Mr. Holmes Page #3

His dad and I weren't the sort to know the

things a boy like Roger takes interest in.

Exceptional children are often the product

of unremarkable parents.

I've got a sister.

She lives in Portsmouth.

A couple of her acquaintants

are opening a private hotel there,

say they're willing

to take Roger and me on.

You have a sister?

Never would have thought it.

Is this a matter of wages?

No.

Hm.

I shall take this under advisement.

My mother was sad to see you leave.

I'm rather sorry now

I didn't bring the deerstalker.

- You said you never wore one.

- Well, yes, but it would've pleased her.

She wanted the fictional.

You are the real.

Well, I'm not sure that's true.

I think I was real once

until John made me into fiction.

And then after that,

I had little choice.

Play the part as he'd fashioned it,

or become its contradiction.

I'm actually quite fond of a pipe,

but to smoke it, especially in public,

after it became so well known a prop,

seemed vulgar.

So, Dr Watson's imagination changed you?

I've never had much use for imagination.

I prefer facts.

My father would bring me here as a child.

It was designed as a miniature.

We walk as giants.

The stones represent the lives

of those he has lost.

Oh...

Sherlock-san!

- Hire Sansho?

- Prickly Ash.

- Mr Holmes.

- Hmm?

Too late to check on the bees?

Not in the least.

Bee check!

- They're quiet.

- Yes.

What happens when the bees die?

Is this a metaphysical question?

I mean, do you mourn them?

Oh, I can't say that I've ever mourned

the dead, bees or otherwise.

I concentrate on circumstances.

How did it die? Who was responsible?

Death, grieving, mourning,

they're all commonplace.

Logic is rare, and so...

I dwell on logic.

Well, thank you, kind sir.

Night, bees.

Sweet dreams, bees.

Now, what do you say

we go for a dip tomorrow?

- In the sea?

- Yes.

It'll be brisk.

Good for the blood!

All right, then.

What sort of books do you like, hmm?

Apart from Dr Watson's stories

and books about bees.

Those are all the books I have.

Well, there's a perfectly good library

right here, inside.

You can take any book you like.

Mr Holmes?

Are we going for our swim?

I've already seen to the apiary.

Are you all right?

I'm perfectly...

I'm quite...

Perfectly fine.

All right, Roger.

You go along. I'll catch you up.

Roger! Come along or we'll lose the day.

Well done.

The photograph is her, isn't it?

The woman in the story.

Yes.

Is she why you're writing it?

I wouldn't say I was writing it...

It's more I'm trying to remember it.

Ah, thank you.

A few months ago,

my brother Mycroft died.

His club, the Diogenes,

asked that I go up to London

to retrieve his things.

I was given a small chest

containing the Watson stories,

none of which I'd ever actually read.

They were as John always described them,

penny dreadfuls

with an elevated prose style.

But one of the titles

piqued my interest.

The story was familiar,

but its ending felt very, very wrong.

I'd not seen

any of the cinematic depictions.

But by a fortunate chance,

an opportunity soon arose.

It's strange to see a semblance

of one's self 40 feet high...

- I fear for my Ann's sanity.

- Fear for her sanity?

Dear man, you should fear for your life.

Whatever do you mean?

Murder, Mr Kelmot. Murder.

...and played as a character

out of pantomime.

Poisoned?

With what means have I?

Your armonica, Madame Schirmer.

- Preposterous!

- Or rather, the glasses.

It is the lead in the crystal

that creates the unique tone.

Absorbed into the blood

through the skin,

small exposure can produce confusion,

hallucinations.

But constant, obsessive contact

can end in insanity and death.

Every plot twist came

with a twirl of a moustache

and ended in an exclamation mark.

Our would-be murderer is ingenious.

Surely you're not referring to...

I'm afraid, Mrs Kelmot, you will

have to find yourself a new music teacher.

Oh.

Absolute rubbish!

What possible motive could that

German woman have had to kill Ann?

That night I searched for something

to jog my memory of the actual case.

And there it was... Her picture.

You know, a few years ago,

I could have told you everything

about the woman in that photograph.

Certainly I'd recall

what had become of her,

whether she was victim or culprit.

But that night...

I couldn't remember any of it.

All I knew for certain

was that the case was my last

and it was why I left the profession,

came down here,

retired to my bees.

So, I decided to

write the story down on paper

as it was, not as John made it.

Get it right before I die.

- You're not going to die.

Roger.

I'm 93.

I had a great uncle who lived to be 102.

Well, then, that seals my fate.

What are the odds that you would

know two men who would live that long?

Well, I didn't actually know him.

I'll see to the bees.

Ow! Mr Holmes!

Mr Holmes!

I've been stung.

Unlike the wasp,

the bee always leaves its sting.

- I must have done something stupid.

- Oh, no.

Sometimes... There's no reason at all.

Right. Salt water, you drink that.

Or onion juice

to prevent serious consequences.

And no need to tell your mother

about all this.

We don't want to worry her, do we?

You going to go back to the story?

- Is that the price for your silence?

- Tight lips.

How considerate. You waited for me.

Good afternoon.

- Sir?

- Tea for one in the window.

Certainly, sir. Mind the step.

Ill, do you say?

It took all the strength he had

just to write out the cheque.

- There you are, sir.

- Thank you.

Well, here we are.

- Have you used this before?

- No. I haven't.

It is highly poisonous.

A drop will more than suffice.

Thank you.

It's just Thomas is in such a state.

He insisted I made certain.

Reassure Mr Kelmot

that the particulars of the will

have not changed since he dictated them.

Your possessions are bequeathed to him,

as his are to you.

Thank you so much.

It was so good to see you.

- Excuse me.

- Yes, miss?

Is the 8:
10 the fast service?

The 8.10's the slow one,

makes local stops.

And the 9:
05?

That's the fast train,

goes right on through.

- All aboard!

- Thank you.

All aboard.

Honeybees are attracted to you.

It's the scent. Cameo Rose.

- Oh.

- She thinks you're a flower.

Must confuse the little thing no end.

May I?

Oh.

Very kind.

Ah. The iris. Amazing resilience.

Enough light and they will grow

in the most uninhabitable regions,

desert, cold, rock.

Why do you suppose it is that something

as small and insignificant as the iris

should be so much stronger than we are?

Perhaps they're less affected

by what goes on around them.

Hm.

- Are you a botanist?

- Amateur only.

I am, by disposition, a hobbyist.

In fact, if I may, there is one particular

hobby of mine that might amuse you.

I can see the future.

Shall I read your palm?

I promise I'll find nothing dreadful.

What about our friend?

Your parents are gone.

Your mother long ago,

your father more recently.

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