After a lovely holiday spent in the sunny countryside, returning to a rain-lashed London was not overly pleasant. Despite the wet, however, I was glad to be silently letting myself into the hall of 221B; due to bad weather I'd been delayed over three hours in my return and it was wonderful to be home.
My telegram no doubt had allowed Holmes and Mrs. Hudson to sleep without fretting over my whereabouts, and I had no intention of waking either of them. I left my luggage in the hall and tiptoed up the stairs, but noticed the sitting room gas was lit – perhaps Holmes was still awake, then?
I quietly entered, pausing with a smile as I saw that my friend was sound asleep, sprawled all over my armchair by the fire. He had evidently been waiting for my return, clad in his dressing-gown and slippers and in a most awkward position in that uncomfortable chair.
I perceived a neat pile of post upon my desk (several telegrams of which had been opened to see if they were either interesting or urgent), along with a modest box of my favourite cigars and a new edition of the Lancet. No accompanying note, nor was one needed.
"Brain without a heart, indeed," I chuckled softly as I went to find him a blanket.