The final chapter! Finally! I'm sorry I haven't written in so long. I grew busy, and I had to get my new glasses. Now I can see what I'm writing, which is always a good thing.

Now, as for what I'm writing next. I have gotten numerous requests (more than I even dreamed of), and I certainly cannot do all at once. So here is what I'm going to do. Please do not get angry if your idea is not at the top of the list, because I will do it. The order is: A story from Holmes' point of view in Michigan. Then a story on the history of Sherlock Holmes, based on the papers from Darker Days. And finally, a 'normal' case in London. If you have anymore ideas, you know where and how to contact me, and I'll gladly add onto the list. And now, the last chapter!!!

Chapter Eleven: Poetry Again

The rain pounded against the roof of my house. Sleet slid down my windows. And I was inside, working on the enemy. My dreaded, and powerful enemy.

Poetry.

I stared down at the poetry book my teacher had given me and looked up at my partner, who stared out the window.

"Holmes? Come on, I need your help. I'm getting a 'D' in her class, and unless I can apply a poem to my life, there is no way I'm going to pass it. Now stop staring out the window and listen to me!" I shouted impatiently. Holmes snapped up and looked at me, a lackluster look in his eye.

"Grades aren't that important Watson," stated Holmes. I stared at him.

"Holmes, you base your entire life around grades," I informed him. He shrugged.

"Not anymore."

Turning back at my book I looked at the poem before me. It wasn't that bad, considering it was a better writer. Edgar Allen Poe, a weird, creepy guy. And really bleak. Considering my mood, he was going to be the object of the poem I had to choose. I flipped open to the table of contents.

"Alone... no. Annabel Lee... no, that's just crazy. The Raven, nope, to much death. Eldorado. Ick, I hate that poem. I can't find anything! Holmes, what poem are you doing?" I asked. He pointed down toward his book listlessly. I turned around the book to see the author.

"Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. Interesting name. What is the poem? Read it to me," I told him. Holmes took the book from my hand and flipped the pages. Clearing his throat quietly he began.

"My life is cold, and dark, and dreary.

"It rains, and the wind is never weary.

"My thoughts still cling to the mouldering Past.

"But the hopes of youth fall thick in the blast.

"And the days are dark and dreary."

Holmes finished. I frowned and took the book from his hands.

"Holmes, you didn't finish it," I whispered. Holmes sighed again.

"What does it matter? The poem tells all. There is no hope, no future. Life is pointless. I think it reflects how my life is perfectly!" Holmes cried. I rolled my eyes.

"Holmes, stop being so melodramatic. Had you of read the last stanza, you wouldn't be so depressed. The poem finishes with the hope of a brighter day. Listen!"

"Be still, sad heart! And cease repining.

"Behind the clouds is the sun still shining!

"Thy fate is the common fate of all.

"Into each life some rain must fall.

"Some days must be dark and dreary!"

I lay aside the book and looked him straight into the eye.

"Holmes, I know you are sad about Irene. But you have to get over it. As the poem said, all lives have to suck sometimes. Bemoaning and pitying yourself doesn't help. You have to move on!" I commanded. Holmes moved away and took the black Poe book from my hand and smiled.

"Poe wrote the stories my grandfather of many greats disliked. He found them insufferably stupid. Well, he thought Dupin a not-so-bright fellow at any rate. But his poems were excellent. I believe that 'A Dream Within a Dream' will suit me perfectly, with 'Rainy Day', the poem you just read from, a background information one. But as for you... how about something from Robert Frost?" Holmes sat down next to me. I smiled. His grief was gone, it was time to get down to business.

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Holmes got an 'A+' on his Poem Persona. I got an 'A-', but considering we couldn't find anything for me, I was lucky.

We did chose something from Robert Frost, a poem called 'The Road Not Taken'. It's about making choices in your life.

Irene did come back, quite contrary to her nature. She came back once while she was alive, and the final time she came back in a coffin. She had been killed in a train wreck. She was 23 years old. She was cremated, and in her will she asked to be thrown over the Atlantic Ocean. We did so.

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Four Years into the Future:

The waves lolled against our already wet shoes. Holmes held the jar with Irene's ashes in it. Breathing deeply, he opened the jar and flung the ashes into the air.

The dying sun caught them in its rays, and they wafted magnificently down into the blue waves.