“Thank you,” Sherlock said to Ikuko. She returned his gaze with wet eyes, but nodded, smiling.
The steam horn sounded a long note. After it trailed off, silence filled the space, leaving only a loneliness like that of falling leaves.
“The ship is ready to depart. This is farewell,” Ito said to Sherlock. “Though—I almost forgot. You will keep your stay in Japan a secret between us, I assume.”
“I did enter the country on the sly and stay illegally, after all.”
“Please keep it a secret from your friend, Dr. Watson, too. Now then, Mr. Holmes. I shall not forget you. Godspeed.”
A swirl of emotions filled Sherlock’s chest. He extended his hand silently. Ito gripped it in his own. Faint tears welled up in the man’s eyes. Sherlock could not help but notice now how much his friend’s eyes resembled Ikuko’s and Asako’s.
At some point, Umeko, too, had begun to cry. She bowed her head deeply, as if she was embarrassed by her tears. Sherlock wondered if all the bowing perhaps served to hide one’s face and display of emotions.
He climbed the gangway with the other passengers and stood on the deck. The sky, clear and blue as the sea, drifted past his face. He stared down at the pier, which sparkled under the halcyon light. The policemen bowed together. Ikuko waved her handkerchief. Asako waved with even greater force, and raced after the ship as it began to depart.
Ito and Umeko remained rooted, waving their hands. Even after Sherlock was too far away to see their faces, the Ito family continued to wave, with their hands high in the air.
The sunlight broke over the ocean’s surface and reflected back into the air, spreading a soft undulating light over the shore. The clouds above, ephemeral and white, created patches of shadow and light below them as they drifted across the sky.
Sherlock had no doubts that Japan would become a great nation. He was now leaving behind this doughty archipelago in the magnificent Far East. The nation’s people, simple and sublime, grew smaller and smaller as the ship carried him away. The trees along the shore swayed with the wind. Pale autumn leaves fell to the rich brown earth. This peaceful, almost ethereal silence banished the fear and hesitation that had dogged him for so long, and sent them far along their way.
38
Spring of 1894. Since he had last seen it three years ago, the scenery of London had changed slightly. On several of the streets, the old Aberdeen granite cobblestones had been replaced with a smoother macadam pavement. Although the carriages shook less than before, the wheels shaved the roads as they went, and the buildings alongside were stained white with road dust. One could judge how long a door had not been opened for by the amount of dust accumulated on its handle.
It was nearly two in the afternoon. Sherlock disembarked from his carriage onto the long-missed Baker Street. The area remained unchanged, and it was hard to believe that three years had passed. There was the familiar entryway door, crowned with its arched window. There was the number, 221B.
Sherlock opened the door and stepped inside. He faced the back of an old, grey-haired woman. She remained stooped over, polishing the stairway banister with a rag, as she called over her shoulder, “Welcome, come in. Mr. Holmes is waiting on the second floor.”
Sherlock felt momentarily disconcerted, but soon realized the situation. His brother must have only told her he was expecting a visitor, but not who it was.
Mrs. Hudson turned around. She stared at him blankly, blinking several times. A violent look of surprise overwhelmed her. She staggered toward him, eyes wide, and gave a strangled cry. “Good Lord! Mr. Holmes!”
Her knees buckled. Sherlock grabbed her to prevent her from falling. Mrs. Hudson’s joy was beyond anything he would have imagined. She cried like a little girl. She must be off her trolley, to greet him in this way.
Mrs. Hudson’s voice trembled. “I was sure we had lost you. They all talked of having a gathering, it’s near to the day of your passing. Last year Inspector Lestrade sent an entire carriage of white carnations, it was a fine thing.”
“Please calm down, Mrs. Hudson. It is very good to see you again. Did my brother tell you nothing?”
“Nothing at all. Oh, that scoundrel, he told me to ready the rooms because a guest was arriving from a laboratory in France!”
“And so I have. He was not wrong. He is upstairs, then?”
“Yes. I am just on my way up with the tea things.”
“No need, please rest downstairs. You and I shall have our tea together after I come down.”
Mrs. Hudson eagerly invited him to find her in the back room of the first floor. Then Sherlock straightened his collar and climbed the stairs. Trust Mycroft—although he had surely heard the commotion below, he did not step out to greet his brother.
The door had been left ajar. Sherlock stepped inside. The room, which he had not set eyes upon in so long, was organized as though someone had hastily put it in order for visitors. The table and sofa remained in their former position. The laboratory equipment atop the desk also remained untouched. The Persian slipper sat upon the mantelpiece. Likely even the tobacco remained inside, though it would be stale and unusable by now.
Mycroft, who sat in the easy-chair, was thinner than Sherlock remembered, but this made him look younger as well. He stood slowly and extended both arms, a smile creasing his face.
Surely he was not expecting a hug. Sherlock grimaced. “I see everything has been left as it was. It would have appeared less suspicious to Moriarty’s ruffians if you’d just cleared the entire place, but I suppose disposing of so many household articles proved too trying. Very like you, Mycroft, to continue to pay the rent simply because it demanded less effort.”
“Sherlock, the least you could do is say hello.”
“Yes, and you might welcome me back.”
He expected a sarcastic rejoinder. Instead, Mycroft said readily, “Welcome home, Sherlock.”
The sincerity in his tone left Sherlock momentarily speechless. It took effort for him to say, “It is good to see you…”
Mycroft’s expression was not the same as when they had parted at the Port of Livorno. From that day Sherlock remembered only the reproach in Mycroft’s face, but now he seemed to be congeniality itself. Perhaps there had been no need to worry so much over their clashing opinions, after all.
Indeed, Sherlock finally understood how much trouble his brother had gone to help him escape. And the difficulties he must have suffered for the three years that followed.
“You look well,” Mycroft observed, his face showing subdued joy.
“As do you,” Sherlock replied.
“I heard of what unfolded in Japan. There was nearly war with Russia.”
Sherlock smiled, and placed his finger to his lips. “I was sworn to secrecy by Chairman Ito. Excuse me, Prime Minister Ito.”
“Yes, he has been made Prime Minister once again. And the Dalai Lama and Caliph?”
“I was able to gain an audience.”
“Ask and you shall receive!”
“Indeed,” Sherlock said. At the moment he felt he could speak openly. “It is thanks to you, brother. I am very grateful.”
Mycroft seemed a touch embarrassed. “I was not the one who made the trips possible.”
“But you provided the opportunity. A chance for a little fish to see the greater pond. I understand now what it means to be brothers.”
The bell chimed, announcing the time as two o’clock. Mycroft’s expression softened. He hesitated over his words for a moment, then spoke in his usual deflecting manner. “Your decision to return sooner than your original intention has left me rather harried. I thought we would have you pop out from your coffin during the third anniversary of your passing, and scare everyone half to death.”