I have not seen nor heard much of my friend, Sherlock Holmes, in almost a full year's time. He is, as the world knows, retired and living a peaceful existence in a cottage on the Sussex Downs. I had retired from medical practice many years ago. Though, I still enjoy reading the latest medical digests (my last and only vice). Occasionally the name Sherlock Holmes would appear in one of the London dailies. But no longer was it to do with the active investigation of crime. I had, on occasions, suggested to my wife the possibility that we might take a trip to visit my old friend; but two children, grandchildren and old age are deterrents to the best of plans. Now, well, the years have passed us quickly. My son had long ago left England and settled with his wife and children in Canada. He has, as I, chosen the medical profession. My daughter and grand-daughter have made it a Sunday ritual to visit and take tea with us. It is also my duty to re-attach various limbs on various dolls. (I'm really quite good at this.)

Monday, October 6th

I have made it my habit to take an afternoon stroll, since time was more than available to me. Plus, Thursday was our anniversary and this allowed me the opportunity to purchase the cameo my wife has long wished for. I have, for months, secretly made small payments to Sprague and Sons LTD. For the cameo of my wife's dream. She is, I am positive, unaware of the gift. Finding myself some two streets from the Baker Street rooms I shared with Sherlock Holmes, I extended my walk a bit further. Number 221B had long since been sold by our late landlady, Mrs. Hudson. Our old rooms had remained intact through the wishes of our government as sort of a tourist attraction -- open to the public during the summer months. The horse-drawn cabs and carriages have all but disappeared. (Though a few can be seen still about, as if trying to stop the hands of time.) The motorcar ruled the road. Pausing across the street from 221B, my mind wandered back to those old days. Across the road my old rooms -- to my back is Camden House, where Holmes captured Colonel Moran. How many years have passed? So very long ago. So very long. As I stood there my thoughts were interrupted by the honking of a motorcar's horn. A motorcar had pulled up to the kerb and the driver was calling to me.

"Well, Watson be a good chap and get in."

"Holmes . . . Holmes," I managed to say, almost unsure. It was a voice from the past pulling me forward. I started to say Holmes' name again but caught myself.

"Do get in, Watson," Holmes said. The passenger's door swung open and I seated myself next to my old friend, Sherlock Holmes. His hair, like mine, was white as fresh snow, his long face now weather-beaten and lined -- but the eyes still had not faded with time.

"Holmes, what . . . er. . . what?" The shock of seeing my friend seemed to rob me of speech.

"Is that one question, old boy, or two?" asked Holmes with glee.

"Holmes, what's brought you to London?" I asked, still stunned.

"A personal matter, nothing more," replied Holmes. "Now hold on." The motorcar gave a number of lurches forward while making a terrible grinding noise.

"I am afraid my bee venom hasn't helped the arthritis in my knee -- this is causing me to play hell with this confounded clutch."

"I say, Holmes, allow me then to drive." I saw a small grin form on my friend's face.

"No, Watson -- I remember your dubious skill at the wheel from that Von Bork business. That, may I add, was the push I needed to learn to handle these rattling machines."

"Holmes, my ability to handle these rattling machines, as you call them, has improved with the years. Plus, I dare say I can shift gears without dislocating my spinal disc," I said rather proudly.

"True as that may be, I fear brother Mycroft may raise an objection if I return his motorcar minus a headlamp," Holmes said, as he narrowly missed running over a street vendor.

Thinking it best to change the subject I said, "Well it's fortunate that fate should allow you to turn into Baker Street and I at the same instant should decide to see the old place."

"Really, Watson, do you think it's by mere chance I should be motoring down Baker Street? On a mere whim?" replied Holmes.

"I most certainly do. Really Holmes, you come to London for the first time in years and you knew you could find me standing across from our old rooms."

"Yes." Was the only reply Holmes gave.

"Holmes, I know your powers of deductive reasoning, but there is no way you could have known where I would be."

"Actually it's quite elementary old boy. After seeing my brother, I borrowed his motorcar and went to pay you a social call. I spent an enjoyable visit with your wife; during which she told me of her hopes for a certain gift. Also, I noticed a certain pin she had in the past worn religiously did not rest in its usual place of honour. So, naturally knowing the facts, I went straight to Sprague and Sons."

"Naturally," I interrupted "or should I say unnaturally. Of all the shops in London, why, pray tell, should I have gone to Sprague's?"

"After all these years, Watson, I should have hoped you might have picked up a habit or two of mine. First, your gracious wife reminds me that this Thursday, October 9th, to be exact, is your anniversary. Second, the pin she has worn for years is no longer visible. So, my dear Watson, knowing how sentimental you are and what shop carries the best cameos . . . Sprague and Sons. Then, being within a few streets from our old digs and three days away from your anniversary, you naturally migrated to Baker Street. There you could recall the old adventures and an old friend that stood as your best man. Really quite elementary."

"Well, now that you've explained it," I said, half apologetically.

"But now tell me Holmes, what's brought you to London? A case involving the government, perhaps?"

"Not so, old boy." Holmes swerved the wheel again and barely missed a constable, whose whistle can still be heard echoing through London. "No, it's a family affair." You have on occasions allowed the name of my brother, Mycroft, to creep into your writings. If you recall, I had forbidden you to catalogue any other family members for their safety. "Well, my parents have long since passed on, as has my brother, Siggy. But there are others that still need to be kept from harm's way. Had I allowed you to tell all you knew of me, I dare say you would be riding alone. In fact, you are among the few that know my true name."

"Yes, I am aware of that, Mr. William Sherlock Scott Holmes," as I am aware of your brother's full given name, and your children's. For, a poor fool I'd be not to know the name of my god-daughter. "But surely Holmes, all your old enemies have been locked away and since died. I'm sure the public would like to know of you."

"That, my dear Doctor, is my reason for being in London, everywhere I turn I am surrounded by Sherlock Holmes Societies, Baker Street something or others."

"But Holmes, surely you cannot begrudge a grateful public the chance to honour you? I said.

"They can honour me after they honour aardvarks and Zulus and all those in between," said Holmes who had barely missed colliding with one of the few remaining horse-drawn wagons.

"Holmes, let's get back to the reason for coming to London -- if you can control this motorcar and your temper," I said rather testily myself.

"Well, old friend, it's to London I came to arrange for a home for Holmes."

"I beg your pardon, I believe my hearing is somewhat impaired, did you say a home for a home?"

"A home, Watson, H-O-M-E for a Holmes, H-O-L-M-E-S. For my daughter; she has, as you know, been living with my brother and his wife these past years. She has, however, seen fit to come and reside on the Sussex Downs. There she can keep her eye on her decrepit old father."

"Why, Holmes, that's just delightful, and what of your boy? Is he to pack off with his family and reside by you?"

"No, I'm afraid not. He's involved in some investigation or other. I fear that he is rather lax in tending to his needs. My daughter-in-law has more than once asked me to speak to him about his habits of going days without food and nights without sleep. I swear, Watson, I do believe he inherited these strange traits from his mother's side of the family."

"Oh, undoubtedly," I said stifling a laugh.

"Well, Watson, old boy, I do believe I have made it safely to your home -- and you seem none the worse for the trip. I shall, if permitted, drop in with my daughter before we start off for a new home. Give my regards to your Mrs., old boy."

I exited the motorcar and stood on the kerb as I watched my friend driving (lurching) away. Just for a moment I had hoped perhaps to hear once again,

"Hurry, Watson, the game is afoot!"