hetalia_kink

Never is a comfortable seat beside a cheerfully crackling fire quite as inviting as when one has been walking for quite some time in the cold. Before I had even shed my coat and hat, I found my gaze wandering towards the hearth in hope that it had somehow, by the hand of some benevolent god, come to be lit in my absence. As if to compensate for my defeat at the office of enlistment, it had. My friend had awoken since last I saw him, and though there were still dark circles beneath his eyes, he was no longer quite so pale. For this I was thankful. He looked up at me from his seat by the fireside, and I do not doubt that in that single glance he had been able to read my countenance as easily as a book I might have left open upon the table.


“I take it,” he said, with a fatigued smile, “That your search was unsuccessful?”


“Quite. What indication had you of my failure?”


“Firstly, it was evident in your bearing,” Holmes informed me, waving a hand to demonstrate the trajectory his eye had taken. “From the way you entered, slumped as you were, it was simple enough to conclude that you had suffered some defeat.”


“Fair enough,” I granted him. “But that alone is not sufficient to tell where I have been.”


“No,” my friend agreed. “But you are carrying the sketch our good client left with us.” I looked down to confirm this, and, certainly, the picture was in my hand, unfolded so that I might consider it as I walked. “That you carry it spread open informs me that you were examining it as you traveled. Since your earlier endeavor yielded you no answers, it would be only natural to search our quarry’s face again in quiet desperation. And that you are carrying the picture at all, well. That only serves to show that you left on some mission pertaining to the whereabouts of the mysterious Sir Kirkland, don’t you agree?”


I laughed, then, and took my repose in the unoccupied chair.


“Good friend,” I said. “Your analysis is as astute as ever. I went to the enlistment office hoping they might provide me a forwarding address of some sort, or at least a next of kin. But they were as tight-lipped as if they had been protecting the very secrets of the crown. It was a peculiar conversation, to say the least.”


“If you had given them my name, perhaps they would have felt more talkative.”


“Had it crossed my mind then, I would have,” I assured him. “But I was told that the men of the agency know nothing more than you or I of the matter.”


“You trust too easily the excuses of men,” Holmes chided me. “For mere excuses are simple enough to construct.”


“Excuses may be simple to construct, but a certain air of discomfort is not. The name was not well-received.”


“Not well-received? What makes you say that?”


“Nothing quite so particular,” I said, “Simply the way the man with whom I conversed stiffened and paled when I mentioned the name of Sir Kirkland. It seems his fame –whatever we may attribute it to—precedes him.”


“Peculiar,” Holmes said, and I could see already the gears of his mind turning within the confines of his skull. He put a finger to his lips thoughtfully and told me he might step out for a bit later in the evening, and in the event of his prolonged absence, I was not to wait up for him and put off handling any matters of my own.

But such promises are by far easier made than they are kept, and my friend found me sitting awake and reading by the fire when he returned. He scolded me briefly for it, but even if I had half the mind to go to bed, I would not have been able to sleep, I know, for sheer nerves. Holmes entered our home beaming radiantly and would not answer my inquiries as to the cause of his elation until he had removed a box of cigars from the top drawer of the desk and pressed it into my hands.


“My good sir,” he said, affecting the manner of a magician, and gesturing grandly to a parcel he had hastily wrapped in paper. “Do you know that the watering establishments of our good town are just brimming with her majesty’s old veterans?”


“I can only imagine they must be,” I replied.


“You ought to have said so earlier, then!” My friend cried. “For it is by the grace of such an establishment that I have been able to secure us a thread we might follow!”


“A thread!” I cried as well. “Surely this is a miracle!”


Indeed, the ingenuity of my dear friend is such that he is capable of finding some minute shred of hope in even the most puzzling of cases. He smiled and unwrapped the package he had presented, revealing an ornamental snuff-box no larger than the palm of his hand.


“I took the liberty,” he explained, “Of recovering this from a man who told me that he was familiar with the name ‘Sir Kirkland’. He was quite deep in the drink when we last spoke, but tomorrow morning, I imagine, he will discover that something is missing.”


“And you have told him where he might find this something of his?”


“Of course I have. I slipped him a small hint when he tried to encourage the whole of our company into a raucous rendition of “Jerusalem” just around ten o’clock.”


True to Holmes’ word, a man turned up at out front door the next afternoon, following a note he’d found in his pocket sometime earlier in the day.




----
What might the man with the snuff-box know about the mysterious Sir Kirkland? How might it possibly be of help to Doctor Watson and his good friend? And what on earth would drive a man to select "Jerusalem", of all pieces, for a drinking song? There are some things, my dear readers, that lie beyond the sphere of human comprehension...

OP here saying I can't believe how much I'm dying of suspense. But it will be a happy death~

X) God, I love this story so much! A good chapter, with more deducting from Sherlock and hints of bromance between Watson and Holmes ... what fangirl can ask for more?

BTW, totally googling that "Jerusalem" song. I will figure out the mystery of where Arthur is before Sherlock! ... Maybe.

God, this is amazing. Your style evokes the original books and the original characterizations of Holmes and Watson so vividly -- I feel like I'm reading one of the lost works of Arthur Conan Doyle or something. The secret Holmes novel Doyle couldn't publish because the British Crown didn't want anyone to suspect Arthur was real? ahaha I can't wait to find out where Sir Kirkland is actually hiding...

Am going to echo above anon's words on the Queen's Secret. XD

Ah~ Another turn of event, another clue, another link. Perhaps it might lead them to Sir Kirkland, perhaps not, straying them further away. Though surely it will eventually be discovered. Elementary is the key after all.


_{I need to stop typing like that... OTL Can't help it... It's so fun and I'm enjoying the fic too much... xD}

My companion encouraged our guest to remove his coat and stay for a while; with only a small amount of persuasion, he complied.


“Come now,” Holmes said. “And have a seat. Why not continue your story from last night of the expedition to Abyssinia?”


He did. Our guest, Lawrence Bennett, was a veteran of the expedition to Abyssinia some twenty years earlier. His carriage seemed the sort one might expect of a man who had endured a long spell in the unforgiving elements in the farthest corners of the earth – his weathered, tawny features and the stiff set of his jaw heralded his experiences, and when he searched our faces in the same wary manner that I often found myself disposed to, I saw the barest flicker of recognition. Recognition, perhaps, or empathy, to this day, I cannot name it, though I know in the very recesses of my mind that it speaks to the kinship forged of shared hardship.


Hardship though his time in Abyssinia may have been, he confessed, he had come out of the experience much less worse for the wear than others. The very worst of the injuries sustained by his regiment had been none other than his own, which were little more than shrapnel wounds. They pained him in the cold, but he walked with relative ease and thanked God every day that he was spared the necessity of having it removed.


I said nothing in response. I knew too well what he spoke of, but listened respectfully and my good friend did as well.


“Amputation would have likely been my only option had I not been removed from harm’s way as quickly as I had been,” Bennett explained. “For the fragments had pierced my leg straight through to the bone. The colonel, God bless his soul, delivered me to the nearest medic he could find. My comrades had been just as preoccupied as I at the time – not a soul among us had seen the face of battle before. We were each and every one paralyzed with fear. But Colonel Kirkland – there’s a good man, with his head set on right. He picked me up and all but carried me right out of there before it was too late.”


“Excuse me,” I started, though it ashamed me to interrupt. “Did you say your colonel’s name was Kirkland?”


“I did,” he said. “Do you know him, too?”


“I’m afraid not, it is simply that his reputation precedes him. Although the more I hear of his exploits, I wish all the more that I’d had the pleasure of his acquaintance.”


Our guest nodded thoughtfully, rubbing at his leg.


“The acquaintance of Colonel Kirkland,” he said. “Is truly a pleasure, for never in all my years have I met a young man of such inordinate courage and fortitude of character. The youngest of our regiment by far, and yet he was not unlike a father to us all.”


“A father?” Holmes looked curiously at our guest, and I could see that Bennett’s tale had given rise to more questions than answers for him, but our visitation was cut short by a knock on the door. I stood to answer, but before I could leave my seat, Inspector Lestrade had shown himself in, and his young companion, too.


“Perhaps,” Lestrade said, “This conversation might continue at another time? I have urgent business pertaining to an incident on the Rhine.”


“Another time,” Bennett agreed, and he took his leave with grace for all that the choice had not been his to make.


When Bennett had left at last, my friend stood to shake Lestrade by the hand.


“To what,” he asked. “Do I owe the honor of this visit, Inspector?”


“Murder,” Lestrade said, and his words fell heavily upon the room. “Come now, Jones,” he said, motioning to the young clerk who accompanied him. “If you will present Mister Holmes with what we have gathered so far, then the sooner we may be done with this and on our way.”


“Of course,” Holmes assented. The young clerk took this as his cue to lay Lestrade’s notes out upon Holmes’ work desk. “Time is ever of the essence. But while we wait, Inspector, have you ever heard the name ‘Sir Arthur Kirkland’ before?”

Ohoho, I see what you did there~

Awesome story so far, anon! I can't wait to see what new twists lie in store for our stalwart heroes <3

Lestrade inclined his head, studying my companion carefully.


“I have heard the name before. Why do you ask?”


“It is but idle curiosity,” Holmes said, waving his hand as if he wished to do nothing more than dispel the issue immediately. To the naïve eye, certainly, that would have ostensibly been his aim. But my companion is oftentimes as much a capable showman as he is a logician, and particularly when his work calls for the employ of such as part of his repertoire of the most unorthodox of techniques. “But please, first, tell us of this murder on the Rhine.”


And how easily Lestrade fell into the trap he had laid, for he replied carefully:


“Sir Kirkland is a model, albeit, retired servant of the crown. Only this and nothing more.”


And nothing more was said of the gentleman that day.




Something Bennett had said struck me as peculiar – something particularly odd in his story, and I confronted my good friend with my concerns in the morning.


“Not that I mean to in any way discredit his tale,” I explained. “But I do recall him making a point of his colonel’s youth. And yet, I cannot understand how colonel Kirkland could have been the youngest in the regiment. It simply does not add up.”


“Oh?” My friend said. “In what way, Watson, does it not add up? I am curious to hear your analysis.”


So I told him:


“Firstly, Sir Kirkland simply could not have been the youngest of his regiment, unless the regiment were entirely comprised of older men. This is something I find to be a stretch of the imagination by any standards.”


“Very true. Go on.”


“He could not have been any younger than forty, I imagine, for her majesty’s campaign in Abyssinia was no less than twenty years after the Crimean conflict, and I estimate him to have been about twenty years or so old at the time of his service then.”


“What have you to substantiate this claim?” Holmes asked, and from his intonation, it was evident that he was merely testing me, for such investigations are but as games to him.


“The picture of Richard Arkwright!” I said, triumphantly. “It is an expertly-done sketch, and the man in the picture can be no older than perhaps his mid-twenties. Therefore, I cannot understand how a man in his mid-forties can be the youngest member of a regiment on such a taxing campaign.”


“Curious,” Holmes said, but I could see that he was pleased. “Are you certain he was in his twenties?”


“I am positive. Have a look at the picture yourself!”


“Perhaps I will.” And Holmes crossed to the desk where the picture lay, along with all other notes pertaining to our mysterious quarry, beneath the new Rhine papers. He made a great show of pushing the latter documents aside, and rustled about, trying to find the sketch we had received from Arkwright. After a minute or two of quiet searching, he tensed and turned to me.


“You did leave the picture with the rest of my notes, did you not?”


“I did,” I said. “Perhaps you are not looking carefully enough?”


“Nonsense,” Holmes replied, looking through the papers once more. “I am positive I saw it here earlier. I would not lose something so vital as that image.”


“Is there any chance that Lestrade may have accidentally removed it?” Mistakes do happen, and with any luck, I thought, we might recover it from him and resume our search without issue.


But Homes’ countenance darkened at my words and an unnatural coldness crept down my spine.


“I do not know,” he said.




-----
Well, shit, son.

Lestrade did not have the picture.


At the time, I could not know this, so I rounded on the man without a second thought. I made my way to his study the very next day – by far and large a taller task than I anticipated— and demanded the prompt return of the portrait of Sir Kirkland. From what I could ascertain, Lestrade appeared to be entertaining company; a pallid young man sat across from him. Both looked up at my figure in the doorway as if beholding a man gone mad. Turning to his companion, Lestrade excused himself.


“A moment, if you please, Sir Beilschmidt.”


I was led back into the corridor with an arm about my shoulders and at last Lestrade turned to me and inquired as to the cause for such a call.


“The portrait of Sir Kirkland,” I told him. “Has gone missing from my friend’s files. I thought I might ask you to check your Rhine papers to see if you might have picked it up by accident and left with it in carelessness.”


“Not so, Doctor— until five minutes hence, I had not even known you possessed a picture of the man. Are you certain you and your companion have not merely misplaced it?”


“Absolutely certain of it.”


Convinced of his implication in the theft of the picture, however, I pressed him for further details. Somewhere in his testimony, I hoped in quiet desperation, to find some crack that I might apply pressure upon – for with enough pressure, surely, the rest of his façade would fall to pieces. I pressed and I pressed until with a tired sigh, Lestrade excused himself to return to his conference. As if he had, too, run out of patience, Lestrade’s guest emerged from the study and signaled to Lestrade.


“Have you finished your business out here?” He asked. “Or am I to grow gray hairs waiting for you?”


When I think back now, to the time of the encounter, I realize why his question struck me as so very odd; only now am I able to see the humor in it. He could not have grown gray hairs on our account, for although the gentleman of the Rhine affair did not appear to be getting on in years, his hair seemed to have gone gray quite prematurely regardless.


No matter, for my visitation with Lestrade was quickly forgotten in light of all that soon followed. Holmes had left our domicile for the time being in order to pursue some urgent business pertaining to the Rhine affair. As such, it was I who first had the pleasure of making the acquaintance of Absalom – when I entered, I saw that the contents of our living-room had been strewn about as if some pedestrian burglar had helped himself to our home in our absence. But for all that I searched, I could find no evidence that any of our personal effects had been lifted. No, the room had been ransacked, but not for want of anything of material value. An envelope lay upon the wreckage of my companion’s work-desk, pinned in place by a pen-knife.


The contents, inscribed in blood-red ink, read simply:


Call off your search for Sir Arthur Kirkland, or I will end it for you.


-- Absalom


Beneath, two more lines were written, proclaiming in the same scarlet scripture:


I will not cease from Mental Fight,
Nor shall my Sword sleep in my hand!


I was utterly at a loss, and for the first time I can recall in all our years together, so was my companion.




----
A small update this time, dearest readers, but of great significance-- for it seems a darker thread runs through the skein of this truth, and Holmes and Watson will be hard-pressed to carefully pick it out. Who or what is Absalom, and what is his involvement with Sir Kirkland? How full of fail is that threatening note? (For the humble editor relaying this tale to you was forced to fill in holes in Doctor Watson's otherwise seamless narrative; Absalom's letter comprising only one instance.) Until the next time!

The matter of the murder on the Rhine, however, took precedence in all but our minds, for Lestrade and Sir Beilschmidt were sorely in need of Holmes’ help. The latter, a faithful envoy sent from Berlin on behalf of the crown, took my friend by the collar and proffered all manner of bodily harm upon him as incentive not to fail.


“For I have reason to believe,” he growled. “That this murder heralds a greater conspiracy against the scion of my lord and master. If I must see everything he has built crumble in its heyday, I can assure you that you will not survive to see it with me.”


Even Lestrade’s young clerk, with his monstrous strength, was hard-pressed to pry him loose from my companion. And though our search for Sir Kirkland was forced into ostensible hiatus, we remained incessantly harangued by Absalom. Further correspondence came, in the form of more letters promising us grisly retribution should we pursue the matter further. I began to sleep with a service revolver within reach. One of the visits from Absalom saw the removal of my loyal weapon. In its place, I found a second pen-knife with attached to it a note that read:


Playing with guns, Doctor? Naughty, naughty! Guns are dangerous weapons – you never know when they might backfire on you.


-- Absalom


The following morning, Holmes found our door vandalized with scarlet paint. Turning the pen-knife over in his hands, he considered the epigraph there:


And did the Countenance Divine,
Shine forth upon our clouded hills?
And was Jerusalem builded here,
Among these dark Satanic Mills?


“Another allusion to Blake. I thought it curious,” he said. “That Absalom might be so well-read, the mark of an educated man, while his expenditures—” here he indicated the knife “—spoke to a lifestyle of lesser means. As you can see, the handle of this knife is wooden.”


“An expensive one might have been made out of sturdier stuff. You are saying there is a reason for his favoring cheap knives?”


“Indeed. He would have been loathe to part with a costly knife, and so opted to use the inexpensive wooden variety to embellish his messages.”


“But why,” I wondered, “Does he feel the need to leave us with so many knives?”


Holmes chuckled.


“My dear Watson, I am surprised. That, I thought, was entirely elementary—can you think of any icon more threatening than a naked blade extended towards your person?”


“You have me there, old friend,” I agreed. “For the life of me, I cannot.”


So it was that Holmes and I, beset upon from all sides by threats – from Absalom on the left and from Sir Beilschmidt on the right – went about our investigation of the Rhine conspiracy. But Richard Arkwright and his search for Sir Kirkland were never far from our minds, and so Holmes contracted young Wiggins to watch for any sign of suspicious activity in our surroundings. He promised the irregulars a shilling a day for their vigil; a guinea for any observation that might lead us closer to Absalom. To further ensure not a loose end remained in our lookout, we saw to it that our dwelling was never left fully unattended for long. Yet for all our most careful measures, the man eluded us still.




----
ReCaptcha: "literate trophe". .....well. So the evidence would have us believe, I daresay.

“Perhaps,” my friend said, when Lestrade’s entourage had left us for the day. “There is something I have overlooked.” His analysis sounded not clinical, as would have been typical of him, but tired. Or resigned, perhaps. The new investigation had, between the constant threats hanging like the sword of Damocles above our heads and the sheer exhaustion brought on by the staggering amount of work demanded by the Rhine incident, worn heavily on our nerves. Those days found me a far less personable man than they ought to have, though the early winter chill that plagued my wounds did little to assuage the matter. Holmes slept even less than ever, and it was evident in his features that he was falling back on old, bad habits under the strain.


“Overlooked?!” I cried. “You must be mad! How could there be any stone we have left unturned? Nobody save for Lestrade, his entourage, yourself, and I have set foot over the threshold. In order to gain entrance as freely – as he has made it clear that he can – I imagine he must be invisible.”


“There is no such thing as an invisible man,” Holmes said, rubbing roughly at his temples. His tone was so uncharacteristically tense, I stilled upon hearing it. “If anything, Absalom has found a way to go among us unnoticed.”


“But we have been watching diligently for him. He could not have gotten past us with any amount of ease.”


“Could he?” Holmes asked, but I knew he did not expect an answer.




That afternoon I cast a suspicious eye about our company. There was no assurance, I thought, that Absalom did not stand within our number. After all had left, I excused myself and stepped outside to speak with the irregulars.


“The next time you see these men,” I told Wiggins, “I want you to empty their pockets. You need not strike all three in one attempt, but take note of whose coats you have lightened.” For his pains, I gave him two shillings.


On one occasion, he reported back with a considerably-sized collection of trinkets, all wrapped in a handkerchief emblazoned with a black eagle. This he had harvested from the pockets of the angry, elderly-looking gentleman, who I ascertained to be Sir Beilschmidt. And although the contents of his pockets were peculiar enough – certainly more the sort of thing a child might keep on hand than a servant of the king – I could find nothing that might incriminate him.

So, dear readers-- have you had enjoyed putting the pieces together? Have you been able to ascertain the identity of the mysterious Absalom? For those who have, shh! Spoil not the secret for the others. For those whom the truth of his identity has eluded, read on! For the pursuit of Sir Kirkland and of Absalom has reached a critical point, and there may be no turning back now for Doctor Watson and his good friend, Sherlock Holmes. Enjoy!
------




Lestrade’s pockets yielded nothing of interest, either, and with only a fistful of trinkets to show for my efforts, I nearly despaired of finding our man. This persisted until Wiggins presented me with the very same charcoal sketch of Sir Kirkland that had gone missing. He had liberated it from the vest of Lestrade’s young clerk.


“But what cause would a clerk have to keep us away from Sir Kirkland?” I asked of my companion, as he took pause from the incident of the Rhine that evening. “If,” I corrected myself, “He is indeed our Absalom.”


“No action is without motive,” he said. Turning to the desk, he opened the topmost drawer and extricated the whole collection of threatening notes we had received from Absalom, the two pen-knives, a full, written copy of Blake’s “Jerusalem”, and some samples of the various types of red ink sold by the different peddlers of paperware within walking distance of our home.


I chuckled then, and my friend looked at me quizzically.


“What is so funny?” he demanded to know.


“It is nothing of concern, merely that I had thought you had given priority to the Rhine conspiracy rather than the search for Sir Kirkland,” I explained. “And I had thought also that it seemed uncharacteristic of you, my friend, and I am pleased to see that I was both correct and incorrect on all counts I could have hoped to be correct and incorrect on.”


“What, you suspected for even a moment that I would let rest a case such as this?” He said, genuinely astonished. “Ludicrous. I have taken the liberty of gathering samples of ink so we might assemble a sort of profile of our Absalom. As you can see, he uses Carter’s—not a domestic manufacturer of ink.”


“He does?” I examined the ink samples. I could not see how Holmes had been able to discern this, and so he removed a pen from the top drawer and demonstrated the different forms produced by the different brands. Surely enough, in keeping with my friend’s analysis, the only brand capable of allowing the writer such elegant, sprawling forms without appearing as though the ink had been watered was the Carter’s ink.


“Any thicker, however, and he could not have achieved such flowery effect in his script. Do you understand?”


I did.

“The paper,” he continued, “is made up of a coarser grain than is normally used by the majority of people. If Absalom had bought simply any brand of thin ink, his script would have run between the grains and been distorted. But his choice of ink. Carter’s Combined, permits him to use thin ink, and considerably less ink, without compromising the quality of the paper on which he delivers his messages. And so what we might conclude is that our harasser is a character who is particular about his paper and his ink. Or at very least,” Holmes added, “that he is knowledgeable about the different types of paper and ink available to him, and the effects of their interplay.”


“Indicative, I presume, of a man who spends a great deal of time writing.”


“I would caution you, dear Watson, against irresponsible use of that word, ‘presume’,” my friend said. But he was smiling now, and he continued: “But from all this, yes, I had suspected that Absalom knows very well what a man who writes a great deal might.”


“A man such as a clerk,” I postulated.


“A man such as a clerk,” Holmes agreed. “And your discovery of the portrait in young Mister Jones’ pocket provided a conclusive link between him and our Absalom.”


“Furthermore, he would have gone virtually unnoticed in all the commotion surrounding the murder on the Rhine, and the very presence of Sir Beilschmidt. How simple it must have been for him to slip the portrait from the desk, or to plant a threatening letter as we all but tore our hair out over our business! To think,” I mourned, “That all this time, Absalom was right within our grasp, and we failed to notice. It is downright humiliating.”


At this, my companion’s smile brightened even more.


“Hardly. Come now, Watson, have we truly failed if he has not yet gotten away. All that remains is for us to corner him, and that, I believe, will be far easier done than said.”




----


Phew! But in all honesty, this is by far the longest piece I've done in a very long time. Small potatoes next to some of the multi-part whoppers out there, kudos to the authors, but much, much more than I'd expected it to be! Thanks so much for sticking with me, and bearing with the Victoriana Madness. ♥ I'm wondering, by the way, if anyone would like the notes on this-- the historical and fictional references made? Like who the hell Wiggins is, or why Gilbert might be so beat up over a murder on the Rhine? (I know a lot of you aren't avid followers of Holmesiana....aaaaaand, actually, neither am I! I've only read a few of the stories, and I can barely keep the canon straight! Which is apparently okay, since it seems Doyle struggled to do the same, and he's the damn author! So if I had to do a hell of a lot of digging to pull this off, I can only imagine how it must read without any explanations...) What do you think, is it time for me to explain some of this bullshit? :D

Holmes called Lestrade back to our humble flat under the pretense of organizing an excursion to Germany. Examining the finer contextual nuances of the crime would be much easier on-location, he insisted, than from afar. Lestrade, desperately wanting for whatever support he might garner in the investigation, conceded, for so negligible was the progress made to date. He arrived with his regular entourage in tow early in the day and proceeded to draft up an itinerary alongside my companion.


I cast the most furtive of glances I might manage towards Lestrade’s clerk. It perturbed me to look upon his countenance and imagine that he might be our Absalom—so gentle and so eager were his features that I could not reconcile them with the vicious threats he had lain for my companion and myself. He certainly appeared the very image of a modest young man, well-dressed and well-groomed, and possessing of a pair of wire-rim spectacles. Who would ever have suspected such a mild clerk? I could not fault the cold for my shiver when he caught my eye; he smiled brightly and mimed placing a rope about his neck, as if the hangman’s noose were by far preferable to the languorous tedium of waiting for our respective companies. He meant it in jest, I am sure, but it chilled me to the bone no less.


My discomfort was not assuaged by the knowledge that he might be carrying my service revolver on his person.


Just before noon, Holmes called upon me to provide Lestrade with a rudimentary analysis of the condition of the body.


“Watson was, in his previous life, a physician in the service of her majesty.” Holmes took Lestrade by the shoulders and steered him towards me. “Perhaps he can explain better than I what might be made of it.”


I would have sputtered, but it occurred to me that my companion could be in the process of engineering something greater. I steeled myself, and took Lestrade from him, showing him to the other side of the room.


“In the meanwhile,” my friend said, “might I review the letters the inspector so generously supplied?”


“Certainly,” Lestrade told him, and nodded to his clerk. With a wink, mister Jones gathered his papers and offered them to Holmes. I presumed it best to leave my companion to his business, and set about evaluating the state of the body Sir Beilschmidt so profoundly feared would herald disaster for his king and his country.


I put the utmost effort into feigning careful study of the diagrams of the body Lestrade had brought, but I was hard pressed to resist the lure of watching Holmes engage our man out of the corner of my eye. To this very day, I do not know what Holmes said to the clerk, but the boy froze after just a few minutes. His hand flew to his hip and it was then that I saw my good friend produce the charcoal sketch of Sir Kirkland for him to behold.


There was a pregnant pause. Then mister Jones tore the picture from his hands and bolted for the door.


“Watson,” Holmes cried, “He’s getting away!”


But by then I had already sprung into action. I leapt from my seat and into the clerk’s path; I thought to stop him, or at least divert his trajectory if I could. There was only one means of leaving the flat, and surely it was not too tall a task to keep one man at bay. Indeed, it would not have been, had it been any other clerk I stood against. With fortitude bordering on the unnatural, he seized me by the lapels and threw me out of his way as if I were a flimsy rag doll. I did not strike the wall hard, and I regained my balance in a moment. And then, in a flash, I resumed my pursuit down the seventeen steps and out onto Baker Street.

I followed after mister Jones, our Absalom, for as long as my legs would carry me. And when they could not any longer, I began the slow, weary journey back. It was as though there were leaden weights in my calves, and my bad shoulder strained with the effort of remaining upright. I hardly recall passing through the doorway of 221B and being led to a chair, for all that bore heavily upon my mind was the realization that Absalom had escaped and I had been entirely unable to stop him.


Lestrade swore, rounding on my companion.


“Are you mad?!” He shouted. “What have you done to my clerk?!”


Holmes explained. I, utterly exhausted, slept.




The four of us –Holmes, Lestrade, Sir Beilschmidt, and I—sat beside the fire, each nursing a strong cup of tea. Sir Beilschmidt proffered a hip flask containing an unfamiliar, foul-smelling liquid, and in the room save for Lestrade happily sweetened his tea with the contents.


“I do apologize, with all of my being,” Lestrade said. “I do not know how to recover the papers he left with.”


“Come off it,” was Sir Beilschmidt’s accented reply, and he took a long drink from what remained in the flask before tucking it away once more. “If Jones really thinks he will get away cleanly with my state affairs in his hands, then he has another thing coming. Though I do not think he will have gone far.”


“You don’t?” I was baffled. “Why do you think not?”


“If I know Jones as well as I suspect I do,” he explained, “And I am certain I do, for I am rarely wrong, he is still very much a child at heart. It’s not a stretch of the imagination to conclude he has gone somewhere he will feel safe.” He scowled into his teacup. “And this tea is still too weak. Haven’t you got anything stronger?”


Holmes frowned, ignoring his inquiry.


“So you know mister Jones very well, then?” He asked. Sir Beilschmidt nodded.


“I do. I have known him since his younger days – I am loathe to say ‘his youth’, seeing as he’s still quite young. But really, do you have anything stronger?”


“Where might he feel safe?” I wondered.


“Jerusalem,” my friend said suddenly, startling me. I looked to him, and then Lestrade. Lestrade wore a confused expression that I can only imagine mirrored my own. He narrowed his eyes at Holmes, as if squinting might somehow help augment his vision – so that he might see what it was Holmes had seen.


“Jerusalem? What the devil do you mean?”


“I believe he has fled to find sanctuary with Sir Kirkland,” my friend replied. He turned to Sir Beilschmidt. “My good man, you say you have known Jones since he was young?”


“I certainly have, and I would like a stronger drink, too.”


Holmes pressed on.


“Do you know who Sir Kirkland is to him?”


“I do. And I don’t see why you are making such a passion play out of asking a simple question: the fact of the matter is that the one who raised the boy was none other than Sir Kirkland and it only stands to reason that, when you spooked him, he’d run right back to Arthur to hide behind him and cling to his apron-strings. Tomorrow morning I suppose I will pay the old fool a call and get my papers back. Perhaps, if I am lucky, he will let me box his little whelp’s ears for all the pains he’s caused me and my kingdom, and I am certain he can at the very least provide me with a decent drink.”




------


Well! Didn't see that coming, did you, Holmes? The prodigal son, it seems, has gone to seek sanctuary in his Jerusalem-- and our good heroes have the means to get at them, so long as Sir Beilschmidt is feeling particularly charitable. Which he probably is. You know he'd love to have an audience when he shows the intractable little whelp what for. So sorry for not replying to the vast majority of comments! I appreciate each and every last ounce of feedback and support, and welcome concrit with open arms; I worry, however, about taking up precious comment-space that I know other author-anons need for their fills. So, my deepest thanks and my sincerest apologies. Much much much love and hugs to all. ♥ Until the next time, enjoy!

Lestrade met us at dawn with a hansom cab ready on the street to take us to Sir Kirkland’s residence. We were guaranteed several hours’ travel time, as it was required that we venture far out into the country to reach him; Lestrade would not say, though, precisely where our destination lay. He closed the window-curtains once he joined us, informing Holmes and myself that it was one of the conditions Sir Kirkland imposed upon his visitors.


“He prefers his solitude,” he said, shutting the door firmly. “And if he is to receive company at all, he must ensure that they arrive only by his summon.”


“Except in the matter of state affairs,” Sir Beilschmidt added, easing into his seat and allowing his head to fall back. “This is a matter of state affairs. Your case, however, is an exception, and so as a courtesy to him, we would have it so that you cannot find him of your own accord.”


“Why such secrecy?” I asked, for my curiosity by now consumed me. “Is Sir Kirkland truly a man of such import?”


Lestrade looked sidelong at Sir Beilschmidt, who in turn straightened and looked to him, seeking confirmation of some sort. A moment passed in which neither, for all their searching, could find an answer, and so Sir Beilschmidt shrugged his shoulders and said:


“I suppose you might ask him yourself, if he agrees to have an audience with you.”


My friend seemed displeased by this non-answer, but he chose not to make a point of it, he revealed to me in later years. And as we drove off into the cool morning mist, I noticed that my shoulder pained me far less than was typical for the conditions of the day.




Lestrade watched the closed curtains with intent determination for the entirety of the journey. My companion assured him jokingly that he ought to remain on guard, for if he let his attention stray, Holmes was sure to surreptitiously peer behind the curtains and lay to waste all of Lestrade’s best precautions. Lestrade found nowhere near as much amusement in this as we, and Sir Beilschmidt slept soundly on until some time well past noon the cab slowed and then stopped.


“Alright then,” Lestrade ordered. “You two will wait here, and we shall send for you.”


“Very well, Inspector, go on,” Holmes replied, waving him off until the two of us were very much alone. Then I spoke.


“Do you suppose he will have us?” I held Arkwright’s box of Crimean memorabilia with me in my seat, and the notion that he might turn us from his door after we had come all this way for Arkwright perturbed me for reasons I could not explain, no matter how I plumbed the depths of my mind.


“Who can say?” My friend drew back the curtain over the cab window to better take in the whole of Sir Kirkland’s property. He did not turn to face me, and I suspect these days that he truly meant that, far more so than he knew or wished to confess.

We remained adrift in our doubts until a ruckus in the direction of the house commanded our attention. We heard from the cab the commotion that could only come of a fight in a space never meant to accommodate any roughhousing: crashing, banging, and violent thumps, and at one interval I swore I heard the shrill breakage of shattering glass. Sir Beilschmidt’s voice rang out over the garden, barking orders, I imagine, in his harsh native tongue. Holmes and I stepped out of the cab to better see, but to no avail. I harbored the most slight of suspicions what might have transpired nonetheless. And in the silence that followed, a petite and mousy-featured young maid bustled outside to greet us and usher us into the dwelling place of Sir Arthur Kirkland.


She led us down a long corridor lined with curiosities: among his collection I know I saw ancient swords and suits of medieval armor. Weathered maps on tawny vellum sat in frames upon the wall and at the far end of the hallway, a grandfather clock of such majesty that no equal have I never since encountered towered over us, chiming the hour in baritone solemnity. It was two o’ clock. A sense of awe seized me then and there, and the young maid put a hand to the door. She glanced from my face to that of my companion and bade us wait outside for just one more moment.


I, too, looked to my companion when the door closed behind her. It seemed to me that the strenuousness of our searches had at last overtaken him, or perhaps it was the dim candle-light in the hallway that pronounced the length of his features so, and the subtle grayness that was wont to creep into his complexion.


“It will be alright,” I assured him.


“Have you proof beyond a reasonable doubt to substantiate such a claim?” he inquired. I laughed.


“I do not. But life is infinitely stranger than anything which the mind of man could invent. I have only proof lacking in anything in the vein of reason to substantiate such a claim.”


He smiled then, and as if it had lain in wait for that precise revelation, the door creaked open to grant us entrance.


“Sir Kirkland will see you now,” the maid said.




-------
Sorry about that! Got into a fight with the passport agency by phone and then the internet died, right while posting. Dammit! So, here we go! The home stretch! It's a bit of a cliffhanger, but I really want to beat the last part into ship-shape before putting it up. Thanks for tuning in again folks, and see you for the next part!

I have said before and will stress again that life is, indeed, infinitely stranger than the mind of man can possibly conceive of—I persist because to this very day, I can make so little reason of what I saw then. For when we entered the chamber at last, it was evident that although nearly forty years had passed since his service in Crimea alongside Arkwright the elder, the years had made no mark the features of Sir Arthur Kirkland. Whereas ought to have looked the part of a man who had long since seen and outstripped sixty, he could not have been even a day over twenty.


“Good God,” I said, and crossed myself. This I did when long since had I fallen out of the habit of attending church, such was the state of awe I was in. If my companion was at all surprised, he made no outward show of it.


“Sir Kirkland, I presume?” he said quite calmly. Our host nodded and motioned for us to join him at a tea-table assemblalge.


“You presume correctly. You will forgive me, I hope, for the prior commotion. Sir Beilschmidt is an ungracious guest, and my young charge is simply intractable.”


“Your young charge?” Holmes asked, taking his seat. I followed suit in silence, still at a loss for words. “I can only imagine you speak with regard to mister Jones.”


“Alfred, yes.” His back was turned to us as he busied his self with serving the tea, but I could hear some measure of gravity tugging at the very edges of his voice. “I looked after him when he was still small. But as you have seen for yourself, that’s certainly not the case anymore.”


“He lives on his own, then?”


Our host lost his purchase on one of the saucers. It hit the ground and shattered, sending slivers of fine white porcelain flying. Cursing, he stooped to gather them in a napkin.


“Damn it all,” he swore. “Again, my apologies. Dreadfully clumsy of me. Yes, Alfred lives on his own, and he has for quite a while now. You know how it is.”


When he had managed to clear away the better part of the mess, he set the pieces aside and turned to us once more.


“But I know you did not come here today to discuss my ward. Come now, let us talk.”


“You know?” I managed, my voice barely more, I imagine, than a squeak. Sir Kirkland smiled at us—a quiet, fatherly sort of smile.


“I do. I know a great deal about you.” To my friend, he said: “I know who you are, for instance.”


“Nobody of great consequence,” Holmes insisted.


“To the contrary: you have done my queen and my country considerable service. For everything you have done, I am very much indebted to you. And to you, too, good Doctor, for Afghanistan and afterwards. You may drink your tea, by the way,” he informed us jokingly, lifting his own teacup and a replacement saucer. “I give you my permission.”


I drank the tea from my cup slowly, in small sips, savoring the warmth that began to spread through me.


“I confess, your visit did come as quite a surprise to me. Usually I am more attuned to the comings and goings of my own people. The result of interference on Alfred’s part, I suppose. God only knows.”


“Interference, you say,” Holmes said. “Your choice of words is more appropriate than I suspect you know; it seemed your charge was adamant that we not see you at all. Have you any idea why?”

“Interference, you say,” Holmes said. “Your choice of words is more appropriate than I suspect you know; it seemed your charge was adamant that we not see you at all. Have you any idea why?”


“None,” Sir Kirkland replied, and it was apparent that he truly meant it. “If I’d had any notion the boy was causing you trouble, I would have had him keelhauled without a second thought. Or at the very least, I would have attempted to. He is, as I have said, entirely intractable, though not for lack of trying on my part. I hope his actions haven’t compromised your business.”


“Hardly. Watson, have you the box still?”


I did, tucked beneath my seat. I removed it and offered our host Arkwright’s memorabilia. He accepted the box and opened it up.


“If I may?” he asked, gesturing with the lid. This amused my companion.


“Please. It is your home, after all.”


At this, Sir Kirkland gave curious sort of chuckle.


“Indeed. I suppose it is, isn’t it?”


“A young man named Richard Arkwright brought these items to me some time ago,” Holmes explained. “They were his father’s, but the man passed recently—pneumonia, he said—and he wished to leave them with someone with whom the man shared that portion of his life.”


“Arkwright,” Sir Kirkland said. “From Crimea, was it? An infantry regiment, if I recall. The twenty-second.” He looked to Holmes. “But why me? Why not bring his effects to…say, Harris? Or Saunders? Surely they would have been less exhausting to track down.”


“Dead and gone.” Holmes told him.


“Felton?”


“Just the same.”


“Good God,” he swore, bringing a hand up to his face.


“You are the sole remaining survivor of the twenty-second, Sir Kirkland. It has been nearly forty years since Crimea.”


“I had almost forgotten,” he admitted, still hidden behind his hand. “Time passes so quickly.”


“We met another man,” Holmes supplied. “Bennett, from the campaign in Abyssinia. This one is still alive, and he has you to thank for it.”


“What, young Lawrence? You’ve met him?”


Holmes nodded.


“He remembers you. He is grateful for your help.”


“No,” Sir Kirkland said, letting his hand fall and come to rest on the box. “It is I who am grateful, again. I only pray that he might walk still.”


“He does, though with some difficulty.”


“Would God I could have done more. If I had moved faster, perhaps he would have no difficulty at all. But I am glad that he is well.”


“Very well, but much older now than when he knew you last. But you, Sir Kirkland, have not changed one bit; you are the same man we have seen in Arkwright’s tour of duty.”


“Not the same man,” he corrected my friend. “Certainly not the same man, but by all means, the same countenance.”


“It’s very curious,” Holmes said, and with the expectant tone of his voice and his weight shifted forward in his seat, he impressed his meaning upon our host. In turn, our host seemed to understand, for he replaced the lid on Arkwright’s box and sat back to study us carefully.


“Isn’t it?” He asked. “And you would be hard pressed to ignore such a curiosity, if I am right.”


“Which you are.”


“Naturally. But tell me, Sherlock Holmes. I know who you are— do you know who I am?”




-----
Does he?

My companion thumbed his chin thoughtfully.


“You are Sir Arthur Kirkland, a Knight of the Garter and a loyal servant to the crown.”


“That is correct. Go on.”


“You were also the colonel of the twenty-second infantry regiment in Crimea, and during the expedition to Abyssinia some years ago.”


“And in Afghanistan, too. Not in your friend’s company, but I was there.”


“You have aged well: I know that your appearance belies your years.”


“Oh?”


“For all that you ought to look as befits a man in his sixties, you seem rather spry.”


“You only say that because you cannot see the aches that plague my joints when it rains,” Sir Kirkland injected dryly.


“Even if in appearances alone.”


“Fair enough. More tea?”


“Please,” Holmes said, passing along his cup. Sir Kirkland accepted it. It was then that I spoke:


“Although we did not cross paths in Afghanistan, good Sir, I cannot quell some visceral understanding from within which urgently insists that you and I have somehow met prior to this. I am not a man of great cunning, I merely wish for answers. Have we?”


Sir Kirkland seemed to consider this a moment, as if my question had caught him entirely off guard.


“You might say that. I had never quite thought about it, but even if we have never met before, we are well acquainted.”


“I do not understand,” I said. “How is that possible?”


“It is possible because you have known me all your life, and likewise, I have known you just as long.” As he spoke, he stood, coming to stand by my seat. Then, to my astonishment, he sunk to one knee. “You have done me such service and such sacrifice without having ever spoken to me once.” His grass-green eyes flickered upwards just once to my shoulder and then back. “For that I am eternally indebted to you. I am eternally indebted to all my men, although I shall outlive each and every one of them. Most will never hear my thanks as you have, for to thank them all in turn as they deserve would be impossible. And so I can only hope that you understand the depths of my gratitude, for their sake as well as your own.”


Throughout his impassioned speech, he held my gaze with his own, and when he quieted, I felt a sudden surge of peace from within – some silent rapture, the like of which can only be conceived of in ecclesiastic spheres – and so moved was I could not conceal the fine beads of tears that threatened to spill forth. It was, I am sure have said elsewhere in this chronicle, as if I had returned home at long last. Though it defies all manner of reason, I looked into his eyes, which in turn pierced my very soul and I knew home. Sir Kirkland placed a hand on my shoulder, and said:


“I know who you are. You are Doctor John Watson, who still wakes in the night to the sound of gunfire in his mind’s ear and sleeps with a service revolver within his reach. I know that you are the man who chronicles the life and times of another humble servant of the crown for no other motive than a desire to see his ingenuity preserved. I know that the wounds that mark your sacrifice still pain you to this day. And I know you would have done it one thousand times over, if only to further the glory of both queen and country. I know who you are. Do you know who I am?”


I did. I looked upon the face of Sir Arthur Kirkland, and I knew peace. I knew Jerusalem.


“I do,” I cried, swallowing down the sobs that threatened to break free. I am not ashamed to admit it. “And I would have done it one thousand and one times over if I could have—for I have seen a countenance divine. I would not cease from mental fight, not once, not a thousand and one times.”


I do not recall when during the course of events he straightened, but suddenly he towered above me. He bent then, and pressed his lips to my forehead in benediction.


“Very good,” he said.


-----
Man, I've been dying to get to that part. :D

He turned next to my friend. Holmes absorbed the scene before him with something akin to bemusement upon his face, a state which was, ostensibly, growing in increments by the minute.


“Absurd.” His judgment fell heavily upon the room, otherwise silent but for my sniffling. Our host advanced upon him with slow steps.


“Is it?” Sir Kirkland asked. “You and I have likewise never met, but I do know all about you, Sherlock Holmes, and the business you do.”


“True, and your ties to the crown have been made more than clear to my companion and I throughout the course of our curious study in Jerusalem. I cannot imagine you are at all hard-pressed to find any answer you seek; this compounded with the fact that the nature of my work is no great secret—”


Sir Kirkland silenced him with a hand on his arm. I saw my friend start as if it had been a fireplace iron he had been touched by in the stead of another living entity –so instinctive, ordinarily, is his distaste for contact—but he quickly stilled and quieted, as if a worldly lassitude had possessed his form without warning. I could not help but marvel at such a sight.


“That I know well. It aches me to the very core of my being that you, one of my own, as dear to me as flesh and blood, might suspect me of harboring ill intentions, even if only by virtue of possibility; I am all too aware that my knowledge is as the sword of Damocles to you, who have laboured so long and wished only not to suffer the indignity of exposure. Rather, in knowing what you have done, I wish to thank you accordingly.”


I saw that my companion’s slack frame had begun to tremble. Sir Kirkland pressed on.


“You, too, have my gratitude—you, Sherlock Holmes, who doubts the numinous actuality that is my existence, for servant of queen and country though you may be, you bow before no authority but reason and reason alone. For your solitary master, you would toil in silence and all the while, preserve the peace of my people. You shed no blood, but you shirk not from mental fight, and for that I am indebted to you. I am proud of you—or perhaps it is, rather, that I am blessed to have you among my children.”


Holmes looked up to meet Sir Kirkland’s gaze and in an instant I knew he had been overtaken by the same strange, sweet beatitude that had through me passed.


“You are asking for such suspension of my disbelief as I can not provide you,” my good friend said, his voice small.


“Heavens no.” Sir Kirkland laughed gently. “I cannot ask of you what you have already given. Is that not the most elementary of all things?”




-----
A short update this time; Holmes' turn in the hot seat. It seems we have another (albeit reluctant) believer!

Before another hour had elapsed, we were rejoined by mister Jones. He appeared as if by some preternatural summons behind my seat, and I would have remained ignorant of his presence had Sir Kirkland not called out to him.


“Alfred. Are you leaving?”


I whirled about to see our host’s young ward and had to shield my eyes; all afternoon, the sun had been to my back. Gazing directly into the sun’s fierce glare when for hours my attention had been focused inside of doors burned so greatly that I brought a hand up to shield them until my vision cleared. When my sight was returned to me, I could see mister Jones standing there, silhouetted by the luminescent rays. The fresh, dark bruise that bloomed across his broad cheekbone stood out sorely against the pale gold cast the entirety of his corporeality had taken on. He nodded with great solemnity.


“Yes, I think I will be taking my leave now. I have had sufficient time to clear my head.”


“Sufficient time?” Sir Kirkland echoed. “You don’t mean to say you are going back to the States so soon, do you?”


“I do. I crave quiet yet, a sentiment I am certain you are familiar with,” and he cast a foul look towards my companion, “But too long has elapsed. Time marches ever onwards and my children are leaping to action again. I must be there to bear witness.”


There was a moment’s hesitation. Then our host embraced him.


“Go to them, then,” Sir Kirkland said. “And bear witness. If ever again the gravity of your vigil begins to weigh so heavily upon your heart, know that you are always welcome to seek sanctuary at my door.”


“I know.” Jones embraced him in turn. One could see in the desperate tightening of his fists – in the stiffening of his shoulders and the way he lay his head against his kinsman’s body, as if he could not, for his monstrous fortitude, summon the strength to let go – something sublime, something which transcended mortal absolution. In that instant, the weary pair of man and charge seemed incomprehensibly old.


When they separated, he rounded on my companion, leaning over his seat as if he might crush the man to death with the very force of his presence.


“I pray you have found the answers you sought in coming here today. Furthermore, I pray that you do not take it upon yourself to trouble him again,” he warned Holmes. “Those of our ilk endure a great deal for the sake of yours, and we ask little save for the dignity of enduring the whole of it in peace. Leave him be, or I will make you wish you had.”


“I do not doubt that,” my Holmes said. “But I have completed my business with Sir Kirkland. You may go fully assured that I will not trouble your friend, my dear Absalom.”


“Good. He’s spoken only well of you, after all. I, for one, would hate to see you do discredit to your own heroic name.”


Before my friend could formulate even a dream of a question as to what he might have meant, mister Jones had swept a teacake from the table and made his exit, calling:


“And regards from Ms. Irene!”


Our generous host watched this exchange, utterly baffled. Long after the door had shut behind his charge, he stared into the distance.


“What the devil was all that about?” He asked.




-------
Such a good boy, that Alfred. ♥

I could not begrudge the man who had so graciously welcomed us into his home, and so I told him. I spared no details in imparting to him the chronicle of our search, from Richard Arkwright’s innocuous audience in our sitting room to the moment our eyes beheld Jerusalem, and he listened. I spoke of Holmes’ dogged pursuit, and of my failure at the enlistment office; of Absalom’s correspondence and the vanishment of the portrait, and of the young clerk’s flight just a day prior. Sir Kirkland crossed to the window, waiting there motionless until my tale had reached its close. Already the sun had crept towards the horizon and below, so that the day hung precariously from only the fine threads of twilight. He drew the curtains closed. Again my curiosity seized me, and before reason could supplant it, the words spilled forth:


“Is your son like you, then? That is to say—”


“Hm?”


“—mister Jones. He made reference to children of his own. He seemed,” and although my sense had at last caught up with me, I was committed to see my inquiry through to its fruition. “He seemed to understand the nature of your fatigue. I could not help but wonder if he spoke as a kindred spirit.”


“He is. My son—” And here he paused as if to check himself, for perhaps in voicing the word he had tipped something of immeasurable weight over the threshold of his lips, and for want of scientific precision he had to confirm its substance. “My son is as you say. A hundred years’ of amassed tumult within brought him exhausted to my shore, and I could not provide the salve he needed. None of us could have, for that is our burden to bear, and he, as one so young, has yet to learn to endure in silence. I offered him what meager respite I could: some months of guiltless life. The wear on one’s heart is lessened, somewhat, by the distance, you see. He needn’t have troubled you for my sake.”


“If I may be so bold, my lord,” I said. “It seems to please you that he did.”


“You may. For if I may be so bold, I must admit that it does please me. He called himself ‘Absalom’, you say?”


My companion nodded.


“After the son of the sovereign of the promised land.”


“Then yes.” Sir Kirkland sighed. “It pleases me immensely.”


“And if I may ask another question,” Holmes began.


“You may.”


“If mister Jones is cut of the same cloth as you are, then what of Sir Beilschmidt? He spoke of you and mister Jones with such familiarity; he said had watched you rear the boy from childhood. Am I to interpret his words as implication that he is no different, then?”


Our host’s expression was one of outright indignation, as if my companion’s words had mortally offended him.


“Only insofar as to conclude that he is of the same nature. Sir Beilschmidt may be of our stock, but I would be loathe to find parallel between the warmongering brute and my self.”

“On the subject of Sir Beilschmidt, where might he have gone?” I asked. “The last I saw of him was when he and Lestrade set out to recover the Rhine papers from your charge several hours ago.”


“Lestrade, I can assure you, can be found in the library. He dislikes calling on me,” Sir Kirkland explained, “For much the same reason I imagine mister Holmes might. He considers himself a man of reason, and as such is discomforted by very nature of my existence. He favors maintaining his distance whenever possible. Although,” he admitted, “I suspect that his Frenchman’s heritage does little to help the matter.”


“And Sir Beilschmidt?” Holmes prompted.


“Likely draped over the sofa by Lestrade’s side, if that impressive bruise of Alfred’s is anything to judge by. And the poor inspector must be bored out of his wits by now; I won’t prolong his suffering any further. Here,” he said, stepping towards the door to guide us. “I will have someone help Lestrade bring Sir Beilschmidt outside.” Sir Kirkland opened the sitting room door and gestured to the young maid. “In the meanwhile, Anne can see you out.”


He took me by the shoulders and looked to Holmes in acknowledgement.


“Thank you both, again, for everything you have done. Please know that you are always welcome in my home.”


I bowed as successfully as you might imagine I could in such a situation. Regardless of the constraints, I wished to demonstrate my respect.


“And thank you,” I said, though I did not know what for.


“Nonsense,” our host said. “Now, go. Go in peace.”


We did.




THE END






Holy fuck on toast, I think I've got post-partum depression now. D: Anyway, thanks for reading! I hope you enjoyed the story, I definitely had a great time writing it. I'll be cleaning this up and posting it sometime in the near future....if. I can. Ever get over the hurdle of anxiety of editing asdfghjk, what, like, 25+ pages and well over 15,000 words? o god what. I'll be retitling it, but it's not going to be so dramatically that you won't know it when you see it. Hahah, just. Something that makes an eensy bit more sense than what I've got now. And hopefully keeps the style of the original Holmes stories. See you on the non-anonymous side!


ReCaptcha: "muckrake 14,995". Yes, indeed, there are quite possibly 14,995 words here.