Solo for Violin in A minor

First of many pieces of scrap-paper found in the desk of Sherlock Holmes, as left in his home in the Sussex Downs.

Written on the interior of an unfolded envelope with a postmark of September 1904 in smeared pencil.

The country isn't like the city. The city, one can go and feel life around everywhere, all hideous and gross and disturbing. There many molecules operate at such a rapid speed, a high concentration of fast-moving molecules. The result is great distraction around one, and thus great peace within one.

My ability to concentrate accelerates in a place where it is more difficult to concentrate. It is inspiring, invigorating, to have the challenge of adversity in trying to solve a problem. It's better to have a limit to force one's creativity – it's better to have a small piece of paper that you fill up than a gigantic piece of paper that takes an eternity to fill.

So being in the city is conducive to concentration, conducive to brilliance. Being in the country, there is open space, open faces, open hearts, and also empty minds, and nothing is happening because the people here have no available conception of what it means to live at a pace that requires more concentration than lifting a bushel of apples into a cart. The people of the country, they do not dream. The people of the city, they dream.

City people are bursting with complex feelings, repressed by the mandates of continual socialization but ignited by exposure to hundreds of minute stimuli everywhere, and so they fester and brood over their dissatisfaction until finally they erupt with volcanic fervor and drive themselves into one of many socially-appropriate channels for this. Such as religious or charitable work, if they are concerned about the plights of humanity, or to crime, if they are too concerned about the plights of their own hides. Thus angels and devils are born.

The city is the perfect host for the microbial systems of the world. They become. They do this not for lack of anything to do, but because their world is too full for them to resist participating in it. Nonparticipation in their world just does not happen, they have too much moving around in their spirits to stay still, for there is life, life, life, life everywhere.

And thus I reminisce – but why, you ask me, do I seek the solitude of the country if my heart and inspiration lie in the city? The response is not simple, especially when, my dear doctor, you are the one asking the question!

Initially it came to my head to separate myself from the city because I felt I was becoming too well known to do my job properly. At least, that's the reason I gave you.

You protested my logic, with good faith. But I know that no matter what I said, you would still tell me not to retire at all.

You insisted, maybe if I just moved from Baker Street to another region of the city, that this would be a solution.

I told you that changing my residence within the city was not a solution. It was necessary to leave entirely.

Then you asked me to live with you and your wife and children, because they all love me very much.

I know they only love me because I am such an infrequent visitor. And I am an infrequent visitor because of only my own selfishness. I hate to share you with anyone. And when you propose an option of life where sharing you is necessary...I briefly envisage the situation. When we are engrossed in a task very delicate, your children march into the chamber and perturb all the instruments. Or your wife commences a little domestic because we didn't clean our shoes after a walk. These things, and others, like watching you with the ladies. (Really, do you think it's not obvious that you like the cook for more than her cake? I see all, my friend.) Or even with your wife, that's painful enough. When you are together, or even when the slightest evidence of intimacy is on your clothes, I have a difficult time.

You don't see the sadness in my eyes, only because I turned my head because it wasn't the time to talk about that subject, and I do not desire to make you sad.

I tell you that you don't understand how dangerous the city is for me. Then I explain that it's furthermore impossible because of a very practical reason - I conduct science experiments, and such would not be good for the children.

You ask, since I'm retiring, why I would be doing experiments in the first place.

I smile. Dear old Watson. You never understand. But you were trying, like always.

I say to you: the questions, their answers, the situations, the hypotheses, the deductions, the conclusions. The feelings of satisfaction when I solve a problem. With these, I live my life to the fullest. If I did not have these things, I asked you, what would I be?

And you, you paused, listening apologetically.

I continued saying to you, relocation to another city is not a safe option. At my time of life, it's not a good idea anyhow, to begin a new practice. And Mycroft, whose help would be invaluable in such a project, you know he is dead.

And I sighed, saying, Watson, it's the time for me to begin a quieter life, retire from things. I don't need to continue consulting work for economic purposes, which leaves me feeling grateful but aimless.

I didn't say aloud how I also suffer from bitter apathy towards humankind that has only grown in recent years. I know you wouldn't understand.

You didn't even understand a lot of what I told you, but you accepted it. What choice had you?

I also did not tell you the most compelling reason of all: I grow old. And I resign myself to it. I am not afraid to die. In fact, I rather welcome it. I am incapable of continuing my work that I have loved so dearly – now I have removed myself to a place where it is impossible to even try.

It is not a death-wish, for if I find something worth engaging myself in, I will be overjoyed. But just as a dog who has taken his last run will curl in his corner and sleep into oblivion, so will I put myself to sleep.