“I heard of the Park Lane incident.”
“So you already know. It occurred just as I said it would: after the trial, two of Moriarty’s men went free. Your evidence was not enough.”
“I still believe what I had gathered was strong enough to make Moriarty desperate.”
“We are of different minds.”
No matter. “So be it,” Sherlock said softly, staring off into space. “Certainly brothers may be of different minds.”
So long as they agreed on a deeper level.
Those were Sherlock’s genuine feelings. However, it was more than he was capable of putting into words. He hoped that Mycroft understood, even if he did not say as much aloud.
His brother seemed sensitive to his meaning. He smiled and nodded slightly. “Oh, and Sherlock. If you have exhausted your savings during your travels…”
“I have royalties from the record of my Tibet explorations, which I published under the alias Sigerson. It is enough.”
“I see.” Mycroft approached the table where a bottle of scotch and some glasses had been set out. “A poor showing, but let us drink to your return.”
“I must pass. I have given up drink.”
“Given it up?” Mycroft’s eyes grew wide. “Truly?”
“Yes. I have had enough spirits for a lifetime.”
The elder brother had lifted one of the glasses in the air. He returned it to the table. “That is for the best, I suppose. We do not have any soda water anyway. The seltzogene is broken.”
“I thought the room had been left exactly as it was, but I see you did not get around to making repairs.”
“There is also one other difference.”
“An acceptable one. I have already noticed. I do not plan to ever again partake of cocaine.”
A faint look of surprise crossed Mycroft’s face, but he said nothing. He only nodded silently, with no sarcastic ribbing.
They didn’t say anything else for a moment. Then, as though remembering, Mycroft looked apologetic. “Ah, and Sherlock? Perhaps… you hold a grudge against the man atop the cliffs that day, Colonel Sebastian Moran, but I hope you will not do anything so rash as you attempted with Moriarty…”
“Fear not,” Sherlock reassured him. “I detest murder.”
Mycroft sighed. “You have changed, Sherlock. For the wiser. In a nation of laws, one can get quite far by reading the faces in a jury.”
“I shall take your word for that.” Sherlock crossed the room and stared down at Baker Street below through the window. He felt as if he’d seen the same view just yesterday.
Across the street, a suspicious man leaned against a gas lamp. Sherlock recognized him: Parker, a small-time strangler and thief. Moriarty’s gang was watching him, after all.
“When a person stops trusting in themselves nothing is left,” Sherlock murmured. “And when one entrusts everything to the hands of the law, one may also be abdicating direct responsibility. One must always decide for himself how best to act in any given situation.”
England’s system of laws, though the envy of Japan, was surely not immaculate. At least, Sherlock thought so. What greater proof than that two of Moriarty’s men had been acquitted?
He didn’t want to take lives—but outside of murder, he would judge the righteousness of a man with his own eyes. He had no intention of trusting in the whims of fate.
Mycroft lingered, but voiced no objections to Sherlock’s philosophizing. Eventually he began walking toward the door. “I have changed the lock. You will find the key upon the mantelpiece. I believe you were already in the habit of changing it every few months?”
“Yes.”
“Then I shall return these rooms to your keeping. Should you have anything interesting to tell, do come find me at the Diogenes Club. Do not be a stranger, Sherlock.”
In response, Sherlock waved his hand casually. It was enough of a farewell for the time being. They could see each other now at any time they chose.
Mycroft’s back disappeared beyond the open door. Sherlock glanced down at the road. Parker had already vanished. Moran would likely soon be hearing of Sherlock’s return.
He strode back and opened one of the drawers. Various mementos were inside, just as he remembered. Rummaging through the drawer, his hand suddenly paused on one of his disguises. A white wig and side-whiskers. He was surprised they still remained.
He was struck by a devious thought. A smile tugged at the corner of his lips. This was just what was needed to reunite with an old friend. Though it wouldn’t be as dramatic as popping out of a coffin, he hoped his friend would be both shocked and pleased. As a former army surgeon, he ought to have the nerve for it. He would not be so fragile as Mrs. Hudson, at the very least.
39
It was Sherlock’s first time visiting Watson’s new residence in Kensington, but he displayed no reservations. After all, it was all the same to an old man with grey hair and side-whiskers. If anything, his presumptuous attitude better suited his disguise. The maid at the door had obviously thought of him as an obtrusive old sack, but Sherlock had been counting on her reaction.
He was shown into the study. He hobbled in with a decrepit gait, half a dozen books under each arm, his back hunched. He had included a lower back injury in his performance, purely for his own amusement. He would need to create a clear causal link between his physical state and his movements if he was to fool a doctor’s eyes.
Watson stood up from his desk. He looked surprised.
Sherlock was confident in his disguise. Watson would never recognize him. He had already purposely bumped into Watson once, earlier, outside 424 Park Lane, and looked him directly in the face, to receive no immediate reaction other than a vague apology.
At the moment, Watson seemed perplexed, and even pitying.
“You’re surprised to see me, sir,” Sherlock croaked.
“Yes, I should say I am.”
“Well, I’ve a conscience, sir, and when I chanced to see you go into this house, as I came hobbling after you, I thought to myself, I’ll just step in and see that kind gentleman, and tell him that if I was a bit gruff in my manner there was not any harm meant, and that I am much obliged to him for picking up my books.”
“You make too much of a trifle… May I ask how you knew who I was?”
“Well, sir, if it isn’t too great a liberty, I am a neighbor of yours, for you’ll find my little bookshop at the corner of Church Street, and I’d be very happy to see you, I am sure. Maybe you collect yourself, sir. Here’s British Birds, and Catullus, and The Holy War—a bargain, every one of them. With five volumes you could just fill that gap on that second shelf. It looks a bit untidy, does it not, sir?”
A more guarded man would not have looked. But Watson turned to observe his own bookshelf, never suspecting a thing. He continued to puzzle over the shelf after Sherlock had already removed his wig and false whiskers. Sherlock’s heart pounded in impatience and anticipation.
At last Watson turned back around. His eyes searched for the books he expected his elderly guest to be holding. Seeing them on the floor, he looked up queerly.
Sherlock stood straight. He smiled.
Watson stared at him for some seconds. Sherlock had hoped for a cry of joy—such was not Watson’s reaction. His eyes opened wide, wide, wider than Mrs. Hudson’s had, his mouth gaped—and suddenly he was teetering backward.
Sherlock panicked and rushed forward. He certainly hadn’t been expecting Watson to collapse. He’d fainted! Even Mrs. Hudson had shown more fortitude than this.