Of the many cases of Sherlock Holmes that I have documented from our long association, there is one that, until now, I have not dared put to paper for fear of the public outcry of fraud or calumny. It may be that I finally break my silence because I know any who read of it will surmise that it is the last, half-mad ramblings of a dying old man and thus forgive me. Or perhaps it is because the events that transpired so very long ago are still as clear in my mind as if I had lived them but yesterday, and so are more real to me than the slowly gathering shadows of this hospital room. More likely, though I hesitate to admit it even in the deepest recesses of my soul, it is because I desperately need the comfort and solace that the conclusion promised.
For whatever reason, I invite the reader to join me in the sitting room of 221B Baker Street one early spring morning in the year our good Queen Victoria celebrated her Golden Anniversary. I was enjoying a late breakfast, reading my paper, and trying to ignore Holmes who was sitting in front of the fire smoking his pipe and sulking. There had not been any cases of late that provided the mental stimulation he craved, and I feared that he would slide back into the insidious grip of cocaine to dull the bite of the ennui that threatened at those times to overwhelm him.
So it was with a hidden sigh of relief that I bid Mrs. Hudson to enter when I heard her knock upon our door, hoping that she was about to announce a visitor who would, for the moment at least, provide a diversion.
"A gentlemen, Mr. Holmes," she said cheerily fulfilling my expectations and totally ignoring his black glower. "No calling card, and it wouldn't give me his name. But he said that he would see you at your convenience, whenever that might be, no matter how long he has to wait. Very polite young man, but very determined."
"No doubt," Holmes intoned gloomily, "he wishes my aid with some trifling matter. A stolen bauble or shedding light on some petty deceit."
"Now, Holmes," I chided gently. "Several of your most demanding challenges have had inauspicious beginnings that could be described as 'trifling matters.' You should give our caller the opportunity to present his particulars before dismissing them as trivial."
He made no reply, but gave a languid wave of a limp hand, both acceding to my suggestion and giving Mrs. Hudson permission to allow our visitor entrance. I hastily finished my meal, and was standing, napkin on the way to the tray, when she ushered in a man of early middle years who looked about the sitting room with a small smile in place, as if by simply entering, he had satisfied some innate curiosity.
"How very peculiar," Holmes interjected quietly, his words meant only for my ear, I was sure. He sat up very straight, pipe forgotten, and stood, offering his hand. "Sherlock Holmes at your disposal, sir, and my colleague, Dr. Watson. Sit, please." He gestured at the chair reserved for guests and perched on the settee, eyes suddenly bright and alert.
I looked over our guest again, hoping to find what could elicit such an unexpected and complete change in my friend. To my mind there was nothing especially remarkable about him. He was fairly tall and slender, with none of the softness in his frame that can come upon a man when full maturity has been reached. His eyes were of that changeable color so inadequately described as hazel, and they shone from a face that was handsome enough, though I revised that opinion considerably when he smiled shyly at Holmes, as if he were a boy being favored with attention from a much-respected elder. Indeed, the most notable thing about our visitor was the silver forelock that curled over his eyes, apparently stubbornly resisting his attempt to pomander it into submission.
I glanced at Holmes thinking he might provide me with a clue to direct my examination, but he was wholly absorbed by whatever information his deductive capabilities were bestowing upon him. "Now, what may we do for you?"
"I don't really know how to explain this," he answered, and I am sure that my surprise at his American accent showed, even if he chose not to remark upon it. Though I had no basis for the assumption, there was something so wholly English about his manner of dress and demeanor that it truly came as something of a shock that he was not a fellow countryman.
And if I was not entirely mistaken, Holmes had been caught as unawares as I, though he recovered nearly instantly. "Truly now," he said jovially, "How difficult could it be? A single statement, a few words - you need only give me the heart of the matter and whatever else I require, I will solicit. Now, I ask again, how may I be of service?"
"I need help locating a missing person."
Holmes' disappointment was palpable, but he gamely kept it to a mere grimace, though there was no denying the cheer was gone from his voice when he spoke again. "Ah, yes… well. A relative? Or a lover, perhaps, who departed too hastily after a misunderstanding?"
"I wouldn't waste your time or skills with something so simple," our un-named acquaintance hastened to assure us.
"Indeed? Then whom precisely do you wish us to seek on your behalf?" Holmes asked, somewhat mollified.
"Myself."
Holmes jumped to his feet as if electrified and began pacing back and forth in front of the fire. "Yourself! You have lost... yourself."
"Exactly," the gentleman said with some excitement showing. "I have no idea of who I am or where I'm from. As far as I am concerned, my life began a few days ago when I was sitting in a restaurant having my dinner. I have no memories of family or friends or education or even why I'm in England."
"Am I to assume you've already made what inquiries would be prudent under the circumstances? The constabulary, the American Embassy?" The question was from habit, I believe, as Holmes was studying his new client (and I had no doubt whatsoever at that point that client was the appropriate appellation) more thoroughly, bending close to inspect his garments and person.
"Yes, and questioned both my landlady and the waitress who apparently knew me by custom, if nothing else." He took the inspection with equanimity, that winsome smile back in place. "Neither of them could help me, except to say that I kept to myself and didn't talk much."
"You told them of your difficulty?" Again Holmes was scarcely paying attention to his own questions.
"No, that didn't seem wise so I went about it indirectly."
"I see. Most remarkable." The last was to himself, but he didn't clarify.
He sent a questioning look to me, and I answered, "There *are* some medical conditions that can result in memory loss, most of which are either exceedingly rare in a healthy man or have other difficulties associated."
"Dr. Watson is a physician of outstanding caliber," Holmes told his client. "Perhaps you would permit...?"
"Of course." He looked at me and asked, "Now?"
"It need only be cursory at this juncture," I assured him, and left to fetch my bag. When I came back he was speaking to Holmes, giving him what I took to be his itinerary as he remembered it for the past few days, not making light of the gaps in his knowledge. He had removed both his outer coat and jacket and was undoing the topmost buttons on his shirt, sleeves already up to accommodate my exam. They paid no mind to me, so I began by gently feeling under the sandy brown hair for lumps or concavities that might speak of trauma to the skull, and while there were a few places that indicated old injuries, nothing recent enough to account for the loss of memory.
Next I peered into his eyes, candle near, to assess his pupil’s reaction to light and found nothing amiss there, nor with the steady, healthy pounding of his heart and pulse, which precluded the possibility of a damaged vessel to his brain or heart. All in all I took him to be a specimen of excellent health, but, wishing to be a thorough as possible, I decided to try a simple muscular test to determine if there was any undo weakness in any limbs, in case I had overlooked some of sign of apoplexy.
Imagine my surprise when he reached for my hands before I could request his, taking them in a firm grasp and pulling powerfully at my nod to begin. Again before I could direct him, he reversed his hold and pushed against my resistance, not only showing equal strength in both sides of his body, but giving me an idea that might, for once, allow me to outdo Holmes in reasoning ability. There was one other test that could be performed upon a patient suffering from cerebral trauma - a simple stroke down the sole of the foot that produced a definite reaction in a healthy person. But before I could even frame the request to take off his shoes, our visitor reached down and began undoing his shoe-buttons, fumbling slightly as if unfamiliar with them.
"All in all," Holmes was saying, "You have already done more than would occur to another in your position. And I confess to be somewhat baffled as to the next feasible step. Normally I would be able to deduce much by your person, as a man's livelihood, his common past-times, can be read from subtle tell-tale signs on his clothing, hands, and face, or in his nervous habits. But to even the most discerning eye you are a blank slate awaiting the imprint of life's vagarities."
Ah, I thought to myself. That was what interested you so quickly when he arrived. Aloud, I said, "One thing *I* can tell you, sir, is that whatever else you are in this life, you must also be a physician as well."
Sinking back on the settee, Holmes asked curiously, "You are sure? He does not have either the scent of medicinals upon him nor do his garments have the chemical stains imbued in the fabric the way even the most careful of physicians cannot prevent during their practice."
"Then perhaps he is not doing so at the moment, but I tell you, Holmes, the man is a doctor." To our guest, I said, "The primary chambers of the heart are the left ventricle, right ventricle...."
"Left aorta, right aorta," he finished for me promptly, much the way a gifted student will reel off a well-known answer to his instructor. "
And the major vessels serving it?"
"Superior vena cava, pulmonary vein, pulmonary artery, and aorta."
"A lecturer perhaps?" Holmes ruminated. "Conversant in the art but not practicing it?"
"And if a patient comes to you complaining they cannot breathe properly nor walk across the room without becoming exhausted, the first thing you do is?" I continued, relishing my minor triumph.
"Look at their fingernail beds," our visitor answered, with a hidden smile, apparently picking up on the by-play between Holmes and myself. "If they're bluish, then their heart is not providing enough blood to the extremities, indicating difficulty in either the flow through the veins or the pumping of the organ itself."
A clever physician, I amended to myself, who pays attention to details. It struck me as unlikely that he would not be active in our profession without excellent reason. As he was so far from home, it was possible that Holmes was on the right track. He may have been invited to teach at one of London's Universities as a guest lecturer, or even as a tenured professor if he had had some reason to re-locate to our country. But I was loath to surrender my gentle pricking at my friend's expense, as the opportunity was far too rare to give up easily. "And what treatment would you suggest for your patient?"
To my utter astonishment every bit of animation present in the mysterious client's expression vanished as a flame before the wind, and he said woodenly, "What year is it?"
"I beg your pardon?" Holmes said for both of us, as taken with the abrupt transformation as I.
"What year is it?" If anything, there was less life in his voice than in his first repetition of the question.
I couldn't help but ask, "What conceivable difference does that make?"
Rather than answer, he pulled a watch from his waistcoat pocket, opened it, glanced at the time, and rose, saying, "I have an appointment I mustn't be late for. If you'll excuse me?" Without waiting for a response, he gathered his things and left hurriedly, one shoe still half undone, not once looking either Holmes or myself in the eye.
Perplexed beyond all reason, I turned to share my indignation with my friend, only to find him racing for his own coat. "Hurry, Watson, hurry. We mustn't let him out of sight."
Even more confused, I did as Holmes wished, rushing to retrieve both my hat and heavy coat, both necessary against the damp, gray coolness of the day. By the time we reached the street, both a bit disheveled from our haste, there was no sign of our new client, and without discussion we each ran for opposite corners to see if he could be spied. Given that his height was more than the average citizen's I was sure that one of us would have no difficulty in spotting him, but when I could not, I returned to the stoop of 221 Baker, only to find Holmes there with one of the ragamuffin streetboys that looked to him for new and occasionally profitable diversions.
"Thank you, Wallace," he said straightening, putting a coin in the lad's hand. "There is an extra shilling in it if he can be found within the next ten minutes."
With a whoop the boy was off, gathering others like himself as if by magnetism, only to have the group break apart with yet another loud cry before it reached the next corner. "I suppose," I said reluctantly, "That they can cover a great deal more ground much more quickly than we."
"And be singularly un-noticed in the process," Holmes agreed, eyes on them and mind obviously elsewhere. "What did you make of that extraordinary exit?"
"There are forms of madness," I said thoughtfully, still scanning the passerbys as if expecting our un-named guest to reappear, "that include lapses of awareness where the patient will behave in unexpected ways, even violently, then, when recalled to themselves, have no knowledge of their actions."
"I have heard of such poor souls. In this instance, however, rather than losing the memories of the period under the influence, the victim is resurfacing with no trace of himself at all, as if he exits only during the fugue state."
A discussion with another physician surfaced in my mind, and I added, "It has been noted that such episodes are associated with extreme emotional distress, as if mentally, the patient is frantically attempting escape from some event too great to be easily born."
That drew Holmes eye to me, and he said solemnly, "In that case, we may be doing my client no great favor by aiding him in his quest for identity."
Before I could formulate a response to that frightening thought, a boy appeared at the farthest corner, whistled and waved, and Holmes was off, long legs covering the distance in record time. I charged after him as best I could, and so began one of the more intriguing and frustrating days I have ever known.
Thanks to Holmes’s brigade of street arabs, the gentleman was found a few avenues away, marching along as if matters of enormous importance weighed on his mind. We caught up to him quickly, my companion's encyclopedic knowledge of London streets and alleyways providing us with the shortest route to intersect, and we followed discreetly, though I do believe Holmes' client would not have noticed us if had walked side by side with him. Without hesitation or pause, he went deeper and deeper into the heart of the city, heading unerringly for the poorest, filthiest, most forbidding section, though the risk was considerable even in broad daylight.
I clutched my walking stick tightly and wished fervently for my revolver, noting that Holmes was being as cautious as I, closing the gap between our subject and ourselves. Gentlemen on those streets were considered prey by the lowlifes that frequented them, and the police were so out-numbered by ruffians with too little respect for the law that they seldom ventured to patrol there except in large numbers. Yet Holmes' client walked with total confidence, which I would have attributed to ignorance of his circumstances save that those who heeded his passing gave him a respectful berth and more often as not a nod of acknowledgment that went unremarked by its intended recipient.
Holmes and I were treated to more threatening and suspicious glares, but it seemed our proximity to the nameless physician lent us a measure of his cache; none approached us, even the most insistent of beggars. Save for a look exchanged between us, we shelved the matter in favor of continued wariness and care, and eventually arrived with the doctor at a small dwelling thrust out into a dingy courtyard that was filled with people, many in obvious need of medical attention.
Without a word, he went into the building, us close behind, and removed his coat with the aid of a slatternly woman who was obviously making a serious attempt to mend her ways. Her tattered clothing was freshly cleaned, as was her person, and an effort at style had been made in pinning up her hair. She gave us a startled glance, but when no one made any comment, she shrugged off our presence, and said quietly, "Would you like tea before seeing your first patient?"
"No, thank you, Elizabeth." The doctor's voice was as empty as it had been in our rooms at Baker Street, and he didn't look at the woman as he spoke. "Let's just begin."
Over the course of the next six hours he attended the needs of the gathering in the courtyard, taking as much time with each as he required, and not once did the assembled group become impatient or restless. He saw to everything from skin lesions and infected cuts to patients plainly dying of tuberculosis and internal growths, often treating them with potions and nostrums that I had no inkling even existed, let alone what the ingredients might consist of.
Through it all, neither tone of voice nor expression changed, and he seldom spoke save to give directions to the woman assisting him or ask necessary questions of his patients. Nor did he accept a single penny for either his services or his medicines, though several times both coin and barter items were pressed upon him. On each occasion he would tell the giver that he would take it only if it was understood that he would give it to the next person who needed it. No protest followed this pronouncement, and he did indeed do as he had warned and passed on the small gifts left for him.
I could not stand by and watch the endless parade of suffering without being moved. After a nod of understanding from Holmes, who sat on a three-legged stool, back to the wall in watchful caution, I removed my own coats and did what I could to be of use. The other doctor made note of it, and did not hesitate to refer patients to me, but that was the only sign he gave that he was aware of my aid at all.
At times the woman called Elizabeth would proffer tea, once laying out a tray filled with fresh bread and a hot stew that smelled delicious. I snatched what pauses I could to refresh myself, complimenting her on her cooking, delighted to see a small flame of self-worth rise at my praise. The other doctor also ate, but it was more of a deliberate act on his part, as if he were only choosing to fuel the engine that allowed him to continue his work.
During the hard hours we labored and of the many pathetic and near-hopeless cases we saw, only once did the personable gentleman whose acquaintance I made earlier in the day reappear. A very young girl by whose coloring and diminutive size I surmised was suffering from a blood ailment, giggled merrily when he listened to her heart, exclaiming in the frailest of voices that it tickled. Where upon he made a face of pure astonishment, and denied that he was to blame, it had to be fairies. By the time he completed his exam, accompanied as it was by many playful, invisible spirits, she was rosy with laughter, ringed by others who had succumbed to the contagion of humor.
Her mother carried her away, for once not bearing one of the doctors vials, her smile dimming considerably when at her questioning look, he gave her only the barest of shakes 'no.'
I could not help but ask, "Doctor?"
"Tomorrow, at the latest," was all he said, sorrow weighing him heavily. I shared a commiserating gaze with him, then, as I watched, he faded away again, leaving behind the stringless puppet administering to the many still awaiting his skill.
I saw that Holmes had taken in the momentary lapse, following his client's sea change with the intent regard that told me he was using all of his faculties of observation to find some thread that could be followed to unravel the mystery before us. At my questioning look, he waved me back to my task, and, with a sigh I turned toward the seemingly endless line of needy souls.
After what seemed an eternity, the doctor took his out his watch again, and nodded perfunctorily at Elizabeth, who went to the door to announce that no more patients would be seen that day. From the waiting group came a collective sigh of disappointment, but they dispersed readily enough, with many a backward glance as if hoping that their benefactor would have a sudden change of heart. The object of their desires paid no mind to their wishful thinking, but instead did a quick inventory of the many bottles and containers on the shelf along the farthest wall.
"How are the other supplies, Elizabeth?" he asked flatly.
"Low on the makings for bandages, sir, and your scalpels and scissors all need a good sharpening."
"See to it, please." He fished a sovereign from his pocket and gave it over to her without asking to see any of the instruments to ascertain their condition for himself. She helped him into his coats, and he left without a good-bye or thank you, her steady acceptance of his manner indicating that was as much as she expected.
Holmes and I trailed after him, and this time the polite and respectful attitudes of the local inhabitants was no mystery, but rather eminently understandable and I felt, perhaps inaccurately, that some small measure of that was directed my way, as well. Despite my overall fatigue, I was in the best of spirits, which did not last when our path led to the very fringe of the business district and a small chemist's shop that from all indication had been long closed.
The unknown gentlemen paid no more mind to us as we entered the back door on his heels than he had at any other point since departing so precipitously from our lodgings. Once inside he quickly lit several lamps, divested himself of his outside garments to replace them with a heavy rubber apron, and began distilling or combining the various chemicals stored in the small laboratory. Mystified, I took my turn sitting with my back to the wall, observing his careful and precise measurings, while Holmes hovered at his elbow, his superior knowledge of chemistry giving him a more sound basis for interpreting the mixtures being created.
This went on for some three hours, then a knock on the door disturbed the almost un-natural stillness of the small chamber, startling me from a near doze, though all Holmes’ client did was turn off the gas to his Bunsen and remove his gloves. After a quick check of his watch, he opened the door to a young lad who might have been one of Holmes' street urchins, though this one seemed somewhat better fed than one of those unfortunates.
"Good evening, Michael," the doctor said with the same blank courtesy he had used with everyone else that day.
"And to you, sir. You have summat for me today?" There was a barely disguised eagerness in the boy, and he positively beamed when he was gestured into the room, eyes widening slightly at the sight of Holmes and myself.
"Yes, but only enough for yourself this time. Our usual arrangement?"
Young Michael's face didn't dim in the slightest, and he nodded as he blurbled, "Oh, yes, yes, please. I'm to run, fast as I can, straight to Miss Elizabeth's and put the bottles right in her hand, no one else's, and she'll give me my pay."
"That's right," the doctor agreed solemnly. "And remember, use the small ways so you won't be attacked. If that happens, you go to Miss Elizabeth's anyway and she'll tell me." As he spoke he put several small containers into a larger box, padding them well, then handed it to the boy, along with a chocolate that he produced from a small store. With that Michael took off at a run and soon vanished into the gathering night, leaving his employer to methodically clean his equipment and put away his supplies, then lock up the shop, leaving the key from where he had retrieved it in a slight crack to one side of the lentil.
By now I was truly worn from the day's activities, while both Holmes and his client were seemingly as fresh as if they had just arisen from their breakfast table, a fact that I found somewhat annoying for no specific reason I could name. My pique soon faded for our path quickly led toward the best of the public baths available on Piccadilly, I was not averse to indulging as an antidote to the perplexities of the case.
As always since we began observations, the gentleman ignored our company completely, going about his business as if unaccompanied, and from the attendant's manner, it was apparent that the doctor's visit was a daily occurrence. Without prompting he produced a bundle such as came from a laundry, took the offered wallet and other valuables, and provided fresh towels, all without discourse between them of any kind. With a finger to his lips, Holmes told me we would save questioning for another day, then persuaded the young man that we were friends of the previous guest who expected us to share his ablutions. The attendant was considerably startled, telling me clearly that it had never occurred to him that his strange customer *had* friends, but a coin was exchanged, and we were allowed to continue on our way.
To me, no culture can truly considered civilized unless it has discovered the proper and frequent use of hot water for bathing, and a truly enlightened one goes to some pains to insure that its members have ready and inexpensive access to it. Even Holmes, who was as aesthetic man as most I have met, would take on an air of sybaritic enjoyment when in the baths, often yielding to its blandishments no matter how foul his mood or dark his depression.
Yet Holmes' client went through the motions without any hint of enjoyment or appreciation, seeing to the necessity of cleanliness much the same way he had mechanically consumed food earlier. His air of detachment extended to his person, as well. That or he was the least modest man I have ever met, as he completely undressed in front of us without blush or down-turned eyes, though his physique was certainly nothing to be ashamed of for any reason.
I resisted the urge to scrutinize him as he removed his clothes for he was all coltish grace and lean strength, but to my astonishment I found Holmes, the most reserved and asexual human on the face of this earth, unabashedly studying our new companion. It must have been clear upon my countenance for my friend explained quietly, "Since he has no qualms about being unclothed, we might as well seize the opportunity to examine him for distinguishing marks that might aid in identification."
Given permission of a sorts to stare, I buried a niggle of conscience at taking advantage of the situation, and gazed to my heart's content, admiring the elegant lines of his body. In the deepest part of me, I wondered how he compared to another tall, lean man, for I knew this was the closest I would ever come to being able to openly peruse that dear form. Blessedly I was spared a physical reaction to the beauty before me, but, as if some trace of my interest escaped my rigid control, our strange acquaintance suddenly looked from under lowered lashes to meet my gaze, his own speaking frankly of what one man might find appealing in another.
As quickly as the flash of awareness came, it left again, leaving me uncertain that I had seen it and praying that Holmes would attribute the moment to something else entirely. I could not possibly hope that he had not marked it; he was far too involved in draining every iota of data that he could from his client not to have done so. As it was his eyes flickered to me, but I had by then lowered my head on the pretense of being occupied with my own bath, having lost the pleasure in both that activity and our companion's attractiveness.
It was just as well, since he did not linger at his toilet, thorough as he was about it, and was soon dressed in the fresh clothes, complete with new shoes, he'd received from the attendant, making a tidy bundle of the worn ones. As he left, he dropped it at the desk when his valuables were returned, then, with a check of the time on his watch, proceeded to an excellent but secluded restaurant not far from the bathhouse.
We would have sat with him for his supper, but as we approached, he stood, giving every intimation that if we sat, he would not. For a moment I believed Holmes considered pressing the issue, but he gracefully retreated to another table not far away, and I made note to myself to inquire later as to his reasons for the decision.
A simple meal was brought to him without discussion by a young lady who smiled, then frowned slightly when it was not returned, and he ate it with no show of pleasure, head bent over his plate. When finished, he left without comment to anyone, and this time set a course for the district of London that housed our best theaters and concert halls. Referring to my own timepiece, I saw that it was much too late to attend any performances that evening, and, in fact, most would be completed and the halls locked for the night.
"Mystery upon confusion upon astonishment," I murmured to Holmes. "I am beginning to believe that I would not be surprised if our next destination were the royal palace itself."
"The matter is not yielding to investigation at all," Holmes agreed. "How delightful."
"Only you," I said in mild complaint that only lightly touched upon truth, "Would find contemplation of such an exasperating enigma a pleasant occupation."
"Tell me, Watson - would you have me any other way?" Holmes replied, barely smiling.
"What, and spend the rest of my years in the interminable boredom of a warm fire, cozy hearth and quiet book each evening? I think not."
Before Holmes could make his reply, his client swung abruptly back to face us, his expression an odd combination of pain and envy. I might have spoken, if only to offer what scraps of comfort I could, but as quickly as the emotion was read, it was gone again, leaving behind what was becoming distressingly familiar emptiness. He turned on his heel and went on his way as if he had never changed direction at all.
Wondering what it was about our innocent conversation that could have produced such a powerful emotion, I hastened to remain with him, once again sharing with my friend my befuddlement by means of a grimace. Minutes later the gentleman entered the back door of a concert hall, slipping a payment to the janitor who let him in. From frown we received as we followed, I expected to be turned away or at least questioned, but Holmes imitated his predecessor by likewise producing a monetary inducement, and the janitor stood aside.
Holmes' client went immediately to the grand piano that sat center stage, and after making himself comfortable, proceeded to play for the next two hours.
I look at that brief statement and shake my head at myself, wishing most sincerely that I could do better to create for the reader the exquisite beauty and thrilling satisfaction of the un-named musician’s soaring performance. But whatever small skill I might have in the pleasing and informative arranging of thoughts into the printed word, it is not equal to the task of describing those two hours where it seemed every emotion that should have been expressed during the course of the day found its voice in the ringing harmonies of the instrument. Suffice it to say that Holmes and I were both moved, and drank in every note as if it were nourishment for the soul.
So profound was the effect that the pianist had closed the keyboard and was well on his way from the building before we were able to gather our scattered wits and chase after him. His route this time took him to a residential area in a comfortable neighborhood, and, given the late hour of the evening, it was no surprise when he made for the front door of a boarding house, to be let in by what I surmised was the landlady.
"Do we end our observations here?" I asked as we climbed the stairs behind him.
"It would be best to continue to his quarters if we are allowed," Holmes said thoughtfully. "In our earlier conversation he informed me there were no articles in his rooms that were of any use in identification, but what is of use to him and what could be of use to me are two entirely different matters."
With that he bustled past the startled landlady, calling to his client to wait up, he'd forgotten to make arrangements for the morrow. The gentlemen never wavered but continued to climb the stairs, and giving the woman an apologetic smile and tip of my hat, I did the same. At the top I found Holmes and the doctor engaged in a battle of wills: the latter had his hand up in a 'no further' gesture, and Holmes was staring into his eyes, mere inches away from the halting palm.
"Five minutes," he said earnestly. "No more than that and I shall invade your privacy no further this day. You have my word on it."
The internal debate was brief, but strenuous for all that, to judge by the tightening of the gentleman's lips and straightness of his back, but he stepped aside, and motioned Holmes in, remaining at the threshold himself. As I could not be of much use to my friend, I stayed on the top step, watching through the opening as he made his examinations, vainly seeking mentally for some topic of conversation that might rouse the doctor to animation again.
"Good heavens," I heard Holmes say quietly, but could not see from my vantage point what might have caused the exclamation.
His client only inclined his head in Holmes' direction, obviously in possession of the information I lacked, then ushered him from the room, shutting the door behind him with a definitive click of the lock. "What?" I hastened to ask.
"Later, later. I must reflect upon this." And with his head down, hands behind his back, Holmes made for home, me adhering firmly to his side.
Once at Baker Street, I magnanimously allowed him to not only seat himself and pour us each a snifter of brandy, but start his pipe before saying impatiently, "You must have made *something* of our travels today. I cannot imagine your gifts failing to set upon some miniscule clue and from it deduce at least a portion of the solution to our current problem."
"In fact," Holmes said casually, mind not at all on our conversation, "What I have been able to determine, interesting though it is, has very little value in concern with the objective we have before us."
"To identify the gentleman who has lost himself," I supplied. "At the very least, have you found a name that we might use for him? I am beginning to feel mentally fatigued at trying on various labels in hopes of finding one that will cover the crux of the matter."
Favoring me with a partial smile, he took a sip from the brandy and said, "Already thinking on how you will title this particular chronicle, Watson?"
"You must admit, it is an unique puzzle and certainly one worth presenting to others," I answered dryly. "Now, tell me, what did you see in his quarters, and does it help solve this case?"
"Solve it? Unlikely. Complicate it? Considerably." Before I could demand in irritation that he give me a straightforward answer, Holmes added, "There was a secret chamber built into one wall of the room, just under the casement of the window. Not a very large one, and so well hidden that to anyone else searching the room, it would go un-found, but it was more than adequate for holding a princely sum in coin and bill."
"A princely sum?" I repeated, thinking that while the gentleman had been very free with his money, nothing about him spoke of wealth, great or otherwise.
"Enough for you or I to live in comfort for some years on interest alone," Holmes replied absently. "And I have reason to suspect that is not the entire sum of his assets as his largesse toward the unfortunates that frequent his clinic would drain that cache in short order."
"Mayhap that is the point of his charity there," I mused, staring into the fire. "Perhaps the wealth was ill-gotten or tainted in some way, and he seeks to redeem it by putting it to the best possible use. In fact, his service might be a means of absolution for himself."
"That would fall in line with the possibility that the memory lapse he suffers from may have been created by emotional trauma," Holmes agreed. "Myself, I am more of a mind that the funds are, in fact, inconsequential to our cause save that they raise most interesting questions. Such as, why has he never been set upon or robbed either at that squalid clinic where he toils or during his journeys through London? He cannot be insensate to the possibility; his instructions to the lad at the chemist's shop makes that quite clear. Yet he allowed us to dog his steps for an entire day, drawing the line only when it was time to rest, though we could have been thieves of the most foul sort, waiting only to find the source of his income."
"Is it possible that he recognized even in his fugue state that we were friend, not foe?"
"And how many friends of one day's acquaintance would you trust to accompany you into London slums while your pockets were lined with enough cash to tempt a saint, where murder could be done unhindered by the possibility of compassion from a witness?" Holmes drew deeply on his pipe, letting the smoke unfurl gradually from his lips while he thought. "It is as though he is totally unconcerned about his personal safety," he said after a moment. "Or mayhap is that confident of his ability to defend himself if necessary."
As an after thought he added, a vague promise of a smile being hidden in a draw on the pipe, "Which is why I chose not to confront him in the restaurant. It seemed very likely to me that if he believed himself capable of enforcing his preference for a solitary dinner, then I should respect the possibility until proven otherwise."
He stood suddenly and began to pace. "It was the closest he came during the entire day to voluntarily revealing any part of himself. If, during his fugue state, he has any self-knowledge at all, he conceals it far more carefully than that paltry treasure in his room. And why should he go to the lengths that he does to erase or avoid all marks of his passage through this world? All of his garments laundered after every use, a daily visit to the bath for a most thorough cleaning, great care taken during the hours of his work not to stain or soil his hands, no personal objects kept - with his resources he could afford to at least have his own piano to negate the necessity of waiting for the convenience of the janitor for his practice."
"Why indeed? The latter at least, would be nothing to remark upon, I should think, even by the casual gossip monger." I took a sip of my brandy and added, "And there is far more fuel for that sort of notice in his adamant refusal to speak more than necessary or look another in the eye."
"Notice... Is it possible that he is attempting to escape notice? At least that of any consequence such as local authorities?" Holmes spoke to himself, eyes no longer seeing our rooms. "Which, of course, brings us back to *why,* none the more enlightened than when we began this discussion. Enough!" He waved away topic. "I will dwell on it no longer; idle speculation does no good and the solution will lie, as always, in solid facts. On the morrow I will question the people encountered today for specifics on their arrangements with my client, with close attention to the dates they were made. That, at least, may give us some point of reference for looking into his arrival in England."
Draining the last of his brandy, he set aside the glass for Mrs. Hudson. "If he returns tomorrow cognizant of his initial request, I will tell him I have the matter in hand and to return the day after. It may well be that I will have more for him than the unexpected way he spends his days."
Standing myself, I put out my cigarette and smiled. "In that case, I will see you in the morning. I am quite looking forward to the eventual resolution of this mystery; it should be fascinating."
Already mentally absorbed in reviewing the details of the day, Holmes spared me a fraction of a wave good night, and I went up to my room, content that he was occupied with something better than the needle and his own boredom.
As churches went, the one Al Calavicci entered was really more of a chapel, barely large enough for its own priest, and half-hidden in a little, tree-sheltered cul-de-sac not too far from where he lived. But it was a beautiful church, for all that, lit gloriously by tall stained-glass windows and with a high ceiling covered with masterfully done paintings. It was that more than anything else that made him comfortable coming here, though as a family he and Beth took the girls to a more modern church with a large congregation and many activities.
That was for them, though. When he needed serene, contemplative surroundings, Al came here, confident that the priest would leave him to his own devices no matter how long he stayed. Or how sorrowful he seemed.
It must be trial for the elderly priest, he thought, fingers automatically dipping into the holy water, to never be allowed to give spiritual comfort or at least a good listening ear to someone who obviously needed it. Genuflecting, his old joints and muscles working smoothly despite the burden of his heart, he slowly made his way down the aisle to where candles sputtered and flickered their lives away. Not that he could possibly tell the priest what did trouble him. National security aside, he'd never be believed anyway.
Dropping a few bills in the box, he selected a candle and put it near the back where it would shine above the others slowly burning out. He lit it and folded his hands, though it never really felt like prayer anymore when he did this. It was more like a talk with a good friend who could only spare you a little of his attention.
"I still miss him, you know," he said conversationally. "Miss him so much." He sighed and repeated, "So much." He closed his eyes, seeing Sam as clearly as if he really stood in front of him, wearing that small, pleased smile he'd get when he caught Al's gaze. "I never stop wondering if he's happy, if he's safe, if there's someone watching his back, kicking his butt, listening to him bitch, making him laugh..."
Al trailed off, throat locked against new tears that were really old, old as the day Sam had been lost to Ziggy's tracking system, lost to the reach of the imaging chamber, lost to Al himself. Their last conversation had left him worrying first about his friend's sanity, and then, after the hybrid computer had nearly had a nervous breakdown trying to pinpoint Sam's co-ordinates, for his life. All they had been ever able to determine after that day was that he was still Leaping, still moving through Time and Space, though the waiting room had never again been occupied. The only means they had to be sure was from the small changes in history that Ziggy would occasionally find.
After a while even those faded, leaving Al and the rest of the Project team with no proof to offer the Senate Committee that Dr. Beckett was still alive, let alone would be able to someday return. The quantum accelerator was taken off-line, and Ziggy and the imaging chamber were put to new research uses, ones that Sam would have approved of if he'd been there. For the most part, Al didn't mind running Stallion's Leap in his friend's place, keeping military fingers out of the work, but it was hard to swallow down the misery he felt every time he went past the empty office or watched someone else go into the Imaging Chamber to make contact with their partner.
And today, like always on Sam's birthday, it was almost impossible. "Wherever he is," Al finally murmured, "Watch over him, please? He's one of Yours, one of the best You got in Your service. All I'm asking is that maybe You could keep Your arm around his shoulders so he won't be so alone."
"Don't worry, Al," a voice said from behind him. "Sam's getting the best possible care." A burly priest with a mustache and slicked back hair sat in the pew nearest to him, his hand tucked into the sleeves of his old fashioned cassock. "All things considered," he added as an afterthought.
Eyeing him carefully, thinking he looked vaguely familiar, Al said, "I know you, don't I?"
"Not exactly," the priest hedged, studying the crucifix on the far wall. "That is, we've never been formally introduced."
"Are you working with Father Peters?" It was an idiotic question, but it was also something to say while Al tried to pin down where he'd seen this nozzle before. "And how did you know I was praying for Sam?"
"Let's just say I'm here to take the good father's place for few days while he enjoys a seminar in Chicago. And I knew you were praying for Sam because I do, too. Often." He smiled as if at some memory, then fixed Al with brown eyes that were sharp and intent, and just like that, a name popped to the tip of Al's tongue.
"Weird Ernie." Mentally he replaced the priest's garb with an Air force uniform, and there was no mistaking the man, though he hadn't aged a single year from the last time Al had seen him in 1954. "You're a shrink."
"Sometimes," he admitted smoothly, then grinned a grin that was unexpectedly wicked. "Sometimes I'm a bartender, sometimes I'm a priest - whatever works. What I do mainly is listen, and if you feel more comfortable talking to a priest, then that's what I'll be today."
"And if I don't want to talk?" Al said, the hairs on the back of his neck standing up because the guy was creeping him out big-time.
"Then how can I give you any advice, which is the other part of my job?" Weird Ernie was using reasonable enough a voice, though the whole conversation was beginning to feel like a trip into the Twilight Zone.
"You could just skip right to that part." Standing carefully, he took a step away from the priest/shrink, trying to be casual about it. "If you were listening a minute ago, then you already heard everything I've got to say."
"Point." Ernie didn't seem the least bit put out by Al's caution, merely tilting back his head to accommodate the change in position. "Go to him."
"What!"
"Seems straight forward enough - go to Sam."
"I... I..." Al staggered back, something both terrified and wildly hopeful bursting in his chest, and dropped heavily on a step leading up to the choir loft. "Can I?"
"If you want, sure." Ernie wagged a finger at him. "But you have to want it very, very bad and there are a couple of things you should know before you make up your mind."
"Just tell me what I have to do." There was nothing but certainty in his voice, and Al leaned forward eagerly.
Oddly, that produced a gentle and caring smile that went a long way toward convincing Al that whatever else Ernie was, he was one of the good guys. "He," and a nod toward the ceiling said which 'He' they were talking about, "doesn't work like that. You might be willing to go ahead blind, like Sam did that first time, but that was a special case - a Leap of faith if you will. And our dear Dr. Beckett would never forgive me if I let you rush into this without knowing the price up front."
"I'm not going to be able to come back, am I?" Al had suspected for a while that Leaping had become a one way trip. It had to be why Sam had gone on without him, and it was the one reason he could think of for his friend being upset if he Leaped to him. It wasn't a problem as far as he was concerned.
"No, it would be a one-way ride," Ernie confirmed.
"No problem, let's go."
"Your wife? Your daughters?"
Al had had too many long nights and empty hours to chew on that, to the point he was sick and tired of worrying about it. In the end it boiled down to the simple fact that it would hurt like hell to leave Bethie and the girls, and his conscience screamed about how much it was going to hurt them, but they wouldn't be all on their own, like Sam was. Beth had her family, and they all had the extended family of the project, and they would be safe - which was more than he could say for a certain brilliant scientist. At least money wasn't a problem, thanks to careful investing and a genius friend who had always had a knack for knowing what technological companies would catch on in the stock market.
"Without Sam talking Beth into waiting for me," he said steadily, not letting the false priest in on how hard his final decision had been. "There wouldn't have been a family to leave, and I thank God every day that there is now. Can you think of a better way to thank *Sam* for it than by helping him with the work that allowed him to give me that?"
"He might not see it that way," Ernie pointed out, un-necessarily. "He might see it as you giving up something that he paid very dearly for."
Al winced, seeing in his mind's eye Maggie lying dying in a Viet Nam jungle floor, reaching up to him with her camera in her bloody hand. He and Sam had both learned the hard way that changing the wrong history at the wrong point had serious consequences, and he'd worried more than once what his friend had had to sacrifice to have that talk with Beth. But he said evenly, "So he can royally chew me out when he sees me." Very softly he added, "And I'd do a hell of a lot more than take off on a Navy wife who's *used* to having me leave at duty's call, just to give him the chance to do it."
"I thought that might be the case," Ernie said. "If it helps, they'll be okay. The usual bumps and bruises, of course, and you're going to be missed a whole heck of a lot more than you think you will be. Your girls might be mostly grown and out of the house, Al, but you're still their father."
That hurt, that hurt a lot, but he didn't back away from it. "I'm gonna miss them, too, but I ache for Sam. I *ache* for him. Beth knows that, and understands it, I think. I guess on some level, she remembers the old history where she never did have the children she wanted so much, and once Sam started Leaping, she put it all together. Heaven love her, she's never given me the least bit of grief about the hours I put into the project, and I was pretty much on-call 24/7 when we had a lock on him. She'll ease the way for the girls."
Wisely Ernie didn't say anything to that, which was for the best because Al was pretty much fed up with his poking and prying. Instead he said quietly and seriously, "One last thing you have to know." The priest hesitated, looking uneasy for the first time. "Sam never let me very close. I had a pretty good idea of what was going on in his head, but not his heart, and because of that I made a mistake - a bad one."
Ernie stopped again, looking into his own mind to see what Al could not, then went on slowly, "Since he's been on his own, Sam's been pushing himself hard, even though the Leaps have been longer and tougher. I thought he was digging in, getting stubborn, the way he used to do with a really knotty problem, but now I can see that he was wearing himself out to hide how much agony he was in. I let him keep going on when I should have made him stop and rest."
"What happened?" Al asked, stomach knotting up with worry.
Just like that he could *see* Sam racing up a rain-soaked California hill, fighting his way past obstacle after obstacle, getting more and more battered and filthy with each step, but desperate to reach his goal no matter what the cost to himself. And he failed, failed within a fingertip's reach of success, and he slumped to the wet ground, watching death crash through a small valley, weeping. "I can't do this any more," he cried quietly. "I don't *want* to do this any more, don't want to hurt any more. Can't I just, just stop *hurting* for a while?"
There was a wrenching; twisting thing in his chest, then Al was back in the small chapel, gasping for air. "Sam!"
"Lost," Ernie said sadly. "He asked the wrong thing at the wrong time, with the worst possible source to hear him. His wish was granted and now he's lost."
"Lost!" Al said, anger replacing the grief holding him. "How can *you* lose him?"
"Oh, not lost to me," Ernie said quickly. "I know exactly where he is, and I'm going to take you there shortly. Lost to *himself.* The only way he could be free of the pain was to be free of who and what he is, because the hurt wasn't from the failure or the even the Leaps."
Hiding wet eyes with his hand, Al bowed his head. He knew why Sam hurt so much and why he would hide it from Ernie, bearing it alone. "You're saying he doesn't remember who he is; he has amnesia, like in some stupid soap opera."
"More like his identity was buried deep inside a mind that was already badly swiss-cheesed because of how far back in time he is," the priest explained gently. "Sam surfaces once in a while because his soul couldn't be squelched, even in his grief, and it pulls him up when it's touched. But if he doesn't know he has to put something right, he never will and he'll stay where he is until his life ends."
"Am I supposed to put it right for him, then?" Wiping away his tears, Al straightened and made himself look Ernie in the face.
"To be truthful, I don't know if that would make both of you Leap, or if you would go by yourself, leaving Sam behind."
"Then I have to make him remember."
"If anybody can, it's you," Ernie said solemnly. "But, Al, you have to know that there's no way to tell if it's possible. You might both wind up trapped there without so much as the comfort of your friendship."
"He might not know my name or where we met or how long we've known each other," Al said firmly, believing it with all his heart. "But he'll know me, down to at bottom of his soul. If nothing else, we'll be together where ever it is we wind up. That's not bad, Ernie. Not bad at all."
"Then you can't be talked out of this." Not waiting for an answer, Ernie stood and waited while Al did the same. "Your mind is set."
"In stone." Al looked around the small church, the wish that he could have said goodbye to Beth and the girls flitting through is mind. Letting it go without comment, letting *them* go with all the love he had for them, he said, "Let's do it."
Large, pudgy hands settled butterfly light on his shoulders, hardly making an impression on him at all. "God bless you, Albert Vincent Calavicci. God bless."
As light as the touch was, Al suddenly felt heavy, too heavy to breathe or stand, and he crumpled, feeling crushed under some weight that was as much on the inside as it was the out. Like he was inside a black hole, the light around him began to shift toward the red, then the black, and he couldn't see or hear or think. As abruptly as it started, it was gone, leaving him as floaty as a feather, drifting away from the darkness toward a warmth and a voice that haunted his every waking and sleeping moment. "Sam."
He only thought the name, but in his head he heard, "Al? Al!?"
Unashamed of the yearning in his voice, he repeated eagerly, "Sam?" There was no response this time, but he *had* heard his name being called in return the first time. Al arrowed in the direction he'd thought it had come from - and slammed full speed into a wall of solid light.
The impact shattered him, but an instant later he was whole and standing in the middle of a busy street, Ernie's hands steadying him. "Careful there, my good man."
Dazed, Al looked around, blinking at his extraordinary surroundings. Horse-drawn carriages clattered noisily down an avenue paved with brick cobblestones, between shops that could only be called quaint and tiny. The pedestrians hurrying by, hardly paying any attention to him and Ernie at all, were dressed in the kind of clothes people wore in the old, old photographs that hung anonymously in antique shops everywhere. The air held the stench of soot, horse manure, and rotting garbage, and was so thick he could feel the pollution in it coating his throat. Most confusing of all was the voices he heard drilling and screeching their way over his hearing. While he could swear that most of the words were in the English language, he couldn't make sense of them. It was as if they were spoken too quickly, colored by another language altogether.
A moment later it clicked into place for him. "England, near turn of the century," he muttered. "Sam's not that old. *I'm* not that old."
"Oh, I didn't mention that Dr. Beckett wasn't confined to his own life-span any longer?"Ernie said with the bland tones of a born bullshitter. "Not that he's ever gone this far back, before. The farther you get away from your own history, the more difficult it is to function well enough in your surroundings to be able to accomplish anything. Just getting dressed can be a major project in some Times."
Hardly caring what Ernie was saying, Al looked more closely at the people around them. "I don't see him. You said you were taking me to him, but he's not in sight."
"Come now, you've done this before," Ernie chided gently, looking very serious. "I can only bring you so far, give you the basics you need. Check your pockets; you'll find everything it takes to situate yourself comfortably. The rest - finding Sam, figuring out how to bring him back to himself - that's up to you."
"You're just going to dump me?" Al shouted indignantly.
"Of course not. But I'm not going to be able to stay at your elbow either. Don't worry, I'll be keeping a close eye on both of you, and if I can, I'll help. Keep in mind, though, that I'm limited to what I *can* do." The wicked grin Al had seen on Earnie earlier flashed again. "Otherwise, Leapers wouldn't be necessary, now would they?"
Snorting, Al started to give him a piece of his mind, but he jerked his head around at a god-awful racket that turned out to be something vaguely resembling a motor car, and when he turned back, Weird Ernie was gone. "I," he said definitively, "Am going to get even with that nozzle." Then he took a deep breath and aimed for a quiet corner of the street so he could turn out his pockets.
***
"You mustn't believe that the matter has been abandoned," I said earnestly, trying to keep both my dignity and my breath as I hurried alongside my longer-legged friends down a London street some months after we first took up the case of the un-named physician. "Sherlock Holmes is nothing if not persistent, especially once he's sunken his teeth into a first-rate mystery such as the one you present."
"Indeed, not," Holmes hastened to assure his still un-identified client, having no problem keeping up with his steady pace. "It is merely that we must wait for some new avenue of investigation to present itself, which is it very likely to do in short order. Every time we meet something new is discovered; it is only a matter of time until some hither-to undiscovered facet leads us to the resolution we are seeking."
The gentleman stopped dead for a moment, giving Holmes a look filled with frustration and impatience. "It's already been nearly ten weeks, and you don't even have a *name* for me." Almost as quickly as he stopped, he resumed his daily walk to the chemist shop. From habit, Holmes and I waited a moment to see if the gentleman would mentally slip away from us as was his wont, leaving only his body to its daily routine.
Fortunately, as had been happening more and more in recent days, once he allowed his steps to return to their accustomed path, he was able to remain with us, perhaps fueled, I speculated, by rising emotion. This was a relatively new development in our client (and, since I was his physician of record, I felt that I was not usurping any of Holmes' prerogatives by claiming a portion of responsibility) and a positive one, I believed. "All you've been able to learn is that I've been in London at least a year, since that's when I took my rooms and started my routine. I could have been in town longer since no one knows where I lived or worked before beginning the life you discovered for me, and no ship making port in London near that time carried me as a passenger, as far as any manifest shows."
"You have no idea," he said in a voice colored by an ungodly mix of emotion, "How hard it is to look in a mirror and not recognize the face in it, or be able to give it a name. I've gotten to the point I cover mine when I shave, even when *I'm* not in charge. And while it might be true that as long as you can ask if you're crazy, you're still sane, I'm beginning to have my doubts."
"I have none," I said stoutly, for it was the truth. Neither the personable gentleman walking with us nor his emotionless doppelganger struck me as being mentally unstable, despite an early theory that an emotional blow of the most extreme sort had caused the odd twinning. "We've shared our observations with you from the first - a feat of patience on Holmes part, I might add, such as I have never seen, as it took you the better part of a week to return for a report. In your *professional* opinion has the person of which we have spoken demonstrate any symptoms of malaise or instability?"
"No," our companion admitted reluctantly. "Other than by his very existence - or mine, depending on which of us is the original."
"Hah!" Holmes interjected, waving his hand in the air. "I have to tell you, my dear fellow, that I occasionally entertain the wild notion that you are deliberately attempting to confound me. Every time, *every time,*" he said emphatically, "I begin to believe that I might have some measure of the scope of the quest you have set for me, you casually toss a few crumbs my way that force me to reconsider yet again, as with that negligent statement, 'which is the original.'"
Holmes light-hearted remark was rewarded with one of the most charming smiles I have ever seen, and, whether that was my friend's original intent or not, our client's mood shifted for the better. "In that case," he said gallantly, "At least I have the consolation of knowing I have some use! I just hope you won't think I'm hopelessly boring when you've finally uncovered all my secrets."
Holmes only slightly smiled, which was as much of a confession that he approved of our companion as he would allow, and it pleased me that he would reveal even that much. On my own part, I was quite taken with the gentleman, as he was a challenging and inspiring conversationalist, a patron of all the arts, and a fellow professional with whom I could discuss medical matters quite freely. His company was never tiresome, and if nothing else, that one trait alone endeared him to Holmes. We both looked forward to his visits, unpredictable though they were.
Or, perhaps, as far as Holmes was concerned, *because* his presence was so unscheduled. For myself, I could preferred a bit less spontaneity, and could sympathize with our client's discomfort at the lack of stability in his existence. With that in mind, I said firmly, "Under the circumstances, perhaps it would be best to give you a name, sir. Identity is, after all, founded on that singular event."
"Watson, I do believe you are correct!" Holmes agreed instantly. "Do you have a preference at all?" He made the last remark to our companion, and we both were forced to bide our time while that gentleman opened the back of his shop and prepared for his daily labors within.
We had almost given up on receiving a reply when he said thoughtfully, "I like the idea, but when I try to think of what I could call myself, I get this strange feeling, like a child who's not sure whether or not the boogey man really exists, and if he does, maybe he *is* under the bed."
"In that case," Holmes said promptly, and with more levity than was usual for him, "We shall have to proceed on your behalf. After all, it is the custom for names to be bestowed, almost as if a gift, and I must say, a malevolent one based on some that I have heard inflicted upon their poor owners."
Sensing that my friend was attempting to prevent our client from becoming entirely absorbed in his self-appointed tasks, propelled by the confusion and sorrow showing so clearly from our companion, I heartily joined in the discussion. "Which puts you at an advantage over the rest of us poor mortals who are weighed down at our birth with unpleasant labels and no opportunity to expression an opinion as to whether or not we approve. You, at least, will not be burdened with Percival Throckmorton or Whittington Whittington Gordon the third without your consent."
By this time our client was fully occupied with his mixing, but for once his ear was still turned to us, and he murmured, "Something simple would be nice."
"William, then?" Holmes inquired. "Perhaps Steven or Thomas?"
Spying a paper nearby whose headline proclaimed the latest in the year-round celebrations of the queen's Golden Jubilee, I said thoughtfully, "Victor, perhaps, in honor of her majesty and her anniversary?"
"Well, if we wished to curry her favor," Holmes returned, "We should call him Albert. What say you to Victor Alberts or perhaps Albert...."
"Vincent," the gentleman broke in unexpectedly. His eyes were fixed upon us, wide and terrified, and tremors shook him with enough force to make the beaker he held fall to the floor to shatter there. "Albert Vincent Ca.. Cal...."
He stuttered the sound several times, then, as every last bit of color faded from his face, he caught his head between his hands, and gasped in what must have been horrific pain. "Are you," I began to ask, stepping closer, ready to support him in a swoon if necessary.
With a violent jerk he stepped away from me, his gasps building to moans. "No, don't touch, never touch, can't, can't." He stumbled back several more feet, then bolted, racing out the door and into the early evening twilight.
"After him," I shouted, matching word to deed, distantly grateful that Holmes followed my lead without question. I truly feared for our client, feared where he might go and what he might do to escape the demon that we had inadvertently freed. Fortunately the lane was clear and following was easily done, but a strong hand on my elbow prevented me from closing the gap between the fleeing physician and ourselves.
"We might only add to his fright if he has linked us with its occurrence," Holmes cautioned.
There was wisdom in his words, much as I wished otherwise, and I slacked my pace to the point that we were barely keeping the gentleman in sight. His pell mell rush gradually gave way to a trot, then to a fast walk, then to the brisk pace of a man who must be about his business. At that point we drew somewhat closer, unsurprised to see there was no expression on his features, the eyes frighteningly empty.
I was at something of a loss as to how to proceed, but Holmes surprised me by casually calling out, "Wait, you've forgotten your coat." It was typical of him that, despite our precipitous exit from the shop, he had had the presence of mind to scoop up the gentleman's belongings, and I simply had not noticed them in Holmes' possession, my focus being entirely on my patient.
At Holmes' words, the gentleman stopped and turned toward us, blinking as if fighting to find a proper response. Hesitantly he reached out for the garment. "Thank you; I hadn't realized."
"No trouble at all," Holmes said calmly, handing it over. "I knew you would be on your way to your shop, and since I must pass it by to get to my lodgings, it was no matter to bring it along and deliver it."
"The shop." Our client looked around blankly, then almost visibly found the proper mental path to take. "Yes, I should be at the shop, which is," and, without finishing his statement, he redirected his steps to take him back.
"Would you mind if we accompanied you on this lovely evening?" Holmes asked solicitously, falling into step with him without waiting for permission. "If the weather holds we shall have a most pleasant night, far too pleasant to waste the hours indoors."
There was no answer, but no objection to our company either, and though we had originally planned only to remain with the gentleman until we'd imparted news of the lack of success at identifying him, in good conscience I could not depart until I was sure that no lasting harm had been done. It seemed Holmes was in agreement, for he strolled along, obviously deep in thought and oblivious to the lovely evening he'd claimed to wish to enjoy.
As I was about to sigh in relief that all had turned out well, the gentleman pulled up short, suddenly alert and aware. "Did you hear that?" he asked, turning down a back lane. "A girl crying out?"
A moment later I did indeed hear the faint sound of pain, and turned the corner at his heels in time to see a well-dressed man of late years and heavy constitution draw back his cane for another blow to a young serving maid cowering at his feet at a back door stoop. "Please, sir, please," she begged, "I've done nothing, I swear!"
"Liar. Liar to the core!" he shouted and would have struck her again but for a hand suddenly appearing in the way.
Our client took the impact from the blow without so much as a wince, and he stepped between the portly gentleman and the servant. "Unless I'm very much mistaken," he said calmly, "You are in the wrong, sir. No matter what the girl's crime, you don't have the right to beat her, simply because you're a wealthy man and she's in your employee."
Spluttering, red-faced to the point of endangering himself, the other man tried to snatch his cane away. "How dare... Who! I shall call...." He was unsuccessful in retrieving his stick, and swung with his other fist to strike our client in the face.
In a move that I would not have credited if I had not seen it with my own eyes, the blow was stopped before it reached half to its mark - knocked harmlessly aside. "Yes," our client said calmly, "Call the constables. I have a complaint to report."
The heavy-set gentleman fell back a step, gaping like a fish, his features contorting in a rage that was fearsome and vile. Regardless, the physician turned his back on him and reached down to the huddled girl, murmuring something calming. Regaining the initiative, the older gentleman swung with his cane at the defenseless back, only to have Holmes intercept it this time.
"I do believe," Holmes said quietly, "That would be a serious mistake."
"Who in the devil do you think you are!" the attacker half-gasped, half bellowed.
"Sherlock Holmes, sir." With a sharp gesture he indicated me, never taking his eyes from the irate man. "My colleague, Dr. Watson." With a trace of a smile, he added, "And, of course, Dr. Albert Vincent, who, I am afraid to say, is in the right on this issue. If you have a crime of which to accuse this young lady, the proper thing is to call the police. Shall I oblige?"
Helping the servant to her feet, Dr. Vincent, as I was forced to think of him now due to the introduction, said quietly, "I would think you have better things to do with the little time left to you than deal with authorities over something you wouldn't have remembered tomorrow, anyway."
That renewed the older man's fury, and before any of us could react, he lashed out with the cane again, only to have it miss its target as Dr. Vincent angled back, hardly moving at all. "Do that again and I *will* take it away from you," he said flatly. "And break it over my knee so it can't be used as a weapon again."
"How dare you threaten me! How dare you!" There was hardly enough air in him to speak, though he tried to shout his indignation regardless.
By this time the altercation had drawn an audience, including other members of the household, and a sharp-faced woman stepped to the man's side, hand going to his shoulder. "Here, now, Mr. Evans," she bit out. "This will not do at all. Simply fire the girl and bring charges against her on the morrow, as well as against these ruffians. You have witnesses aplenty, and I'm sure the court will support you." There was something in her tone that suggested it wouldn't have mattered whether or not Mr. Evans was in the right or not, he would have his way if before a judge.
That was confirmed by the sudden terror on the house-maid's face, but before she could speak Dr. Vincent said to her calmly, gracing her with his most endearing smile, "I promise you, little Betty, there won't be any charges. And as to his employ, don't worry about it."
He led her away, ignoring all and sundry. "I happen to know a very nice lady with limited means whose health is deteriorating to the point where she desperately needs a companion to help her. She can't offer much save lodgings and a few shillings now and then, but she won't mind if you take in sewing or make lace while with her. Mistress Catherine, her name is, was very good at that sort of thing until the arthritis took her hands - she'd love to teach you if you have the patience to learn."
By now they were near the main street, and the maid-servant had an expression of near-worship on her face as she clung to his hand and his words. Behind them Mr. Evans fumed and bubbled helplessly, apparently restrained by his wife's urgent hissings and assurances. Torn between keeping an eye on my charge and turning my back on a riled viper, I half-turned to hold watch on both, only to have Holmes gesture me away toward the street. I did as suggested, relieved to be beyond earshot of the ruckus boiling behind us.
We quickly caught up with Dr. Vincent and the young lady, who had by that time composed herself enough to present her side of the dispute. "...done it before. That was how Cook came to be accused, though he satisfied himself with beating her so badly he sent her to the hospital. If he weren't so niggardly, his missus wouldn't pawn their possessions, though I can't blame her for doing that and claiming theft by the staff rather than ask *him* for more money. His hand is lighter on her, but not by much."
"I'm sorry you had to stay with them for so long," Dr. Vincent murmured. "I know it's hard enough to find a position as it is without the extra problem of being an orphan and having no one to speak for you."
"Why, sir," she breathed, amazed. "How could you possibly know that?"
Looking discomfited, as if caught in some small mischief, he said, "Someone must have mentioned it to me; I've treated several of Mr. Evan's employees in the past." Apparently finding it necessary to change the subject, he added, "At least he won't be able to hurt anyone else. If he survives the night, he won't be able to worry about anything else but his health."
"Upon what do you base that?" Holmes asked, breaking his silence for the first time and startling both myself and Miss Betty considerably.
"A number of things," Dr. Vincent said dismissively.
"His florid face, the unhealthy bloating of his body, the whiteness of his knuckles as they gripped the cane, his wheezing," I volunteered. "All mark ill-health to a most alarming degree, though I don't know if I would predict his imminent collapse."
"I was standing closer," Dr. Vincent pointed out. "I could see a subtle sagging in the features on the right side of his face, and while the cane had to have hurt simply because it was heavy, the force behind it wasn't equal to what he should have been capable of producing. Given the light, I couldn't be sure, but it looked to me as if one pupil was fixed and non-responsive."
"Cerebral hemorrhage," I diagnosed. "Shouldn't we have done more to warn him?"
"Think he would have listened?" Unexpectedly looking fatigued, he patted Miss Betty's hand where it rested on his sleeve. "Do you have a place you can stay the night? I'll introduce you to Miss Catherine first thing tomorrow morning, and we'll see if you suit each other."
"Oh, yes. I have a good friend who's a scullery maid for Mr. Thompson down the way a bit. His missus doesn't mind if she has company occasionally as long as we don't giggle all night." With a flash of dimples that enlivened her strained features, she added, "Which *is* a problem at times, but I'm too done in tonight to want anything but a bed."
Dr. Vincent nodded, listened as the address was given, then freed her hand from his elbow as if setting as ship free from its moors. She went on her way, twirling around once as if to confirm that she had, indeed, been rescued by a handsome gentleman, dropped us a curtsey, then ran madly for her friend's home. As soon as she was out of sight, Dr. Vincent bent at the waist and braced his hands on his knees, dropping his head to breath slowly and regularly.
"Are you well?" I finally was able to ask.
A slow shake to the negative had me gingerly grasping his jacket at the shoulder, holding him by the fabric alone, his extreme reaction to being touched still fresh in my mind despite the unusual turn the day had taken. "I hate to ask," he whispered. "But could you take me to my rooms? I'm very tired."
"Of course, of course," I assured him, but I'm not sure he heard. Imitating my grasp, Holmes took him from the other side, and between us we managed to keep him on his feet until a cabbie could be hailed. Once at his quarters, his landlady took one look at his pasty face and let us in, rushing off to her own quarters for a cup of weak tea and extra blanket. We settled him in quickly, then, suddenly at a loss for the next step, Holmes and I regarded each other over opposite sides of his bed.
"It doesn't seem right to leave him on his own," Holmes said, brows furrowed in thought. "Nor does remaining behind present itself as a viable option, as it disturbs him greatly to have visitors to his rooms."
"I am in agreement with you, but can't think of a way out of our predicament." I studied our newly-named Dr. Albert Vincent and reluctantly conceded, "Exhaustion truly seems to be his only ailment. Rest, and the kind of cosseting his landlady is apparently eager to provide, is the cure for that. I'm sure if he has any further difficulties, she'll contact us since, thanks to you, she's been informed I'm his physician."
With a single incline of the head, Holmes agreed with me, and then led the way back to our lodgings, silent every foot of the way, obviously digesting the evening's events. I went straight to my own bed, as much because I wanted to reflect on them privately myself as because of any need of rest I might have.
In the end, it was all to no avail. I arose the next morning sure only that my heart went out to our Dr. Vincent, who was a good a man as one might wish to know and yet in the most dire of situations. Not feeling in the least refreshed and more cross than I had any good reason to be, I grumbled and complained my way through my morning toilet, sitting down to breakfast with my paper with barely disguised irritation.
Holmes, God bless him, ignored me completely and gave every indication of having spent the entire night in front of the fire deep in thought. For once not willing to play at being his keeper, I ignored him in return and ate, not really noticing my food. At length I felt more myself, drawn back from my annoyance by the simple familiarity of my meal and surroundings.
It wasn't until I turned back the paper to read the headlines that I was jarred completely out of my foul temper. There, in 34 point type-face was "Murder Done at Sylvester's Row," the address of the unpleasant Mr. Evans. I hastened to read the rest, saying absently, "Holmes, I think you'd better see this." He appeared at my side and read over my shoulder the rest of the article, which went on to state that Mr. Wilbur Lythcomb Evans of 1331 Sylvester row, noted business man and former magistrate (no wonder he didn't fear appearing in court, Holmes murmured) had been found dead of unknown causes that morning in his study. Police were pursuing a very promising lead, and an arrest was expected shortly, as the grieving widow had been able to overcome her grief in order to give excellent evidence.
"I believe," Holmes said thoughtfully, returning to his seat by the fire, "that we are about to receive a visit from Inspector Lastrade."
Blinking at him in mild amazement, I asked, "Have you suddenly turned prognosticator as well, old friend?"
Tapping his upper lip with his forefingers Holmes shrugged eloquently. "Only in as much as it is possible to predict human behavior based on many years of observation and intense study of character."
"And that allows you to tell me that Lastrade will be ringing our bell." As if on cue, the bell did exactly that, and I waited, hand on the back of the couch and listening to the noises below stairs of a door being answered. Moments later the gentleman in question sprang into the room, hat in hand, angular features twisted up in an agony of confusion.
"Mr. Holmes, forgive me for disturbing your breakfast," he began.
"But you are here to ask my assistance in regard to the murder of one Wilbur Evans of Sylvester Row. You have a suspect which you cannot locate, and cannot at this time fathom how the crime was committed should you indeed be able to find a Dr. Vincent, address unknown."
Throwing himself about the room restlessly, Lastrade asked me, "How does he do that? I concede that he would have read about the murder in the daily, but to know why I sought him out for a case that is practically closed."
"In this instance," Holmes answered for me. "It is because the case is no where near closed, much as you may believe otherwise. Mrs. Evans was not as forth-coming to you as you believe, sir, when you questioned her. The Dr. Vincent you seek was in *my* company last evening during the altercation she spoke of. Watson was present as well. He is not responsible for her husband's demise, and if she has persuaded a physician to say that he died of anything except natural causes, I shall have to insist that another physician see the body. Mr. Evans was quite unwell when we left, and that was the meaning of Dr. Vincent's warning to the gentleman. It was not a threat of bodily harm."
Eyes agog, mouth open, Lastrade sat upon the edge of a chair, but for once I was not going to have to wait for Holme's clarification. If Mr. Evans were as money conscious as Miss Betty said, it was likely he was well-insured, and given his temperament, the policy more than likely paid double for death by foul causes. Mrs. Evans already had a history of falsely accusing others; it would strike her as a sensible thing to do to claim murder, especially with her conviction that her husband's former associates would be likely to consider the charge at her bequest. Dr. Vincent's innocence was of no concern to her, only that he provided a likely suspect, given the incident concerning Miss Betty.
"It was unfortunate," Holmes said to Lastrade, confirming my suppositions, "That Mrs. Evans did not bother to inquire as to the identity of Dr. Vincent's associates before making her accusations. I fear she will be out a considerable sum of monies because of it."
"You were there Holmes?" Lastrade asked stupidly.
"I was."
"And you saw your companion set upon Mr. Evans without cause."
"Hah! Is that what the harridan claimed? No, I saw Dr. Vincent step between Mr. Evans and a serving girl he was beating senseless with a cane. He never raised a hand to the gentleman, save to prevent injury to himself and her, not once striking Mr. Evans, which is more than I can say in return for the deceased."
"Watson?" Lastrade looked pained. "That was precisely what happened and I am more than ready to testify on Dr. Vincent's behalf," I said firmly.
"And you believe Mr. Evans died of natural causes, despite the death certificate?"
"I will not claim that unless I have examined the body myself," I said, taking a page from Holmes' book on dealing only with the facts when questioned. "But *in my medical opinion* he was not enjoying good health last evening, nor had he for some time, I wager. He had many of the obvious visible symptoms of a life spent indulging in too much rich food and too many hot-tempered displays."
"If I were you, Lastrade," Holmes said, smiling thinly, "I would look into the particulars on that death certificate. What is the doctor's relationship to Mrs. Evans? Was it forged? Are there insurances involved? You may not have a solved murder to add to your already quite impressive list of accomplishments, but fraud is a crime worthy of pursuit as well."
"I will have to speak to this Dr. Vincent, regardless," Lastrade muttered sullenly, studying the floor. "If I am to accuse Mrs. Evans, I must have incontrovertible proof that she gave false witness."
"And just precisely what are Mrs. Evan's family connections that lead you to believe that is necessary?" Holmes asked.
"The good lady is sister to Judge Avon MacAllister," Lastrade answered tonelessly.
"Ahhh, and then, of course, her father is old Stoneheart John MacAllister himself - notorious for his lack of compassion to the less fortunate of our city." Holmes stood, and motioned toward the door. "Very well, I shall take you to Dr. Vincent's house myself, though I must tell you he was suffering from a nervous reaction to Mr. Evans' drubbing when we left him last night, and I do not know how well he will be this morning."
Undercover of preparing to leave, I whispered to Holmes, "Is this wise? If our client is in his usual fugue state, Lastrade will not be impressed as to his innocence."
"I am rather hoping," Holmes confided, "That his landlady will provide the alibi necessary to protect him should that be the case. She gave every indication last night of intending to stay up to minister to him, so his whereabouts can be accounted for, most likely up to the time the body was discovered."
It turned out that was precisely the case, and Lastrade wandered away from Dr. Vincent's lodgings a very unhappy man. As for gentleman himself, he was more in thrall to the empty sameness of his hours and days than he had ever been before, to the point that it was difficult to believe that he had ever been anything but a soulless automaton. He did keep his promise to Miss Betty to introduce her to her prospective new employee, and her disappointment in his cold reception of her was wrenching, despite the obvious fondness she and Miss Catherine nearly instantly acquired for each other.
Unable to bear watching him heartlessly go about his duties, I excused myself to see to my own, taking much comfort and solace in the normal human contact. Despite that, Dr. Vincent remained in my thoughts, and I spent what free hours I had engaged in the reading of professional journals, hoping, as I had in the past, to find some medical clue that could aid in his recovery. It was a futile effort, and I returned to 221B feeling very much as if the entire day had been pointless and useless.
Holmes seemed to reflect my melancholy, professing to have no appetite and spending his time, instead, staring out the window as if an answer could be found there. The only note of cheer in the evening came from the paper, whose headlines screamed scandal on Sylvester Street in much larger, bolder print than they had proclaimed murder earlier. And for once Lastrade gave Holmes his due, alluding to the minor assistance of the esteemed Sherlock Holmes in providing testimony that set Scotland Yard on the proper trail.
Not even bothering to snort in disdain, Holmes slapped the folded paper against his thigh, and muttered, "I should have at least requested that Dr. Vincent's name be used as the falsely accused. It is within the realm of possibility that given his extreme response to the name Albert Vincent, then it has much significance. Perhaps enough that others would recognize it as well, if read about in the paper. It is virtually the only tactic we have not taken in order to properly identify our client."
His casual inclusion of me in that statement did much to alleviate the days' dreariness, and I cast about for some diverse to return the favor. Before I could formulate a plan, Holmes straightened slightly, and tapped a forefinger on the glass. "A new case, I do believe, Watson."
"Stay or go?" I asked, automatically tidying up a bit, though it was more to prepare me mentally for a new client than because I cared for a bit of disorder.
"Stay, if you will, Watson." Holmes smiled at me slightly, taking his usual place and reaching for a pipe. "I find your perspective invaluable at times."
Thoroughly warmed by now, I found my own seat and lit a cigarette. In very short order Mrs. Hudson showed in a slight gentleman of later years, perhaps in his late fifties, with dark, curly hair and darker eyes lit with what I believed was a keen enjoyment in life. His manner toward her was very gracious and a touch familiar, and as he spoke, he gestured expansively with his hands, and though there was not a trace of accent in his voice, I was willing to swear that he was of Mediterranean descent, a hunch that was realized when he introduced himself as Admiral Al Calavicci, retired.
Once he was comfortably situated, with the promise from Mrs. Hudson that a nice pot of tea could be had if he changed his mind, he perched upon the edge of his chair, as if too restless to truly sit but unwilling to be rude.
"I see sir," Holmes said evenly, "That the evening paper has brought you to my door step. How may I assist you?"
Rather than remark on the deduction, the admiral looked pleased and satisfied, as if he'd expected no less from Holmes. Reaching into his pocket for a cigar, he asked, "May I?" and at Holmes wave of permission, proceeded to carefully light it. "You have no idea," he said conversationally, during the process, "How good it is to be able to do this without a dozen different people looking at you with murder in their eyes." He took a deep drag, sat back in evident pleasure, and smiled. "Thank you! I promise to make this quick so you can enjoy the rest of your evening."
"Not at all," Holmes said hospitably. "Are customs concerning smoking so different in American then?"
"Not exactly," Admiral Calavicci said cheerily. "Anyway, when I read your name in the paper, it hit me that you were the person I needed to ask for help, though I have to say it's because this is your home territory, not because the case will be particularly hard. I'm sorry about that, but I can at least offer enough compensation to make it worth your while."
"One must provide for one's bread and butter," Holmes said, genially enough, though his equable acceptance was due at least as much to his preoccupation s with the exasperating puzzle of Dr. Vincent as it was to true good manners.
"Good! I need you to find a colleague of mine whose been missing just over a year. He's in London, that much of I'm sure of, but this is a big town, and I'm not having much luck finding him on my own. With your connections it should be a lot easier." Admiral Calavicci reached into his inside jacket pocket and took out a small photograph album, the sort that had become popular for protecting the likeness of a loved one while carrying it about. "His name is Dr. Sam Beckett, an American like myself, but he's probably not calling himself that."
It was too much of a co-incidence that another American doctor who had been on our soil for the same time period as Dr. Vincent should turn up missing, and it was well that I had that small warning, for it allowed me to contain myself when Holmes lifted the album so that I might see the photograph for myself. It was indeed, our Dr. Vincent, sitting facing the camera with half-shy smile I knew so well, with Admiral Calavicci standing behind him, hand on his shoulder in familiar connection. Whatever the occasion that had prompting the sitting, it must have been a joyous one, for they both had a vague air of pride and triumph about them, as if some truly difficult task had been accomplished.
"As you say," Holmes said blandly while I perused the photograph, "It is a small matter given my contacts. May I keep this to aid my search?"
Admiral Calavicci looked reluctant, but agreed with a nod. "Only one I've got; please take care of it."
"But you are carrying another album with you, sir," Holmes said, eyes twinkling though only I noted that.
Looking slightly sheepish, the admiral took out another photograph, and handed it over. Fingering the slight marks at the corner to tell me that it was the pattern of wear that informed him of the second album, Holmes opened it, abruptly smiling. It was of the admiral himself, surrounded by a veritable bevy of lovely ladies. "Your family, I take it?"
"My wife, Beth is beside me, then the girls clockwise go from youngest to oldest." He took back the album, glanced into it himself, his expression for a moment filled with sorrow and grief. Then he firmly shut it, face studiously showing nothing but amiable charm, and put the photograph back in his pocket. "I don't want to be rude, but I don't know how business is conducted in a situation like this," he said pleasantly. "Do we discuss fees up front or when you've located Dr. Beckett? Do you need a retainer for expenses?"
"Before I agree to take on the case," Holmes cautioned, "I need know one thing: is this gentleman being sought for criminal reasons? After all, if he is residing in anonymity, he may not wish to be located, and I may not wish to be involved in any legal complications." The question struck me as odd, knowing our client as I did, but I held my counsel, sure explanations would come later.
Sighing, Calavicci stared at the lit end of his cigar for a moment, then said with infinite sadness, "The reason Sam might not be using his own name is because he might not know it. There was an accident, and he was hurt. Before his own people could help him, strangers stepped in, and since they didn't particularly care if he was healed so long as he wasn't their problem any more, he was more or less dumped here. Knowing Sam, he probably landed on his feet, but I'd like to take him back with me if he'll go."
"I see." Holmes took his own turn at watching the smoke of tobacco, then asked, "Your relationship with him must be a close one. While I know that your countrymen are far less informal with given names, it is you after all, and not a member of his own family, who has come after him. Or are you family; his father-in-law, perhaps?"
Admiral Calavicci looked considerably startled, then gave a shout of laughter. "No, he's not married to one of my girls, though that's an idea! Beth would love it!" After a few chuckles at some unspoken thought, he went on more somberly, "Dr. Beckett and I work for the US government, and while I'm not at liberty to tell you exactly what it is we do, we've been at it for a long time now. It's difficult and frustrating and we grew close in the process; close enough that my youngest daughter is named 'Samantha.'"
"Ahhh." Putting aside his pipe, Holmes stood and offered his hand to Admiral Calavicci. "We will discuss remuneration when Dr. Beckett stands before you; until then, rest assured that I will be giving the matter my attention. Where may I contact you when I have information to share?"
Taking his dismissal graciously, more so than I would have expected from an American military gentleman, Calavicci said, "I'm staying at the Imperial Arms on Rue Way. If I'm not in, and I have to admit I'm not capable of sitting around waiting for news, leave a message at the front desk for me."
"I shall do so, sir, but the matter should be dealt with speedily. Good evening!"
"And to you, Mr. Holmes."
I waited until the thud of the downstairs door promised he was out of earshot, and demanded, "Why didn't you tell him immediately you knew where Dr. Beckett is? Why delay their meeting when it is clearly in the best interest of both?"
"Is it?" Holmes swung around on his heel to face me, his face intent. "Have you forgotten already our client's reaction yesterday when he first tried to formulate the name we'd given him? Al is, among others, a diminutive of Albert." Then he quoted, "Ca..cal..."
"Calavicci," I finished grimly. "Merely attempting to say it caused him great pain. Do you think the admiral is the true source of his injury? He *was* very sketchy on the details of the accident. Perhaps, fond as he was of Dr. Beckett, the gentleman made too bold with one of his daughters and now he seeks to satisfy himself on her behalf?"
"No, no," Holmes said. "I cannot believe that of our Dr. Vincent, or Dr. Beckett as I suppose we must now think of him. He has proven himself to be a true gentleman time and again. And for the Admiral to carry an album with a photograph of his daughter's ravisher next to the one of his family? No, I think not. But there is surely something amiss here that he was not forthcoming about."
Restlessly he tapped the mantle over the fire with one hand, leaning on it in deep thought. "Again new information presents itself, and *again* the mystery deepens, creating more questions than were answered."
My own thoughts stirring through the matter, I said slowly, "If it is true that the admiral is a dear friend, but the mere mention of that name was an agony, I cannot imagine what harm could be caused by Dr. Beckett being told his own."
"True. What would you recommend?"
It was a question requiring the deepest of considerations, and it was some time later before I spoke. "We were hired in both instances specifically to find a lost soul, and have accomplished that end, however fortuitously it came about. I believe the only way that we can honestly discharge our obligation to either gentleman is by giving them the truth, then leaving the decision on how to proceed in their hands. We may have to approach Dr. Beckett very obliquely, but it must be his choice."
"And leave the matter wholly unresolved on *our* parts!? You are far more amendable to this idea than I!"
Undeterred by Holmes' outburst, I went on. "Then there is the matter of my personal fondness for Dr. Beckett. As much as is possible under the circumstances, I do consider him a friend, and I do not wish to see him suffer any longer. His loss of identity is truly trying for him. It is far more important that that been seen to than I learn how it came about."
"That," Holmes said with resignation, "I must concede to. Very well then, I will follow your guidance; indeed, I believe you should be the one to begin the discussion as tact is far more your skill than mine."
"You have been known to have a delicate touch. On occasion," I allowed, smiling slightly. "On *rare* occasion."
"Oh, off with you!" Holmes looked amused, non-the-less. "I shall send a messenger to Dr. Beckett's rooms to meet us here as soon as he is capable, so that if there is a violent response to our information, we will be in the best possible position to deal with it. Agreed?"
"Agreed." We sat companionably for some time, finishing our smokes and letting the dance of the fire's light entertain us.
***
It came as no great surprise that Dr. Beckett arrived nearly on the heels of the messenger boy, since it would not have mattered whether *he* were the one to receive it or if it were his alternate. Though that portion of our friend never openly acknowledged us unless forced, he was as cognizant of our role in his life as his other self, though our sole evidence of that was his willingness to tolerate our meddling in his daily affairs.
It was something of a relief, however, when it was Dr. Beckett who rushed up our stairs early the next morning, all disheveled from his haste. "You've news?"
"Indeed, though I must warn it is a complicated matter and we must proceed with care," I cautioned.
Agitated, pacing around the room as if a caged beast, he asked, "Complicated? How?" He stopped dead in his tracks, pinning Holmes with an intense look. "I'm not a criminal, am I? Is that why I'm here and not home, because I'm on the run?"
"Nothing of the sort," Holmes denied stoutly.
"It is only that I am concerned as to your reaction," I added hastily. "We've discussed the possibility of emotional trauma being behind your memory loss."
He nodded reluctantly, and I launched into my carefully prepared version of our last very eventful evening together. "So you see," I finished, taking my turn at pacing as Dr. Beckett sat frozen in place on the settee, "Why Holmes and I are unwilling to tell you as much as we know until we have some idea how best to safely proceed."
I waited, giving him time to think about what I had said, pouring so much of my concentration into monitoring him that the sound of the doorbell being rung below barely touched my consciousness. Dimly I heard the sound of voices, but it was the alarm that suddenly appeared in Holmes that caused me to turn toward our door just as Admiral Calavicci crashed through it, Mrs. Hudson at his back crying out that he should wait until asked up.
It was unlikely he heard her; the moment he came into the room, his eyes locked onto Dr. Beckett, joy suffusing them entirely. "SAM!"
For the smallest of moments an answering joy lit up Dr. Beckett, but as quickly he scrambled away from his oncoming friend, putting the room between them. "No, no, no, no, no...." He turned his back on us, that single word building in volume and force, and Admiral Calavicci would have gone to him, terror replacing his elation, had Holmes not forcibly stopped him.
As they struggled, I hesitated, torn between calming the doctor and aiding Holmes in restraining the admiral. In that instant, Dr. Beckett's cry of denial reached an ear-aching crescendo, and he exploded from the room, catching us all so totally flatfooted that we could not immediately pursue. Calavicci was the first to recover, but, wisely, Holmes would not release him. Their struggles were so great that I was forced to assist my friend, and by the time we had tamed the admiral enough to convince him that it would harm Dr. Beckett to go after him personally, it was far too late for either Holmes or myself to do so, either.
A bit breathless, we found neutral corners amidst the chaos of the room, trying to recover our composure while remaining on guard against more violence. "I want," Calavicci ground out, sounding absolutely furious, "To know everything, right now, from the top! When Mrs. Hudson said that I would have to wait until you finished speaking to the American physician, all I thought was that you'd been incredibly lucky or incredibly fast, I didn't care which. But there is obviously a *hell* of a lot more going on here."
"You are in no position to make demands," Holmes said shortly.
That was a bitter pill for the admiral, but he swallowed it without blinking. "That," he said carefully, pulling his clothes into order with shaking hands. "Is what you think. If Sam came to you to find out who he is, like I suspect, then *I* have the answers you need because I know everything about him from his shoe size to his favorite song. When you're ready to deal, you know where I am."
Thoroughly taken aback, Holmes let him go without more than a muttered, "Indeed! Well, we shall see."
By mutual consent we left the cleaning up until later and rushed to where Dr. Beckett should be if he returned by instinct to his daily schedule. At one point I caught Holmes checking behind us, and the thought belatedly occurred to me that the admiral was determined enough a man to follow us to find his friend again. But there was no sign of him and a shared glance with Holmes told me that I had not misinterpreted his concern. Unfortunately Dr. Beckett was not at the clinic, which upset Miss Elizabeth greatly, and we told her as gently as possible that we believed him to be ill, and would she send word to us if he did appear later. I believe it was as much my past association with the doctor as the shilling I pressed into her hand for the messenger boy that earned me an agreement to do as we asked.
In vain hopes of Dr. Beckett simply skipping a portion of the day and moving on to whatever activity that he chanced to recall, we quickly sought out the chemist shop, the restaurant he favored, and the rehearsal hall. At the last, I said glumly, "I may consider myself his friend, but how much of one can I be if I cannot think of where he might go if in distress."
"He keeps such regular habits," Holmes started, then he repeated more slowly, "Regular habits... Watson, what is the one other thing that we are sure Dr. Beckett does at least periodically?"
"Visit us at Baker street! Holmes you are a genius!" With no more than that we hailed a cab, urging him to take us to our lodgings as quickly as he might.
It was a very distraught Mrs. Hudson who met us at the door, and she fussed all the way up the stairs at the state of our rooms and the condition that poor doctor fellow was in, insisting that we put both to rights immediately. All but closing the door in her face I assured her that we would, but please, give us time!
In his shirt sleeves, hair wildly mussed, Dr. Beckett waited for us by the window, staring not out it, I think, but at his reflection in it. "I found myself," he said tiredly, "Walking down a street I didn't know with no idea of where I was going. The last thing I remembered was speaking with you and being told that I was having violent episodes triggered by attempts at recall. I have to assume that happened again."
"You don't hurt anyone," I soothed. "You merely leave as quickly as possible."
"That's some consolation," he answered, though his tone didn't match the sentiment by much. "But it seems I'm doomed to remain in the dark about anything of any importance to me."
"You are judging your circumstances too harshly," Holmes argued. "We are, in fact, in the best position we have been since the beginning to clear the entire matter of all its confusions."
"It doesn't do me any good if *you* know my name, my identity," Dr. Beckett said, leaning his head into the glass. "I've always known I was a someone, that I had a past filled with friends, lovers, enemies, achievements, failures. But that someone is *comprised* of those lost memories; without them, even as second-hand information, I don't really exist at all. I may as well be a man-shaped machine who moves through this life."
That sounded far too despairing for my taste, and I added my voice to Holmes. "You're forgetting one of the most important procedures on diagnosing an ailment: find its parameters, what is affected. Now that we have a direction to move in, we can explore the boundaries of what you can or cannot safely be told. For instance, it caused you no distress at all when you learned for the first time that you were a physician."
"Indeed," Holmes agreed quickly. "We can now move from the general to the specific; we only need do it slowly, with care."
"And during the process there may well be more episodes of flight on your part, but I don't think you should be unduly alarmed by them. As soon as you calm, you return to what's familiar, no worse the wear save for fatigue." I think, I added solely to myself.
Turning at last to face us, Dr. Beckett leaned on the casement. "I suppose I don't have any other choice. Where and when do we start?"
That drew me up short, for the only piece of information that we genuinely had that moment was his name, and I did not wish to undo the effectiveness of our debate by admitting to that. Thankfully Holmes saw the predicament in its entirety and said, "Not now, certainly. We are all quite done in and have more immediate concerns pressing us." By way of explanation he gestured at our wrecked quarters, and Mrs. Hudson chose that moment to stomp by our landing, muttering angrily to herself.
"And Miss Elizabeth is worried about you as well," I reminded Dr. Beckett. "Even if you don't feel up to fulfilling your duties there, you should at least see to informing her of your relative well-being."
"Watson is right. Return to your day, or rest. Difficult as either may be, I must also ask to do what is even more difficult; wait. After all, what is another day at this juncture?"
"Yes, we need another day, at least, to think things through, and formulate a plan," I added persuasively. "Please, be patient!"
That earned me a fraction of a smile. "I don't have much of a choice, do I?"
"None whatsoever," Holmes confirmed. "Now, you will allow Watson to accompany you, yes? I must stay here and set things to right with Mrs. Hudson before I find myself in need of new lodgings!"
At that I gingerly ushered Dr. Beckett toward the door, sparing only a moment to signal my worry to Holmes. As with the last episode, he was exhausted by the time I delivered him into the care of his landlady, and at her expression of alarm, I was forced to spend quite some time in convincing her that her tenant was not in any danger, that he had merely over-worked himself and was suffering the consequences. It was a small mis-direction, but served to keep her sympathies for him. Apparently he had been as generous in providing medical assistance to her and her family as he had been with the poor of the London slums.
Leaving her clucking over him, I returned to my own affairs, a slow anger burning in me. When I last I was able to return to Baker street, I was near to furious, and I threw myself into the sitting room, hat still in hand. "It appears we are going to have to answer Admiral Calavicci's demands, after all. At the moment, he is our only source."
Sitting at the table amidst a wild scattering of papers, Holmes disagreed with a wag of his finger. "Not at all; now that I have a crack into which to fit my pry bar, I am sure I will soon be able to do well by our client. I have my own resources, even in the Colonies!"
"Excellent, Holmes, excellent!"
***
Knowing it was rude by Victorian standards and not particularly giving a damn, Al lit his cigar without asking, and took a puff on it, aiming the stream of smoke toward the door where he knew Holmes and Watson were lurking on the other side. He had to give them credit. When they had come back to him to admit that they had to have his help, they had done it in style, heads up and backs straight, as if they'd only taken a few hours to reconsider the hasty words thrown by all. It had, in fact, taken three days; three of the longest days Al had ever known.
But if he had learned anything in his years it was patience. Much as he could have done without those particular lessons, he *knew* how to wait when it was important, when it mattered, and where Sam was concerned, nothing mattered more. So he had bided his time, playing poker at stakes that he considered penny-ante, forgetting for the most part what a penny could buy in this century, which was why, in part, he had walked away with most of the pots.
The rest of it was because Sam was never far from his mind, not leaving much room for sweating over whether or not the other guy was bluffing. Al kept replaying the godawful way Sam had flipped at the sound of his own name, wondering helplessly what the hell the bad guys had *done* to him. That was the reason he'd agreed to the odd conditions Holmes and Watson had set on this meet; at least they had the best of intentions.
So he sat in the gloom of a late afternoon on a gray, rainy day in Holmes and Watson rooms at 221B, running over the doctor's directions to him. "No asking questions, let Dr. Beckett make all the inquiries," Al repeated to himself. "Don't let him see you clearly or try to see him, as we aren't sure if sight is a factor in triggering his hysteria. And above all, absolutely no touching. He will not tolerate that from anyone for any purpose. Ha! Doesn't give me much to work with." He nudged the guitar case at the side of his chair, to reassure himself it was there, and glanced over at the roll of paper tied with a blue ribbon he'd left on the window sill: an opening gambit and hopefully one that would get Sam's attention.
The door creaked open, and Al could barely make out the moving shadow that was his friend as he went to stand by the window, the light from it making a silhouette of him. Neither of them spoke and the small sounds of the house and from the street echoed strangely, as if trying to make small talk for them. Finally Sam picked up the roll of paper, and Al held back a sigh of relief, though he couldn't stop the shimmy in his guts.
"What's this?" Sam asked, eyeing it curiously.
"I told Watson that I knew everything about you from your shoe size to your favorite song," Al said dryly. "That's the proof; a copy of your favorite song."
Sam did sigh, and began turning the cylinder end over end between his hands. "I don't need proof. I know your voice as well as I do my own; better."
"It doesn't bother you?" Al had to ask, all of Watson's warnings ringing in his ears.
"No - the exact opposite in fact. Just listening to you makes me feel better than I have in a long while." Sam made his admission softly, hanging his head almost to his chest.
Yes, yes, yes! Al exulted inwardly. Despite what he'd told Weird Ernie, he'd had honest doubts after Sam's maddened escape that they would be able to be together, after all. Aloud he said mildly, "Well, that's good, since this could take a while, if all we can talk about at first is the weather. Which sucks by the way. I think the English nearly conquered the world just so they could get away from all the rain."
Sam gave a snort of laughter, and half-turned so that his profile was lit by the window. "Watson has the best reasons for wanting us to start small, but to be honest, I can't think of anything small I want to know. All my questions are big ones, ones that scare me to think about."
"So we talk about the weather. I'm not going anywhere, and I've got all the time in the world." The truth of that was so clear in Al's voice, that for the first time, the stiff line of Sam's broad shoulders relaxed into his more usual slump, and Al felt another sting of triumph. "Or we could start with the stuff that doesn't really matter, like, did you know you've got *two* PhD’s, as well as being a doctor? Seven degrees total, last count."
"Seven!" Sam repeated in disbelief, no sign of distress from the information showing.
"Seven," Al repeated firmly. "You seem to like that number, since that's how many languages you speak, as well. Oh, and four dead ones."
"But not Italian," Sam volunteered suddenly. "*You* speak Italian."
Keeping his pleased surprise at bay, Al said, "Matter of fact, I do. That just pop in on you?"
"Yes. What you said before, about how many languages? That wasn't the first time you had to tell me that, for some reason, I could hear you do it, but we were someplace else completely."
"On a farm, as a matter of fact."
No holding down his elation, Sam went on as if he hadn't heard, "And when I tried to reach for that memory, all of a sudden, I could hear me repeating you, but you were speaking Italian! This is great! Do you know what that means?"
"That all I have to do is prod you a little? I don't think it's going to be that easy S..." Al bit off the word, frustrated all over again at the limits they were working under. He made himself take another drag off the cigar, not tasting it at all. Though he couldn't tell Sam, he was pretty sure that the prodding had helped because it was such familiar territory to both of them from the Leaps. But during those, the big stuff had always eluded Sam's swiss-cheesed memory unless the Leap itself brought it up.
Apparently not hearing the near-slip, Sam argued, "Why shouldn't it be? Tell me something else, anything else."
Without thinking Al shot back, "You know, I have never understood how you can such fantastic researcher and still want all your answers right now."
"Researcher?"
"Well, all those degrees had to be for something," Al pointed out reasonably.
"I did research? In what field? Medicine?" Sam sounded very doubtful, as though he couldn't quite believe that *he* was a scientist.
"Among others. Uh, you got an award for your study in, uh, the structure of the brain, but mostly you've been interested in the stars." Damn, Al thought to himself. This is harder than dumbing down explanations for politicians. I don't even know if they've started awarding the Nobel Prize, and I'm positive if I start talking about neurons and muons Holmes will kick me out of here faster than I can spit.
"That doesn't, I mean, damn!" Turning back to glare sightlessly at the window, Sam muttered, "It just doesn't feel right."
"Hang in there; that's just one nudge that didn't get any results." If he were being honest, Al decided, he'd have to admit that it had been a long time since Sam had been a scientist; no wonder it didn't feel like it fit. But telling him what he really was, wasn't an option yet.
There was another uneasy silence, the Sam blurted, "Why am I in England? This isn't my home; I don't have to be told that."
"That's one of the big ones Watson warned us about, and frankly, the answer won't add up for you until you've learned more about your background."
Slumping in dejection, Sam said softly, "That's the problem isn't it? We're the sum of our experiences, and I'm in the negative numbers here."
It was impossible for Al to sit on the other side of the room while the most important person in his entire life was hurting so badly. He got up and went to stand near his friend, close enough that he only need to list to one side a bit to bump elbows, if he wanted to. "We're a lot more than the sum of the days we've lived, and the proof of that is that you recognize my voice. That's not all; the last time you checked out, I think it was because, for the tiniest fraction of a nanosecond, you recognized me." He softened and lowered his voice to that of a lovers. "You *know* me."
Perhaps because of the intimacy of the tone, or perhaps because of the intimacy of the situation - alone in a darkened room, fumbling to make contact with each other with only voices to guide - Sam said suddenly. "I dream of you. Nightmares and…" He hesitated, the finished in a whisper, "Other kinds."
"Nightmares?"
A nod was the answer, then Sam went on. "In them, I'm hurt or in danger or in trouble - it's always different - and you're there, though I can't see your face clearly and you want so bad to help me, I need you to help me, but I can't touch you and you can't touch me. All we can do is see and hear each other, and it's horrible, much worse than suffering alone, but at the same time I'd rather have you there than be by myself, cause then I know you're okay, if nothing else, you're safe, if that makes any sense."
"Ahhh, kiddo." Without thinking, Al brought his hand up to the small of Sam's back, rubbing it gently. "I can help now; no more nightmares." Almost feeling the fear and sadness draining out of the taut muscles, Al kept massaging, belatedly remembering Dr. Watson's injunction and mentally consigning it to hell.
"The other dreams," Sam murmured. He turned enough so that they were face to face, but not so much as to lose the soothing touch. "I have to ask, and if I'm wrong, I'm sorry - don't get mad at me, okay?"
"Is this a big thing that Watson wouldn't want you to ask?"
At that Sam half-smiled. "I don't think it would occur to him to think about it." Dropping his head again so that his eyes were hidden, he asked, "Were we lovers?"
Stomach soaring, then dropping like he'd suddenly lost thrust, Al managed to answer calmly, "Yes, while I was separated from my wife and before you got married. You dream of making love with me?"
Head shooting up, eyes staring hungrily at Al's mouth, Sam breathed, "Oh, God, yes."
Fingers spreading wide over suddenly hot flesh, Al urged him forward without meaning to. "Good, 'cause I dream about it, too. And sometimes I want you so bad, I'm damn near insane with it."
Using the very tips of his fingers under Al's chin, Sam tilted back Al's head. "Welcome to the club," he muttered, and then scattered Al into a thousand brilliant shards of need by touching his lips in a nearly chaste kiss.
With a gasp they both drew apart as if astounded by the intense shock from such a small gesture, but came back together again almost immediately. Opening to his lover this time, Al closed the small gap between them as they kissed, gasping again at the hard ridge Sam pressed into his stomach. Strong arms surrounded him, and he wrapped his own around Sam in return, the explosion of contact along his nerves obliterating his ability to think.
Holding on for all he was worth, Al soaked up the deep, powerful thrusts of Sam's tongue into his mouth, sucking on it ravenously, not noticing that they were inching backwards until the back of his knees hit the settee. When it did, he had a chilling flash of memory/hatred/pain, but Sam's hands were all tenderness as they worked their way under his clothes, knocking away the ugliness with sweet eagerness. Almost afloat in it, definitely adrift in the simple necessity of *touching* this precious man again after so very, very long, Al did what he had never done with Sam or anyone else before; he surrendered.
He had another flash as he willingly let Sam lead the way in their loving, but it hardly made an impression in the erotic haze that filled him as he gave himself up to his lover. Not idle by any means, Al's hands lovingly roamed everywhere as if to check for parts, but it was Sam who lowered them to the settee. Sam who bared them both from throat to groin so they were skin to skin without ever losing possession of Al's mouth; Sam who finally leaned up on one elbow to look down with heavy-lidded eyes to say, "Need to be closer, Al. Please?"
Later he would be amazed at how easy it was, but at that second there was nothing Al wanted more than to be a part of Sam. Wiggling out of his shirts, he turned to his stomach, all but shoving his backside up to his lover. His pants were pushed down out of the way, and a slick finger tentatively investigated the entrance to his body. Despite it all - the heat, the need, the love - he locked tightly, ancient pain and humiliation refusing to allow him to accept what he desired. Undeterred, Sam delicately brushed a thumb over the tense muscle, whispering over and over in Italian, "I love you, my own, my heart. I love you."
The honeyed words were the key that opened him body and soul, and his pucker yielded slightly to the next pass of the thumb, and yet more with the next and next, until he was entered with a single careful digit. It didn't hurt at all, banishing fears Al had hardly acknowledged under the onslaught of passion, and when it gingerly pumped in and out of him, his hips answered with small lifts.
"Beautiful." Sam bent over his back, dropping soft kisses over his shoulder and neck, sending shuddering thrills down his spine and into his ass. "This is so beautiful, so incredibly erotic. I can't hold off any more. Is it all right if I love you now?"
Ready as he could be, Al made a sound he hoped was close enough to a 'yes' and took a deep breath to brace himself. It wasn't needed. At the first bit of pressure from the blunt head of Sam's cock, the pucker blossomed wide, all but pulling it inside. No pain, no shame, just a heavy fullness that made things shift and adjust internally, and he couldn't stop a tiny whimper of relief.
Lying on top of him, balls fuzzy and weird feeling against his ass cheeks, Sam nuzzled a sweaty cheek into Al's. "Okay?"
"Yeah, not too bad."
"Not too heavy for you?"
Actually Al liked that part best of all, and he squirmed a bit to get them fitted together just right. "Never too heavy, my heart."
"MMmmmm." Sam nibbled at a convenient shoulder, then added, "Tell me that when I'm 70 and have a beer belly that looks like I'm nine-months gone."
Al snorted into the cushions and rocked up a bit, making his lover catch his breath in a sudden sob. "Not even when I'm 90 and as skinny as a yenta," he promised.
"Good, good, good." And he didn't know if Sam's moaned words were an agreement or a description, and couldn't have cared less. The odd feeling inside him changed as Sam began to gently thrust in and out, and he whisked it away to concentrate on pleasuring his lover, meeting each stroke with one of his own.
"That's it, my heart, go for it," he coaxed, on familiar ground at last. "You want it and I want to give it to you. Go on, come for me, let go, let go."
"Not yet, not yet. Oh, please, want to... oh, oh, God... tight, tight... need to last, 'kay? Please? Please?"
Sam's husky pleas caused an unexpected sharp yank of lust in Al's middle, making his semi-soft dick stir sluggishly. As if sensing that, Sam snaked a hand under them and began working it skillfully, bringing him to full hardness with minutes. In an odd way that he didn't understand, it made what was happening to his ass feel better, almost, well, good. Before long he was enthusiastically bucking back onto Sam's hard-on and fucking down into his grip, coaxing both of them in panting groans.
"Yeah, more, little more, little tighter, little harder. Do that, do it just like... damn... damn... OH!" A particularly hard thrust hit him exactly right, and Al lost it, lost it completely. Riding like a maniac back and forth between cock and hand, he muttered the dirty words that Sam loved so much during sex. "Damn, god damn! Fuck me, Sammy, fuck me. Stick that big dick in my ass and fuck me. Fill that ass, make it scream for you, do it, do it, give it to me!"
"Al!" Sam wailed, giving them all he had, scalding jets of hot come making his strokes sheer heaven for his lover. "Love you! Love you!"
"Cara mia, tia amore, forever," Al gasped out, then couldn't breathe or moan or move or do anything at all but ride out the tremendous rush of his own climax. It burst from some deep, deep part of his soul, washing away everything but the ecstasy of the moment and Sam's beloved body within his own.
When he was free of the surge, he lay limply under his lover, wanting to cling to him but too weak to move to do it. At least Sam was hanging onto him, fingers twisted through his in an almost painful grip. They stayed like that until a log dropping in the fire made them jump, and Sam murmured sadly, "What now?"
"Now," Al said, feeling the truth of it to the bone. "You sing for me."
***
If Admiral Calavicci had had to swallow a bitter pill the day Holmes dismissed him from our lodgings, the one we were forced to take later was foul, indeed. After three days of the most methodical questioning, three days of speaking endlessly to every official Holmes had ever done a favor for or who had ever spoken well of him, after three days of spending a fortune in telegrams sent overseas, we learned precisely nothing. No one had ever heard either of Dr. Sam Beckett or Admiral Albert Calavicci.
At one point Holmes even entertained the notion that both names were false, though Dr. Beckett's reaction to the admiral's had certainly been unfeigned. With our first client pressing us daily for news, champing at the bit so feverishly I feared for some odd relapse into total amnesia, and with nothing to show for his efforts to that point, Holmes and I reluctantly met the admiral in the gaming room of his hotel, observing him for a moment as he played poker.
There was something about it that intrigued Holmes, and later he told me that his total disregard for the money on the table, so similar to Dr. Beckett's attitude toward his own funds, was remarkable evidence of a connection between them. As it was, the admiral graciously rose to meet us as if we had merely mutually paused our business a few days earlier, instead of having it shredded by violence and discord as it was. It calmed my lingering anger considerably, and keeping Dr. Beckett's well-being at the forefront, I laid the ground rules for their meeting.
It was plain Admiral Calavicci did not care for them, especially not being able to see or be seen, but I had not been able to delineate in my mind whether it had been the sight of his colleague or the sound of his own name that had triggered Dr. Beckett's panic. Nevertheless he did not argue with me, nor with Holmes' inflexible position that the meeting would be discreetly observed by him from a distance. Though Holmes claimed it to be due to our previous experience with dealing with our client in his agitated state, I personally believed that it was because he could not be satisfied without some attempt at quenching his own curiosity. Either way it was agreeable with me as I was not sure yet whether or not I trusted the admiral to follow my instructions.
So the last rays of the setting sun found Holmes and myself sitting the dark landing that led up to my bedroom, watching Dr. Beckett enter a room only marginally brighter. The fire gave him definition enough to visually follow as he went to the window, standing at first with his back to us and the man with him. It was eerily silent for nearly too long; I was preparing to call a halt to the entire thing when Dr. Beckett picked up a scroll of paper that Calavicci had brought in with him along with a guitar case. I had warned our client against reading it, uncertain if it was a way to by-pass my orders.
Instead he asked simply enough, "What is this?"
"I told Watson that I knew everything about you from your shoe size to your favorite song," the admiral said dryly. "That's the proof; a copy of your favorite song."
Dr. Beckett sighed, and began turning the cylinder end over end between his hands. "I don't need proof. I know your voice as well as I do my own; better."
"It doesn't bother you?" And the admiral's question finally put to rest my doubts; it was all too obvious his first concern was for his friend.
The rest of their conversation was the most remarkable I had ever had the good fortune (or perhaps misfortune, to this day I cannot decide) to over hear. The news that Dr. Beckett did, indeed, remember some small portion of his friend, if only the timbres of his voice and his native tongue, did not surprise me. His first reaction to their chance meeting had been too telling. Nor was I especially overwhelmed by learning of the many degrees and languages available to our client, having observed him demonstrate his great intellect repeatedly over the course of our association.
It was Holmes who gave a soft 'ah' of understanding on hearing that Dr. Beckett was a scientific researcher, commenting that it unusual enough a profession that the tell-tale signs of it were not well-known to him yet. And that it would not leave much in the way of traces on a person, as one had students doing the more telling work, such as mixing chemicals. Between that and Dr. Beckett's obsessive cleanliness, it was no surprising that he had been unable to find any clue to his profession.
With the admiral adhering so carefully to our directions, I was considerably startled when their conversation took first, an alarming turn, then, to my complete and utter astonishment, an intimate one. I sat bolt upright at "Were we lovers?" and was prepared to break in on them when, silhouetted against the lace of the curtains, they kissed.
With a soft, despairing cry, Holmes broke from my side, rushing up the stairs to my room, and this time I had no question whatsoever where my aid was needed. I followed close behind, succeeding in getting through my door before it could be closed and locked in my face. Whatever I had expected on the other side - disgust at what he'd seen, outrage at having it happen in his home, sanctimonious disapproval and hatred - that was not what I found.
Holmes was huddled in the middle of my bed, knees drawn up to his chest much like a child would do, head upon his crossed forearms. "I am sorry, John," he whispered. "Truly."
Sitting on the bed as well, but not so close as to cause him to flee again, I asked, "Sorry for what, dear friend?"
"That your relationship with Dr. Beckett must end in this way."
Thoroughly befuddled, a familiar state since beginning our dealings with the good doctor, I thought about what Holmes said, but more on how he said it. Realizing that Holmes had seen my occasional intimate interest in our client, and that he must have placed his own interpretations on the time I had spent in his company, I finally ventured, "I am very fond of him, and I will admit, I will miss him if he chooses to leave London, as I much suspect he will, but he is not the one who owns my heart. You have that rather unimportant honor."
Startled eyes peered up, framed by a tattered line of bangs and the cloth of Holmes jacket, making them appear singularly innocent and unaware. "I?"
"Of course." Hesitantly I smoothed aside the disarrayed locks. "Surely you cannot be uncertain of that."
"I thought you my friend, and dear to you in that aspect. There is more?"
"Much, much more," I confessed. "If I have never spoken of it, well, it was because I know that you can not return my affections in that manner. And I could not have asked for a more precious friend, so I am content."
"I never realized." Holmes leaned his cheek on his arm, regarding me sadly. "I do apologize, but I am wholly without experience in that arena."
Though that was no surprise to me, hearing it openly admitted sent a secret thrill through me, for in as much as I had not thought my advances welcome, Holmes had not reacted poorly to the news that I wished to make them. And his reaction to the event that was undoubtedly taking place in the room below us had only been out of concern for me. Nevertheless I tread softly, not wishing to alarm him again, nor think me untrustworthy in my friendship. "Surely you have had enough experience with the fairer sex to have recognized my interest in you; you had no difficulty in translating it between others, previously."
"Never has it been directed toward myself," Holmes said, looking away. "At least, not to my knowledge."
My heart began to pound heavily in my chest, spreading a thick heat into my body, especially lower, where I could not afford for it to pool. Driven by it though common sense proclaimed to hold my tongue, I asked softly, gently, "Not even with a woman, Sherlock?"
He laughed shortly, the sound lacking any humor. "I have always been a rather cold person, barely warmed by the passions and furies that inhabit other men. For the most part, I have considered this a blessing, since those self-same emotions cloud the mind of a reasonable man, and unbalance the delicate skills of observation and deduction on which I pride myself. Look how they failed me with you, causing me to misinterpret your relationship with our client."
There was no denying the growing tautness in my trousers, and I shifted slightly both to hide it with a knee and to lovingly pet with the knuckles of one fore-finger the smooth cheek turned up toward me. "Then you feel... more... than friendship? Enough so that it troubles you?"
Long lashes fluttered down, and he angled to accept my caress, all unknowingly, I believed. "Troubles is not the appropriate description; more, it occupies me when it should not, giving rise to vague yearnings that I can not even begin to fathom."
"I know those yearnings quite well; they’re harmless enough as long as you comprehend their source," I promised, smiling and bringing my face closer to his, one hand on his arm, so that I could clearly see the thin line of his lips, loudly expressing his un-named fear by their tight press. "They are usually more of a distraction when not understood."
"What..." Holmes had to pause to swallow, but he stoutly went on. "What is there to understand?"
"That they are not wrong, not wicked, not abnormal. Merely part and parcel of the human condition. If satisfied, no harm is done as long as both parties consent, and once their measure has been taken, much, much easier to dismiss or redirect. After all, my dear Sherlock, do you not already expend much emotional energy by giving it voice with your violin?"
Daringly I touched my forehead to his, and murmured nearly against his mouth, "Perhaps if you give free rein to your passion, at least this once, it will take less effort to tame it when it interferes with your logic."
"John, I do believe you are attempting to seduce me." There was a genuine smile in the words, and it was he who freed a hand to hold my own where I had left it resting.
"You don't seem particularly adverse to the idea," I answered with my own smile. Each of his fingers were scorching me through my sleeve, and it was difficult to keep my voice even when the air in my lungs was too thin and insubstantial to feed them.
"I am not. Merely... concerned... I cannot satisfy."
"That," I whispered devoutly, near to my breaking point, "Will never happen." The soft gasp at my words was my undoing; I brought my lips to his, chastely tasting their innocence, the fire within me leaping beyond all hope of restraint. For all that, I barely did more than learn the shape of his lips, his nose, the high brow that housed his great mind, taking my time and making each individual touch as tender as I could. A fine tremor started in him, communicating itself through our clasped hands, and he shyly began his own explorations, the dry kisses to my face and neck as sweet as any I have known.
At length, I captured his mouth as it slipped past mine and found his lips to be softer, fuller, rich with the promise of pleasure. Emboldened, I dipped the tip of my tongue past them, rejoicing in the small cry that wrung from my companion, and near to crying out myself at the exquisite flavor of him. He pulled back, half in fear and half in surprise at my advance, seeking something in my expression that must have been there, for he came back to me, lightly as a butterfly, to sip at the nectar I held. The timid caress dissolved all my self-control, leaving me as randy and ready as I have ever been in my life, lusting so hugely that I could hardly contain it.
"No more," I warned quietly when he darted back away. "I am not stone and any more will be more than my will can bear."
With far more boldness that I expected, he brushed his fingers over the tenting of my trousers, curious it seemed about the dimensions of the length under it. "Seems terribly close to stone to me," he murmured, his playfulness even more unexpected.
"Stone does not ache, unfortunately," I muttered, as I tried to shift away from those unintentionally teasing digits.
"No," he sighed. "It doesn't, does it?"
Deciding that if he could be so forward, it could not be too much for him to permit me the same privilege, and I crept my hand toward his prize, giving him opportunity to stop me. Rampant, damp at the crown, his maleness was much like Sherlock himself; long and lean, promising wiry strength and surprising resources. To my joy, he moaned quietly at my touch, body lifting toward it in a natural bid for more, which I willingly supplied. Animal instinct provided the rest, and I feasted greedily at his mouth while he took his pleasure from my hand.
It only lasted a few minutes, then he stiffened, shouting in a mix of astonishment and ecstasy as his essence dampened his clothes under my palm, its scent sharply filling the air. That wondrous, arousing, heart-rending sound was too much for me, and I lay my head on his shoulder as he floated through the rest of his release, holding off my own with harsh pants.
"John?" he asked when he could, sounding worried and fearful that he had done something wrong.
"For the love of God, Sherlock, touch me!" I couldn't help but moan. "I beg of you; if only for an instant, but *please*!"
Providence guided him, that or I was in more dire straights that I thought. His grip was firm and sure, precisely where I needed it most, and I lunged into the contact, finally granted my own relief in thunder burst of sensation too intense to be borne silently. I muffled my screams in my companion's collar, shaking like a leaf and unable to do anything about either except hope that I didn't frighten him too severely. When the last of my pleasure faded, I crumpled to lie flat on the bed, taking him with me, refusing to release him though he seemed inclined to try.
"I'm all right," I hastened to assure him. "Simply undone by the gift you gave me. Allow me to catch my breath for a moment and recoup my strength." I urged his head toward my chest, and to my delight he accepted me as his pillow, one arm falling naturally over my waist, causing the tenderness inside me to expand to the point that I thought I might weep. "Thank you," I whispered. "You have no idea how much I cherish this moment."
"I don't know if I will ever wish to repeat it," he told me honestly. "It was an all together overwhelming experience, and I'm not sure I care for the aftermath, save for this." He tightened the arm over me to tell me that it was holding me that he spoke of, and that encouraged me sufficiently that I felt only small sorrow at his pronouncement.
"As long as you still consider me your true friend, and are not wary that every touch that I might bestow on you is meant to be a suggestion for intimacy, I see no difficulty with that, dear heart. But I must tell you, that if you wish to learn more, I am always willing." I sincerely meant what I said. Though I had no idea if he would ever care to experience more of the delights that one man could visit upon another, I had already had more than I had ever dreamed possible. It would serve.
"That hardly seems fair," he began, but broke off even as I tilted my head, not sure of what I was hearing. It was music, and I thought of the guitar case that Admiral Calavicci had carried with him. After a few measures a voice rose in harmony with the instrument, and I recognized it to be Dr. Beckett's, though I could not make out the words.
"Our client," Holmes murmured, sitting up. "If we are to have answers, I believe we must move now, Watson." He stopped, glancing at me out of the corner of his eye, as if measuring my reaction to his return to propriety.
"By all means, let us descend," I said promptly. "I have need for more than a few of my own." We hurriedly tidied ourselves, leaving me grateful as always that a man's jacket will cover a great many indiscretions.
Our sitting room was bright with light from the gas lamps, and Dr. Beckett sat on a stool near the fire, fingers moving gracefully over the strings of the guitar his head was bent over. Behind him, in Holmes' normal position at the mantel, Admiral Calavicci stood smiling at him, cigar in hand as he listened. When the last refrain of the song was reached, he joined in, and the two of them sang, "Some say that I'm a dreamer. If so, I'm not the only one. Someday I hope you'll join us, and the world will become as one."
***
Sam played several more measures after the song ended, repeating the last chords and speaking quietly over the chime of the strings. "Katie hates this song," he said flatly, clearly not understanding what the information meant.
"Your younger sister. She never did forgive you for ruining her crush on Paul." Al didn't move, but inwardly, he went back to fighting to heal Sam, blatantly ignoring Holmes and Watson at the door. They had no part in this battle, and nothing to lose if he failed. "Before you ask, she lives in Hawaii with her family, and your mother, Thelma. Your father, John, died when you were nineteen. You also have an older brother, Tom, a navy man stationed in Hawaii, as well. That's why Katie and your mom moved there."
That stopped the music mid-note. "Tom? He... died, didn't he?"
"No, Sam," the admiral denied quietly. "You saved him. He's a father, now, too, with a couple of bright, active boys."
"I saved him?" He sounded doubtful, but went back to his playing. "And I have a wife."
"Donna - no children, I'm sorry to say. I always thought you make a great dad."
"No friends?" Sam asked.
Trying to guess where he was going with his questions, Al answered carefully. "Gooshie and Tina, Dr. Verbena Beeks - a few others but they're the ones you worked with closely the last few years."
"So I have friends, family, a wife." There was a noticeable pause, though the music kept flowing, then he asked, "Al, why were you the one who came looking for me? You have your own family and wife. You should be with them."
Rocking back on his heels for a moment, Al thought furiously, then came to kneel beside Sam, not caring about anything but getting the record straight between them. "Every time I came to you," he said intently, staring at his lover as if to make his lift his head and look at him, "I had an excuse. I was drunk; you were upset and needed comfort; we hadn't had any in a while and were just doing what came naturally. Back then, Sammy, I needed those excuses because I was trying to cling to a career in a Navy that wanted to get rid of me, because I was clutching a lost love as a shield against ever really loving anyone ever again.
"I knew you loved me and told myself it wasn't that kind of love. You weren't gay; I wasn't gay, we were just good friends who helped each other out once in a while. I needed to believe that so strongly, that I convinced you that I thought it was the truth. It tore at you so much, that you did something you never should have done, that I honestly don't think you would have done if I'd had the balls to admit we weren't just fuck buddies. You became your own subject in an experiment that didn't work out the way it should have."
Sam finally looked up at that, fingers freezing in place, and his eyes were incredibly empty and dark, as if they held a stolen bit of deep space. "Quantum Leap."
Not flinching from that cold gaze, Al said huskily, "Yes, Project Quantum Leap. We would have lost you then and there, but a Higher Power stepped in. It was like you became one of His lesser angels or something. You were sent to help people - men, women, children - who had lost their way and needed someone to be there for them. You did it magnificently, Sam, but it was hard on you."
"I was alone," he said hollowly.
Frightened badly that his lover was forever retreating into the empty man Holmes and Watson had warned him of, Al nearly backed off, but they were in too deep now. Instinctively he knew that if he didn't go all the way, he would lose Sam. "Were you?" he asked softly, relying on the truth to give him courage. "No matter where you were sent in time or space, I found you every time. Maybe we weren't together physically, maybe we couldn't touch because I was only a projection into your mind. But you could see me and hear me, and for whatever worth it was, we had something of each other."
"My nightmares. Reality, then." Sam shuddered, becoming more human with that simple reaction. "No wonder they were so bad." Eyes suddenly alert, he pierced Al to the heart with a sharp look. "But that changed."
"Yes, it did," Al agreed simply, a quaver in his voice telling against his will how much it had hurt. "I held on to you as tightly as I could, but every Leap leached away more and more of your own life, until we were barely hanging onto each other by the fingertips. I think." He stopped, not sure if he could go the rest of the way, but couldn't see that he had any other choice. "I think you could tell that you didn't have much time left and wanted to give me what you thought I needed before you slipped away completely, so you broke the rules."
"I wasn't supposed to change something because *I* wanted to, to make things better for myself or my... family. But I went back to Beth and asked her to wait for you." Sam was all there, memories almost visibly clicking into place, but as they did, his face became grayer and more lined, as if he were deathly ill.
Mentally praying, 'hold on, Sam, we're almost done, hold on,' Al nodded. "The consequences were as devastating as they were simple. You continued on by yourself, with no more contact to the Project at all. I became the father and husband of a family that I adored, but who weren't what I had needed at all. It took that to make me see the truth. When it was too late to tell you, to make things right between us, I finally admitted that I was in love with you and not even they could ease the agony of this huge, gaping wound where you should have been."
Sam met his eyes for the first time, and said slowly, as if tasting the word, "Wound. That's what it was like; a bleeding, agonizing injury that never stopped clawing at me. I kept telling myself that it would scar over, gradually become a cold ache, but it never did, Al. It never did."
Taking the guitar from him and clasping both icy hands between his own, Al took up the story once more. "And still you did your best for everyone you met, worked harder than ever...."
"....because it was the only thing that helped," Sam filled in, nearly whispering. "Each relieved smile was an echo of yours, each triumph, each right path gained was like holding you again, if only for the briefest second..."
"Not enough, though, not enough." Al knew that all too well, but muddled through to the next part, the images of Sam's last Leap filling his mind. "Then you were sent to stop a child from dying: a very precious, very sweet little girl who was bright and merry and everything good, and who would grow up to be a very special woman, indeed.
"In the short time you were together, you learned to love her like a father, and watched over her extra, extra carefully so she would be safe. Kids can't be caged, though, and they have their own ways, and it's impossible to watch them every second. Miranda slipped out when she should have been napping, wanting to play in the rain and, sure she wouldn't be allowed to, she ran into the canyons where she wouldn't be caught."
"Mudslide," Sam said hoarsely, seeing it with Al. "I knew she would die in a mudslide, could feel where she was, and I ran to save her, but the ground was soft and muddy, almost impossible to get any speed in, and the path was blocked with brush and boulders. The rain was so heavy, I could hardly see, then there was this woman who was lost, mostly hysterical and wouldn't let go of me, but I almost made it, Al. I could see her ahead of me, got free of the hiker somehow, and ran so hard I thought my heart would burst." He stopped, face twisting, tears beginning to fall.
"Sammy," Al breathed, laying his own wet cheek alongside his lover's. "You did more than was humanly possible, but you couldn't have save her because your path was being deliberately blocked by the bad guys. They wanted you to get within a finger's length of reaching her, wanted you to see her die. And when she did..."
"And when she did," Sam interrupted on a broken sob. "It was one loss too many, and the empty place inside of me became brand new, bleeding for the first time all over again, the agony was so fresh, I couldn't move or think."
"All you wanted," Al tried to soothe, "Was to stop hurting. That was all you asked, and that's not so much to want, not such a bad thing to ask for." He nuzzled gently, trying to pour comfort into the rawness of Sam's soul, and succeeded well enough that after a moment he was nuzzled back and given soft kisses at his hair line.
When it seemed the grief had retreated a bit, he leaned his forehead into his lover's and made himself take up the story again. "It was an innocent plea, Sam, but the wrong people heard. Your cry was answered, but the bad guy isn't called the Prince of Lies for nothing. He can't truly heal. All he could do drug you with emptiness, numb your mind with routine, schedule and habit, then throw a barrier of unreasoning fear of human contact around it so you couldn't be aroused from your oblivion.
"You asked me why I was the one who came looking for you, Sam. It was because there was only one way, one person who could heal you. Me." He drew their intertwined hands close to his chest, holding on for all he was worth. "When Weird Ernie gave me the chance to come to you, to close this huge hole in both of us, I couldn't get here fast enough. And I am, never, ever, ever, letting go of you again."
"Beth..." Sam started, twisting his wrists as if to try to free himself.
"Even wedding vows have an expiration date - 'til death do us part. Except for us. If you'll have me beside you, and if you won't, I follow at a distance and do my best to change your mind, and I've got all of Eternity to do it. Get used to it, Sam. You're stuck with me."
Sam pulled back enough to look into Al's face, the painful hope dawning in his own heart-breaking to see. "Some of the places I need to go, some of the things I need to do - it's hard, Al, and cruel, and not safe to be different."
"Then we'll be in the closet if we have to, but I will not ever, for any reason deny what I feel about for you. I love you. Not brotherly, not friendly, but in a want to spend the rest of my existence knocking boots, playing hide the salami, doing the old pickle tickle, making...."
"Al," Sam said warningly, the start of a smile banishing the some of the lines of pain from his features.
"...love to you until you haven't got the tiniest shred of doubt anywhere in your heart or soul who you belong with, kind of way," Al finished triumphantly.
Dropping a kiss on the knuckles nearest him, Sam whispered, "That could take a lot of love-making. Doubt's hard to get rid of when you've had it eating at you as long as I have. It wasn't ever that I didn't think you didn't love me, you know. It was just that I doubted it would ever be enough to free you."
"In the long run, it was, wasn't it?" Al shot back. "I got wings now, thanks to you." He grew very serious, head bending over their hands as if in prayer. "I'm just sorry that it took something so drastic to make me admit it."
"You've got a lot of Time to make it up to me," Sam said softly. "Starting now it seems."
Al looked up at that, seeing the blue light that Sam once told him was the start of a Leap slowly infusing Sam's features. "What did we change?"
Hanging onto him with one hand, Sam pried the other loose and reached for the sheet music lying on the floor next to them. He tucked it into the fire, and once it was burning, said, "Not change exactly. Quick, turn out your pockets," and he started doing it himself.
"Mind explaining?" Al asked, doing the best he could without letting go.
Not answering, Sam looked over at Holmes and Watson, who, until that moment Al had completely forgotten, and said to them, "The money in my room - take what you want and use the rest to set up an endowment for a medical clinic for Elizabeth to run. Tell the shop owner she should sell now, and thank her for me for the use." Standing, taking Al with him, glowing as brightly as a candle in the deepest stormy night, he added, "I'm sorry for rushing off without giving you a chance to ask your questions. Especially you, Holmes. I know how frustrating that is, believe me, but I'm not really being given a choice."
As Sam talked, Al felt a tingle spread through him, starting at where his hand was twined with his companion's, one that wasn't bad and wasn't good but felt like Sam himself in a way that he couldn't explain. He glanced down and saw that light was shining through him, as well, and some last knot of fear and worry dissolved, making him feel as though he were in freefall. "Now ain't this a kick in the butt," he murmured, instinctively checking around so see if anything else was ready to float.
The other two men were nailed in place, which was probably a good thing, he thought whimsically, otherwise they would more than likely fall down. Dismissing them, he asked again, "Do you mind explaining? If we didn't change history to make us Leap, what did we do?"
"Gave someone a gift," Sam said, looking at the pair by the door significantly.
A closer look told Al what the two of them had been up to while he and Sam had been occupied, and the way they stood next to each other said loudly, 'couple.' "Good match," he said.
Both of them almost too bright to look at, Sam corrected gently, "That they did themselves. We gave them Hope."
Then the light was too bright to see past, and the tickle became a thrum of pleasurable sensation, then they Leaped together, Al not giving a damn where they went. He was where he belonged.
***
As I sit here writing these words, a coil of blue ribbon lies next to me, and in my mind's eye I can see Dr. Beckett remove it from the music roll, casually putting it in his pocket, having no reason from his perspective to pay any particular attention toward it. Then in his haste to empty his pockets of the cash, if must have fallen un-noticed to the floor, for Holmes and I found it lying abandoned among the coins and bills when we finally collected our wits enough to move.
For him the ribbon would be of no import for it would seem as common and ordinary as any that might be removed from some lass's curls, but it is to me, even after all this time, a remarkable object. It is still clean and brightly colored, though it has traveled in my waistcoat pocket wherever I have gone ever since it was found. It is never crumpled or dirty or frayed, and words to describe its wholly luxurious texture escape me.
It is the only physical evidence of the Case of the Unaware Angel, for no other trace of Dr. Beckett or Admiral Calavicci could be found. Indeed, over time, even the memory of those who knew them faded, their names becoming words that were just on the tip of the tongue, too elusive to recall. Only our client's good deeds lingered.
As instructed, the clinic was officially endowed with Miss Elizabeth as its head and with a variety of young medical students hired for a reasonable sum to spend a day a week in its service. She ran it so efficiently, that she was approached by various charitable organizations over the years to head others, but she refused, preferring to remain where she had begun her own climb from poverty. And woe to any medical student who thought they knew all there was about medicine; she soon put them to rights, having learned much at Dr. Beckett's elbow.
The housemaid, Miss Betty, whom Holmes and I aided in the rescue of, learned sewing skills from her mentor so completely, that she eventually opened a seamstress shop of her own, and began creating her own designs. In the period after the great war when women's hems delightfully began to creep upwards, she made her mark as the most innovative of modern haute' couture designers, earning great fame - and greater wages.
But if either of those good ladies, or indeed any of others who benefited from Dr. Beckett's presence, were asked who had begun them on their climb to wellness or prosperity, none could do more than smile fondly. If pressed, a vague description of the events that preceded their personal turning point would ensue, making mention of a 'good man' lending aid. Only Holmes and myself retained more than that, and I suspect it was because we were direct witnesses to those last moments in our sitting room.
And we never spoke of it, save occasionally on those rare evenings we shared a bed, in the darkest hours of the night, when the veils between memory and reality are thinnest.
As I had suspected would happen, Holmes never did care over much for the passions of the body, greatly preferring the order and calm of logic and reason, and he was never concerned about the dalliances that served to keep my own needs adequately fulfilled. It made no matter to us, and we settled into each other like an old country couple that had endured many hardships and trials together: at times it is hard to discern where one takes up and the other leaves off, and silence is common for words are un-necessary to communicate.
When he passed away ahead of me, I finally learned the true value of the gift that our angels left for us that night, for it has only been Hope that has allowed me to endure the years since. Hope sits with me closely as the door to the next world becomes nearer and more brightly lit by the hour. Hope has me believing that I will step through it to find my dearest Sherlock on the other side, wearing a morning coat and top hat, holding his cane, waiting impatiently. He will say, very clearly, "There you are! Well, come on, we have work to do!"
And I shall put my own hat on, pat my pocket to be sure I have my revolver handy, just in case, for I suspect even in the Aftermath he will deal with less than savory people, and say, "First we must pay a visit to Dr. Beckett and Admiral Calavicci for I have something I must return to them."
I can hear his shout of laughter already.
finis