Sherlock Holmes: His Last Words

Mr. Holmes

In 1947, I was a young boy, son of a housekeeper in the house of no other than the aged and retired Sherlock Holmes himself, the famous London detective. Mr. Holmes is suffering from a great deal of Dementia lately, but he still was the wisest man I had ever known to have lived. It is with a heavy heart that I take up my pen to write the one and only account of the last and final days of Mr. Holmes. I have now gathered my courage to write about my experiences in his company during these events.

It was with some surprise, therefore, that I saw him walk into my room upon the evening of April 24th. It quickly struck me that he was looking even paler than usual.

"Roger, the time has come for me to go,"he remarked." I am now 93 years old, as you could see. I have finished my account of "The Adventure of the Dove Grey Glove" as it was supposed to be before John tweaked its original ending,"

"You don't seem very well. I see you have a problem?"I asked.

"Young Munro, well, I do."

"What?"

"I am afraid I am not yet ready to go yet. I am going to teach you some ways to use your senses,"
he said, "I will start tomorrow, when your mother have gone to the market."

With that, Mr. Holmes approached the door and stopped. "Good night, Roger," he said and went out.

The next day, he did what he said the evening before. But before that, he made a visit to the bees in the apiary of the small remote Sussex farmhouse. Bees have been one of Mr. Holmes' obsessions, as my mother had said the other day.

But after after he took a quick look at the bees, he turned and walked to a bench and slowly sat down.

"Roger, have you ever thought, "What is the true meaning behind your life? Why were you born?""

"Maybe once," I replied.

"Well, I have the answer. The true meaning is for you to find out yourself. I feel that I have completed mine, "

Mr. Holmes then taught me his way of observing pieces of evidence and combining them into a final conclusion. I could not tell you readers, though, as he warned me that it was very discreet.

Having a boyhood with Mr. Holmes was very joyful and interesting. But all that stopped in the 29th of April, where Mr. Holmes collapsed in his study. He was brought to the hospital where it was diagnosed, that however unlikely that he got a heart attack. The next day, I was called into the hospital room by Mr. Holmes himself and he said he wanted to go home.

So it was decided, that he would be allowed to go home with the exception for him to rest most of the time. So at that time, he usually just told me stories about some of his adventures that was never told in stories rewrote by Dr. John Watson and his ways of solving them. I never got tired of all those stories as it was all precise and detailed that it made itself irresistibly interesting for anyone. It seemed that his illness of Dementia was nothing.

But of course, at the 5th of May, as the doctors have expected, Mr. Sherlock Holmes died in his bed at around noon, with me sitting beside his fragile body.

His last words was this, "Memories are important and priceless. I love you, Roger."

Mr. Holmes was buried near a couple of stones he had placed to show people he loved or influenced him. There was each a stone for Dr. John Watson, his brother Mycroft Holmes, Mrs. Hudson, and a few more people that influenced his career.

Mr. Holmes was the foremost champion of the law in his generation. I write this on the evening of May 5th, just after his heart stopped a few hours ago. I should now conclude that upon him whom I shall ever regard as the best and the wisest man whom I have ever known.

The End?