Work Text:
The Night Visitor
——From the manuscript of Dr. John H. Watson, written three days after that night
I must set all of this down in writing.
Not because I wish to remember—in truth, I would rather forget every detail of that night, would rather let that tempest wash away all memories that should not exist, just as the rain washed the grime from Baker Street, leaving nothing behind in the morning light.
But I cannot.
Some things, once seen, cannot be unseen. Some questions, once asked, cannot be pretended never hung in the air.
Three days have passed, and my hand still trembles. You see, this hand that now holds the pen—I must press it down with my other hand. And Sherlock sits in his chair, reading the newspaper as always, occasionally emitting those sighs of boredom, as if nothing has happened.
Perhaps for him, truly nothing has happened.
Perhaps that night, that visitor, those words, that vanished scar, that puddle on the carpet spreading into the shape of a man, and finally that question—perhaps all of it was merely my dream, a hallucination woven by my subconscious during some violent storm.
How I wish this were true.
How I wish that at this moment I could close this notebook, go upstairs, lie back in bed, and wake in tomorrow's sunlight to find it all merely a nightmare.
But I cannot.
Because that patch of dampness on the sitting-room carpet has still not dried completely.
The rain began around six in the evening. I remember it clearly, for I was making tea in the kitchen when the sky outside suddenly split apart like a clenched cloth wrung too tight.
Not an ordinary London drizzle—not the kind of rain you can manage with an umbrella and a turned-up collar—but a true deluge, a pouring-out.
The rain was falling in torrents.
I had never seen water strike the windows with such ferocity, as if each drop wished to pierce the glass, to force its way into this warm, dry human sitting-room.
The streetlamps lit early, their murky glow falling upon the puddles that had gathered in the road, shattering into a thousand twitching gold fragments, only to be shattered again by fresh raindrops, and again, until the entire street resembled a flowing river of molten gold.
Sherlock stood at the window, hands in his pockets, watching silently for a long time.
I have always liked observing him in the rain—the outline of his profile in the dim light stands out so clearly, like a relief on an ancient coin: the shadow of his eye sockets, the line of his nose, the angle of his jaw—all possessing a classical beauty that belongs to no particular era.
But today he did not speak. He did not, as was his habit, comment on changes in barometric pressure or the velocity of the falling drops. He simply stood.
"Tea is ready," I said.
He grunted, not turning around.
I carried two cups to the centre of the sitting-room, set them on the table, and sank into my armchair. The fire crackled in the hearth, its dry warmth forming an invisible barrier against the damp chill beyond the window. I picked up the medical journal I had long since worn thin, attempting to read. But the rain was too loud—a continuous, unchanging roar. Not noisy, exactly, but the sort of sound that bores into your brain, making it impossible to think of anything else.
Time passed slowly.
The clock on the wall struck nine, then ten, then eleven.
The rain did not abate; it grew fiercer. The wind joined in, driving the rain sideways against the glass with a sound like sandpaper.
I put down my journal, rubbed my eyes, and was about to say something to break the long silence when the doorbell rang.
The sound was half-swallowed by thunder, but I heard it.
Cutting through the curtain of rain, through the walls, striking directly against my chest.
I looked at Sherlock. He finally turned around, his face expressionless.
"So late," I said, attempting to keep my voice light. "Perhaps Mrs Hudson forgot her key."
"Mrs Hudson went upstairs at seven," Sherlock said, his voice as calm as if he were stating the weather. "And she has her own key."
The bell rang again—longer this time, more insistent, like a bird trapped in the rain desperately pecking at a window.
I rose and walked towards the stairwell.
The stairs were pitch black, lit only by the dim glow of the hall lamp filtering through the frosted glass below. I stood at the top of the stairs, hesitating for a moment, then began to descend.
The wooden steps creaked faintly beneath my feet, each sound amplified, distorted, and echoed by the rain—as if someone else were following my footsteps.
I reached the door and peered through the small pane of glass.
A vague figure stood outside.
I could not make out his face.
His hat brim was pulled low—so low that I could only see the outline of his chin, scattered with new stubble, unkempt and damp, as if he had not groomed in days. Rainwater dripped continuously from the brim's edge. His overcoat was completely soaked, plastered against his body, outlining a thin, almost hunched silhouette.
He stood there, motionless, allowing the storm to lash at him—a forgotten sculpture left in the rain.
I opened the door.
Cold wind and rain rushed in violently, nearly blinding me.
The man looked up, revealing a face pale and washed of all colour by the rain.
His eyes were large—disproportionately so—the pupils contracted to two small dots in the reflected lamplight, fixed intently upon me. His lips trembled. Not from cold. From fear.
That bone-deep, undeniable terror.
"Dr Watson," he said.
His voice was hoarse, as if he had not spoken for a long time, or as if his throat were filled with rainwater.
"You know me?" I asked.
He did not answer.
His gaze travelled past my shoulder, up the stairs, towards the faint glow of firelight at the entrance to the sitting-room. He looked for a long time—so long that I began to feel uneasy. Then he spoke:
"Is he upstairs?"
"Who?"
"Holmes. Sherlock Holmes."
I did not answer.
As an army doctor, I have seen many frightened men. On the battlefield, the look in a soldier's eyes a moment before a shell lands. In the hospital, a patient's expression upon learning their diagnosis. But I have never seen anyone look as he did—on the verge of collapse—merely from speaking a name.
"Let him in, John."
Sherlock's voice came from the top of the stairs.
I do not know when he had appeared there. He had not turned on any lights; he simply stood in the darkness, a silhouette darker than the dark itself.
The man crossed the threshold into the hall.
Water dripped from him, pooling on the stone floor.
He removed his hat, revealing his entire face. It was a weathered face—high cheekbones, deep-set eyes, and an old scar running from the left corner of his mouth down to his chin.
That scar was familiar. I had seen it somewhere before. No—not seen. I had heard Sherlock describe it.
From a case three years ago. A man who had murdered three women with a knife. The mark Sherlock had left upon him during the arrest—the only time, he said, that he had ever used violence in an apprehension, because the man had tried to drive that same blade into Lestrade's throat.
"What is your name?" I asked.
"You already know my name," he said, his voice still hoarse. "You just don't remember it. No one remembers my name. I exist only in files, in verdicts, in—"
"Clayton," Sherlock's voice came again, closer now. He had descended the stairs and stood behind me. "Vincent Clayton. Thirty-five years old. Former dockworker. Sentenced to life imprisonment for three counts of murder, serving at Wandsworth Prison. I put you there myself, three years ago."
Clayton turned to face Sherlock.
His body trembled—not from cold, the hall temperature was at least fifteen degrees—but from fear. Pure, uncontrollable fear.
He looked at Sherlock as one might look at something that should not exist in this world.
"Did you ever see me in prison?" he asked.
Sherlock tilted his head slightly—his thinking gesture. "No."
"Are you certain?"
"I never enter prisons. I send people to them. I do not go inside."
Clayton laughed.
A strange laugh, containing no humour—only near-desperate irony. He raised his right hand, pointing at Sherlock. That hand trembled like a leaf in the wind.
"You come every night."
Silence.
The rain continued outside. Thunder rolled across the sky, rattling the glass in the hall.
I saw an expression cross Sherlock's face that I had rarely seen. Not confusion. Not shock. Something that had occurred perhaps only a few times in his life: he did not know what to say.
"Upstairs," he finally said, his voice regaining its calm. "The sitting-room has a fire. You can dry your clothes."
Clayton did not move.
He still stared at Sherlock with that look—the look of a dying soldier gazing at a medic, trying to confirm whether he was still alive, whether he still existed in this world.
"Are you certain you want me to go up there?" he asked.
"I would not have invited you otherwise."
"I mean," Clayton's voice was nearly drowned by the rain, "are you certain that, once I go up, you will still know which one of us is real?"
Sherlock did not answer.
He simply turned and began to ascend.
I followed. Clayton came last.
The stairs creaked beneath us. Three pairs of feet, three rhythms—and then, at some moment, they suddenly merged. Creak. Creak. Creak. As if a single person were walking three steps apart.
I stopped and looked back.
Clayton had also stopped. His face was indistinct in the dim light, but I could see his eyes—those contracted pupils—fixed intently on Sherlock's back.
"Go on," he said, his voice barely a breath.
We continued up.
The sitting-room fire still burned, casting dancing shadows on the walls.
The tea had long gone cold, a dark ring forming around the rim of each cup.
Sherlock walked to his armchair, sat down, folded his hands upon his knees, and fixed his gaze on Clayton.
That gaze I knew too well. In every investigation, he used it to strip away pretence, to reach the core of truth.
Clayton stood by the door, as if afraid to venture further.
Water dripped from his coat, gathering on the carpet in a dark stain.
He did not remove his coat. He did not remove his rain-soaked hat. He simply stood.
"Sit down," Sherlock said.
Clayton did not move.
"Sit down, Clayton. You need to restore your body temperature. You need—"
"I am not cold," Clayton interrupted, a strange calm entering his voice. "I have grown accustomed to cold. Prison is far colder than this. Besides... that is not important."
"What is important?"
Clayton slowly raised his eyes to meet Sherlock's.
In that moment, I saw his pupils finally dilate, returning to something like human proportion. But what filled them was not relaxation—it was desperate focus. He was using every ounce of his being to do one thing: stare at Sherlock, to confirm whether he was real.
"I want to ask you three questions," Clayton said.
"Ask."
"No. First, let me finish speaking."
Sherlock did not respond, merely nodded slightly.
Clayton took a deep breath—a breath that rattled in his throat like wind through dead branches. He began to speak, his voice hoarse but clear, each word seeming to cost him his remaining strength:
"Three years ago, you sent me to Wandsworth. I do not hate you for it—you should know that. I do not hate you. I killed three women. That is fact. I confessed. I serve my sentence. It is what I deserve. Prison life is not easy, but it is endurable. I had my cell, my bed, my window—a high window that showed no view, but light came in each morning, and I knew it was day. Everything was normal. Normal enough to bear.
"Until one day, a year ago. That night I lay down as usual, closed my eyes, tried to sleep. The prison was quiet—too quiet. Quiet enough to hear your own heartbeat, to hear blood flowing through your veins. I do not know how long I slept, but I woke at some point. Not from sound. Not from light. Just from... feeling. That feeling, you know? The feeling that someone is watching you. "
Clayton paused. His eyes never left Sherlock's face.
"I opened my eyes. He stood beside my bed."
The fire crackled in the hearth. I saw Sherlock's fingertips twitch slightly.
"Who?" he asked.
"You."
The word fell into the room like a stone into a deep well—no echo for a long time.
"I thought it was a dream at first," Clayton continued. "Who does not dream in prison? I turned over, tried to go back to sleep. But he did not leave. I could feel his gaze—that gaze, just like yours now, Holmes—as if he wanted to cut me open. I opened my eyes again. He still stood there. Motionless. Silent. Just watching me."
"Appearance?" Sherlock asked.
"You. Exactly you. Sherlock Holmes. I would never forget that face. The day you sent me to prison, you stood in the courtroom. I watched you through the glass. Your face held no expression—like you were examining a specimen. I swore I would never forget that face."
"Clothing?"
"The first time, he wore that coat you often wear. The dark blue scarf. Later... later it varied. Sometimes your usual clothes. Sometimes others. Once he wore prison clothes, standing by my bed, watching me—do you know what expression he wore, Holmes?"
Clayton's breath quickened. His body trembled again—not from fear this time, or not only from fear—but from emotion too long suppressed, finally finding release:
"He came every night. Every night. An entire year. Three hundred and sixty-five days. Every night I woke, he stood there. Sometimes he left at dawn. Sometimes he stayed only a moment. Sometimes... sometimes he merely stood in the corner, but I felt him watching. I begged the guards to move me to another cell. I told them someone entered my room. They said I was mad. I tried not to sleep—but a man cannot stay awake forever, Holmes. A man must sleep eventually. And every time I woke, he was there.
"Then I began noticing details. His shadow. Guess what? He had none. The wall lamps cast light from the corridor—everything in my cell had shadows. The bed. The table. The cup. Everything—except him. I threw things at him. Pillows. Cups. Books. They all passed through him and fell to the floor. And the next morning, they lay exactly where they had been before—as if I had never thrown them at all.
"I began speaking to him. Begging him to leave. Cursing him. Damning him. He never answered. Just watched. Watched. Watched. Until I began to wonder—"
Clayton's voice caught.
He lowered his head, looking at his hands—those still-trembling hands.
Rainwater dripped from his hat brim. One drop. Two. Three. Falling into the stain on the carpet, sending up tiny ripples.
"Wonder what?" Sherlock asked.
His voice remained calm, but I heard the difference—too slow. Each word came too slowly. He was buying time. He was thinking. He was... afraid?
Clayton raised his head, meeting Sherlock's eyes again.
Something like pity entered his gaze.
"I began to wonder," he said, "which of us was truly real. Me... or the you who stood beside my bed every night."
The room fell into utter silence.
Even the flames in the hearth seemed to pause.
Outside, the rain continued—but its sound grew distant, unreal, as if muffled by thick glass.
I sat motionless in my armchair. My heart beat too fast—surely they could both hear it.
Then Clayton spoke again, his voice suddenly calm—like a sea after storm:
"I have three questions for you."
Sherlock nodded.
Clayton stepped forward, leaving the wet stain, approaching the firelight.
His face emerged clearly in the flames—a face ravaged by fear and sleeplessness, hollow-eyed, high-cheekboned—but his eyes burned like lamps in darkness.
"First question: Three years ago, the day you sent me to Wandsworth—what did you say to me? Outside the courtroom, before you turned and walked away."
Sherlock was silent for a moment.
I watched him. His face in the firelight showed nothing—like a wax figure.
Then he spoke, voice steady, as if reciting from a file:
"I said: 'You killed three women. You owe them three lives. Prison is the only reason you are still alive.'"
Clayton's body jerked violently.
An uncontrollable reflex—the reaction of a man struck in a vital spot. His lips parted, closed, parted again, finally forcing out words:
"How do you know that?"
"It was your case," Sherlock said, a trace of confusion entering his voice for the first time. "I remember every case I handle. I remember every person I send to prison. I remember what I said to each of them—not because I intend to remember, but because I cannot forget. Those words are the last they hear from the outside world. I should remember."
Clayton stared at him—the look one gives a monster:
"But you said nothing that day. Not a single word. You merely glanced at me and walked away. Not one word. "
Silence.
The fire emitted a faint crackle.
I watched Sherlock.
His face remained expressionless—but his right hand, the one folded over his left—the index finger twitched slightly.
A movement he himself likely did not notice.
"Are you certain?" he asked.
"I am certain," Clayton said. "That was the question I waited a year to ask. I replayed that day in my mind countless times. You stood outside the courtroom, your back to the sun—I could not see your face clearly. I waited for you to speak. To say anything. Curse me. Mock me. Humiliate me. Anything. But you said nothing. You merely looked at me, then turned and walked away. That look... it was more frightening than any words. More frightening than the you who stood beside my bed every night thereafter."
Sherlock said nothing.
Clayton stepped forward again.
He now stood less than two metres from Sherlock. The firelight cast his shadow long behind him, stretching to the far wall.
His shadow. Yes. He had a shadow—long, distorted, dancing in the firelight.
But he did not look at his shadow. He looked only at Sherlock.
"Second question," he said. "Do you know what the fourth question should be?"
Sherlock did not answer immediately.
I saw his brow furrow slightly—a minute change I would not have noticed had I not known him so long. He was thinking—but not about the answer. He was thinking about...
"You asked me three questions," Clayton said, a strange gentleness in his voice. "Not my asking you three—you asked me three. From the moment you told me to sit until now. Do you remember what they were?"
Sherlock was silent.
I watched his face.
His eyes still met Clayton's—but his gaze... I do not know how to describe it. In that moment, his gaze grew empty—like a machine that had ceased to function.
He was searching his memory.
Trying to recall those three questions.
Trying to prove he remembered.
"First question," Clayton said, still with that strange gentleness—like a patient teacher. "You asked me: 'Did you ever see me in prison?' I said no. You asked me: 'Are you certain?' I said I was. You asked me: 'Who?' I said you. Three questions. Do you remember?"
Sherlock did not answer.
A chill suddenly ran through me.
Not from a draught. Not from an insufficient fire. From something deeper. I began to retrace every detail, every conversation since Clayton's arrival—had Sherlock truly asked three questions?
I tried to replay each moment in my mind—but I could not be certain.
Memory grew hazy—like a reflection in water, scattered by wind.
"Do you know what the fourth question should be?" Clayton asked again. This time, his voice held no gentleness—only something sorrowful. "The fourth question should be: Are you certain you are real yourself? "
The rain outside suddenly intensified. A gust of wind hurled water against the glass with a sound like pounding.
The fire leaped—nearly extinguished—then caught again.
In that flickering light, I saw Sherlock's face—the face I had lived beside for countless days and nights—suddenly grow strange.
Not his features. Something beyond words.
He slowly raised his right hand, rolling up his left sleeve.
I should have stopped him.
I do not know why, but in that moment, a voice screamed deep inside me: Stop him. Do not let him roll it up. Do not let anyone see.
But I could not move.
I was pinned to my chair, helpless but to watch.
His left arm emerged.
Pale skin. Faint blue veins visible beneath. Then he continued rolling, past the wrist, up to the elbow—
Where a scar should have been.
Three months ago, during the pursuit of a smuggler, Sherlock had been burned by a red-hot iron rod.
I had seen the wound with my own eyes. I had dressed it myself.
Burns heal slowly—even with his remarkable recovery, it took a full month to scar. That scar was dark red, running from above his wrist to his elbow, irregular edges—like a distorted map.
I remembered that scar.
I remembered the faint pain I felt each time I saw it.
I remembered——？？？
Now there was nothing there.
Skin smooth as new.
Pale. Clean. Without any trace.
As if it had never been burned. Never scarred. Never existed.
"John."
Sherlock's voice reached me, but I did not look at him. I stared at his arm—at that smooth skin—my mind blank.
"John," he called again, closer now. "Do you remember this scar?"
I opened my mouth. No sound emerged.
I swallowed hard and forced out words: "Yes."
"When did it happen?"
"Three months ago. That smuggler—the chase—he—he used a red-hot iron rod—"
"You saw it happen?"
"I... I dressed the wound."
Sherlock lowered his sleeve. Slowly.
Too slowly—the movement of a man who needed time to think. Or rather, the movement of a man who needed time to pretend normality.
"Then why," he said, his voice terrifyingly calm, "do I not remember it at all?"
I could not answer.
Clayton stepped back.
He now stood by the door. Water still dripped from his coat—the stain on the carpet had spread to the centre of the room, forming a shape—I should not have noticed this, but I did—the shape increasingly resembled a reclining human figure.
Head. Shoulders. Torso. Limbs. A form traced in water, lying silently in our sitting-room.
"Are you certain, " Clayton said softly, "that only three of us stand in this room tonight? "
My gaze was drawn irresistibly to that watery shape.
It did not look accidental.
The head faced the hearth. The torso extended towards the sofa. The limbs were slightly bent—like a sleeping person.
But it was only water.
Only rainwater.
Only what had dripped from Clayton's coat.
Yes? Yes? Yes? Yes?
Clayton's hand reached for the door handle.
"You cannot leave," Sherlock said.
He still sat in his chair, his voice unchanged—but I heard what lay behind it. Something he rarely revealed. Something approaching fear—though he himself might not have recognised it.
Clayton turned to face him.
Firelight played across Clayton's face—that face ravaged by fear—now strangely calm, even compassionate:
"Why can you not let me go?"
"I need—"
"Need what? Need proof that I am mad? Need proof that I am hallucination? Need proof that all of this is my imagination?"
Clayton shook his head slowly—the movement of a weary old man:
"Holmes, do you not understand yet? I did not come here to prove anything. I came because for a year, every night, I have been watched by you—a you who does not speak, who has no shadow, who is like a ghost. Do you know what that feels like? Do you know what it is like to have nowhere to escape? Do you know what it is like to begin wondering whether you yourself still exist? "
He paused, his gaze falling upon Sherlock's left arm—the sleeve just rolled down again:
"I thought—if I could see the real you, if I could speak with you, hear you answer me, see that you have a shadow, have warmth, have scars—if I could prove you real—then I would be real too. But now you tell me you do not remember that scar. You do not remember what three questions you asked me. You do not know what the fourth question should be."
Clayton opened the door.
Cold wind rushed in again—carrying the scent of rain and something older, deeper. Like earth. Like rotting leaves. Like a house long uninhabited.
"Perhaps," he said, his voice half-drowned by the wind, "the real you vanished long ago, somewhere unknown. Perhaps the one who stands by my bed each night—perhaps that one is real. Perhaps the you in this room—perhaps he is—"
He did not finish.
He stepped across the threshold and vanished into darkness.
The door slammed behind him—a heavy, dull sound.
The room held only myself and Sherlock.
And that watery stain.
And the fire, slowly dying.
And the rain—endless, eternal rain.
I do not know how long I sat there.
Perhaps a minute. Perhaps an hour.
Time lost meaning that night.
I stared at that stain—that shape like a human body—watched it slowly spread.
Its edges dissolved into the carpet's fibres, absorbed by wool, growing less distinct—less like a person—just an ordinary wet patch.
But I could not forget that shape.
I will never forget that shape.
Sherlock finally moved.
He rose from his chair, walked to the window, and stood with his back to me.
His silhouette in the dim light looked painfully thin. Painfully alone. Like those men I had seen on the battlefield—men who had just lost comrades, just lost parts of themselves.
"John," he said, not turning.
"Yes."
"Do you believe him?"
I did not know how to answer.
Believe what? Believe Clayton's story? Believe in that ghost who appeared nightly in prison? Believe that somewhere, at some time, there existed another "Sherlock Holmes" doing God knows what?
Or believe—?
"I do not know," I said.
Sherlock was silent for a long moment.
Outside, the rain gradually softened—from deluge to drizzle, from drizzle to scattered drops, from scattered drops to silence.
The rain had stopped.
"That scar," he finally said, still not turning. "I truly do not remember it."
I wanted to say something. To insist it had existed. To say I had seen him wounded three months ago with my own eyes—it could not be my imagination. But when I opened my mouth, a different question emerged—one I had not planned:
"Sherlock... do you remember what we spoke about yesterday afternoon? "
He turned to face me.
His features were indistinct in the faint light—but I could see his eyes. Those grey eyes that could see through anything. Now they looked like empty windows—containing nothing.
He looked at me for a long time—so long I grew uneasy.
Then he spoke, his voice calm enough to chill the spine:
"I remember everything, John. Every detail of our time together. I remember the first time you walked into Bart's laboratory. I remember every criminal we have pursued together. I remember the bullet you took for me. I remember every word you spoke at my grave. I remember—"
He paused, a strange smile flickering at the corner of his mouth:
"I remember that scar. But I am not certain whether it is truly memory—or whether I merely read it in your eyes just now."
He returned to his chair, picked up the newspaper he had never turned, and unfolded it as usual.
The fire had nearly died—only a few embers remained, radiating barely perceptible warmth.
"Sleep, John," he said without looking up. "Tomorrow is another day."
I rose and walked towards the stairs.
At the stairhead, I looked back.
Sherlock still sat there, the newspaper hiding his face—only that lock of dark curly hair visible above it.
The watery stain remained where it was, reflecting faint light from the dying embers. I suddenly noticed—that 'human' shape—the head—pointed directly towards Sherlock's chair.
I turned and climbed to my room, closed the door.
I did not turn on the light.
I sat on the edge of my bed, listening to my own heartbeat.
Too fast. Abnormally fast. Fast enough—fast enough to be someone else's heartbeat.
From below came the rustle of a turning page.
Then the rustling stopped.
Silence.
Long, boundless silence.
Then—footsteps began climbing the stairs.
Very light. Very slow.
Each step found the deepest part of the wooden stair—producing nearly inaudible creaks.
One step. Two. Three.
They passed Mrs Hudson's door. Did not stop.
They passed the window on the landing. Did not stop.
They passed my door—
They stopped outside my door.
I held my breath.
Nothing outside.
No knock. No voice. No breath.
Nothing.
But I felt it.
That gaze.
Through the door panel. Through the darkness. Through everything I had thought would protect me—something was watching.
Not Sherlock. Not Clayton. Not anything I could name.
Something I had always known existed—but never wished to acknowledge.
I do not know how long it lasted.
Perhaps a minute. Perhaps an hour.
That gaze never left.
Then—footsteps again.
Not descending. Continuing upward.
Towards the attic.
Towards that place we had never used, never opened—the door we had no key for.
Towards that place I had always told myself was "merely storage."
The footsteps faded above.
I waited for them to come down. I waited a long time. They did not.
Finally, I gathered courage, opened my door.
The corridor was empty. The attic door at the top of the stairs stood quietly closed—as if never opened.
I went downstairs.
The sitting-room was empty.
Sherlock's chair was vacant. The newspaper lay on the floor.
The fire had died completely—only cold ash remained.
And that watery stain—that shape like a human body—it had dried completely.
But the outline remained.
I did not call Sherlock's name.
I did not even look for him.
I simply returned to my room, locked the door, sat by the bed until dawn.
At dawn, I heard Sherlock's voice from below—as usual: "John, tea is ready."
I went downstairs.
He sat in his chair, cup in hand. Another cup waited for me on the table.
Sunlight streamed through the window. Everything looked so normal. So ordinary. Like countless平凡 mornings.
"Did you sleep well?" he asked.
I looked at him.
His face was clear in the sunlight—grey eyes, high-bridged nose, slightly pursed lips.
He rolled up his left sleeve. There—a dark red scar with irregular edges, running from above his wrist to his elbow.
"Last night," I said. "Did you go upstairs?"
He tilted his head slightly—that familiar thinking gesture:
"I stayed downstairs all night. The entire night. "
I asked no more.
I sat down and lifted my tea.
It was hot. Fragrant. Like every ordinary morning.
But my hand trembled.
Three days.
I sit here writing this manuscript.
Sherlock is downstairs, turning pages as usual.
Everything is normal.
Everything has returned to where it should be.
But I cannot forget that stain.
Cannot forget that scar—vanished, then reappeared.
Cannot forget that knocking rhythm.
Cannot forget those footsteps in the attic—footsteps that never sounded.
Cannot forget Clayton's parting words:
"Perhaps the real you vanished long ago, somewhere unknown. "
I rise and walk to the window.
Sunlight fills the street outside. Pedestrians hurry past. Vehicles come and go.
Here is the English translation:
London looks exceptionally clean after the rain — exceptionally fresh — exceptionally real.
But what is real?
I turn and survey every corner of the sitting-room.
Sherlock's chair. My chair. The table. The hearth. The bookshelves. The door to the stairs—
That door.
It stands slightly ajar.
Just a crack.
But yesterday—I remember closing it tight.
I walk over and push it open.
The stairs lie silent. Sunlight slants through the high window, casting golden stripes upon the wooden steps.
Everything normal.
I look up towards the top of the stairs.
Nothing there.
But the attic door—
The attic door stands open—just the same crack.
I stand there, looking for a long time.
Then I hear Sherlock's voice behind me:
"John, what are you looking at?"
I turn.
He stands in the sitting-room doorway, newspaper in hand, that familiar expression of mild curiosity on his face.
Sunlight streams from behind him, casting his shadow upon the floor at my feet—
Long. Dark.Clear.
But that shadow's right hand—points slightly upward—towards the stairs.
And his right hand holds the newspaper.
I glance down at my own shadow.
It points the same direction.
I open my mouth—to say something—to ask him something—to ask myself something.
But at that moment—
From the stairs comes a very faint footstep.
Not descending.
Ascending.
Towards the attic.
Towards that—
I look up.
The attic door—at some unknown moment—has closed.
[The manuscript ends here. The following text is illegible.]