I dared not sleep in the fear that I would wake up and find that it had all been nought but a dream.

I lay in the bed that had once been mine—but it had been more than three long years since then—staring up at the darkened ceiling, as if to etch patterns in the plaster with my gaze. The room—the whole flat—was like a mausoleum, no different from the day I had left—nearer to five years ago—but for a thick sheen of dust, with memories like ghosts lingering in every corner.

At last, I threw off the stifling blankets. I needed some air, that was all. It was only dust swirling about my lungs and stinging at my eyes. I did not wince as I passed the silhouettes of figures past, still dangling in the closet, or the familiar shapes of trinkets left behind upon the shelves, all clear as day in my memory as I glimpsed them through the shadowy veil.

I did not bother to light a candle; these were not ghosts that would be frightened away into the shadows by a little illumination, and I knew my way around the room well enough by memory alone that all I had to fear was tripping over my own tired feet. I tread carefully, quietly, as though to not wake any spectres that still slumbered.

I was already halfway down the stairs when I heard a soft whine that I could not quite describe as musical, but which haunted me all the same, emanating from the rooms below. A chill ran down my spine, caused only by the tendrils of cold night air that crept beneath my nightgown. The sound must have been the pipes settling in the quiet of the night. Nothing stirred but my own heart and lungs, both impossibly loud. I was alone but for my memories.

Still, I descended cautiously into the sitting room.

Standing, illuminated in silhouette by a single gaslamp, was a ghost. The low whine stopped in an instant as he lowered his arm and turned to regard me, the flickering light dancing in his keen grey eyes.

I did not faint for the second time in my life, but it was a near thing.

"Watson, forgive me, I did not mean to wake you." His voice, ordinarily high and strident, was now low and tender. He glowed, otherworldly, in the fiery lamplight.

Belatedly, I found my voice and replied, "No, you did not wake me." I did not say that it was on his account that I could not sleep at all—I did not need to.

A flicker of a smile flitted across his thin lips. "You are not the only one left sleepless by the day's excitement."

What a day it had been—and to me the night was still young.

The man before me, thin and wan for all his vivaciousness, seemed to give way to the darkened room at the edges, where the shadows coiled around him, as though to draw him back away with them. I thought to reach out, to know if he was indeed corporeal, but I stayed my hand. You may think that I must have been half-delirious with exhaustion, but in truth I have never been so awake, my heart pounding as if to break free of my chest.

"Do not fear, Watson," he continued with the same wry humour which I so fondly remembered, "I do not mean to make a habit of such dramatic appearances. Truly, I did not realise you would be so affected after so long an absence, but it is plain that I have dearly underestimated you." He reached out, taking my hand in his. "Come."

I felt the firm, yet gentle press of his fingers against my palm, the warmth of his touch. My fingers curled around his wrist and I felt the steady rhythm of his pulse.

"I have seen you in your old chair, would you now deign to adorn the settee?" Impish laughter sparkled in his eyes.

He made to draw me across the darkened sitting room, but stopped as I took a step to follow him, and instead turned to regard me.

"There are many ways in which we have to reacquaint ourselves," he said lightly, but with his voice so soft that it was nearly a whisper, though I could still hear it plainly in the quiet of the night.

Holmes shifted his hand in mine, his long, delicate fingers brushing across my knuckles. He raised his other hand deliberately toward my face.

I stepped back with a shake of my head, not quite willing to pull my hand from his grasp. "I can't, not so soon."

I relapsed onto the settee, Holmes trailing after me. He settled close beside me, leaving just enough distance between us in deference to my wishes.

"Mary; she died and I hardly saw her live. I made for a poor husband, and even at the end of her days, I could not give her the happiness which she deserved. It is the least I can do to respect her memory while the dirt is still fresh upon her grave." I pleaded into his eyes, that he would understand.

Holmes did not argue, and nor did he dismiss my concerns. Instead he inclined his head and said, "I came back as soon as I heard."

"Thank you," I said, still holding his hand in mine.

"Now," he said encouragingly, ready with a sympathetic diversion, "If you will permit me, we have not yet reached the end of the account of my recent adventures which you are so dearly owed."

That I could not deny him, and so he delved into his recent adventures with a gleam in eyes, though his gaze never wandered far, and our hands remained intertwined through the night, as we stole across Europe and Asia by the gaslight.

And so we remained until the dawn stretched its pearly tendrils across the grey early morning sky. The light crept beneath my eyelids and I was stirred into awareness—I must have drifted off at some point in the night, though I could not recall the moment at which I had given in to slumber.

My back ached stiffly from a night spent upright on the settee, my neck cricked from resting my head against Holmes's bony shoulder. As I began to stretch my tired muscles, he stirred beside me with a groan.

However, he was soon sufficiently recovered to remark, as he arched his limber back and pressed back on each of his long fingers, "I was able to furnish you with a satisfactory night's sleep?"

I cracked a smile and answered honestly, "I would have slept no better had I remained in my room."

"Had you not descended, I may not have slept at all. Might I entice you to remain for breakfast? I have been assured a feast, and you know I alone have not the appetite to do it justice."

I faltered, pushing myself onto uncertain, sleep-laden feet. "I should return home; I have my practice to attend to."

Holmes stood and said with a dismissive wave, "I will ring for breakfast; it should arrive by the time you are dressed, and then I will see you on your way without delay."

I found myself reluctant to argue. "If you insist."

"Indeed I do."

So, I remained for breakfast—Mrs. Hudson truly had outdone herself—and then I returned home.

The door closed firmly behind me, shutting out the bright spring day even more resolutely than the clouds that threatened on the horizon. The house was dark and empty, bereft even of the layer of dust which still lingered in the corners at Baker Street. I recognized some personal effects; letters in the hall, a book upon the table, trinkets upon the mantle, but it felt as though I had stepped into another man's home while he happened to be out.

Mechanically, I gathered the letters and drew open the blinds. My footsteps echoed in the silence, betraying my trespass. I did not linger. I had work to occupy me; letters to read, bills to pay, notes to finalise, patients to visit. I avoided the day's paper, though perusing it was ordinarily one of my keener pleasures.

That evening, a novel did little to hold my attention and I eventually fell into a restless slumber.


The following afternoon, I sat in my office, going through my papers, organising them, when the maid entered with a curtsy.

"I don't mean to interrupt, but there's a gentleman here to see you. He says that he's not a patient; he's paying a social call."

I put down the papers I had been diligently sorting through, leaving them askew upon my desk to be dealt with later. This was more urgent.

Sherlock Holmes stood waiting in the parlour, an aromatic bouquet clasped between his hands.

He reanimated as I entered. "My dear Watson, I hope it was not too hasty of me to presume that you are accepting visitors."

"Oh. No, not at all."

The maid took the bouquet to put it in a vase, leaving Holmes and myself alone in the quiet parlour. The thin, weak light of a cloudy day filtered in through the open window, giving Holmes an almost sickly pallor.

"A drink," I offered, belatedly remembering that I was to play the host.

However, Holmes held up a hand to delay me. "It is such a pleasant day, it would be a waste to spend it cloistered away; I propose a promenade in the park."

"Certainly."

Holmes ushered me into my coat and passed me my hat, and then we were off.

For a spring day in London, it was quite pleasant. The sky was overcast and every so often drew our attention with a light drizzle, but on the whole, the cool, if humid, air made for a comfortable stroll even in a dark suit. We walked arm in arm down the street, carriages and passers-by hurrying around us.

"I can think of no better time to be in London," Holmes remarked as we came upon the park.

I could not argue; what the sky lacked in colour was more than made up for by an eruption of green shoots and flowers in full bloom.

"And, there is nowhere I would prefer to be," Holmes continued, placing his free hand over mine where it rested upon his arm.

I met his piercing gaze of inscrutable grey. "Nowhere?" I could but ask.

A thin, wistful smile, which may have just as well been a grimace, flitted across his lips, but it was gone as quickly as it had come, and he replied lightly, waving his hand for emphasis, "What say you, Watson? The whole world is at your command."

"Holmes," I admonished, in truth unsure what to say—I had already had more than my share of youthful travels and I was no longer so young.

"Paris is lovely this time of year," he suggested, "or perhaps you would prefer to visit America, or far off Tibet."

I put a stop to it at last. "No, you are right, there is nowhere else I would like to travel, except perhaps to spend a week in the countryside."

"A true English gentleman to the last," Holmes proclaimed, patting my hand with perhaps a touch of condescension. "Indeed, why venture abroad when you can have all of the comforts of home?" I may have detected a touch of sincerity beneath his sardonic humour as he concluded, though I could not be certain.

We meandered between the flower beds. A little light filtered down, rewarding the plants that stretched their shoots and blossoms toward the heavens. It was quiet, perhaps even peaceful. It was only by the press of an arm in mine that I knew I was not alone, and it was only by glancing over at my companion that I could be certain that it was indeed Holmes walking beside me. He was thinner and paler than I remembered, his features more tightly drawn and with a new wariness in his keen eyes, which discreetly darted about, surveying our surroundings. Yet, I could feel his arm, solid in my own, and I may have even detected some of the warmth of life through my thin gloves.

For an instant, his gaze met mine in what seemed to be a silent invitation, with the subtle suggestion of a clever smile. And then his attention returned to the flowers. His stride slowed, as though to examine each bloom we passed.

"It is only goodness which gives extras," he remarked softly.

I was not certain that I had heard him correctly.

"What lovely things these flowers are, with their extravagant colours and scents wafting on the sprightly breeze, aglow in the warm light of a fleeting ray of sunlight on such an overcast day; even the din of London might be music to my weary ears. I deserve none of it yet here we are, and I can but be grateful for it."

He again placed his hand over mine upon his arm and gripped it gently.

"I only hope that you remain," I said.

He shook his head. "You will not be rid of me so easily, Watson."

We strolled a while longer, meandering between the flowerbeds, until we had traced every path in the small park a dozen times over. Eventually, Holmes walked back with me, and then, after a lingering farewell, he went on his way.


I was working in my study when a messenger boy arrived bearing a note written in an all too familiar scrawl; "Dear Watson, would you permit me the pleasure of your company at a concert tomorrow evening. It promises to be excellent. If you are amenable, I will come at six thirty to go for dinner. Always sincerely yours, Sherlock Holmes."

It was an invitation that I could hardly refuse, though I hesitated to be too hasty in my reply.

On the appointed evening, I took out my dinner jacket for the first time since before the funeral. I had sent everything to be cleaned, and so now the jacket and trousers were a crisp black and my shirts a pure white, all without the slightest wrinkle, as though they were all new.

I was still adjusting my waistcoat when I heard a knock at the door. It was hardly a quarter past six. I did not rush. I carefully donned my jacket and straightened my bowtie while the maid answered the door. I paused in front of the mirror for one final inspection before I steeled myself and at last descended.

"Aha! Here he comes now!" Holmes nearly sprung across the room from where he had been speaking with the maid—about what I could hardly imagine. He met me at the foot of the stairs. "My dear Watson, you look to be in excellent health this evening."

"Thank you, Holmes," I replied levely, accepting his proffered hand. "You look well."

His tailored suit accentuated his tall, lean figure, and though he was no less energetic, he appeared to be more at ease, the hunted look which he had frequently possessed since his return nearly absent from his eyes.

He guided me to the door with a hand at the small of my back and passed me my black top hat. "Come Watson, to dinner and then, if you are amenable, we shall pass an evening in violin-land, where all is sweetness and harmony."

Together, we stepped out into the evening. Though it was becoming warmer each day as spring led into summer, the air became brisk and cool as the sun slipped below the horizon, the last of its rays illuminating the clouds in a brilliant display. However, we did not have long to linger if we hoped to have dinner before the concert.

Holmes led the way; I very well knew that there was no use in questioning him and that he would only reveal where precisely we were headed in his own time. So, I was truly surprised when he held open the door to one of the most elegant restaurants in London.

I believe I do not exaggerate when I say that it glittered with gold in the light of half a dozen crystal chandeliers hanging from the ceiling, and the chairs at our little corner table were lined with plush velvet. However, it may have all been but a reflection.

"It is hardly necessary," I insisted as Holmes helped me into my seat before taking his own.

"No," Holmes acknowledged, but his eyes gleamed with mischief as an attentive waiter filled our glasses. "I am coming to find that it is those things which are not necessary in the first order, which are truly worthwhile."

I took a sip of the wine. "A very good choice."

Holmes gave a dismissive wave. "And I am certain it will be followed by an excellent dinner." He regarded me with an intensity which called it all inconsequential.

I took another sip. "And a concert," I said by way of a guess at what truly held his interest, though I knew it was a poor one.

"You are truly scintillating tonight, Watson," he intoned, and I gave him a pointed look as was his due, but there was something in his tone which suggested that he truly meant the words underneath his teasing humour.

"I should like to see you do better," I charged. That evening, the wine felt like it turned to lightning as it diffused into my veins—or perhaps it was not the wine.

"What could possibly be better than an evening spent in such stimulating company?" Holmes took a sip of his own wine, as though in victory.

I scoffed. "You flatter me."

"Not at all. Indeed, if I depart from the truth, it is by doing you insufficient justice. Would you like for me to list the ways?"

"Holmes, I don't believe this!" I said, laughing.

However, he suddenly took a serious tone. "I know." For an instant I saw such sincerity in his eyes. I dearly wanted to believe him.

We may have had a feast prepared by the greatest chefs in London, but I fear I hardly tasted it. I felt like a drowning man gasping for air. I have always found Holmes to be captivating, but I do not know if I have ever known him to be as enthralling as he was that evening, and I do not recall half of what we discussed. I am only certain that his eyes shone gold in the light of a hundred-some candles, and his sharp laughter filled the room.

All through the concert, I was acutely aware of him sitting beside me in the darkness. Each sweet melody brought to mind his obliging serenades, and every tumultuous note seemed to echo my own heightened emotions. And it seemed I was not alone in the sentiment, as I frequently saw his gaze wander over to meet mine, and the entire time his hand lingered delicately upon my arm.

When at last the virtuoso took his bows, we departed into the night arm in arm. The clouds above glowed with the reflected light of the city.

"At least his playing cannot be said to lack passion," Holmes remarked.

"Was it his playing?" I asked—in truth, I found it impossible to discern.

Holmes let out a barking laugh. "Perhaps you are right, Watson. If you would accept an encore by an amateur, I have been reacquainting myself with my own violin, and I assure you that my recent chemical experiments have left the flat no less habitable than before." His nervous fingers danced upon my sleeve.

I could think of no better way to end the evening, and said as much.

Holmes's answering smile was all the assurance that I needed.

The flat was dark and empty when we arrived, Mrs. Hudson long since retired to bed. Holmes roused the sleeping embers in the fireplace as I settled upon the settee, my tightly strung nerves loosening for the first time that evening, though an undercurrent of anticipation remained.

"My apologies, Watson," Holmes said, his voice barely louder than the tentative crackling in the grate.

"Holmes?"

At last he turned, silhouetted by the glowing embers. "It was the height of selfishness, but I could not bear to put you in such danger on my account, or to upend the peaceful life that you deserve. All I can hope is that you may one day find it within yourself to forgive me for my deception." His gaze did not falter, but his voice struck a nearly pleading note.

I believe it was then that I could remain seated no longer, but I stopped halfway to where he stood. "I should not have left you; at the falls or before then. I could not be the husband that Mary deserved and I should not have forsaken you."

Holmes shook his head. "No, Watson, I fear that you were right to leave; I was thoughtless and cruel. I hardly knew what I had until you were gone."

I stepped toward him. Though his words spoke of defeat, his eyes seemed to reflect the dim glow of the embers, shining with hope. He tentatively held out his hands to me, and I surged into him, wrapping my arms across his neck to pull him nearer still. Our lips met in an eager press, at once unmistakably familiar and tentatively new. We pulled apart, flushed and breathless, only to look to the other, seeking assurance of the impossible reality.

"You never cease to surprise me, my dear Watson," Holmes murmured, a question lingering in his eyes.

I could not help but chuckle, my fingers winding through his sleek dark hair, and my other hand at his sharp hip, unable to hold enough of him. "Could you not deduce it, Sherlock?" His Christian name felt strange, perhaps even dangerous, upon my tongue.

"You know that even I am not infallible, and I dare not trust a matter of such import to chance."

We each leaned in again, our lips met and we pressed closer together still.