Sherlock Holmes the Golden Years by Kim H. Krisco

Author:Kim H. Krisco
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Sherlock Holmes, mystery, crime, british crime, sherlock holmes novels, sherlock holmes fiction, sherlock holmes short fiction
ISBN: 9781780926728
Publisher: Andrews UK Limited 2014
Published: 2014-11-11T00:00:00+00:00

The Cure that Kills

During Irene Adler’s funeral, the only outward expression of Holmes’s feelings occurred when Irene’s daughter, Adaline, asked him if he wished to pay his last respects before the coffin was closed.

Unobtrusively, Holmes removed the gold sovereign from his watch chain and placed it under Irene’s cold, folded hands. Other than this outward symbol of his acceptance, Holmes’s grief was expressed in a private and solitary manner. He sat quietly in my parlour for days after the requiem. I stayed near, but never encroached upon his vigil.

* * *

Five days after the interment, I was pouring steamy water into a waiting cup of a bracing mountain tippy tea that I have come to love, when Holmes approached.

“May I join you, Watson?”

“Bring a cup here, and try this exceptional brew.”

“Yes, I noticed the Yu Ch’ien tea in your cupboard and looked forward to tasting it. It’s harvested in the spring, you know, which accounts for its zesty tang.”

“I only know that I look forward to this treat, which I reserve for dreary afternoons such as this. It is a silly gift which I give myself.”

“Silly, Watson, no. We solitary gentlemen need such small pleasures, do we not?”

This simple observation revealed a chink in Holmes’s Spartan armour that, I believe, “the woman” had breached.

“I miss her also, Holmes. She had an enigmatic nature—completely feminine and, at the same time, warrior-like.”

“Yes. And her passing reminds me, once again, that the fabric of fantasies often becomes a threadbare reality.”

I twisted my chair around to face Holmes, who was staring into his cup. “Fantasies can be a response to a need, I believe.”

“Yes—and, it is a little surprising, at my age, to discover some new aspect of my nature.”

“A pleasant surprise?”

“Pleasant is not the word I might choose—unsettling, interesting at best.”

“So, what does one do with new self-knowledge?”

Holmes grimaced and pulled back from the table, most likely signalling that I had ventured too far into his interior world. “What does one do, Watson? Channel it! Direct it toward something useful and meaningful.”

He arose from the table and struck a pose of intended action. “I suggest that we pay a visit to my dear brother.”

“Mycroft?”

“He has had enough time to rationalize the deaths of Irene and the hundreds of others.”

“You’re being cruel now, Holmes.”

“Possibly. My brother and I share a latent flaw, and—”

“And, we must forgive ourselves—and others.”

“Forgiveness awaits on the other side of justice—and I shall bring Ciarán Malastier to justice.”

* * *

The next day, Holmes and I traveled to Mycroft’s office in Whitehall.

When we were ushered into his office, we found Mycroft ensconced behind a massive carved oak desk in the corner of his vast book-lined chamber. Holmes strode across the office, and stood at the head of the desk. I trailed behind.

The silence grew with each passing moment, until it filled the room and pushed Mycroft from his chair. He arose and, steadying himself with one hand that trailed along the edge of the desk, walked the perimeter and came to stand face to face with his brother.

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