“Here I am, Holmes,” answered the good doctor, lightly taking hold of the great detective’s shoulders.

Sherlock Holmes’s eyes gaped wide open, then partially closed again, as his vision seemed to come into focus and he recognised his long time companion.

“Moriarty!   Professor Moriarty!”

“Dead, Holmes,” reminded Watson.

“Dead?” echoed Holmes, clearly puzzled.

“That’s right.   Don’t you remember Holmes, you threw him over the Reichenbach Falls?”

“Reichenbach Falls?”

“Yes, Holmes, you threw him over.”

“Threw him over?”

“Yes, Moriarty.   You threw Professor Moriarty over the Reichenbach Falls,” explained Watson.

“Threw Professor Moriarty over the Reichenbach Falls?” echoed Holmes listlessly, clearly not comprehending.

“Yes,” said Watson softly, obviously close to tears.   Watson bent across his long time companion, and buried his head in the bedclothes for a few moments.   When he finally looked up again, the good doctor was openly crying.

I hurried across and clutched Holmes’s wrist to search for a pulse and found none.   As I fought futilely to restore life to the great detective, Watson cried unabashedly.

When at last I gave up the fight, Watson looked up at me, tears streaming down his pudgy cheeks and said in a weak voice, “Do you know what his last words to me were?” I shook my head, and Watson said, “‘Don’t let word out about my death.   It will create an unhealthy excitement among the criminal class.’”

I walked around the bed to put a comforting hand upon Watson’s shoulder and he looked up to ask, “Would you…would you leave me alone with him for a few moments?”

“Yes, of course, John,” said Conan Doyle, and the two of us walked out into the tiny alcove which led through to the sitting room.

I had marvelled at the room briefly upon being herded through on my way to my patient, earlier in the evening.   To all extent and purpose it was a sitting room-cum-library-cum-laboratory.   Large wall-to-ceiling length bookcases lined two walls, housing literally thousands of hard-cover books, journals and files; some fiction, but mainly non-fiction — many of them bearing Holmes’s name as author.   They seemingly covered every known subject, from the more traditional sciences through to the esoteric and even occult sciences.   I well knew of Arthur Conan Doyle’s interest in the occult and spiritualism, and could not help wondering whether Sherlock Holmes had shared his biographer’s preoccupation.   In the middle of the room were two plush, leather armchairs, facing toward a large open fireplace.   Behind the two chairs, near the door to the bedroom, was a long wooden bench, covered with a wide assortment of chemistry apparatus: glass tubing, burners, and a large array of test tubes containing all manner of brightly coloured chemicals.