The Lazarus Machine

Chapter 15

Once the Holmes brothers had left, preparations continued in good faith.  The banns were posted with their intention to join the families.  A notice appeared in several of the newspapers that trickled in from London.  Congratulations and sometimes gifts were thrust upon John as he walked through the village.  Mrs. Phillips, formerly John's nurse Miss Abernathy, handed him a rather bulky parcel tied with twine.

"Some good, warm jumpers, Captain Watson."

John suddenly missed her voice calling him 'young Master Watson' and sometimes 'Johnny' when no one else was around to hear.

"Wear them in good health, young man."  She fussed a bit over him like she used to do.  "I daresay you'll make the most handsome groom since my Tom."

"I wouldn't say that, Mrs. Phillips.  You haven't yet laid eyes on my intended."

"So, it's like that, is it?"  Her faded brown eyes sparkled with delight.

"No, no.  We've only just met."  John blushed, wanting to pull at his high collar and choking cravat, but couldn't due to the weighty woolen parcel in one hand and his cane in the other.

"Well, I hope Mr. Holmes appreciates his excellent fortune, then, Captain Watson."

"Thank you, Mrs. Phillips."

When John returned to the manor house, he unwrapped the bundle and admired the warm jumpers he'd been given.  One was a natural oatmeal color, thick and knit with a twisted cable design.  One was a darker blue and the third, green.  They were for informal settings – John had one or two he wore in spring and fall when walking about, or had done, but they were wearing in spots and had not entirely escaped moths in his absence to war.

John sat down that afternoon to write to Sherlock, whether Sherlock planned to read it or not.  He dipped his pen to ink a dozen times before writing any more than the salutation.  Nothing really happened to him.  What could he possibly have to say beyond, 'My old nurse knit me several sweaters,' or 'I walked back to the copse of trees and the badger was indeed back in her den'?

The next day he relented and visited Mr. Gilmore, taking comprehensive notes for Sherlock on the proper winterizing of bees.

A week later, the final documents for Harry to peruse and sign arrived with the morning post.

Also on the tray lay a fat fold of paper with Captain John Watson's direction scrawled upon the outside layer.

"You've got a letter?" Harry inquired, looking away from his dismally thick package.

"I suppose so." 

"Must be a long one."  The papers didn't seem to want to be folded, so they were tied with twine instead of sealing wax to keep them together.  "Who sent it?"

John flipped it around.  Barely legible was the name.

"Sherlock Holmes."  He wrote back.  He actually wrote back.  John was sure it was stupid to be so giddy about it but he couldn't help himself.

"Oh, well, did he say he'd write?  About time, then."  Harry seemed about to try the egg on his plate, but pushed it away at the last moment.

"No, Harry, he quite specifically said he wouldn't."

John wanted to tear open the letter, so much so that his ears heated up.  He carefully severed the twine with his penknife and let the pages fall open.

The contents of the letter were unusual, to say the least.

John glanced through the pages.  It wasn't a letter, not exactly.  It was, what, notes?  Of what?  Autopsy, perhaps, but only of hands.  Hands, why only hands?  John started over at the beginning before starting to laugh.

Sherlock was incapable of writing a normal letter, like he'd said.  But he still wanted to tell John what he was doing, so he mailed him case notes.  And apparently, someone had found a bagful of hands and Sherlock had meticulously attempted to deduce the deceased owner of each one.