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I had just started to relax when a huge rock fell from above. It flew past me, hit the path, and then fell into the chasm. At first, I thought it was just a natural rock fall, but then I looked up and saw a man standing against the darkening sky."

"He threw another stone, and it hit the ledge very close to my head. I realized with alarm that Moriarty hadn't been alone. This man must have been watching while the professor attacked me. He had seen his friend die and me escape, and now he was trying to do what Moriarty couldn’t."

"A third stone came flying down and missed me by inches. I had no choice but to scramble back down the cliff. In my rush, I lost my balance and hung from the ledge by my fingers while another stone flew past my ear. I kicked around until I found a place to put my foot and kept going down. Halfway down, my hand slipped and I fell, getting hurt and bleeding on the path. Then I started running. I ran for miles through the mountains as night fell."

"A week later, I arrived in Florence, Italy. I had managed to lose my pursuer and thought that no one knew where I was—except my brother Mycroft. I had to tell him because I needed money. I'm sorry, my dear Watson, that I didn't feel I could trust you with this information, too.

"I was in so much danger that I couldn't risk contacting you. But your account in The Final Problem helped make people believe I was dead. It would not have been as believable if you had known the truth.

"Over the past three years, I wanted to write to you many times, but I was afraid. Not just for my safety, but for yours too. My enemies might use you to find me. That's why I acted so strangely earlier this evening. If you had recognized me, it could have been very dangerous for both of us."

"I understand," I said. "And after Florence, where did you go?"

"News from London wasn't good. After the trial of the Moriarty gang, two of the most dangerous members were still free. So, I went east and spent two years in Asia."

"After that, I traveled to Persia, Arabia, and Sudan, and spent time in southern France working on my chemical experiments. Eventually, I found out that only one of my enemies was still in London, so I could start planning my return. Then I heard about the Park Lane murder.

"This case interested me as a mystery and also offered some new opportunities. So, I came straight to London. When I arrived at our old place at 221B Baker Street, Mrs. Hudson, the landlady, was shocked to see me. Mycroft had kept my rooms and papers just as they were. And so, this afternoon at two o'clock, I found myself back in my old armchair, wishing that my dear friend Watson could be sitting across from me in his usual place."

I would have found the story of my friend's adventures very hard to believe if Holmes himself hadn’t been sitting there telling it to me. I asked him to tell me more.

“We have three years of stories to catch up on, and we will,” Holmes promised. “But for now, it’s time to start the adventure of the empty house.”

It felt just like old times when, shortly afterward, I found myself sitting next to Holmes in a hansom cab, a revolver in my pocket and excitement in my heart. Holmes was quiet and deep in thought as the streetlamps cast light on his pale face. I didn’t know what kind of danger we were about to face in the dark corners of London, but his serious mood made it clear that it would be something risky.

Holmes stopped the cab at Cavendish Square. As he got out, he looked around carefully to make sure we weren’t being followed.

My friend’s knowledge of London’s small streets and alleys was amazing. That night, he guided us through a hidden network of mews and stables I didn’t even know existed. Finally, we came out on Manchester Street and then onto Blandford Street. We turned into a narrow passage and went through a gate into an empty yard. Holmes used a key to open the back door of a house.

The place was completely dark, but I could tell from the sound of our footsteps on the bare floors that the house was empty. I reached out to touch a wall and felt the wallpaper peeling off. Holmes’s cool, thin fingers gripped my wrist and guided me down the long hallway. Ahead, I could see the faint glow of a streetlamp shining through the fanlight over the front door. Then Holmes made a quick turn to the right, and we entered a large, empty square room. The corners of the room were hidden in shadows, but the middle was softly lit by the streetlight coming through the dusty window.

Holmes leaned close and whispered, “Do you know where we are?”

“Why, that’s Baker Street,” I said, peering through the window.

“Exactly. We’re in Camden House, right across from our old lodgings.”

“But why are we here?”

“Because this place gives us the perfect view of our beloved residence. Step closer to the window, Watson. Not too close—we don’t want to be seen. That’s good. Now, look up at our old rooms—the place where so many of your stories began. Tell me, Watson, after three years, do I still have the power to surprise you?”

As I gazed at the familiar window across the street, I let out a cry of astonishment. The blind was down, and a yellow light glowed in the room. A man's silhouette sat in a chair by the window. The shape of the head, the broad shoulders, and the sharp features—there was no doubt about it. It was the very image of Sherlock Holmes.

In disbelief, I reached out to grasp Holmes’s shoulder, just to be sure he was still beside me. He shook with silent laughter.

“Well?” he asked.

“It’s incredible!” I exclaimed.

“It’s quite a good likeness, don’t you think?”

“I’d swear it was you!”

“It’s a wax figure, made by a French artist I know. I placed it there during my visit to Baker Street earlier today.”

“But why?”

“Because, Watson, I needed certain people to believe I was in that room while I was really somewhere else.”

“You think our rooms are being watched?”

“I don’t just think it, Watson—I know they are.”

“By who?”

“By my old enemies, Watson. The same gang whose leader is at the bottom of the Reichenbach Falls.”

“So they know you’re alive?”

“Indeed. Remember the man who threw rocks at me when I was on that ledge? He and his friends have been waiting all this time for me to return to London. They’ve been keeping a close eye on my rooms. This morning, they saw me arrive.’”

“How do you know?”

"Because I recognized their lookout—a man named Parker. He’s not the real threat. What truly concerns me is his boss, the one who dropped the rocks on me at the falls. He’s the cleverest and most dangerous criminal in London, and tonight, Watson, he’s hunting me. But fortunately, he doesn’t know we’re also hunting him."

My friend’s plan was becoming clearer. From our secret spot, we were watching the watchers. The wax figure in the window was the bait, and we were the hunters.

It was a cold night, and the wind howled down Baker Street. We stood by the window, watching people hurry past, wrapped in their coats and cravats. Holmes was quiet, but I could tell he was alert, taking everything in.

I noticed someone hiding in a doorway nearby and pointed him out to Holmes, but he seemed uninterested. He started fidgeting, tapping his feet and drumming his fingers on the wall. I could sense his frustration—perhaps things weren’t going as planned. As midnight drew closer, he paced the room restlessly. I was about to say something when I noticed a change across the street.

“Holmes!” I whispered. “The shadow has moved!” I pointed to the window, where the figure’s head had turned.

“Of course it’s moved,” Holmes said calmly. “Do you think I’d set up a dummy and expect Europe’s sharpest criminals to fall for it? In the last two hours, Mrs. Hudson has moved the figure eight times—once every fifteen minutes. She adjusts it from the front, so her shadow isn’t seen. She’s done a fine job. The bait looks alive, but where is the fish?”

Suddenly, Holmes gasped, his head jerked forward, and his whole body went stiff.

I couldn’t figure out what had startled Holmes. The street outside was completely empty now, and the man hiding in the doorway had disappeared from sight.

Suddenly, Holmes grabbed me and pulled me into the darkest corner of the room. His hand covered my mouth, signaling me to stay quiet. I could feel his hand trembling with tension. I wasn’t sure what was happening, but then I heard it—a faint, sneaky sound. It didn’t come from the street but from inside the house, at the back.

A door opened and closed softly. Slow, careful footsteps echoed down the hallway toward us. Holmes pressed further into the shadows, and I followed, gripping my revolver tightly.

As I strained my eyes in the darkness, I could make out a shadowy figure of a man. He paused for a moment in the doorway before quietly stepping into the room. I braced myself for an attack, but soon realized that he didn’t know we were there.

He moved quietly to the window, lifting it just a little, then knelt down so he could look out. The streetlight shone on his face, and I saw he was an older man with a high forehead and a big mustache. He held a thin rod that glinted like metal in his hand. From his pocket, he pulled out a large object, which he attached to the rod. He pressed a lever, making a whirling, grinding noise that ended with another click.

I realized the object was some kind of gun. He opened it at the back, inserted something, then closed it with a snap. He placed the end of the barrel on the window ledge, his eye focused through the sights. He rested the gun against his shoulder, looking pleased as he aimed at the black figure sitting in the yellow-lit window. For a moment, he was completely still. Then his finger began to press the trigger.