Keisuke Matsuoka - Sherlock Holmes - A Scandal in Japan

“When a person stops trusting in themselves nothing is left,” Sherlock murmured. “And when one entrusts everything to the hands of the law, one may also be abdicating direct responsibility. One must always decide for himself how best to act in any given situation.”

England’s system of laws, though the envy of Japan, was surely not immaculate. At least, Sherlock thought so. What greater proof than that two of Moriarty’s men had been acquitted?

He didn’t want to take lives—but outside of murder, he would judge the righteousness of a man with his own eyes. He had no intention of trusting in the whims of fate.

Mycroft lingered, but voiced no objections to Sherlock’s philosophizing. Eventually he began walking toward the door. “I have changed the lock. You will find the key upon the mantelpiece. I believe you were already in the habit of changing it every few months?”

“Yes.”

“Then I shall return these rooms to your keeping. Should you have anything interesting to tell, do come find me at the Diogenes Club. Do not be a stranger, Sherlock.”

In response, Sherlock waved his hand casually. It was enough of a farewell for the time being. They could see each other now at any time they chose.

Mycroft’s back disappeared beyond the open door. Sherlock glanced down at the road. Parker had already vanished. Moran would likely soon be hearing of Sherlock’s return.

He strode back and opened one of the drawers. Various mementos were inside, just as he remembered. Rummaging through the drawer, his hand suddenly paused on one of his disguises. A white wig and side-whiskers. He was surprised they still remained.

He was struck by a devious thought. A smile tugged at the corner of his lips. This was just what was needed to reunite with an old friend. Though it wouldn’t be as dramatic as popping out of a coffin, he hoped his friend would be both shocked and pleased. As a former army surgeon, he ought to have the nerve for it. He would not be so fragile as Mrs. Hudson, at the very least.

It was Sherlock’s first time visiting Watson’s new residence in Kensington, but he displayed no reservations. After all, it was all the same to an old man with grey hair and side-whiskers. If anything, his presumptuous attitude better suited his disguise. The maid at the door had obviously thought of him as an obtrusive old sack, but Sherlock had been counting on her reaction.

He was shown into the study. He hobbled in with a decrepit gait, half a dozen books under each arm, his back hunched. He had included a lower back injury in his performance, purely for his own amusement. He would need to create a clear causal link between his physical state and his movements if he was to fool a doctor’s eyes.

Watson stood up from his desk. He looked surprised.

Sherlock was confident in his disguise. Watson would never recognize him. He had already purposely bumped into Watson once, earlier, outside 424 Park Lane, and looked him directly in the face, to receive no immediate reaction other than a vague apology.

At the moment, Watson seemed perplexed, and even pitying.

“You’re surprised to see me, sir,” Sherlock croaked.

“Yes, I should say I am.”

“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… May I ask how you knew who I was?”

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

A more guarded man would not have looked. But Watson turned to observe his own bookshelf, never suspecting a thing. He continued to puzzle over the shelf after Sherlock had already removed his wig and false whiskers. Sherlock’s heart pounded in impatience and anticipation.

At last Watson turned back around. His eyes searched for the books he expected his elderly guest to be holding. Seeing them on the floor, he looked up queerly.

Sherlock stood straight. He smiled.

Watson stared at him for some seconds. Sherlock had hoped for a cry of joy—such was not Watson’s reaction. His eyes opened wide, wide, wider than Mrs. Hudson’s had, his mouth gaped—and suddenly he was teetering backward.

Sherlock panicked and rushed forward. He certainly hadn’t been expecting Watson to collapse. He’d fainted! Even Mrs. Hudson had shown more fortitude than this.

He almost called for the maid but then thought better of it. The maid would then call for a physician, and what would that do for Watson’s reputation and self-respect?

He looked at the cabinet, where there was a small bottle of brandy. Sherlock took it out and crouched over Watson. He loosened his friend’s collar and gently poured a touch of the brandy onto his twitching lips.

Watson coughed slightly as he swallowed. Relieved, Sherlock sat down on the nearest chair.

At last Watson’s eyes fluttered open. His eyes, still unfocused, swept over the room before eventually coming to rest again on Sherlock.

“My dear Watson,” Sherlock said sincerely. “I owe you a thousand apologies. I had no idea that you would be so affected.”

Would he react with anger? Curse him or pull a fit? Sherlock braced himself for both. Instead Watson leapt to his feet and gripped him by the arm as tightly as though for dear life. His eyes twinkled. “Sherlock! Is it really you?”

He seemed almost delirious with happiness. His face flushed red with joy, and his tearful eyes danced with excitement.

Sherlock returned Watson’s smile, acutely aware of how unconscionable his own behavior had been. His chest tightened. To have caused such pain to such a dear friend and companion, and then to engage in this trick upon his return? It had been a stupid thought.

Henceforth, he hoped to share every joy and sorrow with Watson. The doctor surely agreed that together, they should overcome any adversity.

Time simply flew by—or so it seemed to Watson, who was now 50. It was already the third year of King Edward VII’s reign. Edward VII had also been crowned the Emperor of India.

It was early 1903, and the weather in London was colder than usual that year. There was constantly a fire in the stove. Outside the window, snow still fluttered in the air along Queen Anne Street.

And yet today, Watson felt that same thrill in his chest as from his younger days. It was important to remember it all clearly—what he had seen that day, what he had felt.

Since his marriage, Watson was not as close to Sherlock as he had once been. The separation was somewhat painful. Sherlock was still a bachelor, and had turned 49 only yesterday. After so much time, even Sherlock had begun to soften around the edges. Seeing each other as often as they did, Watson sometimes worried he might forget the sharp impression that Sherlock had made in those early days. In his manuscript, he wanted to capture the surprise and excitement he had experienced ten years prior, just as he had felt it then.

He’d only received the go-ahead for his current work a few months previous. Serialization would begin in October. Sherlock Holmes’ return from the dead had already been widely reported, and few readers would now be shocked by the revelation. Still, Watson was swept away with joy at the prospect of writing of that April, back in 1894. It had been one of the happiest days of his life—the day he had been reunited with Sherlock.