The Empty Room (Abandoned Draft)

I looked at him and endeavoured to apologize for the accident, but it was evident that these books which I had so unfortunately maltreated were very precious objects in the eyes of their owner. With a snarl of contempt he turned upon his heel, and I saw his curved back and white side-whiskers disappear among the throng.

My observations of No. 427, Park Lane did little to clear up the problem in which I was interested.

The house was separated from the street by a low wall and railing, the whole not more than five feet high. It was perfectly easy, therefore, for anyone to get into the garden, but the window was entirely inaccessible, since there was no water-pipe or anything which could help the most active man to climb it.

More puzzled than ever I retraced my steps to Kensington. I had not been in my study five minutes when the maid entered to say that a person desired to see me. To my astonishment it was none other than my strange old book-collector, his sharp, wizened face peering out from a frame of white hair, and his precious volumes, a dozen of them at least, wedged under his right arm.

“You’re surprised to see me, sir,” said he, in a strange, croaking voice.

I acknowledged that I was.

“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,” said I. “May I ask how you knew who I was?”

“Well, sir, if it isn’t too great a liberty, I am a neighbour of yours, for you’ll find my little bookshop at the corner of Church Street, and 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 untidy, does it not, sir?”

I moved my head to look at the cabinet behind me. When I turned again Sherlock Holmes was standing smiling at me across my study table.

I rose to my feet, stared at him for some seconds in utter amazement, and then it appears that I must have fainted for the first and the last time in my life.

Certainly a grey mist swirled before my eyes, and when it cleared I found my collar-ends undone and the tingling after-taste of brandy upon my lips. Holmes was bending over my chair, his flask in his hand.

“My dear Watson,” said the well-remembered voice, “I owe you a thousand apologies. I had no idea that you would be so affected.”

I gripped him by the arm.

“Holmes!” I cried. “Is it really you?

‘It is,’ he replied.

We clung to each other for what was surely seconds, yet felt like an eternity, both parties lost in the intensity of the moment. A moment later we tumbled down, down onto the Persian rug lying before the hearth; wrapped in each other’s arms, and rapt in our sudden and miraculous reconciliation.

Our lips met and that familiar scent of shag, which clung to his smoking jacket, and that had transported me back into his embrace so many times in his absence, now – finally – filled my nostrils again.

A feral state seemed to overcome us as we clawed at the others’ garments. Momentarily, I felt Holmes tearing at the brass buttons of my waistcoat.

‘No,’ I breathed, pushing him away weakly. ‘Not here.’

‘Yes,’ he demanded. ‘Here. Now!’

‘But, Mrs Hudson… I- I’m expecting tea.’

‘To hell with tea,’ exclaimed Holmes, climbing to his feet. Strident above me, he held out a hand. ‘Our reacquaintance is long overdue.’

I gripped him and felt the sinewy, pulsing muscle that I had longed for so often since his untimely demise.

Pulling me upright, we again came face-to-face and I felt drunk with euphoria. Holmes beckoned behind me and I acquiesced, willingly allowing him to lead me, with that oh-so familiar determination, across our drawing room and on into my chambers.

Bugger!