murmur in his darling’s ear. ‘This won’t hurt, much.’
Every inch of Sherlock’s skin quivered at those words, hummed in his love’s baritone.
1929
‘Can’t say I understood a word he said. You must do, Doctor Watson, being a genius yourself?’ said Barbara Dalrymple.
‘Me? No.’ John Watson blushed and shooed away the compliment.
‘I say, do you know what would be rather splendid? If you came down to Dalrymple House. Daddy won’t mind at all.’
‘Well, I–’
‘Do you shoot? You can shoot all you like there. Must be the season for something or other. Whatever it is, there’ll be enough about.’
‘Yes. No, but–’
‘Roderick Montalbert Fitzlexington is throwing a frightful shindig tomorrow. You ought to come, Johnny – may I call you Johnny? – make sure I don’t get too blotto.’
John looked to Sherlock, his eyes sending distress signals.
Sherlock left Gregson and came to his darling’s aid, leaning in close. ‘All right, old chap?’
John clutched his arm.
‘Was telling old Johnny I didn’t understand a word you said, Mr Holmes. It’s quite the mystery.’
Sherlock placed his hand in the small of John’s back. ‘Shall I slow it down for you, Miss Dalrymple? You murdered your entire household, including the gardener, you’re quite mad, and Gregson over there will arrest you shortly.’
‘I say, you’re a grim sort of fellow, ain’t you? What do you say to that party, Johnny?’
John hooked his arm around Sherlock’s. ‘I’m happily spoken for, Babs.’
1348
PART 1
I did not know loneliness until there was no one left to hear my voice. I have nothing. No one. All I have are memories I would gladly give away, and a life I am not prepared to let go of.
Last Wednesday, that’s when little Wiggins died.
My entire village is gone. I should’ve died too, I should’ve joined my Mary and be done with it. Now I tramp my way, praying I am not alone in the world.
Another village looms dark and still in the evening light. I think to find a house to sleep in that is not someone’s tomb. There is not a movement to be seen, not a sound, but that’s when I see the faint glow of firelight from beneath a door.
That is where I find him, pale as the figure of death that sits at his head, waiting, alone. Dark bruises ring his eyes. He has no rash I can see, only the wicked buboes, one upon his fevered neck, the other in the crease of his thigh – that one burst and bleeding.
I sit beside him, laying my cool hand upon his heated brow, as I had done with so many others. At my touch the man gasps deep. I watch his chest deflate again and wait for his next breath.
1368
PART 2
Two pots of honey I collected this week. John will be pleased. And if Mrs Hudson fires her oven, as she said she would, I shall make us fresh loaves. Then I can wake John with a warm bit of bread covered in honey – his favourite thing.
He will blink his eyes open and smack his lips. Then he will roll onto his back, stretch himself and yawn the sort of yawn made by small woodland creatures, not grown men. After that he will blink his pretty eyes at me and smile a soft smile. The same smile I first saw when I awakened from the very nearly dead.
I will kiss him then, all quiet and soft in the morning because, though I could try, why would I resist?
Then I will break off a piece of honeyed bread and place it into my honey’s mouth. He will lick my sticky fingers clean because we shall not waste sweets and we will do this until all the bread is gone.
Then, as he always does, he will grumble his way to sitting, throw his arms around my neck and kiss my nose, my lips, and the scar where my bubo once was. And we will sit wrapped around each other in the morning light, counting the waves of our breaths.
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