To Return From Death Chapter Three - "Where The Hearth Is"
Where The Hearth Is
I arrive at Baker Street dressed as myself. Moran knows that I am still among the living; there is no need to attempt to remain concealed from him. Let the devil know that I have come home to face him at last!
I enter 221B and am met by a terrified Mrs. Hudson. She must take me to be a ghost, judging by the look upon her face. The woman is trembling and staring at me with wide, blue eyes as she attempts to say something. Her face is also dreadfully pale; as white as her pinafore.
A gentle smile does not reassure my housekeeper, so I gesture for her to calm herself as I approach her in a series of long strides. Before I am even fully aware of what I am doing, I have gathered her into my arms in an embrace which neither of us seem willing to part from. I find myself smiling as she whispers my name in a happy yet tearful manner while she rests her head at my chest. I feel like the Prodigal Son that has just been welcomed home by a loving and forgiving mother - I could almost cry with her. I do not deserve such a welcome.
With Mrs. Hudson finally calmed and reassured (and now that I am also feeling better), I enter the sitting room to find it just as I remembered (if I ignore the mourning black additions to the furnishings, the staleness of the tobacco scent and the lack of a fire in the grate, resulting in the room remaining chilled and giving it a neglected air). My housekeeper soon remedies the lack of a fire and I take to my armchair, wishing only that my dear friend Watson was seated across from me.
A soothing cup of tea later, I have a plan of action. I know - well, I am almost certain - where the good doctor will be. I shall find him and follow him to his home, for it would never do for me to arrive at the home that I know to be his only to find that he has moved. Grief affects each one of us differently and can cause any man to become uncharacteristically unreliable or irrational. He may have sold his home and practice and moved on simply because he found that it held too many memories that had become painful for him.
I observed when I entered the house that I was being watched by none other than Parker the garrotter. He himself does not worry me a jot, but I know why a fellow such as he would be watching the house only too well. I shall have to warn Mrs. Hudson before I leave - and I cannot possibly go out the front door either; especially not in disguise. I shall leave by way of my bedroom window and slip through the courtyard to the rear of the building and into the street further down. I shall be in disguise and should not even earn a glance from the lookout.
As I turn my steps in the direction of the inquest of Ronald Adaire, which I have little doubt that Watson will not be able to resist attending, my thoughts again stray to my dear friend and I have to concentrate more than I should upon my current role. I am dreadfully excited at the thought of our reunion being only minutes away and feel an incredible, almost irrepressible urge to straighten my legs and back in order to break into a run. What I shall say to my friend of old and what to expect I am still unable to determine, however, and that alone enables me to keep my pace slow and pensive while a slight tremor inexplicably takes to my hands and legs. I remind myself that I cannot recall the last occasion when I last properly slept and that I am most likely exhausted. Besides, it is all the better to give weight to my disguise as an elderly and frail book-collector, I tell myself.
I arrive at Baker Street dressed as myself. Moran knows that I am still among the living; there is no need to attempt to remain concealed from him. Let the devil know that I have come home to face him at last!
I enter 221B and am met by a terrified Mrs. Hudson. She must take me to be a ghost, judging by the look upon her face. The woman is trembling and staring at me with wide, blue eyes as she attempts to say something. Her face is also dreadfully pale; as white as her pinafore.
A gentle smile does not reassure my housekeeper, so I gesture for her to calm herself as I approach her in a series of long strides. Before I am even fully aware of what I am doing, I have gathered her into my arms in an embrace which neither of us seem willing to part from. I find myself smiling as she whispers my name in a happy yet tearful manner while she rests her head at my chest. I feel like the Prodigal Son that has just been welcomed home by a loving and forgiving mother - I could almost cry with her. I do not deserve such a welcome.
With Mrs. Hudson finally calmed and reassured (and now that I am also feeling better), I enter the sitting room to find it just as I remembered (if I ignore the mourning black additions to the furnishings, the staleness of the tobacco scent and the lack of a fire in the grate, resulting in the room remaining chilled and giving it a neglected air). My housekeeper soon remedies the lack of a fire and I take to my armchair, wishing only that my dear friend Watson was seated across from me.
A soothing cup of tea later, I have a plan of action. I know - well, I am almost certain - where the good doctor will be. I shall find him and follow him to his home, for it would never do for me to arrive at the home that I know to be his only to find that he has moved. Grief affects each one of us differently and can cause any man to become uncharacteristically unreliable or irrational. He may have sold his home and practice and moved on simply because he found that it held too many memories that had become painful for him.
I observed when I entered the house that I was being watched by none other than Parker the garrotter. He himself does not worry me a jot, but I know why a fellow such as he would be watching the house only too well. I shall have to warn Mrs. Hudson before I leave - and I cannot possibly go out the front door either; especially not in disguise. I shall leave by way of my bedroom window and slip through the courtyard to the rear of the building and into the street further down. I shall be in disguise and should not even earn a glance from the lookout.
As I turn my steps in the direction of the inquest of Ronald Adaire, which I have little doubt that Watson will not be able to resist attending, my thoughts again stray to my dear friend and I have to concentrate more than I should upon my current role. I am dreadfully excited at the thought of our reunion being only minutes away and feel an incredible, almost irrepressible urge to straighten my legs and back in order to break into a run. What I shall say to my friend of old and what to expect I am still unable to determine, however, and that alone enables me to keep my pace slow and pensive while a slight tremor inexplicably takes to my hands and legs. I remind myself that I cannot recall the last occasion when I last properly slept and that I am most likely exhausted. Besides, it is all the better to give weight to my disguise as an elderly and frail book-collector, I tell myself.