Title: A Most Shocking Development
Pairing: SH/JW
Rating: R
Feedback: Is like oxygen.
Warning: m/m sex, though the good doctor was most reluctant to let me in the bedroom
Summary: Dr. John Watson gets the surprise of his life. And then he gets surprised again.

Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes and John Watson are the creations of the distinguished Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, as are Inspector Lestrade, Mycroft Holmes, Mrs. Hudson, Ronald Adair, Mary Morstan, and Colonel Sebastian Moran. The plot of this story is an expansion upon what Doyle wrote in "The Adventure of the Empty House." I have borrowed lots of dialogue from Doyle's story to make sure it dovetails properly, so if you recognize some of the dialogue, that was intentional. I do not in any way claim those lines to be my own. Some lines are quoted from "The Final Problem" and the events of this second story are discussed.

Notes: Well, I did it. After reading some first-rate Holmes-slash, and much smacking of forehead accompanied by exclamations of "why didn't I think of that?!", I have done it. This bunny bit and refused to go away until I addressed it properly. I always thought Watson left out a great deal when he described the circumstances of his reunion with Holmes after he'd thought the man dead for three years. So this is what *really* happened during "The Adventure of the Empty House," a great deal of which the good doctor could not publish. *g*

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In a modestly-appointed, but comfortable, medical consulting room situated adjacent to some lodgings in Kensington, a single candle flickered upon a writing desk. At the desk sat a man approaching middle years. He was what many would consider handsome, with classically masculine features, warm hazel eyes, and thick dark chestnut hair that had not yet begun to gray in earnest. He had a substantial, well-groomed mustache in the same reddish-brown color, and the strong, upright manner in which he carried himself, even seated at his writing desk, suggested that he had spent some time in the military.

As he sat at the writing table, he twiddled a fountain pen in one capable hand, clearly unsure of himself, and his eyes were troubled. At length, he retrieved a copy of a popular London magazine from a cabinet within his reach just as a small clock upon his fireplace mantelpiece struck midnight. He paged idly through the magazine, then paused at a well-worn and dog-eared page. An expression of deep sadness crossed his handsome face, and he picked up his pen and began to write.

***

It is with a heavy heart that I take up my pen to write these the last words in which I shall ever record the singular gifts by which my friend Mr. Sherlock Holmes was distinguished.

Even as I read those words that I unleashed upon the world three years ago, I cannot help but recognize the clipped, clinical tone. How fortunate that I am a physician, well used to softening the blow of debilitating illness or death by delivering the news to patient and family as though discussing the weather. Practice does indeed make perfect, I suppose. In those few words, all that can be found is the stoic mourning of a good friend. All they reveal is quiet bereavement. The world never knew that I retreated to our old rooms for a full week, inconsolable and mad with grief. The world never knew that the only place I could get any sleep at all was in his bed, wrapped in his old mouse-brown dressing gown, my face buried in his pillow. I suppose it allowed me to believe, however briefly, that he'd just stepped out for a few moments and would be back after concluding his latest bit of investigation.

My poor wife was frightfully worried for me. She seemed to sense, though, that any attempt to draw me out would be in vain. My Mary was a good woman, and it is much to my sorrow and great personal shame that I was unable to love her as she deserved to be loved. If I am honest with myself, I should own that living with the death of Sherlock Holmes has better allowed me to cope with the untimely passing of my wife. In her, I lost a dear friend, confidante, and blessed soul who cared for me so well, especially after Holmes died. I think she knew, or suspected, certainly, that losing Holmes affected me on far deeper levels than I let on.

It was in the wake of the tragedy at Reichenbach Fall that I was struck by some astonishing revelations, revelations which I swore I would never breathe a word of to another living soul. As time has passed, however, they have hammered relentlessly at my resolve. I find that I must at least put them to paper, though I may burn these pages before the ink has even fully dried.

I knew that Holmes' work was dangerous. More than half the time, he brought me along armed with my service revolver, and usually, it took the both of us to see a criminal safely caught and subdued. As a doctor *and* an army man, I was under no illusions that every time Holmes left, he was guaranteed to come home again. I thought that knowledge and what I fancied was a worldly and pragmatic view of things would prepare me for that very eventuality.

I was caught completely unawares by the great, wrenching, aching hole that was torn into my very soul after I found out Holmes went over the side of that cliff. As I cowered in our old rooms and struggled to come to terms with the events that had taken place in Switzerland, I realized that Holmes was so much more to me than friend and fellow lodger.

I am not entirely certain that I can write the words which must follow this. My hand is shaking, and I can scarcely read my own handwriting. But no, I owe it to him.

I loved him.

Dear God, I said it. I've written the words down so that I cannot flee from their implications anymore. I think they are the truest words I have ever spoken or put to paper. Whatever tremors race through me, whatever emotions may assail me at this moment, I cannot deny it. Sherlock Holmes filled my heart as no one ever has, and I suspect, no one ever shall again.

Though part of me still cringes from the knowledge, no doubt the part that niggles at me when I miss Sunday services and is concerned for my public reputation, I find it is getting easier to accept with each passing moment. Every time I read those three simple words, I grow more confident in my ability to feel what they say and not go completely to pieces.

I only wish I had realized the truth of them while he was still alive.

No matter how much trouble they might have caused me, I still cannot help wondering how my life might have been different had I acknowledged the truth of those words some years ago. It is selfish of me in the extreme, I suppose. I never observed anything in my late friend that would suggest to me that he could even be capable of returning such feelings. Fanciful of me, thinking an ascetic man like Sherlock Holmes would allow himself to feel that kind of love for anyone, let alone myself, his very male friend.

Well, nothing much can come of these revelations now, other than perhaps some personal growth on my part. I find myself wishing that I hadn't fled from our old rooms like a coward at the end of that first horrible week. I had been living in Paddington since the time of my marriage, so there was nothing of mine left in the rooms at Baker Street. At the time, I was more than happy to leave the business of sorting through Holmes' personal affects to his older brother, Mycroft. Anything so that I would not have to go through the grim business of packing my dear friend's life into boxes and letting go of him entirely.

Now, I wish I had been possessed of the courage to do it myself. Perhaps if I had, I would have some small memento of him to treasure, perhaps his violin, or maybe the Persian slipper, still stuffed full of Holmes' favorite tobacco.

I surely cannot ask the elder Holmes for something like that now. Of a certainty, anything that was retained from our old rooms has long since been sold off, discarded, or else was kept by him as a token of his brother's illustrious tenure upon this Earth. Even if I *could* ask, I am quite sure he would ask about my motivations, and I am *not* at all confident that I could conceal my true desires from as shrewd a man as Mycroft Holmes. He would see right through any façade that I could present to him.

I did wonder, briefly, if admitting the level of my feelings for Holmes would turn me into one of those limp-wristed, effeminate fellows who end their days in the Old Bailey because of their 'unnatural lusts.'

In fact, as I think on it, I find myself considering what I would have done had all that was Sherlock Holmes been housed in a decidedly more feminine package. I think I would have pursued such a creature with a single-minded intensity. I would have courted her, wooed her, and sought her hand. I would not have hesitated in the slightest.

Well. In my heart of hearts, I must own that that thought relieves me considerably. It is not, as I must admit I feared, a general lust for men that I harbor, just an abiding love for one of the greatest human beings I have ever been privileged to know. I can honestly and unequivocally say that Holmes is the *only* male for whom I harbor such feelings.

I am not... entirely ignorant of what goes on between men. My military experience was... educational would be a polite way to phrase it. Shortly after I arrived in Afghanistan, another officer took a fancy to me, and he invited me to... Well, I hardly need elaborate, I think. At the time, I was completely shocked and refused most vehemently. There was nothing I could do in terms of bringing the matter to the attention of my superiors; he outranked me, and there were no witnesses. I would not have been believed, and he vowed to deny it had ever happened. I was not approached again, but it was not the last time I dealt with such behavior. As a medical officer, I treated all manner of injuries and illnesses. Some of the men who came to me would not look me in the eye, and the injuries they had sustained, in my considered opinion, could only have come about in one way.

After I was discharged and recovered from my injury, I admit that I was... somewhat confused as to what had happened to them to injure them in such a sensitive area and why such activity was practiced if it resulted in such damage and discomfort. I went to the reserve section of the medical library at Oxford not long after I returned to England, under the pretense that I had a patient desperately in need of help and counseling, and that I needed to learn all I could to aid the unfortunate fellow.

What I found out was... astonishing, to say the least. After my research, I think I better understood the motivations behind such behavior, and I filed the knowledge away in a far corner of my brain. I never thought to have use for that knowledge again. As I sit here in my consulting room in the small hours of the morning, I confess I find myself wondering how much of that knowledge I would share with Holmes, were he here.

My hand is shaking again, and I am sure my face is flaming. It surely feels as though it must be afire. The longer I sit here and think, the more vivid the hazy and forbidden images become that flash through my mind. Oh dear heavens, I did not know I could feel such heat, such...

I did not know.

And now my chance is gone. Oh, Sherlock, wherever you are now, I hope you can forgive me for this. For the rest of my days, I will wonder what my life would have been like had I been brave enough to acknowledge this before now, before the events of three years ago that nearly ended my life as well as yours. Perhaps they did end my life, at that. I still exist, of course, but I am no longer entirely sure that I yet live.

The sky is beginning to lighten, as I sit here, and my candle is guttering, the wick almost completely burnt to the end. In a very few hours, it will be time for me to go on my morning rounds. Mrs. Hedgerton is complaining of joint aches again, and she will surely monopolize most of my time before lunch with her flittering worries that she will collapse and die at any moment from any number of imagined illnesses.

I had best be off to bed so that I can care properly for my patients. Perhaps, after my rounds tomorrow, I shall apply myself to the recent problem of the murder of one Ronald Adair, a young aristocrat who was found shot to death at his desk under the most peculiar circumstances.

It is a case Holmes would have taken much joy in working, I think. It bears all the hallmarks of the sort of problems from which my dear friend derived the highest levels of personal excitement and professional pleasure. A three-pipe problem, if I am not mistaken, though I must admit that I always had to smoke very many more pipes than Holmes ever did to fully grasp what he could see in a bare second. I have not had the greatest of success applying his methods; I shall never be able to approach his level of intellect and analysis. Still, I must continue to try. It is the only link to him that I have left.

Ah, Sherlock, how I miss you.

***

Dr. John Watson heaved a great sigh as he closed his personal journal and stored his pen and ink away in his writing desk. Still clutching the book, he strode towards the banked fire, with every intention of stirring up the blaze and destroying the incriminating words he had just written. After all, there were men who had been sent to prison as sodomites for less. He found, though, that something stayed his hand. He stood uncertainly in front of his consulting room fireplace for a moment, then strode purposefully back to his desk.

It had taken a great deal of personal courage to write those few pages, and he found he was not quite willing commit them to the flames just yet. It was the coward's way out to burn the book before the ink was even dry. He owed it to himself and to the memory of his friend to let those words exist for a while. Surely, they would be safe here, locked in a secret drawer of his desk, to which only he had a key. The journal was duly locked away, then, and the weary doctor sought his bed for a few hours of restless sleep.

It was most definitely not enough hours later when his housekeeper, Mrs. Eaton, knocked briskly upon his door.

"Are you awake, sir? I 'ave your morning tea and a bit of breakfast before you go on your way."

For the first time since he was a boy, John Watson seriously considered burying his head under the pillow and denying that morning had come at all. But no, that wouldn't do. He had patients, after all.

"Yes, Mrs. Eaton," he called. "I'll be up and around shortly. Just leave the tray by the door, please."

"Yes, sir. I'll 'ave your bag ready for you by the door," she called.

"Thank you, Mrs. Eaton."

Watson heaved himself out of bed, washed his face and hands, and dressed for the day before opening his bedroom door and picking up his breakfast tray. The covered dish smelled delightfully of sausage and fresh bread, and the cup of tea with its accompanying pot was brewed almost completely black - strong enough to stand a spoon in. God bless Mrs. Eaton.

He revived himself with the strong, hot beverage, and then tucked into breakfast with a will. Painful soul-searching, it seemed, was hungry work after all. He concluded his breakfast and tea with sigh and took out his pocketwatch. He flipped open the case, blinked twice at the watch face, then lurched to his feet with a strangled curse.

If he didn't hurry, he'd be late getting to Mrs. Hedgerton's, and he had no desire to repeat the scene that had ensued the last time he was late to see her. The poor, nervous old woman had been absolutely convinced that Dr. Watson was avoiding her because he didn't know how to tell her she was dying. It had taken Watson *hours* to persuade her that nothing could be further from the truth, so convinced was she that she was but a breath from death's door.

Watson hailed a cab and sprang into the first one that slowed enough for him to catch it. "To Queens Road, Bayswater," he shouted to the driver, "and double your fare if you can get me there in half the usual time."

The hansom cab leapt forward with a clatter as the driver urged his horse into a canter. Seven minutes later, the cab skidded to a halt, the horse lathered and blowing. Watson tumbled from the small carriage, flinging coins in the driver's direction with a shouted thanks as he took off at a dead run, scrambling up the steps of a stately house and falling against the bell at the stroke of 9:00, precisely.

The driver chuckled incredulously before he drove away. Those medical types could certainly be an eccentric lot.

Mrs. Hedgerton's butler answered the door. "Ah. Dr. Watson. My Lady will be most pleased to know that you are," he coughed genteelly, "precisely on time." An impish twinkle in the older man's eye told Watson that the butler was equally relieved not to have to go through all the wailing and moaning and preparing the house for mourning that had followed his only tardy visit.

"Yes, Jenkins," Watson wheezed, "I imagine she will. Now, please take me to her, and I shall endeavor to convince her that she shall indeed live to see another dawn."

Chuckling quietly, the butler bowed and lead the doctor into Mrs. Hedgerton's morning room.

"Ah, good morning, Mrs. Hedgerton," Watson said cheerfully. "I was just having a brief word with Jenkins, here. How healthy and robust you look, today."

Two hours later, Dr. Watson gratefully escaped from Mrs. Hedgerton's impressive house to go on the rest of his rounds. He tended the injured hip of one young Lieutenant Smythe, lately come home from India after accidentally stepping into the path of a wayward bullet. He treated old Mr. Harris, who had the wasting sickness and would not, Watson thought, be much longer for this world. At the end of his day, on a happier note, he assisted young Mrs. Burwick in delivering her first child, a healthy baby boy, because the midwife was across town and couldn't be reached. He even stayed to share a brandy and a very good cigar with the delighted new father.

On the heels of that cheerful occasion, with the adrenalin still whizzing through his body, Watson decided to turn his energies for the remainder of the afternoon to the Adair murder case. He hailed a cab and traveled to Park Lane. Alighting near the Park for which the lane was named, he strolled in the direction of Oxford Street and came eventually to the house where the young man had met his unfortunate end.

He'd been mulling over the facts of the case in the back of his head all day, but could not arrive at a satisfactory conclusion. The young man enjoyed cards, but was known to be honest in his gaming activities, and certainly never played for stakes that he could not pay, should he lose. Park Lane was a well-traveled thoroughfare, and there was a cab stand less than one hundred yards from the front door, yet no one had heard a shot that night. The young man had been shut tight in his room, with the door locked from the inside, but there was no sign that anyone had come in by either door or window; indeed, a bed of blooming crocuses in soft earth underneath his window was completely undisturbed. Still, for all the lack of indication that there had even *been* a shooting in the first place, there was still a very dead young man with a very obvious soft-nosed revolver bullet in his head to consider.

Watson sighed and turned to walk away from the speculating throng that was gathered near the dead man's house. He needed to think, and couldn't amidst the din of wild theories that were being bandied about. As he swung round, he knocked against a stooped old man, a bookseller from the look of him. Certainly, Watson's haste had caused the poor man to drop several esoteric tomes upon the pavement. The white-whiskered book merchant was most offended by the rough treatment of his volumes, and he snarled at the doctor and wheeled sharply about, The Origin of Tree Worship tucked snugly under one arm, before stalking away. Watson's apologies died on his lips when it became very apparent that the bookseller was not interested in them in the least.

Watson turned back to the large old house, its doors and windows shut tight to give the family some privacy as they mourned. There wasn't even a drainpipe available for the perpetrator to climb to reach the young man's window. He shook his head. This was a problem that simply refused to work itself out in his head. He turned away again, to go to the cabstand and hail a hansom to take him home to Kensington.

The matter of the young aristocrat's murder tumbled over and over in his head as he sat in the gently rocking carriage that bore him towards his lodgings. He just could not come up with a suitable explanation to account for all the available evidence. The undisturbed crocus bed and lack of any appropriate climbing aid suggested that Ronald Adair met his end in his rooms without any outside interference, but there was still the fact that the young man's door was latched from the inside, unable to be opened, even with the aid of the butler's master key. There was also the very important lack of a firearm in his rooms, despite a thorough search, and none had been found in the shrubbery below the window.

So, then, the locked door, lack of obvious weapon, and undisturbed surroundings suggested that the young man had been shot from a distance, but no one on the street at the time had heard a shot, not even the people who had been waiting at the cabstand near the front door. There was also the problem of the undamaged window. If the young man had been shot from the street or a nearby building, the shooter would have had to be an incredible marksman to hit the young man and not break any of the glass of his slightly-opened window, especially with a revolver, which was a short-range weapon. But surely, even such a marksman could not entirely muffle the sound of a shot and still have it be so accurate and apparently shot from so far away.

Watson sighed. Scotland Yard was going to have its hands full with this case. Watson was sure that in this matter, more than any other in the last three years, the Yard would be sorely in need of Holmes' abilities. Watson wished he could be an adequate substitute, but he knew that his efforts were nowhere near what Holmes could do.

His ruminations ground to a halt along with the cab. He alighted at his front door and paid the driver his fee. Mrs. Eaton was waiting at the door for him, as always. She had an uncanny sense of when his arrival at home was imminent.

"Good evenin', sir," she said with a sort of grave cheerfulness. "I 'ope your rounds were successful today."

Watson smiled as he handed her his hat and coat. "They were, indeed, Mrs. Eaton. Mrs. Hedgerton is once again reassured that she will live to see tomorrow, and young Mrs. Burwick is the proud mother of a bouncing baby boy. Two, if you include her ecstatic young husband."

Mrs. Eaton chortled. "Oh, yes, sir, I know what you mean, so I do. Me own lads fairly turned into wee bairns again when their first little ones were born. Sure an' there's just no dealing with a new father," she said stoutly. "Will you be wantin' dinner here tonight, sir, or will you go to your club?"

Watson considered for a moment. "If you have something on hand here, Mrs. Eaton, I think I shall take dinner in my study. I find my thoughts entirely engaged by the problem of a recent murder; I should be poor company, indeed, if I went to have dinner at the club."

"Certainly, sir. I can have it ready for you in about an hour, I reckon."

"Bless you, Mrs. Eaton, for putting up with my uncertain schedule," Watson said with a warm smile.

"'Tisn't no trouble, Dr. Watson. There's tea already waiting for you in the study."

Watson turned to go to his study. It was a comfortable, darkly paneled room that he was wont to make the most use of when mulling over problems like the Adair murder. He sat down at his desk and took out pen and paper, prepared to map out all the details he had at his disposal regarding the murder. Perhaps it would make more sense if he set it all out on paper.

He hadn't been in his study more than five minutes when there was a familiar tap at his door.

"Yes, Mrs. Eaton?" Watson called out.

She opened the door a crack. "There is a gentleman here to see you, sir," she announced, "and he desires to have a word with you."

The formality of her address alerted Watson that the visitor was a stranger. Mrs. Eaton always tried to play up her employer's importance when unfamiliar persons came calling. Perhaps it was someone come to consult on a medical matter, he mused.

As he was in the frame of mind to receive a new patient, he was altogether surprised when Mrs. Eaton ushered the irascible bookseller from Park Lane into his study.

"You are surprised to see me, sir," the old man croaked hoarsely by way of introduction, his voice sounding like it was out of shape from disuse.

Watson blinked. "Well, yes, I must own that I am. Is there something I can do for you, Mr. ..." Watson trailed off, waiting for the old man to fill in his surname.

"Block, sir. Phineas Block."

Block. The name sounded vaguely familiar, though Watson could not place where he'd seen it before.

"Mr. Block, then. Have you come to speak to me about a medical emergency?"

"Oh, no, sir. I stopped in to see you about the matter of my conduct earlier, in Park Lane. You see, 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."

Watson's eyes narrowed. "And just how did you know where to find me, Mr. Block?"

"Begging your pardon, sir, but I am a neighbor of yours. I happened to see you get out of your cab just as I was about to enter my shop. You'll find it on the corner of Church street."

"You make too much of a trifle, Mr. Block. I was lost in my own thoughts at the time and didn't take care to watch where I stepped."

The old bookseller smiled crookedly. "Perhaps you collect volumes, yourself, sir," he ventured, "as I see your shelves are well-stocked. 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 untidy, does it not, sir?"

Watson turned in his chair to look at his shelves and noticed the 'untidy gap' on his second shelf. When he turned back to address the merchant, he froze dead in his tracks.

The stooped bookseller was no longer stooped, and the lines on his face smoothed out as if they had never been there. Resting on the desk in front of the doctor was a pile of books topped with a mess of false white hair and whiskers, and the spectacles the old man had worn.

Standing in the bookseller's place, smiling hugely at the doctor, was none other than Sherlock Holmes.

Watson started to his feet in open-mouthed shock, and then just as suddenly collapsed back into his chair as his eyes rolled back into his head in a dead faint.

The smile dropped off Holmes' face in an instant. "Good heavens!" He dithered for a brief moment - should he alert Watson's housekeeper? No, best not. He fished in the book merchant's seedy frock coat for his pocket flask, which he was heartily glad he'd filled with brandy that very morning.

Holmes rounded the desk and eased the crumpled form of his closest friend back against the chair. He undid the man's collar to allow him to breathe more easily, and then tipped a sip of brandy between the slackly parted lips.

"Come on now, Watson," he muttered, then sighed in relief when the doctor swallowed reflexively. He cast a judicious glance at the still-dazed expression on his friend's face and encouraged him to accept another sip of the strong liquor.

Finally, Watson's hazel eyes cleared, and he blinked up at the friend he'd believed was three years dead.

"My dear Watson," he said quietly, as the doctor came around. "I owe you a thousand apologies. I had no idea you would be so affected."

Watson lurched to his feet. "My God!" he breathed. "How is this possible?" He stood transfixed for a second, then seized the tall, thin man by his forearms before wrapping his arms around the other's shoulders. "Holmes!" he cried. "Is it really you? Can it indeed be that you are alive? Is it possible that you succeeded in climbing out of that awful abyss?"

The lean, rangy detective's expression went from startled to something... softer as he returned his friend's spontaneous, affectionate embrace. "Wait a moment," Holmes answered, clearly most concerned by the doctor's brief fainting spell. "Are you sure that you are really fit to discuss things? I have given you a serious shock by my unnecessarily dramatic reappearance."

Watson gave an exasperated snort as he released his friend. "I am all right, but indeed, Holmes, I can hardly believe my eyes. Good heavens! to think that you-you of all men-should be standing in my study." Again Watson gripped him by the sleeve, and felt the thin, sinewy arm beneath it. "Well, you're not a spirit, anyhow," he said. "My dear chap, I'm overjoyed to see you. Sit down, and tell me how you came alive out of that dreadful chasm."

Holmes' thin lips quirked in a half-smile as he sat in the comfortable chair that faced Watson's desk. "I shall tell you in due time, Watson, I promise."

Sherlock Holmes had always been an ascetic sort of person, but he was even thinner, his features even sharper, than Watson remembered of him. He was always pale, but now, he carried a pallor that spoke of recent ill-health. Watson wondered what sort of life his friend had led for the last three years that had honed him down even further.

The man was currently smoking a long, thin cigarette with an air of nonchalance that astonished the doctor. To be missing -- nay dead! -- for three long years, and reappear so spectacularly in his study... Surely Holmes was a *little* more affected than he let on.

Holmes arched back in his seat, spine and shoulders popping audibly as he allowed his frame to expand out of the bookseller's stooped posture and resume its full height.

"I am glad to stretch myself, Watson," Holmes admitted. "It is no joke when a tall man has to take a foot off his stature for several hours on end. Now, my dear fellow, in the matter of these explanations, we have, if I may ask for your cooperation, a hard and dangerous night's work in front of us. Perhaps it would be better if I gave you an account of the whole situation when that work is finished."

"I am full of curiosity. I should much prefer to hear now," Watson protested.

"You'll come with me tonight?" There was a familiar, excited twinkle in Holmes' eye.

Watson very much suspected that they were about to embark upon one of their old adventures. "When you like and where you like," he agreed readily.

Holmes was delighted. "This is, indeed, like the old days," he said, sounding as eager as Watson had ever heard of him. "We shall have time for a mouthful of dinner before we need go."

"Oh, that reminds me. Hold your story for a moment longer while I summon my housekeeper, if you would, Holmes."

"Certainly, Watson. Whilst you do that, I shall pour us both some of the excellent Darjeeling which I smell in your teapot."

Watson reached for the bell-pull, and Mrs. Eaton appeared with alacrity.

"You rang, sir?"

"Yes, Mrs. Eaton. Do you have enough on hand to feed two instead of one this evening?"

Mrs. Eaton looked offended. "Well of course I do, sir! I keep a well-stocked larder for you, after all."

Watson smiled. "Yes, of course. Please forgive me; I phrased that poorly. My guest and myself will both take dinner in here tonight."

"Certainly, sir. I'll bring it up as soon as it's ready." If Mrs. Eaton was confused as to why the doctor was entertaining an old bookseller, and why that bookseller had suddenly grown younger by three decades, she gave no sign.

"Thank you, Mrs. Eaton!" Watson called as she left the room. "Please, Holmes, do go on with your story."

Holmes smiled briefly over the rim of his teacup. "Well, then, about that chasm. I had no serious difficulty in getting out of it, for the very simple reason that I never was in it."

Watson was sure he'd heard incorrectly. He'd seen the tracks himself. Two sets leading to the edge of the cliff over the falls, and none returning. Definite signs of a struggle, and clear indications that bodies had gone over the edge. "You never were in it?" he parroted.

"No, Watson, I never was in it. Please understand, however, that my note to you was absolutely genuine. I had little doubt that I had come to the end of my career when I perceived the somewhat sinister figure of the late Professor Moriarty standing upon the narrow pathway which led to safety. I read an inexorable purpose in his gray eyes. I exchanged some remarks with him, therefore, and obtained his courteous permission to write the short note which you afterwards received. I left it with my cigarette-box and my stick, and I walked along the pathway, Moriarty still at my heels. When I reached the end I stood at bay. He drew no weapon, but he rushed at me and threw his long arms around me. He knew that his own game was up, and was only anxious to revenge himself upon me. We tottered together upon the brink of the fall. I have some knowledge, however, of baritsu, or the Japanese system of wrestling, which has more than once been very useful to me. I slipped through his grip, and he with a horrible scream kicked madly for a few seconds, and clawed the air with both his hands. But for all his efforts he could not get his balance, and over he went. With my face over the brink, I saw him fall for a long way. Then he struck a rock, bounded off, and splashed into the water."

Watson listened with amazement to this explanation, which Holmes delivered between sips of tea. "But the tracks!" he cried in protest. "I saw, with my own eyes, that two went down the path and none returned."

"It came about in this way. The instant that the Professor had disappeared, it struck me what a really extraordinarily lucky chance Fate had placed in my way. I knew that Moriarty was not the only man who had sworn my death. There were at least three others whose desire for vengeance upon me would only be increased by the death of their leader. They were all most dangerous men. One or other would certainly get me. On the other hand, if all the world was convinced that I was dead they would take liberties, these men, they would soon lay themselves open, and sooner or later I could destroy them. Then it would be time for me to announce that I was still in the land of the living. So rapidly does the brain act that I believe I had thought this all out before Professor Moriarty had reached the bottom of the Reichenbach Fall."

An incredulous chuckle burst from Watson's lips. "You are ever quick in your deductions, Holmes," he quipped, provoking an amused half-smile from his companion.

"I stood up and examined the rocky wall behind me. In your picturesque account of the matter, which I read with great interest some months later, you assert that the wall was sheer. That was not literally true."

Watson flushed. "Well, I was hardly in an appropriate frame of mind to be overly observant," he mumbled.

Holmes chuckled briefly at his friend's embarrassment. "No, you mustn't chide yourself, my dear fellow. It was my hope that you would be unsettled enough not to notice that I had a possible route of escape other than the muddied path."

Watson huffed grumpily, still disgruntled by his failure.

"A few small footholds presented themselves, and there was some indication of a ledge," Holmes continued. "The cliff is so high that to climb it all was an obvious impossibility, and it was equally impossible to make my way along the wet path without leaving some tracks. I might, it is true, have reversed my boots, as I have done on similar occasions, but the sight of three sets of tracks in one direction would certainly have suggested a deception. On the whole, then, it was best that I should risk the climb."

Holmes paused and took another sip of tea, his eyes darkening with the memory.

"It was not a pleasant business, Watson," he admitted grimly. "The fall roared beneath me. I am not a fanciful person, but I give you my word that I seemed to hear Moriarty's voice screaming at me out of the abyss. A mistake would have been fatal. More than once, as tufts of grass came out in my hand or my foot slipped in the wet notches of the rock, I thought that I was gone. But I struggled upward, and at last I reached a ledge several feet deep and covered with soft green moss, where I could lie unseen, in the most perfect comfort. There I was stretched, when you, my dear Watson, and all your following were investigating in the most sympathetic and inefficient manner the circumstances of my death."

Watson harrumphed again and bit savagely into one of Mrs. Eaton's excellent scones.

"At last, when you had all formed your inevitable and totally erroneous conclusions, you departed for the hotel, and I was left alone. I had imagined that I had reached the end of my adventures, but a very unexpected occurrence showed me that there were surprises still in store for me. A huge rock, falling from above, boomed past me, struck the path, and bounded over into the chasm. For an instant I thought that it was an accident, but a moment later, looking up, I saw a man's head against the darkening sky, and another stone struck the very ledge upon which I was stretched, within a foot of my head."

Watson's eyes widened. "Reinforcements, of course. Dash it all, Holmes, I feel a proper simpleton for hurrying back to the chalet that day and not noticing that Moriarty *and* his comrade were lying in wait."

Holmes considered that for a moment, and then spoke to answer the doctor. "No, Watson, there is no blame to be assigned, here. Moriarty was the foremost criminal mastermind of our era before his untimely demise. You couldn't have found him unless he *wished* to be found. Of course, the meaning of those rocks was obvious. Moriarty, as you have just deduced, had not been alone. A confederate - and even that one glance had told me how dangerous a man that confederate was - had kept guard while the Professor had attacked me. From a distance, unseen by me, he had been a witness of his friend's death and of my escape. He had waited, and then making his way round to the top of the cliff, he had endeavored to succeed where his comrade had failed."

Watson sat, enthralled, nibbling on the remainder of his scone. He stayed silent, not wanting to interrupt the flow of his friend's narrative.

"I did not take long to think about it, Watson. Again I saw that grim face look over the cliff, and I knew that it was the precursor of another stone. I scrambled down on to the path. I don't think I could have done it in cold blood. It was a hundred times more difficult than getting up. But I had no time to think of the danger, for another stone sang past me as I hung by my hands from the edge of the ledge. Halfway down I slipped, but, by the blessing of God, I landed, torn and bleeding, upon the path. I took to my heels, did ten miles over the mountains in the darkness, and a week later I found myself in Florence, with the certainty that no one in the world knew what had become of me."

Holmes' expression became remorseful, almost pleading for Watson's forgiveness.

"I had only one confidant - my brother Mycroft. I owe you many apologies, my dear Watson, but it was all-important that it should be thought I was dead, and it is quite certain that you would not have written so convincing an account of my unhappy end had you not yourself thought that it was true. Several times during the last three years I have taken up my pen to write to you, but always I feared lest your affectionate regard for me should tempt you to some indiscretion which would betray my secret. For that reason I turned away from you this evening when you upset my books, for I was in danger at the time, and any show of surprise and emotion upon your part might have drawn attention to my identity and led to the most deplorable and irreparable results. As to Mycroft, I had to confide in him in order to obtain the money which I needed. The course of events in London did not run so well as I had hoped, for the trial of the Moriarty gang left two of its most dangerous members, my own most vindictive enemies, at liberty. I traveled for two years in Tibet, therefore, and amused myself by visiting Lhassa, and spending some days with the head lama."

Holmes smiled sardonically. "You may have read of the remarkable explorations of a Norwegian named Sigerson, but I am sure that it never occurred to you that you were receiving news of your friend. I then passed through Persia, looked in at Mecca, and paid a short but interesting visit to the Khalifa at Khartoum, the results of which I have communicated to the Foreign Office. Returning to France, I spent some months in a research into the coal-tar derivatives, which I conducted in a laboratory at Montpellier, in the south of France. Having concluded this to my satisfaction and learning that only one of my enemies was now left in London, I was about to return when my movements were hastened by the news of this very remarkable Park Lane Mystery, which not only appealed to me by its own merits, but which seemed to offer some most peculiar personal opportunities."

Watson's eyes brightened. "I *knew* you would find that most intriguing, Holmes. I've been puzzling over it for some days now."

Holmes chuckled. "Somehow, I knew that you would, Watson. The culprit behind this murder is a most dangerous man, and his activities here necessitated that I move up my planned return to fair Brittania. I came over at once to London, called in my own person at Baker Street, threw Mrs. Hudson into violent hysterics, and found that Mycroft had preserved my rooms and my papers exactly as they had always been, as per my instructions to him. So it was, my dear Watson, that at two o'clock to-day I found myself in my old armchair in my own old room, and only wishing that I could have seen my old friend Watson in the other chair which he has so often adorned."

Watson's face stretched into a grin. "I should very much like to adorn that chair again, myself."

Holmes smiled and stared fixedly at his teacup.

Watson spoke up, trying to be tactful. "If I may say, Holmes, you aren't looking entirely well. Let me be a doctor for a moment and ask you if you are ill?"

Holmes glanced up. "Not in the classical sense, no, but thank you for asking after me." Holmes sighed in self-deprecation. "You'll be pleased to know this, at least, my dear Watson. I have recently given up the cocaine habit, and the air of malaise that still hovers over me results from the aftereffects of sudden deprivation."

Watson tried not to beam at his friend. "I am glad, indeed, to hear that, Holmes. I was most concerned for you, as I am certain you remember. Are you sound enough to go on whatever adventure you have planned for us?"

Holmes smiled sardonically, and his eyes lit up with their old fire again. "Oh, yes, Watson. That is, in large part, why I gave it up in the first place. We hunt big game tonight, and I cannot afford to have my faculties dulled in the slightest." Holmes paused. "You will bring your service revolver?"

Watson blinked. "Of a certainty, dear fellow. I should get it out and clean it before we depart."

"Indeed. Be certain it is in perfect working order, Watson, and loaded as well. Put some spare ammunition in your pocket. On this occasion, I fear it is likely that you will have to use it."

Watson sobered instantly. Holmes was only ever this serious if they were out after a very dangerous criminal indeed.

"Holmes, do you have a weapon of your own, so lately returned to London? I have a spare, if you require one."

At this, Holmes let out a bark of laughter. "No, indeed, Watson. I acquired a capital weapon on the voyage across the channel."

"On the voyage?" Watson was incredulous.

"Oh yes." Holmes was terribly amused. "I ran into an American who was swaggering about and drawling his superiority to anyone who would listen. I rather think he'd had too much good French wine. He talked at me for several minutes, and to stop his mouth, I asked if he was a gambling man. He said that he was if the stakes were high enough. I then asked him if he'd care to stake his weapon on my ability to tell him his name, place of residence, and business on the Continent. He thought me quite amusing and readily agreed.

"So I told him that his name was Lawrence Wilcox, lately of Denver, Colorado, and he was in France brokering a deal with an imports house to purchase leather goods from his ranch."

Watson chortled. "Good heavens, Holmes, I remember how I reacted when you fairly recited my life story to me upon our first meeting. I imagine he was quite taken aback."

Holmes nodded. "I gave the man quite a turn. He was silent for almost a full minute, which came as a welcome relief. Of course, I had no intention of taking the man's weapon, but he wouldn't hear otherwise. Said I had won it 'fair and square,' to use his quaint turn of phrase. So, Watson, I am now the proud owner of a genuine Colt .45 revolver. I had a time finding bullets for it over here, but I am most impressed with it."

"I should like to see it when you get it for this evening's work, Holmes. I don't believe I've ever used an American weapon."

Holmes set his teacup down and rose from the table. He drew himself up to his full height and assumed a wide stance, arms poised at his sides. He drew the right side of his frock coat back, revealing a leather gun belt and holster slung low across his hips. He looked for all the world like an American cowboy who'd been stuffed into respectable clothes.

Watson goggled for a moment, then started laughing heartily. "My dear Holmes! That's quite the most amusing thing I've seen in some time."

"Eminently practical, my dear Watson. I've been practicing what they call 'quick draw.'"

Watson leaned back in his chair, apparently quite content to simply gaze at his much beloved friend.

Holmes sat back down. "You look very pensive, Watson. What troubles your thoughts?"

"No trouble, Holmes. Just... enjoying the return of a friend I'd very much thought I'd lost."

Holmes' expression went from rakish to melancholy. "I'm so sorry, Watson. I wish I could have told you. Of all the things I have done in these past three years, my greatest regret is that I did them without you."

"I'd have gone with you in a heartbeat, Holmes, had I not had Mary to think of."

Holmes reached across the study desk and clasped Watson's hand. "Work is the best antidote to sorrow, my dear Watson," Holmes said quietly, "and I have a piece of work for us both to-night which, if we can bring it to a successful conclusion, will in itself justify a man's life on this planet."

For the moment, Watson completely ignored Holmes' words. His fingers tightened about the hand that had grasped his own in sympathy, and he held the older man's gaze steadily.

Holmes returned the regard unflinchingly, and Watson saw something... indefinable race across his sharp features.

Mrs. Eaton chose that precise moment to tap at the door as a preface to her arrival with dinner.

Watson hurriedly released Holmes' hand and rose to take the tea tray to the door. He returned with two platefuls of Mrs. Eaton's special roast of beef with all the trimmings.

Holmes sampled the contents of his plate. "Mmm. This is capital, Watson. You've got an excellent woman in your kitchen."

Watson smiled. "Yes. Mrs. Eaton is very good to me. She's a widow who occasionally acts as my nurse and otherwise generally takes care of me." Watson chewed thoughtfully, then addressed Holmes again. "Holmes, what exactly did you mean when you said that tonight's adventure would justify a man's life on this planet? This sounds like rather a more serious adventure than I originally thought."

"It is, Watson. But I shall say nothing more on the matter until half-past nine, when we shall embark upon the notable adventure of the empty house."

It was in vain that Watson begged and pleaded for more information. With that last dramatic proclamation, Holmes shut up tighter than a drum and would not be moved.

So it was, at half-past nine, that Holmes and Watson were ensconced together in a hansom cab, traveling in what Watson knew was the general direction of their old rooms at Baker Street. Holmes' new revolver was stored a bit more sedately in his pocket, and he wore his deerstalker cap and coat of old, collected from the corner bookshop before they departed for the evening.

"This is indeed like old times, eh Holmes?" Watson asked, the thrill of adventure evident in his voice. He had his revolver in his pocket, his medical bag in hand, and felt a good ten years younger as they raced along to their intended destination.

"Mmm." Holmes made a non-committal noise.

Watson glanced over at his friend. Holmes sat hunched in the seat, fingers steepled in front of him. He glowered straight ahead, dark eyebrows drawn down over stormy grey eyes that glittered with determined frost.

There was death in those incredible eyes. If not death, then certainly justice for the quarry they hunted that dark April night. It was even more disconcerting when an ironic smile started making an occasional appearance on his face. Clearly, Holmes was anticipating a most satisfying tour de force this eve, and the high flush of excitement lent his face a strange, savage beauty in the dim light that filtered into the cab.

Watson swallowed hard, briefly imagining Holmes' face flushed with something other than the thrill of the chase. Now was not the time to remember those scandalous pages that were locked in his writing desk. Watson wrenched his thoughts back on track. Criminal. Hunt. Justice. Right.

The doctor abruptly noticed that they weren't heading for Baker Street after all. The cab was slowing, and they were only at Cavendish Square.

After the cab stopped, Holmes peered carefully out the window of the cab, looking to the right and the left before springing to the pavement and paying the driver. He fairly hauled Watson bodily out of the hansom and hustled him along until they were well away from the street corner.

"Be watchful, Watson," he murmured in his companion's ear. "It is absolutely imperative that we not be followed. Two pairs of eyes see better than one, after all. If you discover any sign of pursuit, tell me and then follow me closely."

Watson nodded shortly, his eyes automatically darting to scan about the street and at the surrounding buildings, searching intently for any indications that their trail was being dogged. Holmes took the most elaborate precautions at every intersection to assure that they were not followed.

Watson thought sure they must be near their destination, but Holmes kept striding rapidly through the streets of London until he came to a warren of stables and mews, the existence of which had been unknown to the doctor before that night. The detective faded into the mist, striding more rapidly now that they were off public streets, and Watson was hard pressed to keep up with his eager pace.

The neighborhood where they found themselves after emerging from this confusing tangle was grim and drab, lined with gloomy, old houses in varying states of disrepair.

They went along this small road until they came to Manchester Street, and then hurried along to Blandford Street, where Holmes abruptly took a sharp turn into an alley. The alley brought them to a long-neglected wooden gate, which admitted them to a wildly overgrown garden. Holmes opened the door on the rear of the house with a key, and they passed inside into the murky atmosphere of the building.

Watson immediately sensed that the house was vacant. The air smelled of must and mildew and disuse, and their tread stirred up puffs of dust. When he reached for a wall to guide his progress through the pitch dark rooms and hallways, the wallpaper feathered over his hand in ghostly, bedraggled ribbons.

Holmes' tread was confident, though, and they entered a room at the front of the house. A bit of light came faintly through a grimy window. Holmes crept toward the window with exaggerated care not to show himself in the smudged and filthy glass. Watson followed his example and took up a post out of sight of the window, combating the urge to peek out and see where they were and what they were watching.

Holmes leaned closer to the doctor and placed a warm hand on Watson's shoulder.

"Do you know where we are?" he whispered.

Watson peered carefully out the window and recognized the façade of the house across the street.

"Surely that is Baker Street," he answered in some surprise, staring through the dim window. He wondered why the detective had taken such a circuitous and cautious route to arrive across the street from the familiar house. Holmes surely had a reason, as he always did.

"Exactly. We are in Camden House, which stands opposite to our own old quarters."

Watson's surprise and curiosity finally got the better of him. "But why are we here?" he asked, puzzled.

"Because it commands so excellent a view of that picturesque pile," Holmes answered. He leaned closer, and his voice was low and filled with amused excitement as he continued to talk softly to his companion. "Might I trouble you, my dear Watson, to draw a little nearer to the window, taking every precaution not to show yourself, and then to look up at our old rooms - the starting-point of so many of your little fairy-tales? We will see if my three years of absence have entirely taken away my power to surprise you."

Watson crept forward and looked across at the familiar window of their old receiving room. As his eyes fell upon that piece of glass, he gasped and cried out in amazement.

The blind was down, and a very bright light was burning in the room. The shadow of a man who was seated in a chair within was thrown in hard, black outline upon the luminous screen of the window. There was no mistaking the poise of the head, the squareness of the shoulders, the sharpness of the features. The face was turned half-round, and the effect was that of one of those black silhouettes which grandparents loved to frame. It was a perfect reproduction of Holmes.

Watson exclaimed again in disbelief and threw out a hand to grip his companion's arm. The shadow in the window was so very like Holmes, that the doctor needed reassure himself that the man was still, indeed, crouched beside him in the shadows.

"Well?" Holmes asked, his voice quivering with glee.

"Good heavens!" Watson cried softly. "It is marvelous."

"I trust that age doth not wither nor custom stale my infinite variety," Holmes said, and Watson could hear a note of unmistakable smugness and pride in his voice. "It really is rather like me, is it not?"

Watson's bark of laughter was disbelieving. Rather like? "I should be prepared to swear that it was you."

Holmes clapped him on the shoulder again. Watson could almost hear the grin in his voice. "The credit of the execution is due to Monsieur Oscar Meunier, of Grenoble, who spent some days in doing the molding. It is a bust in wax. The rest I arranged myself during my visit to Baker Street this afternoon."

Watson was impressed with the workmanship, but still puzzled as to the reason Holmes had gone through this elaborate ruse. "But why?"

"Because, my dear Watson, I had the strongest possible reason for wishing certain people to think that I was there when I was really elsewhere."

That seemed sensible to Watson, but Holmes was still being damned elusive about his motivations. "And you thought the rooms were watched?" he prompted.

"I knew that they were watched," Holmes replied smugly, but said nothing further.

Watson battled down a brief urge to give his friend a good shake. "By whom?" he wheedled.

"By my old enemies, Watson. By the charming society whose leader lies in the Reichenbach Fall. You must remember that they knew, and only they knew, that I was still alive. Sooner or later they believed that I should come back to my rooms. They watched them continuously, and this morning they saw me arrive."

Watson blinked. This was, indeed, very serious business. Why in Heaven's name had Holmes allowed himself to be seen this morning if he was so intent on *not* being seen tonight? What if the gang had acted immediately and killed Holmes before he revealed himself to Watson? The doctor shuddered, not wanting to dwell on the prospect of dealing with Holmes' death *again,* knowing that his dearest friend had been alive all along but hadn't spoken to him.

Watson composed himself. "How do you know?" he asked

"Because I recognized their sentinel when I glanced out of my window. He is a harmless enough fellow, Parker by name, a garroter by trade, and a remarkable performer upon the jew's-harp. I cared nothing for him. But I cared a great deal for the much more formidable person who was behind him, the bosom friend of Moriarty, the man who dropped the rocks over the cliff, the most cunning and dangerous criminal in London. That is the man who is after me to-night, Watson, and that is the man who is quite unaware that we are after *him.*"

They were lying in wait for the villain who'd tried to stone Holmes to death? Watson's face hardened. He believed he had a revolver bullet with that man's name on it.

Watson turned his attention to the street, scrutinizing every passer-by sharply as their wait stretched into hours. It was a wild and blustery night, and nearly everyone on the street was bundled tightly in coats and cravats against the hostile weather. Holmes was silent and still as stone as he focused all his considerable attention on the street before them.

Watson fancied he saw a familiar figure pass before his eyes. He followed the man's progress down the street, and he joined another man in the scant shelter that a doorway offered them. Watson watched them closely. Neither man moved from the doorway, and they seemed to be spending a lot of time looking up the street in the direction of the familiar house across the way.

"Holmes," Watson whispered urgently. "There's a pair of men watching our rooms from up the street, there."

Holmes' silver eyes flickered in the direction Watson indicated, the thunderous scowl on the detective's face mute testimony to his tension.

Watson was quite taken aback when Holmes gave an exasperated snort and completely ignored the two men. It seemed that his companion's well-laid plans were not proceeding quite as he desired.

As the hours ticked away and midnight approached, the street slowly began to empty out, as those abroad in the inclement night sought their homes for the evening.

Holmes was in a state of almost uncontrollable agitation, periodically drumming his fingers rapidly on the wall, or pacing rapidly about the room, clearly deep in thought.

Watson watched him nervously. He was about to speak to the man, tell him to calm down, for pity's sake, before he sent himself into fits, when he glanced up at their old window again.

Watson gave a startled cry. "The shadow has moved!"

The statue's back was faced toward them, not the distinctive profile Watson had seen before.

Holmes immediately demonstrated that three years away from London had certainly not smoothed out his prickly nature or his acute impatience with an intellect that was less efficient and well-honed than his own.

"Of course it has moved," he snapped irritably. "Am I such a farcical bungler, Watson, that I should erect an obvious dummy, and expect that some of the sharpest men in Europe would be deceived by it?" Watson blushed furiously at his friend's chastisement. "We have been in this room two hours," he continued, "and Mrs. Hudson has made some change in that figure eight times, or once in every quarter of an hour. She works it from the front, so that her shadow may never be seen." Holmes' attention briefly focused back on the empty street, and then his body suddenly tensed. "Ah!"

Watson froze, not daring to move for fear he'd disturb the detective who was now on full alert. The doctor glanced quickly at the doorway he'd been watching, but could see no sign of the two men who'd taken shelter in it.

Holmes remained drawn tight as a bowstring as he listened intently. "Ah!" The thin, high, sibilant cry of excitement sounded again.

Holmes abruptly seized Watson about his chest and hauled the doctor back into the darkest, most shadowed corner of the room. He clapped a hand over Watson's mouth to keep him quiet. Both the hand on his friend's lips, and his arm about the other man's chest trembled with anticipation.

Watson struggled to retain his balance and keep from collapsing on top of his companion. Even seized in the grip of the exhilaration accompanying the knowledge of a hunt well and truly begun, a tiny corner of Watson's brain registered the feeling of Holmes' hands on him and gibbered with giddy delight. Watson quashed it firmly and surreptitiously drew his revolver out of his pocket to be ready for whatever Holmes' keen ears had heard about to descend upon them.

Holmes slowly maneuvered himself and the doctor so that neither of them were off balance as they crouched in the shadows. His nearly imperceptible breathing quickened when he heard the faint sounds of a lock being forced in the back of the very house that was their own observation perch.

The heavy tread of what was surely a large man echoed abrasively through the empty house. It was clear the intruder was trying to step lightly, though his efforts were in vain in the cavernous, vacant structure.

Holmes clutched his companion's shoulder hard, and he shrank silently back against the wall when the man came into the very room in which they hid, heading with single-minded intent towards the front window.

Watson readied his revolver and braced himself to meet the man's attack, an attack that never came. He suddenly realized that the gloom of the house combined with his intense focus had rendered the newcomer blind to their presence.

The man crept towards the window and dropped quietly to one knee before it. He reached up and jimmied the window until it opened perhaps half a foot.

Watson's eyes took in the appearance of the man who was currently staring up at the silhouette in the brightly lit window across the street. The man appeared to be an elderly gentleman, of all things, and he was quite visibly excited, his features twitching animatedly as he considered the glowing square across the street and the shadow projected upon it.

The man had a high forehead, thanks to a receding hairline, which was revealed by the opera-hat pushed far back on his head. Beneath his thin, hooked nose, he sported an impressive grizzled mustache. His gleaming evening shirt front was quite visible in the light that came through the opened window. His genteel attire was at odds with the fierce lines graven deeply in his gaunt, swarthy face and the savage gleam in his pale eyes.

The man had been carrying what Watson presumed was a walking stick, but when he laid it upon the floor it gave a metallic clang. As he knelt there on the floor, he drew a bulky, oddly-shaped bundle out of his overcoat. The man busied himself with this second object until it clicked loudly in the silence of the house, as if a part clicked into place.

...tbc...