Rest In Peace, Watson

I took out my pipe and reached for my tobacco; Carreras’ Craven Mixture was the name, brought in from London by my store. I took a pinch of the tobacco and shielded it from the icy wind of the Highlands. I got it lighted the pipe and raised it to my lips. After two puffs., the body was all relaxed despite the cold weathers of the Highlands. It had been my home from London for two weeks then. The home in London was once shared with a housemate and good friend; Sherlock Holmes. Since his retirement, I had continued on but soon find myself dreading to stay there.

All alone on the loft upstairs living hall, with my eyes peeled to the scenes below whenever a shadow passed the window below, or my ears pinged to the wooden stairs for the familiar sound. A life of familiarity blended in; breakfast at nine, followed by reading the mails, papers and whatever that needed my attention; lunch by noon, and then to the Gentlemen' Club, before I take the walk back after supper. I had my odd hours filled with queries for Holmes expertise; solved a few with his uncanny methods, but sadly I failed in the major ones as I hardly moved from the comfort of my unit. I was never Holmes equal; up and running looking for clues, and well, he was never myself too; the man of surgical precision.

We were a world apart in skills despite our friendship and partnership in crime solving. In his world. I was only his observer and guard, but never the equal. How often have you heard he said; my dear Watson solved it by himself. Never a whisper, even if I did, who cares. They all want Holmes and not the good Doctor by his side.

Well, it took me three years to realized that. The irony of it was it came not from the clients but Holmes own brother, Mycroft; the seven years senior brother who had lost his brother and then seek me as the alternative. He was disillusioned with me carrying on his brother's work; came that day.

"Elementary, my dear Watson, to yourself." I hated that statement. It make me second in the class towards him. "You are not of his class. Even Sargeant Brady at the local precinct had better skills than you." That was an up close personal under the chin punch. It hurt as much with the physical blow I had seen it done often by Holmes. The manner of words that was voiced out placed was depressing but reality sunk in.

"Do us all a favor. Don't dilute his image." Mycroft was direct to his point. "I am terminating the lease on 221B. Let it rest with its rightful tenant."

It took me two weeks to get here and settled into the Highlands for sometime; a reminiscent of my Afghan days I guessed where I had once true comradeship and adventure. I had leased a small cottage overlooking the hills and forsaken the company of humans since then. But that day was a rare one when I saw Mycroft walked up the path. You can't mistaken the man for his strides are quite similar to Sherlock but unlike his esteem brother tends to bow his head down. I stood there awaited for the man.

"Watson, my dear friend. You are a difficult to one to trace. Why retire to here?" Mycroft stood besides me to gather his breath. "Wonderful scenery but a tardy too cold for me. London suits me better. Smog, fogs and Gentlemen' Clubs."

"I have in the cottage, some good Highlands brandies if you wished to indulged in them." But Mycroft politely refused my offer.

"Watson, I came bearing bad news. Holmes is dying." Mycroft spoke out without emotions; he was a veteran politician and well versed in holding his expression in any circumstances with those back stabbers. "He had two request of you."

"One, you are to retired from the detective works. He feared for your life and above all, you are not like him." Mycroft looked sheepishly at me. "He had you tailed and counter measured the threats against you on some cases. In his own words, Holmes spoke of this to me. He's worried about you; endangering yourself."

"Mycroft, I had retired from it. I am now staying in recluse here. All alone. No more wives, and no more ...patients. No more cases." I replied to the man who towered over me in height and now in confidence. Beneath in me, was a lonely man with little needs of the world, except maybe to see the hills like when I was younger.

"Best with it, my old friend. We ain't in our prime and climb in the new hill is ever more tiresome and beyond my strength alone." Mycroft spoke up as he heaved in his breaths. The air on the Highlands are refreshing but the man in front of myself have too little of it in London.

"His second wish was your notes. There were cases which you had recorded that may be on concern to him. He does not wished those papers released to the public. They are of utmost importance ........"

"I have been an officer of the HRM best, and I know what importance means. Those papers are in my case at my Aunt's Glover home. You may picked them up on the mention of my name. I had left instruction to the household." I had interjected into Mycroft statement, as I knew his other purpose was the personal notes of Holmes. I had kept them with me, on the promise of the man to hold them until he called for them. If Holmes had requested now, then let it be returned to its rightful owner or estate management if he was dead.

"Thank you, Doctor Watson. I was also told to tell you that your army pension have been raised to full month pay." With that Mycroft turned his back to walked the path off my hill. I did not watched his departure but took my strides back to my cottage. I went in there and sat by the armchair before the fireplace. I reached for my side pocket and extracted out the letter I received three days ago.

"My dear Watson. It took me three years to come to realization that the one arch enemy of mine had been yourself. You had bought my confidence and trust, and in that, continued to poisoned me with these aches. I may had being driven by ego to think I was the best but you had override me in every aspects. Moriarty deemed worthy then may had been only your shadow that graced the rank but you are the deserving one. For once in my life, my deductive approach had eluded me; shadowed or manipulated by yourself perhaps, I am still baffled how you did it. You were my friend and yet you did the unthinkable. I hoped you die well. Once your friend, Holmes."

I had got the letter from the Storekeeper whom I had patronized only twice during my stay. It was a long walk so he bring the stuffs to me. He claimed it was dropped by someone earlier that day. After reading the letter, I had awaited his presence but he did not arrived. For three years, I had kept the leased on the unit and dread the day he would stepped up there, but he did not then. When I got news he was dying, I left London to come here. I did not want to be there for his funeral. I wanted to be away so that there would be no link between us. Not until his letter and then Mycroft appearing.

I had my own reply to him; the note I was leave at his obituary. I took out the letter I wrote.

"Elementary, my dear Holmes. In the words of Shakespeare: All the world's a stage, And all the men and women merely players. They have their exits and their entrances, and one man in his time plays many parts. Meet that man, Holmes. Since your retirement and now demise, the play would come to an end. Never could I had continued without one like you to stand peer with me on that stage. Your once trusted friend, John Watson."

My eyes rested on the highlands, and smiled. Its sure feels like the old days in Afghan. Nothing like the good soils to be covered over on death. Hardly anyone to trampled over but aged with with the elements of the land.

"Rest in peace, Doctor John Watson." I muttered to myself ,the identity I stole from a young officer then on the hills of Afghan. His naked body left for the vultures while I left for London to assumed his name sake. 

Footnote:

A fictional tale on the dark side of Doctor Watson; he set a hill task to be the friend and aide of a legendary person. He lived a life of lies to be with his victim; till death do they part. He partake in the lies; married thrice, and always coming back. He once nurtured the sick man of his obsessions, and yet he struck it back to him so that the addiction would be his bane. He may had suffered the violins shrieks or took solace in it to planned his next move on the player. Perhaps the revolver he carried had drawn its target more time than he had ever pulled the trigger. None was to escalate the death of the legend; for its was his plan that the victim would only knew at the last days of life.

When it was all over, the Doctor reverted to his real self, he seek out the hills for his own last days.  His real passion besides the chameleon he had assumed. None would ever know of his real reasons to kill Holmes, but only his real self. A true professional devoted to the task till the end; that was Holmes salutations to him, as even Moriarty might not had that perseverance.