There are very few things for which I have longed during the year since I abandoned my life and career in London and resettled in the relative calm of East Dean in Sussex to occupy my time as an apiarist. One such is the ability to visit on a regular basis the tobacconist’s shop located in Oxford Street, not far from the dwelling I shared for so many years with my friend and biographer John Watson. There are also dinners at Simpson’s on the Strand and concerts at the St. James Music Hall. Perhaps it is unnecessary to state that I also miss the presence of the good doctor, whose effect on my life and career I had not fully realized until he left Baker Street to assume the duties of a husband. The pursuit of criminals and the quest to solve the various conundrums brought to me by the public became an increasingly empty endeavour without the participation of my friend and sounding board. I still occasionally hear from Watson, most recently through a missive he sent in January to congratulate me on my fiftieth birthday, an accomplishment to which I had little to contribute save for the art of staying alive.