There is a long silence. You lean your chin upon your hands and stare into the crackling fire. Watson has never steered you wrong before.
“Your tale is quite interesting, Miss Stoner,” you say. “But I fear that’s all it is—a tale.”
You stand, cross to the door, and pull it open. Miss Stoner looks from you to Watson and back again. She rises hesitantly from her chair.
“I– I don’t understand,” she says.
“Give Professor Moriarty my regards,” you tell her.
“Professor who?” asks Miss Stoner, tears welling in her eyes.
“Ah, you play the part well, madam.” You grab her by the shoulder and guide her out the door, closing it behind her.
“I think you made a wise decision, Holmes,” says Dr. Watson. “Baboons? Gypsies? Spotted bands? Who knows where Moriarty would have led you.”
You nod in agreement.
***
You sit in your office, reading the morning newspaper. A week has gone by; you have all but forgotten Miss Helen Stoner.
Until you read her name in the death notices.
Your stomach drops. Helen Stoner is dead, and the circumstances surrounding her death are eerily similar to those of Julia, her sister. Miss Stoner had been telling you the truth.
You could have helped her. Instead, you let your fear of Moriarty get in the way of reason. Her name burns into your brain. Guilt gnaws at your heart.
With shaking hands you remove the sign “Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective” from your door. As of this moment, you are retired. You will never take a case again.