Ghost at Baker Street

By Lizzy

Sherlock Holmes died this morning.

His brilliant and ever wandering brain finally stopped working a bright morning one spring. I can't remember which day, blimey, I can't even remember in which year we are now; but I do remember his last words, the last sounds his throat made, because it was my name. He called me and I was there, holding his hand and pressing my lips against his forehead, trying to hide my tears.

He had spent his last month entirely locked away in his flat in Baker Street, uncommunicated with the world and without talking with anyone. Not accepting clients of any kind and no acquaintances interested in his wellbeing, just conducting experiments and writing in his journal of scientific facts.

I was with him sometimes; other times I don't really know where I was.

In the last days, people came and went out of the building all the time. Mostly when he was sleeping. And the new landlady -who had taken the place of our beloved and deceased Mr. Hudson- quickly showed the flat to other people. New tenants, new players in the endless game.

And then they came in and looked around with curiosity, not knowing that between those walls we had fought the most magnificent of battles, that we hid secrets that could have burnt down entire kingdoms, we saved kings and queens, we protected common people from uncommon scandals and uncommon people from outrageous consequences. We stopped crime and we defended decency and honour. There, we defended truth with our own lives.

We lived between those walls, we developed a friendship and built a life, we cared for each other, we loved and hated little things of our own personalities, we remained together despite everything, we grew, we aged.

And yet, the flat is changing -everything is changing- the people, the streets, the air is getting purer, the fog of London is disappearing and the fog of the mysteries is vanishing, confronted with the light of new science and new technology.

Ah, life.

As my friend once said: the only constant in life is change.

And in between this age of changes and new discoveries, Baker Street was an oasis of unperturbed habits. Until now.

My friend had leaned back on his favourite sofa, his hands were resting on his lap and for the first time I was conscious of the delicacy of his skin, the paleness and fragility of his entire being.

I stepped into the parlour and observed him attentively. He was looking at something through a thick pair of spectacles.

All of a sudden, he groaned in frustration and threw the glasses to the other corner of the room.

I said nothing and I sat on a small armchair, looking at him as he used to look at me when we were young and there was time for everything.

I leaned toward him and he shivered. He had his eyes closed and I knew it was almost time.

Two days later I found him in his bed. His fierce eyes were still closed and his lips slightly open.

He was saying something.

He was saying my name.

- I'm here, my friend.

I whispered, leaning to speak into his ear, to him and just to him.

It was him to whom I was devoted, after all those years, after all that time and cases and even with months and years without seen each other, it was him, always him, who had the last word for me, who just needed to say my name to have me by his side.

His breath seemed to calm a bit when I spoke. He opened his eyes and looked around. He didn't see me through his blind eyes, eyes that one day had seen beyond what any human could ever see; those eyes of ice that were able to read the details of the most atrocious crimes and that were, for me, the source of all wisdom and generosity.

- Watson?

He mumbled with a voice I didn't recognize. My friend sounded so different, so unreal.

It is not natural to see the magnificent force of someone like Sherlock Holmes, being consumed by time and life.

I thought he was going to live forever, just the two of us against the rest of the world.

I don't mind to be dragged forever, tricked forever. I don't care if I have to run and scape and yell and shoot and jump and cry. I don't mind if all of me, everything that is John Watson, belongs to him forever.

I don't mind.

I never did.

I placed my hand in his forehead gently.

- It is time, my friend. The last case to be solved is waiting.

He smiled

- I imagine death will be a great game.

He replied and I knew he was the same man, despite the white in his hair, his trembling hands and his blind eyes, he was my friend. My friend Sherlock Holmes. My Sherlock Holmes.

And for the first and last time I touched him, not repressing my feelings toward him. I touched him with the hope that everything inside me could reach him somehow.

I put something in his hand and he smiled, until his smiled turned into laughter.

- You've always been a sentimental man.

He muttered, and yet he was stroking the piece of fabric.

I didn't need to tell him anything else. I wanted him to be happy, I wanted him to be with me. I wanted that body to escape the boundaries of age, and that beloved heart -which worked like a machine and seemed unreachable for the whole world but for me- could feel the warmth of mine and know, somehow, that it was all because of him.

It was always him.

Our hands met again and he smiled, closing his eyes, forever.

Almost immediately he opened them again and he wasn't anymore the old carcass of the great, vigorous man I knew. He was changed, transformed into the young mad scientist, mystery solver, splendid man I always loved and admired.

What a miracle death is. A miracle in which we were reunited again.

- My friend. He said with his baritone voice. - I thought you'd never come for me. That took you ages.

- I've just been gone for a month, my dear friend.

- It certainly felt like ages to me.

I chuckled and opened the door for him.

When we were at the doorframe, he turned and gave a last look at the flat. Our flat.

- The best of times.

He whispered to no one in particular. Then we left the place for the last time, after the greatest mystery of them all.

And our shadows disappeared in the fog of a new day in London.

Sherlock Holmes died in Sussex, in _ his never resting brain stopped working exactly one month after the passing of his best friend, Doctor John H. Watson. A piece of scarlet silk was found in his hand.