Over the next few days, John slept, tended patients, visited Lestrade, caught a cold, watched telly with Mrs Hudson, and ate when he felt hungry.
At night, when he woke in a cold sweat from his nightmares of war, John went down to his sitting room and built up a fire in the grate. Feeling lonelier now than when he'd been dreaming, John got up from his seat by the fire and picked up the mysterious violin from the corner chair where he'd left it before. John plucked at the strings and realized it was out of tune.
"Kind of like my life," John mused, surprising himself with such deep thinking. He set the instrument down again and stood in the middle of the flat with the fire at his back, looking around at the still-life oil painting he seemed to be trapped in. The door to his right made the metaphorical picture's paint crack as it creakily swung open. Head still full of memories of war, John picked up a fire poker, holding it defensively by his side as he inched closer to the door. John lurched forward as a man stepped out of the shadowy room and said, "I like what you've done with the place; much tidier."
The rush of action suddenly snuffed itself out as John recognized the suited man from the other day when he had previously broken into the flat to ask for the violin and photograph. Returning the fire poker to its stand, John speculated, "It's you. What are you doing here?"
"I did say I would check up on you, Doctor Watson." The man turned and re-entered the room he'd just left and turned around to face John, who'd followed him to ask, "What – in the middle of the night?"
The man smiled like he was trying to be amused. "I just wanted to tell you that there have been a couple of clues found in the search for the missing suicide jumper. They may be able to tell us what happened and why. This sort of thing seems to be happening a lot, all over the world."
"Well, suicide is pretty common…" John gave the intruder a look that silently asked, What's it to do with me?
"No, not the suicides, Doctor Watson, the disappearances."
"You mean there are more people strangely disappearing?"
"Yes, they have been for centuries, apparently, and will continue to do so – taking their memories with them – until the problem can be fixed. My next lead takes me to a museum. It's got an artifact there that was recovered from ancient Rome. Somehow it might be connected to the problem, since… Well, you don't need to know that, but I'm headed there as soon as I've finished here."
"And why have you come here? I still don't understand."
"With any luck, you will remember soon that you and I are friendly – if distrustful – acquaintances." The man walked over to the room's only window, which was open and admitting a draft. "I do not deny that I am blamable for a great deal of this situation, but I am a realistic man. There are at least two others involved in the trouble that has befallen my brother." He smiled with surprise as if he'd just made an unexpected joke.
"Your brother? Who is he?"
The man turned to John and said with conviction and sincerity and said, "He is a great man." He smirked to himself and continued, "And if you ever see him again, I trust you will not tell him I said so."
"I can't recall ever meeting this brother of yours."
"No. I don't imagine you can. But I've been on your blog, and I'm pleased to know that you do remember him."
"What? That doesn't make sense. I don't think I've written about him. And who are you, anyway? Don't just say you're a friend."
"But that is precisely what I am, John. I'm trying to help a friend."
John gave the floor a doubtful look and defiantly raised his eyes back up to the obstinate person before him. "Alright, whatever. I think your museum's waiting for you."
"So it is," said the man as he walked past John, out of the room, and across the flat.
John went out after him and sat in the chair by the fire. Once the man's footsteps had carried him out of the front door, John went back up to bed inexplicably but decidedly more cheerful.