My train returning to London was the earliest I could manage that Monday morning. I had spent a month at the behest of my father sorting out my brother’s affairs, and I was glad to be finished. Between his drinking and his infidelity, I doubt there was a decision Harry ever made that did not end in chaos. Normally, his problems were left to be fixed on his own, but ever since mother died some years ago, father had endeavored to try and keep our family together. Hence why I was called upon over the Christmas season to try and talk some sense into my older sibling. It went about as well as I imagined, and when it was determined that no real progress would be made, it was with great relief that I excused myself to reassume my life on Baker Street.

 

I sat snugly in my carriage for most of the ride from the country, nestled against a window. Though I’d picked up the newspaper to read on the train, I could not help but return time and again to the letter that I had kept safe in my breast pocket. I once more unfolded it with nimble fingers to relish in Sherlock Holmes’ fastidious scrawl.

 

John,

​

How good that you’re finally coming home. Christmas was ever so bleak without you, though Mrs. Hudson did what she could to liven up the holiday. I mentioned in passing that you would be returning soon, and I believe she has made preparations to greet you with a belated goose dinner. An idea that was hers and hers alone, and not at all influenced by our walk past the butcher’s come last Sunday. Though if I may be bold, I hope she does not plan to bogart your time your first day back.

 

I have missed you, and terribly so. Fortunate that we agreed to write to each other while you were away, but I fear it isn’t the same. A letter cannot entertain me on nights when I am racked with sleeplessness. I cannot make a passage smile, nor share a glass of wine or whiskey with fond words. When you are home again, we must make up for lost time.

 

I am writing quickly, so that you may receive this message before your train on Monday. By my calculations, you should arrive in London at half past nine, and I shall be sure to welcome you properly.

 

Yours, With Deepest Affection,

S.H.

 

Mine, with deepest affection. It was how Holmes had signed off his personal letters. Our telegrams were kept professional, as both he and I understood the dangers of parading our courtship too brazenly. But our letters, to be hidden away from public scrutiny, at least until now, were allowed to remain as insensibly passionate as was possible. You will forgive me for not sharing each letter in its entirety throughout this private collection, as even now there are some missives that are not meant for an audience under any circumstances. Some things must be for us alone, you see. I am sure you understand.

 

After reading it once more in full, I tucked the letter into my breast pocket and skimmed the newspaper. I read of a railway accident in Lancaster, and an update to the attempted assassination of Queen Victoria. Further in were smaller stories; advertisements for goods and services, ranging from medical tonics to psychic analysts. In my many years on this Earth, I cannot say with certainty that there will come a time for man when he is reasonable in all things, as my fellow Londoners certainly were not. Fortunately, I knew of at least one master of reason who awaited me at King’s Cross station. As my train pulled in, I eagerly gathered up my things and deboarded. My eyes fell to Holmes as though they were compelled by some unwitting force, and he and I approached each other through the steam of the idling engine.

 

“Holmes,” I greeted.

 

“Watson,” he returned. His smile was barely contained, and through the haze of the morning, the glitter of his eyes broke through to warm my heart. “There is a man waiting for us outside. Here.” He took one of my suitcases, and escorted me out into the sleet. For though it had been a snowy Christmas, much of the powdery winter had formed nothing but slick, icy puddles of mud. As promised, there was a carriage awaiting us in the street, and Holmes helped to secure my luggage behind our driver. Once we were inside, I drew the curtains closed, and he and I sat shoulder to shoulder for warmth.

 

“Goodness, what a bitter morning.” I rubbed my hands together to unfreeze the fingers beneath my gloves. “It has been a colder winter than usual, hasn’t it, Holmes?”

 

“Not cold enough for your father to grant you a better stove, though? I must wonder how horrible a man must be to refuse to buy his own sons wood burning stoves.”

 

I laughed. “Now how in the world did you know that my bedroom stove did not burn wood?”

 

“Your sleeve.” Without prompt, he took my hand and turned it so that I may observe a smudge on the bottom of my cuff. “Unless you have taken up art, I dare say that is a mark from tending to your own coal stove. Had it the size to accommodate wood, no doubt that would be your option, but either it could not, or your father did not think to procure proper kindling in time for your arrival. You had come at his call, so you would think that he would be more prepared.”

 

“Holmes—”

 

“And your waistcoat.”

 

“What about it?”

 

He slipped a finger into the back of my collar and tugged, lightly. “Normally, there would be more resistance, but it’s quite open near the back. My God, man, have you not been eating? Obviously, you would not have the color you did when you first returned from abroad, but look and see how gaunt you are now, Watson. Your cheeks have grown nearly a whole shade paler since last I saw you, and the unkempt cluster of whiskers on your chin tell me that you’ve barely bothered with appearances this last month. Your mustache is wiry, as I’ve no doubt you’ve neglected to trim it yourself. And furthermore—”

 

His deductions halted the moment I silenced him with a kiss. I cannot say if such an act was fair to do; Holmes did not like his train of thought derailed so suddenly. But it was the only thing I could think to do to cease his worrying. For yes, such a string of conclusions was done with the sole intent of fretting for my well being. A fact that I appreciated, but by no stretch did I want to see Sherlock so bothered on my behalf. When the kiss ended, Holmes remained silent. I held our hands together.

 

“I am home,” I said. “And I am certain Mrs. Hudson will insist on feeding me well. I shall be good and plump by springtime, I assure you.”

 

Holmes, though his face was stoic, appeared embarrassed by his rambling. He stared at our fingers, and lightly toyed with a stray thread from my thumb. “I should like to see that.”

 

“You should like to see me fat?”

 

“I should like to see you happy.”

 

All the frustrations of familial bickering over the past month left me in that moment. Warmed by the love of my companion, I curled in and kissed his bare hand. He smiled, and held me close in one arm.

 

“I have missed you too, Sherlock.”

 

The rest of our ride to Baker Street was enjoyed in silence.

 

Upon arriving at our stoop, Holmes opened the door of our carriage and escorted me to the pavement. I could have laughed at how overly chivalrous he acted, though I suppose I should have been embarrassed. What man was pleased at the theatrical flourishes bestowed to him by another man? But he made such a show of it, how could I be anything but pleased? It was one thing to have Sherlock Holmes tell you he missed you. It was another thing altogether to see it. For there were plans brewing in that brilliant mind of his, I was sure. Now that I was home, Holmes would do what he could to completely monopolize me, until my cheeks were a correct pallor, or until my waistcoat fit properly. Which was why we were both rather startled to see a strange man standing in our living room upon arrival.

 

“Mr. Holmes?” he asked. “Mr. Sherlock Holmes?”

 

“Yes…?” I could see the distaste curdle in my friend’s expression.

 

“Forgive me, your landlady let me in. May I have a moment of your time? I’m afraid I’m desperate.” Holmes and I looked the man over. Judging by the silver in his hair, he was squarely middle-aged, with chops framing his wrinkled face. His clothes were wealthy, and his shoes were shined, despite the sleet at our front door. A watch hung from his breast pocket, barely visible beneath his coat, which he had yet to remove. “My name is Mr. Hayward, and I am in need of—”

 

“We are closed today, Mr. Hayward,” said Holmes.

 

“I beg your pardon?”

 

“My friend and assistant Dr. Watson has only just returned from a harrowing month away, and he is in need of rest and relaxation. Surely whatever it is can wait until the morrow?”

 

Mr. Hayward fumbled. “Mr. Holmes, sir, I’m afraid it can’t.”

 

“Has there been a murder?”

 

“No.”

 

“A theft? A burglary?”

 

“No.”

 

“Are you or your loved ones in danger of losing their lives?”

 

“No, but—”

 

“I thought as much.”

 

“Excuse me?”

 

With a huff, Holmes strut clear across to our liquor cabinet and poured himself a glass of scotch. “You are a man of considerable privilege, as dictated to me by the camel hair of your imported coat. You did not walk to Baker Street, as doing so would have soiled your precious shoes. Therefore, you are not used to being turned away at the slightest request. And yes, I do indeed find this request slight. Had there been a tragedy, a man of your stature would have no trouble reporting to the police. Nor would he be lacking the funds to hire personal guards should the situation arise. I can only guess, then, that you have come to me with a personal matter.” Holmes took a swig of his scotch and turned on his pointed heel. “So what is it then? Infidelity? A young buck who has his eyes on your daughter? You will forgive me, Mr. Hayward, but such mundane problems are not of any interest to me, and as I have stated, I am far too busy tending to the needs of my recently returning friend. So if you do not mind, I would ask that you take your leave, sir. Good day.”

 

“But Mr. Holmes—!” Mr. Hayward sputtered. “Please, at least hear my plight before turning me away so harshly! You are right, I am not a man used to being denied, but I am here not on my behalf, but on behalf of my wife. Surely you can understand my struggle? I would be no man, no husband worth my salt should I not at least try to bend your ear.” Holmes was unmoved, and in a shocking expression of humility, Mr. Hayward fell to his knees. His proper facade had cracked, and he begged with every bone in his body for Holmes to listen. “Please. Please. You are the only one who can aid me in this endeavor. I love my dear Cecilia more than I do myself. You can understand that, can’t you?”

 

“Holmes.” My voice broke the tension, and both looked to me. “Why not indulge the man? At least for the moment. Clearly he is in dire straits indeed.”

 

Holmes twitched, irritated by my suggestion. But he succumbed. “Very well.” He gestured for Mr. Hayward to stand. “Be quick about it at the very least.”

 

“I shall, I shall.” Scrambling to his feet, Mr. Hayward spoke with the earnestness of a truly honest man. “My wife and I, we’ve been trying for a child. Only recently had we been blessed with a daughter, except…” Mr. Hayward choked. “Our little Delilah was taken from us by fever just three months ago. My beloved bride has been beside herself with grief. The death of a child, Mr. Holmes, is not a torture I would wish on anyone. Just last month, I had urged Cecilia’s friends to try and encourage her to find joy again. When she returned from an outing, it was as though she was her old self. Bright and beautiful as the day we married. She began these frequent outings not long after. Twice or three times a week. It was as though my heart had returned to me, Mr. Holmes, and I was overjoyed. And then, one day, she told me what it was she was doing. She was visiting a medium, and paying handsomely to speak to the spirit of our daughter. I cannot tell you both how conflicted I was. Obviously, this woman my wife has been seeing is a charlatan. I have tried speaking reason, but she will not see it. She is convinced that Deliah speaks to her from beyond the grave, and this accursed psychic is determined to drain every last shilling from our home.”

 

“So you wish for us to disprove your medium’s practice?” said Holmes. “Lest you lose your shirt in payments?”

 

“I care not for money,” Mr. Hayward proclaimed. “Had I believed in this ruse, I would gladly pay my final penny to see my wife happy. But I cannot allow her to be taken in by such evils. What shall happen months or years from now, when she finally realizes that she has been tricked all this time? It would destroy her more than when we buried our daughter. I want my Cecilia happy, but I dread the long term damage such a fascination will do to her.”

 

Holmes watched Mr. Hayward speak with a dour expression. Clearly, he was not in favor of ruining my first day back, but what man could hear such a story and not be moved? “If you are in need to disprove your medium,” he said, “I suggest looking beneath her table. You do not need me to uncover hidden gears, Mr. Hayward.”

 

“It must be from you,” Mr. Hayward argued. “Cecilia will not believe me if I tell her. It must come from a third party. And you… well…” Mr. Hayward turned to me. “I am assuming you are the same Dr. Watson who publishes the adventures of Mr. Holmes?”

 

“That’s correct,” I said.

 

“All the more reason. My wife is a great fan of your publications, Dr. Watson.”

 

“Is she?”

 

“She is. And should the proof come from the great Sherlock Holmes himself, there would be no room for Cecilia to disagree.” He once more turned to Holmes with a final appeal. “Isn’t there someone you love, Mr. Holmes? Is there not a single person in this world who you would do anything for? Can you not understand my predicament?”

 

Holmes, finishing his scotch, looked deeply thoughtful. He weighed the empty glass in his hand, as though the cup held the options for his decision. Moved by Mr. Hayward’s desperation, I stepped forward. “Holmes,” I said quietly, “we cannot let this stand. You know this.”

 

His eyes flashed to me. While there was frustration there, it was hardly a spurn of my good nature. “I suppose we cannot,” he agreed. With a deep sigh, he set the glass aside. “Very well, Mr. Hayward. What shall you have me do?”

 

Mr. Hayward brightened, and handed Holmes an unsealed invitation. “Tonight, there is to be a private séance for my wife with this medium. Only a handful of people shall be there. I would have you reveal the woman’s tricks for all to see so that there is no mistake.” Holmes opened the invitation to skim the words. “Thank you, Mr. Holmes. I am deeply indebted to your charity.”

“You are hiring me, Mr. Hayward,” Holmes reminded him. “It is only for the disdain of these imposters that I am canceling my evening plans on your behalf. I would hardly call that charity.”

“Of course, of course, Mr. Holmes.” Bobbing his head with gratitude, Mr. Hayward took his hat from our rack, and excused himself. “I shall see you tonight then. Thank you, truly.” And with that, Mr. Hayward left our parlor.

 

Holmes heaved another deep sigh and fell to the sofa. “One night, that is all I ask the world. One night alone.” I smiled and approached the back. With my arms folded, I leaned over Holmes and spoke.

 

“It is a good thing you are doing,” I said. “Mrs. Hayward has gone through great pains. It may take the likes of us to see her safely back to the real world.”

 

“Yes,” Holmes agreed miserably.

 

Leaning down, I gifted him a kiss to ease his pouting. “Besides,” I said. “There will be plenty of nights ahead of us, Holmes.”

 

That, at the very least, eased his mood. “Well,” he reasoned, “I have already waited a month. What is one day more?”

 

“Precisely."