(Part Two: The Return)

~1~

It had been a little over a week since Holmes' departure and I missed him terribly. The empty bed next to mine was a lonely testament to his commanding presence. School had become intolerable.

Having been so enthralled with my companion, I had forgotten to make other acquaintances, and was soon the target of scorn and reproach. My only friends had left me to fend for myself, but I was determined to ignore the fact. In my free time, I wrote letters to both Holmes and Elizabeth. I never sent them, but kept them under my mattress. The letters became an outlet for my emotions, and even having my thoughts on a scrap of paper addressed to Holmes made me feel a special bond with him.

It was while writing one of these letters that I became the sole witness of Holmes' return to Brampton.

I was crouched over my letter, gaslight carefully shuttered to prevent the awakening of one of the other boys, when I heard a light tapping on the window over my bed. I took this to be of no consequence, for the wind had been building up for a veritable attack and the noise was so light that it had to have been snowflakes pounding against the glass. I ignored the noise at my window in favour of listening for the dean's footsteps echoing down the hall towards the dormitory. I had been caught writing past curfew before, and had no intention of letting it happen a second time.

Several minutes later, the tapping resumed, with a new sense of urgency. I finally put down my pen and looked up at the window. There was nothing there. When the tapping continued a minute later, I was determined to catch it in the act. I was being irrational—a fact that I notice only in hindsight—and somehow imagined the sounds to be coming from some spectre that had grown tired of the blustery winter night and wanted to come in for a nightcap and a bit of lighthearted banter. With my nose almost touching the glass, I patted the tips of my fingers on the pane, hoping to achieve the same soft noise. In a fit of whimsy I tapped the first five beats of the familiar "Shave and a haircut" bit. I was startled into a muffled cry when a white, long-fingered hand rose out of the darkness to supply my tune with the last two notes. The hand took hold of the window ledge and was joined by another hand, then the pale countenance of my former companion.

"Holmes!" I wanted to laugh with joy but stifled myself with the crook of my elbow. I swiftly opened the window to allow Holmes access to the dormitory. Within seconds of my opening the window, he leapt deftly into the room and landed, silent and stealthy as a cat, on the floor. A flurry of snow followed him and settled upon his shoulders. He flashed me a smile as he closed the window behind himself. With the snow-flecked cloak and deerstalker he had the appearance of skeletal royalty in a snow globe. His bony cheeks had quickly become rosy in the warmth of the dormitory. A smudge of ash across his hawk-like nose made him look not unlike a street urchin. His eyes were lively with excitement.

"So we meet again, eh Watson?" he whispered, seizing my hand in a friendly shake.

"Wha… what are you doing here?" I felt ridiculous and awkward in my robe and slippers. The last drifting snowflake landed on the lens of my glasses and quickly melted. I felt as if I were in a dream, for there was no worldly explanation for Holmes' spectacular return.

"I believe you opened the window and let me in." he replied quietly and with wide eyes.

"Very funny, Holmes." I muttered under my breath.

(I pause here to note that the remainder of our exchange that night was spoken in hushed tones, and that I will not attempt to indicate how low our voices were for fear of losing the point of our conversation.)

"I meant what are you doing in London? Aren't you supposed to be with your bro— what in the blazes are you doing?" Holmes had ignored me completely and was rummaging deftly through my trunk in search of something.

"Dreadfully sorry, old chap." He looked up at me with genuine remorse before continuing in his search, "It's just that it's been quite a while since I have had a good meal, and if you're habits haven't changed in my absence, I daresay you should have a fair stash of— AHA!" He held up a pastry triumphantly and I noticed with notable surprise that it was one I had failed to find the night before. I had given up my search with the thought that some other student had pilfered it. "You wouldn't mind, would you?" Stunned, I merely nodded and watched in silent amazement as he ate the pastry with delicate caution, enjoying the slightly stale flavour of the cream centre.

When he had finished the pastry and allowed me to regain my composure, I continued my inquisition.

"Why aren't you at you're brother's?"

"It's not safe there." He replied with all seriousness while warming his hands upon the glass of my gaslight.

"Well why the deuce not?"

"It just isn't." He gave me a look that told me that that was all I needed to know for the time being.

"How did you get back?" I asked, envisioning his spindly silhouette against a barren landscape, trudging endlessly through mountains of fresh snow.

"I managed to cop a ride on a coal delivery cart." That explained the smudge on his nose, which I finally pointed out. "It stopped just short of the city," he continued, rubbing at the smudge with his eyes crossed, "so I walked the last few kilometers." That made sense as well. "Is it gone?"

"A little more to the right."

"Here?"

"Yes. And just where are you planning to stay? Certainly not in here?" I motioned around the room, and as if on a cue, the weary voice of Dudley called groggily across the room, "Who has a light on?" we held our breath. "Turn off the bloody light and go to sleep you buggered…" he trailed off and concluded his message with a nasally snore.

Holmes peered over at his rival, amusement and disgust dancing a swift ballet across his face. "So, the plague lingers." He turned to me, eyes filled with conflict. "I suppose he's been as much of a terror as usual?" I couldn't help but grin and nod. Dudley had become an arrogant prig since the removal of his only competitor, but now slept innocent as a baby and vulnerable as a turtle without its shell under the hard glare of his adversary. Holmes smiled sardonically and rubbed his hands together. "I will deal with him in due time. The issue at hand is where I am to take up residence. I have had copious time to think this through, and though it may be a bit nippy at first, I presume Waxflatter's loft is still vacant? Yes? It's decided then. I suppose Miss Miriam won't miss a few items?" Holmes stripped his former bed of coverlet and pillow. Miss Miriam was the school's newest chambermaid, though how Holmes knew her name stayed a mystery to me. Rolling the pillow in the comforter and tucking the resulting bundle under his arm, Holmes made as if to leave through the window.

We froze suddenly, both having heard the approaching shuffle-steps of the dean. "Hide!" I hissed through clenched teeth. When the tall, broad figure of the dean filled the doorway, the gaslight had been extinguished and the coverlet and pillow replaced. I was snuggled in my bed, my back turned to the door. Holmes peered up at me from under his bed, eyes wide. He made circles with his thumbs and forefingers and placed them over his eyes with a frantic wheeze from the back of his throat.

"What?" I mouthed at him, confused and anxious. He glared at me emphatically through his circles. Suddenly getting the idea, I suppressed a gasp and realized I was still wearing my glasses. With the smallest motion possible I slipped them off the tip of my nose and under my pillow.

The dean's footsteps shuffled between the parallel ranks of sleeping schoolboys, and I could picture his balding head swinging from side to side in relentless scrutiny of his army. His steps stopped at the foot of my bed. Holmes, hidden deep in the shadows where only I could see him, held his breath. The dean suppressed a yawn, sighed deeply, and turned back towards the door.

His footsteps had just echoed down the hall when Holmes rolled out from his hiding spot. "That was close. I'd better be off before he returns." He gathered up his pillow and blanket and crouched next to me. "I'll be conforming my lifestyle to a routine of secrecy, Watson. Don't try to call on me during the day, I'll be sleeping and it would rouse suspicions. I'll need you to bring me nourishment for a few nights until I find a way into the school kitchen."

"How am I supposed to do that?" I scoffed. "I'm not climbing on any roofs and getting my fool neck broken."

"For God's sake, I would never ask you to do something like that. You'd draw attention. No, look. I'll rig up a pulley with a basket. Just put the food in there and I'll deal with the rest." He was halfway out the window when he paused. "Expect me to drop in on you tomorrow night." Before I could ask what for, he was gone.

~2~

As I wandered through the courtyard between classes the following day, my eyes couldn't help but climb upwards to the loft. Waxflatter's wooden ramp was still positioned precariously over the window, ready as ever to launch some unusual flying contraption into the air and into the clutches of gravity. I knew that Holmes was up in the loft, making it his own; perhaps resting between bursts of energy to examine Waxflatter's aborted schemes and schematics, or thinking about Elizabeth with the curious blue ribbon wrapped around his fingers. I couldn't stand and stare at the window all day, however, for that would draw the attention Holmes was so adamantly endeavouring to avoid. However, it was a struggle to keep myself from telling of Holmes' return. At supper I wanted nothing more than to stand upon my chair and proclaim to the entire world that he had returned to me against all odds, and that surely no one could say the same would occur if they and their friends were torn apart as we had been. I drowned the irrational urge in the hustle and bustle of the dining hall, though, and set about my task of pilfering food for my hidden friend. This was a chore I was used to, being an expert on midnight snacks and the concealment of such fare.

As I had no friends, I was quite alone in my dining and found it quite easy to slip food beneath my table and into my large coat pockets. I strove to make my actions unknown, and in so doing found myself looking out the window into the growing darkness outside. I gazed longingly at the loft window, and imagined Holmes in the looming shadows, alone and cold, perhaps haunted by the ghosts of his past. These hopelessly romantic thoughts settled in my mind, and I could only wish, in silent desperation, that Holmes would keep his appointment for that night, for if he didn't, I would be forced to go and join him. As I stared at the window, there was the sputtering warm flash of what could only be a match, then the steady glow of a lamp. The light dimmed and disappeared into the inky depths as quickly as it had appeared. I glanced frantically about the dining hall in fear that I had not been the sole witness to this event. The other students were so intent upon their conversations that my growing unease dissipated into a mild sense of relief.

I quickly finished my hoard of food and headed off to my bed. The sheer amount of food that I had taken that night resulted in such a large bundle that I was forced to wrap my entire coat around it. I placed the coat over my arm in what I hoped was a careless manner and strode casually into our sleeping quarters.

"Hey John!" One of Dudley's lackeys called contemptuously. "Why don't you have your coat on? It's bloody freezing!"

"Oh… I'm quite comfortable, really." I opened the chest at the footboard of my bed and hastily placed the food-filled coat on top of the myriad clothes stashed there. I closed the chest and heard the satisfying click of a job well done. Then the lackey slipped into my sight, a discernible smirk creeping along the lower half of his face.

"You're not cold, then?" He asked, malice in his voice.

"N-no." I stammered.

"In that case, I don't suppose you'll need your quilt tonight, am I correct?" He shook open the quilt that had been lying, neatly folded, at the foot of my bed, and swung it around his shoulders like a cape. "Aw, yays. Scoff, scoff. Ate ais sew veray had baing the qwain of Aingland" He drawled in passable cockney. He strutted around the room amidst bursts of laughter and encouragement. Dudley applauded lightly at his friend's court jester actions. I'm sorry to say that although he was making a fool of our beloved queen, I was glad he wasn't torturing me and didn't attempt to put a stop to his gallivanting. I knew there was nothing I could do to get my quilt back, so I endeavoured to ignore Dudley and his troupe completely. They would have none of it, for I was barely a page into my novel when the jester inserted himself beetween the pages. "I dahsay, awl chap, what ah yew raidaing?" he asked, still using the ridiculous accent. The book was snatched from my hands and held up for public scrutiny. "Lewk! Awl' Johnnay hyah is raidaing the 'complate compendiam awf Blawday blokayness'!"

It was going to be a long night.

~3~

It took a while, but soon all the other boys were asleep. I had no doubt in my mind that Holmes had been crouching outside the window waiting for that exact moment, for when the last boy started to snore, there was a tap upon my window. I instantly opened it and allowed Holmes to enter. He dropped into the room with all the grace of the night before. His eyes were sparkling with excitement as he closed the window and grinned at me.

"Well done, Watson, old chap."

"It's a pleasure to see you again." And it truly was. He had cleaned himself up since the day before, and had apparently brought a change of clothes with him from home. He was wearing a brown vest over a white shirt. His trousers were the slightest bit short on him, and his ankles showed above his snow-covered shoes. He must have done quite a bit of exercise during the day, for he seemed quite comfortable in the cold with only this light wardrobe.

"Right then," he whispered as I went to fetch the food from my chest, "to business. As you know, I've taken up residence in Waxflatter's tower." Holmes has always teased my romantic view of things, but on this occasion he had was the romantic one. The "tower" was more of an attic than anything. Even calling it a loft was optimistic. Besides, there was no need for him to recap the previous night's events, for they stood out in my mind as clearly as he stood before me.

He accepted the food and paused briefly to taste the bread. "Very good. You have fine tastes, Watson. As I was saying, I was hoping to show you a way up to the tower."

I was delighted. Holmes had taken special precautions to stay accessible to me. I was not quite so delighted when he made me put on my coat and climb out of my window, however. Not being as graceful as my companion, I fell from the ledge and landed on the snow below with an audible grunt. Holmes landed next to me, and after having closed the window, helped me to regain my feet.

"Holmes!" I cried upon remembering that the window only opened from the inside, "How the devil am I supposed to get back in?"

"No problem, old boy. I have tied a ribbon around the handle. When you pull upon this loose end, it should release the clasp and allow you to go in." I peered at the device and was more than a bit startled to see that the ribbon he had used was the blue one that had once held Elizabeth's flowing blonde hair out of her face.

We made our ways to the "tower" and Holmes showed me the trellis he had found just a few windows over. "If you climb up here and walk across the roof, you shall eventually reach the trapdoor into my quarters."

I barely remember what happened next, only that one moment I was climbing, then being seized by an extreme attack of vertigo. I found myself lying upon the roof, Holmes leaning over me with concern upon his features.

"Dear lord, Watson, are you alright?" he asked. His breath was warm upon my cold cheeks.

I pushed myself up onto my elbows and put on a brave face. "I'm fine. Let's go."

Holmes looked unsure but led me across the roof to the trapdoor. Once we were both safely inside, he spread his arms and smiled broadly. "Tah dah!"

Holmes had apparently moved the furniture around, for there was more room in the attic than there had been previously. Waxflatter's plans and schematics were rolled into tubes and protruded from an umbrella stand. The tables had been pushed up against the wall, leaving a large empty space in the middle of the room. In the middle of the cleared area was a high-backed leather lounge chair, the likes of which I had never seen amongst the clutter of Waxflatter's inventing space. The bookshelves had been pushed in front of the door, leaving the window and trapdoor as the only entrances to Holmes' lair. He went to the window and closed the thick drapes.

"It's amazing." I confessed, standing in the middle of the room and spinning about to take it all in. "The place is actually organized for once." Holmes tossed me a dirty look over his shoulder and I refrained from making further comments about his former role model's tidiness. A lamp was lit and placed on the floor. The stuttering yellow light cast shivering shadows on the walls.

"I can only imagine," Holmes mused to himself, "what they would think if they saw a light in this window."

"I could always tell them this place is haunted." I offered. Holmes whirled on me with a look on his face I cannot describe, for I have yet to see it since.

"You will do nothing of the sort!" he hissed. "Not only is it absurd and completely impossible, it will draw them here." He paced about, his brows knitting over his disturbingly grey eyes and his chin resting upon his chest. "They're curious, yes… they'd want to see. They'd challenge each other to come here. The administration would get word of the rumours. No, Watson, no, it is the worst thing we could do." He stopped and cocked his head to the side as if listening for something. "Besides," he continued, his voice barely above a whisper, "one can hardly simulate a haunting without drawing the spirits of the dead."

It was at that moment that I began to question the sanity of my companion. At first I thought he had returned for my sake, then I imagined that he had escaped from some unspeakable horror and had come to me for help. Now I was unsure, for it seemed that Holmes had returned to dwell in the environment that had once harboured the life of his only love.

He turned to me, his expression melting into a weak smile. "So very sorry, Watson. I seem to have lost myself. What I meant to say is that would be a cruel tale to tell. I am not the only one that loved Elizabeth, and doubtlessly some heartbroken boy will hurt himself trying to catch a glimpse of her aura. No, Watson, I will simply practice caution." His eyes started to take on the glazed look I came to acquaint with his daydreaming, but snapped back into clarity as he noticed my coat pockets, still bulging with food. "Shall we eat, then?"

(End of Part Two)