The months following Holmes's return from what I, and all others, believed to be his death were some of the busiest of my life. I slipped back into my role as biographer and assistant as if he had never been gone, and while this was very time- consuming, I still also had to maintain my practice, until such time as I sold it. Finding a buyer was proving difficult, and this took up much of my remaining time. The present busyness was at least preferable to what had preceded it, and I threw myself into the necessary preparations, looking forward to the day when I could be free of the house and practice and return to Baker Street.

When at last Dr. Verner approached me and agreed to my price, I was elated. It had taken altogether too long to find someone who could pay what I needed, and while I did not know at the time of his connection to Holmes, I was merely grateful for the chance it offered. I had begun to believe I would never be able to sell the practice, and while I could look back with wistful happiness at the pleasant times Mary and I had spent in the house, it was also filled with far too many sad memories. Baker Street, however, meant that the lonely days following her death were at last over, and I was more than ready to move on.

First, however, I must pack up my belongings. While I would leave most of the furniture behind for a grateful Dr. Verner, save my writing desk, my personal effects had increased in number until they filled a house and would not fit in my bedroom at Baker Street. They certainly would not fit around the various ephemera that Holmes collected in the course of his work and hobbies. I therefore had to sort through an entire house of belongings and determine which things merited keeping, which should be disposed of, and which might serve some use for others than myself.

I had only lived in the house for seven years, yet it seemed as if I had accumulated a lifetime of keepsakes during that time. Most things I barely remembered and gave away among the other doctors on the street with no regret - sets of kitchen utensils and decorative pillows and the like. Some, however, merited closer inspection, and so I resolved to spend the week prior to the date of sale meticulously going from room to room to determine what I ought to keep.

In my office were things I would have great need of - my personal medical tools and appointment book, for instance, as well as my diploma from graduating medical school. These went into a box to take to Baker Street, before moving on to the spare room, which Mary had used as a sort of office to run the house. I had refrained from entering the room since her death, as every time I did it felt as if I would find her seated at the table, writing her correspondence or planning some small gathering of her friends.

The silence in the room served only to remind me of what could never be, and I resolved to go through this room quickly. My first instinct was to throw away anything that reminded me of Mary, knowing that nothing but pain would follow every time I came across one of her belongings, but reason told me that when the first season of grief passed, I would bitterly regret not keeping mementos of her. Therefore, I saved her best pieces of jewelry while giving the rest, and her dresses, to a lady's society for the benefit of others. Her appointment book I kept, for I knew she kept the letters we had written in our courtship in there, and those I wished to keep. What photographs we had of each other, I also kept, though for now they would be stored in a box in my Baker Street bedroom. Someday, I would wish to revisit them, but that day would not be soon.

Our living room had only a few pictures we had hung upon the walls, none of which had any personal meaning or were valuable in any way, and so I left them. Perhaps Verner and his wife would appreciate them. I kept the decorative doilies Mary had painstakingly tatted, though I doubted Holmes would consent to use them as decoration. Perhaps Mrs. Hudson would like them for her own rooms; if not, I would keep them myself.

I had already cleaned most of our bedroom, and so I was left with only my study, which I confess I had left for last. I am only neat when compared to Holmes, and my personal effects had rather taken over the room. I had not used this private office for my medical practice, and so the only things in it had to do with Holmes's cases. My notes and any mementos from cases, as well as printed copies of all my published works, were kept in this room, and I obviously wished to take all of this with me to Baker Street. I sighed. I would have to simply take all my belongings with me and find places for them later.

Feeling as if I had done all I could, I turned to go and found myself faced with a memento I had not considered: Holmes's silver cigarette case, which he had left for me at the edge of the Reichenbach Falls. It was placed in a position of honor upon the table next to my desk. It still held the note he had written to me, which I removed and placed among my important papers concerning his cases. But the case, now that he was proved to be still among the living, should be returned to him, and I resolved to do so tonight.

I arrived at Baker Street earlier than our agreed meeting time and hurried up the stairs. At times, I felt as giddy as a schoolboy with Holmes's return. I had had few friends who I could truly say I was close to after Reichenbach Falls, and his absence was so very all-encompassing that my life had seemed quite empty without him. His return was as a light shone through the depths of my grief, something I thought should never happen during the worst, early days, and for that alone I was profoundly grateful.

"Watson, you are early," Holmes said. "I have merely to wait for this experiment to cool down before we go." He indicated his Bunsen burner. "I must say I am glad to be at my own chemistry set again, in my own rooms."

"As they say, there is no place like home," I said. I hoped very much I would soon be back at Baker Street as well, for it had never been less than at least a second home to me. "While we wait, I have something for you, old fellow. I'm dreadfully sorry it took so long." I took the cigarette case out of my pocket and handed it to him.

Holmes, to my surprise, laughed out loud. "Watson, you have kept this all this time?"

"Of course I have!" I said. "It was my only memento of you." It was the only thing he had personally left to me, for all his other belongings had been left in situ at Baker Street. Which now, of course, made perfect sense. At the time, I had only this cigarette case and my own notes left of my dearest friend. "I had it set upon a table in my writing office, with the note you left me still inside. That I have kept, though I expect you would like this back."

Holmes took the case and smiled as if meeting an old friend. It was a handsome one, engraved with his name and emblems of leaves. It had, I knew, been a gift from his brother. Then, to my astonishment, he handed it back to me. "Thank you, Watson, but I wished you to have it and my wishes have not changed. I shall acquire another one at the tobacconist's tomorrow."

"What?" I asked. "No, Holmes, I cannot keep something which was a gift to you."

"It is now my gift to you, in recompense for my deception these past three years," Holmes said. "Do not look so surprised, Watson, I can see how you valued it. I would be happy to see it remain with you. Undoubtedly I would lose it off a hansom cab in a chase."

This was how he had lost more than one walking stick. I looked at the case and finally pocketed it. Holmes was not given to emotional declarations, and so I understood that he meant for me to take this as a token of our long friendship. In that case, I was happy to do so.

"Thank you, my dear Holmes," I said.

"Think nothing of it, Watson," Holmes said. "Ah, my burner is out at last. Come, to Simpson's."