The Empty House

When I awake, I find that I have been made comfortable by my kindly Boswell. My shoes have been removed from my feet and I have more rugs covering me than I did when I took to this couch. The curtains have been drawn, the gas turned down low and I am warmer than I have been in what seems an age.

I sit up quickly - a little too quickly for a man that has not always had enough time for luxuries such as nourishment and sleep - and am quickly reassured by my friend of old.

"It is all right Holmes. You are quite safe here."

I nod and rub at my forehead as I try not to yawn. "What time is it?"

The fellow comes to my side and rests a hand upon my shoulder. "Time for dinner," he informs me firmly.

Yes, of course it is. Watson is very fond of his meals. I smile at him and admit that I am indeed hungry. In actual fact I am famished but, having been forced to eat often very meagre rations for such a long time, I am not sure quite how much I could manage. At least I am not in the habit of eating much anyway, so I am not going to worry him as much as I might if I only find enough appetite for very little.

I try to at least eat a little of everything at dinner, but my nerves are still on edge. Though I feel better now that I have been reunited with my dear Watson, there is still a murderer at large who means to kill me and we have a plan to put in motion.

"When you like, where you like," were my Boswell's words when he was asked whether he would come with me earlier. How I have missed his loyalty! I have not missed his concern quite so much (he is watching me pick at the food on my plate with an expression that tells me that he wishes that I would eat properly) but I shall put up with that.

Despite my earlier impatience to see my old friend again, I have formulated a trap that should ensnare Moran. I send a message to Lestrade, who is working the Adaire case (and who, by all accounts - or at least Watson's, has been missing me) and then take my biographer off into the night as if it has not been three years since we last shared an adventure.

I take my Boswell by the hand and eagerly guide (nay, drag) him inside an empty house that I have selected as providing a perfect view for the drama which is about to unfold.

The stairs and floorboards creak as we take our positions, there is nowhere for my companion to sit (I should have thought about that and warned him; perhaps he would have preferred to have stayed at home) and it is terribly cold. I take Watson's mind off of the discomfort that he must be feeling by directing his attention to the street that we are facing and the lit window opposite the one that he is standing at. Of course he thinks the wax bust of me marvelous, though he fails to understand its importance. I simply tell him that I wish to be believed to still be at home, while I am in fact elsewhere.

It is not long before I am myself becoming uncomfortable in this cold room, and I am used to remaining on my feet for extended periods and I have grown accustomed to being cold. I should like to pace in order to warm myself, albeit only slightly, and stretch my legs, but it might be wiser to remain still. I am not quite sure what Moran might do or where he might be.

"Holmes!"

I am immediately alert. The excited whisper from my Boswell has arrested my interest at once, but I am to be disappointed; he has only noticed some members of the official police. I snort and drum my fingers impatiently. The bunglers may think themselves inconspicuous, but any criminal can clearly see them for what they are at a glance. Well, at least I now know that Lestrade has received my message.

Time is dragging on and the urge to move is becoming almost impossible to bear when a creak sounds from a stair. Watson and I freeze for a moment and then hasten to conceal ourselves in the darkness. Did we leave the front door ajar and arouse the interest of a passing policeman? I cannot distinctly remember shutting the door. Did my Boswell enter behind me? Did he shut the door?

The door opens and a man enters the room. Without a moment's hesitation he makes his way to the very window from which my friend and I had been keeping our watch just moments before.

A gun is assembled and then pointed at the wax bust. I wait until it has been fired and then leap at the assassin with a cry. Now I shall have my revenge for the three years of misery that he has forced us both to endure!

The struggle is embarrassing! I had thought that Moran and I would have been more evenly matched, but I am becoming exhausted and I all but permit him to strangle me. Were Watson not here I am quite sure that he would have succeeded in doing so, for I cannot seem to manage to escape his squeezing clutches.

There is a sudden, confusing clamour of noises and then Lestrade and his men are present. I quickly bring my coughing under control, though my throat remains horribly sore, and congratulate the inspector for catching his man. I then get a little... excited and shout at Moran, glad as I am to finally have him caught. I am not fully aware of what I am saying, so relieved and angry am I, and Watson's placating hand only causes me to turn a snarl in his direction. How dare he attempt to pacify me now! Does he not realise that at least half of this vent is made on his behalf? This murderer has forced me to do something that should never be done and so he deserves worse than I could ever inflict upon him.

Ha! Now our criminal wishes to know what it is that he is being charged with. Perhaps he believes that attempting to murder me - twice - is pardonable (though, judging by the reaction of the public at Watson's announcement that I had died, I imagine him to be sorely mistaken) and that he shall get away with that. Either way, it matters not a jot.

Lestrade looks baffled when I inform him that he has caught the murderer of Adaire and dismiss the attempt on my life as unimportant. I explain all readily enough and watch as Moran is taken away. Thank God! Lestrade then shakes me warmly by the hand and I realise with a sensation that I cannot quite place that it is me that he has missed and not so much my methods. I am not very sure of myself or how to react and so I hand over to Watson while I attempt to collect myself.

"Well," Watson says after a long and uncomfortable silence, when we are finally alone. "What happens now?"

I cannot bring myself to meet his gaze. Our silences were never uncomfortable before now; there had never been a time when we knew not what to say or how to say it. Before my hiatus we simply had nothing to say because we knew one another so well and there had been no cause for idle talk. Will I ever right the terrible wrong that was done to my dear friend?

"Are you all right?" the doctor's hand is resting at my shoulder in an instant. "Holmes?"

I nod and keep myself from pulling away from him. Though I know exactly what my old friend has said, I ask him to repeat in order to appear to have only been lost in thought. Not that I ever am.

"Now?" I smile at him. "Now, if you have nothing better to do, you are welcome to come -" No! Baker Street is not Watson's home "- come back with me to Baker Street for a nice, warming drink." That is as far forward as I dare to look for now. But, dare I think, the fellow must surely be as lonely as I am. Perhaps he might move back in with me if I make him welcome and give him some time.