With the death of my friend, Sherlock Holmes, I was left adrift in a world that no longer seemed to hold any purpose for me. Perhaps because he had been so forceful a personality that I often treated him more as a commander than a fellow-lodger, or even a friend. Or perhaps it was because I had been unable to retrieve his body from the bottom of those accursed falls, leaving his final case forever open, leaving me to forever imagine the myriad ways he may have at last met his end.
This I did often, in my nightmares, and so I turned to the one thing he had left me, though, I thought with a bitter chuckle, he would have preferred had my notes and stories fallen down a cliff rather than he.
My case notes were disorganized and in no order whatsoever. Some I had been in the process of writing into fuller narratives while others were still made up of scraps of paper on which I had hastily jotted down my impressions of clients and denouements of cases as they happened. Compared to Holmes's untidy mess of papers, however, I felt quite confident in my ability to make some sense of them.
Holmes had reacted so poorly to both of my novels that I had refrained from asking permission to publish his cases as a series of stories, despite the number of times my literary agent all but begged me to do so, saying that the interest the public held in my friend was unlike anything seen since the height of Mr. Dickens' popularity, and that his exploits naturally lent themselves to such a series. I would never have dreamed of going against Holmes's wishes in this matter, however, and so my writings had remained a private exercise for myself. I supposed now I was free of my promise and might write up any cases I could freely make public without harm to those involved. If only my pen might have been freed in a way less devastating to myself. Yet, I could not help but feel it was my duty to finish my record of my friend's career. Should his memory be lost to history, he would indeed be gone forever.
This filled me with such horror that I resolved to complete my series of stories, however painful the effort might prove to be, and I redoubled my efforts to make some sense of my hastily scratched notes. As I searched through my box of papers, I intended to begin with those stories I had nearly finished, yet found myself drawn to the unfinished notes I had not looked at since Holmes's untimely and violent demise. One finds, in the midst of grief, that anything might be a reminder, and that some reminders recall fond memories while others cause only pain.
I had yet to find any remembrance of Holmes that caused anything but pain, perhaps because I had so few. His rooms were left untouched, a sort of shrine that I could not enter without the utmost pain and therefore left to Mrs. Hudson. His personal effects and fortune had gone to his brother, Mycroft, and as for myself, I had only his cases, captured on scraps of paper and in my memory. Still, Holmes had lived for his work, and while I knew of his dislike for my writing in life, the idea that the short story series my publisher had been demanding of me for the last several years might stand as a fitting tribute to my friend's intellect and powers of deduction strengthened in my mind until it became my life's effort for those months after Holmes's demise.
I turned over several pieces of paper, some tied together so I might ensure that different cases were not mixed together. I was not an organized note-taker, for I not only detailed the ultimate resolution of a case and descriptions of our clients, but I also wrote down the strings of deductions as I could remember them and any remarks that might have shown my friend's unique character in its best light. I intended these stories not merely to be accounts of mysteries solved - indeed, some of my very favorites were ones in which Holmes never solved the case at all - but to show my friend's nature. It was, according to my literary agent, Holmes himself who caused my stories to stand out from the many thousands of detective stories currently being published in London's magazines.
Seizing upon the nearly finished story of the affair of the King of Bohemia and Miss Adler, which I had left aside in the first throes of grief, I took up my pen to complete the story. It was a unique affair in which, despite being bested, Holmes's abilities and character were at their height, and I could think of no better - or indeed - more unique beginning to such a series.
Some months later, I once again found myself at my desk, writing up the notes to one of the earliest cases in my collection. My series of stories, of which one full collection had completed publication with a new one due to begin publication this week, was a complete success, resulting in increased subscriptions to the Strand and a veritable frenzy for all things Sherlock Holmes and detective-related that showed now sign of stopping even now, long after Holmes's death. Inspector Lestrade, who I had seen recently, told me he had seen quadruple the number of applicants to the force since the beginning of my publication run.
"Surprising, since his opinion of our skills was so low," Lestrade remarked, causing me to smile sadly in remembrance. Despite the time passed since Holmes's death and, indeed, the fame I had garnered as the author of London's most popular detective stories, I still found any mention of Holmes painful, and rarely talked of him even with Mary. Only in my own mind, when I wrote my stories, was I fully able to give in to the grief that still threatened to overwhelm me. Thus, I avoided mentions of my friend, lest it result in unseemly displays of grief.
It was thus on one afternoon, when I was home early from my rounds, that I sat writing a particularly dangerous case, occasionally sighing or smiling in memory of something Holmes had said. It often seemed to me as if I could hear him as I wrote.
Watson, must you describe every bush and tree we come across? It is merely another part of England, not some fantastical land such as Carroll might write.
I smiled fondly. I see you have learned something of literature, Holmes.
Surely not. It is merely that I cannot help but observe your latest reading material. For a mind such as mine, Watson, preventing the notice of something takes more effort than making note of it in the first place. I can hardly be expected to remove everything from my brain-attic immediately!
In my imagination, Holmes's eyes shone and his tone was amused as he said this. It is how he would have sounded had he been alive to say it. My fond smile became a sigh and I put my pen down. Each story was a struggle to write, for they each inevitably brought up the grief anew. I hardly knew how to avoid that, however. I saw reminders of Holmes everywhere - living in London, one could not easily avoid them. Even these nearly two years later, each reminder brought me back to that horrible moment I stood at the cliffs of Reichenbach and realized he was gone. I had been told that grief passes over time; becomes less sharp as memory fades. I knew this to be true. Had I not lost my parents at an early age, my brother not very long ago? Yet Holmes's death never remained anything but fresh, and now I no longer expected the pain to recede. Indeed, I did not wish it to. For in some strange way, I thought that if I should become used to his absence, he would truly be gone. Now, even if only in my memory, it at times felt as if he still lived.
This was not rational. Holmes would say so himself. He had said so himself. He had told me he considered it an acceptable fate, to give his life in ensuring that Moriarty was stopped. But I, as he knew so well, am not a rationalist. I missed him dreadfully. I had had few friends on returning to London, and while I had made others since then, none had been as close to me as Holmes. I confess that since the death of my own brother, I had begun to think of Holmes in the same manner. His own emotions were so tightly controlled that even I saw little evidence of their existence, and I doubted he had reciprocated, yet I could not help it.
Such thoughts were maudlin, and I took up my pen again, though with considerably less enthusiasm, and I at last finished late in the evening. I went to join Mary in bed, where she finished braiding her hair and said, "You were writing again?"
"How did you guess?" I asked.
"You always look sad when you write, lately," she said. "I wonder that you continue it."
She was right. Gone were the days where writing was purely for pleasure. "I cannot help but miss him more when I write," I said.
"You might write something other than cases," Mary suggested. "Or stop altogether. There is no need to continue the series, if it upsets you."
"I know," I said. I could not, however, imagine writing anything other than Holmes's cases. I know my own abilities, and the detective story was where my talents lay. As for stopping, I felt I could not. Not while there were so many cases yet to finish.
"Why do you continue?" Mary asked again gently. "I don't like seeing you so grief-stricken, still."
I paused. "It seems as if he is still here, when I write," I said at last. "If I did not, he would truly be gone forever."
Mary simply gave me an understanding look. She has known grief as well, and no doubt understood better than I the feeling. I am fortunate in having such a wife indeed.