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Returning from a walk one day, I found Holmes frantically packing his bags, stuffing his good suit and so many books into a battered suitcase.
“Oh, halloa Watson,” he said, turning when he saw me. He picked up a bust of Napoleon, considered it for a moment, before setting it down again.
“You can have him,” he said humorously, patting the statue for a moment before leveling a look at me.
“Where are you going?” I said, dumbfounded.
“I’m moving to the continent with the Professor,” he said, fretting with a sleeve. “He’s been named visiting professor in a small university in the Bohemian countryside, and I need some peace and quiet to complete my newest monograph on the pawprints of marshland mammals.”
“Bohemia has marshlands?” I said, not quite understanding. It was easier to focus on marshlands than the fact that Holmes was moving to the continent.
“Perhaps not quite as grand as our moors and marshes,” Holmes said, transferring another pile of blouses into his suitcase, “but my primary research is done. All that remains is to compose the monograph.”
“Alright,” I said, dumbfounded, “when’s your train?”
“Tonight,” he said. “I was going to leave you a note, Watson. You seem more composed than I had feared. With me gone, you can move out of this bachelor pad, again, and live with Mrs Watson.”
“Who are you moving in with?” I asked. There were so many professors in this nation, I was not quite sure if I was supposed to recognise the title. And he, of course, could not have been referring to that professor.
Holmes’ hands stilled for a moment. “Oh,” he said, giving a short laugh. “No– I had thought– I was referring to Dr Moriarty, of course.”
“Holmes!” I said, appalled. And then, “He isn’t dead?”
“Oh no,” Holmes said, with an air of great importance, “you see, that threw me off too. But I’ve been receiving postcards from him–” here he dug into his suitcase, and produced a little card with a grey illustration of some Baroque buildings, “–and he was so nice to invite me all the way to Bohemia.”
I leaned over to read the scribblings on the other side of the card, but Holmes moved his hand, quick as a flash. All I caught were some looping letters printed in navy by an imperial hand.
“I’m afraid that’s between him and me,” Holmes said, in rather a mischievous tone. “But I can see that you are concerned for me–”
“Naturally,” I interrupted, exasperated.
“He promised that there would be no repeat of that affair four years ago.”
“And you take his word for it?” Delirious, I reflected how inane he made the whole business sound.
“Yes,” Holmes said, lightly.
“But Holmes,” I urged, “I have to ask– why?”
“Oh Watson,” Holmes said, shutting his suitcase and clicking the clasp, “simply because Dynamics of an Asteroid is such a scintillating publication! Help me with my bag, Watson– the cab is coming soon, at six o’clock.”
*
“But how is he alive?” I asked, slumped opposite Holmes in the darkness of a cab.
“Do you imagine for a moment I was the only one taking a three-year sabbatical in the continent?” Holmes asked, shifting up against the window. “The Professor too escaped, and has found employment with one of those colleges in Europe. There is a great intellectual tradition there, as they say.”
“He’s given up crime?”
“Yes,” Holmes said sternly, “or I shall make him.”
By wrestling him over a waterfall again? I wanted to say, but did not. It was too ridiculous to put into words.
“Oh Watson,” Holmes said, sitting up straighter across me and wagging a finger at me, “do not think I cannot see what’s going on in that little mind of yours. You are concerned for me!”
He seemed pleased by this revelation, which should not have come as a surprise. His eyes glinted, and I replied in the affirmative. Cheeky, cheeky man.
“Against all odds, he seems to be a changed man,” Holmes said, more sombrely, leaning back into his seat. “I do believe it. His postcards say so.”
“His postcards!” I said, incredulous.
“Don’t you worry,” Holmes was still explaining to me as the carriage pulled into Victoria Station, and I helped him unload his bags from the carriage, “I’ll send you postcards and you will see how sincere one can be in one of these curious little cards.”
He laughed, and I felt inclined to believe him.
“Goodbye Holmes!” I shouted at him from across the platform, as he boarded one of those great steam trains. “Take care, take care!”
Let me go with you! I did not say.
He waved his free arm at me, and then ducked into a carriage. He seemed cheerful, and I tried not to feel bereft as the train pulled out of the station with a great rumble, and a white cloud of steam.
"Take care!" I shouted again, running after Holmes' shape in the window. I thought I saw him waving, or peering back at me. A slight ache took hold in my chest– I felt myself tremble all over, ears ringing with the great rumbling of the train, and I imagined it was from my strenuous bout of running.
*