Suicide
It is raining.
Inside Baker Street there is a sound of breaking glass.
"What the blazes-!"
Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson are on their feet. Holmes is gripping Watson's hand and has rolled back his sleeve. There, across the wrist, pale but very clearly visible, is a slash mark.
Dr. Watson looks away.
"It was long ago, Holmes. Forget it."
Holmes cannot; he stares at the devilish mark on Watson's hand in horror and rage.
"What the hell is this? When- when did you do this?!"
"It was at least three years ago, Holmes. I told you, forget it."
Holmes turns white as a sheet. He lets go of Watson's hand and walks out of the room.
Dr. Watson sinks into the armchair and stares tiredly into the fire.
Sherlock Holmes stands outside, in the rain, drenched to his skin, white as a sheet and shaking. It is hard to tell which is the tears and which the rain.
The rain goes on.