the London mugging, that was a rather strange affair and one which, although nothing was said I'm sure many thought I had a hand in."

"But what happened?" I pleaded, desperate to know the circumstances. Holmes sighed with annoyance.

"It was a very commonplace matter," he replied tersely. "The fellow came up to London to meet some friends with whom he had been in the army. He was here for three days and due to return home on the early morning train on Saturday. However on Friday night, after taking leave of his friends he found himself walking through the streets of London alone and became somewhat disorientated at which point he wandered up a blind alley and fell victim to a bunch of thugs who beat and robbed him. He was found in the dawn hours of the next morning and was returned home by his friends to the loving care of his wife and local doctor."

Holmes related all this in the detached voice he would use when reading aloud the more mundane crimes reported in the newspapers. It was obvious that the fate of this poor man interested him only in its connection to the story of his beloved sister.

"How long?" I asked.

"A month, perhaps a little less. He struggled manfully it must be confessed but then I have often found it is the way of those in the armed professions to hold on until the last."

I did not reply to this. There was a slightly bitter edge to his words which I must confess I did not care for. However I was willing to forgive him when I saw the look which flashed through his eyes at the next instant.

"She never left his side, never. She took all her meals in his room and slept on the couch in the corner until he was gone. She stopped writing to me, so consumed with worry was she. Of course that made it all the easier for me to believe that she had ceased to care for me."

Holmes closed his eyes as if the very memory caused him physical pain. Had he been a lesser man I would have left it there but from a medical point of view I considered that it could only do him good to talk the whole thing through.

"Your brother mentioned that she was never quite the same after her husband's death."

"She wasted away," he murmured, his eyes still closed. "If anything that gave me even more incentive not to see her. For all I professed that I would have no more to do with her the news of her decline pained me greatly and I could not bear to see that gay and delightful creature I had known wither and fail like a new butterfly in a late frost."

Again there was silence for a few moments while the mask of his face flickered with sparks of emotion, like reflections on the surface of a pool; distorted by something unseen just beneath the surface. I watched him bite back more emotion than I had ever thought him capable of before his eyes snapped open and he gazed directly into my eyes.

"She died on Christmas Eve. She was the victim of a bad fever which claimed half the county. Mycroft bullied me into attending the funeral; he always did have a better head for family politics than I. I remained at the back of the church and refused any part of the ceremony, so determined was I to hold my position even after such a tragedy. It was not until some time after when the few mourners were returning home that the lawyer approached me with a letter which he claimed had been given into his possession by my sister the day she died."

"A letter?" I repeated.

"Yes. It's over there on the bureau," he indicated a long cream envelope on the dresser which I retrieved as he spoke. "I looked it out when I received Mycroft's cable that you had been to see him. I thought you might like to read it."

"I will do no such thing if you would rather I didn't," I told him, hurt that he thought I would pry into his private affairs if I did not consider it important.

"I did not think you would Watson," he murmured and granted me a gentle smile, "you are too kindly in nature."

I resumed my chair by the fire and turned the envelope in my fingers. It was long, heavy and of excellent quality. It was addressed in a round but shaking script to "My Dearest Brother, Mr Sherlock Holmes". It had been slit open smoothly as by a letter opener or knife.

"You did not open it instantly upon receiving it," I mused to myself, the habit of attempting to apply my companion's methods of deduction rising to the surface unbidden. He was looking at me with slightly amused wonder.

"Indeed, you know Watson you are improving all the time. And how did you happen to deduce that?"

I shrugged, somewhat embarrassed to be playing our familiar game in such a situation.

"Well a knife or opener has been used to open the envelope. As far as I am aware there has never been a fashion for gentlemen to carry letter openers in their pockets; therefore it was opened some time afterwards."

"Excellent. Although it must be said that I did have a small penknife in my possession at the time with which I could have opened it but my hands shook so badly upon being given it that I decided to wait until later. When I returned home I set it down on the table and there it remained for several days as I was too afraid to open the thing. I had no desire to know what my departed sister had wished to communicate to me. At least that was what I told myself. Eventually I could stand the silent torture no longer but could not quite bring myself to rip it open for fear I might tear the precious missive which it contained."

I ran my finger along the clean tear and prised the envelope open with my fingertips.

"May I?" I asked.

"By all means, but not aloud if you don't mind. I know those words too well to need reminding."

Carefully I drew out the paper within, unfolding it gently. The paper was the same make as the envelope and covered in the same neat if quivering script. It read:

"My Dearest Sherlock,

I am not foolish enough to believe the Doctor's half-hearted predictions that I shall make a full recovery. Even if the fever were to suddenly abate I fear I could never recover from the deeper tragedy I have suffered. And so I am resigned my darling and have made my peace with God. I could not however leave this earth without having first made my peace with you.

You are not and never were a fool. You who read people so easily could not possibly be foolish enough to think that I ever ceased to love you. Not foolish enough but perhaps proud enough. But I have no wish to open old wounds or bathe in bad blood.

I love you, have always loved you and understand your feelings better than you would think. I absolve you of any sins others may feel you have committed against me. Know that I never did feel there was any wrongdoing in your treatment, no matter how much pain it caused me. I could never think ill of my own darling brother whom I have always loved best.

You have always remained the man I always knew you were. I am only sorry that I could never become the woman you never truly thought I was, perhaps things would have been easier if I had. My only last wish is that you should miss me just a little and think of me now and then for I could not bear to be forgotten by you.

Farewell my own darling Sherlock,

Your constant and ever loving sister,

Imogen Montgomery (nee Holmes)."

I folded the letter neatly back into its envelope and a small sigh escaped my lips. I looked up at Holmes who was watching me closely as though he could somehow see her words inside my mind.

"She loved you very deeply," I said quietly.

Holmes closed his eyes once more and exhaled slowly.

"Yes she did," he said after a while.

But there was something on my mind. A phrase she had used.

"What did she mean?" I asked. "That bit about not being the woman you never thought she was?"

My friend opened his eyes again.

"My failed attempts to convince myself that she was a flighty soul who had transferred her affections from myself to her husband and left me with nothing. I could never truly believe it and she knew that. If she had stopped loving me she would not have cared for my opinion of her and it would have caused her no added pain but she didn't and I dare say that my stony silence contributed somewhat to her eventual decline. That, Watson is what she meant."

"Then she knew you better than even I would claim to," I replied to him.

"Watson, you know I am not an overly poetic man and so you know I do not exaggerate when I say she knew my very soul."

I rose slowly and placed the envelope with its sweet contents in his lap. As I moved back to my chair his hand reached out and closed carefully over it.

"Thank you," he murmured softly.

I left it at that for a few minutes and lit my pipe, letting the thick grey smoke circle the room. Holmes nostrils flared at the smell and he closed his eyes momentarily, breathing in slowly as if the reek itself gave him strength.

"It has been twenty years since she died."

"Yes, your brother mentioned that. He said that she was very young."

"Yes, in fact had she been reborn the day she died and lived her life again she would have died this year. Tomorrow; at two-thirty precisely."

"Holmes…," I began but he cut me off with a gentle smile.

"No Watson you need not worry yourself. I do not intend any further damage to myself. I must confess that it has hit me harder than I had supposed. Had I a case on hand I have little doubt that this somewhat morbid anniversary would have passed me by without comment but I'm afraid I have had no problems by which I could escape my lethargy and so…" He left his sentence unfinished but gestured in such a fashion as to indicate his unfortunate accident of earlier in the day.

I opened my mouth once more to say something but he cut me off once more with a wave of his hand.

"Ah, now you wish to berate me for my actions as always."

I could not help but smile at that for he was smirking at me in that familiar way which signalled all arguments as to his unconventional habits.

"I will admit to having been most angered by your actions, however my overwhelming feeling was of concern Holmes."

"And on this occasion are you willing to forgive me my little vice?"

"Forgive perhaps but not condone, you might have killed yourself."

Holmes raised an eyebrow.

"My dear chap, surely you give me more credit than that?"

He was smiling wryly now and I joined him. Having just listened to his story I could not find it within myself to be truly angry with him.

"You gave me a shock is all. And you scared poor Mrs Hudson half to death."

"Yes… I owe you both a sincere apology. Which you shall receive properly tomorrow evening when we return to Baker Street."

He stood and made his way across the floor to the door of his room.

"Return? But where are we going?"

He paused at the door.

"I am going to pay my respects to my sister. I should like you to come with me, if that would not be inconvenient to you."

"Of course it won't," I told him gently.

He turned to look at me. It was a strange look, tired and sad but grateful and without the hauntedness which had filled him these past few days. A smile flickered across his face.

"Thank you Watson. I appreciate it greatly."

And with that he retired. I sat a while longer alone I the sitting room, thinking. I had seen something in Holmes that night which he had kept hidden for all the time I had known him. I felt a kind of cold privilege that he had allowed me to see the cracks in his façade of marble.

I picked up the photograph which Mycroft had given to me and gazed at it for a time. It was a pretty face indeed, soft and gentle but there was something of her brothers in the set of her chin and the line of her nose. Her eyes stared back at me from the depths of the picture, knowing and sweet. She was a lovely creature to be sure and Holmes description of her character had served only to enhance that image. I laid the photograph to one side and retired myself.

The next day we took an early train deep into the country. We alighted at a small rural station, deserted and covered in snow. We took a dog-cart to the local church; a charming little stone chapel and bell tower with a small graveyard behind. There was a chill breeze, despite the December sunshine as we entered by a wooden gate.

Holmes strode across the hard ground while I tried to keep a respectful distance. He stopped opposite a neat grey marker in the shade of the church wall. Reaching down he removed one of his black gloves and wiped the snow from the top of the stone carefully. He knelt in the snow while I watched from behind. For a while he simply sat there and then he reached out his bare hand and pressed it to the cold stone of the marker. I heard his breath catch in his throat and he cast his eyes heavenward. When he finally rose I could see they were pricked with tears which he blinked back before reaching inside his overcoat and pulling out a single red rose, wrapped in green paper. He laid the flower gently on the snow at the base of the marker, resting his hand once more upon it before he straightened and turned to me.

"We must be going," he said briskly. "The church will be letting out soon and I have no desire for a crowd."

We left the graveyard the way we had entered but he stopped once more just outside the gate and put his hand on my arm. I turned to him and he flashed me another of his brief smiles.

"I want to thank you Watson, for coming here with me. I do not know that I could have made this journey alone."

"Surely your brother would have come with you if you had asked?" I said but he shook his head and barked out a short laugh.

"I think not. Mycroft is even less sentimental than I and besides, politicians do not stop work even for their brothers."

"Well, it was no trouble I assure you."

Holmes took a deep breath of sharp, fresh air and gave me a broad smile.

"And now Doctor," he announced, "I happen to know that there is a very good inn nearby and neither of us had a particularly large breakfast this morning. What do you say a pot of tea and a plate of bacon and eggs?"

I laughed.

"I say, lead the way old fellow," I replied and, linking arms we set off as the church bells began to chime joyously behind us, reminding all that tomorrow would be Christmas Day.