I have it still.
It has been nearly ten years since that fateful day, and perhaps I should throw it away. It after all does not signify anything good.
But I have it still.
After a new case, Holmes and I return home, full of good cheer and occasionally a trifle thoughtful, over the eccentricities of man. But, every time I go up to my bedroom, my eyes are drawn toward my drawer, where lies a little slip of paper, with hardly enough words to fit this page, written by a man who was standing at the edge of death at Reichenbach falls.
To me it once represented the whole of the world. But now-
Does he ever think of it?