I've no idea how to go about introducing this...suffice it to say that I personally hate character death, but just the same this once I had to make an exception. This was written more as therapy for myself in dealing with grief after the death by cancer of a dear friend last week than anything else. It has taken over two weeks to complete, and I'm still not satisfied with parts of it but I'm afraid to edit too much.
I both warn in advance and apologise for the sad content, but I endeavoured to make it more melancholy than depressing, since for believers death should not be complete and total despair though it does feel that way for a while at least.
The only necessary points you might need to know in order to understand it can be found in my other oneshot, A Noble Life. Anyway, enough of my rambling; on with the thing...
My Dear Watson,
Things have been dreadfully quiet of late. No doubt you will tell me when next we meet that this is due to my horrible brooding habits and my dislike of all things sociable. The trouble is, when once a man is used to the ideal companion for over forty years, that he cannot be satisfied with anything less. You have spoilt me, my dear chap, quite badly.
I have grown far too accustomed to having you constantly by my side for…how long ago was it that I received news of your collapse in London and rushed up immediately to ascertain the extent of the condition for myself? I remember it took me every bit of an hour to convince you that it was time to leave the active duties to men half or a third your age, you stubborn old soldier.
And even then, once I had convinced you that I was not the only one of this partnership who should be in retirement, you still insisted upon making clear to me the extent of your condition, as if that would truly matter to me…
"You have no idea what you're getting into," he says quietly.
It is his tone and not the words which draw my attention, pulling a sobering blanket over what I had anticipated being a joyous and long-overdue discussion.
"Which is…?" I ask somewhat impatiently.
His eyes take on a slightly pained, slightly melancholic sheen before turning upward to meet mine. "That according to statistics, one-half of patients with angina pectoris suffer sudden deaths," he whispers candidly.
All traces of levity flee my mind in the face of this starkly medical announcement, and I can only look at him, momentarily at a loss for words.
"One half," he repeats quietly, and I feel a strange numbness spreading through me. "And there are no warning signs. Are you prepared…" He trails off shakily, seeing my (no doubt) aghast face, and I see his eyes dim slightly before he finishes the sentence. "Are you prepared to…find me…like that at some point…if that possibility becomes an eventuality?"
My stomach seems to have dropped completely out of my body at the words, so ill do I feel at the bare thought. That is not an eventuality I had considered in this hasty plan of mine. It is not an eventuality that I ever wish to consider…and like the ever thoughtful man he is, he is forcing me to do so before I commit to what I had planned when I came up to London.
I do not realise how frenzied my pacing has become until I will myself to stop and look out the window to calm my nerves, watching the clamour of a mid-day London's traffic go on about its business as if the world were not in the process of falling apart around me.
Am I prepared to do that? We have already thrashed out the fact that he will need watching and care, and possibly medical aid if the attacks come on too suddenly for him; but I am more than happy to spend my remaining years in returning some of the care he has administered to me countless times over the decades.
But the knowledge that in all probability he will go on first has not forced itself upon my mind until this moment, held at bay all this time by my sheer will-power…as if by my refusing to consider the possibility it will simply cease to be one.
"You must face that fact," I hear his weak voice from behind me, somewhat unsteady from fatigue or distress - I cannot tell without looking at him. "In all probability, Holmes…it will be too sudden for anyone to do anything, and…and you may not even know until it is far too late. Are you mentally and emotionally capable of withstanding that?"
I decline my head to rest against the cool glass of the windowpane, my far too active imagination conjuring up all sorts of unspeakable situations which the close call of recently has made only too easy to imagine.
Finally, after what seems like hours, I turn and endeavour to pull my emotions back under a semblance of control, and I look at the still figure reclined on his side on the cushions. His eyes are closed at the moment, his face half-resting upon his limp hand, but two small tell-tale damp spots against the whiteness of the pillow-slip beside his eyes bespeak of his full awareness of my inner turmoil…and his obvious fear of what my answer just might be.
Do I want to walk into the sitting room some evening and find him just…gone? Or worse, not be able to rouse him of a morning? Certainly not, I am nearly physically ill just thinking about it. But this is not about me, it is about him. And stronger than my dread that he will venture beyond the veil before I can is the dread that he will be alone when he does solve the greatest mystery of all.
The former I cannot prevent; the latter, I can do my utmost to.
I pinch the bridge of my nose in an effort to quell the sudden rush of panic that had seized me at the unexpected discussion and reach with the other hand to pull the twisted coverlet up over his still form, unsure of whether he has fallen asleep from sheer weariness or if he is just resting.
Apparently the latter, as his eyes flutter open to look at me, dim and somewhat fearful with an almost childlike uncertainty that cuts deeper into my soul than I would admit even to him.
"Rest, my dear Watson," I say gently. "I have tired you, and for that I apologise."
He does look inestimably weary, and proof of it is that he makes no move or voice to resist my direction, obediently closing his eyes again with a small sigh.
But not before I have seen the disappointment clouding their normally clear depths. I smile, pulling the blanket up over his shoulder and allowing my hand to rest there for a moment.
"Besides, old fellow," I softly assure. "I must leave you for a few minutes, to wire my housekeeper and tell her when to expect a second permanent lodger."
I am not certain I can ever recall seeing such a perfect blend of relief, happiness, and contentment upon your face, my dear Watson. And I daresay my own wore something of the same expression for many an hour afterwards, as I sat there while you slept – you never knew I remained there, did you?
But I stayed there that evening and through that long, thought-provoking night, until the physician attending you came in the next morning and found a complete stranger half-slumped across your bed. Do you remember what an absolute righteous fit he pitched when he found me? Woke you up (along with half the neighbours, I daresay) and me as well, and nearly cast me from the room before you could manage to explain matters around your chuckling.
Then you frightened both of us equally by over-exerting your heart in such deep laughter. That was a bad few hours that morning, Watson. You have a horrid habit of frightening me in a way no other person on earth (including any criminal I have ever met) is capable of, do you know that?
I was never so glad of anything in my life (except possibly to hear that you had escaped Flanders unscathed) as I was when, a little over a month later, I met you at that little country station at long last. I'd already put the things you sent ahead away as best I could so you did not have to exert much energy (though I know for a fact you were up half the night a day or so later re-arranging, don't think I didn't hear you), and it was a feeling nearer contentment than I have ever felt when I had deposited your last little bag in your bedroom and then seen you to a comfortable seat by the fire.
Of course you knew your way around the house as well as your own London one after so many weekends spent down here, but I know it had to have been awkward and slightly sad to know that you were not going to return to your practice and patients on the coming Sunday afternoon, that you would not return to London ever again, unless you chose to.
I was therefore not surprised when you spoke little all evening and took yourself off to bed without saying much more than a quiet good-night. I was even less surprised when I was myself awoken after midnight by your distress, trapped as you were in the grip of a war-induced nightmare. What a sad reversal, for in those early days at Baker Street I found myself faced with the same situation so often, only with a different horror of a different war, and then with absolutely no knowledge or practice of what on earth I could do to help.
I am not even sure that you awoke fully – did you? – when I put my hands on your shoulders as you moved restlessly, your face troubled and close to tears. I spoke quietly, soothingly, and calmly, telling you that all was well, to go back to sleep; and you did after a moment, never opening your eyes to actually see me but relaxing and your brows unclenching in peace at last. Did you know I was there that night…or the night after that, or after that?
Eventually you regained some measure of health, for which I was devoutly grateful. All the same, I carried nitroglycerin tablets on my person at all times and kept a few in the pockets of each of my waistcoats, close to my own heart – for while I trust you with my life, my dear fellow, I was not about to gamble with yours on the chance that you would remember to carry them with you as often as you had remembered your revolver in past years of my company.
And more than once it was a good thing that I had the foresight to carry them, too, wasn't it? I shall never, ever be able to forget that first truly bad scare you gave me a few years back, old chap…
"My word, it is chilly this evening!" I gasp as the air hits us upon exiting the cottage for our usual evening stroll.
"That is not unusual for this late in October, O Master of Observation," he teases gently.
I snort, causing a crystalline puff of air to congregate round my head. "The cold appears to have sharpened your wit, my dear Doctor. Whatever happened to your admiration of anything and everything that comes out of my mouth?"
"It retired when you did and I started writing for the Strand again," he laughs, linking his arm through mine as we walk in a comforting familiarity that I no longer even think about, much less shun as I did in younger, more foolish, days. I smile at his humour, merely content to relax in the knowledge that the world is once more as it should be, as it was thirty years ago, with the sole change of a different location for our evening strolls. We could never have seen a sunset such as that in London, or have been so relaxed around one another.
As if in echo to my thoughts, his free gloved hand indicates the glistening deep red and warm gold shimmering off the water and causing the sand to glow in a living, sparkling carpet.
"Lovely, isn't it?" he asks softly.
He is a bit short of breath, for the climb to the spot atop the cliffs where we love to go to sit and simply enjoy the scenery is rather steep and a brisk walk in cold weather. I slow our pace automatically, watching for signs of his limp beginning to appear, but I can see none as of yet, and so I turn my eyes to the scenery unfolding as we near the top of the hill.
"Yes, indeed," I agree, for once not caring about keeping up a pretense of distant saturninity; this man saw past my defenses long ago and there is no need to continue to exert such a futile effort to keep him out. "You will very much enjoy it when the snow falls; the cliffs are pure white in every direction, and they sparkle like so many crystals this time of day," I tell him with a smile, watching as he returns the gesture eagerly and looks round him with childish awe as we finally reach the summit of the cliff-top.
"Look," he says breathlessly, indicating the perfect floating reflection of the sky in the water below – reds and golds and the sun itself all in exact if watery replica shimmering below us in the water. "I wish I could paint; that's the first thing…I would...capture…H-Holmes?"
I have been watching a lone gull swooping above us and suddenly jerk my head down in alarm as his voice trails off and takes on a slight shaky note of controlled panic, and the hand that rests in the crook of my arm tightens convulsively.
"Watson, what is it?" I nearly demand the words in my sudden alarm, taking hold of his other arm. His face drains suddenly of every vestige of colour and his knees collapse under him, as he slumps forward against me with a smothered cry of pain, one hand leaving my jacket to clutch at his own. Oh, good Lord…
"Watson!"
"H-Holmes," he pleads faintly, as I stagger under his weight and hastily set him upon the cold ground, feeling the rising hot burning of panic bubbling in the back of my throat.
"Dear God!" The words that escape my lips unbidden are more a desperate prayer for help – any kind of help – than an oath, as he tries to speak, to meet my eyes…and fails, giving a choking cry of pain and suddenly going limp – too limp – in my trembling arms.
No!
No, no, stop panicking, he is still breathing, you can see his breath in the air. Control, remain in control. Think!
Think.
The nitroglycerin tablets. In my waistcoat pocket at all times. Rest and calm, loosen his collar, one tablet under the tongue, and most attacks retreat within fifteen minutes. That was what he told me when we talked about it at length the last time. He had better have been correct in his prognosis, or I shall...never forgive myself. Or him.
Even those eternal moments I spent above the Reichenbach ledge fairly flew by in comparison to how these eleven minutes and seventeen seconds, after I cover him warmly with my overcoat and follow the instructions drilled into my head, drag on and on…until finally he stirs and his eyelids flutter open, fastening at once upon my probably ghastly frightened face as I hold my breath and tightly grip his hand with both my absolutely icy ones, more in an effort to steady myself than to comfort him.
He takes a long, shuddering breath and blinks about him before speaking, and I only realise when he exhales in a cloud of icy particles that I have forgotten to let my own breath escape as well. I do so now, choking in a lungful of cold crisp air that sets me coughing harshly.
"Where's…your coat?" is his first question, put in a surprisingly stern tone of voice.
I only barely prevent myself from laughing hysterically and completely embarrassing myself. He is fine.
That one was too close, and rather frightening, old man. I was not at all ready for a scare of that magnitude…not that any man ever is truly ready to face such a thing, as doubtless you know after facing the death of your dear wife and various patients over the years. I suppose none of us is ever truly prepared; less so for a friend than for ourselves, too, I fancy.
A bluebird is sitting on the windowsill, old fellow, as I write this. I know how much you love the birds that hang about this cottage of ours. He makes me smile, for he brings you to my mind; not that you are not there constantly, almost a part of me, so much that I can almost - almost! - hear you even though you are away, telling me to make sure I eat regularly, do not smoke overmuch, do not stay up all night watching my bees, and so on and so on. Ever the doctor, eh Watson?
But even doctors, unfortunately, cannot always remain in perfect health, and I abhor the fact that you happened to be one example that proved that statement all too accurate. However, I am thrilled that you are no longer suffering from that horrible condition, my dear fellow, for it was looking rather bad there for a while – so dreadfully bad that you had me very frightened indeed for a time...
"Watson, please, you must conserve your strength," I say shakily, attempting to keep him from exerting himself; this last collapse was the worst yet, and I am not prepared to deal with the ultimate outcome. I cannot do this, I simply cannot.
But he is quite distraught, gripping my arms with not even a quarter of his usual strength, his eyes pleading with me even more than his words. "No…we have to talk…now, Holmes," he whispers, with an earnestness that borders on frantic.
"We can talk later, old fellow. Rest now," I soothe, laying a hand over his cold fingers as they clutch at my arm.
"No," he whispers, his hand clenching at a sudden spasm of pain that hurts me as much to watch as it does him to endure. "May not…be a later, Holmes…"
"Stop it!" I snap with a voice that is far, far too unsteady for a man who prides himself on his control and detachment. Where am I, where has my brain gone, in this chaotic jumble of emotion and fear?
He shrinks back against the pillow at my harsh tone, and I instantly feel a sour pang of remorse. "Stop it," I repeat in a quieter, more gentle, tone. "You are not going to die, Watson. Do you hear me?"
His soft eyes flicker slightly with an old familiar twinkle, but before a moment has passed they fill suddenly with unshed tears. "Even you…cannot stop that, Holmes," he whispers sadly, and at the tone of his voice my throat constricts suddenly into such a tight mass that I can barely breathe.
Because I am unable to talk at the moment, he continues, looking pleadingly up at me with that gaze I never have been able to resist for very long. "If you don't believe so…humour me, then," he implores hoarsely. "There are things…you have to know."
I nearly choke on the lump that is lodged in my throat, but I manage somehow to force words past my lips. "Very well, my dear fellow. But you must not tire yourself, and you must not speak for long," I somehow whisper.
He nods, closing his eyes for a long moment and drawing a slow breath. Then he looks up at me and smiles quietly. His breathing is shallower than I would like, and he keeps one hand close to his heart, occasionally unconsciously rubbing it as if it still pains him. That is not a normal symptom…
"I…left you everything," he begins abruptly, rasping out a cough for a moment during which I hold my breath, afraid he will stop breathing. His other hand clenches convulsively under mine at the movement, and I wrap my own fingers round his, giving silent support, until the fit passes and he goes limp, white-faced, against the pillow, and blinks slowly at me.
Only then do I actually process what he just said to me, and an icy grip clamps my heart in a constricting vise.
"And…sorry, you'll have to...take care of matters...in London," he whispers sadly, looking up at me as if to apologise. "I've set...all in place...but you..."
"I shall, Watson, I promise – please, old fellow, don't worry about anything but resting yourself," I say shakily, patting his worn hand soothingly.
His already pale face turns an even deathlier white, and his hand grips the front of his shirt suddenly, frightening me half to death – an attack? Oh, God, no…
But the spasm passes, and he finally opens his tightly shut eyes to find my face. "Sorry," he murmurs apologetically, and I could choke the man myself for apologising for something so completely out of his control. Instead I restrain the feeling and concentrate on making him comfortable.
"Shh, it's all right," I manage quietly, and thankfully without that confounded tremour in my voice. "You need to rest now, Watson."
"No…" he cries softly with still some franticness, his free hand fumbling to clutch at mine. "Holmes…"
"Easy, Watson, it's all right - I'm here." I hastily sit back on the bed in his line of vision, trying to quell the rising fear in the back of my mind at the tone and manner this conversation is taking on.
"Don't leave…please…" he pleads weakly, his eyes dimming in something nearer to sadness than I have seen yet from him.
"I won't," I manage to choke out before having to stop and swallow the sharp object lodged in my throat. "I shan't leave you again, Watson, I promise." Would to heaven I never had the first time...
At my words, he relaxes slightly and his eyes flutter closed, his breathing slowing. I sit there for however long it is, watching the slow rising and falling of his chest as he breathes, willing him to remain with me though I am beginning to fear he simply cannot for much longer. Finally I open my mouth to speak, for I know I must despite the fact that it nearly kills me to do so.
"Watson…" I trail off miserably, feeling as if something were clawing at my insides even as I voice the affectionate word...even now, I cannot call him by anything else; our Christian names long ago faded in terms of familiarity compared with our last names.
"Yes?" he asks softly, his eyes - those eyes! - glimmering tenderly at me.
He waits patiently, his bright eyes fastened to my face, for me to regain my tenuous and ever-slipping grip on control. Finally I find my voice again and look down at the one person in the world who means so much to me I would be willing to do anything to see him free from pain again – even if it means sacrificing that very thing that is so dear.
"Watson…" My voice is ridiculously unsteady and the fact annoys me, but this is no time to stick at trivialities. There are more important things to speak of. "Watson…my dear fellow…do not stay here for my sake; I shall be fine, I promise you."
This is an outright lie, but I will not have him prolong his suffering out of concern for me.
His eyes well up and dim with tears as he looks up at me, an expression of absolute heartbroken misery upon his face. I am expecting a denial, a rebuke, his laughing and saying he has no intention of leaving me so soon, or something of the kind – but what I hear is none of those, and that fact alone frightens me more than I would ever admit.
"Are you sure?" he whispers weakly.
I nearly choke on the words, but I force them out just the same. "Quite sure, my dear friend," I whisper in almost as weak a voice as he possesses now. "Go on, it's all right. It's all right, old chap. I promise."
A single tear escapes his eye and rolls down to hit the pillow, and I breathe in a long breath through my nose, grinding my jaw until I can feel pain all the way into the roots of my teeth, to prevent myself from having the same reaction. Control, remain in control…
For a moment there is no sound save the tweeting of a bluebird outside the window and his shallow breathing as we look at each other – two old men in a world that has already forgotten we even existed save as characters in a series of romantic adventure stories, a world that is too involved in attempting to annihilate their fellow men to ever care that Victorian gallantry and chivalry did exist, long ago in a past that cannot ever be reclaimed.
Then his eyes flutter closed and he is still, his hand holding mine tightly the only indication that he is aware of my presence. He is still breathing, I can see that – but he must be so very exhausted for he makes no move to look at me any longer. I cannot help but wonder if he is not already partly gone.
But I sit back on the edge of his bed to wait for whatever may come. It is the least I can do for a man to whom I owe everything, including my life - both physically and mentally.
You really did scare me that day, old fellow, you know? All that talk about last wishes and the future and all such…and seeing you in such pain was simply agonising.
I cannot tell you in a simple letter how very glad I am that you no longer are forced to be in such pain; even if it means not seeing you for a little while, this distance and temporary separation is a price that is more than worth paying if it continues to see you free of that horrible agony that tormented you. I have learnt the hard way over the years what true priorities are, and seeing you out of such pain ranks higher than any petty selfish wish of my own heart.
You shall have to tell me what it is like when I see you, this new residence of yours (you simply must take me on a grand tour when I arrive, Watson), for it must be no less than wonderful judging from your reaction – the very last I saw you, you looked so contented and happy that it was a drastically different change from that horrible pain of that most awful of days...
"Holmes." He repeats my name quietly, affectionately, as if it is the only word he remembers how to say and the only one he cares to.
"Yes, my dear fellow, I'm here." I respond in a whisper, for if I raise my voice at all I know it will spiral completely out of control.
"Would you…do something…for me?" he murmurs – as if I would - could - ever refuse!
"Anything, you have but to name it," I manage to choke the words from under the lump lodged painfully in my throat.
"Would you…play for me?" he whispers, his eyes moving tiredly – oh, how tiredly! – to my Stradivarius, which I had cast into the corner after I sat here the last time to keep him company following the last scare, before they slide back to my face searchingly.
Oh God, why do I have this horrible feeling…
And even though I want to do nothing more than run away and hide forever from the inevitable, to shake my fist in the face of an unfair, uncaring Fate and weep over my inability to stop the one Force no man is strong enough to resist or genius enough to vanquish – even yet, I nod slowly, blinking back the burning tears that sting my vision and threaten to blur what could be the last glimpse I have of the only man in the world I could truthfully say I would do anything in or out of my power for, including giving my life for his. I would do it in a heartbeat, and after so many years I wonder why I never could voice the fact so openly as he was wont to do.
Unfortunately, Fate is not interested in my pleas (and how many of them I have made of late!) or my bargaining, and I can change absolutely nothing despite my willingness to. We have already, many times, said what there is to be said, living each day in the preparation for such an eventuality as this, and every line of our previous conversations flashes through my brain with such rapidity that I feel dizzy now, my heart pounding in my ears and my vision blurring in front of me.
His tired eyes, so faded from the normal vivacious hazel sparkle that I am so accustomed to seeing, close as he struggles to draw a controlled breath. I convulsively clutch at his hand in a sort of blind panic I no longer care if I conceal, but they do open once more, warming automatically at the sight of me. I can't do this, I just can't…
"Before you start…Holmes…promise me…one thing," he murmurs faintly. He shifts uneasily with a small moan of pain, and again my eyes sting and there is a tight constricting in my chest, as if in sympathetic agony.
Both of us suffer from a heart condition – would that mine were the physical and not his. I blink hastily and nod once again, trusting my actions more than my voice at the moment.
"Promise me…you won't brood, Holmes," he whispers, favouring me with that slow, affectionate smile he always reserved for moments when I had done something particularly kind to a needy client or such.
I choke on the laugh that rises in my throat – he knows me and my habits and reactions far, far too well.
"I...I promise," I finally manage to reply hoarsely, hoping that for once my voice can involuntarily show some tenderness as I am apparently incapable of consciously doing so.
His smile widens as he squeezes my hand as tightly as his failing strength will allow. I return the grip with intensity, never ever wanting to let go – for even though I would gladly give anything in the world to make the pain release its horrible grasp upon him, my heart balks at actually giving up the most precious thing in the process.
His eyes soften as he glances searchingly over my face, as if memorising every feature though he doubtless knows me well enough over the last forty-six years to quote me by heart. I do not need to do so to remember him, but I find myself doing the same despite the fact, some irresistible magnet forcing me to not break the gaze until he does.
Finally he is satisfied apparently with whatever he was searching for, for his eyes flicker with a tiny spark of warmth as he smiles again at me, his hand clasping mine one final time with a weak pressure before letting go, slowly removing from my grasp, his hand first and then finally his weak, trembling fingers.
I swallow hard round the lump that rises in my throat as he withdraws his hand, but I force my legs (my brain seems to be paralysed and unable to give commands at the moment) to move, step to the corner, and my hands to take up my instrument that has seen so many better, happier years and times. I lift the violin to my shoulder and take one look back at the bed that holds the most important thing in all the world to me.
His face animates with a ghost of his old eagerness and he gives me one more anticipatory grin. I return it as best I can under the circumstances and then turn my attention to my violin, starting desperately into one of my old compositions: a slow, soothing, somewhat melancholy melody that enables me to for a few moments escape this reality and pour my very soul, every word and thought I never could voice due to my accursed pride and my self-imposed defenses, into the song. I can but hope he understands what I have never been able to say and still cannot, even now.
Midway through my composition, a single tear (how did that get past my tight control?) slides down off my nose to land on the strings, causing a dreadful squeak in the midst of a measure, but I doggedly continue, fiercely blinking a second and third back before they can follow – surely this small thing I can do for him, after all he has done for me, whether he is aware of it all or not.
Finally I finish, the last notes die away with the gentle spring breeze and twittering birds' songs that waft in through the window, and I lower the instrument, turning at last to see his reaction.
No…oh, no…
The Stradivarius falls unheeded from my suddenly nerveless fingers, and I somehow manage to stumble the three steps back to the bed. Then finally a numb, frozen sort of calm washes over me as I clench my burning eyes shut for a moment before looking down at him...no, not him, for he is no longer forced to endure that pain-filled mortal shell of a gallant soldier and a dear friend, fighting to the very end.
I have seen many – too many – forms of death in my years as a consulting detective and afterwards, but I can safely say I have never seen one as peaceful as this. It is as if forty years have rolled quietly away, and I am looking at the man who sat opposite me in front of thousands of cozy evening fires in the soft gaslights of a Victorian Baker Street. His face has lost its careworn lines of pain and is so at rest I can barely believe it, free of the pain of the last few years and especially the last few hours. A genuine, peaceful smile lingers on his lips, one that I hope dearly I had a part in putting there.
He's gone.
And I still have a hard time wrapping my unfortunately mortal brain round the fact that my colleague and trusted friend, who was always just a half-step behind me, has actually solved a case before I can. No doubt you will thoroughly flaunt that victory when I see you, Watson, and I cannot really be insulted by your smugness. Enjoy your triumph, my dear fellow, for you fought hard – too hard – to gain it. A soldier to the end, was - is - my Watson.
After all those years of following my orders and never quite getting the credit you deserved, I shall be the first to admit you solved this case well before Sherlock Holmes. My first defeat in over twenty years, and if I am to lose the opportunity to brave the dangers of the unknown to solve the greatest mystery of all, then I could not have conceded the victory to a more worthy and courageous opponent.
While I am rambling here, let me say that I sent your stories to your publisher, my dear fellow, the ones you left in your desk half-finished. Heaven knows they are nowhere near the quality they would be were you able at the moment to finish them, but I must say I believe it serves you right for dumping me with the job, old man! Honestly – I even had to write two of them from scratch, of my own experiences, because that blasted publisher insisted there had to be twelve, a round dozen, to make up the anthology.
They've chosen the horribly clichéd title of "The Case-book of Sherlock Holmes," Watson. No, really. I did try, my dear fellow, to get them to choose something slightly more accurate, but they insisted upon calling it that – even though you are as much a part of the cases as I am. I suppose such trivialities probably do not matter much to you now, but I did finish the stories so you needn't worry about them at least.
It isn't like you to leave a job undone for someone else to do, old chap – you must really have been called for by someone in desperate need of you elsewhere, to be willing to leave such an important task unfinished; and leaving it for the likes of me, the self-professed hater of romantic fiction. But you always did have a habit of going where you were the most needed, and I suppose if you were indispensible elsewhere I cannot begrudge you for performing your errands of mercy; it is engrained in your dear unselfish nature by this point.
Let me see, whilst I am here, what else would you want to know…some deeper parts of Europe appear to be gearing themselves up for yet another war, old fellow. I cannot see why they will not learn from history that freedom will still prevail so long as there are men as strong as my old soldier always was to defend the country from any evil. I do wish men would learn from examples like yours and your comrades, to end this sort of atrocity before it starts and plunges the world into another Great War.
I am quite certain that is one thing you enjoy very much about that new dwelling of yours - a world free of war and all its horrors. You thoroughly deserve such a Valhalla, my dear Watson, and you deserve a place of honour there.
You'll be happy to hear that my brother is still alive and well, though he spends more and more of his time in a bath-chair, living comfortably off his Whitehall pension. I am sure if he knew I were writing you he would send his regards. He was very good to me right after you went away, Watson, and he saw to it that everything you wanted done was carried out to the letter, as I was rather understandably off my usual sharpness during those first few weeks.
I do not know if you have seen me on my visits to London, dear fellow, but I do always bring roses for your lovely wife when I come, since you are no longer here to perform the formality. I suppose I can be happy that you are both together again, for I know how deeply you still loved her even decades after her own departure - so much so that you could never truly love another woman. At any rate, you need have no fear for I always make sure on my monthly visits that the place is well-kept. For both of your sakes.
You know you always dubbed me in those adventurous stories as a brain without a heart...and I am afraid it is true, for I found that I felt much the same after your departure as I did before I met you almost a half-century ago. If I am a brain, then you are the heart, old chap, and I once again am a brain without a heart, unfortunately. They do say that life technically ceases to exist when the brain ceases to function...but without the presence of a heart there is only so long for the brain to exist by itself.
As to me personally…I am doing as well as can be expected, my dear fellow. I stay busy, and I did not withdraw into a shell and brood, as I promised you I would not. Of late I have sadly neglected my bees and my textbook on the history of detection and analysis in favour of finishing up those infernal stories of yours that you so kindly left for me to complete. I daresay there will be a marked difference in quality, but so be it; I vowed to see to it that you were not forgotten by the world you made such a better place, my dear Watson, and I have done my utmost to do so.
But I do stay busy, I promise you, so have no worries on that score as to my mental health. The rheumatism is somewhat worsening, but it is nothing unbearable; though this constant wracking cough I have seems to be growing quite a bit worse each day – but before you start glaring at this letter, I am not smoking as much as I did in my younger days, I promise. I am not quite sure why it is so bad just now...perhaps the damp and the weather are affecting it rather more than in my younger days. Ever since the fireside became such a lonely place of an evening, I am not over-eager to spend solitary nights in front of it and have been walking along the beach instead.
But regardless, I am very much hoping to see you soon, old fellow. You've been away far too long already, and it has not yet been a year though it seems like five. Though, all things considered, if you could endure such a state for three years then it is only fair that I should have to do the same for as long as I must. Fate no doubt is considering it to be reparation for a debt I never did make right, did I? Yet another item in a long list of grievances you were always kind enough to forgive, dear fellow.
At any rate...I hope to be able to conclude my business, what remains of it, here and join you soon, my dear Watson; for we have so much to discuss! And I suspect if I know my Watson, that you have already gotten several interesting cases lined up for me to apply my powers to when we meet again. I do look forward to it, but more importantly to having the pleasure of your assistance once again upon these little problems of ours.
Until then, pray give my greetings to Mrs. Hudson, and Inspector Lestrade, and to your lovely wife – whom I have no doubt is taking very good care of you while I must remain here for a time. I felt perfectly safe in relinquishing the state of your health and your care to such capable hands, and I trust she has not given me cause to regret it.
So until I see you, my dearest friend, I remain,
Yours always,
Sherlock Holmes
The elderly man set down the document he was examining, removed his reading glasses with a slightly trembling hand, and methodically stacked the legal papers, the wills, and the manuscripts into a neat pile beside a very faded tin dispatch-box standing on a table in a now-deserted house. He then removed the single photograph the box contained and glanced over it with a watery grey gaze now even more watery with eternally unshed tears.
"At least you have the pleasure of delivering this letter of yours in person, my dear brother," an aging Mycroft Holmes sighed softly, shuffling the missive back into its envelope, which was dated one week previously and addressed simply Dr. John Watson, 221B Baker Street, London.
Here dwell together still two men of note, Who never lived and so can never die...
...Here, though the world explode, these two survive, And it is always eighteen ninety-five.
-- Vincent Starrett (not I, unfortunately)
As I said, somewhat sad but hopefully not completely depressive. Thank you for reading, and thank you for the support from everyone over the last two weeks; even if I didn't get back to all of you who offered condolences and sympathy I do very much appreciate it.