She was alive. He woke and she was dead. He threw his arms out, embracing thin air. The Paris night was cold, desolate. He threw off sheets and walked to the window, fastening his gown, reaching for cherry wood pipe with thin, nervous fingers.
The city of lights was a cascade of brilliance, but without her it was a dim charade. He sat on the sill, smoking, watching the rain race down the foggy window. He thought of Watson, back in Baker Street, the violin, the comforts of home, far away from this alien frontier.
He came to Paris to be with her. Paris in the spring time, tres romantic, Mr. Holmes. And he'd found out upon arrival she was gone. Threw herself into the Seine and washed ashore by morning's first light, said the paper. But he knew the sorrowing truth of it. The emissaries of the rich and powerful King are needlessly cruel, and they had finally paid back her transgressions.
He wondered if he loved her, and mulled over what this brand of lusty infatuation tasted like. He could taste her questing mouth on his, stirring forgotten songs in his head, bringing him to life, and then tossing him limp and useless on the shore of his love. He would give anything to have her back.
