TITLE: Afterword
FIRST PUBLISHED: Apr 23, 2012
SUMMARY: Arthur Conan Doyle finally managed to kill Holmes, and that should have been the end of that. Holmes, though, wasn't about to leave without his say on the matter... /NEXT STORY published separately as 'Addendum'/
oOo
Arthur Conan Doyle sat in his study. For the first time since Sherlock Holmes had come into his life he did not have to worry about him taking over, like he always did. Yes, some people were unhappy—he'd gotten many letters, not very flattering ones, but nothing could change his mind. Sherlock Holmes was dead, and dead he would stay. There would be no more stories about Sherlock Holmes—at least, none written by him.
He felt a breeze on the back of his neck, though there were no windows open.
No. Please. It couldn't be…
He turned his head. Sherlock Holmes lounged by the desk, smoking his pipe.
"Sherlock. Holmes. You are supposed to be dead!" would he never be rid of him?
"I am dead." Sherlock Holmes answered. "You killed me. You murdered me."
"Look, Holmes, I'm sorry about that, really, but I have a life that doesn't revolve around you."
"So you decided to kill me."
"It was the only way."
Holmes didn't answer.
Finally, he shook his head. "I just want to be rid of you."
"Once, you didn't feel that way about me."
"Once, you were not taking over my life. Look, if I am to be remembered, I want it to be for my serious work. But all the public cares about is you!"
"Have you ever thought there might be a reason for that?"
"Holmes."
Holmes shrugged.
There was a long, awkward silence. "You never wanted to kill off any other of your creations," Holmes said in sudden asperity. "Why is it always me? I almost died at the Copper Beeches. Do you think I don't know it was your mother who saved me?"
"My mother doesn't have to write about you."
"It's not the writing part, is it. You're tired of me."
"So what if I am?" Doyle stood up. "I don't have to explain myself to a creation who's dead, anyway."
He looked out the window. Holmes stood next to him.
"It won't work, you know. They'll get you to write about me again, someday."
"When I need the money?"
Holmes shot Doyle an amused look.
"Well, maybe someday I'll tell the world of another of your exploits. Maybe in a few years I will be able to stand the sight of you again, but right now—"
Holmes sighed. "You're not going to change your mind, are you."
"No."
"Poor Watson. —I watched, as he found the note. You know how sad he was. You wrote the story."
"Really, Holmes, was it such a bad way to go? Ridding the world of the greatest criminal of your generation?"
Holmes was inscrutable. He shrugged. "There have been worse ways."
"I gave you a fitting end."
"Oh, very well. So maybe you did. That doesn't change the fact—"
"Holmes—"
"—that you killed me."
"Authors have that privilege, you know."
"Well." Holmes walked over to the desk, knocked out his pipe. "I suppose I should be saying goodbye." He waited, and looked to the window, as if he expected Doyle to say more; but the room was silent.
As Arthur Conan Doyle watched, Sherlock Holmes grew slowly transparent, wavered as if he were on the other side of a glass of clear water, and disappeared, leaving nothing but the smell of his pipe filling the room.
THE END