The End
It has been nearly 5 years since that fateful day, but I chose to remember not the end, but the journey together. He was beside me through my marriages, my beloved Mary and my adoring Sarah, and had saved my life many a time. He was my closest friend and I now know that, for many of those 30 years of friendship, he was the reason for my existence. I now record my final story, the story of the death of Sherlock Holmes.
It was a cool September morning in 1921 when I went to visit my friend. He had written to me before about his recent work and his current fascination, dare I say obsession, with the habits of bees. In all honestly, it broke my heart to see him turn his back on all his deductive skill and ability that had made him a household name, but he was happy, and that was all the comfort I needed to remind me that the ending of our little practise was indeed the right thing to have done.
After the Great War, Holmes and I had drifted apart a little as I spent more of my time assisting those in need, despite that age I must admit I had reached, especially after all the destruction and pain that was caused. He, however, had isolated himself in a small village in Surrey where he took up bee-keeping. I hadn't heard from him in over 5 months but then, out of the blue, he wrote to me asking that I leave whatever I was doing and come and see him. Only too willingly I left all behind me and travelled to Surrey.
Upon my arrival, I was greeted by none other than the former consulting detective himself. He welcomed me warmly and invited me into his home. On entering, I saw that it was not that different to how Baker Street once was, however, it was significantly smaller.
"My dear Watson!" he said. "Why do you act as though we are strangers? Sit, please."
We talked briefly of other things such as his new hobby, the war, old cases and any other chit-chat that leapt to mind and would keep the man who sat across from me interested and engaged. After a half an hour, the world seemed to go silent as we heard a knock on the door. I was still complacent but upon seeing Holmes face, my smile faded into a mask of shock, fear and confusion.
Sherlock Holmes sat before me whiter that I had ever seen him before. His eyes had widened and glazed over and his hands were balled up into fists with his knuckles jutting out of his flesh. His gaze was fixed on the door and eventually, the visitor left and Holmes relaxed, but only a little. He then immediately leapt up, showing the energy of a much younger man, and grabbed me by the shoulders. He pulled me to my feet and looked me strait in the eye.
"Watson, I cannot even pretend to tell you what is about to happen but I must ask you to leave. Leave and hurry away from here. Under no circumstances return, no matter what you hear, se or, dare I imagine it, sense. I will write to you in a week, but please, for your sake and mine, go!"
I was about to protest but, with abnormal strength; he threw me out of the door and, with a look of agony, fear and sadness, slammed it in front of me. I knew better than to argue with him in this state and proceeded to walk away from the little cottage. However, the further away I got, the more suspicious I became. His behaviour, his actions, his shear terror. Years by his side had trained me to notice details and my mind started to piece things together.
It was at this point I realised I had stopped walking. I was standing a mere 50 yards from his home, realisation setting in on me, when I heard it, a sound that still to this day chills me to the bone. A single gunshot followed by a scuffle of running feet. My body turned to water as the gunshot resounded in my ears. Then, without realising I was doing it, I ran with all the strength I had left back to the small cottage.
I threw myself into the room and felt my heart shatter as I saw the broken body of my friend lying in front of me. He had been shot through the heart and he lay on his back with his hands by his side, showing that he didn't resist or struggle, he had allowed this to happen to him. I held back my tears and I examine the room, trying not to look at the broken man my friend had become, to find out who had done this to him.
I then noticed a scrunched up piece of paper lying by his side, as if he had dropped it. I picked it up and sat beside my friend, hoping that maybe my presence would be enough to rouse him from this eternal sleep. I opened the paper and found a letter in his handwriting addressed to me. I lay down the note before you:
My Dearest Watson,
I am not surprised that you returned. I rather hoped you would, as the police are rather incompetent no matter where I go and a trained pair of eyes would assist me greatly in finding peace. I must admit, that I have known this fate was awaiting me for a long time. I knew by whose hands, and when my end would come but I could tell no-one either, as it could ruin me.
I did something of which I am ashamed many years ago, before you and I met, that has lead me to this, but there was nothing that could be done. In the interest of your safety, I will take my mistake to the grave so that you will never be endangered my own adolescent stupidity.
I am deeply sorry that I cut you off for so long. Those 5 months where I resisted the urge to write to you were more difficult than you will ever understand but there was much information I needed to collect so as to save many of those at Scotland Yard the trouble.
However, I must confess that I was deeply ashamed to break my silence to you by requesting your visit as I know the troubles, nightmares and pains this will cause you but I found that the thought of death, as it has for many years, didn't seem so terrifying as long as I have my dear, and only, friend beside me. For that I thank you.
I fear that I must ask more of you in the hope that you will forgive me my weaknesses and pains and do as I ask. I need you to deliver a package to Scotland Yard that is on my bookshelf behind the encyclopaedias. This contains all the evidence and explanation required to prosecute my murderer. However, I must ask you not to read it.
John, do not go looking for my killer. Do not assist in the investigation. Do not investigate. I must ask you to do the one thing that I could never do. Walk away. Leave the police to do their jobs alone. Deliver the package and walk away.
I hope that you don't think any worse of me for all I've asked of you, but you are the only person in the world, who I trust enough to do as I ask.
Goodbye, my dearest friend. I remain very truly yours,
Sherlock Holmes
Upon finishing reading the letter, I let the tears run freely. I sat there for what could have been weeks weeping until, finally, my tears stopped and I stood on shaky legs. I did as he asked and retrieved the package. I didn't open it and I didn't look around me as I left. I called for the police and stayed with them until they took him away and finished their investigating. I didn't get involved anymore that I was requested to by the officers around me.
As they left, one of them handed me his will. I didn't open it or make any effort to read it. It could wait. Everything could wait. The world could make a minute's silence to respect and farewell Sherlock Holmes. And finally, closing the door with tear-filled eyes, I left that cottage and returned to London, the package clutched close to my chest.
I went immediately to Scotland Yard and handed Lestrade the package. He patted my shoulder and turned away to give the package to another man. I didn't wait until he turned back before leaving. I left everything behind me as I disappeared into the night.
Weeks passed and the funeral was held. There were many more people than I ever expected. I assumed they were people he helped. Some I recognised such as Violet Smith and Mr Trelawney-Hope. The Prime Minister attended and the Queen sent a representative. I broke my heart that Sherlock had never seen all the people he helped, than I ever expected. I assumed they were people he helped. Some I recognised such as Violet Smith and Mr Trelawney-Hope. The Prime Minister attended and the Queen sent a representative. I broke my heart that Sherlock had never seen all the people he helped, merely the puzzles he solved.
In the days following the funeral, I discovered that Sherlock had left everything he had, with a few exceptions, to me. I refused most of it and gave it to either Mycroft or Lestrade but I kept a few small reminders of my dear friend. His violin, his pipes, his hat and his magnifying glass all stayed with me along with many of his books. His case files, records and criminal database all went to the police along with many other criminal details he kept. Anything of value was given to Mycroft that he accepted gracefully.
2 months after Sherlock Holmes' death, I received a telegram from Lestrade that simply read:
We caught the man. He's going away for a very long time. Hope this helps in a slight manner.
- Lestrade
After receiving this telegram, a small weigh lifted itself off my shoulders. I smiled for the first time in months and packed my suitcase. The next day I boarded the first train that left the country, heading for France. I was finally doing the one thing that Sherlock Holmes could never do. Walk away.