TITLE: Postscript
FIRST PUBLISHED: May 2, 2012
SUMMARY: #3 in the 'Afterword' series. The Empty House, Holmes comes back from the dead. Holmes & Doyle. /NEXT STORY published separately as 'Codicil'/
oOo
A/N: I am not so sure about how this one turned out, especially the ending, but anyway, here's The Empty House, and Holmes saying "I told you so."
—
Arthur Conan Doyle stared at the piece of paper before him. He had been sitting here for hours, and it was still blank. Around the blank piece of papers were notes, scribbled and crossed out, added to and crossed out again.
The problem, of course, was Holmes. It always was.
He had decided to raise Holmes from the dead. But he needed a believable way to do it.
Well, at least no one had ever found the body. Still, he found himself wishing he'd used something else besides a waterfall to kill the Great Detective. The problem was, simply, that if Holmes fell, he would have died. That left only one thing. He didn't actually fall.
Very well, so he didn't actually fall.
Then what was he doing for three whole years when the world thought he was dead? (He was only going to be missing for three years—long enough to mean something, but not so long as to make things unduly complicated. It would be hard enough to explain what he'd been doing for three years.)
But this wasn't the real problem. No, the real problem was of an entirely different nature.
Finally, Doyle sighed. "Holmes."
Holmes appeared, looking no older than the day he died. He was smiling, a bit smugly. "So I am to be raised from the dead, then?" he asked, though he wasn't really looking for an answer.
"Yes." Doyle answered.
Holmes sat on a chair and began looking through his notes. "I told you," he said. "Right after you killed me, I told you you'd have to bring me back someday."
"Yes, Holmes, you win." Doyle sighed and stared out the window. "I need to figure out how you managed not to die."
"Ah. Well, just say that, when we fought, I pushed Moriarty off the cliff."
"Are you reading those notes, or only pretending to? I have that part done already. I just need to know why you didn't reveal the truth."
"I can never read your handwriting, you know that," Holmes said, putting the notes down.
Doyle almost asked why he always went through his notes then, but he didn't, because he suspected the answer. It was to annoy him.
Holmes got up and paced the room. "Moriarty wasn't the only one." He was frowning, lost in thought. "Some of his henchmen got away. They were dangerous, very dangerous. I had to take them out without them knowing I was alive."
"Yes." Doyle was writing now, ideas coming to him. "Of course, I know just how it happened—"
"I told Watson what I must do, of course. Everyone would believe I died if it came from the pen of my friend and biographer."
"No, no," Doyle interrupted. "It was a complete surprise to Watson."
"What do you mean?" Holmes turned.
"You were trying to protect him, so you didn't tell him you were alive."
"But I would never do that—"
"Look, it has to be that way. Our readers wouldn't want to think Watson couldn't be trusted, that the stories he told might be fabrications."
Holmes looked away angrily. "If you already know how you are going to do it, why bother to ask me?"
Doyle looked up in surprise at his bitter tone. "Holmes, you must understand—"
There was a long silence.
"I understand," Holmes said. He was looking out the window, and Doyle couldn't see his face. "I am sure you will write it very well."
"Thank you," Doyle said.
Holmes turned and looked at him with surprise. "Why are you thanking me?"
Doyle hesitated. "Because you …trust me."
"It is not like I have any choice, is there?" Holmes asked, but he was wearing a small smile.