Chapter II – The Return of Sherlock Holmes
Yesterday, Mycroft came to visit him in his surgery. Not that he needed his medical advice, of course not. Before he started to explain, he apologised. For lying. For trying to protect him. He didn't give him the time to ask questions, he just wanted him to sit down behind his desk.
'It's time to leave the stage for me now', he closed his unintelligible explanations, false humour in his shaking voice. 'And for the main character to appear.'
Shortly after he had left the room, a tall figure, covered in an old shabby coat, stepped into the doorframe. His face was covered by a dark beard, he blinked in an insecure way behind his big glasses, pressing the pile of old books he was carrying against his chest. The sight of this ridiculous fellow startled the doctor even more than Mycroft's cryptical allusions. He rose from his chair, not sure how to react to this unexpected visit.
'I'm sorry, can I help you?, he finally asked, forcing himself to stay polite. 'Did Mr. Holmes send you or…'
'Indeed.' The high-pitched voice didn't fit the tall figure. 'Dr. Watson, I presume?' He giggled nervously. 'A fine surgery you have build yourself, yes. But Mr. Mycroft and I share the opinion that your book shelves should get more attention.'
'My…book shelves?' The doctor looked at this shelves behind him in surprise. They almost couldn't carry the large amount of medical literature. 'I don't understand what you…'
He turned around at his guest. The ridiculous bookworm was gone. Two eyes, a strange mixture of blue and green, looked at him in pain. No beard, but a face as pale as death himself.
'John…' The voice, deep, dark and comfortable, faded, an echo from the hereafter.
'Sher…' John ventured a small step towards his friend, then his strength left him and he fainted.