Obituary
I have seen Sherlock Holmes behave in the most eccentric mannerisms that the mind can conjure. Be it extreme excitement or the darkest of depression, I have seen more in this man than many will see in a lifetime. However, I have only seen him act human on one occasion.
Holmes had been awake all night thinking about one of his cases. I had heard him pacing and playing that infernal violin at all hours of the early morning. His incessant mutterings were constant and loud enough to keep me awake almost as long as he, but finally, in the wee hours, I got some rest.
I was awoken by Holmes at seven insisting upon my instant assistance. "I've solved it!" he yelled, a smile spread across his face. "It's all about the paint, Watson, why the fresh paint! This killer is clever. It must me Moriarty's work. Who else could think of a pan so beautiful as this! Come on Watson. Dress quickly and meet me outside."
I dressed hastily and made my way out of the room. I expected Holmes to be yelling at me from the front door but instead I found him sitting in his favourite chair by the fire staring intently at the newspaper in his hands. His face had fallen from the joy it had contained previously to a solemn mask, impenetrable and unreadable.
"Holmes…" I started, worried. I knew something was wrong as his pipe lay abandoned on the other side of the room. He hadn't retrieved it as he always did when he read the paper. "Holmes."
He looked up at me and I could see the pain in his eyes but upon meeting my worried gaze his turned back into the piercing one that it always had been. He stood wordlessly and, taking the newspaper with him, retired to his room without saying a thing.
I knew better than to question him and decided to simply investigate. I walked down the stairs and found Mrs Hudson in the kitchen. "What paper did you bring Holmes this morning?" I asked.
"The Times, sir," she answered. I thanked her hurriedly and walk briskly to the corner where a young lad stood selling the very paper I was looking for. I paid him and took my copy back to Baker Street. I remembered that Sherlock had it open to the obituaries and I quickly did the same and upon reading it, knew exactly what he had seen. I dropped the paper and walked to the door of his room.
I didn't knock or force my way in as I knew he wouldn't want to know anything of it. I simply pressed my forehead against the door and whispered into the wood, "I'm so sorry."
I turned and left then, picking up my paper as I left to go to Scotland Yard and tell them what we knew on Sherlock's behalf. I met with Lestrade and told him about the paint. He inquired after Sherlock but I stated that he had another case and was tremendously busy. I would never betray his secrets.
On arrive back at Baker Street, Sherlock was still locked away in his room but I saw pinned to the wall the same notice that we had both read and the note that had caused him so much pain.
Mrs Irene Norton nee. Adler
1855 – 1894
Dearly Departed from a bullet to the temple (self inflicted)
May she rest in peace