I gathered my senses in the following days. It had all seemed only half real, like I was looking through fractal lenses where only part of what I could see was my real life. Each morning that came, I brought myself to the idea that it had been a dream the previous night, but Sherlock consistently put an end to such frail hope. He, and the news of course.
The inevitable news confronted me that morning. The courts would have no need of our testimony, for Jefferson Hope had been found dead in his prison cell before his trial could even begin.
"And so the bubble bursts, so to speak." Sherlock quipped as he drank his morning coffee.
"All that, and he died anyway. Was there any point to his capture?" I asked, disgruntled with the outcome.
"It wasn't our place to deal judgement to Mr Hope this time. He had, after all, already been marked for that. We brought the truth to light, Watson, and saved some unfortunate soul from a false sentencing."
Sherlock had a point, and that made me feel more comfortable with it all.
"Whatever the ending of this tale, Gregson and Lestrade will be wild about his death." I heard Sherlock snicker.
"It wasn't them that caught him."
"But they will still take the credit, I assure you. What we do in this world is of little consequence. What others believe we do, that is the true legacy that awaits us," Sherlock lent back on the sofa. "I really have to congratulate you Watson."
I was surprised by this.
"Me? What did I do but fumble about and complain. This isn't my life, Sherlock. I didn't ask for this. I just want… to become a doctor."
I watched his inquisitive gaze, his eyebrow raising slowly.
"I have taught you of my methods, my friend. Often it is the most curious artifacts present that makes a case simpler, not more complex. In your case, I fear you have failed to see those present in your own life."
I turned back to the TV, not wanting to make eye contact.
"I don't know what you mean." I answered meekly.
I heard the floorboards creek as he returned to his feet.
"Then let us analyse the evidence." He said with a raising excitement.
"This isn't one of your cases. This is me."
"I fail to see the difference." Sherlock said.
I waited to hear what he had to say. I didn't shut him up this time. I'd grown a respect for his methods.
"The events of the last week would lead the onlooker to one conclusion. A talented young man led a bumbling police force to a correct conviction, once again restoring balance to a horrid situation. Such an onlooker would give me more credit than is deserved."
I hadn't expected his sudden modesty. Not from him.
"The grand scheme to follow is to work backwards," He continued. "Like with our case, following events from their conclusion to their cause is required here. When we arrived at Lauristen Gardens, I immediately took note of the environment, everything from the dried patch on the road to the marks of clay, rotting shrubbery and mud left to mark out the vehicle that had been there. On seeing the body, it was from what I had noted outside that I could deduce the reasoning for the two men being there, but it was only by working backwards to the events of Charpentier's that I could follow our culprit's trail."
"I… think I follow you." I interrupted.
"Good. With the belongings left on the body, I could further deduce that it was not a robbery, leaving two possibilities. It was personal or political. A trained assassin would not leave their mark all over the dusty floor as our perpetrator did, so it must have been personal. An argument over a woman came to mind. I had intended on pursuing this theory further, but the ace in the hole was of course, the wedding ring. The artifact that did not fit was the very thing that led our trail closer to the truth."
He was starting to make sense to me, putting it like that. I nodded and listened intently, which he seemed to take pleasure in.
"Discovering the victim's marital status and past relationships was paramount, but in the case of Enoch Drebber, ultimately a dead end, no pun intended. Then took place the unexpected, an event that must be taken into account in every case, for you see, a detective must be able to work on his feet. The old crone, and the murder of Stangerson were our events, and together they worked to bring us closer to Jefferson Hope. The photograph of Lucy alongside Stangerson, his connection to Drebber, and the pills were the final pieces I needed."
I was stunned at how his logic all came together.
"It's… magnificent!" I exclaimed.
"And that my dear Watson, is why I have dedicated myself to it. The beauty of it all is the ending is always finite, it is never in flux. The result must stay the same, but many a tale can bring you to it. It is the perfect place to start, and your journey to the truth must take you backwards. For instance, the guilt of Arthur Charpentier seemed sound. He had motive and an opportunity, but as we both saw, it was a falsehood. And yet, even trained detectives went down this path, for it was routed in facts. Such is the danger of missing any clues. With all this said and done, there remains our last mystery."
I frowned.
"And what is that?" I asked, dreading the answer.
"The case of the aspiring 'Doctor' Watson. We must, as I have announced, work backwards. You claim you fumbled about uselessly. I say different. Our conclusion was the arrest of Jefferson Hope, but to come to this, we must look at your contributions to the case. Firstly, Jefferson's actions upon my reveal could have gone in many ways, were it not for my courageous roommate."
I scoffed.
"I pointed a decommissioned gun at him. How is that courageous?"
"He didn't know this. It was not that lone act, but the fact that you came to such a rescue for someone you had recently come to blows with, and have known only for a short while. It was not me that persuaded him to lower his weapon. It was in seeing a kindred spirit in you that he made the right decision. You were someone that has suffered a similar tragedy, and he recognised that. You were the first to lower your gun."
I shook my head, refusing to believe I was in any way part of this case.
"You make it sound so brave." I remarked.
"Have you forgotten what else you have done? I once told you that I am not infallible, and that statement is true. It was not I that discovered the ring at the crime scene, it was you. The crucial piece of evidence was found by John Watson, not Sherlock Holmes." He said triumphantly.
"They would have found it after moving the body." I corrected him.
"Maybe, but by that time its significance to the case would have been lost. Warm candles and bloodied walls didn't lead to our culprit. Your evidence did."
It did feel good to admit to that idea. It was a long way from convincing me however.
"Our final piece to this elusive puzzle can be found at the very beginning. It was you that convinced me to join this mystery in the first place. It seemed trivial to me, but you saw otherwise. You may have done so with the intent of proving me a fraud, I deduced that much, but you brought about the events of the last week, Watson. You led us to the truth."
He had known from the beginning. Why was I surprised? It should have been obvious to me that he could see my attempts to prove him a stuck up charlatan.
"In spite of recent events, I confess that I would not have missed this case for anything. Thanks to you, I didn't. And this at last, leads me to my final deduction."
His face became a huge grin, and then a sudden shift to sternness stole my attention.
"What…" I whispered.
"I deduce… that you are John Watson."
I laughed before covering my mouth. I couldn't help it. It was so sudden and nonsensical a thing to say. Of course I was… his face. I can still remember that moment. His eyes were so expressive and not at all like the analytical machine I had become use to. He looked sympathetic towards me, if only for my sake.
"I'm…" I couldn't say anymore.
"Since I first met you only a short few weeks ago, I have taken a great interest in seeing what you could not see. The great artifact in your life. The thing that stands out as the outlier, and yet it leads to the very truth seemingly hidden to you."
His gaze fell to the cane resting by my chair. Old emotions flooded back to me, as did an image of my father leaning against it.
"No doubt when you hold it, your mother sees him, and that feels you with a happiness you don't understand. Keeping an heirloom is understandable, but a cane, a gun, all of his medals? I dare say most of his belongings are in that room," He indeed pointed to my bedroom at Baker Street. "My final conclusion, is that this week, you have proven yourself to be John Watson, not a man you have pretended to be. You can make him proud without being him, and I'm sure you will, my friend. John Watson helped me to solve this mystery, and he didn't need a cane to lean on when it came to its conclusion."
His expression had returned to that analytical machine he usually was, and I couldn't help but wonder if any emotion really did come from him, or if it was a performance. Like the old crone… like me.
"Make a promise to do him proud, not one to carry on his fight. The dead do not cry out for vengeance."
Sherlock slowly moved away and took hold of his violin as if nothing had happened that morning. I looked away towards the fireplace and let tears fall. My father's cane was not on my mind.
Music swelled as the news played on. All credit for the arrest had gone to Lestrade and Gregson. Sherlock Holmes was mentioned, but his contribution was made out to be as relevant to the case as the officer that had brought the letter to Baker Street.
"This isn't fair… you did it all." I said, secretly wiping my face.
"Did I not say from the beginning? The result of our lecture in crimson was to get them a testimonial!" Sherlock answered.
It wasn't good enough. I may not have agreed with Sherlock Holmes' lifestyle, but I wasn't fool enough to let his genius slide. Maybe I felt grateful to him. Either way, the world would know.
"Someone told me that a good way to express yourself when you struggle is to write a journal, or diary. I've decided. I'm going to write a blog. A blog about you."
Sherlock looked surprised indeed.
"A blog about me? Now isn't that a thing!" He continued to play.
"The world has to know the truth, like you said. I'll make sure they do, and who knows, maybe you will have a greater chance to show the world what you are capable of with other cases."
I made a genuine smile for the first time in years, with no pretence or fake joy to be found. Sherlock's playing became faster and rose in pitch.
"Maybe I will, Watson. They may hiss at me, but I can cheer myself when I look upon my accomplishment."
The End.
Young Holmes and Watson will return in:
The Signing of the Four