Holmes had told me two days ago that he would be leaving on Friday to go to Cambridge for the weekend, to visit his mother and father. I was rather surprised, for Holmes rarely went off on such excursions. But I assumed that he had some special reason for going of which I was not sure.
"What about your clients?" I had asked.
"They will just have to wait until Monday when I return," he said. And nothing more had been spoken of his plans since then, until…
Nothing particularly different had happened that day. Holmes' clients had come in as usual, while I did what I normally did every day of the week. It was Thursday night, and I had just come back from dining with an old friend of mine. It was getting near half past ten when I walked up the stairs to the flat that Holmes and I shared.
I wasn't surprised, on my entrance into the room that the light was still on in the living room. Holmes often stayed up late pondering the events of the day, or playing his violin, or smoking his pipe while reading on the couch. I took off my shoes and hung up my hat and coat. Holmes abruptly got up out of the easy chair and began pacing the room, grasping a small piece of paper tightly in his hand. He did not seem to even notice my presence in the room. When he turned toward me, there was distress upon his face, the like of which I had never seen before. I watched him as he continued walking up and down the length of the flat, his fists clenching and loosening again.
This was not something I had ever seen him do before. He had never ignored me completely without warning me that he would be doing so.
"What is the meaning of this? You rarely ignore me in this way. Have I done something to offend you?"
Holmes faced me and pressed the piece of paper that he had been holding into my hand. The address read:
"Charles Holmes
213 Princeton Avenue
Cambridge, England"
And the letter read:
Dear Sherlock,
You may not know it, but your mother has been very ill lately. She never spoke of her pain to even Mycroft or to you. Four nights ago she had a severe stroke, and last night, your mother passed away.
I am in great distress. I know that you had been planning on visiting us on Friday. I hope you will still do so, for your mother's funeral will take place on Saturday. I know that we will all need comfort in this time of woe.
You loving father,
Charles
I immediately felt deep sympathy for my friend. I knew what it was like to lose a close family member, and knew somewhat how Holmes was feeling. I looked up from the letter and saw him, now sitting on the couch resting his forehead in his hands. I placed the letter on the desk, and after doing so went over to the couch and placed a hand on his shoulder. He pushed it away.
"I must finish packing my bags," he said briskly. Snatching up the letter he went into his room and shut the door.
I wished that there was something that I could do for him, but I knew that there was nothing. I heard sounds from his room and I knew that he had not shut his door only to finish packing his bags.
Holmes left early the next morning to catch his train. I must admit I was rather lonely while he was gone, and I was very glad when he returned home four days later. He walked through the door, hung up his coat and hat, threw his bags in his bed, walked out and collapsed on the couch.
"Hello, Holmes," Said I. He sighed and sat up.
"Hello, Watson." There was silence for a few moments. "I am… sorry for the way I acted. Before I left, I mean. But I'm sure you know how I felt. I am feeling a bit better, now that she is at rest…" his voice trailed off.
"There is nothing to forgive," I said. His lips began to tremble. I sat down on the couch next to him and again, placed my hand on his shoulder. He did not push it away, but instead squeezed it tightly. "I'm glad your with me, Watson." He said with a trembling voice.