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Holmes felt bad on one level to leave before Watson returned. He truly hoped his friend would feel better after his walk with dear Mrs. Hudson. He hadn’t wanted to go behind his friend’s back, but with such a fine resource as Mrs. Hudson at hand, he would have squandered a fine opportunity to do otherwise. And one thing he was not wont to do, was squander an opportunity.
Watson had blossomed in many ways since he had been with her. For that, Holmes was eternally grateful. At least one of them deserved a happy life, even if it was troubled at times by their field of work.
Himself, he was resolved to end up like his friend in India. Not celibate. He didn’t believe in that. But, of course, if you stayed purely platonic in a relationship, celibacy was the norm. That he couldn’t guarantee, but it seemed to be the pattern of his life to this point in time.
For the most part.
But he couldn’t dance back to those moments when his youthfulness had plunged heartily into a healthy and blossoming relationship. He shrugged the thoughts away, for they just brought grief. His relationships hadn’t ended well. Though they had ended, not by his hand, but by that of another.
He sighed, and then thought of India again. It was such a vast place and so much to explore. He still wanted to see if there was a path to Agharta, the place called Shamballa, where all the wise men of the world lived in peace and harmony.
He knew it must exist. He just wasn’t certain it was as perfect as described. Humanity had a tendency to make gods of men who were far less than and heaven of spots that were equally as remote from being heaven as a man an ape.
Still, perhaps, he would retire there and tend to flowers, or feed the poor. Maybe he would tour the world, searching for mystical points of interest. So many things to be done that needed being done and so little time to accomplish them in.
He wasn’t angry or dismayed at the prospect of leaving this world with his life unfulfilled in that way. He had done much good with it thus far, and if he were to be called by the Creator to leave tomorrow, he would not go sadly from this world, except in that he would miss his friends and loved ones here.
Still, it seemed, as is path stretched before him that he might retire to the grave, much as his father had.
He smiled.
He could think of worse things to accomplish.
His father had been a good teacher, statesman and leader of men. He was the one who sparked Holmes interest in forensics. As a matter of fact even though he would never, at the time at least, have admitted it, he was in many ways the father of forensics.
“Son, maybe I am, but you, my son, you will be the crowning glory of it. Now get back to your room and study your chemistry. College does not allow entrance of dull headed students. Not yet, anyhow.”
Holmes had given his father a blank look.
His father had ruffled Holmes bushy hair, and then laughed. “You’ll understand one day. Now...shoo!”
He had given Holmes a kiss on his forehead and ushered him back to study.
What his father didn’t know was that Holmes was not studying chemistry at the time. His father hadn’t realized yet that his son could memorize everything he saw with a brief glance. It was this ability and his father’s genetics for organization that had given Holmes a computer like brain, well in advance of the things that Jules and Wells spoke of so glowingly when they returned from their brief time journeys.
They had told him about a journey they made once with the old Holmes to a world much like this one, but more in t he future to visit with an author who would write about them some day. He had laughed at what they told. Imagine how confused Conan would be and perhaps a bit jealous to know that his creation had been taken further and modernized by a man not even British by birth, though perhaps a Londoner in his heart.
His friend Jules had explained, “Someday, Holmes, every man and woman shall have a computer they can carry in their pockets. They will have access to all the knowledge of the world.”
Holmes had given them a suspicious look.
Jules had laughed. “Holmes, it’s true. We’ve seen it.”
Holmes had shrugged it off at the time, but now as he was gaining in years, he had seen so many things in this world and others, that the idea of a pocket computer...whatever that ultimately was named...was not such a far off concept for him, though he felt the human mind would always be better than a mechanical one for interpreting facts and figures.
But who knows. Man is clever. Perhaps someday he shall become a creator like God and bring a new consciousness to life that would surpass him in time.
He had laughed one day after he learned of the devices, because he had read a new book by Edgar Rice Burroughs, wherein the author wrote in excruciating detail about a clocklike machine that you could pull the handle of, after you asked a question, and it would answer it...precisely.
Computer?
Perhaps. But amusing at the very least.
Ah!
He paused in his brisk walk. Time had fled before his footsteps and memories to bring him before the humble building that housed the London Times. He craned his neck to survey its length and breadth. It had grown quite a bit in the few years he had been on this world and as he spotted recent construction cranes at work, he realized their spurt of growth was not abating.
“Sherlock?”
He turned in surprise. He recognized the voice, if not the person.
A pudgy man with mutton chops that stuck out on his cheeks like a chipmunk’s jaws. It was a deep yellowish brown...almost blonde, but burned orangish from too much time out in the sun. The man’s skin was burnished a soft bronze color. It matched his eyes, which were also a soft bronze, but with dancing flames in them.
He always was the jolly sort.
“Victor?”
“Indeed, Sherlock.”
Victor rushed forward and gave Sherlock a huge hug, which lifted him off his feet. He set him down and hurriedly backed off. “So sorry, Sherlock, it’s been so long!”
Holmes smiled. Put his hand out.
Victor took it and pumped it as vigorously as he had squeezed with his bear hug.
He finally let go, his face a sunrise fresh in the morning, bursting with life and happy to nourish the world once more.
“How many years?”
“At least ten.”
“I’ve grown wider...and you’ve grown narrower.”
Holmes laughed. “I’d say of the two I’d prefer your wider. You’ve grown quite strong. Though as I remember it when we played March through Hell, you were quite capable of bowling me and the other chaps over before we could recover.”
“Fear of the dark can cause one to discover all manner of resources one didn’t realize one had, especially blind fear.”
“Indeed.”
They stood there in an amiable silence a moment.
“Sherlock...”
“My friends call me Holmes now.”
Victor didn’t know whether he had just been scolded or privy to new information.
Holmes smiled. “You’re my friend.”
Victor smiled. “Indeed. Have been and always will be. But tell me, what brings you here to watch the construction?”
“Actually, I was interested in the archives of the Times.”
“Ah.”
Victor got a sly look on his face. He leaned closer. “I know a quicker way than the front door.”
