by

GM

As I curved round the corner from Marylebone Road the memories were almost overwhelming. Never a sentimentalist, I felt a pang of homesickness as I crossed the prosaic and fondly familiar threshold of 221B. After negotiating past the hysterical Mrs. Hudson I found myself settled in my old chair near the fireplace. I lacked only the companionship of Watson in the chair across to make the scene complete.

For three years I had pondered how I would reappear to my old friend. I had meditated on the explanations of my absence and silence and fondly fantasized over various dramatic and amusing resurrections. Mycroft's duplicity, to my anger and contrary to my orders, had made a difficult situation worse. To Mycroft it mattered little about such information. To me it was important that Watson know I was alive -- and that Mycroft broke the news. So many times I had longed to write Watson. Each time I could not find the words to explain my trickery. It would have been so much less painful coming from my dispassionate and impersonal brother.

How could I tell my honest arid devoted friend I had put him through such anguish -- to use him for my own purposes? How could I say I had chosen NOT to call to him at the edge of the Falls and reveal my escape from death? From the irrevocable moment I made that decision I realized there would be no easy way to explain the ruse to Watson.

Even more untenable would be those subtle, half-seen, half-guessed reasons I could barely admit to myself. I had wanted to be the one to leave this time. I had also been afraid for Watson's life. Thus I had sent him away to tend to the mythical patient at the hotel. I had kept silent at the Falls knowing my death would hurt him terribly. A hurt less damaging, certainly, than would have been his death -- through his devotion, a victim of reflected danger -- to me.

How long have I lived under the fear, the threat, of injury and death to my only friend? If I feared death myself, I feared it more for Watson. Yet each time we neared danger the excitement of the chase; the thrill of the adventure swept the sense of caution from my mind. The risks seemed negligible compared to the defeat of the criminal. Only when one of us was injured or nearly killed did I realize my rashness might have been fatal.

How could I have lived with myself if anything had happened to Watson? How could I explain it to his trusting Mary? Far better he suffer the temporary grief of my death. Mary, a stalwart soul equal to himself, could comfort him until my return.

Thus, at the edge of Reichenbach I took my opportunity to do something noble and treacherous simultaneously. To use Watson's good heart to allow me to hide from the world. Thus I had fooled my enemies, kept Watson and his family safe from those same enemies, and I had escaped the trials of my tangled life.

Days had extended to weeks, to months, to years in my Continental trek, in my little services for my brother. Each passing hour made confession and explanation of my silence more difficult. With the complication of Mycroft's deception, the silence seemed more cruel, inexplicable and harder to face than ever. Reiteration of the excuses did not salve my conscience.

How could I explain the long absence now? Cocaine and distance did nothing to ease the guilt exacerbated by a pervading loneliness. My only edge was the half-true excuse of Moran dogging my trail. Not to be underestimated, Moran would have killed Watson, Mary, or me if he felt the murders would keep him free.

With the death of Ronald Adair I saw my chance to return to London. There would be an end to the exile. Weary of the vagabond life I was anxious and ready to return. The confession to Watson would be difficult but infinitely preferred to my solitary existence. Ever an isolated character, I had found true loneliness in separation from my friend and familiar surroundings. The time was long overdue to come home.

"Here is some tea, Mr. Holmes," Mrs. Hudson announced as she laid the table with too much food and a huge pot of tea.

Aside from her initial hysterics, the good landlady had taken my return with amazing equanimity. There had been a few, spare words of censure for my long absence, quickly followed by more glad tidings. She had probably felt redundant without Watson or myself to mother. I wondered if he had come often to console her.

I stood and rummaged through my pipes at the mantle. Ironically I smirked at the painting above the mantle -- a prophetic harbinger of doom? -- of Reichenbach Falls. If I was of a darker, more fanciful nature I might suggested some precognitive aspect in my personality for having an image of the fateful Falls in my sitting room. Now, after the danger was nearly behind me, I could find droll humor in the artwork.

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson. I shall not require supper. I shall be going out soon. "

The rattle of dishes stopped. My back to her, I could sense the disapproval. I was robbing her of an opportunity to dote on me. I hoped Mrs. Watson would not be in a similar, domestic mind. One of the reasons I shunned marriage was the abhorrent thought of being coddled by a woman seeking to mother me.

"Later, Mrs. Hudson."

"Very well." She sighed deeply. "It's been so empty without either of you here for three years. I hope Doctor Watson will moving back soon."

I froze. Such sympathetic remorse colored her voice I felt dread fear clutch my throat. I leaned both hands on the mantle for support. Every muscle and nerve was taut in the grip of a premonition of dire consequence.

"Why do you say so?" So cool was my voice each word seemed to crack. It was an icy dam of resolve holding back the trepidation.

"Oh, the dear man could use the company, what with his poor wife dying. She was weak, of course, but so terrible for the good Doctor all the same. After he collected his belongings, he's never come back to visit, you know. I've been to see him once or twice. It's been so hard on him."

"Died?"

"Before the baby was born -- poor things -- oh, that terrible spring we thought you dead. I hope he moves back now that you're returned. It would be nice to have everything back to normal. "

I was immobile for a long time after she had left. Unprepared for the magnitude of the disaster I was numb with disbelief. For so long I excused my sojourn as an altruistic attempt to keep Watson and his family safe from the enemies at my heels. While I had escaped the trials of my tangled life, Watson had suffered.

"Poor Mary," I whispered weakly, leaning on the mantle with both hands. "My poor Watson," I commiserated with a regret so deep I was shaken by the profound sentiment.

Watson kept personal anguish to himself and never publicized it. Stoic and long-suffering to an alarming degree, he had hardly spoken of Mary's serious condition. During our trip to Switzerland he never mentioned his concerns -- so like him to worry himself with my troubles and never mention his own.

To have Mary die while I was away . . . . The tribulation seemed unbearably cruel. Heavens, what a tragedy. In her own way Mary had been the perfect match for my friend. True, strong, honest, uncomplaining (at least to me) and consummately supportive. At first I had felt a distance -- projected a distance -- to her. She was the woman who took my chronicler and companion from Baker Street. It had not been easy turning my jealous, selfish pique to tolerance; to acceptance, to fondness. For her part, she had tolerated a great deal of eccentricity and selfishness on my part. If she ever complained or resisted Watson's participation in my cases (I doubted she did), Watson never said so. She never objected to my countless intrusions in their lives. I wish I could have honestly said the same of her, particularly in the beginning, in the few years I had known her.

"My poor, dear Watson, " I whispered to the empty room. I was sure I could not comprehend the depth of sorrow in his noble heart. He had lost a best friend, a wife and child, within a few months.

As empty as I had felt for three years -- alone and displaced from my friend and beloved London -- how much greater was his deprivation of those he loved most? How could such evil strike someone so inherently good and kind?

It was an anguish so great I had no way to relate. My father's death, my mother's suicide, had been the only losses close to me. I felt unworthy to compare them to the triple loss which must have utterly devastated my friend.

How could I face Watson now? What excuse could cover abandonment in his greatest hour of need? His life was now scarred by the deaths. What could I do to atone for my part in the misery?

***

Late afternoon brought the Coroner's inquest. I waited for Watson on the courthouse steps. Unable to reveal my presence in London -- unable to face Watson yet -- I hid behind the facade the old bookseller. This was a new persona, provided by Mycroft one Watson would not be familiar with. At any rate I doubt he would have perceived the ruse. I was the last ghost he would expect to materialize back into his world.

My first sight of him in three years was the sight of a stranger. Through this disguise I closely studied the sober, depression-scored face of a Watson I no longer knew. The receding grey hair, the grey in his thick mustache, belonged to a man, near my own age, grown old before his time. Blue eyes formerly sparkling with innate amusement, were now subdued with a subtle, constant pain. A deep hurt was evident in every part of his face, his countenance, and his stature. He seemed a shell, distanced from the rest of humanity. How easily I recognized that self-erected barrier to shield him from any emotions, which might penetrate the heart. That my once open and optimistic friend now adopted my own type of defense was a terrible realization of how deeply he had been scarred.

When Watson testified in court my sympathy was tempered with pride. His evidence was concise and well presented. His deductions were worthy of our long association. Often I had told him he underestimated his own abilities. When the judge insulted my friend I was ironically not surprised that criminal proceedings remained unchanged in my absence. What was upsetting was my friend's lack of reaction. As if there were no feelings left to hurt or insult. As if he was an automaton, walking through life without substance. It was a picture so alien to him I was again stunned at how he had changed.

As he left the courtroom I rushed to beat him out. I deliberately collided with him at the curb. When he returned fallen books I impulsively, fondly, cuffed him -- a whimsical contact from my joy at seeing him. A touch I needed for my own reassurance.

I followed him to Kensington and the burdens of my heart lifted gradually. I felt a kind of elated excitement at our imminent reunion -- mischievously planning a new dramatic surprise for my friend. The three years of separation and desolate isolation on two sides was about to end. The joy of my return surely would sweep away the grief-laden weight carried by my friend.

I shuffled into the consulting room and felt a momentary tremor of doubt. His cool, abrupt reception was so unnatural for him. This was a man whose innate kindness and equanimity was erased. The bastions of defensive aloofness were thick and impenetrable. Everything about him warned off trespassers. The eerie painting of the graveyard -- surprisingly the cemetery on my ancestral estate -- hanging above his desk sent chills along my skin. Not the kind of decoration usually found in a physician's office. Where had he acquired that old relic?

I felt my own walled emotions crack. Quickly I blocked the weakness and reverted to my planned dramatic entrance. Trepidation was drowned in my overwhelming confidence that within moments I would set all aright. I would erase my friend's anguish and a new world would be built from the tatters of the old. We would start fresh and our renewed partnership would diminish the pain of the past.

When he turned from the bookshelf his expression of amazement was unforgettable. I held out my arms -- welcoming the reunion with literally open eagerness. My amazement equaled his own when he dropped in a dead faint.

My armor started to crumble. What a blind fool I was to think my surprise would not effect his sensitive soul! How could I think a death three years old would be swept away by my dramatics? How could I expect to expunge the pain as easily as I peeled off my false hair and nose?

I gently brushed his face with my trembling hand. My heart had ached for him at Reichenbach; at the last three years, at news of his sad losses. Never had I felt such compassion for my friend as now. Studying his face, placid in unconsciousness, palpably I understood the anguish which he had harbored in solitary torment for so long.

Momentarily he would reawaken. He would ask those probing questions which were his wont; his right -- the enquiries which would prove my duplicity, my selfishness -- my cruelty.

It was then I determined to lock away my sensitivity. When my friend awoke I could not tell all. How could I face all the pain? No matter what I said it would hurt him. Part of the truth and agony would be better than all. With a cold wall of resistance I covered my sympathies and compassion with firm reserves. It was the only way to save us both from too many truths we were not prepared to face; not strong enough to bear

How could he forgive my many, deliberate trespasses? I had hurt him more than I could repair after three terrible years of isolation. How would he react? More hurt? Anger? Rejection? I could not survive without Watson. Better to cover the truth, to lie, than risk alienating him, or reap the deserved hostility he SHOULD feel toward me.

I tipped brandy into his mouth and he slowly returned to consciousness. His expression of amazed delight was enough to tell me all would be well. My friend, an innate survivor, was back and his loyalty and affection glowed more intensely than before. The warm welcome, the unbridled elation was pure, old Watson.

When he tremulously whispered my name I thought I would weep with joy! "My dear Watson," I said with a heartfelt, unsteady voice. "I owe you a thousand apologies." I nearly stumbled. "I had no idea you would be so effected." The crossroads of truthful confession and further deception were upon me. I crossed the Rubicon with guile as my guide. Nary a tremor fluttered in my tone. "For my unnecessarily dramatic appearance," I finished kindly -- fondly.

My faith in his generosity was not disappointed. He gripped my arms as if I might fly away; as if he might waken and find this only a wicked dream.

"Holmes! Is it really you?!"

His honest eyes were brimmed with tears. The last thoughts of truth fled from my mind. I would do nothing to disrupt this glorious and wonderful reunion.

***

"I thought I was at least as trustworthy as your brother."

His pained expression, the anguished words, cut to my heart, impelled by the betrayed, damning tone.

My improvised explanation was a disaster. I nearly gave in. On the brink of truth, once more I brushed past what I considered a more damning, more painful revelation. I had taxed our friendship too far already. I had to rely on his unwavering loyalty to supply the deficiencies of my conduct. I counted that, as always, he would ignore my slights and insensitivities --even to this extent -- and retain his stalwart personality.

"Of course I do," I countered with pure sincerity, honesty and as much contrition as I dared reveal. 'More than you could ever guess. More than I could ever say, unfortunately, my dear friend. Even though my actions say otherwise, I trust you more than myself,' I thought, but could not bring myself to say. "But you have a kinder heart." Another honest statement. Tempered with an affectionate smile.

Watson was ever an expert at reading the feelings beneath my contrary words and actions. I prayed he would be intuitive enough to do so now. He had crossed behind his desk, using the heavy piece as a foundation on which to raise an invisible barrier between us, an instinctive defense. This was a new reaction. I realized there would be some subtleties I would have to acquaint myself with. Watson had changed in three years. We would not be able to drop in where we had left off. I would have to take these slight differences into account when dealing with him.

One valuable point I had seen already was that I could never again take him for granted. Watson would not accept it now. He had been through too much loss to deal with my petty quirks of immaturity. With my own fresh perspective I had no intention of ever ignoring him or taking his valued companionship for granted. We had both seen too much of absence to ever accept it again.

To bridge the painful gap between us, he changed the subject. I sat across from him and, at his disinterested request, told him briefly of my travels. They were mere words falling on the barren ground between us. Like new acquaintances, a certain amount of exploration was needed before we would feel comfortable with each other again.

Gradually, a bit of the old familiar light reclaimed his face as the barriers of resistance lowered. A sign of the old Watson I was heartened to observe. Life WOULD return to a reasonable copy of old companionship. Soon we would be molding new adventures from the familiar foundation of the old. Our partnership would be better and more meaningful than before.

He had chosen to ignore my betrayal. He would probably not mention it again. I hastened to cover up the wound. It was something he would not forget soon. Certainly I would not either. But ignoring it would enable us to go on with nary a crack in our unity.

I felt tired suddenly. As if a pressing weight was removed from my mind. I recognized it as a relief that the initial moments were past. Watson had, as I hoped and expected, indicated he would fall in with my plans for tonight and for years to come.

I suppressed a yawn. Perhaps a short nap would be in order before we tackled the disreputable Moran. Sleep was a welcome thought. I had not experienced fitful rest for some time. Under the secure and solicitous eye of my friend, I felt I could temporarily turn over my burdens into his hands. Just as of the old days.

SH