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
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
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