When I returned to London, I found a letter from
Holmes waiting for me at my club. He told me that
he was going to Russia, to work on a strange and
exciting murder case.
'I am bored with London, now that Jack the Ripper is
dead,' he wrote. 'Perhaps the foreign criminal has
more to offer me. I shall not return to London for
some time. Please inform me of your new address.'
After reading this, I was happier than I had been for
many weeks. Mary and I finished our holiday and
moved to a house in London, not far from Baker
Street. I was busy with my work as a doctor, and we
lived quietly and happily together.
During this time I was sent two wonderful letters by
Holmes.
He had brought his work on the Russian mystery to a
successful end, and had gone from Russia to Ceylon,
where the sudden death of a rich tea-planter
offered him the interest and excitement he needed.
The Holmes who wrote these letters to me sounded
like the old Holmes that I knew.
'He is dangerous when he is bored and uses
cocaine,' I thought. 'When he is enjoying his work,
London is safe.'
One day in March, as I walked along Baker Street, I
saw a light in Holmes's window, and knew that he
had returned. I went in, and he welcomed me like
the dear old friend he had been. All evening we sat
by the fire, and he told me everything that had
happened in Russia and Ceylon. But what I really
wanted to hear about was Moriarty's death, and
about that he said not one word.
At last I could wait no longer.
'My dear Holmes,' I said. 'It is almost midnight, and
you still have not told me how Moriarty died!'
At once his face went white, and his eyes became
fixed in a stare. He sat silent and unmoving, as the
seconds passed.
Then he said, 'I'm sorry, Watson. I was thinking about
something to do with my last case. What did you
say?' 'Moriarty,' I repeated. 'You have not told me
how he died.' 'He has gone,' he said. 'That is all that
anyone needs to know about him.'
I asked him to tell me more, and found out that his
final meeting with Moriarty had been in Switzerland,
on a narrow path above a famous waterfall. Holmes
had won the argument, he told me coldly. And that
was all that he would tell me.
Holmes and I were friends again, and soon I began
helping him with new cases. It was just like old times. I
am afraid that I often left my wife alone, and I did
not give enough time to my patients, but I was
happy to see Holmes interested and busy.
One day he gave me his cocaine-bottle. 'Take it,
doctor,' he said. 'I do not need it any more.'
I was very pleased indeed at this news, and only one
thing that happened at this time worried me. A
woman was killed in Whitechapel, and people
began to talk again about Jack the Ripper. I
carefully checked where Holmes had been on the
night of the murder, and found that he had spent the
evening with two famous foreign detectives. I even
spoke to them both secretly, and so I was sure that
Holmes had not been in Whitechapel that night.