It was a perfectly horrid way to spend a Christmas.
Brompton School for Boys rose large and stern like a frosted castle, and beyond its gates Holmes and I stood in the sparse holiday traffic, making our farewells as his trunk was loaded into the carriage. The poor fellow seemed woodenly resigned to the prospect of a sojourn with his brother, though I hoped for his sake that he'd quickly find another school. Foreign though the sensation was to me, I knew that Holmes would miss his studies.
For the longest time he gazed up at the window - so well I recall the day when Elisabeth sent her love to my companion on the fogged glass! – and a heavy sadness appeared to physically weighed down on him, a sorrow so wretched and tangible that even the poor fellow's natural reserve was insufficient to mask it. I had heard his promise to Elisabeth with my own ears, that terrible night on the docks, and in my own slow, fumbling way I knew that Holmes would never love another woman though he might live as long a hundred years or as little as a day. I felt an awful pity for him; in truth, the conclusion of this adventure was not feeling much like it should have. I was exhausted and immensely distressed; likewise, the depths of my companion's grief were too bleak and abysmal to imagine. My nature of hesitant, and I scarcely knew how to comfort him, though I have never in my life so earnestly wished for something.
"Holmes, you've got your whole life ahead of you,"
The poor fellow did not look away from the window.
"And I'll spend it alone."
I have often observed in the years since that Holmes rarely smiled, and I don't believe I shall ever forget the look of his eyes: the wheels of a powerful machine turning as he sat cross-legged in his chair, confident that every difficulty the universe might pose could be solved from that position. And yet his gaze seemed oddly veiled all those years at Baker Street, as if a curtain had been drawn and only at moments of extreme excitement was the shade pulled back. As we stood there in the lightly drifting snow, I began to see that hardness in his face. On that cold morning I was still just a boy, but I fancy that Holmes became a man as he stared at the empty window – in that moment he seemed to gaze forward on a life that must be empty of Her, and the youthful warm fled from his eyes as he shouldered his fate like a heavy mantle.
The silence was miserable; I felt quite silly rummaging in my coat for the small paper package. My attempt at holiday cheer seemed a facetious intrusion.
"Merry Christmas, Holmes." He wordlessly accepted the gift and began to open it.
As the swan-necked stem of the pipe came into view the poor fellow smiled sadly and turned it over and over in his hands as if to memorize every detail.
"I shall miss you, Watson," he said.
"I'm going to miss you too…" I could hardly imagine how dull life would be without that rakish, gangly figure striding into class every morning; forcing his violin through a painful attempt at music as I tried to study; sitting with his hawk-nose in a borrowed casebook. School would be a perfectly dreadful existence without him. Holmes must've guessed my thoughts.
"Don't worry yourself, old fellow," he clamped the stem of the pipe in his mouth to cheer me up, "you'll make a splendid doctor…and I daresay we'll meet again." Stiffly, he folded himself into the carriage.
"I hope so."
We shook hands through the door, and as the carriage rattled away with my friend I had the strangest urge to turn and look up at Elisabeth's window. Though it was an absurd fancy for a medically-destined individual, I felt quite sure that if I looked again I would see her behind the glass, petting that absurd little dog and writing messages on the fogged window pane as she had only a few days ago. I am not in the least superstitious, but I discovered that morning that our departed friends linger strangely in this world; wonderfully real, they follow us, summoned up by memories at the oddest times. For a moment I thought that Elisabeth was watching me from that window, but it was only the maid, tugging on the sill to pull it closed and industriously wiping the glass.
I dropped my eyes. Holmes' carriage had rattled to the corner, and as it turned and pulled out of sight I raised my hand in farewell; with all my soul I hoped that Elisabeth would follow Sherlock Holmes wherever he went on that snowy Christmas day, that perhaps he wouldn't be quite so sad in awaiting the hour when they would meet again. I smiled; Holmes would not be late.