Chapter Text
It had been a long night, one that had thankfully ended with Bram and Harry both still alive. Vampires, vampire hunters, decapitated corpses, live burials...Doyle wondered if he wasn't about to take a nap as the sun rose, if he'd have been able to sleep at all in the dark of night. He'd told Vera he was going to rest, and asked her to see the children off to school.
Loosening his tie, he thought of his bed with longing. When the phone rang, he frowned, not only because it was intercepting him on the way to some much needed rest, but he couldn't fathom who would call at such an ungodly hour.
"Hello." His voice was greeted with a brief silence.
"Uh...could you come over?"
It was Houdini's voice, but it was oddly hushed and hesitant.
"I just arrived home. It's barely dawn."
"I need a doctor."
"What? Are you ill? I thought you were all right at the cemetery."
"I was. I am. It's my mother."
"If she's ill, perhaps you should call an ambulance. It will take me quite a while to get there, and if time is of the essence - "
"It isn't," he replied softly.
Doyle felt a chill run down his spine. "Does your mother have a doctor here?"
There was a longer silence now. "Please, Arthur." The words were barely a whisper.
"I'll be there as soon as I can," he said, softening his tone. "Harry...does she have a pulse?"
"No."
"I'm on my way."
"Thank you," he replied, and broke the connection.
Doyle cursed his car, even though he usually considered himself very advanced and sophisticated for traveling around via motor instead of via carriage. As he pushed the engine to its limit through the sparsely populated dawn streets, he figured a fast horse would have been a more expedient way to reach Houdini's hotel.
He parked outside the Metropole and hurried up to Houdini's floor. He raised his hand to knock but the door opened before his hand made contact with it. Harry looked sad, drawn, and pale, his ice blue eyes seemed haunted when he looked at Arthur.
"She's in the parlor," he said, stepping back from the door so Doyle could pass him and enter, which he did. Houdini's mother lay on the settee, clad in an elegant dressing gown, looking peaceful, as if she were asleep.
Doyle opened the medical bag he'd brought with him and took out his stethoscope. He listened for a heartbeat he knew wasn't there, checked her pulse points, evaluated the temperature of her skin by touching her hand and her forehead. It was clear she'd been dead a while, probably since falling asleep there the night before, waiting for Harry to come home from their adventures chasing vampires. Her nervousness, sleeplessness, restlessness just before her death wasn't unusual. People who are close to death often feel it coming, even if they don't realize exactly what it is they're feeling.
"There's nothing to suggest she didn't slip away very peacefully in her sleep," Doyle said, turning to face Houdini, who stood there watching him. He looked lost, like he didn't know what to do next. "Would you like me to call an undertaker for you?"
"I'm going to take her back to New York. We were...we were going back there anyway," he said, his eyes filling. "She was homesick," he managed. Arthur moved toward him, touching his shoulder.
"You gave her a beautiful life here, Harry. It's clear she didn't want for anything."
Harry looked at him a moment, then moved toward him, wrapping his arms around him, putting his head on Doyle's shoulder, his body shaking. Doyle hesitated, the raw emotion taking him off guard. He wasn't demonstrative and emotive. He was stiff upper lip and controlled emotions, propriety and...and not a whinger.
Then Harry started to stiffen a bit and move back, as if he realized he'd crossed a line or behaved in a way that Doyle didn't find acceptable. Doyle ignored the voices in his head from a lifetime of being raised to control his feelings and keep untidy things like grief to himself. He pulled Harry back against him in a strong embrace, holding him close while he poured out his grief in sharp, awkward breaths and painful sounding sobs.
"Saltwater taffy," he gasped against Doyle's shoulder.
"What?" Doyle was confused by that seemingly random phrase.
"She wanted saltwater taffy," Harry clarified, pulling back a little. He was a mess. Wet eyes and runny nose, more untidy than Kingsley had been the last time he'd really let himself cry over something. Doyle took out his handkerchief and handed it to him, still keeping one arm around him, not taking the escape of moving away that Harry had offered by releasing him from the intense embrace. He took the hint, wiping his eyes and nose.
Before Doyle realized what he was doing, his hand crept up to caress Harry's soft curls. If he were honest with himself, he'd been wanting an excuse to touch them for some time. They were as silky and engaging as he expected they would be. It sent a tingle of desire through him that was not only inappropriate for the circumstances, but inappropriate for a married man, inappropriate with another man at all...just plain wrong.
"We were going to take a trip home, visit the family...eat saltwater taffy." Harry sniffed, blinked a couple times. "I should have paid more attention to her the last few weeks, you know? I should have known something was wrong."
"Harry," Doyle said softly, reassuringly, "she died peacefully in her sleep. She wasn't showing outward signs of illness. You couldn't have known."
"I knew her. I should have known. I should have sensed something was off."
"I'm a doctor. Do you think it's my fault because I didn't notice something brewing the last time I saw her, when we brought Bram here?"
"No, of course not, but...but we were so close, always...she always knew if there was something wrong with me. And when something was wrong with her, I didn't bother to even look," he concluded, his voice breaking again.
"You knew she was homesick and you were planning to take her on a trip to New York. You looked, Harry. You were a good son to her. You couldn't have known she was...that the end was near."
"Thanks for coming over," he said, wiping at his eyes again. "I'll have it cleaned before I return it," he said, forcing a little smile, trying for some humor as he gestured with the handkerchief.
"Keep it. I have a lot of them. The children give them to me for Christmas every year. I swear they must think I have chronic nasal drip."
That made Harry chuckle softly, though the smile didn't quite light up his face.
"Come on," he said, leading Harry toward his room. "I'll make the arrangements with the undertaker, and for your travel. Lie down a while. You need rest."
"I can't sleep. Not...I should be with her."
"I know a very good undertaker. He'll treat her with the utmost respect and keep her safe until you're ready to travel. Will you trust me to handle this for you?" Arthur asked, taking hold of Harry's shoulders, looking him in the eyes.
"I trust you. I just...I don't want this to turn into some media circus. She deserves her dignity and privacy."
"Mr. Peterson is the third generation of his family in the business. They've handled every burial in our family for about as many generations. They're very discreet and very good at what they do. I'll explain the situation to him, and make sure we do things as quietly as we can. There's probably no avoiding the news getting out, but you're not going to be unduly harassed, I give you my word."
"Why? Are you going to be my bodyguard?" Harry asked, and while his sarcasm could be annoying, the little spark of humor in his grief-stricken expression was enough to make Arthur just laugh it off. And he had every intention of protecting his friend from unwanted intrusions.
"Something like that. Will you please lie down now, just for a while?"
"Yeah, I feel kind of...weird," he said, touching his forehead.
"Mild shock, probably," Arthur replied, leading him into his lavish bedroom and depositing him on the side of the bed. Since Harry sat there as if he was in some kind of stupor, Arthur crouched to take off the expensive shoes and then proceeded to take off his jacket and vest until he was clad only in his shirt and pants. "Lie down," Arthur instructed, keeping his voice soft, like he'd use with one of his children when they were hurt or ill. He drew a light blanket over Harry since he seemed to have mild chills.
"She said she'd never leave me," he mumbled.
"I'm sure no mother would leave her child if given the choice," Arthur said, thinking of Touie, how devoted she was to their children, and how devastated she was when she briefly awoke that she'd been away from them so long. Something told him that even though Harry was fully grown, his mother was well aware that he still needed her, and she wouldn't have let go of that easily.
"No, I suppose not," Harry replied, looking into Arthur's eyes as if he were looking right into his soul and reading his mind.
"Rest now. I have some calls to make."
"I want to see her again. Tell them...and I haven't chosen anything for her to wear."
"You'll have time to do that later today. I promise."
"Okay," he finally relented, his eyes drifting shut. Then he opened them again. "Don't leave...I mean, let me know before you go, okay?"
"I won't leave," he replied as he walked to the bedroom door. "Rest. Doctor's orders," he said.
Doyle went about all the calls and arrangements he'd promised to make. He was relieved that Houdini was as quiet as he was through most of the calls and activity. Doyle arranged for Mrs. Weiss to be transported by the undertaker via a service entrance from the hotel to avoid the media circus Harry dreaded. The mortician gave his word that he would keep the whole thing as quiet as possible, as long as possible, and protect Mrs. Weiss from any gawkers or ambitious reporters.
********
Harry awoke, surprised he'd actually slept a bit. He wasn't sure how long, but he felt groggy and heavy, as if he'd been out for a while. If he'd really been out a long time, he half expected to find a note from Doyle with information about the arrangements he'd made. After all, it was a lot to ask of his busy friend who had also been up all night to just sit around his suite waiting for him wake up.
He sat up, slid his feet into his shoes and wandered out to the parlor, not really prepared to see his mother’s still form there again, and yet even less prepared for her to be gone. When he walked into the room, she was indeed gone, but Doyle was sitting in a chair, keeping himself occupied reading the small book Houdini had invited himself to borrow from Adelaide’s house.
“You’re awake,” he said, smiling slightly.
“How long was I out?”
"Just a couple hours. It took me a while to make the arrangements, to book passage on a ship that had accommodations suiting your tastes," he teased gently, setting the book aside. Harry smiled at that. "Mr. Peterson is planning to meet with us later today, before transporting your mother to the ship. We can provide clothing and any items you'd like to have...with her for burial."
"Us?" Harry asked. He really hadn't expected Doyle to stand by him so completely, to even go to the undertakers with him. He had family in New York, but here...he would have been so alone to do all this when he felt so utterly broken.
"Unless you prefer to go on your own..."
"No, I...thank you."
"Here, have some water," he said, and Harry watched him pour a glass from a pitcher on the end table. He sat in a chair, avoiding the settee. He wanted to burn it and yet it was the last place his mother had been, so he felt torn between hating the sight of it and being unable to bear the thought of getting rid of it, of leaving it when he finally left the Metropole for the last time. His mouth did feel dry and his throat raw, so he took a few swallows of the water gratefully before slumping back in the chair.
"I shouldn't have asked you to stay. I know I’m imposing on you."
“Nonsense,” Doyle replied, placing his hand on Harry’s forehead. “You don’t appear to have the chills any longer, so that’s a good sign,” he said, withdrawing his hand. “Drink a bit more,” he urged, and Houdini wordlessly obeyed.
"How do you do it?" he asked quietly, setting the water aside.
"Do what?"
"You live with your wife's condition every day, and you...you handle it. I feel like...the world just fell apart and..."
"I haven't had to face the reality of...she's still alive. Technically." He swallowed. "Though I know I'm fooling myself into believing that there's hope."
"She did wake up." Harry stood and paced. Maybe moving would keep him from losing his composure again. The water had helped a bit. He focused on the soreness in his side, an occasional catch from some poorly healed ribs. Doyle was right, now that Houdini let himself think about it. He was in some kind of pain most of the time.
"And then slipped back into a coma. I know it's over, our life as we knew it. But I have the option to stick my head in the sand when the pain of that thought becomes too much. You have to face your mother's death because it's final and it's happened."
"I suppose. I just..." he felt his control faltering, so he kept his back to Doyle. "I haven't mastered the stiff upper lip thing yet. You don't have to stay," he muttered, his voice cracking. He was embarrassed to lose it like this, but the pain was too much, too fresh, and it was demanding release.
"I've had my moments, Harry," Doyle replied, appearing close behind him, resting his hand on Harry's shoulder. "I'll wait outside if you'd like your privacy, but I'm not leaving."
"I don't need privacy," he managed, then he gave up and let the tears come. What he really wanted was another hug, but it seemed too much to ask. He’d been stunned when he got the first one. Not because Doyle was cold or unkind, but because...well...he was so composed and proper all the time. He was relieved when he was gently turned and embraced, able to pour his misery out on Doyle’s shoulder once again.
"I'm so sorry, Harry. I know how much you loved her."
"I was so wrapped up in myself...my shows, our cases...I didn't pay attention..."
"You treated her like a queen and you were a wonderful son. Let me tell you something as a parent. I hope Mary and Kingsley always want me in their lives, but I don't want to be the center of them. I don't want to distract them from doing the things they love, or hold them back. I'm sure your mother rejoiced in your success and in the fact you were happy."
"I know she did."
"Then mourn for her and miss her, but stop trying to blame yourself or feel guilty. You did nothing wrong."
"You really believe that?"
"Yes, I really believe that."
He relaxed and let himself grieve, in all its awkward ugliness. And it was bearable because he wasn't alone.
“It will get better. Or at least, you’ll learn to live with it, to function,” Doyle said, and those long fingers of his were in Houdini’s curls again. It made him feel sheltered and comforted, but there was something else in that touch. In his present miserable state, his mind wouldn’t connect what it was, but something... Whatever it was, it didn’t matter. His heart was broken in a million pieces and he needed something, someone to hold onto, and Doyle simply stood there and held him and let him unload his grief until he felt weak in the knees. Doyle guided him to a chair and sat him down so he didn’t further embarrass himself by fainting like a woman with a case of the vapors.
“Breathe, in and out,” Doyle said calmly, and then Houdini realized he had been close to passing out. Doyle kept up a reassuring motion of his hand on Houdini’s back, and kept up the chant. “In and out, deep breaths. That’s it.”
“Sorry,” he said, wiping at his eyes, then pulling out the handkerchief Doyle had given him earlier and using it. He had his own, a fancy, silky, monogrammed thing that was more for decoration than anything else, but somehow the little piece of cloth from his friend comforted him more.
“Have another drink of water,” Doyle urged, coaxing him to take a drink. Houdini obeyed the directive, swallowing a bit more, even though his hand shook a bit as he held the glass. Doyle took it from him and set it on the table.
They sat there in silence a while, until Doyle reminded him of their appointment.
"Will you be all right here for a while?" he asked. "I should really freshen up a bit."
"Yes, I'll be fine. I guess I should do that, too," he said, finally focusing on the fact he was still a bit dusty and grubby from the cemetery...from being buried alive. He dismissed that thought, hoping the little chill it inspired had gone unnoticed. It hadn't.
"You're sure you'll be all right?" Doyle asked again.
"Fine," he repeated, forcing a little smile.
"I'll be back to pick you up in an hour," he said, standing. Houdini stood also. Their eyes met for a long look, and a handshake seemed cold and meaningless. So Houdini took a step forward and gave his friend a quick hug, glad Doyle responded, returning it, before they both stepped back.
"Thanks again. I'll be watching for you."
********
Arthur didn’t see the open, vulnerable, broken Harry again. In his meeting with the mortician, he’d focused very well on every detail from providing an elegant dress for his mother’s burial to questioning the man on all the mechanics of transporting her and how her remains would be tended to on the ship.
Even when he popped up to bedevil Edison and try to debunk his necrophone, his arrogance and flippancy were back in place. There was some sort of awkward moment with Adelaide, Doyle knew that because he’d walked in on something, though just what he wasn’t exactly sure. None of that surprised Doyle much, but what did trouble him was the way Houdini threw himself into the crusade of bolstering Doyle into not giving up on Touie, even to the extent of sending a specialist from New York at his own expense to examine her and evaluate her case.
It was as if Houdini had felt some tendril of what Doyle had felt himself in those embraces they’d shared. Something that wasn’t terribly hard to identify but had the potential to shatter both their lives. Something that had caused Houdini to, at least as far as Doyle could surmise, make some kind of move on Adelaide and then take up the cause of keeping Doyle committed to his wife and the fight to save her. Now he had fled back to New York and was planning a series of shows in the States. He’d said he’d be back, but not when or for how long. After all, London was not his permanent home and his last memories of the Metropole were strongly focused on his mother’s death.
Arthur adjusted his tie and donned his hat, starting out toward the docks where he was to meet the specialist coming to evaluate Touie. He’d kept it from the children; he didn’t want them to get their hopes up again only to face another disappointment.
Rather than running from his feelings, could Houdini be acting on them? Could he truly care so deeply for Doyle that he was trying to give him back the life he wanted, with his wife, even if Houdini himself had felt the same tingle of attraction?
Such thoughts were unsettling, and pointless. He was still a married man, and as long as Touie was alive, he would remain so. Even in the tragic event she succumbed to her illness, he could never risk bringing such scandal into his life. Not while he was raising his children.
Still, that desire that stirred in him, the way his heart, that always felt so heavy and alone, had beaten a bit faster and fluttered a bit with feelings he didn’t think he could feel again: passion, desire...love... He’d told himself it was intense feelings of compassion, that it was brotherly love. But brotherly love didn’t have anything to do with how the feeling of Harry’s curls around his fingers or the scent of his aftershave or the ridiculously luxurious and colorful silk nightwear haunted his thoughts.
He scolded himself for allowing such sinful thoughts to enter his mind, especially given the nature of his errand. Today was about Touie, her evaluation by a top physician from New York, and the quest to restore her to health. Not about his misplaced desires for a flamboyant entertainer who probably wasn’t giving him a second thought as he wowed audiences in the US on the epic American tour he’d launched shortly after their return from thwarting the attempt on the president’s life.
********
Houdini took a draw on the opium pipe, waiting for the drug to do its magic. He was in pain, but the thought of another cheap encounter with a willing female to massage him didn’t pique his interest. For some reason tonight, Arthur’s voice was haunting him. “You must be in agony every single day.”
To some extent that was true. It was also true he had a high tolerance for pain and had learned to live with it, aided by a bit of massage here, a bit of opium there...but the compassion in Arthur’s voice, having a friend who knew how utterly messed up his body was from some of the stunts he’d managed, and cared...he missed that acutely. Almost as much as he missed his mother. She knew his health wasn’t perfect, but he never revealed to her just how damaged his body was in places. It would have broken her heart, and he would have died before doing that.
Another opulent hotel, this time in California. And what good was it? He couldn’t lavish her with gifts or fancy dresses or parties for her to hostess. He was alone...and probably going insane because from time to time, he saw her. In a crowd, on a ship, behind him in a mirror...but even that didn't bring him joy or consolation, because the sight of her meant he was spiraling into madness. It had to mean that. For that reason, he recoiled in fear from those apparitions and whatever it was they had to say.
He surrounded himself with people, but he was still alone. His friends were in England. Adelaide was at Scotland Yard, continuing her uphill battle as a female constable. He didn’t know if she still felt anything for him beyond friendship, if she ever had. They’d sparred a lot, flirted, but when they had what could pass as a romantic encounter, it hadn’t actually gone anywhere.
He more acutely recalled the feeling of Arthur’s long fingers in his hair, the warmth of his embrace, the way they could tell each other anything...Arthur trying vainly to teach him to whistle standing in the cemetery as Adelaide strode off in frustration. And he remembered the way his soul had felt torn asunder when he saw Arthur lying there in the King Edward Hotel, bleeding, fading from consciousness. He knew then how he felt, for all the good it did him.
He even missed Mary and Kingsley, who had so much of Arthur in them and delighted at his magic tricks when he spent time at the Doyle home.
Tired and homesick for a place that wasn’t actually home, he set the pipe aside, disappointed as he usually was at its effect, or lack thereof, on curing his pain. Now he was just in pain and cloudy in the head. Cloudier than usual.
His assistant had left a stack of mail on the desk, so he sorted through the envelopes, mostly disinterested in them. There were a couple letters from family, a couple business items his lawyer obviously felt needed to pursue him on tour across the country, and an envelope with a return address from Arthur C. Doyle in London.
His hand shook a bit as he tore into the letter. Dr. Henshaw, the specialist from New York, would have seen Touie by now, and because of confidentiality, all Houdini’s attempts to contact his office for information had met with failure. He unfolded the letter and read the note in Arthur’s tidy script.
Dear Harry,
I cannot thank you enough for arranging Dr. Henshaw’s visit. He is a brilliant man and a very thorough physician.
I am sorry to say that his diagnosis was not more positive. I am not sure what I was expecting, or hoping for, but after extensive tests and careful examination of the case, he determined that everything that could be done for Touie, either had been done, or was currently being done.
He didn’t say it in so many words, but being a doctor myself, I know when a colleague is trying to say that the fight is over, and it’s a matter of time. She could linger for years or go any day, but the likelihood of her recovering is dismal at best.
I suppose it isn’t really a new situation. Each time I try something new, I begin to imagine life if it worked, and she was restored to us. At least this time the children weren’t aware anything was going on. They just think I’m in a mood while I’m working on my new Holmes story.
Which is largely your bad influence, thank you very much. You have me bowing to the demands of eager fans, though I have not come home to women waiting in my room over it. Perhaps after the new Holmes story is released.
I hope your tour is meeting with great success, and that you are at least adhering to some slight level of sanity in the tricks you’re attempting. I would tell you to exercise caution, but I know that would be pointless. So I will only say I wish you well until we meet again, and if you break a bone, for God’s sake, man, see a doctor.
Warmest regards,
Arthur
Harry laughed at the last line, though there were tears in his eyes as he read the results of Dr. Henshaw’s analysis. Maybe they had reached the point of accepting that no more could be done for Arthur’s wife. Even throwing copious amounts of money at the situation wasn’t leading to a cure.
“Oh, Arthur, I’m sorry,” he murmured, rereading the letter. “I’m sorry I put you through another false hope because...because I had to clear my conscience.” He leaned back in the chair where he sat. In a rare moment of quiet, and honesty with himself, he recognized why it was so important for him to push Arthur not to give up on his wife, to actually take action to try to restore her: because he couldn’t bear to be the guilty beneficiary of her demise.
He had a bevy of attractive women vying for his attention at any given time, and yet the one thing he longed for was an uptight Brit in a night shirt and longjohns to share his bed through the long, dark nights. Even if that could never be, he missed his friend bitterly. Their conversations, their jokes, teasing each other...the things that made him smile and made his life happier than it had been for a long time. He wondered if Arthur might just harbor a little desire for him, too, way deep down somewhere.
After all, Arthur had known all about that writers’ club that catered to men with a certain preference. The one that had invited Oscar Wilde to join them.
He could picture Arthur typing away on his manuscript, burying himself in Sherlock’s latest mystery, in plotting the details and constructing the case. He could imagine the sadness in his eyes, the slump of his shoulders, and the strain of keeping up a sunny front for his children. He hoped at least the pain from the bullet wound had fully subsided.
And he remembered the friend who had held him while he grieved and not left his side when he was so broken himself. The same friend who picked at him at Falcroft Manor because he could see grief wasn’t done with Harry yet, and he was trying too valiantly to pretend nothing was wrong, to act like nothing major had happened. Adelaide had offered similar advice, but then she hadn’t seen him that morning the way Arthur had. She didn’t know how close his mother’s death had come to destroying him.
Picking up the phone, he dialed his business manager’s number. Belatedly, he looked at the clock, then shrugged. He paid the man well enough to be disturbed at odd hours of the night.
“Hello,” a groggy voice greeted him.
“Robert, good evening, it’s Harry!” he said cheerfully. He could almost hear the wheels turning in the other man’s head as he paused, deciding if he should jeopardize his relationship with his most lucrative client and tell Harry to go fornicate himself for calling at such an hour, or if he was going to handle it professionally.
“Harry, is anything wrong?” Ah, diplomacy. You’re calling at an insane hour of the night which, for any normal person, would mean something was wrong, or at least urgent, but I’m expressing concern to avoid sounding like I’m calling you a lunatic.
“No, nothing’s wrong, but I need your help and it is rather urgent.”
“Yes, of course, what is it?”
“I need you to cancel the remainder of my North American tour.”
“Excuse me?”
“I’m going back to Europe.”
“But we don’t have any dates scheduled in Europe. You don’t have lodgings in Europe.”
“That’s why I have you!” Harry exclaimed, smiling. “Calm down, Robert. I don’t expect you to arrange a European tour by morning, though I wouldn’t mind doing a few shows after I settle back in there. I can stay with friends when I first arrive. We’ll discuss the details later.”
“We’re going to lose money on this. A lot of money.”
“Can I afford it and still buy nice suits?”
“Let me do some figuring, but yes, I believe you can.”
“Then make it happen, Robert. I’ll do tomorrow night’s show, and then I’m leaving.”
“May I ask what brought this on?”
“A friend is going through some hard times, and I’d like to be there.”
“Must be a good friend,” he replied, sounding as if he almost didn’t intend to make the remark out loud.
“The best. Thanks for taking care of things. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
“Yes, of course. Goodnight, Harry.”
After he hung up the phone, he realized the injustice of what was happening. Robert was now staring at the ceiling in a state of panic, and Harry felt deliciously relaxed and drowsy because of his decision. He got into bed and slept soundly until morning.
********
It was a sunny autumn day, a light breeze coming in through the window. The children were in school, Vera was upstairs cleaning. Arthur could hear her banging around up there, no doubt pursuing dirt with the diligence than Holmes pursued culprits in his adventures. The doorbell rang, and he thought about going to answer it himself, but Vera would hurry downstairs before he made it out of his study.
Probably a salesman or some other tiresome visitor that his maid could just as easily dismiss without disturbing him.
He rubbed his forehead and stared at the partially typed page. After the failed visit from Dr. Henshaw, he’d lost a lot of his enthusiasm for writing. So now he’d resurrected Holmes and was letting him languish somewhere out on the moors with the baying of sinister hounds surrounding him, because he didn’t have the energy to get him out of his current predicament. He could blame it on the doctor, blame it on writer’s block...but there was more. He missed Harry. His annoying energy, his smile, those mischievous eyes of his, the way he infused Arthur’s life with hope and laughter and companionship. He’d hoped to receive a letter...something. But Houdini was a busy man in demand, courting fans and entertaining crowds. Mastering new stunts, no doubt.
He leaned back in his chair and sighed, pouring himself a drink of scotch. There was a knock at the door.
“Come in, Vera,” he said tiredly. “Whoever was at the door, you know I don’t patronize peddlers,” he said before setting the bottle of scotch down and looking toward the door.
“Well, then it’s a good thing I’m not selling anything.”
Arthur sat in his chair, staring at Harry as if he’d gone mad, as if Harry was conjured up by his slightly scotch-fogged imagination.
“Surprise!” Harry tried again, still smiling but beginning to look a little doubtful at Arthur’s response, or lack thereof.
“I don’t understand...I thought you were going to be touring the States for months yet,” he finally said, self-conscious of the bottle of liquor sitting there, waiting for Harry to make some smart remark about him drinking again.
“I changed my mind,” he said, shrugging.
“You changed your...it can’t be that easy.”
“Well, it isn’t for my business manager,” he quipped, still smiling. “Am I interrupting a burst of literary genius?”
“No, no, of course not,” Arthur said, snapping out of his shock and standing moving toward Harry, starting with a handshake that he wasn’t surprised Harry turned into a hug. Though it started out gruff and manly enough, Arthur knew he held on longer than he should have. “It’s good to see you again,” he said, stepping back. He blinked, knowing he was tearing up a bit. He couldn’t remember ever being so glad to see anyone as he was to see Harry at that moment.
“I’m sorry about how things turned out, with Henshaw. I thought he was the best, but clearly--”
“He is one of the best,” Arthur said, swallowing hard. “I am so grateful to you for arranging it, and for insisting I do it...but a time comes when you have to accept things for what they are. I haven’t quite decided how to begin preparing the children.”
“Your kids are smart. Be honest with them. There’s no way this isn’t going to hurt them, but so is losing their mother when they don’t expect it’s coming.”
“Voice of experience?” Arthur asked.
“I certainly wouldn’t wish for my mother to linger with a wasting illness, but the suddenness...still makes it hard to accept sometimes. You can’t save your wife from this illness, but the only small advantage is that you can prepare Mary and Kingsley so it’s not such a shock.”
“Yes, I suppose that’s true,” Arthur agreed. “So, what brings you back to London?”
Harry didn’t say anything. He just looked Arthur in the eyes and cocked his head a bit, as if to ask if it weren’t obvious why he was there.
“You cancelled your tour to come back here and see me?” he asked, stunned. He waited for one of Harry’s trademark jokes, but it didn’t come.
“I read your letter. When my mother died and I called you, you came.”
“I was across town.”
“Across town, across an ocean...” He made a dismissive gesture with his hand. “What difference does it make? I wanted to be here, not there. So here I am.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. Now are you gonna offer me a drink or are you hogging the good scotch for yourself?”
“Seems I’ve lost all my manners. Please, sit down.” Arthur poured them each a scotch and they settled in the chairs on either side of the small table.
“I guess we’re supposed to be drinking tea at this hour, aren’t we?” Harry asked.
“You’d prefer tea?” Arthur asked, raising an eyebrow.
“God, no, just an observation,” he replied, taking a drink.
“When did you injure your wrist?” Arthur asked, noticing the stiff way Harry was holding his glass. There was a bit of bruising visible that wasn't covered by his cuff.
“How did you know that?”
“Elementary,” Arthur replied, making Harry chuckle. “You’re holding your glass oddly, as if it’s not comfortable, and a bit of bruising is showing."
“I panicked a little getting out of the cuffs on an underwater escape and twisted it too hard.”
“Did you see a doctor?”
“Bones weren’t broken, so no. I didn’t ignore your advice.”
“I didn’t mean you shouldn’t see a doctor if you didn’t break a bone. It’s probably a sprain.”
“I don’t usually see one when I do break one, so a sprain wasn’t much reason to change that.”
“Let me take a look,” Arthur said, sighing in feigned exasperation. He took Harry’s hand in his and carefully examined the wrist, gently manipulating it a bit. “There’s still some significant bruising. Does that hurt?” he asked as he carefully moved it.
“A little when you bend it back,” he said.
“That probably means for most people that red hot pokers of agony are shooting up your arm,” he quipped. “It’s a bit swollen. I can wrap it for you, and Vera can get us some ice from the ice box. That should bring the swelling down.”
“It’s just a twisted wrist. Next you’ll be suggesting surgery,” Harry teased.
“Just because you refuse to take care of yourself does not mean that I can stand idly by as a physician and allow you to do so.” He was still holding Harry’s hand, so he withdrew his, knowing he had no reason to keep up the contact. He thought he detected a slight look of pleasure beneath the cocky smile, and Harry had made no move to pull his hand away first.
“I missed you,” Harry said, not looking Arthur in the eyes, but keeping his eyes on his scotch.
“And I missed you as well,” Arthur replied right away, deciding not to make him suffer alone the awkwardness of saying it in so many words. “You will stay for dinner, I hope? The children would love to see you.”
“I’d love to. Actually, I was hoping you might have a guest room. I didn’t book a hotel...”
“Of course, I’ll let Vera know to make up the bed with fresh linens. I can get some ice while I’m at it,” he added, ignoring Harry’s little roll of the eyes. As he went to fetch the maid and prepare for his house guest, he felt a spring in his step for the first time in months, and a slight smile turning up the corners of his mouth. He could actually imagine himself spending some productive time writing later, maybe while Houdini allowed Mary and Kingsley to talk him into a few magic tricks.
It was dangerous to feel so happy with Harry there in the house, part of his life, spending time with the children. It was temporary. It had to be.
He returned with some ice and cloth bandage to wrap the wrist, but Houdini waved off the wrapping. He did consent to the little cloth bag filled with ice, so Doyle knew he must be in some pain from the injury.
“How’s Addie? I haven’t heard from her since I left.”
“It’s been a few weeks since we talked, but she seems to be doing well. Going on with her job at Scotland Yard.”
“You two aren’t chasing ghosts and goblins without me?”
“I worked on one case with her, but it turned out to be a blatant fraud. One of the mediums you so enjoy debunking was claiming to have special insight on a murder. Turns out the medium was the killer and was merely trying to throw the authorities off his trail.”
“It happens. Sounds like a pretty boring case. Glad I missed it,” he joked.
“We’ll have to have a bit of a reunion now that you’re back in town. How long are you planning to stay?”
“Depends,” Harry said, adjusting the bag of ice on his wrist.
“On?”
“A few things,” he said. “My manager being able to keep me working over here, and...uh...” He flexed his fingers a little, his eyes riveted on the ice bag.
“Mr. Houdini!” Mary exclaimed as she entered the room, followed by Kingsley. Both children initially rushed toward him excitedly, but seemed to remember their manners on properly greeting visitors and restrained themselves to handshakes, even though he ruffled Kingsley’s hair and patted Mary’s shoulder as they gathered around him.
“Are you just visiting or have you come back?” Kingsley asked.
“I was just asking him that very question,” Doyle said, crossing his legs, lighting his pipe while he watched Houdini with some interest.
“I’m not sure yet, but I’ll be here for a while, anyway. I missed you guys. You’re my favorite audience,” he said, producing a shiny coin from behind Kingsley’s ear. “If your father says it’s okay, treat your sister to some ice cream.”
“Of course, run along, you two,” Doyle replied, smiling.
“Will you be here when we get back?” Mary asked.
“Your father graciously agreed to let me use your guest room for a while, so you’ll be seeing a lot of me.”
“Splendid!” she replied, before leaving with Kingsley to go get their treat.
“I think I’ve come back,” Houdini said, finally braving eye contact with Doyle, smiling.
“I’m glad. I’m sure Adelaide will be, as well,” he added.
“Perhaps, perhaps not.”
“I thought you two shared a...moment at Falcroft Manor,” Doyle probed. Houdini raised an eyebrow at him.
“I suppose that’s one word for it.” Houdini finished his drink. “I assured her it wouldn’t happen again, and she seemed satisfied with that resolution, so that’s all it was. A moment.”
“She was probably still confused about her husband’s situation, and you were grieving.” Doyle paused. “You must be tired after your journey. Would you like to rest before dinner?”
“Sure,” he agreed, standing as Doyle did. He set the ice bag on the small towel Doyle had brought with it. “I think it helped,” he said.
“We’ll ice it again later. A few times a day until you notice some improvement.” Doyle touched his shoulder as he led him toward the stairs. “I expected a larger array of luggage to transport that distinctive wardrobe of yours,” he teased as he picked up one suitcase from the foyer as they ascended the stairs.
“I’ll get that,” Houdini said, reaching for it.
“Nonsense. It will do little good to ice your sprained wrist and then have you use it to carry a suitcase upstairs.”
“It’s been through worse,” he replied, chuckling. “The rest of my things are being shipped. I figured it would give me time to figure out where I was landing permanently.”
“Not back to the Metropole?”
“Too many memories.”
“I understand,” Doyle said, opening the door to the guest room. The window was open a bit to let in some fresh air, Vera had made up the bed with fresh linens, and there were towels on the foot of the bed. Doyle set the suitcase down. “The bathroom is across the hall. Mary’s room is next door, and Kingsley’s is next to that, but they’re very quiet, so I don’t think they’ll disturb you.”
“And your room?”
“Across the hall that way,” he said, pointing to the right of the bathroom.
“This is nice. Thanks for letting me stay.”
“Of course. It’s good to have you back,” Doyle said, smiling. “Dinner is at six. Feel free to rest or make yourself at home in the meantime. I’ll be in my study if you get bored resting.”
“How’s the story coming?”
“It’s coming along. It’s been slow since...since Dr. Henshaw’s visit.”
“Yeah, I bet.”
“See you at dinner.”
“Okay, thanks,” Houdini said, and Doyle left him there with his suitcase to get settled in. He wondered how long he could keep him there and enjoy the little game of what it would be like...
If what?
Doyle pushed that idea to the back of his mind and returned to his study, determined to make Sherlock do some work before dinner.
********