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(From the papers of John H. Watson, MD.)
I write this account with the intention of immediately locking it away, somewhere no other eyes will see it. The events I record here cannot be shared with the public for some time, if ever—nor, indeed, can they stand in their current form as a complete narrative. They are a prologue, rather, to a larger story that is as yet unformed, the final shape of which I can only surmise. Nevertheless, the events on these pages are worth recording, as the first glimpse of a new and momentous period in the life of a great man.
It was early on a summer evening a few days ago, in the current year of 1912. I was alone in my sitting-room (the rest of my small household being either away or already retired for the evening), when the bell rang. Answering the door, I was surprised and delighted to see my old friend Sherlock Holmes on the front step.
Since his departure from London, he had developed a habit of unexpected visits, or even more unexpected summonses (given his usual peremptory nature, they could hardly be called invitations) at the oddest of times, for periods ranging from a few hours to a few weeks. Regardless of his timing or his reasons, though, his presence was always welcome, and I said as much now.
He returned my greetings with a smile as I ushered him in. “No luggage, I am afraid,” he remarked—no doubt having observed my curious glance when I first saw him. “I had business in London today, but I must be off again before long.”
“Are the demands of your bees so urgent, then?” I asked, smiling, as we entered the sitting-room.
At that he paused; and I, who knew him so well, could see there was something he did not wish to say.
Sudden apprehension gripped my heart. I was reminded, for a moment, of another late evening twenty years ago, in another home, when Holmes had appeared unexpectedly and bearing marks of trouble. He had no bloody knuckles, this time, nor the tell-tale signs of overwork, but the unease in his manner was enough to disturb me.
“Holmes, what is it?”
“I bring news, Watson,” he said reluctantly, sitting by the fire. “News you will not like to hear; and yet, on my honor, I could find no other course.”
“You are alarming,” I said, seating myself opposite him. “What is the news?”
He looked at me, then away again, before he spoke.
“I am going into danger," he said slowly; "danger that will probably last for some time. I can tell you little more about it…and you cannot help me.”
I sat bolt upright. “Holmes!”
“I know, Watson, I know.” He sat hunched forward, elbows on his knees, staring into the fire. “And yet I cannot help it, either.”
I gathered myself together. “Is it a case? A job? Or…” I trailed off, not knowing how to fill in the blank.
He glanced up with a quick, wry smile. “It is a commission from some of Mycroft’s acquaintances. There is little else I can tell you, Watson, save what you know from the papers—that the international situation, on the whole, comes closer to a precipice every day. I have been convinced that my talents are needed, if only to make that precipice a little less steep when it comes.”
I sat, stunned. It was true that European relations seemed to be growing more strained with every passing year. I could well believe that the men at the top of our government saw a crisis coming. But what Holmes’ words seemed to imply for himself… “Espionage?”
“I understand that is the name of the game.” He shrugged. “I prefer to consider it a case, albeit an unusually involved one—I told them I have no wish to begin an entire new career. I will unravel the riddle they have put before me and be done.”
“But you expect it to take some time.”
“As I said, it is involved… To do the job thoroughly, and finally, may indeed take a long time. I must begin my work before I can truly assess its scope.” He was still looking into the fire as he spoke and, in spite of his earlier reluctance, I could see the light of the hunt rising in his far-off, narrowed gaze. Already, I could tell, his mind was on the problem, mapping out a course, considering the obstacles and opportunities that lay before him.
My heart thrilled to see him back in his element, enlivened by the chase as he had so often been before. At the same time, however, I was bitterly reminded that I would not see this for long—that, according to him, this would be a lone hunt, one from which I must stay behind.
“What do you mean when you say I cannot help, Holmes?”
He looked up, startled for a moment. As I had thought, his mind had been on the track already, drawn away from this quiet room. “Precisely that,” he answered. “Believe me, it is not on account of the danger—I should hope I still know my Watson better than to attempt that reasoning—and it is certainly by no preference of mine. If there were any way in which you could assist in this undertaking, Watson, I would ask for that assistance in a heartbeat.”
“And it would be yours for the asking.”
“It is possible, I suppose, that circumstances may alter. If things go contrary to my expectations, and you can help, I will certainly send word. However…” Holmes shrugged, grimacing wryly. “Well. Do you remember our friend John Douglas, of Birlstone?”
I blinked in surprise. “Of course.” His apparent murder had led to many dark suspicions before Holmes had so masterfully cleared it up, but “John Douglas” had turned out to be an honorable man, with a past not far removed from my friend’s own profession. “Although, as I recall, he went by several other names than 'Douglas' over the course of his life…”
“Precisely. As I see the case so far, Watson, I think my course must bear certain points of similarity to his, in his Pinkerton days.”
It took me a moment to make the connection. When I did, I felt my heart sink in resignation. “Undercover work?”
For this man’s greatest, and most dangerous, accomplishment had been the crippling of a ring of murderous Freemasons in the coal-valleys of America—a crippling carried out from within.
Holmes smiled at me, a rueful apology in his eyes. “Long-term, sustained undercover work, I fear. Of a rather delicate type. I must create a part and play it to perfection, as Birdy Edwards did.”
In which case, he did not need to say, I would be a hindrance and an added burden rather than a help. While Holmes’ criticisms of my talents might be harsh, they were seldom unfounded—we had both seen a wealth of evidence, over the years, that I was a poor liar and a worse actor.
Holmes, I confessed to myself with bitter unwillingness, would almost certainly be safer alone.
I looked up from this realization to realize he was watching me, with a gleam of something like anxiety in those keen grey eyes.
I sighed. “You will be careful, Holmes?”
He stared at me, in a rare moment of genuine surprise.
“You have my word, Watson,” he said then, smiling, and I knew from the flash of gratitude in that smile that he understood all the protests I had not made.
“Well then,” I said. “As I presume it is to this new affair, and not your bees, that you are called tonight…how long before you must commence your task?”
“Some hours. I have a journey before me, that I ought to begin before midnight.”
That was more time than I had expected. It also gave rise to new questions, but I put them aside for the moment. “Then you are welcome here for as long as you are able to stay.”
Holmes smiled. “My dear Watson,” he said, stretching his feet out to the fender, “there is nowhere I would rather be.”
And so, for the rest of the evening and into the night, we sat on either side of the fire with our pipes to hand, in the old familiar way. We talked, of course, of matters great and small—among other things, I learned that our government’s men intended to keep up the fiction that he was still in Sussex, sending someone down to care for his bees occasionally and routing communications through that address.
“If you need to contact me,” Holmes said, “send a telegram there and they should forward it on. And do not be surprised if you receive the occasional missive from that address, either.” He glanced at me with some amusement. “Although we did not quite get around to a thorough discussion of the topic, it is possible that my newest employers expect you to be deceived with the general public.”
I frowned. “Did they think I would conveniently refrain from visiting you until all this was over?”
Holmes just shrugged, eyes dancing. “Who am I to question the assumptions of such august gentlemen? Besides,” he added, “if they thought any trust they put in me was not extended to you, that is their own affair. It would suggest they had not even done the superficial research of reading your tales, let alone investigating my practices for themselves.”
Understanding that I was to keep my knowledge of his new work a secret not only from the general public, but also (should it ever be a concern) from Holmes’ employers, I let the matter drop.
Our conversation roamed widely from there, from current events and past affairs to topics entirely removed from our own lives, as is so often the case with the talks of old friends. As it grew late, it is true, we fell more and more often into silence—but this, too, was familiar and comfortable, for it was the silence of those who need not speak to be at ease. I could see, from his slight smile, that Holmes was as well content with it as I.
At last, though, a little before midnight, Holmes put his glass of brandy down and stood, as if in response to some silent call. "I must be off, Watson," he said, stretching himself.
I nodded and rose as well, finding it difficult to speak. How long, I wondered, would it be before we spent another quiet evening together?
With a raised eyebrow that told me he knew my thoughts, Holmes misquoted, "When shall we two meet again, in thunder, lightning, or in rain?"
He smiled. "When next we meet, Watson, I pray it shall be as bad an omen for our enemies as the witches' gathering was for Scotland!"
"Amen to that," I said, and took heart. Holmes thought he could do this; and, whatever the mysterious task, surely he had accomplished greater things before.
Nevertheless, I confess some qualms remained. Indeed, as we moved to the front hall together, and Holmes readied himself for departure, I found that they were asserting themselves more energetically than ever. Finally—though it felt like disloyalty even to give it voice—I could no longer suppress the most persistent and obtrusive of my fears.
"If something were to happen to you," I blurted out, "would I know?"
Holmes stopped and turned to me, face entirely sober. "You would, Watson," he promised. "I will make sure of that."
"I am afraid communication will break down somehow," I said. "If the mail through your cottage is not passed on properly, or you are unable to receive or send it…"
My friend tapped his fingers against the doorframe, frowning. But then his face cleared, and he chuckled. "I have one thought, Watson," he said. "If you fear the worst, or if you are in need of me, and traditional communication is insufficient…" He turned to face me with a conspiratorial smile. "Well, the Strand has a very broad circulation, does it not?"
I stared at him. "Are you actually suggesting I publish another story?"
"Only if you absolutely feel you must," he said sternly, holding up a peremptory finger. But I could see the idea had already appealed to his inner dramatist. "Having my name and methods spread more widely would do me little good during this undertaking, after all… However, if I see a new 'Adventure' in the wild without having prior notice from you, I shall most certainly get in touch."
I laughed. "I will remember that, Holmes."
"I am sure you will," he said dryly. He opened the door and looked out, into the lamplit darkness of the London night. I live on a quiet street, relatively speaking, and at the moment it was deserted.
He turned back to me, holding out his hand in farewell. "Goodnight, my dear Watson," he said softly.
I clasped his hand in mine; but once again, as we stood there, I was overcome by the memory of Reichenbach and the days before it. Again, Holmes was facing danger alone…and again, despite his apparent confidence, was there not the very real possibility that I saw him now for the last time? My heart seized at the thought, constricted with fear and preemptive grief. And on the sudden impulse of these feelings, I found myself dropping Holmes’s hand to pull him, instead, into a fierce embrace—as if, irrationally, the tightness of my grasp could somehow unmake this parting, or forestall its dangers.
It was a gesture rarely used between us, but not, I think, unwelcome; for after a moment's pause Holmes returned it, holding fast with all his own wiry strength.
"Rest easy, Watson," he murmured, the grip of his arms firm and reassuring. "This is not the last chapter of our story, I promise you."
I pulled away, somewhat reluctantly. "Can you promise that?"
"I can, and I do," he vowed, his eyes confident. "Au revoir, my dear Watson."
Looking at him, and hearing his promise, I could no longer doubt him. “Godspeed, Holmes.”
He smiled at me, and there was a sudden flood of warmth and faith and fondness in his gaze—a look springing up from the great reservoirs of feeling deep within him, that even I have seldom been privileged to glimpse. Then, dramatic to the last, Sherlock Holmes swept a theatrical bow and vanished into the night.
I did not look out after him. I knew it would do me no good—but also, and more importantly, I had no need to. For this was but a temporary parting; and although I have had no word of him since, and do not expect any for a long time to come, I know I shall see him again when the time is right.
The End of a Beginning