My friend, you may have lived in Osaka and I in
Nagoya for the past thirty years. And yet the bonds of
our silent friendship are stronger than the steel of
a Samurai’s sword.
When I wrote The Final Problem, advising the public on the circumstances leading to the death of Sherlock Holmes and his arch-enemy Professor Moriarty at Reichenbach Falls near the village of Meiringen in Switzerland, I had not bargained for the reaction. To say that the man on the street felt no embarrassment in joining a collective cry of anguish would be an understatement; his rooms at 221B Baker Street became a veritable shrine for the devout. The costermonger, the clerk in the shipping office, the constable, Holmes’ friends in the criminal class—all stood shoulder to shoulder outside in silence, mourning his passing. My eyes misted when I saw how much love my strange and solitary friend had commanded from the citizenry of the city; of course, he himself would have dismissed such speculation contemptuously, for, in his rational mind, love of any kind had no place except as a lens into the behaviour of the human mind, a tool he frequently used in his investigations.
Thereafter, a number of unscrupulous individuals attempted to profit from such sentiments by reporting the alleged spotting of Holmes in many places—he was in Bombay trading in Indian antiquities, said one dispatch. A confirmed sighting in Durban, swore an Army colonel. In Santiago as a respected violinist, calmly asserted a returning ship’s captain. An innkeeper in Vaasa, Finland, said the excited wife of the second secretary of our Embassy in that country.
I, however, reconciled to his death and went back quietly to my country home with my wife. I swore to keep his memory alive and began the onerous task of collecting and organizing his papers, personal effects, and correspondence; I was keenly aware of how history would view and idolize the memory of this great man and was not unaware that my association with him would be remarked upon favourably. Holmes’ brother Mycroft most generously handed over whatever he had of his brother’s effects, including his beloved Stradivarius violin, saying, ‘The bonds of blood do not always take precedence over the bonds of loyal friendship, Watson.’ I was deeply touched.
The letter from Japan, a little over two years after the affair at Reichenbach Falls, came as a complete surprise. The handwriting was vaguely familiar. I dismissed the surge in my heart and speculated on the contents inside the yellow envelope with the unfamiliar stamps and markings. I saw that it had taken more than three months for the letter to reach me from the city of Yokohama. I opened the envelope and was mystified to see a single first-class ticket for carriage from Liverpool to Yokohama on the merchant ship North Star for the 13th of June 1893.
I glanced at my calendar; the date was barely a week away. As I examined the ticket again, a single scrap of paper fell out of the envelope on to my desk. It was a terse note in Sherlock Holmes’ hand.
Watson, I need you. My violin, please. S.H.
I stared at the paper, stupefied. It seemed impossible, and yet, there was no mistake. It was Holmes’ handwriting. And the slight whiff of a familiar tobacco confirmed it. Sherlock Holmes was alive and he had sent the note!
I threw logic aside at once. Holmes had often rather cruelly remarked that my mediocre medical qualifications came in the way of alert thinking and that I was a creature of conditioning who would follow the mob if I could at all help it. ‘I am sorry if my remarks pain you, Watson, but mere action in Afghanistan does not imply the highest in mental faculties,’ he had once said with a mocking laugh. But here I was, joyfully accepting an invitation to Japan from a friend who I believed had died so tragically two years ago!
I made preparations, post-haste, for the journey. I took my wife into confidence and was surprised to see her ready approval. She saw no foolishness in the proposition that Holmes might still be alive and that he might be in Japan; she felt a certain pride that I had been called to his side in such strange circumstances. With her usual efficiency, she ensured that I was well equipped for an unusual journey. And in a few days, we departed for Liverpool.
‘Look after yourself, my dear,’ I said, pressing her hand. We stood at the Langton Dock, while I prepared to board the North Star, a small ship that carried only a few passengers in first-class while ferrying goods between several ports.
‘Don’t worry about me,’ she responded with a smile, her eyes unusually bright. ‘Your place is by Mr. Holmes’ side. I always believed he was alive. He needs you now more than I do.’
***
I was greatly touched and recalled Holmes’ understated appreciation for her. ‘A fine lady there, Watson. Perhaps she deserves better,’ he had said, filling my heart with both pride and resentful anger at his jibe. I turned, unable to speak, and soon boarded the North Star with my friend’s beloved Stradivarius in a special rectangular case that could also pass off as hand luggage. As the ship sailed out of Liverpool and the raucous crowd on the dock faded away, I wondered what new adventure awaited me in a strange land, in the company of Sherlock Holmes.