Sherlock Holmes

by Keisuke Matsuoka

  38

  Spring of 1894. Since he had last seen it three years ago, the scenery of London had changed slightly. On several of the streets, the old Aberdeen granite cobblestones had been replaced with a smoother macadam pavement. Although the carriages shook less than before, the wheels shaved the roads as they went, and the buildings alongside were stained white with road dust. One could judge how long a door had not been opened for by the amount of dust accumulated on its handle.

  It was nearly two in the afternoon. Sherlock disembarked from his carriage onto the long-missed Baker Street. The area remained unchanged, and it was hard to believe that three years had passed. There was the familiar entryway door, crowned with its arched window. There was the number, 221B.

  Sherlock opened the door and stepped inside. He faced the back of an old, grey-haired woman. She remained stooped over, polishing the stairway banister with a rag, as she called over her shoulder, “Welcome, come in. Mr. Holmes is waiting on the second floor.”

  Sherlock felt momentarily disconcerted, but soon realized the situation. His brother must have only told her he was expecting a visitor, but not who it was.

  Mrs. Hudson turned around. She stared at him blankly, blinking several times. A violent look of surprise overwhelmed her. She staggered toward him, eyes wide, and gave a strangled cry. “Good Lord! Mr. Holmes!”

  Her knees buckled. Sherlock grabbed her to prevent her from falling. Mrs. Hudson’s joy was beyond anything he would have imagined. She cried like a little girl. She must be off her trolley, to greet him in this way.

  Mrs. Hudson’s voice trembled. “I was sure we had lost you. They all talked of having a gathering, it’s near to the day of your passing. Last year Inspector Lestrade sent an entire carriage of white carnations, it was a fine thing.”

  “Please calm down, Mrs. Hudson. It is very good to see you again. Did my brother tell you nothing?”

  “Nothing at all. Oh, that scoundrel, he told me to ready the rooms because a guest was arriving from a laboratory in France!”

  “And so I have. He was not wrong. He is upstairs, then?”

  “Yes. I am just on my way up with the tea things.”

  “No need, please rest downstairs. You and I shall have our tea together after I come down.”

  Mrs. Hudson eagerly invited him to find her in the back room of the first floor. Then Sherlock straightened his collar and climbed the stairs. Trust Mycroft—although he had surely heard the commotion below, he did not step out to greet his brother.

  The door had been left ajar. Sherlock stepped inside. The room, which he had not set eyes upon in so long, was organized as though someone had hastily put it in order for visitors. The table and sofa remained in their former position. The laboratory equipment atop the desk also remained untouched. The Persian slipper sat upon the mantelpiece. Likely even the tobacco remained inside, though it would be stale and unusable by now.

  Mycroft, who sat in the easy-chair, was thinner than Sherlock remembered, but this made him look younger as well. He stood slowly and extended both arms, a smile creasing his face.

  Surely he was not expecting a hug. Sherlock grimaced. “I see everything has been left as it was. It would have appeared less suspicious to Moriarty’s ruffians if you’d just cleared the entire place, but I suppose disposing of so many household articles proved too trying. Very like you, Mycroft, to continue to pay the rent simply because it demanded less effort.”

  “Sherlock, the least you could do is say hello.”

  “Yes, and you might welcome me back.”

  He expected a sarcastic rejoinder. Instead, Mycroft said readily, “Welcome home, Sherlock.”

  The sincerity in his tone left Sherlock momentarily speechless. It took effort for him to say, “It is good to see you…”

  Mycroft’s expression was not the same as when they had parted at the Port of Livorno. From that day Sherlock remembered only the reproach in Mycroft’s face, but now he seemed to be congeniality itself. Perhaps there had been no need to worry so much over their clashing opinions, after all.

  Indeed, Sherlock finally understood how much trouble his brother had gone to help him escape. And the difficulties he must have suffered for the three years that followed.

  “You look well,” Mycroft observed, his face showing subdued joy.

  “As do you,” Sherlock replied.

  “I heard of what unfolded in Japan. There was nearly war with Russia.”

  Sherlock smiled, and placed his finger to his lips. “I was sworn to secrecy by Chairman Ito. Excuse me, Prime Minister Ito.”

  “Yes, he has been made Prime Minister once again. And the Dalai Lama and Caliph?”

  “I was able to gain an audience.”

  “Ask and you shall receive!”

  “Indeed,” Sherlock said. At the moment he felt he could speak openly. “It is thanks to you, brother. I am very grateful.”

  Mycroft seemed a touch embarrassed. “I was not the one who made the trips possible.”

  “But you provided the opportunity. A chance for a little fish to see the greater pond. I understand now what it means to be brothers.”

  The bell chimed, announcing the time as two o’clock. Mycroft’s expression softened. He hesitated over his words for a moment, then spoke in his usual deflecting manner. “Your decision to return sooner than your original intention has left me rather harried. I thought we would have you pop out from your coffin during the third anniversary of your passing, and scare everyone half to death.”

  “I heard of the Park Lane incident.”

  “So you already know. It occurred just as I said it would: after the trial, two of Moriarty’s men went free. Your evidence was not enough.”

  “I still believe what I had gathered was strong enough to make Moriarty desperate.”

  “We are of different minds.”

  No matter. “So be it,” Sherlock said softly, staring off into space. “Certainly brothers may be of different minds.”

  So long as they agreed on a deeper level.

  Those were Sherlock’s genuine feelings. However, it was more than he was capable of putting into words. He hoped that Mycroft understood, even if he did not say as much aloud.

  His brother seemed sensitive to his meaning. He smiled and nodded slightly. “Oh, and Sherlock. If you have exhausted your savings during your travels…”

  “I have royalties from the record of my Tibet explorations, which I published under the alias Sigerson. It is enough.”

  “I see.” Mycroft approached the table where a bottle of scotch and some glasses had been set out. “A poor showing, but let us drink to your return.”

  “I must pass. I have given up drink.”

  “Given it up?” Mycroft’s eyes grew wide. “Truly?”

  “Yes. I have had enough spirits for a lifetime.”

  The elder brother had lifted one of the glasses in the air. He returned it to the table. “That is for the best, I suppose. We do not have any soda water anyway. The seltzogene is broken.”

  “I thought the room had been left exactly as it was, but I see you did not get around to making repairs.”

  “There is also one other difference.”

  “An acceptable one. I have already noticed. I do not plan to ever again partake of cocaine.”

  A faint look of surprise crossed Mycroft’s face, but he said nothing. He only nodded silently, with no sarcastic ribbing.

  They didn’t say anything else for a moment. Then, as though remembering, Mycroft looked apologetic. “Ah, and Sherlock? Perhaps…you hold a grudge against the man atop the cliffs that day, Colonel Sebastian Moran, but I hope you will not do anything so rash as you attempted with Moriarty…”

  “Fear not,” Sherlock reassured him. “I detest murder.”

  Mycroft sighed. “You have changed, Sherlock. For the wiser. I
n a nation of laws, one can get quite far by reading the faces in a jury.”

  “I shall take your word for that.” Sherlock crossed the room and stared down at Baker Street below through the window. He felt as if he’d seen the same view just yesterday.

  Across the street, a suspicious man leaned against a gas lamp. Sherlock recognized him: Parker, a small-time strangler and thief. Moriarty’s gang was watching him, after all.

  “When a person stops trusting in themselves nothing is left,” Sherlock murmured. “And when one entrusts everything to the hands of the law, one may also be abdicating direct responsibility. One must always decide for himself how best to act in any given situation.”

  England’s system of laws, though the envy of Japan, was surely not immaculate. At least, Sherlock thought so. What greater proof than that two of Moriarty’s men had been acquitted?

  He didn’t want to take lives—but outside of murder, he would judge the righteousness of a man with his own eyes. He had no intention of trusting in the whims of fate.

  Mycroft lingered, but voiced no objections to Sherlock’s philosophizing. Eventually he began walking toward the door. “I have changed the lock. You will find the key upon the mantelpiece. I believe you were already in the habit of changing it every few months?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then I shall return these rooms to your keeping. Should you have anything interesting to tell, do come find me at the Diogenes Club. Do not be a stranger, Sherlock.”

  In response, Sherlock waved his hand casually. It was enough of a farewell for the time being. They could see each other now at any time they chose.

  Mycroft’s back disappeared beyond the open door. Sherlock glanced down at the road. Parker had already vanished. Moran would likely soon be hearing of Sherlock’s return.

  He strode back and opened one of the drawers. Various mementos were inside, just as he remembered. Rummaging through the drawer, his hand suddenly paused on one of his disguises. A white wig and side-whiskers. He was surprised they still remained.

  He was struck by a devious thought. A smile tugged at the corner of his lips. This was just what was needed to reunite with an old friend. Though it wouldn’t be as dramatic as popping out of a coffin, he hoped his friend would be both shocked and pleased. As a former army surgeon, he ought to have the nerve for it. He would not be so fragile as Mrs. Hudson, at the very least.

  39

  It was Sherlock’s first time visiting Watson’s new residence in Kensington, but he displayed no reservations. After all, it was all the same to an old man with grey hair and side-whiskers. If anything, his presumptuous attitude better suited his disguise. The maid at the door had obviously thought of him as an obtrusive old sack, but Sherlock had been counting on her reaction.

  He was shown into the study. He hobbled in with a decrepit gait, half a dozen books under each arm, his back hunched. He had included a lower back injury in his performance, purely for his own amusement. He would need to create a clear causal link between his physical state and his movements if he was to fool a doctor’s eyes.

  Watson stood up from his desk. He looked surprised.

  Sherlock was confident in his disguise. Watson would never recognize him. He had already purposely bumped into Watson once, earlier, outside 424 Park Lane, and looked him directly in the face, to receive no immediate reaction other than a vague apology.

  At the moment, Watson seemed perplexed, and even pitying.

  “You’re surprised to see me, sir,” Sherlock croaked.

  “Yes, I should say I am.”

  “Well, I’ve a conscience, sir, and when I chanced to see you go into this house, as I came hobbling after you, I thought to myself, I’ll just step in and see that kind gentleman, and tell him that if I was a bit gruff in my manner there was not any harm meant, and that I am much obliged to him for picking up my books.”

  “You make too much of a trifle…May I ask how you knew who I was?”

  “Well, sir, if it isn’t too great a liberty, I am a neighbor of yours, for you’ll find my little bookshop at the corner of Church Street, and I’d be very happy to see you, I am sure. Maybe you collect yourself, sir. Here’s British Birds, and Catullus, and The Holy War—a bargain, every one of them. With five volumes you could just fill that gap on that second shelf. It looks a bit untidy, does it not, sir?”

  A more guarded man would not have looked. But Watson turned to observe his own bookshelf, never suspecting a thing. He continued to puzzle over the shelf after Sherlock had already removed his wig and false whiskers. Sherlock’s heart pounded in impatience and anticipation.

  At last Watson turned back around. His eyes searched for the books he expected his elderly guest to be holding. Seeing them on the floor, he looked up queerly.

  Sherlock stood straight. He smiled.

  Watson stared at him for some seconds. Sherlock had hoped for a cry of joy—such was not Watson’s reaction. His eyes opened wide, wide, wider than Mrs. Hudson’s had, his mouth gaped—and suddenly he was teetering backward.

  Sherlock panicked and rushed forward. He certainly hadn’t been expecting Watson to collapse. He’d fainted! Even Mrs. Hudson had shown more fortitude than this.

  He almost called for the maid but then thought better of it. The maid would then call for a physician, and what would that do for Watson’s reputation and self-respect?

  He looked at the cabinet, where there was a small bottle of brandy. Sherlock took it out and crouched over Watson. He loosened his friend’s collar and gently poured a touch of the brandy onto his twitching lips.

  Watson coughed slightly as he swallowed. Relieved, Sherlock sat down on the nearest chair.

  At last Watson’s eyes fluttered open. His eyes, still unfocused, swept over the room before eventually coming to rest again on Sherlock.

  “My dear Watson,” Sherlock said sincerely. “I owe you a thousand apologies. I had no idea that you would be so affected.”

  Would he react with anger? Curse him or pull a fit? Sherlock braced himself for both. Instead Watson leapt to his feet and gripped him by the arm as tightly as though for dear life. His eyes twinkled. “Sherlock! Is it really you?”

  He seemed almost delirious with happiness. His face flushed red with joy, and his tearful eyes danced with excitement.

  Sherlock returned Watson’s smile, acutely aware of how unconscionable his own behavior had been. His chest tightened. To have caused such pain to such a dear friend and companion, and then to engage in this trick upon his return? It had been a stupid thought.

  Henceforth, he hoped to share every joy and sorrow with Watson. The doctor surely agreed that together, they should overcome any adversity.

  40

  Time simply flew by—or so it seemed to Watson, who was now 50. It was already the third year of King Edward VII’s reign. Edward VII had also been crowned the Emperor of India.

  It was early 1903, and the weather in London was colder than usual that year. There was constantly a fire in the stove. Outside the window, snow still fluttered in the air along Queen Anne Street.

  And yet today, Watson felt that same thrill in his chest as from his younger days. It was important to remember it all clearly—what he had seen that day, what he had felt.

  Since his marriage, Watson was not as close to Sherlock as he had once been. The separation was somewhat painful. Sherlock was still a bachelor, and had turned 49 only yesterday. After so much time, even Sherlock had begun to soften around the edges. Seeing each other as often as they did, Watson sometimes worried he might forget the sharp impression that Sherlock had made in those early days. In his manuscript, he wanted to capture the surprise and excitement he had experienced ten years prior, just as he had felt it then.

  He’d only received the go-ahead for his current work a few months previous. Serialization would begin in October. Sherlock Holmes’ return from the
dead had already been widely reported, and few readers would now be shocked by the revelation. Still, Watson was swept away with joy at the prospect of writing of that April, back in 1894. It had been one of the happiest days of his life—the day he had been reunited with Sherlock.

  Watson sat down at his desk. He was in high spirits as his pen moved across the paper. His publisher had urged him repeatedly to use a typewriter, but Watson had long since resolved he would compose all manuscripts by hand. He had his notes on one corner of the desk, but he wrote quickly, without referencing them. He remembered it all vividly, the events as clear as though branded into his mind: The loafers congregating at the Oxford Street end of Park Lane. Bumping into the old man with grey hair and side-whiskers—strictly speaking, that had been their true reunion.

  He quickly filled the page. Suddenly, his pen stopped.

  He was in the habit of writing down every detail, however trifling, when accompanying Sherlock on his cases. The clients’ unusual requests and the splendid manner in which Sherlock solved the cases—Watson could not have forgotten them if he tried. Their adventures had been a series of deep and truly impressive moments.

  He had to admit, however, that the details he heard only secondhand were much less clear in his mind. And this meant, naturally, that Sherlock’s activities during the three years he’d been missing were still foggy. On the day of their reunion, Watson had not had the presence of mind to take notes; it hardly helped he’d fainted.

  When Watson had written of his adventures with Sherlock in the past, he’d always used pseudonyms whenever he’d not been given permission to use real names. For instance, the Marquess of Salisbury had become Lord Bellinger. But in general he endeavored to be as accurate as possible regarding names and places.