Sherlock Holmes is 6' 4" of evident dexterity and hidden strength. He can easily climb up a railing to have a look in a high window. Sherlock Holmes' keen steel-grey eyes gleam with excitement as they promptly catalogue the traces of familiar presence in the tiny rooms inside: good old General Gordon staring proudly from the wall, old frayed oriental robe thrown carelessly on an armchair, old leather-clad journal forgotten on the mantelpiece; distinctly Spartan settings, no consulting room and so far no sign of Mrs. Watson.
Sherlock Holmes buries his nose in his scarf and withdraws into the shadow, alerted by the familiar tap-tap-tap of a heavy cane against the pavement, his implacable logic flying through his long mental list of 'all-too-late's and 'should-have-not's.
"If you think your cases are more interesting than mine, go on."
"I feared as much. I really cannot congratulate you."
"I have my plans laid, don't bother."
"You may proceed with you romantic nonsense."
"I glanced over it. Honestly, I cannot congratulate you upon it."
"For me there still remains the cocaine bottle."
"If I am to have a doctor whether I will or not, let me at least have someone in whom I have confidence."
"You think? Pray, never try that again!"
He grabs the edge of the railing hastily, felling almost physically Sigerson come back, who probably is acrophobic as well as lonely and miserable fleeing from one distant country to another, trying to leave no traces of his existence.
But he still can't bring himself away from the silhouette now moving with routine precision behind the windowpane.
Placing the Gladstone bag near the desk – out of the way but always at hand.
Loosening but not taking off the cravat, undoing the upper button of the waistcoat but not changing into the chamber gown – always ready for a sudden visitor in need of help.
Reaching for a bottle of brandy; breathing out a cloud of ship's smoke Mary used to (used to?) find far too strong; collapsing into the armchair in post-all-nighter exhaustion – too agitated to go to sleep, to tired for anything else.
Sherlock Holmes doesn't need to see the face to recognise the wistful expression desperately trying to turn into angry: the one reserved for patient that can't be helped; old comrades drinking themselves to madness; Holmes neglecting eating and sleeping; Holmes letting a cruel remark slip casually; Holmes refusing to tell where he is going and for how long. The one he wore scanning the rushing crowd at Victoria Central anyway, unable as usual to recognise Holmes in his disguise but ready, without realising it himself, to follow – no matter where and for how long – at the first summons.
And Sherlock Holmes' heart tells him, that despite all 'should-have's and 'whatever-for's John Watson never stopped being his friend.
Sherlock Holmes jumps over the railing with feline grace and knocks resolutely on the door.
As he announces his need to see the doctor to a disheveled landlady, he is surprised to hear Sigerson's accent gone for good.
=the end=