Chapter Text
I sat back in my seat, trying to decide how to answer the question.
“Well?” he asked me. “Come, Doctor. Why should I have to answer a question you will not?”
“Because your answer is relevant to the case, Vicar,” Holmes answered before I could try to form a response. “Are you going to answer me?”
The man scowled at us. “I see no reason to answer that. How could the worst year of my life be relevant to finding Miss Harding?”
“I am the detective, not you.” Holmes gained his feet, and I followed as he continued, “I suggest you stay in the area, Vicar. I will be in touch.”
We walked out of the room, leaving the oily vicar staring at us from his place behind his desk, and silence reigned between us as the cab horse trotted to the station.
What was the worst year of your life? The question rang in my thoughts, forcing me to consider it. How did I define “worst?” Would it be the months I had spent in a fog of grief after Mary died? Could I count the year I had lost Holmes as “worst” when I did not even remember a large portion of it?
The cab jolted to a stop, and I followed Holmes to a first-class compartment, more focused on my thoughts than where I stepped. I had finally accepted Holmes’ assertions that the events at the falls had been his doing, not mine, but acceptance did not change the guilt that had followed me for years. I had only just begun to push that guilt from my mind when Mary died, and I had been left alone.
I pulled my thoughts away from that time. I did not need to think about that now, with Holmes next to me. He was alive, and those events were in the past, never to be repeated.
I hoped.
But what would the worst year be? The question refused to silence, and I let my thoughts wander as I stared through the window, seeing years long gone instead of the passing countryside. What about the aftermath of Maiwand, when I had lost both health and home? The year we lost our parents? The first year back in Scotland after enjoying Australia for so many months? How should I define such a strong word?
“Watson?”
A hand landed on my shoulder, and I smothered a jump, turning to look at Holmes. Concern flashed in his gaze, disappearing quickly as I made eye contact.
“Are you with me?”
I nodded, firmly shoving my thoughts aside for another time. His tone said he had tried several times to get my attention before I finally answered, and I tried to force a smile, digging my notes from my pocket. He probably wanted to discuss the vicar’s interview.
He waved the notebook away. “What was your impression?”
I raised an eyebrow, confused. “What do you mean?”
“The vicar,” he answered, still staring at me for all that his words had moved away from my inattention. “What did you think of him?”
I had been too deeply immersed in my thoughts to emerge into the present immediately, but I realized soon enough what he was asking. He could not induce a person the same way he could deduce them, and he relied on me to voice the impressions he could not logically understand.
“Oily,” I said after a moment. “Shady. Not dishonest, but not honest, either.” I hesitated, debating. “He knows where she is, or where she most likely is, and he might have put her there.”
He nodded, leaning back in the bench though his gaze never left me, but I continued before he could say anything.
“What did your question have to do with finding Miss Harding?”
“They grew up in the same town,” he answered. “It is highly likely that they went to school together. I learned more from his refusal to answer than I would have from any reply he might have given.”
I frowned, trying to follow his train of thought. “What did you learn?”
“All in good time,” he replied, brushing the question away. He nearly continued but hesitated, staring at me. “Do you want to talk about it?”
I huffed a laugh. “No more than you do. Why not share the best years instead?”
He quirked a grin. “I am not sure you want to know mine. You go first.”
I affected a scowl but answered. “1889.”
“Why?”
“That was the year you frequently asked us to help in your cases, the only year I had you both.”
He hesitated, then allowed a full grin to break free. “I was going to say either ’89 or this past year.”
I nodded, leaning back in my seat with a grin. “We’re agreed then. That is good to know.”
He pulled a face at the comment but turned the topic back to the case, and the train ride flew by.