The Adventure of the Dying Detective

By Sir Arthur Conan Doyle


Mrs. Hudson, the landlady of Sherlock Holmes, was a long-
suffering woman. Not only was her first-floor flat invaded at
all hours by throngs of singular and often undesirable characters
but her remarkable lodger showed an eccentricity and irregularity
in his life which must have sorely tried her patience. His
incredible untidiness, his addiction to music at strange hours,
his occasional revolver practice within doors, his weird and
often malodorous scientific experiments, and the atmosphere of
violence and danger which hung around him made him the very worst
tenant in London. On the other hand, his payments were princely.
I have no doubt that the house might have been purchased at the
price which Holmes paid for his rooms during the years that I was
with him.

The landlady stood in the deepest awe of him and never dared to
interfere with him, however outrageous his proceedings might
seem. She was fond of him, too, for he had a remarkable
gentleness and courtesy in his dealings with women. He disliked
and distrusted the sex, but he was always a chivalrous opponent.
Knowing how genuine was her regard for him, I listened earnestly
to her story when she came to my rooms in the second year of my
married life and told me of the sad condition to which my poor
friend was reduced.

"He's dying, Dr. Watson," said she. "For three days he has been