It was with surprise he discovered the cases that fell upon him were not the usual thievery and abuse. The stack he had at his elbow consisted of intensely personal assaults and maiming that held little to no motive behind them, peppered with politically motivated harm. The riots had resulted in significant injuries, but he was loathe to bring any but the most obvious instigators to justice. He wondered if London had gone mad in his absence. More likely he wasn't used to this level of violence and destitution having spent so many months in the relative peacefulness of Kyoto's population. Every custom seemed geared towards keeping a person calm and focused. He could see why it appealed to Lestrade, though in practice Mycroft was admittedly better at it.
Japan wasn't all pleasant tea ceremonies and cheap silk, however, and he was still perturbed by Lestrade's connection to Saito and the unspoken history that lay between them, a secret that was heavily guarded. The few words he managed to understand in Japanese did nothing to enlighten him. 'Lover'. 'Warrior'. 'Prisoner'.
A laughing geisha once offered him opium and Lestrade smacked the substance out of her hand and he near tore the very walls of a noodle house down with his shouting.
Along with his usual folders was a thick stack of letters waiting his attention. Mycroft supposed it was purely through the luck of having so much correspondence that it was lost amid the manila folders and colourful air mail and thus didn't arouse Mrs. Hudson's suspicion. Though, truthfully, Mrs. Hudson didn't care much about what he or Lestrade got up to as she herself had plenty of work to do. She was busy working on her pilot's license, a feat that took her away from Baker Street from Wednesday through Friday night as she goggled up and hopped into the motor car with Wilhelm to Yorkshire and back, a long trip that took several hours on its own. She was now skilled enough to start a solo flight and had already performed her test flight perfectly. Mycroft had no opinion on her bravery. Though he was fascinated with modern gadgetry, he found he had a limit and flying was one. He'd only just got used to driving in cars.
With this stack of letters in his grip and Irene Adler's correspondence discreetly tucked beneath several dry reports from mutual judges on the schedule of the Assizes, he propped himself up with pillows and began sorting, placing Irene Adler's letter on the top. He kept his ear tuned to the murmurings downstairs where Lestrade was busy in the lower floor of the house, in the kitchen, preparing himself a cup of tea. Mrs. Hudson was too busy for such hospitality. He checked the postmark on the wrinkled, beige paper. He was not the only one who had visited Asian shores, it seemed, for the corner was stamped Delhi, India and had been sent to him a good two weeks ago.
There was no return address, of course. Just the name of a business. 'Pawan's Umbrellas and Glass'.
Irene Adler's version of a joke.
He snatched up his letter opener and slid it open, the pale yellow paper spilling out of it into his shaking hands. He'd sent a letter to her from Kyoto, written on delicate rice paper, and he was eager to see what her thoughts were on the company of geishas and if he had in fact inadvertently run into any criminal elements while there. London rogues were one thing, but Japan held its darker side held closer to its chest.
November 29, 1913:
Mon Chere!
I have just come to Delhi from Calcutta. What a strange and busy place this is, where cows walk the streets like dogs and every idle conversation is riddled with blessings. I would say it is poetic, but this talk is a kind of currency here, offered freely but only as a measure of spiritual superiority. There is a strange divide among people, who will not speak to a beggar but will employ him, each type of employment an escalating scale of respect until one reaches its zenith--A holy man who owns nothing.
It is exactly the same as the English class system. Everyone's value pitted against the other until you reach a priest. It is no wonder your Queen Victoria loved India so very much, n'est ce pas?
Mon Dieu, the food here is so flavourful and full of so many spices, I am spoiled for choice. They eat vegetables only and the cows are just for show, sacred and making a nuisance of themselves in the markets, paying their way in milk. People live very close to the earth here, but without the same damp desperation in Europe. But then, I have only been in the big cities, which squat upon the horizon like the skin of a fat god. It is a dizzying, loud and dirty place, and it is easy for a person such as I to be lost within it. I move very freely here, even as a woman alone. They have great reverence for Europe. My bold confidence rattles them, I think.
Of course, I have had some unwanted attention and have dealt with it in the usual manner, but I am cautious, always, do not worry mon chere.
I have received your letter. Quelle horreur! That boat ride sounds awful! And so long, mon dieu, take the train next time, it is tres magnifique and the only way to truly see the orient! I have not gone so far as that island you visited, but I have spent some time in China and find that place so different from my life experience it is the only terra that makes me dizzy with confusion. Alors, enough about me! I see you have not yet unravelled the mystery of your beloved Inspecteur...Really, I don't see the point any more of this long kept secret, for surely it can hurt no one after all these years in between? But your Inspecteur is a stubborn man and I suspect he is of a type who will take his secrets to the grave with him. I would not fret, my dear friend. He loves you, this is true, and if he has un momento of his past amis in the form of that sword, why do you fret so over it?
I will not be returning to England until the spring of next year, and I fear I shall be so well travelled by then my skin will have the rough texture of sand. Perhaps I should be washed in the Ganges to be purified? Mais non. They put more bodies in that river than the Thames has on a Sunday. You can smell nothing but sewage, flowers and death all baking under a relentless sun.
Do exercise caution in your daily work, and I say this as someone who cares for you so deeply that you are a part of my soul: Do not offer an opinion presently of war. I have heard stirrings of fierce ennui and rumblings of greed, the two things that court kings to move their pieces on the board. The world is changing and the tension within it is at a tightrope, ready to snap and break all of those balanced so carefully upon it. As a judge, you are one of those who will be forced to tip one way or another.
Keep your head. Steady and straight. A strong, unbroken neck.
Give your Inspecteur a kiss from me. Make it a sloppy one.
Forever yours,
IA
He felt the threat as keenly as she did. War tingled on the tongues of the rich. He'd overheard more than one conversation about how it would be good for the country, to toughen up the laymen and stop all this union nonsense. Mycroft did not agree. War meant death. War meant the dissolution of justice.
But he couldn't contemplate this train of thought for long for 221B was suddenly full of loud, boisterous voices that in the early morning hour carried a hale wakefulness that he shunned. He could hear Mrs. Hudson's low tones droning over the excited exuberance of Dr. Watson, who must have snuck in through the back door as Mycroft would have heard the bell should he have entered through the front. He could hear the clatter of tea cups. Groaning, he tossed off his warm covers and shivered into the morning, his routine hurried in an effort to stave off the usual winter chill.
He dressed with care, his suit tailored and pressed, his old fashioned cravat exchanged for a silk tie at his slender throat, his waistcoat adding a layer of warmth beneath his wool suit jacket that added some needed girth to his too thin frame. His dark hair needed a trim, and it hung loose and wild around his face, only slightly tamed with a comb. There were dark circles under his eyes that held a permanent hooded expression, sharp cheekbones giving him a hawklike appearance. The lack of sleep for the last two days and the perpetual travelling gave him a gaunt, miserable aura, as though he were a ghost passing through gauze. He shaved and did his best to wash his skin in cold water to give it a more robust appearance but only succeeded in making himself look feverish.
He grabbed his cane from its place propped on a chair where his files were piled, waiting for his attention, and he left the bedroom to head into the hallway and then down into the kitchen where heat from the coals as well as warmth from good natured conversation enveloped him, giving him a cozy sense of security. Irene Adler's letter was tucked inside a specially tailored inside pocket in the liner of his waistcoat, her words too close to his heart and offering a slight chill against his otherwise contented heart.
"Dr. Watson, it is very good to see..."
Mycroft stumbled over his words and his cane. He staggered to a chair at the table and sank into it, trying to understand the sight before him.
Was this Dr. Watson?
No, it was impossible!
Lestrade gave Mycroft a likewise incredulous look, as shocked as he was, though in a far better humour about it. Dear God, had the man been sick? The kitchen, usually a cramped space with the good doctor within it, was now a large open area, devoid of the usual sweat and scraping of chairs and tables to make room for their...formerly...rotund friend.
"It has been quite some time since we've seen each other face to face," Dr. Watson stated, taking in their shocked expressions. "My time in the Naturopathic University in Toronto was not wasted, and in fact opened my mind and body to the concept of an intense connection between the two. Hence, my purchase of Holmes Manor to explore this. I promise you, The Wellness Center will be a true transformation by early summer. I already have the place fully booked."
Mycroft sat at the kitchen table with the aid of his cane, while Lestrade continued to stand behind him, his hands resting lightly on Mycroft's shoulders.
Before Mycroft could remark on it, Dr. Watson immediately explained his appearance. "I do forget that though we have been in correspondence it has been some time since I have seen both of you in the flesh. Over a year, is it not? Though I admit the transformation has been profound, I was not prepared for your look of abject horror." Dr. Watson chuckled as he took a sip of his tea, taken black with a sliver of lemon floating on its surface. "I have been well and truly schooled, my good fellows, for though I was a medical professional deeply entrenched in the workings of the mind, I wholly neglected the daily regulation of my body. When I arrived in Toronto I left my professors aghast at the state I was in, so much that they begged to make me a study of before and after. I promised them I would not object. I sit here as absolute proof that their methodology works."
He smiled at them as he once again lifted his cup of tea. Mrs. Hudson offered him a biscuit and he politely declined.
Mycroft was still reeling. "But, the transformation! Please, forgive me my dear friend, but I wonder as I am sitting here across from you, where has the remainder of you wandered off to?"
"You've lost a lot of your bulk," Lestrade added, sitting down at the table in a chair beside Mycroft.
Dr. Watson laughed. "Bulk? More like the equivalent of a horse! A good ten stone, I feel like a feather when I walk now!"
"Good Heavens!" Mycroft exclaimed.
"Yes, an entire adult man's worth, and I am glad to be rid of the hanger on. My skeleton could barely hold him up, my knees were cracking, my gait affected, my heart...That was broken for certain. But through the aid of my gained knowledge and the expertise of those within the Naturopathic University, I exorcised him fully.
The plan was not without its difficulties. I fasted for a long period of time, months in fact, living solely on juices and other liquids, allowing my other self to be slowly absorbed into my body as his energy was used up. In between this I took on a regimen of vigorous exercise, increasing its routine and difficulty as time went on. I abstained from eating meat and now avoid all cheese and animal fats and thrive on a diet of steamed vegetables and fresh fish, prepared on a griddle with the use of olive oil. I do not deny myself that most Scottish of pleasures, that being a healthy bowl of oatmeal for breakfast, but I do not add milk nor sugar to it and enjoy it as it is in its pure form.
I have never felt so infused with energy and life, not even as a young man, and I daresay I feel as though my body and mind have melded into a younger resurgence of myself."
"I would never have recognized you," Mycroft admitted. "You no longer have that choleric disposition, your skin is smooth and clear and your eyes are no longer rheumy. I do believe you have extended your life in some great way with this method, for even as you sit before me I see a young man and not an old one, as your age dictates you should be."
"It's a bloody odd kind of witchery," Lestrade added.
Mrs. Hudson had been quiet up until this point but she took great offense to Lestrade's quip. "There's no superstition hovering about any of it. The man overindulged like a spoiled toddler and his body paid the price for that excess. I kept telling you for years, Doctor, that you had to stop stuffing yourself with sugary treats and taking full meals at every house. But you had to travel full across the world to have a roomful of seed eaters to tell you instead. Moderation, Dr. Watson. It has always been paramount to good health!"
Though every word she spoke was true, Dr. Watson was already about to argue the point, only to get a very wise warning glare from Lestrade that this is not how any of them wanted to spend their morning. Mrs. Hudson, as an experienced nurse, was not to be trifled with when her expertise was questioned, and nor should it be. She was instrumental in keeping Mycroft's lungs in good health over the years, despite the onslaught of poison he was forced to breath in via the gas fumes from the Thames every day.
It was also Mrs. Hudson who cleaned the air between them of animosity, perhaps already understanding that for all his open mindedness, there was still that nagging remainder of chauvinism that prevented Dr. Watson from fully hearing women when they spoke. "No point dithering on the matter. Facts are you are looking splendid, Dr. Watson, and I'm happy their instructions were clear enough for you. It's rather nice being able to move about in this kitchen so freely, though I will say I am of a mind to transfer its location to the main floor, perhaps even get the top three levels fully renovated into stand alone alone apartments. That's the style in New York, I've heard, and these apartments are like manors themselves, solid unpartitioned living spaces for tenants without the bother of servitude."
Lestrade did not like this idea one bit. "I can't see the point of that, it's only Mycroft and I and we are fond of the company we keep, inclusive of you, Mrs. Hudson. I'm dumbstruck as to why you would want to change things, especially now as we just step into the door from a long trip across the world and here you are pushing an agenda to isolate us away from you."
"There's no agenda it's practicality." Mrs. Hudson poured herself a cup of tea and dragged a chair over to the small table to join them. "Your absence sealed my resolve. I was keenly aware of how free my schedule became when I didn't have to cook and tidy or ensure the larder was stocked for when you either of you want a nibble. You are perfectly capable, self sufficient men and don't need a nanny, as I sometimes feel I am. Besides, the renovation would include two entire upper floors which I could let out and secure a solid income for my older years, which are creeping closer by the minute. Why should I rent rooms when I can rent a full apartment and house independent people who can take care of their own needs and leave me free to do my business? Inspector Lestrade you'd do well to stop that pouting, the world is changing at an alarming rate and your reluctance to chase after it is becoming tiresome. Remember the fit he had over that motor car? And for what? You can't live without it now." She paused over her tea and regarded both Mycroft and Lestrade as though just realizing they were seated before her, in the flesh instead of in theory in an onionskin letter. "Where is the car? I haven't seen Wilhelm since I got back from the airstrip in Yorkshire. He didn't have an accident did he?"
Mrs. Hudson was too busy to read the newspapers, it seemed, for she regarded their confusion with bland expectation. Surprisingly, Dr. Watson shared in the experience and placed his now empty teacup in front of him, the slice of lemon a limp beige leftover. "I daresay...You aren't involved in that mishap involving that unfortunate boy are you?"
"We are not only involved we are part of the crime scene," Lestrade clarified. "His body was found amongst our luggage. Constables have gone over the boot for further evidence but my plan for the day is to finely detail it myself. I'm meeting with Inspector Harding, at 11:00."
Dr. Watson shook his head. "I should think having been to the orient you would have come home with a better understanding of the arrangement of your environment. I hate to tell you this, but the position of that umbrella stand at the base of the stairs has invited in all manner of universal ill."
He tutted, and poured himself a fresh cup of tea.
Was obtuse confusion to be the order of the day? Annoyed, Mycroft pushed a sugary biscuit towards him. To his consternation, Dr. Watson didn't take it.
"We aren't in the habit of harbouring murdered bodies here," Mrs. Hudson reminded him. "And it's an umbrella stand, not a weapon."
Dr. Watson sat back in his chair in a familiar, haughty stance, one that was significantly less imposing now that he was missing so much of his girth. "When I was in Toronto I had the opportunity to meet a fascinating man from Hong Kong, a Buddhist monk who had travelled to that cold city as a visiting lecturer on international religions. A truly eye-opening course, and one which cemented many of my own theories that our overtly Judaic view of the world at times does us more harm than good..."
"You'll be hung for blasphemy," Mrs. Hudson observed.
"Yes, my good woman, I believe you are right, for that triad of spirit has a fierce hold upon the masses who will forever extoll the superiority of their beliefs. But Buddhists purport to entertain more philosophy than rote religion and indeed consider the teachings of that Galilean in keeping with their own and have no opinion on his worship while entertaining their concepts. The same cannot be said for the former, however, so I will do as you instruct Mrs. Hudson and try to keep my agnostic viewpoint muted in mixed company."
"I have no quibble with your views. I'm more concerned that you can't seem to find your point." Lestrade folded his arms in frustration. "I half wonder if that's why your last book didn't sell as well as the others. You blather on so. I think you need a better editor."
"You are the epitome of patience as ever," Dr. Watson observed with amusement. "The Buddhist monk, such a pleasant, cheerful fellow, introduced me to a practice called Feng Shui, which is the arrangement of one's environment in one's home. It can cause some odd juxtapositions, such as placing a bed facing a window to encourage natural light, and ensuring all pathways in the home are completely clear so as to create a sense of flow where energy will not become stilted. One point, as an example, is to never have a mirror in the entranceway as this bounces the energy going into the home back outside. All surfaces must be clear of clutter and cleaned regularly for optimal concentration and positive energy. The result is a home that is spare but functional in a most elegant manner. I have hired him on as a consultant at the Wellness Emporium and hope to retain him as a full practitioner within it."
Lestrade was still lost. "What has this got to do with finding a dead child amongst our luggage?"
"Elementary, Lestrade. You have bad feng shui. You live in a state of perpetual clutter and may have well brought some item back with you from the orient that has tainted your space, much in the manner of a curse. It drew tragedy to you like a magnet. I suggest you go through your cases and boxes very carefully and discard any item that suggests bad feeling upon your roost."
"Oh poppycock!" Mrs. Hudson rolled her eyes. "Fing shoo, my arse. I could care less what your man says, I'm renovating this house whether any of you like it or not."
"This is the point, woman! The suggestions you have brought up are exactly in line with its practice. The delineation of space between what is yours and what is your tenant's is a classic example of it in action."
"I never thought you to be a Buddhist, Mrs. Hudson," Lestrade said and bit his tongue when she glared at him.
"Fing Shoo woo-hoo, seems too complicated for me. I'm more in line with my Indian students. Jeera, one our nurses, has been teaching me yoga. She can wrap her both her legs around the back of her head and tie her ankles together in a knot."
"Fascinating," Dr. Watson was wide-eyed. "Do you think she'd like to move near Bath, to work at my Wellness Emporium? I could do an entire wing dedicated to Eastern medicine."
"That poor child," Mrs. Hudson said, shaking her head and ignoring Dr. Watson's plea. "I read about it in the paper this morning and had no clue it was so close to home. Twelve years old, the article said. No matter what belief you cling to, you can be sure there are devils in this world, and a bumper crop of the worst ones are here in London. Do you have any idea who did it?"
"One need not look too far," Dr. Watson interjected. "Most cases it is a parent who commits such a grisly act."
"We didn't get that impression," Mycroft said. "His mother was devastated, his uncle as well. He was supposed to go and live with the childless uncle and aunt in the country and he was looking forward to the new arrangement. It's not often you find a city lad eager to work on a farm."
"Interesting. Did Dr. Ziegler find any evidence of disease?"
"None," Lestrade said. "I'm not sure why that's relevant."
"No one would want a sickly child on a farm. If you are stuck for a motive perhaps poor health had something to do with it. A healthy twelve year old boy willing to do the labour that will result in an inheritance is not a likely candidate for a homicide. He must have been an eager lad in personality, for his uncle to wish to take him in."
"Exceptionally so," Lestrade said.
"The boy was in good health," Mycroft added. "Though the father is prone to taking the poppy and we've been searching for his supplier. There's none of them left in the Limehouse district so he's got to have an associate giving it to him. There was a ghastly letter written to the family late yesterday afternoon, but Lestrade believes it to be a warning from an opportunistic drug dealer seeking payment. The father has a good job, apparently at a bank no less, but no man tethered to the poppy is free of debts."
"Could the act have been committed by one of these dreadful miscreants?"
"From what Inspector Harding gathered in his interviews overnight, the answer is no. He scoured his underworld connections, and met one who had supplied Jim Balfour with morphine. Contrary to what we assumed, on the surface the man is a very responsible addict. He pays on time, and is not belligerent in his actions when under its influence, and mostly falls into a deep stupor and then an uninterruptible sleep. In fact, the supplier Harding met was worried about the man, and had even encouraged him to hold off on taking it as he risked overdosing. Jim Balfour actually agreed. He has been only a very occasional customer since."
"I should not be too keen to believe in that lot's sense of kindness," Mrs. Hudson cautioned. "A dead customer is not a repeat one."
Mycroft agreed. "It's possible he has moved on to other, cheaper stimulants. Harding will have to dig deeper."
The basement kitchen was cozier than when they'd left it months ago, Mycroft realized, the cupboards painted a bright white and the wood fire surrounded by new white brickwork, the small crescent shape giving off a gentle but not obtrusive heat. The biggest change was the new heavily enameled Clark Jewel gas stove, coated in a light bluish grey enamel that gave the once austere space a modern feeling of cleanliness and space. Mrs. Hudson had clearly started on her designs already and he couldn't help but feel the pang of anxiety over never gathering together at this cramped table like a collective family. If they were given their own kitchen, in a newly fashioned apartment, they would have to ask permission to come here.
He did not like that prospect at all.
The door leading into the back garden swung open and the tall, stooping figure of Jack crept into the low ceilinged space, the top of his head brushing against the whitewashed plaster. Mrs. Hudson gave him a warm hug and without asking put the kettle on for more tea and began preparing him a large breakfast of scrambled eggs, thick slabs of toast and jars of jams and fat sausages sizzling in a cast iron pan she used solely for that purpose.
"I already ate at the hospital..."Jack protested.
"As if that's food. I know the cook who works there, she's friends with the rats that wander around that kitchen like they pay rent. Sit down, I know you've been busy in the surgery these past few days, they take advantage of you new recruits. Hours upon hours with a patient splayed open and poor lighting besides, it's a wonder you find a pimple let alone cancer under those dim bulbs. Couldn't they wait for a sunnier day? Can't be helped, I suppose. An emergency happens at all hours, you do what you can."
A thick white ceramic plate was plonked in front of Jack, his meal heaped upon it. He stared at the mouthwatering, generous offering and, knowing it was better to simply eat than argue, picked up his fork and took a bite of the tender meat. He nodded his head in approval at Mrs. Hudson, who gave him a clipped nod in response. Of course she knew her food was prepared perfectly. There is no room for complaint.
"Is it possible I could have a fried egg?" Lestrade asked.
She pulled the plate of biscuits away from Dr. Watson and shoved it in front of Lestrade. "Eggs are in the larder. There's a pan behind you."
"You feed Jack but starve us?"
"He hasn't had a thing to eat since yesterday morning..."
"Actually, I had a sandwich at the hospital..."
"...And he's been working to the bone, look at him, all sinews and hunched over. Sit up straight, Jack, you'll wreck your back with that terrible posture. Here, there's some tomato chutney. Have that with the eggs, it's lovely."
Jack had another forkful of sausage ready to shove into his mouth when Lestrade leaned forward and said: "Here, now, I want a word with you about that hussy of yours. I'm bloody livid that she posted that letter without consulting all of us first. The bloody cheek of it! She's hindering the investigation with that stunt, for if it was the murderer who wrote it, it's evidence and we need in our possession immediately!"
Jack thoughtfully chewed his sausage before replying, his eyes concentrating on the biscuits in front of him and, despite his protests earlier, he grabbed one and broke it in half, lathering it thick with butter. "You don't need to worry about that. The letter was fake."
"I already came to that conclusion," Lestrade said. "The question is, who was foul enough to write it? Inspector Harding has already interviewed the drug connections who supplied Jim Balfour his opium. Not a one of them would own up to it, nor seemed literate enough to attempt it."
Jack took another large bite and spoke around it. "I know the letter was fake because I was with the person who wrote it and watched them type it up."
Lestrade's eyes widened. "It wasn't..."
"Emily. Yes, it was. She wanted another full page spread, a deeper expose into the life of young James Balfour and the theories and details surrounding his death. Her editor said no, so she concocted a fake letter to inspire more interest." He swallowed with difficulty, and paused to take a sip of tea before continuing. "Seems to have worked. She's getting her full page tomorrow morning."
"She can't just lie!" Lestrade exclaimed.
Jack shrugged. "It's a common practice. Exaggerations and fibs sell newspapers and there have been far worse reporters out there. There's always a spin on every story, and the truth is rarely what comes out. Is there any sugar? I always like two lumps in my tea."
"Do you hear this, Dr. Watson?" Lestrade addressed him, his face choleric at the thought of how he'd been manipulated. "It seems you've been writing biographies all these years after all! I suppose my day has been made easier then, though I wasted Harding's time chasing illiterate drug merchants. The next time you see her you tell her to come to the Yard and spin a yarn to my face and I'll give her the lecture of her life on obstructing an investigation!"
Jack dabbed at the corner of his mouth with an ironed cloth napkin that smelled of cloves. "I'm afraid I won't be able to as I won't be seeing her again."
Lestrade frowned. "What do you mean?"
"I mean what I just said, Emily and I are no longer dating."
"Oh." Mycroft tapped the side of his teacup and looked to Lestrade for some helpful support in what to say. The man was stubbornly silent.
"This is an unfortunate side effect of women with ambition," Dr. Watson offered. "For certainly you are a well established English gentleman who possesses the added respect of being a medical professional and thus, also a member of the academia. From her actions she has proven she has no ethics in regards to her journalistic pursuits and you are wise to break off the engagement."
"We were never engaged," Jack clarified. "And frankly, she is only doing what others of her ilk are all up to, and it would be strange if she didn't. No, I have to make a very dire confession and I don't think anyone here will be happy to hear it." Jack braced his hands on the oak table before him, refusing to meet the eye of anyone as they stared at him, poised to hear every word.
Mrs. Hudson sat down across from him and took his hand in hers.
"I was not faithful, and she discovered it."
Mrs. Hudson withdrew her hands. "What's that?"
"I cheated on Emily. The break up is entirely my doing and I have hurt her dearly. But I'm not going to attempt to get her trust back or insist upon our engagement. Her father has already contacted me wanting a meeting to resolve the matter and frankly, I don't want to."
"I didn't think I'd raised you to be a heartbreaker," Mycroft admonished him.
Lestrade made a show of being empathetic, though his relief was obvious. "I think the better question, my dear Mycroft, is who has stolen our Jack away so profoundly that he gave up a modern woman full of herself and her independence. Really, is it such a shock to think on it? He's a professional and as such needs a quieter, more organized home life than the one that rag typer could procure. Who is it, then, Jack? Some pretty little nurse? Lord knows there's plenty to choose from thanks to Mrs. Hudson and chances are they are already burned out and longing to keep house and continue the family name."
"It's Ingrid."
Lestrade fumbled over his tea, nearly spilling it.
"You can't!" he exclaimed. "After everything that happened in Toronto!"
"This won't work, Jack," Mycroft insisted. "The woman is overly driven and after the heartless way she treated you when you returned to London I don't understand how your relationship in any capacity could recover."
The unspoken rift that they all harboured hung in the small space like a vibrating wire, with no one knowing what side to take or exactly what position they were supposed to remain on. Mycroft had been angry with Ingrid, but he'd also forgiven her and the trip to Japan had put some much needed distance between all of them as the destruction of the relationship between Jack and Ingrid came to its unhappy conclusion. There were tears and accusations, long letters expanding upon the themes of independence and learning the ways of the human heart. These were mostly via Mycroft's urging, of course, as Lestrade kept himself mostly out of it, unwilling to broach the merest surface of their rift. In Lestrade's mind, a broken heart could be mended but would retain scars and Ingrid had scarred his son. He did not forgive so easily.
And now Jack was opening that dreaded vault again, as though seeking to have his heart offered up to some unknown demi-god as a brunch offering.
Mycroft chose his words very carefully. "I am not so sure this is a wise decision."
"She tore you apart and she'll do it again," Lestrade bluntly added.
Jack would not be daunted by the worry of all those within the small kitchen. "I understand how you all feel, but you must remember, this is my life..."
"A life of intense promise in your chosen career," Mrs. Hudson added. "Ingrid came very close to ripping you from it with her shenanigans."
"I do appreciate the worry you all have for me, but we are not the same people we were a year ago." Jack pushed his half empty plate away and sighed over his napkin. "It doesn't matter what the facts are. Ingrid and I are in love. I have asked her to marry me and she has agreed."
"You can't!" Lestrade exclaimed.
"We have a long term goal in mind, we wish to start a family and we are set to begin a successful life together." Jack wiped at the corner of his mouth and took up his mug of tea, taking a deep swig of it as if it were a cold pint. "Come the summer we will be starting a mutual practice in the village, in a building not far from Holmes Manor--I mean, the Wellness Emporium."
"This is madness," Mycroft insisted. "Jack, you really must rethink this, Ingrid is very entrenched in her work at St. Bart's and I fear she will leave you again, holding onto a dream without her support. She can't have changed so much to afford this perspective..."
"The villagers won't accept her," Mrs. Hudson tersely added. She'd pushed her chair slightly away from the table as though distancing herself from the problem in a physical way. "They'll colour you in the same brush and there won't be a one who will visit your practise."
"On the contrary," Jack said, brow raised. "I was in correspondence with Mrs. Littlebaum and she is very confident that a female doctor will do the town wonders. Their regional doctor has retired and they are in need of specialists, which Ingrid is. The population is growing and the Wellness Emporium is already a bit of a tourist draw along with the adjoining medicinal promises of Bath. We will be very busy."
Lestrade stood up and stormed out of the kitchen, shouting as he left. "As am I! Destroy your life on your own time. I have a murder to solve!"