A telegram had arrived for a retired doctor while he was filling in at a practice. Watson had few friends far enough to send a telegram rather than use the telephone, and even fewer family of either him or Anna. So the list from where the telegram could come from was extremely brief, but one name came to mind above the rest. Anxiously the doctor read the note. The telegraph was brief: 

Come to Sussex Downs STOP Holmes very unwell STOP Martha Hudson

The old doctor shook his head. One last adventure for Sherlock Holmes, he thought. Hurriedly he grabbed the phone and dialed his stepson, Ted. No answer. He sent the maid to deliver a wire to the telegraph office for his wife, she was staying with Ted for the weekend. He’d hopefully see her in a few days, but he’d send a wire or call from Sussex when he had a chance. 

He then grabbed a few things and boarded a cab to Victoria Station. The cab passed the street where he’d lived for nearly 20 years on and off with Sherlock Holmes. As Watson passed he remembered the years he’d lived in 221B and all the memories he had with his closest friend. A violin played in his mind. He had the dreadful suspicion that this trip to Sussex downs would be his last. 

Watson reached the train and bought a ticket for the 10:15 train. It was already 10:00 so he only needed to wait a few minutes for the train to Sussex. He boarded and was left alone in a compartment. Too many times had Watson shared one of these compartments with someone, be it his first wife Mary, his second wife Anna, and especially Sherlock Holmes. He grew incredibly lonely, and immediately regretted just leaving without his wife. But even though they were married, they still led mostly separate lives. They were friends more than lovers. His thoughts drifted away from Anna and back to Sherlock Holmes. This time on the train was different than the other times he had gone on a mission for Sherlock Holmes, with Holmes next to him frantically explaining the facts of a case or his plan, or just sitting there in complete silence smoking. A scent that Watson still found strangely comforting. Living in something for happy years has that kind of effect, he supposed. He took out his pipe before seeing the no smoking sign, and thought of his friend who always ignored those. A smile lingered for a moment as the pipe went away. As he thought of the task ahead of him, Watson was reminded of all the other times he’d been summoned by a terrified Mrs. Hudson to Holmes’ side. Nearly all of those times he had been able to help his friend through whichever illness, addiction or case was happening, and no matter what, in a few days everything would be fine, and they would be safe and sound in Baker street once again. This was different though. It had been three years since he had been to Sussex, and over a year since he’d seen Holmes on his last visit to London. It was at a funeral as so many meetings of friends were nowadays. 

At the train station Watson switched to a cab and as the driver made the trip from the station to the estate, the task at hand became more daunting. Holmes had never been a very well man. His cocaine addiction had certainly taken years off his life, and he had a vice for smoking that never went away. Watson was also relatively guilty of the latter. Watson only hoped that he wasn’t too late to say goodbye to his friend. Watson could hear the buzzing of bees in the early spring air. At last he reached Sussex downs. 

The estate Holmes occupied with Mrs. Hudson was somehow even more beautiful than the last time Watson had visited his friend. If Watson wasn’t forever a creature of the city, he would take Anna and get to a place like this to live out their final years. Watson took a moment after exiting the cab and paying the driver. It was that time of spring where everything was just beginning to grow, with color and greenery beginning to fill the air. Holmes' beloved bees provided a gentle hum that filled the air. Unlike his first visit here, over a decade past, Watson was unafraid of the creatures. The last time he had been here Holmes had shown Watson how gentle most bees were and how they were a small example of humankind. Watson was amazed at the spectacle of Holmes the beekeeper. Holmes handled the bees very well, and they barely minded his presence. The bees were not shocked by the appearance of John Watson, even many years after their first acquaintance. Watson finally walked up to the house and rang the bell, anxiety still in his chest. When no answer came and he found the door unlocked, he let himself in. 

“Holmes.” Watson called into the air. “Mrs. Hudson!” No response. He hurried towards where Holmes’ room was, a dread building within him. He passed through the sitting room and went into what he remembered as Holmes’ bedroom. Watson’s instincts were right. He found Holmes in bed looking more gaunt than ever. His now silver hair was loose from its usual gel, and his bangs hung just over his closed eyes. The room shared the same organized chaos as the rooms on Baker Street, with various papers and chemicals on nearly every surface. 

“Holmes.” Watson said softly. Holmes opened his eyes. They were still the same sharp gray Watson remembered, but the sparkle was dimmer.

“Watson.” The old detective seemed shocked. “What on earth are you doing here?”

“I came to see you.” Watson said. “Mrs. Hudson sent me a telegram telling me to come and I came.”

“I knew she had done something concerning me yesterday when she went out. Well in any case, you’re here. Sorry for not greeting you at the door. Mrs. Hudson was out and I had no idea you would be coming.”

“It's alright. But how are you Holmes?” 

“Watson, we seem to have fallen on evil days… I haven’t been well. Occasional rheumatism, as you described admirably in your account of my last bow, has turned to more severe illnesses that are slowly killing me.”

“I had a feeling when your barely frequent letters stopped that something was wrong, but after the telegram I knew. I’m only glad I wasn’t too late again.” The two looked at each other for a moment. 

“No no no.” He said. The twinkle came back into his eyes. “I promised you that I wouldn’t die again without saying goodbye. I don’t make many vows, but the ones I make, I endeavor to keep.” Holmes smiled. “But tell me Watson, how are you? What has happened since your last note? How is Mrs. Watson?” 

“I’m about as well as I can be. Anna is also doing alright. I would’ve brought her but she was on a visit to her son Edward. We’ve been married nearly two years now.

“I know Watson, I may be dying, but I still have a semblance of time. I believe the last time I saw you was in London for that wedding.”

“That’s right, old man.”

“Everything else is alright with you though?

“Yes it is Holmes, I've retired, and I’m mostly happy with some bouts of pain in my leg on occasion.”

“It sounds nice Watson. I’m happy for you.” Both smiled. 

“Until your illness, how have you been Holmes?”

“I’ve been bee-keeping. I’ve shown you how bees can explain the small nuances of humankind. It is still fascinating, and I finished dictating a monograph to a typist recently. Mrs. Hudson has remained, remarkable as ever. It’s been peaceful, no calls from the government since the Great War, they’ve finally let me retire in peace,  only minor country mysteries to solve. After so much crime in London, it is peaceful. But it is a lonely life. Especially with you still in London.” Holmes’ words drifted off as he looked towards Watson. A glance passed between them that shared more than words. 

“I guess neither of us were really inclined to make many friends.” Holmes said with a laugh, but his mood darkened quickly. “And with so many of us going now. It is increasingly lonely for those of us left behind.”

“Mycroft’s anniversary was recently, right?” Watson asked. “Ten years?”

“Last Friday. It’s been living in my mind, along with thoughts of my own mortality. It honestly still baffles me that he lived past fifty, let alone to 68.” A moment of silence passed between the doctor and the detective. 

“Regardless of whether it is expected or not, it is never easy to lose a brother.” Watson remarked. Holmes examined him, his eyes sharp. 

“How many years?”
“45 years for my brother…He’s been gone only a year longer than the anniversary of when I gained my second one.” Nearly fifty years passed in an instant. Culminating in moments. 

“I’m sorry I will have to put you through that pain again.” Holmes stated. “I’m honestly glad Mrs. Hudson had the guile to call you. I haven’t let her call a doctor, and I certainly wouldn’t have summoned you on my own.” Holmes grabbed Watson’s hand. 

“I’ve missed you John.”

“And I, you Sherlock.” For nearly fifty years John Watson and Sherlock Holmes had been friends, and they rarely talked about each other. Their friendship was too secure for that. They depended on each other and had loved each other as brothers since before Holmes’ first death. But never had they acknowledged it until the last chance. A smile crossed Holmes’ face. And he laughed. It was weaker than the past, but it was Holmes’ laugh. 

“I can’t believe we never said that earlier.” He continued to laugh. “God, Watson, what is wrong with us!”

“Holmes, I haven’t the slightest idea.” Watson laughed along with his friend. Watson could faintly hear a door open and close in the distance, some shuffling, and footsteps coming towards the room. 

“So the gentlemen detectives are at it again?” Mrs. Hudson said standing in the doorway, her Snow White hair up in the same way it always was. The friends looked at her and smiled.
“Mrs. Hudson!” Holmes remarked, still smiling. “Look who finally decided to show up!” 

A look of relief passed her face as Watson stood and embraced her, “Thank you for the telegram dear.” 

“I had a feeling that Sherlock Holmes needed saving by his friend Doctor Watson one more time.” She smiled. 

“You were right Mrs. Hudson,” Holmes said with a cough. “I was lost without my Boswell.” 

“Some tea, gentlemen?” Mrs. Hudson asked. 

“Tea would be excellent Mrs. Hudson.” Watson answered.

“I’ll be right back.” And she exited the bedroom.

“She has always been remarkable hasn’t she?” Holmes said. 

“Yes, she has… who else could keep house for you for nearly 50 years?” Holmes smiled at this, but his mood darkened again. 

“Watson, you know there is only one way this visit is going to end, right.”

“Yes I know… can we not talk about it for a bit?”

Holmes cut him off. “You know I’ve been resigned to my death. I’ve been dead to the world once before and it was lonely. I think to die, to be really dead, it’ll be an awfully great adventure.”

“Ever since we met you have been my closest friend, and my brother in all but blood.” 

“You saved me from myself on many occasions, and you always remained my friend, even when life tried to force us away from each other. Thank you for being my brother, John.” 

Before Watson could respond, Mrs. Hudson returned with tea and the three of them talked together into the fading light of the last night of the life of Sherlock Holmes.