« Dear Watson,

If once you felt an ounce of affection towards me, please read this.

I am sorry if I have inflicted any pain to you as you are reading this. It was not my intention.

It had to end that way. I did the sacrifice of my life consciously. I wish I had been brave enough to tell you while alive, but I am afraid I was too much of a coward to face your hatred.

I assume I have some explaining to do. I kept information from you that you should have known.

Watson, I beg you to understand. I had to conceal my real nature, but I had planned to die in the end. I can't know if it's the case, but I had expected you to be the one to kill me when you will realize what I was. No hard feelings there, it was natural for you to do so. May my people be killed by people such as you. Captain Watson, probably it means nothing to you coming from such a being than one of my race, but it was a pleasure. You reinforced my resolve in bringing the end of the Old Ones' Reign.

But I disgress. What you would like to know is the why of this charade. I am only part-human, as you must know now.

My grandmother, who raised me as lovingly as she could, was entirely of your kind.

She was kidnapped and assaulted by my grandfather while she was a young girl. At age fourteen she gave birth to twins. One dies, the other was my father. My grandfather did not dispose of a legitimate heir, so he adopted his own son who was brought up in a castle in the North of New Albion. My grandfather abused my grandmother for years, and she gave birth to other children, all stillborn. Humans and Old Ones don't mix well. Needless to say all children, including my father, were horrific. More so than an Old One, because they looked more human when they were not.

My parents, both full Old Ones met at a small party of the queen. They were both well-known in those circles and died some time ago. You should feel free to look out for whom they were, but their names are not relevant to my narrative.

They had five children.

My grandmother was only thirty-five when I was born and still at the service of my grandfather, in whose home my mother gave birth. She helped with the delivery. She saw an occasion there : instead of presenting me to my grandfather, she flew away with me in her arms. She hadn't save her son, and she was determined to save me.

My older brother and my sisters didn't have that luck.

I met my brother and we had exchanged letters for years before we met. I was barely thirty, he thirty-seven. I was then pretending to be someone else. My brother is a careful person but I knew he was not like the other almost immediatly, He had not bask into cruelty like the other Old Ones I met on occasion had. After two years, I revealed myself to him. It was a test. He passed it. Some months later we were completing for the fall of the monarchy together. I still do not know his exact reasons at present time, except he may had heard to much unbelievable tales.

My brother holds an important position in the government and is undermining it. For that reason, I'd rather you don't look too much into my family history for that reason, let him finish what we started. He is no coward and will take his life once the job finished, even if it could take ages. He gave me his word, and I believe that after my sacrifice, he will respect it.

Sadly, I heard report that my sisters are not like him. The oldest ones, let's name them C. and G. , helped my father to find human girls for his amusement in befriending the poor girls and inviting them home. The youngest tore apart the arm of a worker who didn't bow to her in the street. My brother swore he will take care of them too. Their name is different from mine, my grandmother gave me hers. Please, do not interfere early and let my brother do what have to be done in adequate timing.

Watson, I would like to thank you. Sorry for the poor structure of this letter, but I am getting emotional – it is surely repellent to you, and I will only ask you to have the patience to read the next paragraphs before burning this letter.

My good old grandmother is a woman of wisdom, and did her best to make me human, but that is impossible. She payed people to operate me, and I look human. No wings, no facial deformation, my bare body is not very different from yours. I hope all these informations are not too much of a burden for you. I would like to add, that my poor grandmother couldn't make me half as human as you made me, even if she did her best.

Would you be so kind to send her the letter tucked into the breast pocket of my green coat ? The adress is 157 Brandbury Road, and the name is Rose Holmes. If you wish for more information, I asked her to give them to you if you come to her. She might be cross at first, because I was dear to her, but she will understand what I did. I wish you could be as forgiving.

May you live a long life and find happiness in the way.

Sherlock Holmes

The soldier's eyes were shining with tears as he finished his reading. He stood up, tucked the letter into his breast pocket, just over his heart. He combed his disheveled hair with two of his fingers, put his beige hat on his head and closed the door behind him. Direction Brandbury Road.

Before going out, he had turned to the armchair that was once Holmes's. He had tried to smile, and said his last words to the detective in a smooth, if a bit broken voice.

« You were the most human person I had ever met, Holmes. »