The Return of Sherlock Holmes by Arthur Conan Doyle

It was not my intention to surprise the man any further than my unexpected visit would undoubtedly do already, but taking a few steps across the grass I realized that my footfalls were entirely silent, hidden beneath the buzzing of the bees.

That proud, hooked nose, the pointed brow, the thin lips in silhouette against the late afternoon sky he looked just as he might have back in our rooms at 221b, staring down at Baker Street from that upper window which at one time or another saw the entire world passing by underneath. His back was to me, but the bench sat a little off to the right from the gate so that I could see the outline of his profile. It was then that I caught sight of him, sitting smartly upon a metal bench at the apex of a small flower garden, a thin silhouette with a proud posture overlooking the lines of the beehives. I knocked at the front door with the head of my cane, which by then I was using nearly full-time, but when no staff nor retired detectives arrived to greet me, I wandered round to the side of the house and through the back gate, which was latched but not locked. I knew of this from his letters, of course-apparently the demand for honey was quite high-but it was another thing entirely to wander up the long drive and hear the incessant buzzing and humming crescendo as one approached the lines of wooden hives that dotted the back yard of the house. He had retired to a rather modest cottage in the countryside, with a sizable bee farm, as he had so often spoken of in our younger days. The fact of the matter was that year the summertime ennui had struck me with more strength than I could ever before recall, and with my practice closed for the season and my bachelor’s apartments lonelier than ever, I felt I had no choice but to pay a visit to my old friend and colleague.

It was, I admit, a bit of a whim on my part, otherwise I would have sent a letter ahead, but then again I did not expect to be turned away and had only intended to stay for a few days, perhaps a week at the most. He had written me several times from his lodgings in the Sussex Downs, and so I had his address at hand for a visit I took in late June of that year. It was I who came to him, a few months before the end.

The Return of Sherlock Holmes by Arthur Conan Doyle