A quick glimpse into the future, my friends, and then I bid you adieu. Also, please don't mind the question mark at the end. It truly is the end, I just couldn't resist. Cheers to you, dear reader! Thank you for reading my story.
"I have frequently gained my first real insight into the character of parents by studying their children." ~ Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
It was right there in black and white for the whole of the world to see. Sherlock Holmes: Consulting Detective Found Dead in Baker Street Home.
The death was confirmed by Dr. John H. Watson, who came out of retirement to ensure that this time, his dearest friend was truly gone. This time, there was a body to bury. A proper funeral to attend. Tears were shed by family, friends, and strangers alike. Those closest to the deceased met people who, though they had never known Holmes personally, had been great supporters and avid readers of his adventures. John Watson was deeply touched by the amount of people who had come to pay their respects and share in the grief of losing such a great man.
Having lost his wife just a year before his own death, and the two of them having had no children of their own, all of Holmes' worldly possessions were divided between his niece and nephew. And it was when Dr. Mary Irene Sherlock Watson, now married and with a successful medical practice of her own, was going through her late uncle's things, that she was struck with an idea so impossibly mad, she could almost hear his laughter echoing throughout the flat of 221B Baker Street. Her uncle's old pipe between her teeth, she grinned, happily blowing rings of smoke into the air.
The great Sherlock Holmes was dead. His life now belonged to the legend and lore of this generation and of those yet to come.
It is said that whenever Scotland Yard is faced with a case beyond their capability, the head detective, a certain William Scott René Watson, calls a number known only to a select few. They call her, The Woman. She is never seen. She is never heard. Rather, she walks among the crowds of London, unknown and unrecognized, save for the notes she sends the Yard, their cases solved and their crime scenes left neatly tied up. Her only mark, her only identification reads, "Yours, S. Holmes".
The End ?