Dawn is the time of duels, when the mist and the light favor neither opponent and shelter them from the eyes of the law.

My brother had taken pains to hide the location from me, and I was only able to ascertain it at last through bribes in the wee hours of the morning. I rode out, my coachman whipping the horses to a frenzy, desperate to speak to Sherlock before they began.

When I arrived Sherlock and Lord D_ stood some ways apart as Lord D_'s second walked about checking the ground and the light. Sherlock had no second. As I stepped from my carriage, Lord D_ came striding up to accost me. "You here, too, then Lord Holmes? Demons, the pair of you!" Echoing Sir John he said, "I wish I'd never laid eyes on either one of you," which I thought a bit absurd. It wasn't our fault that his wife was a French spy after all, but I thought better of saying it. After all, I was there to make peace.

"Lord D_. I realize that what has passed is…unfortunate, but surely settling it in this archaic manner brings no good to anyone?"

"UNFORTUNATE!" he raged. "My life is ruined. You- you-" he blustered, shouting across the clearing at Sherlock. "You made promises. What were those then?"

Sherlock did not turn or respond. He had removed his jacket and waistcoat and stood in the chill morning air in only his shirt and trousers gazing into the distance. Lord D_ spat on the ground, whether at me or at Sherlock I do not know, and walked back to his second.

I started towards Sherlock. When I was perhaps ten feet away he spoke, "What are you doing here?"

"As ever," I replied, "I'm concerned about you."

"Yes, I've been hearing about your concern." He paused, "Go away. I don't want you here. You have no place in my life anymore."

"You may not want me to be in your life, but I am. I am your brother. Call this off, Sherlock. Or wound him lightly and call it done. You know he's no match for you with a sword.

"We are fighting with pistols."

That scared me. It is harder in a pistol duel to satisfy honor without one of the parties sustaining a major injury.

"Sherlock, stop this. I am— I am begging you."

But his eyes were still focused on the horizon where the first rays of sun were emerging, warming the dew and creating a haze. "Is not the sun beautiful, Mycroft? See how its light plays upon the grass? I have never been so aware of it before. And yet, the sun will dry the dew in such a short time. The Morning Glories will close, the violets wilt in the heat."

His words chilled me far more than the cold air. "Sherlock, please, the sun makes the flowers grow and it will rise again tomorrow, the flowers will bloom anew. I know you will not believe me, but I do know what you are feeling. 'We are all formed of frailty and error; let us pardon reciprocally each other's folly - that is the first law of nature.'"1

"Go away, Mycroft. Go away or I will shoot you myself." The dullness of his tone scared me more than if he'd been ranting.

I had no more words. I stood away. I hoped that when the moment came he would choose life. With life there is always hope.

Sherlock won the coin toss. I saw a wry smile pass over his features and he shrugged. But he took position to fire first. He fired and Lord D_, looking triumphant, still stood. Sherlock shrugged again. I saw his mouth move. A prayer? An invocation? I believe, though I never confirmed it, that he spoke in Latin. "Mortem noli contemnere, sed laeto animo eam excipe ut quae unum sit eorum, quae natura vult."2

Lord D_ prepared to take his shot. Was I truly going to watch my brother die? I feared I might faint or vomit. I shut my eyes. The gunshot sounded unusually loud. Only later did I understand it was because of two guns fired almost simultaneously. I opened my eyes in time to see both Sherlock and Lord D_ fall.

I think I ran towards my brother, but I am not fleet of foot, and by the time I reached him, another figure was bending over him.

"Sherlock!" Sir John was crying, for it was he who cradled my brother in his arms. His pistol lay in the grass beside him. "Sherlock, speak to me!"

My brother's shoulder was bloody, but mercifully the wound didn't seem to be gushing. His eyes opened, and I have never seen a man's eyes light up as his did then. I hadn't seen such joy on his face since he was a child, running in from the garden with some discovery. "John!" he cried. They wrapped their arms around one another, and I realized that my brother was crying too. I politely turned away. There were other matters I needed to attend to.

Lord D_ lay on the ground, his second crouched over him. If Sir John had killed him, I could not allow that information to get out.

"Lord Holmes," the gentleman said, as I approached.

"Is he dead?"

"No, mercifully. The shot grazed his temple and knocked him out. I believe it caused his shot to go wide, for he was determined to kill your brother. Damned if I know how your brother was able to fire."

We looked at one another long enough for an understanding to pass between us. We both knew that Sherlock could not have fired the shot. But it was best for all concerned that the truth not be told.

There is little more to tell, my dearest Madame A_. Sir John and I bundled Sherlock into my carriage. Lord D_, still unconscious, was bundled into his. My brother's injury was serious but not fatal. Yes, Madame A_, not fatal. I gave out that he'd been gravely injured in an accident, and then less than a week later, announced his death. Lord D_ certainly had no interest in sharing his part in the events. Everyone knew that his wife had left him even if they didn't know the details. And he had not been discreet in pursuit of my brother. The public added two and two together, and if they arrived at five, I did nothing to correct them. He slunk back to his estate, and I believe remains there still. I have made some small lookout for his children's futures. There's no reason that they need to suffer.

As to my brother's "alleged" death, London went into mourning. Numerous women (and not a few men) claimed that they had been Sherlock's only true love, a few even producing children (rest assured, if there had ever been a question of that, I would have discovered it). Many went so far as to wear black crepe. But society is fickle. New scandals arose, new favorites were chosen. Meanwhile, my brother recovered, quietly and in secret, at our family estate. Sir John would not be moved from his side, sleeping in the adjourning dressing room to be within earshot at all times. If, at some point, when my brother was sufficiently healed—to which I trusted Sir John's medical opinion—the good gentleman moved into my brother's bed, well, I did not inquire.

In truth, I stayed away from them for the most part. My brother still felt he had cause to be angry with me, and additionally, it would have appeared peculiar for me to stay in the countryside if my brother was already dead. I appeared in town in mourning, staged a funeral, and accepted people's condolences. Perhaps there were a few questions about Sir John's absence. Perhaps people assumed that he too was in mourning. At any rate, little reached my ears.

I made preparations for my brother's future. He could not stay in England. Going to our people in France was obviously out of the question. There was also Sir John to consider. Would they want to stay together? Would Sir John uproot his life for Sherlock?

Through a variety of bribes and threats, I gained them passage on a ship to the colonies; I suppose I must call them the United States of America now. And so, some two months after the duel, I found myself in the moonlight, standing on the Cornwall coast. A sailor was ready to row them out to the waiting ship. The Cornish wind stole our words and perhaps there was little left to say.

"Sir John," I said, "I know that I have been a cause of great pain to you. But how could I have known that of all the people in the world, you were the only one that could make my brother whole. Take care of him."

He nodded curtly, his eyes going to Sherlock's slim figure. "Harriet knows why I must leave. Will you…will you look after her?"

"Of course, Sir John, it would be my honor."

Their simple luggage loaded, Sir John went to join the boatman. Sherlock walked back up the sand to me.

"Mycroft, My, I…" his voice trailed off.

"Sherlock," I started, but I too was at a loss for words.

Abruptly he embraced me, then turned and walked to the boat. I thought I had felt tears on his cheek, but perhaps it was only sea spray.

That was six months ago. I know that the ship arrived safely in Boston and that they disappeared into the population of that city. The war will soon be over, and communications will become easier between ourselves and the new nation. Perhaps someday I will receive a letter with familiar handwriting but an unfamiliar name. Perhaps at some point they will even be able to return to England and society will marvel at their adventures. I cannot say.

So now you know the truth. It is a relief to have, at last, shared it with someone.

1) Voltaire

2) Marcus Aurelius - Do not despise death, but receive her with a glad heart as [you do] those things, of which it be one, which nature wills.