Part One

"Holmes," I called, peering out from behind the door-frame. "Have you seen my green waistcoat?"

"No."

Sherlock Holmes was tucked up into his favorite armchair, hair askew, clothes rumpled, smoking his old clay pipe. Papers, chemical stains, spilled ink, and other unidentifiable items littered the floor around him. Though the large back of the old armchair concealed him from my sight, I could still see faint wisps of smoke drifting out from behind the chair-backing and leaving a rather poisonous gray haze over the room.

He was in a frightful mood, and had been for some time. Ever since I had told him I was leaving. Leaving with Mary.

I waved the smoke from my face and sighed. "Holmes," said I, "I'm going to live with my wife. I don't know why you think I would stay here with you when I have my own lodgings to share with Mary. You're being unreasonable."

I waited impatiently for his bitter response, but it never came. I rubbed my brow in annoyance and started across the room to face him.

"Holmes-" I began.

He sat puffing away at his pipe, his face sour, knees pressed to his chest. Upon glancing down at the floor, I saw poor Gladstone, his twisted legs stuck out like some horrible pretzel.

"What have you done?" I cried, kneeling upon the floor to closer inspect the dog. I pressed two gentle fingers against his neck, and could feel a faint pulse beneath the thick fat and fur. At least he was alive, the poor beast.

Raising, I gave my companion a venomous look and brushed the dirt from my knees. "I don't care how upset you are, Holmes," said I, snatching my walking-stick from a nearby table, "And repeatedly trying to kill my dog is not going to make me stay. The way you've been these last few weeks has been selfish and distracting. At this point, I'll be glad to leave behind your constant shadow of obsession and remorse. I'm leaving in three days, and you're not stopping me. Now, if you don't mind, I'm still missing that waistcoat."

Turning on my heel, I exited the smoky room and left behind my companion, closing the door behind me with a loud crash.

Sherlock Holmes sat in his armchair and listened. Listened to John Watson.

Though Holmes' mind was great, he could not find any logic – any reason – for the departure of his beloved Boswell. A wife was no good excuse. What good were women, anyway? The sex was annoying and troublesome.

Watson slammed the door behind him, and Sherlock Holmes winced. Giving a small sigh, he murmured, "It's not your dog. It's our dog," and lowered his knees to reveal an olive green waistcoat worn over his shirt that just so happened to have the small inscription 'J. W.' upon the inner front flap.

The next day started off very well. I woke up long before Holmes and was able to skip over his sour mood altogether. I ate a light breakfast of toast and tea, prepared by the loving Mrs. Hudson. I was going to miss the dear old woman. She had always been kind to me.

I then took a quick trip to Mary's to pick her up, and we took a short voyage by dog-cart to the local theater together to see Don Giovanni. The name struck my memories and reminded me of Holmes; on our final case together, he had commented on the very opera my wife and I were going to see.

But then, of course, I soon proceeded to punch him in the face. I had enjoyed that.

When the opera was done, it was already time for dinner, and Mary invited me to her parent's for a nice home-cooked meal. Happy at the invitation, I accepted, eager to spend more time away from the poisonous attitude my room-mate had acquired.

During the meal, Mary's parents asked me about Holmes. How had he been? What was he up to? Had he come to terms with my leaving yet?

I had no good answers.

I arrived home a little late – around 9 PM, perhaps. I gave the dear landlady a quick nod before slowly walking the steps up to my rooms. Who knows what I would find when I arrived at the top.

I stood at the door, afraid to enter, but still wondering what Holmes had been up to all day. Taking a deep breath, I prepared to grasp the knob when the door suddenly flew open in a rush of wind.

Sherlock Holmes stood before me, dressed in a simple white undershirt and dark-colored pants. He stared at me in what appeared to be slight bewilderment, as if he wasn't expecting my return. His eyes were wide, and his hair was wild and unkempt. Not like this was unusual, however.

"You've been drinking," I said, my tone flat with annoyance as I gave the air a small sniff.

Ignoring my comment, Holmes glanced at my coat. "You've been to the theater?"

I held my expression of annoyance and stepped past my companion and into the room. "Yes. I went with Mary, and we had a wonderful time together."

I set my walking-stick and hat down upon a table and began to remove my coat when I heard a crash behind me.

I turned to find Holmes lying over a tipped table, in a heap of baubles and other objects that had come tumbling down with him in his fall. I rolled my eyes as he groaned, and proceeded to remove my overcoat and grasp my walking-stick in one hand.

I walked over to Holmes and jabbed him several times with my cane. "Get up," I said. "If you don't get up now, I doubt you ever will."

Holmes groaned again.

I couldn't help but give my companion a small smile. My anger had faded since this morning. "You are such an ass sometimes, Holmes," I said, reaching out to help him up.

He took my hand and grasped my other arm to pull himself up. I stared at him for a few awkward seconds before turning away in disgust. "Your breath is foul," I said, taking a seat in my old armchair. "And what have you done with my waistcoat? I haven't seen it for days, so you surely have something to do with its disappearance."

Holmes wandered over to a chair and sat down. "I have not had anything to do with your missing waistcoat."

"It's your favorite of my waistcoats. You steal it constantly."

"I do not steal it. I borrow it."

"You 'borrow' it and refuse to return it."

"Precisely."

I sighed, and we sat for a few moments in silence. Eventually, Holmes was the one to break it.

"Watson."

"Hm?"

"Would you care to accompany me on a stroll of this great city tomorrow morning?"

I stared at my companion in amazement. "Since when do you care about 'strolls?' Don't you have any cases?"

"I do enjoy strolls. And, no. I've been without work for some time."

I gave Holmes' side-table a suspicious glance. His cocaine-bottle was tipped and empty.

"Holmes."

"Hm?"

I gave him a dark look.

Holmes sniffed and glanced down at the bottle. "Ah. Yes. Terribly sorry, old boy. Now, you never answered my question."

"And what was that?"

"I would be greatly pleased if you would take a walk with me through this bit of London we inhabit."

"Yes, Holmes. Alright. It would be nice if we spent some time together before my departure."

My companion glanced at me, his expression blank. He then continued to stare down at the cluttered floor.

After a few seconds, I stood from my chair. "I think I'll retire for the night. Good-night, Holmes."

I was awoken at some ungodly hour of the night by the melancholy wails of Holmes' violin. I growled into my pillow and covered my head in exasperation. This I would not miss.

I rolled over and was about to get up to yell at my companion when the pure sadness of his tune struck me.

I had never heard the piece he was playing before. It was slow and saddening, and it seemed to arouse my thoughts – seemed to really make me think about what my departure must be like for my dear friend. Or what things would be like without him. As I sat in my bed at 221B Baker St., I realized.

For the first time in his life, Holmes was truly miserable.

The sparkle in his eye was gone. The fire that used to burn so brightly within his mischievous spirit had faded to a dull glow. And, for the time being, his lust for new cases had dwindled to a mere shadow. Holmes had been such an incredible person before. Before my marriage. And I missed the old Sherlock Holmes. And I wondered how much of him I would miss living the rest of my life with Mary.

And I realized.

I didn't want to leave.

The next morning, I opened my eyes and a pang of fear struck my heart like a stray bullet. The thoughts I had experienced last night – were they just a dream?

I hoped and prayed that they were.

I rolled over and gave a violent start as I saw Sherlock Holmes, fully clothed, standing over me. "Awake, my dear Watson?"

My heart began to beat faster as I remembered last night. I didn't want to leave. Did Holmes know I had been awakened by the poignant wails of his violin?

"Yes, Holmes. Up in a moment. What time is it?"

"Only 6 AM. I will ring for breakfast."

He went away to the sitting-room as I lay in bed, my head spinning. Holmes was in a bit of a lighter mood, it seemed, but the shadow of sorrow was still somewhat plain on his fine features.

I tried to swipe away my thoughts from yesterday and got dressed. My waistcoat was still gone.

I arrived in the sitting-room not more than fifteen minutes later, and breakfast sat ready and waiting on the table. Holmes was munching on a bit of toast. "Ah!" said he, setting a flask upon the table. "There you are. Have a bit of breakfast wine, dear Watson."

I sat down and picked up the morning paper. "No new cases, then?"

"Nothing of interest to-day."

The news was indeed quite dull. A small review of the opera I had visited yesterday was present, but provided little entertainment.

"Well, Holmes," I said, picking up my wine and taking a small sip. "Where are we going to-day?"

"A stroll, friend Watson, does not need a destination, hm? Let us walk and see where fate may take us. Have some more wine."

Not more than an hour later we were picking up our coats and heading for the door when my companion suddenly turned to me. "Halloa! Halloa! What do we have here? No walking-stick, Watson?"

"I'm feeling very well to-day," said I. "I think I will try my luck without it while we are on our stroll."

Holmes raised his eyebrows. "Well, then, I am glad you are feeling better."

Holmes' lighter mood, I admit, made me a bit suspicious, but it was much nicer to be with him when his mood was not as black as the sea. I was looking forward to our stroll together.

For a while, that is all Holmes and I did. We strolled around town, enjoying the ongoing life and scenes around us. We talked, certainly – and Holmes chatted about past cases of ours, his voice tinged with nostalgia. During Holmes pleasant rambling, however, I couldn't keep the thought from my brain.

I didn't want to leave.

While turning this matter over in my head, Holmes suddenly stopped and gave me a queer look. "Something is worrying you, Watson. Perhaps a visit to the rushing Thames would lighten your mood."

I found the request strange and rather sudden, but I agreed.

We arrived and stood upon the great London Bridge, looking over into the great swirling darkness of River Thames. It was cold, black; and for just a moment, I wished that I could leap from the bridge and forget this troubling business which was disturbing my mind.

Holmes was silent, and I stood next to him as we both stared into the churning waters.

I sighed.

"I'm sorry, Holmes."

My statement had not seemed to surprise him as I had thought it would. "Whatever for, dearest Watson?"

"I know my departure will sadden you, but I am quite sure I shall visit you as often as I can. I really don't know why you are being quite so unreasonable on the subject. As a married man, Holmes, I am not going to live with a friend rather than my wife. You really must understand, dear fellow." I kept my voice gentle, so he would not think me angry with him. I knew that he was still quite unhappy.

Holmes continued to stare into the river. "Do you remember when you and I spent a time in a cottage near Poldhu Bay?"

"Yes. The Cornish peninsula. You worked yourself sick, and we were hoping for a peaceful vacation of sorts when, not surprisingly, another case popped up."

"Precisely, dear Watson," he said, turning to me. "Do you remember what you said to me when you, quite frankly, saved us from a most terrible fate by poisonous fumes?"

I smiled at the memory. "No, Holmes. But how on Earth could you remember? It was ages ago."

"We were sitting upon the lawn, and I believe you said, 'It is my greatest joy and privilege to help you.'"

I glanced at Holmes, slightly suspicious. "What are you getting at?"

Holmes stared at me, determined to hold my gaze, no matter how much I tried to look away. His own dazzling gray eyes sparkled faintly with the cunning and mischief I had watched dwindle over these past few weeks. Finally, Holmes said, "Whatever happened to that, Watson? Whatever happened to the days you were always by my side in nearly every case I took upon myself to solve? When I barely had the words 'Will you accompany me?' out of my mouth before you had already agreed? Even the lazy days, Watson, were more interesting when you were there to come with me on simple visits to the theater or to the park."

I gave Holmes an irritated look, but I was hurt from the truth of his words. "I got married, Holmes! Why else would I leave?"

"But why, dear Watson, when you enjoy life here with me, at our lodgings at 221B Baker, much more than you ever could as a family man?"

I was getting a bit angrier now. "And what makes you believe that I would? You know hardly anything of my relationship with Mary. You never visit her! As I said before, the way you're acting makes me glad I am moving. I wish you would act like a normal person and just get over it." I needed him to get over it, because I knew that I could not get over him if he was first not over me. Glaring at the sky, I said bitterly, "You don't know that I would enjoy life more with you."

Holmes stared at me, hard, and said, "But I know you. And you do not love Mary."

My temper flared and I saw swirls of red before my eyes. "You cannot possibly believe that I would stay with you, Holmes, after everything you have said to me! You are trying to destroy my relationship with Mary! This is what this whole trip is about, isn't it?" I cried, throwing up my arms in disgust. "Good-bye, Holmes. I am leaving to pack the rest of my things, and then I shall move away and live at Baker Street no more."

I stormed away, leaving Sherlock Holmes behind me.

Upon arriving home, I began to shove my remaining books and other items into a box, throwing them down in anger. Mrs. Hudson had inquired upon the absence of my friend as well as my foul mood, but I didn't want to talk. Not to anyone. Looking around for other possessions of mine, I gave a cry of annoyance.

Where the hell was that damn waistcoat?!

I collapsed into my armchair and held my aching head in my hands.

Why was Holmes always right?

I knew, somewhere in the back of my mind, that he was right. Right about everything but one matter - I did love Mary. It was just that my love for her was nothing like my relationship with Holmes. I couldn't trust Mary to always be there or to always have my back, no matter the situation.

But I knew that I could always trust Holmes. Today, I had seen more of Holmes' heart then ever before, and I knew that he trusted me just as much. I knew that I was his greatest friend and most loyal companion, and that I shouldn't blame him for being so upset when I was just getting up and walking out of his life, and there was nothing he could do.

I had gotten angry at Holmes because he was right. I had left him standing upon a bridge in the middle of London. I had taken a cab back to Baker Street.

And I had regretted the entire thing.

Even if he could be a positively undeniable ass at times, and even though he stole my clothes, tried numerous times to kill my dog, and nearly killed himself via cocaine on several occasions, I could not deny the thought now.

I didn't want to leave.

Sherlock Holmes stood on a bridge in the middle of London, his face gray and grim, and he knew that it was his last chance to try and stop the inevitable.

John Watson was leaving for good.

And he was leaving tonight.

It was evening by the time Holmes returned. I was nearly done packing my things, and I sat smoking a cigarette when he walked in through the door. I watched as he sat down in his favorite armchair, lit his pipe, and smoked in silence, an eerie stillness in his demeanor.

An hour or so went by, and the two of us said nothing. I smoked cigarette after cigarette, never wanting to stop, never wanting the clock to strike the 8th hour. That's when I was scheduled to leave behind years of memories, the all-too-familiar surroundings, and Sherlock Holmes.

My heart grew heavier and heavier as the minutes ticked by. Seven forty-five, I stood and took an uneven breath. I was still angry about earlier, but even if I had wanted to speak, I was at a loss at what to say.

Snuffing out my last cigarette a bit slower than usual, I walked to the sitting-room table and picked up my hat.

"Watson-" Holmes began.

"I don't want to hear it, Holmes. I must be leaving now."

Holmes stood and shook his head, giving me a desperate look. "Don't go, Watson. Don't leave. You know that you're better suited here. I know that you are. Are you really going to leave all of this behind?" he said, gesturing to the wonderful mess of a room. "What about our rooms? And you'll miss all the adventure, Watson. You know you're afraid of a life without slightly dangerous exploits and excitement -"

I cut Holmes short. I wasn't going to argue any longer. "Good-bye, Holmes. I will come and visit you someday. But now, I must go home to my wife, and there's nothing you can say to stop me."

I picked up my remaining box of things and began to walk to the door.

Sherlock Holmes stood and tried to make John Watson stay. A pitiful, desperate plead. It was sad, his great mind fumbling for words. He just wanted it to end. He just wanted John Watson to forget his wife and to say with him. To never leave him.

And as Sherlock Holmes watched John Watson head for the door, he tried one final time.

One word.

"John."

That one word hit me like a freight-train, and I stopped dead in my tracks. Never before had Holmes called me by my first name.

I turned to him, my mouth open a bit. "Holmes," I said, so quietly I doubt he had heard me.

I set down my box on the floor and looked at Holmes. His expression was lifeless. He moved his mouth, as if to say something, but no words were spoken.

And I knew I had to tell him.

I walked over to the great Sherlock Holmes and embraced him, because I knew that there was nothing I could do.

I pulled away and looked my friend in the eyes, my hand placed gently on his shoulder. "I'm sorry. I know that you've been right. You've always been right. I want to stay here with you, Holmes, and I was a stupid man to not have realized that earlier. But now, old boy, it's… it's just too late. I can't stay, Holmes, but… maybe it will make you feel better now that you know I will never be truly happy with Mary. Isn't that what you've always wanted?" I said, with a small half-hearted smile at my companion.

Holmes stared at me, his sad expression unchanging. He said nothing.

I leaned in and whispered into my friend's ear, and it was a rare statement, for I would never utter it again.

"Good-bye, Sherlock."

John Watson had been gone for a night and a day, and Sherlock Holmes sat smoking his clay pipe in John Watson's favorite armchair. Taking the pipe from his mouth, he paused for a moment and stared out of the grimy Baker Street window.

Setting his pipe down, he stood up and slipped his hand underneath the armchair's seat-cushion, feeling around for something.

Sherlock Holmes began to pull something out from underneath the cushion, and it could only ever be one thing.

An olive-green waistcoat.