Time for the final chapter and to reveal the mystery character! It is none other than... drum roll please... Sherlock Holmes! I was actually planning on waiting until Christmas to post this, but due to a family crisis which will be keeping me away from the computer for some time, I decided that I had better post this now. I have to say this one important thing, just in case someone says I've screwed up the time line:
Sherlock Holmes came back from the dead in 1894, Hound of the Baskervilles was first published in 1902. So even though it appeared in print before The Empty House, by this time Watson already knew the truth. Watson also states at the beginning of The Empty House that the events happend ten years prior.
When Holmes had gotten off the train, everything was so familar that he almost felt as if he had never left at all. That feeling immediately vanished the moment he showed up at 221b Baker Street. He casually unlocked the door and went inside as he had always done in the past. When Mrs. Hudson caught sight of him, she started to shriek so loudly that it was a wonder the police hadn't come running expecting an attack.
After the inital shock had worn off, Mrs. Hudson became more warm and friendly, asking if Holmes was hungry after his journey, or if he would care for some tea. Holmes had politely declined, and went upstairs to his old rooms.
Now as he looked around the flat, he thought again of how glad he was to be home. Mycroft had been even better than his word at keeping the rooms preserved. Every single detail was exactly as it had been three years ago; right down to the tabacco in the Persian slipper.
However, there was one very important detail missing, Holmes thought as his eyes landed on Watson's chair. "Watson... "
Holmes still hadn't figured out what he was going to say to his friend; how he was going to explain his actions. He couldn't even explain them to himself. He had been trying to come up with a reason for the past three years.
After he had notified Mycroft that he was still alive, he tried to convince his brother to spread the news to Watson, but Mycroft refused.
"If you want Doctor Watson to know the truth, then it is your responsibility to tell him, not mine," he had said once in a letter.
Holmes had tried to write to Watson, but being unable to explain why he had ignored Watson's cries at the Falls, he ended up throwing the letter in the trash. He would make several more attempts, but as months melted into years it only became harder to explain away his silence. He didn't want to put it off indefinitely, and finally decided that he would just return to London and meet Watson in person. A face-to-face explamation was probably a lot better than one on paper, and hopefully,easier to deliver.
Returning to the present, Holmes went to the window and peered around the edge of the shade. He gazed down at the activity below as people hustled about from one direction to the next, always in such a hurry to reach their desitnation. One man caught Holmes' eye; unlike everyone else around him the man moved very slowly, almost dragging his feet. His head was tucked against his chest and his shoulders were slummped forward-the appearance of a man who was being weighed down by some kind of heavy burden, or perhaps more than one. As if he could feel Holmes' eyes on him, the man suddenly paused and looked straight up at the window.
It was all Holmes could do to keep from crying out in shock-the man was Watson. His skin was an unatural shade of white, and his face was gaunt, with his eyes sunken in. Those eyes held more sorrow and longing than Holmes had ever seen on a human face-his stomach lurched.
Watson kept staring at the window for so long that Holmes breifly wondered if Watson had spotted him. But the expression on Watson's face never changed, nor did he make any move to enter the house. After what seemed to be an eternity, Watson finally lowered his gaze and shuffled away.
Holmes realised that he had been holding his breath and released it in a big whoosh of air. Heart pounding, he left the window and sat down in his old chair. He had observed that his "death" was not the only major loss that Watson had suffered. At some point during the years, Mary too, had passed away. That had been obvious by Watson's state of appearence: He had lost a great deal of weight and his clothes hung somewhat loosely on his frame. If Mary were alive, she certainly would have made sure that her husband had proper nurishment, and would've taken his clothes in to be fitted.
It made Holmes feel sick to know that his friend had suffered so much, and guilty for the role he played in adding to it. He was almost tempted to dart out of the house and chase Watson down but quickly changed his mind, telling himself that it would not be a good idea to cause a scene in public, and that the reunion would be better if it were made in private. His conscience hissed that he was only stalling at the idea of facing Watson, but Holmes ignored it and went into his bedroom to put on a disguise: that of an old bookseller.
He had often made a habit of fooling Watson with his disguises in the past, and thought that by revealing himself in such a familar(albeit dramatic) fashion might soften the blow of his deception. Or leave Watson too stunned to ask questions! his conscience interjected.
Holmes left the flat and hobbled his way down the street, losing himself in the character he had created. There was no sign of Watson now, and Holmes wondered where his friend could have gone off to. At this time of day he was most likely to be on his rounds. Holmes tried to decide if he should just go on to Watson's residence and wait for him there or if he should find a way to keep himself occupied until a time when he knew that Watson would be home. Eventually settling for the latter, he headed for Park Lane.
He had heard of the murder of Ronald Adair and the mysterious circumstances under which it had occurred. Holmes had already formed some theories and was curious to see if they matched up with any that the police may have formed. When he arrived, he was quite shocked to see a familiar face among the crowd of people gathered outside.
Watson was deeply engaged in discussion with Lestrade. He pointed to the window and said something that Holmes didn't catch. Lestrade nodded and replied, "Not unless our killer had wings."
So, Watson had taken up trying to solve mysteries on his own then? Holmes was surprised. Although Watson had always been just as intrigued by a good mystery as Holmes was and possessed a great deal of skills in his own right, he had always been too modest and timid in putting them to practice. What had made him overcome that? Was this some sort of method of keeping his memory of Holmes alive? Holmes had noticed that Watson had stopped publishing stories after The Final Problem appeared in print; maybe he needed something new to fill the void? Work was, after all, the best antidote for sorrow. Perhaps that was also why Watson had been walking down Baker Street this afternoon; thinking of the case may have made him nostalgic.
Holmes became so lost in his thoughts that he didn't notice that Watson had concluded his discussion with Lestrade. As he turned to go, Watson collided with Holmes, causing the books he was carrying to fall to the ground.
"Oh dear sir, I am terribly sorry," said Watson as ke knelt down to pick up the books. "Do forgive me, I wasn't watching where I was going." Holmes quickly snatched the books from Watson's hands, rattled that he had let his guard down. He kept his eyes low, knowing that if he looked Watson in the face, he was sure to give himself away. Very quickly, he gathered up the rest of his books and left, desperate to escape from his friend.
After he rounded the corner, he leaned against the side of the building and waited for his nerves to settle. He knew that he had better get a hand on his emotions before he tried to face Watson again. He had to remain that cold, calculating machine that Watson had so often accused him of being; it was the only way that he could possibly get through this.
After more nagging from his conscience that he was stalling yet again, Holmes finally summoned a cab and went to Watson's address where he was ushered inside by the maid and taken to Watson's office.
Watson's demeanor was polite but cold, and he seemed to be almost tired. Holmes began making small talk, trying to find the right point in the conversation to reveal himself. Once he had, he quickly diverted Watson's attention and removed the disguise.
When Watson turned back and saw Holmes, he stood as if rooted in place. He mouthed Holmes' name-a questioning look in his eyes. Then his legs gave out and he tumbled to the floor.
Holmes rushed to Watson's side. Watson had fainted? It didn't make any sense. He was a former army surgeon who had seen the horrors of the battle field. How could his nerves have become so weak that he would faint at Holmes' reappearence? Dear God, Watson must've suffered even more than Holmes had originally thought.
Very carefully, Holmes undid the collar buttons on Watson's shirt. Luckily, the brandy flask was on a table near the door, and Holmes quickly retrieved it. Kneeling at Watson's side once more, Holmes gently lifted him into a semi-sitting position and poured the brandy into Watson's mouth. Watson choked and turned his head.
"My dear Watson, I owe you a thousand apologies," Holmes said, relieved that his voice was steady, and knowing full well that what he said was a serious understatement. He would never be able to apologise enough for what he had done, and wouldn't blame Watson if he refused to ever see him again.
But the sheer delight on Watson's face when he realised that Holmes really was alive told Holmes that such a thing was not going to happen. Watson was so overcome with relief and joy that he forgave Holmes immediatly, and without question. All that mattered to him was that his friend was alive and well. It hurt Holmes far more than it would have if Watson had gotten angry.
And that's the end! I hope you all enjoyed the story, and thanks again to everyone who left a review, it really means a lot me.