Goodbye, My Friend

 

Carolanne Roe

 

It is with a heavy heart that I take up my pen to write these last words in which I shall ever record the singular gifts by which my friend was distinguished.

He and I have perused hundreds of cases together, laughed, rejoiced, and faced perilous danger, threats to national security and even a World War of all things. Now I face the turn of a new year without my closest, friend.

I remember the two of us running across dark, dreary and mist covered Dartmoor with nothing but the pale moon shining above us and the sound of a baying Hound in the background, as if it were yesterday. But it was not yesterday, 1888 I think, but my memories begin to escape me, which is a truly unhappy occurrence for one such as myself.

Perhaps you have never had the pleasure of hearing the tale in which Holmes and Watson face the giant spectral Hound stalking the Baskerville family on the eerie moors in Devon? It so happens there was nothing supernatural regarding the fantastic tale of the Hound but rather a case involving cold, clinical murder and a very human plotting. How often the cases ended up as such!

Do I digress from the matter at hand? Do my words in this journal seem overemotional or even unclear? You must forgive me dear reader; conceivably I have again fallen into the trap of over embellishing or romanticising the details. I must stick to the detached harsh facts as was always stated, but perhaps not quite strictly followed, in what have now been labelled ‘The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes’.

Did an accident befall my dear friend, which has resulted in his parting from this earth? No. Perhaps it was an incident such as that which occurred at the Reichenbach Falls, which threatened to separate us once before? Again, no. I am afraid the simple, unhappy, matter is; we are getting old. Time passes us by at a pace and whisks you along without pause or the decency of allowing you to catch your breath.

Good Mrs Hudson is also gone of course, as is our dear Lestrade, Oh! How he delighted in his retirement. I still wonder where he had the time to have a family. His grandson has become a very active member within Scotland Yard and I have followed his career closely. I have had the pleasure to meet him on the odd occasion and he is ever eager for fantastic tales of our times together with his grandfather. He will do well, I think. Lestrade was not your average Scotland Yard Inspector and I am pleased to say the genes do seem to have improved significantly down the family line.

Ah, Mycroft, the pillar of her Majesty’s government, I was convinced he would out live us all. Through his sheer stubbornness I can assure you. The little keepsakes he hoarded from 221B Baker Street, when we left, he returned to my keeping shortly before he died. I must admit I received a small thrill of pleasure at these small, seemingly insignificant objects. They will serve as a memory to my time there. Funnily, I never thought of Mycroft as sentimental, he did not seem the type or I for that matter. Perhaps such things come with the passing of years? Perchance I could entertain a study on the matter?

Where was I? Oh, yes, the passing of my friend. I digress from my original intention to set out the things that should be said. My dear friend’s service was quiet and suitably sombre. Held in a small country church of which I am sure he would have approved. I do known how he hated pomp and fuss and the spotlight was never really for him, despite the occasions where it was wholly warranted. The funeral was small affair really, and given my friends work and character I would have though a good many more onlookers would have been present. Perhaps we had been together too long, living together as bachelors, not particularly socialising outside of our own company, and the fact a good many of our contemporaries have gone before us, perhaps this all contributed to the smaller numbers.

I have sat through the church service with pastors recalling stories of incidents they have never shared with him, feelings they never felt with him, rejoicing at the life lived but now lost to the ether. How strange and pointless a custom this is. I followed on to the graveside to watch the dark, polished mahogany surface disappear into the equally dark black cavern in the ground. I have bade farewell to my friend. I shall light a pipe to his memory, pour myself a large glass of brandy and toast the times we have shared.

To my dear Watson, the most loyal, brave and honest man I have ever known.