I am, dear friends, reluctant to begin my narrative after a hiatus so long as mine has been—years have passed, and not a single word of the epic adventures of Mr. Sherlock Holmes has my pen scratched in
that time. There were, of course, plenty of notes with which to pursue the object of continuing the marvelous tales, but the feeling of blasphemy washed over me every time I began to write—the feeling of undermining the worth and life of dear Sherlock, and I could not bear to think of his mastery whilst he did not walk among us.
I begin now only because a very extraordinary event has occurred, a tale that astounds the mind even more than that of Sherlock's deductions. My slowly built wall of despair for my friend was shattered because of it, leaving me and (I daresay) those who know of it with a raw, unfettered feeling, the kind that exhausts the soul with shock and joy.
Bear with me, dear readers, for to tell the epic properly, I must encumber the text with my humble stories of the years past, as it would not do to begin without a true understanding of the despair and loss that shadowed over London—nay, all of England, with the death of Sherlock.
The face-off of Sherlock and the fiend Moriarty took place on the second of August, and since then, my heart has mourned for my dear friend, whose companionship I perhaps enjoyed even more than my late wife, Mary. Her death, following just a year after Sherlock's, paled a little in comparison to his, and I soon fell into a bitter depression of both losses, each one belonging to a mind too bursting with vitality to be reasonably timely.
In my depression, I retired from practice, living as a recluse in the rooms of 221B Baker Street, instead thriving off of an ample sum from the renting of my old habitation with Mary—it merely pained me to be in that house, while Baker Street soothed my senses and let me live in the relative comfort of a lonely widower, Sherlock's instruments and odds and ends left as they are in a semblance of the easy life we'd lived as bachelors. The company of Billy, Mrs. Hudson, and the occasional visit of Lestrade kept me in enough conversation that I did not retract from society entirely, and was perhaps all I needed. A simple life of remembrance was, I had believed, all I needed. Eventually, of course, I pulled myself out of my shell for small trips to the post office and such, as a man must stretch his legs eventually. It was, on one of these small trips, that I was confronted with a small telegram, the scene of which ran as so.
"Sir, sir! You have left behind—(here the voice paused and panted) - wait, sir! You've left behind your telegram."
I turned to observe a rather rotund man, ginger with a sanguine individuality about his face—certainly, I'd never seen the man before, and had not observed him present when I went to check my letters. As I gazed upon his face, however, there was a familiar shape—a hint, perhaps, a hinting of an old face. Shaken out of my thoughts by the urgent waving about of my telegram( for it rustled out and about in an autumn breeze), I snapped out of my reverie, took the telegram, and dismissed the familiarity as coincidence.
It was indeed the moment of accepting that telegram that ascertained the events to follow, for it read as such:
Expect an arrival at ten 'o clock sharp.
I spared only a glance at the thing before hurrying on, as I focused only on the time—it was, as of the moment, roughly eight 'o clock, and the message itself was mysterious enough to prompt me to be ready. Such telegrams had only arrived when Sherlock was alive, but his death was not well-known, and it was possible that some poor wretch hoped he would be willing to take their case. The door of 221B welcomed me back, and I rested for a moment in my armchair, yet again pulling out the small strip to consider its contents. It was, indeed, a little out of the norm, even for a possible client. Without a name or a reason, it had been sent, allowing the recipient no understanding of why or who would arrive. A sudden surge of irritation, nay, true anger washed over me at the unfairness of the situation. I was,
perhaps, well on the path to filling the gaping hole that Sherlock had left, and just at the moment of recovery I'd been sent this inconvenient little message, a tiny little reminder that for some, Sherlock
continued to exist. My hands shook with the temptation to tear the thing to shreds, but with a disgusted snort I tossed it away, content to wait it out and put my mind to telling off whoever was to arrive.
The minutes before ten slipped away after many cups of tea and a few excellent cigars, and at nine fifty I turned toward the door, awaiting a knock. The breeze had suddenly turned violent a few minutes prior, rattling the windows badly. I thought nothing of it until the rattling was joined by a sudden, sharp chorus of knocks on the glass, as if one were throwing rocks at the window. Again, I dismissed it, but when the battering continued, I roused myself to check that the glass would not break, pushing aside curtains newly dusted by Mrs. Hudson. I saw, dear friends, the odd sight of stones swinging from thin thread, knocking against the fragile panes. As I watched, the thread tore itself to pieces and released the stones. I sighed inwardly—doubtless, an awkward prank pulled to achieve some purpose unknown to me. As I turned back to my chair, there was an innate spark of fear and suspicion—the sudden doubt that raises the small hairs on the back of the neck, and an instant later my knees nearly failed me, my hand reaching up to comfort the heart which had taken so bad a shock as this—believe me, dear friends, that the last man I could have ever expected to see again had miraculously appeared before my very eyes, sitting at ease in his favoured chair and keenly examining my edition of the newest Medical Journal as if he'd never left it. The tinny gasp that had left my mouth at the sight roused him from his reverie,
and he turned to smile at me in my awestruck wonder, the contours of his high cheekbones and upturned collar striking against the wild curls of his hair, and he stood, suddenly looking a little abashed.
There was, as you may understand, an overwhelming doubt within me that this was indeed my friend, for I'd witnessed his end myself, but even this was dashed away when he spoke, the deep undertones unmistakably belonging to the one and only Sherlock Holmes.
"Care for a smoke, John?"
I managed to procure some semblance of dignity and stood straight, accepting the lavish Indian cigar he offered. It was lit already, but halfway to the tip my mouth failed me, and instead rambled out the contents of my head.
"Sherlock—why, it is Sherlock indeed! Where in devils name have you been, if you have been alive all this time? Also, why? Why have you been away for all this time?" Suddenly, another flash of anger similar to the one earlier (when I had considered the telegram) washed over me, and I added.
"What reason in hell could you have for this? Damn it, Sherlock, answer me!"
He sighed as I stood, hand raised to strike the man I'd mourned for so long. He made no move to stop me, and instead sat right back down with a look of resign to his fate. I stopped, sitting myself down as well, suddenly needy for the comfort of explanation.
"I apologize, John, but it was necessary for me to stay low for quite a while", he began, lifting his cigar for a long draught.
"You must understand that at the time of my 'death' I was discredited, abused in the eyes and by the hand of the public who rather would listen to believable lies than fantastic truth. It was there, in my grapple with Moriarty, that he perished and I survived, by the way of grappling up the sheer walls of rock that surrounded us. There is no way he could have survived, after taking such a fall, but I doubt the he has, in fact, ceased to be."
He paused to blow the smoke out of his nostrils, and looked at me with such intensity that I likened him to a kicked foxhound, wrongly punished for circumstances out of his hands. The feeling was, of course, an oddity in such moments, as if I could feel my heart go out to join his, but it was irrelevant to his narrative, so I pushed the thought away and motioned him to continue, though tendrils of the feeling remained.
"I was, at the time, unable to do much for fear of prosecution under the public microscope, along with the deadly scrutiny of Moriarty's hounds of hell. I feared for my safety and yours, and so dared not return. It would have, of course, been easier on the minds of both you and I to have simply revealed myself and allowed the secret to be kept in your heart, but it was necessary to ensure that you appeared to be in mourning (in which you exceeded my expectations, John) for quite a while, and you would have been unable to do so if there was the slightest doubt in your mind that I may indeed be alive.
Of course, there were a few who must know. Mycroft knew not I was alive until a few months after, and I went to him merely in want of the basic needs of life, along with extra funds with which to amuse myself, since I could solve no case during my hiatus, lest someone discover my lie."
Sherlock's eyes twinkled with a spark of mischief and satisfaction as they looked at me, begging for a reaction. It was, at that moment, the second in which it dawned on me that the familiarity of the telegraph-man was not mere coincidence, for he bore a strange relation to Mycroft, of all people. Sherlock, apparently cottoning on to my realization, smiled.
"I see that you now realize that there was no ginger-headed telegraph-man—I trusted that you would be too distracted with the workings of your own head to realize who stood before you. I would have come myself, but doubtless it would be an easy thing for you to recognize my disguise after having so long known me. Indeed, it was a stroke of genius to use Mycroft instead, for I had the time to travel and set up the array of rocks upon the window in preparation of the coming wind. "
His eyes flashed again, and he let out a small chuckle.
"Honestly, John, I would've expected you to see this coming—you know I've always had a weakness for dramatics. The lay was perfect indeed, coupled with the fact that you had not changed the locks since I had last been here."
It was at this point that I felt slighted enough to reply in indignation.
"Now see here, Sherlock! You can't very well expect me to deduce the truth behind men's faces as you can! No matter how often you quote 'You know my methods, John, apply them!' I cannot and possibly will never be able to act as you will."
I sighed, and took a draught of my now-cold cigar, watching as Sherlock leaned back in a leisurely manner.
"In any case, you must be understandably upset with me, as the supposed death of a colleague is no simple matter-"
"Friend." I interjected, slightly aghast that Sherlock would refer to me as his colleague, rather than a dear friend. He smiled at this, as though it was some devious plot gone right, and continued.
"…as the death of a friend is no simple matter to recover from, and I would verily understand if you wished me to be gone from your sight a while, to allow the matter to sink in."
My cigar-hand twitched a little in annoyance, sending a cascade of ash toward the carpeting, which I paid no mind to. To think that this man had dominion of possibly the greatest mind in existence, yet was still ignorant in the workings of friendship! Indeed, in the millisecond before my reply, yet another flash of the odd feeling of earlier came over me, and so dictated my reply.
"I would not have you leave my sight for the world, Sherlock! To think that after so long, to wish you away would indeed be devilry and a deed against the part of my heart which devotes itself to our companionship."
I leaned in my chair, again spilling ash, but suddenly desperate for his understanding.
"Come, now, we shall talk of this no more until morn—it grows late now, and the odd hour has apparently forced wicked thoughts upon your mind."
Again, Sherlock assumed an expression of great contentment in my exclamation, standing up even as I did. I moved to give him leeway to his rooms, which I had left alone, instead to be confronted with the face of Sherlock, suddenly close to my own, and was embraced for just a moment before the great man turned on heel and strode boastingly away, as if the event had never occurred. I stood, astonished at the sudden physical expression of Sherlock's friendship, and watched as he said over his shoulder (in his condescending manner):
"Good night, John."
Admittedly, dear readers, that was perhaps the most restful night of sleep I'd gotten in years—it does the heart wonders to have a missing piece back, and the loss of Mary was now not so cold.
I awoke the following morn with little sense of what had occurred, as if it were a dream. It trickled back, making me fall back onto the sheets just as I'd risen from them. As I lay, I ran through the course of events—first, the ginger man, the telegram, the arrival—oh, the arrival! I smiled to myself. How wonderful it was to have him back, as if a bit of my soul—my soul? I frowned upon the odd terminology that had just sprung out of my thoughts. The warm pit of feeling at the bottom of my stomach was clearly induced by the shock of the previous evening. I hadn't felt such since—well, since my courting of Mary. It was an odd, grotesque yet beautiful feeling, if I allowed myself to dwell in it. Determined not to revel in such queerness, I headed down for a bit of breakfast and to see if, indeed, my old friend was alive.
Sherlock was not, as I'd hoped, awake enough to be present at the moment of my arrival in the sitting-room, and was instead (I'll admit I invaded the privacy of his rooms for my own benefit) fast asleep, probably because he'd spent the entire night dragging things here and there and starting a new experiment as companion to the old one. Judging from the sudden lack of order in the room, I perceived that he must have been awake from somewhere between two and five o'clock, a new record even for him. He was always a stickler for having his way, and though many a slight row had come between us from it, I was glad now to let him wreak havoc as he wished. Still in my dressing-gown, I rang Mrs. Hudson to bring up breakfasts—two. Doubtless her suspicions of my insanity flared, but I thought that slight hints would prepare her for what would likely be the greatest shock of her life—I would not bear to put any additional strain upon her heart, for fear that it would stop.
It was near ten before breakfast was brought in, for I had woken at nine. Immersed in the newest doctors' journal, I failed to hear my companion join me, taking a seat on the other side of the Chinese coffee-table. At the same moment, our dear old landlady arrived at our threshold, and I arose, still ignorant of his presence, and took the two breakfasts from her.
"Have you got company, Watson dear?" she said, standing on tiptoe to look over my shoulder. As you know, it was uncommon for me to have company, and as she fixed me with a suspicious look I smiled.
"You'll see him soon enough, Mrs. Hudson, but I really must carry on." With this I gently coaxed her away-I would order the same two trays at lunch, and reintroduce her to her second boarder then.
Turning back into the room, I nearly dropped the food when Sherlock stood from his seat, having somehow miraculously arranging at one corner of the table a small flask of seething chemicals within a complicated contraption in the short amount of time I hadn't been paying attention. Sighing, I set the fare Mrs. Hudson had provided us with at the opposite end and invited him to sit.
"Come now, John, you shouldn't look so frightened at the return to normalcy." He said, tinkering with a glass. Taking a bit of toast, he sat back and carefully observed his mechanics, and when he was satisfied with the results, focused his attention upon me for my reply.
"Tsk, says the man who simply walked out of his grave and into his rooms with nary a care in the world!" I jested. He took this moment to give me a look of exasperation, while I smiled at the familiarity of it.
"You know I jest- you can't admit, however, that being awake at such a time is, for you, anything but normalcy."
"So be it—it's the truth, after all. I find that I'm still careworn and weary—but I could not stand to see the rooms in such a display of nicety and cleanliness. " He smiled. " I'm grateful, though, that you've kept my former experiments in good condition—they're reached quite an unexpected state that I would've never been patient enough to achieve had I been around. Interesting, interesting."
"It was of no favour to you, " I protested "I simply kept them as they were for lack of better disposal." It would do me no good to let him see the pathetic state I'd been in—it is quite a pitiful thing for a man to mourn his friend for more than a period of six months—when in fact I'd mourned him for as long as he'd been gone. He shrugged at my words and gave a devilish smile.
"Say what you will, John. It is no uncommon knowledge that you've moped about ever since the Fall, but as I see you now you reveal yourself to be quite content."
"I should have seen this coming…" I muttered. Who was I, after all the times I'd witness his prowess, to hope that my own inner tumult would be hidden? I sighed. "Very well then—be clever, tell me how you know. Doubtless you're dying to show off."
He replied, eagerly. "There are faint lines about your face, John, where the skin has been newly creased—yet as of last night and this past hour, I've not seen your face contort into any sort of expression that could readily cause them. Doubtless you've spent some time bearing a terribly saddened look. This, of course, could be due to Mary—but why move back here? Surely the house you owned would afford much more a much more comfortable situation—by that reasoning, then, you longed for something else. Also, you've left your bed unmade, which is out of habit—this I see by the goose-down sticking to the bottom of your house-shoe, which came from the slight tear in your feather-filled quilt, which you most definitely would have noticed had you spared time to tidy up. From that, I deduce that you left your room in haste—again, something you were not in the habit of doing, as I recall. The final factor in my judgment relies upon the state of your shirt-cuffs—they're undone." As he said the last bit, he reached over for himself and buttoned them. "Accordingly, I see that you've been in quite a state—even worse than I had understood you to be in last night. You must have missed me, John—it's a natural human thing, yet I assure you I was not expecting it." He leant back, finished his toast and smiled. "Am I wrong?"
A/N: Okay so after AGES trying to get the formatting right etcetc I'm proud to say that the official first chapter has been put up. I know I but a bit of it up a longass time ago, but it felt to short just to put it into two chapters-so I re-did everything and added the second chapter to it. I'll try not to leave this for months, but I won't promise because I'm lazy. ON THE OTHER HAND oh my god-when you're bored sometime, just write in older terms-IT'S SO FUN because it sounds like a bunch of Englishmen saying intelligent-sounding things and Benedict Cumberbatch and ahhhhh.
...Maybe that's just me, though?