Chapter Text
To the honourable Dr. John H. Watson, care of Mr. Augustus Featherstone, Mayor of Marilès, France
Dear Dr. Watson —
I am pleased to inform you that Charles and I have successfully made our way to Germany. I cannot divulge the full details of our location, however it is safe to say that we came a rather long way since we last saw each other.
The scheme that Mr. Silver so expertly hatched last-minute worked rather well. No one seemed to bat an eyelid at the fact that the train carried two prisoners in excess to what they were expecting. Once we had reached the sanatorium, it was very much as your friend had suggested—the men there were, without exception, political prisoners from England and beyond, doomed to a wretched existence. It was a simple matter of securing all the inmates’ safety and leading an organised rebellion against the English proprietor and his despicable underlings. It may sound like a tall task, but I assure you, organised rebellion is something Charles Vane is rather proficient at.
We left the sanatorium a fortnight ago, with all inmates safely with us. It has burned down to the ground and it will never harm another human being ever again.
It took all of two days for us to see Thomas Hamilton again after his rescue. He called upon mine and Sherlock’s doorstep early one morning, catching us bleary-eyed and still nursing our morning cups of tea. It still felt like a shock to see him, alive and well, sitting at our kitchen table. I could see the lines that the years had carved into his face, crow’s feet that were far too deep, the tetchiness in his form. He was a ghost made flesh to my eyes.
“Dear Lord, Thomas,” I said with quiet wonder. “I can scarcely believe my eyes to see you here, after all this time.”
The teacup looked ever so small in Thomas’ hands. He smiled, warm and kind, and he had not changed that much after all, I realised.
“It is an odd feeling, Doctor Watson, to have a cup of tea for the first time in five years.”
Something clenched at my throat. “I apologise, it is not a very good one, my friend.”
“It is quite all right.” Thomas’ eyes flicked from me to Sherlock, who sat in his chair with his pipe, quiet and uncomfortable. I tensed even though I did not know why. As usual, there was no malice of any kind present in Thomas’ gaze, simply curiosity.
“Have you been up to very much over the last two days? I would imagine you and James would have many things to discuss.”
“In all honesty, Doctor Watson, I have spent them sleeping for the most part, as has James, mainly at Mr. Silver’s behest. He was so sore and bruised, he looked as if he had been set upon by ten men.” Thomas sounded pained as he said this.
“More, perhaps. James was rather set on freeing you, as you may imagine. He would not let a living soul stand in his way.”
“I have no trouble believing it.” Thomas’ kind blue eyes had not left Sherlock’s face. “Doctor Watson, as much as I would enjoy catching up with the particulars of our time apart, I came here with another request. I was wondering if I could have a word with your colleague alone?”
For some undefinable reason, I felt a pang of anxiety at this simple request. I knew, of course, that Thomas was aware of Sherlock’s involvement with the Earl of Ashbourne that had led to his imprisonment, for his last words, as conveyed to us by Miranda, had not stopped ringing in my ears for the last five years. I feared leaving Sherlock vulnerable to this emotional turmoil, to this conversation that was certain to bring him great distress. Every muscle in my body tensed protectively.
I looked at Thomas. He was still sitting there, with his hands still too big for his teacup, looking gentle and patient as he always did. From where his sleeve was rolled up, I could see raised scar tissue run down his wrist.
“John.” Sherlock’ fingers gently touched the back of my hand and I looked at him. “It is alright.” Then, he met Thomas’ eyes again. “Lord Hamilton.”
Something twitched in Thomas’ face at the name. “Thomas, please.”
So, I left them. I went to check in on Mary and Miranda, fearful of being alone with my anxieties. As I returned, I found Sherlock alone, sat in the parlour, his eyes wide and swimming with tears still. I did not ask what it was that he and Thomas had talked about, and by the way he found his way into my arms, it seemed evident that he did not wish to discuss it either. All I could do was hold him close. I did not feel anger, or upset, and neither did Sherlock. Indeed, after he had calmed down and the sorrow had left his face, he seemed freed. I observed the easier step he walked with, the way he no longer stared into nothingness, lost within himself. Whatever it was Thomas had said, it had lifted something off Sherlock’s shoulders, something I had not even recognised was there. For that, I was grateful.
A week after this occasion, I decided to go check on James’ wound and Thomas’ general wellbeing; perhaps out of a desire to thank Thomas for the burden he had taken off Sherlock. As I walked past their cottage, I peered through the kitchen window and what I saw made me stop in my tracks. Their curtains were open and I could see them in their kitchen, barefoot, once again pressed close to one another. I felt guilty for intruding on a private moment of theirs yet again, but I could not bear to look away. Thomas held James’ face in both his hands and had tilted his face upwards, so that he could look directly into his lover’s eyes. He was planting soft, gentle kisses on James’ nose, on his cheeks, on his forehead, on his lips. James laughed and chased some of them, until he shook himself off from the grip before he held Thomas close again, burying his head in his shirt. Very much like the day that I had seen them reunite, they seemed to be reluctant to let go of each other even for a moment. At the time, I had attributed the expression on James’ face to the emotion of the moment but even there, in their horrible kitchen, my friend still looked at Thomas with the familiar wild fascination and endless devotion.
“Fascinating, isn’t it?”
I jumped to see John Silver, stood behind me with a bucket full of apples in his free hand. He, too, was looking at James and Thomas through the window.
“You are very good at sneaking around with this,” I nodded towards his crutch.
Silver grinned but did not look away from Thomas and James. “You know, doctor, I did not expect him to be like this.”
“James, you mean? Yes, I imagine your time with him was quite different from Thomas’.”
“No,” Silver huffed. “No, there are very few things about Flint that can surprise me; I know his mind as well as I know my own, and I am very well aware of the tenderness he is capable of, when he is willing. No, I mean— I mean Thomas Hamilton.” He took a deep breath. “I do not know what I expected of him. I imagined I would shit myself when I first saw him, to be frank; the way Flint spoke of him, you would think he was some kind of otherworldly being, you know? But here he is now, and he is so— he is so very—” Silver was struggling to find the correct word.
“Honest, perhaps? Grounding may be another word. I know what you mean, though. He is quite the fascinating fellow.”
“Yes. Yes, he is all these things. Undoubtedly.” Silver took a deep breath and adjusted the grip on his crutch. “But, he is also absolutely fucking infuriating. He drives me up the wall, and he takes delight in doing it. I have never met someone as talented at being an absolute nuisance.” Silver rubbed his head on the edge of the bucket to scratch it absentmindedly. “And I cannot fathom why, Doctor Watson, but I seem to rather like it.”
I kept my eyes on Silver, studying him curiously.
“So, I would take it that you have decided to stay with us for the time being, Mr. Silver? James had some doubts whether you would; he said, if I remember correctly, that you rarely let others determine your fate for you.”
A bashful smile came across Silver’s face. “He is quite right. I am rather a man of my own devices and I have always sought the freedom to make my own way into the world. So I hope you understand this, Doctor Watson, when I say, from the bottom of my heart, that in this matter, I had absolutely no choice.”
A smile tugged at my lips. Before I could formulate a response, the front door to the cottage opened and James’ head popped out. He glowered at us but there was no heat behind it. The change in his face, after just a week of having Thomas back, was remarkable. He took the bucket of apples from Silver.
“Will you two come inside, or will you stand here and gossip about us all day long?”
Silver grinned and gave me a wink. “Captain, I have some excellent news for you. I believe I have managed to procure us a dairy goat.”
The look James gave Silver was one that suggested that he was either about to kiss him or punch him in the face. Perhaps both. “You do remember that dairy adamantly disagrees with my stomach, right?”
A laugh bubbled up from Silver at that, which only altered James’ expression further into one of confusion but eager affection. Years before, I may have struggled to see it, but it turned out that James McGraw was easier to read than he let on.
I entered the cottage alongside Silver, and the day continued as normal. To think this was now the state of normalcy was surreal to me, yet all the more welcome in the presence of men such as them.
Charles and I are in regular contact with Madi and Max, who have now taken over The Hangman’s Rest as a base of operations. We often act as the fingers of their long hand here on the continent, finding and disrupting colonial transports from Eastern trade routes. It is not a bad life, as far as it goes; though I do find myself longing for Anne’s company often. She is happy with them and it is all I want for her. Yet I do miss her so.
I have heard word that they are spreading stories—of Sherlock Holmes and of Mr. Flint in particular. Theirs are two names that are still spoken with fear and reverence in the empire, and Richard Guthrie has attempted—and may I say failed terrifically —in discrediting them. I would assume he is not best pleased that his daughter, Eleanor, fell to a band of raiders shortly after her altercation with us. I imagine he is even less pleased that said band of raiders were Spanish mercenaries, hired by her husband.
However, doctor, I can assure you you are most safe. Max’ informants have been telling the tale of Sherlock Holmes’ heroic death on the coast of Calais, in a blast of a colonial transport caused by none other than Jack Rackham. I must say, I have received many compliments for my work, though the one that I had taken out the most skilled detective in the world has to be the highest of them all.
Sherlock had always had a vague, yet earnest interest in bees. The life of an apiarist was not possible in a central London apartment—despite his many pleas to Mrs. Hudson over the years anyway—but it was quite attainable in rural France.
He returned from the garden one warm afternoon, still adorned in his beekeeping uniform, save for the hood. I was preparing a modest lunch for us to share using some of the milk so graciously provided by Silver’s goat, whom he had named Walrus. It served as some private joke between him and James that I was not privy to.
“How are the bees today, my dear?”
“Ah, marvelous as ever, it seems. My analysis of the social behaviours of the queen is going swimmingly!”
He removed his protective garment in a swift motion, abandoning it on the floor for a moment to come toward me and leave a gentle kiss upon my cheek. My hands were occupied with the potatoes I was chopping, but I leaned into the affection as best I could.
“Splendid. Please do not leave your apiary equipment in the entryway, my love, we may have guests any time as you know.”
“Yes, yes, of course,” he resigned, fetching the items and folding them away into the linen closet. It was quite true, my statement of perpetual guests. While always cordial and respectful of our privacy, our friends and neighbours could knock upon our door at any point throughout the day. Whether it be Silver with a blinding smile and his goat’s milk that sometimes came in the form of cheese, Miranda with a jar of this month’s royal jelly from her own hives to share and discuss with Sherlock, or James coming to play checkers with me and share a glass of wine. There was rarely a lonesome day in Marilès, and it brought me immense joy to know as much.
“The tale of our treacherous case with the Baskervilles has gone over well, it seems. A bit late, given the nature of things now, but the common public does not appear to mind. The tale of the infamous rebel Sherlock Holmes is somehow more popular than that of the consulting detective.”
“Hmm,” he hummed as he packed his clay pipe, lifting his feet to rest upon the settee. “The man posing as the author seems to be a nice enough fellow. Rather ignorant to the nature of things, but that is quite a good thing in this case. What was his name, again? Doyle, was it?”
“Yes, that’s right.” I met Dr. Arthur Conan Doyle when he first moved to London, and we made acquaintance on occasion. He had written several historical fiction pieces surrounding wartimes, as well as some work involving what he referred to as spiritualism. It seemed, despite his usual publications, that he was interested in Sherlock’s deductive studies enough to entertain serving as my literary agent.
Sherlock smiled then, as though the idea of becoming a storybook character enthused him deeply.
“I imagine he will venture to make me a far more proper man than is true. Perhaps that is what the public wants, after all I never was aware of such things.” He turned to look at me, then, with a splitting grin upon his face. We both stared at one another for a moment before bursting into a fit of laughter.
“Ah, well. He says that he will be republishing and editing my previous works under his own title. Instead of the chronicles of a real detective, you will be immortalised as nothing more than a serial hero.”
“How bizarre, is it not, John? To think that England hated me so as a living man, but as a strange figment of their imagination, I am more than welcome?”
There was a small sense of melancholy in the words he spoke. Despite his joy in our lives now, I knew some part of him missed his work in London. The occasional aid of a local in need only did so much to sate his yearning for adventure. Now, much of the adventure would be left to his fictional counterpart.
I made my way over to him, perched on the settee as if posing for a painting, and any part of me that may have missed London along with him vanished. At this moment, I wanted nothing else than to be with him right here. I turned his head up toward me and kissed him slowly, for no rush or anxiety filled my mind as I loved him now.
“Do you want to know what else I saw in my trip to the apiary this afternoon?” he said as our faces still remained in close, intimate proximity.
“What’s that?” I asked with a flirtatious grin.
“I saw John Silver rather enthusiastically kissing Thomas Hamilton next to their orange tree.”
I grinned, entirely unsurprised by this revelation. “Well, I for one am endlessly glad. It means poor James’ risk of early heart failure is much reduced now, don’t you think?”
“I would not hold out too much hope,” Sherlock huffed, but his lips were stretched in a wide smile. “The Lieutenant was intently observing them from the entryway of their cottage and believe me when I say, dear John, he very much looked like he would not be long for this world. I pity the man. In fact, I fear for us all now—I could not possibly imagine what these two are capable of, now they are in cahoots.”
I threw my head back and laughed, and the buzz from it spread warmth in my body, all the way down to my toes. Sherlock kissed the laughter from my lips. He tasted bright and sweet as honey. We smiled into another kiss, unbothered and unburdened by anything outside of ourselves.
A story is true, a story is untrue; as time extends, it matters less and less. I do not live in some illusion that the story of what we did, of what we are still doing, will be told and understood one day. Yet, I know that it will remain with us, with you and me, until the day we die. I believe that we fought for something important, and that we survived something important. Charles and I know the significance of the endeavour that Lord Hamilton had embarked himself upon, and it is an endeavour that we carry within us on our travels. I would be grateful if you could pass our thanks on to him; his work lives on, and it will do so for as long as we live.
I hope you and Mr. Holmes enjoy your well-earned retirement. Do write back sometime, for I hunger for stories as always. Send any correspondence to Max in Glasgow and she will ensure it will find a way to reach me.
With deep respect &c &c
Jack Rackham
At the end of our first summer in France, Madi and Max appeared one afternoon, with the grime of Glasgow still clinging to their boots. They were exhausted, yet appeared happy to see us all. Silver clung to Madi much as he had the first time I witnessed them reunite, all the while he stole glances toward James and Thomas as if he felt guilty for his affections. I tried, these days, not to think about the peculiarities of their arrangement, as much as it baffled me. For there was something lighter about James—who had once again adopted the surname McGraw—a tension that he had held for all the years I had known him, now long gone. For a second, as Madi embraced him and held him tightly, I thought I saw a flash of Flint run across his face, as quick as a shadow. Yet, in a blink it was gone—the moment Thomas threaded his fingers through his, James McGraw was once again the gentle, careful handyman, who made his living growing and selling vegetables in their garden.
Miranda held onto Madi just as tight while Max explained: “We are visiting Featherstone and Idelle, to check in on our French operations. Then we are to reconvene with Anne, Charles and Jack in Germany. We thought we may stay for dinner tonight, if it would please you.”
And stay for dinner they did; we all took it at Mary and Miranda’s, for they had ended up with the cottage with the largest dining table, even if they were both wretched cooks. For all of our fortunes, James had everyone—most of all Silver, who was not allowed to boil water without supervision—banned from the kitchen under threat of eternal starvation. Silver seemed more than happy with this arrangement, as he entered into a lively discussion on lock-picking techniques with Sherlock. On the other side of me, Mary was excitedly chatting about her art with Madi and asking her opinion on colours, with Madi showing some of the colourful jewellery woven by her mother that she had brought with her. Max and Miranda sat next to their respective partners, quiet and observant, blazing with nothing but warm fondness and the occasional sip of red wine that they both favoured.
James reappeared to fetch something from Mary and Miranda’s pantry and announced that the roast will be served soon. He planted a gentle kiss on Silver’s cheek as he went past him, which Silver only half-returned, too busy glaring at Sherlock, who had just, from what I could hear, called him an insufferable idiot.
It was a small, everyday affectionate gesture, yet I felt as if the air had been taken out of the room. I had seen James do this before—we had all, in the safety of our isolation, become open with our affections, even Sherlock—but the simple domesticity of it made something clench in my stomach painfully. I could not help but remember how anxious James had been in London, how cautious and fearful. Now, he seemed free in a way I could not properly put into words. I squeezed Sherlock’s shoulder, mumbled something about needing some air, and stepped out onto the small porch in the back garden.
The summer evening was warm and welcoming, and it smelled of jasmine from Mary and Miranda’s garden. I closed my eyes and breathed in, deeply, trying to find my footing, unsettled by something I could not quite place. I heard a quiet, careful voice to the left of me.
“Overwhelming, isn’t it?”
I looked to the small bench that Silver had put together not too long ago to see Thomas, sat with his legs crossed, also looking up at the sky. In his hand, he held a steaming cup of tea that smelled of lemon.
His eyes found mine and he smiled at me; he looked rather tired, I thought.
“Not in a negative way, I don’t think. It is as though I am occupying a fantasy I can’t wake from even if I wanted to.” I observed him with care, realising that he had been mostly absent from the gleeful conversation inside. “Are you feeling all right, Thomas?”
“Quite all right, doctor, thank you.” Thomas’ eyes once again looked up at the sky. He took his time before he spoke again; at times, he struggled to find his words, this new Thomas. “I find it all a lot, too. After years of feeling barely anything, I now find myself feeling everything. I look at all I have and it all feels too fragile and unstable to hold in my hands. As if I will break it all, with the smallest of gestures.” He stopped himself as if there was a thought at the end of his sentence he did not quite wish to finish. His finger traced the handle on the cup reverently.
It only lasted a moment. Thomas shook his head, his mouth curved into a smile and he shifted to the side of the bench. “Come sit with me, Doctor Watson. I have no port this time around, but I am sure we will make do.”
I followed the lead of his gesture and sat beside him. Even as the summer breeze swept past, Thomas appeared to emanate a warmth just as he always did.
“I find myself having much the same response to Sherlock now. While there is an unmistakable ease with which we find ourselves fitting together, my mind cannot seem to catch up.”
Laughter erupted from Thomas’ lips, as his shoulders shook with the strength of it. “Forgive me. I do not mean to, I am just—” He looked at me once again, happiness shining in his eyes. “It was obvious to all those around you, the intensity of what you felt for each other. It was much like looking into the sun. I am ever so glad that you acted upon it, for I worry you would have burned each other otherwise. It truly is something I give thanks for in my prayers, every day. Among many things.”
Something deep and ancient in my chest ached at his words, then. Not out of any upset or misgivings, but because I could not fathom how many years of foolish silence I had allowed to exist rather than the beautiful ease I felt now.
“Have I upset you, Doctor?” Thomas asked, with gentle worry in his eyes. “For it was not my intention to do so.”
“No, not at all, Thomas. I apologise, I seem to spend much of my time these days contemplating the past more so than I should. It was so clear to you, to Mary, to James, to perhaps any poor sod who read my old stories in the Strand. And yet, my years of misery and patience do not reflect it. There are times when I feel as though I am on a different plane than the rest of the world. When I am alone with him is one of the few times I do not feel that way.”
Thomas nodded in understanding. “The past can be comfortable, at times. Safe. Certain. I find myself labouring over it as well. Thinking of my time in London, how, had I not been so foolhardy and stubborn with my politics, I could have saved us all a lot of grief and misery. I feel then, too, as if I am floating somewhere, all alone. Perhaps somewhere up there.” His eyes went to the sky again. He smiled at some memory, gentle and loving. “In times like these, it is John who understands. James, he— wishes to fix it, as he always does, wishes to make it better. John is the one who will sit with me and be silent when I need him to be, who will then tell me that I should let the embers of the past grow cold while I seek the warmth in our present day. He is correct; there is warmth, and there is love in every waking minute. I try to grab it with both hands because I deserve it. And so do you, dear friend.”
I peered up at the starry, still night sky in contemplation of Thomas’ words. Despite all that he had endured, his prose never ceased to keep my mind focused on any word he uttered.
“Yes, I think you may be right. The past—my life with Sherlock in London, my stories in the Strand, my practise—feels much like a tale of a dead man. One that I do not wish to relive or exist within. When I met him two decades ago, I was so in need of companionship, and was fortunate enough to be at the will of fate’s kind hand. However, the present; this night, these people I am able to call my friends, my family, are more alive and vibrant than the young, lonely John Watson was. I am grateful for many of his choices, but I wish to exist away from them now. That is the reason for sending my stories elsewhere you see.
“Still, I find myself contemplating how this present can be my reality, how I can wake up beside him every morning. However, I think I can feel myself getting away from that thought as each day passes.”
“As you should,” Thomas replied loftily, as confident as I had ever heard him. “When I first met you, I could see your shame; it was wrapped around you so tight, I feared it would take the very breath out of you. When I see you now, you breathe ever so freely. Whether it is because of him, or because of a change within you, I am unable to tell, and it is not my business to know. All I know is that I am happy for you.” He took a long breath. “I wanted this for every man of our persuasion in England; I wanted this to be a reality for all the young John Watsons and all the young Thomas Hamiltons, who felt much like they would never belong. I failed, but in you I see my success—and that gives me some comfort. It truly helps me believe that we will all be all right, in the end.”
To think that Thomas viewed his efforts as a failure shook me for a moment. Due to his efforts, over a dozen men of our own nature were safe from the shackles Thomas so tragically fell to. I knew he was aware of such things now, and yet he did not seem plagued by the sentiment of any perceived failure. Instead, the man beside me radiated peace.
“I hope, my dear friend, that you are right.”
Thomas smiled and said nothing more, as he took a sip of his lemon tea. We sat there, under the stars, enveloped in the smell of the warm summer evening. I focused on the distant noise of the people we loved talking and laughing, so undeniably real and alive, and I thought that the young lord in disgrace was quite correct: we were all right, in the end.