His days he'd spent in endless fight
   against the foes of common man.
He'd trained himself in every branch
   of knowledge and science that helped his plan.


No criminal escaped his eye; 
    news, agonies, he'd daily read;
Fresh tangled scheme was his delight.
    Deep. complex things were his brain's need.


Mind raging through each time of calm;
    the commonplace he couldn't abide.
Engaged, involved, hard on a trail;
    helping Scotland Yard, he was in stride.


An amateur; so he was called.
    Both Judge and Jury at times he'd be.
He'd say the Problem was his reward;
    to take the credit, others were free.


His name was known in every house,
    once Chronicler Watson wrote of his game.
Citizen, constable, governor, and villain
    all shared in knowing his work and fame.


Mistakes he'd make, as he'd admit,
    though much more often, the case he'd solve.
'Til for those working against the law, 
    to fear his name was good resolve.


One day at last he took his rest.
    Retired to Sussex, we're to believe.
His bees to keep, and books to write.
    From all he'd been, he took his leave.


But still we'd hear, and so we think,
    at depths beyond those of his past,
he yet delved deep, on secret things.
    For Government, now, his powers were cast.


Today his time to pass draws near.
    And still he grasps... what yet to do?
"How can I more, at close of days,
    give some last help to man... some clue?"


His mind, so keen, so precise still
    all night he bends in aid of law.
"What else"  How last to help them on?
    What final sword 'gainst Crime to draw?"


His pen he grasps, and down he sits;
    writes on and on for many days.
"The Whole Art Of Detection" he'd once proposed.
    At last, this textbook down he lays.


No food, no drink, no rest he takes;
    no thought he spends on other need.
Completed now, his pipe he lights
    while ending just one, final, deed.


Strong is the smoke-smell in the room;
    at one quick glance his fate is read.
His knees drawn up, bowed as in thought
    yet there's no doubt...the Master's dead.


Beside his pipe he's laid a note;
    It seems he's pondered days gone by.
To Watson, his last words he's penned;
    these as though spoken with a sigh.


"What will you ask of me, dear Watson,
    when now at last my body's found?
'What problem's on your mind, dear Holmes?
    on whom, on what, your last thoughts bound'?"


"It's simple!  Obvious, Watson.
    Recall my words in times now past?
'Education...a series of lessons,
    with this, the greatest, for the last.'"