Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Doyle entered the room at the sanatorium the next morning and nodded to the nurse at the desk. She smiled back and quietly left the room. He set his hat on the edge of the desk and slowly walked over to the woman lying in the bed. Her long hair had been brushed and she looked as though she was merely asleep. Doyle however knew better.

"Hello, my love," he whispered as he sat on the edge of the bed and took her hand. "I'm sorry I haven't been to see you the last few days, we had a case."

He smiled sadly. "The children send their love. Mary is getting so big, she's growing into a proper young lady. Kingsley is still writing his stories, he's also becoming quite the football player. They both miss you terribly." He took a deep breath and looked away.

After a few minutes he turned back to the woman and said, "There is a doctor coming. From America. Houdini found him and convinced him to look at your case; he thinks he can help make you better." He squeezed the hand he held. "My dear Touie. I almost gave up hope again. Houdini, though, wouldn't accept there was nothing else to try. When you're better, I'll bring him to meet you. I think you'd like him. He has your sense of humor." Doyle smiled.

After a few more minutes, he stood from the bed and bent over to kiss his wife on the forehead. "I'll see you tomorrow," he promised in a whisper. He picked up his hat and with a last glance back at the bed, he left the room.

Harry stood at the large window and looked out at the shadows of the people below in the street. The drizzle from the past few days left puddles in the street and along the pavements, but for the moment the rain had stopped and a watery, late morning sunlight tried to illuminate the London thoroughfare.

He turned away from the window stood with his hands on his hips and studied the sitting room. The piano stood in one corner, the sofa by the fireplace with a lone chair on one side and table and an empty space on the other. He looked over at the chair he'd placed by the window when he'd returned from America and made a decision.

He picked up the chair and put it back in its place near the fireplace between the sofa and the table. He stood back and nodded. He went to the library for the book he'd been reading before Doyle called with their latest case and came back to the sitting room. He sat in the chair and glanced once at the sofa with a sad smile, then opened the book. The bedroom door was still closed, but he'd made a step in the right direction.

Mort watched through a crack in the thick velvet curtains as workmen wrangled the refurbished chandelier up to the ceiling and secured it in place. The Peacock was more her old self with the light back in it's proper place. The next step would be to get a new show up and running now that Thornton Shea was in jail. Mort wasn't too worried about what kind of show would grace the stage next, he had seen it all in his time at the Peacock.

The workmen eventually had the chandelier rehung and left and Mort came out to survey the job and checked it was done right. It was his job to make sure the Peacock was always at her best.

As he finished examining how the light was hung, he glanced around the house in general and saw Babbington looking back down at him. Mort nodded once to the spirit up in the balcony and watched as the the ghost slowly drifted away through a wall.

Mort went back behind the curtain and through the door to the backstage corridor. Now that all the police excitement had ended maybe he could finally get those crates stowed away proper.