Disclaimer: These characters were created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, and I make reference to some of the ideas and characterizations of the Granada television series.

Seasons of remembrance had grown dangerous.

Holmes was far from suspecting as much; the atmosphere in their sitting room on Christmas morning seemed suffused with the traditional comfort and joy. A scarlet dash of poinsettia colored Watson's writing desk, a warm fire crackled under the mantel, and the scent of Mrs. Hudson's baking filled the house. Small private gifts had already been exchanged, and the prospect of a lazy morning had rarely seemed so painless.

Holmes fingered a missive which had arrived the previous evening from his brother. Thinking it might be of professional interest, he had opened it at once, but it seemed the elder Holmes had simply fallen victim to the expectations of the season. Inside was a brief note and, of all things, his father's eyeglass. Gold-rimmed and immaculate, it caught the light as Holmes held it aloft with a reminiscent smile. Catching Watson's curious gaze, he held the heirloom out for his friend's inspection.

"My father's glass," he offered by way of explanation, and his friend's eyes lit up like a schoolboy's. Watson took the relic with an air of reverence that Holmes found quite amusing – it had spent most of its career in his father's service lost under sofa cushions. Years ago, upon finding chemical vials in the butterdish, Watson had expressed incredulity that such eccentricity could be adequately explained by absent-mindedness. Holmes had shrugged and said only, "I come by it honestly."

Tracing the lens' circumference with gentle fingers, Watson seemed enchanted. "How thoughtful of your brother to send such a fitting gift," he said. Holmes snorted skeptically, but Watson went on unperturbed. "I've often wished I had something so tangible to remind me of my father." With a smile, he handed the glass back to Holmes.

"You have that fine watch which I had the good fortune to examine, and the poor taste to analyze, so early in our acquaintance." Holmes dropped the comment in his usual offhanded manner, but the awkward silence which followed vaguely unsettled him.

"Not anymore," Watson said quietly. "I buried it with my son." Holmes' wiry, loose-limbed frame pulled taut. Watson never spoke of this, never.

"I wanted…to give him something that belonged to me, to our family." Watson's eyes were dry and wistful-warm in the firelight. He glanced at Holmes, oddly reticent. "I gave him something of yours, as well," he said, sounding for all the world as if he were confessing to a liberty. "Did you know?"

Holmes nodded carefully. It had been in the papers, along with the funeral notice. 'Stillborn infant, Henry Sherlock Watson, to be buried with his mother on Tuesday next.' Mycroft had sent him the relevant issue of the Times along with a brief message of characteristic practicality: "I shall attend the services."

Both note and news had reached him weeks late, of course. He had found them, filed under the name of Sigerson, in a dark, cramped telegraph office in Burma, and when the wizened clerk on duty had handed them through the grating, Mycroft's note had fluttered loose. Bending down to retrieve it, Holmes had scanned the message and lost the capacity to breathe. He could think of only one person whose death would prompt his brother to pay personal respects while sending notice halfway across the world. Doubled over on his knees, Holmes had torn through the newspaper, seizing on the obituaries but, for a few dizzy seconds, unable to read them. When the words came clear beneath his fingers, he traced the name "Watson, Mary, née Morstan," and leant back with a gasp of traitorous relief crushed instantly beneath a wave of anxious misery.

The poor clerk, alarmed by his histrionics, had scuttled around to kneel beside him on the dirty floor. His alarmed inquiries passed unheard – Holmes was deep in his own black thoughts – until a sudden resolution snapped grey eyes back into focus. "I need to send a telegram immediately," Holmes said, recovering himself with unsettling speed. "To Mr. Mycroft Holmes, in London."

The telegraph ran:

"I'll not see him ruined. Must I return?"

His brother's reply seemed an implicit reproach against such dramatics:

"Judge for yourself."

A small card accompanied the telegram, addressed to Mr. Mycroft Holmes in a familiar hand. Sherlock seized on it with unaccustomed trepidation.

Dear Mr. Holmes,

Your kindness yesterday went neither unnoticed nor unfelt. I'm sorry I could not say so myself at the time. I know that you came in your brother's stead, and your presence gave me great comfort. It reminded me that, although my friend and my dear wife have left me, they have not left me alone. I hope I shall be ever ready to honor their memory in my turn, through service to those causes and those persons they held dear. If ever you find yourself in want of anything it is in my power to provide, you need only ask.

With gratitude,

John Watson

The script was quite unlike his familiar sprawling style, with its confident peaks and idiosyncratic flourishes. Yet neither was it trembling, broken-backed, or wandering. Instead, it was picture-perfect in formality, not a splotch of ink or a breath of character – it spoke of nothing but strength and duty.

The man would not despair. Not ever.

So Holmes had not gone back.