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It felt almost uncomfortable to be back at our old lodgings, with my old friend by my side. It is not that I wasn’t grateful to have him back, I was, even more than that. The first few months after—what I had believed to be—his death, I used to rise in the wee hours, haunted by dreams in which he appeared at my door, asking me to follow on another adventure. As Mary’s health began to worsen, the dreams changed into nightmares, and when she passed away, I stopped dreaming at all.
And now the dream has come true, quite literally so. I was in my armchair on Baker Street, and next to me, there was Sherlock Holmes—sitting in silence, finishing his cigar, eyes fixed on the flames in deep thought. As if these three years have never been. An eerie sensation started to take over my whole body, an urge to leave, to go as far from this place as possible. Suddenly I found his presence hard to bear.
I shifted in my seat, and vigilant, gray eyes immediately turned in my direction. No words were needed, the question hung in the air.
“I… It was a weary day,” I said, rising. I turned my gaze away. “If you’ll excuse me, I best be going now.”
He did not answer, and I did not look. I strode across the room to get my hat, trying to push the thought that I had been acting irrationally to a distant corner of my mind. I reached out to the door and opened my mouth to bid him goodbye, but he pre-empted me.
“You could rest upstairs, Watson. The room is unoccupied, I… Mycroft took care of that.”
I paused, hand hanging in the air. Holmes’ voice was poised as always, but there was something in it, that made me look back. He had turned in the armchair to face me, but his eyes were locked somewhere on the wall, his expression inscrutable, yet, I still knew what he tried to say past the words spoken. ‘This can still be your home. This is your home.’
I closed my eyes to think. The irrational urge to go abated, but wasn’t gone completely. I could suffer either that or return to the empty chambers being home to some of my worst memories.
“You’re right. I’ll stay,” I said, finally, opening my eyes. “Thank you.”
“I will call for Mrs. Hudson,” he replied, springing from his place, “would you like a supper?”
“Thank you, a cup of tea will suffice,” said I, putting my hat back on a hat stand.
†††
The tea arrived and we drank in silence. There were so many more questions that I wanted to ask, but I couldn’t. Holmes had been sitting deep in mind and, if not for occasional glances, I could think he didn’t even notice my presence. I let myself look at him.
Not for the first time today it grasped my attention that he was thinner of old. Years must not have been kind to him. A few silver strands that I didn’t remember appeared on his temples, and that scar on the back of his hand? I couldn’t tell if it was there before. He looked haggard with the skin pale white, unpleasantly reminiscent of a dead body. I shuddered. No, I mustn’t think that. He was here, in a single piece. Alive.
My hand shook as I was putting the cup back on the plate. The china clinked and Holmes’ watchful eyes turned to me. Neither of us said anything.
Eventually, I got up.
“Thank you for the tea. I think I will retire now,” I said, pushing my chair back in place. “Goodnight, Holmes.”
I reached the stairs leading to my bedroom when Holmes’ voice stopped me again.
“Watson?”
I turned to look at him. He shook his head, his brows knitted slightly.
“Goodnight.”
†††
An incredible ability of the human brain, no matter how lousy a man feels over the day, in the night he will feel lousier.
I have been lying in the darkness, for how long? I couldn’t tell. The room felt so strange. Familiar, but not.
Moving with Mary, I took a majority of my possessions with me, leaving only a couple of spare things in case of an emergency stay at Baker Street. I never picked them up after the Reichenbach events, so, naturally, they were here—only they didn’t feel like my things anymore. I couldn’t force myself to change into the nightgown, so I have been lying on the bed clothed, having taken off nothing but the coat. The foggy moon kept shining through the window, illuminating the empty shelves. The room looked unwelcoming in its cold, blue light.
Nothing was certain for me anymore, my thoughts and feelings foremost. It seemed to me as if I had been experiencing a full range of human emotions at once. I was gifted a miracle that I couldn’t appreciate. I felt ungrateful, and yet I knew I shouldn’t blame myself for that. I mourned, I grieved, and finally, I learned to live without him, and for what? No, I didn’t want to blame him. I had my dearest friend back.
And yet, what if we both changed too much to find a way back? Earlier today, it was like the old times. But now, in the shadows of the night, I was all doubts. I was aware of the worried looks that my acquaintances had been giving me in the past months, I knew I kept pushing everybody away. The old wounds hadn’t yet healed when the new ones appeared. Eventually, I had to learn how to be alone again. Now, I have been closer to another human being than I was for a long time—with Holmes in his bedroom downstairs—and I couldn’t remember feeling more lonely.
I shifted on the bed. The hour was small and there was no point pretending that I was going to fall asleep any time soon. I decided to go down and clear my head with the remainder of the now-cold tea from earlier, and possibly a cigar. I got up, opened the door as quietly as I could, and took the stairs down. As I reached the corner, I noticed the light coming from downstairs. Surely Holmes must have forgotten to turn the gas down—I thought, but entering the room I realized that someone was still there. The floor creaked and the familiar figure in the armchair flinched.
“Holmes,” I said quietly. “I hope I didn’t wake you, dear fellow.” I knew well, that he was fully awake, but no different words came to my mind.
“Watson,” said he, turning towards me. His face was hidden in the shadow, but I noticed the same emptiness in him, that I carried in me. I forgot about the tea, turning my steps towards the fireplace.
“Are you all right, Holmes?” I asked, placing myself on the edge of the settee.
“Y… No. I don’t know, Watson.”
I didn’t expect that. Old Holmes… My Holmes would not admit to not being all right like that. I should have been glad to see this insufferable trait of his gone. I should have, but the only thing I could focus on was how unsettling it was.
“Is there anything I can help you with?” I asked, finally. He raised his head slightly. It might have been for the light, but his eyes gleamed in the darkness more than before.
He had looked at me for a while, and not having said one word buried his face in his hands. Involuntarily, my own hand found itself on his shoulder. He shuddered, and I withdrew, but halfway through his cold fingers grasped upon my wrist. I let my palm fall back on his arm.
“I went too far, this time,” he muttered. It did not sound like a question, but I read it was one.
I didn’t answer. I couldn’t answer. There was no good thing to say.
My silence made it for an answer anyway. He let go of my hand but I kept it in place. I struggled to find the right words, and I hoped… I begged for him to understand.
“And yet, you stayed,” he broke the silence.
“Holmes, how well do you know me?”
“I wish to say, as well as one man may know another.”
“Why are you so surprised then?”
“I am not. It’s only… Asking you to come with me tonight, I shouldn’t have in the first place.”
My heart sank at his words. Did he regret taking me along?
“I thought… I see.” A cold shiver ran down my spine. I pulled back, removing my hand. Holmes sighed.
“No, no,” his fingers moved to pinch the base of his nose. “It’s not… I didn’t have a right to ask that of you. I don’t have it still, to ask anything. At first, I thought it a brilliant idea—to see you again, to make things how they used to be. But man cannot rewind the time. I saw how deeply disturbed you are, Watson, and it doesn’t require a detective to tell why,” he paused, and raised his head to look at me, “and yet, you are still here.”
“I am, yes. How could I not?”
“You have all the right to resent me.”
“I could never do that.”
He curled up in his chair, drawing up his knees, and suddenly seemed so small, fragile. It dawned on me—he was hurt too. Yes, he was a solitary man, but I used to be part of this solitude. It wasn’t me only, who was alone for those years. I mourned, but I had my practice, my wife. Did he have anybody but the occasional letters, wandering through the world?
“Sherlock…” His Christian name felt odd on my lips, awkward. Holmes too, moved anxiously and was now glancing at me over his bent knees. I sighed and tried again. “I would lie if I said that I am not angered. But foremost, I am thankful to have you back, Holmes. And I understand your reasons, but if you disappear again,” I stopped and took a long breath. I exhaled and decided to change the course. “This anger will pass. And I am, believe me, more than happy to be here with you, dear friend.”
We both stayed quiet for a long while. This recurring silence was getting hard to endure. It was Holmes again who broke it.
“You feel that too. How,” he waved his hand in a vague gesture, “it all is.”
“Yes.”
“Will this pass too?”
I pondered. Little did I want more, but I knew what a formidable thing it may prove. We might have walked our parted ways too far to ever come back. Still, I was willing to try, I was willing to do whatever it took if there was a mere chance of succeeding. Finally, I spoke.
“Earlier today, it was the same as the old times. I haven’t lost my hope yet.”
“It was, yes,” said he, plucking on some imaginary threads of his dressing gown, “but that won’t last. ‘No man ever steps in the same river twice’”
“Whatever it is going to be,” I said, looking over at him, “I trust we can make it be well.”
He didn’t answer, but it seemed to me he relaxed slightly. The fire in the fireplace went out a long time ago and only the dim light of the lamps flickered on the walls.
“Will you stay?” he whispered after a while.
“I will,” I replied. The breath he let out was a one of relief.
We sat in the darkness for a while longer, until out from the shuttered window a toll of the distant church bells reached us. It struck four times. I thought about my practice, and almost let out a groan. I didn’t want to leave now that the uneasy feeling diminished, but I had little choice if I wanted to be capable of working the following day. I rose from my seat, Holmes’ eyes followed me.
“If I am going to be of any use to my patients, I should at least try to rest,” I said, and he nodded with understanding. “Goodnight, old friend,” I added, turning towards the stairs.
I scarcely took a step when Sherlock Holmes’ voice stopped me for the third time this evening.
“John?”
A knot in my throat tightened again, as I heard him say my name. As I heard anyone say it for the first time in many months. I turned to him, but he wasn’t looking at me, his eyes fixed on the carpet, somewhere near my shoes. I cleared my throat and he glanced at me, quickly returning his gaze to the floor, although it seemed that the corners of his lips curled somewhat.
“Yes?” I asked, finally.
“Sleep well,” said he, with a gleam of a smile.