Resting in a scratchy bed in a tiny, colorless room, the feeble, elderly man dressed in a pale green hospital gown knew it would not be long before he would be gone. He winced as the many tubes connected to him pumped every bloody solution in London into his aching body, desperately trying to revive him to his younger self. He was weak, and he knew he was dying. The nurses painted on a façade of hope, but he could see the truth seeping into his situation. He had lived his life, and that life was now coming to a close.
It had been many years since he could walk on his own without the unwelcome aid of a wheelchair. He had used the cane for many years; he always had a bad leg. Now there was no possibility in him ever moving again. The machines did all the work for him: keeping his kidneys from failing, his blood from clotting, and his heart from stopping. The only part of him no machine could touch was his brain. Even as he grew older, his memory never wavered. It was constantly alert, shoving past experiences into every situation. He loved some of the memories, the ones from his early days after the war: the ones with joy and laughter and adventure. But as he grew older, the days grew darker and colder. The loneliness seeped into his life, rendering him incapable of happiness. He was stuck alone, only to ponder on the all-too painful reminders of his tumultuous past.
The good memories were his only solace. The only part of his life worth living for. He remembered perfectly the life he once led as a young lad who had so much to live for. It was still vivid in his mind. He saw himself running around London dodging criminals and assassins, always accompanied by the one person who made all of the ridiculous adventures worthwhile. Throughout his entire life, he had never found anyone as great as his old friend. No one came close to owning the same bloated ego, amount of cleverness, or skills of observation. And no one on this earth, he was sure of it, could ever be more annoying.
As he lay staring up at the speckled ceiling of the drab hospital room, his heart began to ache. It was always the regret, the bitter twinges of disappointing sentiment that crept into his mind. It taunted him and made him crazy. Not one moment went by since the fateful day in June that he didn't wish he could go back. Start over. Live the life he was so eager to get back. Find the most important person in his life and get a chance to tell him how great of a man he was, through all the madness they dealt with together.
But that was the past, and he knew it was futile to pine over days long lost. The only traces of his life from many years ago now survived only as shadows in the night. Yet the most painful memories were also the most stubborn, and persisted to follow him everywhere. It was the bitter silhouettes of regret that stretched across the floor and oozed between the sheets to lie next to him. As hard as he tried, their clawing pain would not be ignored. The pain was relentless; existing to remind the old man of his past in everything he laid eyes on.
A long black coat. A blue scarf. An incredibly obnoxious nurse. All agonizing reminders of what was lost so many decades ago. His grieving mind mercilessly began to sculpt everything and everyone into echoes of his past.
Worst of all, he could not escape the name of the man who was his friend, who died an infamous death so many years ago. As stories faded out of the news, the event of his friend's untimely death managed to reappear on the anniversary every year. Every June, the account of the former glory would be told once again. They spoke of the former most brilliant man in London as a dead fake: part of a misunderstanding about that terrible day. He had died a shattered legend, morphing into almost a despicable criminal as the years passed. The man now bound by the machines and the small bed had tried tirelessly for years to clear his best friend's name, but his efforts were wasted. Nothing could convince the world that the suicidal genius was actually the world's best, brightest, and most selfless man, and not a fabricating amateur seeking thrills in manufactured fantasies. The old man had always believed in his friend. He had known a truly remarkable genius, not a fraud. The newspapers lied and the public ate up the scum like mad, and no one would listen to one man with the true story.
In the end, all that consoled him was that someone still believed. Even if it was just him, just one person in the entire world, it still kept the truth alive. There was still a chance to spread the facts and stamp out all of the lies. The one spark of faith he held within his heart had the ability to kindle a fire, and the dying man prayed that if he could leave behind just one thing, it would be the true story. It could slowly burn the build-up of dishonesty, and the truth would blaze through the population.
It was with this thought that the elderly man felt at peace. Since the one fateful day that his best friend died, he felt the first light of calm enter his life once again. He closed his eyes and let all the memories flood back, constructing the form of his only friend in the world. The ghostly image of the tall man took long, graceful steps towards the man in bed. The friend rested his hand on the fading soul lying in the bed. The last thoughts of the man as he greeted death resonated throughout his mind and echoed through his soul. It was his last push of life before the darkness took over. As the world around him faded and he sank into the shadows, his mind was ablaze with one last thought.
I was so alone. And I owe you so much.
It was 2:21 in the afternoon when John H. Watson died in room 616 of St. Bartholomew's Hospital in London, England. Exactly one minute later, a tall, elderly man approached the door.
"John," the man whispered as he stared with raw eyes into the tiny, colorless room. "I was so alone, John," He took long, graceful strides toward the hospital bed. A single tear escaped his watery blue eyes as he rested his hand on his only friend in the world.
"And I owe you so very much."