Mrs. Hudson, the landlady of Sherlock Holmes, was a long-sufferingwoman. Not only was her first-floor flat invaded at all hours bythrongs of singular and often undesirable characters but her remarkablelodger showed an eccentricity and irregularity in his life which musthave sorely tried her patience. His incredible untidiness, hisaddiction to music at strange hours, his occasional revolver practicewithin doors, his weird and often malodorous scientific experiments,and the atmosphere of violence and danger which hung around him madehim the very worst tenant in London. On the other hand, his paymentswere princely. I have no doubt that the house might have been purchasedat the price which Holmes paid for his rooms during the years that Iwas with him.
The landlady stood in the deepest awe of him and never dared tointerfere with him, however outrageous his proceedings might seem. Shewas fond of him, too, for he had a remarkable gentleness and courtesyin his dealings with women. He disliked and distrusted the sex, but hewas always a chivalrous opponent. Knowing how genuine was her regardfor him, I listened earnestly to her story when she came to my rooms inthe second year of my married life and told me of the sad condition towhich my poor friend was reduced.
"He's dying, Dr. Watson," said she. "For three days he has beensinking, and I doubt if he will last the day. He would not let me geta doctor. This morning when I saw his bones sticking out of his faceand his great bright eyes looking at me I could stand no more of it.'With your leave or without it, Mr. Holmes, I am going for a doctorthis very hour,' said I. 'Let it be Watson, then,' said he. Iwouldn't waste an hour in coming to him, sir, or you may not see himalive."
I was horrified for I had heard nothing of his illness. I need not saythat I rushed for my coat and my hat. As we drove back I asked for thedetails.
"There is little I can tell you, sir. He has been working at a casedown at Rotherhithe, in an alley near the river, and he has broughtthis illness back with him. He took to his bed on Wednesday afternoonand has never moved since. For these three days neither food nor drinkhas passed his lips."
"Good God! Why did you not call in a doctor?"
"He wouldn't have it, sir. You know how masterful he is. I didn'tdare to disobey him. But he's not long for this world, as you'll seefor yourself the moment that you set eyes on him."
He was indeed a deplorable spectacle. In the dim light of a foggyNovember day the sick room was a gloomy spot, but it was that gaunt,wasted face staring at me from the bed which sent a chill to my heart.His eyes had the brightness of fever, there was a hectic flush uponeither cheek, and dark crusts clung to his lips; the thin hands uponthe coverlet twitched incessantly, his voice was croaking andspasmodic. He lay listlessly as I entered the room, but the sight ofme brought a gleam of recognition to his eyes.
"Well, Watson, we seem to have fallen upon evil days," said he in afeeble voice, but with something of his old carelessness of manner.
"My dear fellow!" I cried, approaching him.
"Stand back! Stand right back!" said he with the sharp imperiousnesswhich I had associated only with moments of crisis. "If you approachme, Watson, I shall order you out of the house."
"But why?"
"Because it is my desire. Is that not enough?"