Title: The Power of Kings

Authoress: MidnightRosePrincess

Summary: Holmes had said that Watson had "unexplored possibilities." He did not, however, realize that the doctor was part of the mysterious underground organization known as the Order of Geass, led by a mysterious woman known as C.C..

Genre: Mystery/Adventure/Crossover (btw Sherlock Holmes/Code Geass),

Midnight's Note: Hello, all. One of my proofreaders said that beacause of the length of Watson's letter (which you will, in a few moments, read), either he wrote fast or had more than 7 minutes. But as I explained to her, Watson has been prepared for something like this happening. I'm sure he would have done a few drafts before and knew what he wanted to say in its entirety. So, that explains how he knew exactly what to write in so little time. Also, as for the gap between this second chapter, I was busy with research on the Afghan war Watson took part in and also dealing with AP exams and graduation. But I'm back (with two more stories on the way and hopefully updates for my old ones if I can get my muse back).

Warning: I welcome reviews, especially those with constructive criticism (if said criticism is given in a polite tone, for if you merely complain but offer no solution, I will take it as a flame and pay you no mind). Obviously, flames are prohibited. But, if some do manage to come my way, I will just use them to warm me up some hot chocolate to drink as I start the next chapter. ^_^

Chapter Two

"A Missing Boswell"

A week later found Sherlock Holmes pacing in the sitting room of Baker Street, smoking his pipe as he tried to run through his thoughts logically. The case presented to him by Lestrade had been most disappointing, as it was actually not quite complicated at all. The reason as to why the young lawyer was in West End was to try to help an old friend who had fallen on hard times and been demoted to East End for a living. However, his said friend had turned to thievery and was expecting someone would come to steal it back. It had been night, and when his friend called, he'd shot a pistol without thinking. A cruel twist of fate. Due to the circumstances and the man's obvious guilt and regret, the courts and Lestrade had, once he'd been tracked down by Holmes himself, seen fit to give him penal service for a set of months. All in all it had not been so challenging a case.

However, Holmes was troubled by a deeper problem. His faithful biographer and friend, Watson, had not returned as expected. A week had been the time given by the doctor himself, but he was a day late. Holmes knew his friend to be of usually the utmost punctuality and was thus instantly on edge and, dare he admit it, concerned. Maybe it was nothing, but Holmes' instincts told him to not be sure of that.

There was a knock at his door.

"Come in, Mrs. Hudson," he said, recognizing the soft rap he associated with his long-suffering landlady.

"Mr. Holmes, pardon if I'm interrupting your thoughts, but I have a task from the good doctor to see through," she said, coming over to him. He noticed that she looked as if she was prepared for the Doctor's absence. She also had a folded paper in her hand, which he instantly recognized as one Watson used for his usual manuscripts of their cases.

"What task may that be, Mrs. Hudson?" Holmes asked, putting the pipe out and setting it on the mantlepiece.

The kind lady placed in his hands the letter which she'd brought in. "He asked me to give that to you should he not arrive back on time."

Holmes held the letter in his hands. "Did he say anything else before he left?" he asked.

"Just that I should make sure you eat the supper I'd prepared so you could work in top form," Mrs. Hudson said, a smile on her face.

Holmes nodded. "Thank you, Mrs. Hudson."

Seeing the dismissal as a wish to read the letter in private, the landlady took her leave of the sitting room to leave Holmes alone. No sooner had she shut the door behind her, Holmes was sitting on the settee, opening the letter in a careful haste, so as to not tear it. On the paper was Watson's handwriting, though he noted instantly that by the small grooves in the letters that Watson had written it with a shaking hand, not from his old war wounds, but from emotion.

My dear Holmes,

I had hoped that I would never have to write you this letter. If this was indeed how you felt at Reichenbach, then I can only praise the control you have over your person.

I know I have said that our friendship should call for no secrecy between us, and yet it is here I admit myself as a hypocrite. I have kept a secret from not only you, but everyone I know, for years.

If you go up to my room, there is a loose floorboard under my bed. Inside the small space it hides, there is a journal of mine, within it the letter you saw me recieve at the very back. I must ask you to read the entire journal first, and then the letter.

My dear fellow, I leave these to you so you may know the secret of which I have hid these many years. The last request I ask of you Holmes, is that you do not try to locate me. Indeed, if I am not back in Baker Street yet, there may be the chance I am no longer anywhere to locate.

Regardless, my absence will bring pain to those I know, and most certainly, dear Holmes, to you. However, if there is anything that lies unspoken between us, read my writings on our cases. Behind the logic and the mysteries, everything I would want to say to you is there, immortalized on paper.

I apologize for my deception but do not doubt that I am, Holmes, very sincerely yours. -Dr. John H. Watson.

By the end of the third paragraph, Holmes was already up the stairs and entering Watson's room. He had paused in his reading of the letter to nearly flip the bed over in his haste to move it, and after passing his fingers over the floorboards, found the one Watson spoke of. Removing it, he indeed saw and retrieved the journal and letter described to him. Placing himself cross-legged on the floor, it was then he resumed the letter Watson had left him.

By the end, Holmes could have cursed his instincts for once again ringing true to the situation. He was now deeply troubled, and Holmes, ever described as an automaton by Watson himself, felt an emotion course through his whole being. He could not precisely name it, but it was certainly the most negative he had ever felt. 'If this was how you felt reading my letter at Reichenbach, Watson, then I can say the same to you,' Holmes thought as he stared at the letter.

Many sentences struck out at him from its contents.

I have kept a secret from not only you, but everyone I know, for years.

This intrigued Holmes. His friend did not make a good liar; he is much too true to his morals and too faithful to those important to him. Holmes himself could usually read Watson like an open book and was easily able to distinguish when he was not telling the whole truth or holding something back. For Watson to have successfully withheld a secret from even himself, then it must be very grave indeed.

He recalled the last night he'd seen Watson, and the only thing off about him had been his sudden cease of movement. He had seen the look in Watson's eyes as he'd read the letter now in the journal, and had attributed it to his friend's past in Afghanistan. During their early days at Baker Street, the worn soldier had been plagued by nightmares of his time of service for some time. It had gotten less frequent over the course of their friendship, the only exception being the three years he himself had pretended to be dead... a fact that still loomed over Holmes' conscience. However, Watson had appeared, by all stands, perfectly normal during their exchange. Now he feared that maybe the story about Austen Bennet was also a lie.

The last request I ask of you Holmes, is that you do not try to locate me.

By far that was the most preposterous sentence in the whole of the letter now in his hands. Never had someone, least of all Watson, asked of him such a ridiculous request. His self-admitted hypocrite of a friend was contradicting his very own nature. It was Holmes' nature to look at a problem from all sides and delve into the puzzle in hopes of solving it and obtaining the answers. To ask Holmes not to look for his friend was, in all circumstances, absurd.

Holmes usually didn't defer to Watson's wishes unless he saw the logic in them, or at least understandable worry in Watson's eyes. This time was no different. He could, at the moment, see no logic in this request, nor did it sound as if Watson was worried about him. Indeed, Watson's letter gave the impression of the the doctor begging him not to get involved. With no reason behind this known as of yet, Holmes firmly decided to ignore this request.

Indeed, if I am not back in Baker Street yet, there may be the chance I am no longer anywhere to locate.

This sentence worried Holmes to no end. The last part of the sentence seemed to echo in the cavity of his mind like a bad omen.

Holmes refused to believe it. He could accept that his good friend was no longer around. It was entirely too impossible, and it was certainly not something he'd ever been - or ever will be - prepared for.

However, if there is anything that lies unspoken between us, read my writings on our cases. Behind the logic and the mysteries, everything I would want to say to you is there, immortalized on paper.

However much Holmes was not prepared for a situation such as this, it seemed as though Watson was the exact opposite. Often, Holmes told Watson how he wasn't very interested in his reaccounts of their cases, much to the doctor's disappointment. Watson had a romanticist streak in his writings, which sometimes took the focus off of the lessons in deduction the mystery presented. However, he had once had to write out one of his own cases in one of Watson's absences, and admitted that it was hard to keep the audiences attention if one just stuck to the facts and not the story behind it. Even so, he never much looked at the writings of his companion, and when he did, it usually was just to look back at the logic. Watson knew this, and had basically told him to read between the lines.

I am, Holmes, very sincerely yours.

At these words, Holmes could feel the logic he ran on halt abruptly. These few words very much echoed the last words he'd thought he'd ever write to Watson those many years ago as he stood on the edge of Reichenbach Falls, writing it with the curtesy of Professor Moriarty. Now he understood exactly how Watson felt, and felt that Watson had described it very accurately in 'The Final Problem' - "cold and sick."

Holmes set the letter from Watson down on the floor as he turned his attention to the journal. It felt heavy in his hands, for he knew that it held the weight of the only secret the honest doctor had ever kept from everyone he knew. On the surface, he could deduce very little. It was a simple journal, leather-bound, worn enough to know that it had seen better days, a broken lock on the cover with a tear on the back cover to show where a strap had once been, and bent here and there in a way that showed it had been very often used. Plus, going from the bits of dust that seemed permanently fused to it in places, it was obvious to conclude that Watson had owned it throughout his military career.

Taking a deep breath to clear and focus his mind on its upcoming task, he opened the book to the front page and prepared for whatever its contents would deliver.

Midnight's Note: I know the chapters seem kinda short at the moment, but as the story gets more involved, it'll get longer. Next chapter begins the mystery of Watson's past, and how it will change Holmes' view of his friend greatly.