An Open Letter To Sherlock Holmes

It's time, I think.

Time for what? You know darn well.

Don't give us that rheumatism excuse. That may have worked in 1917 when you were sixty or seventy, but you've passed the hundred and forty mark now. Nobody with the faults and afflictions of an ordinary human form lives that long, so you can forget about that little pretense.

If you're alive, you're much more than that. But then, you always were.

And don't think you can get away with that "man of his times" excuse so many people want to give you. You moved through Victorian London with perfect skill, learning everything that its science had to offer you and filling in the gaps where you needed to. Yes, you were the perfect man of your times. But you were the one who said, "Education never ends," too, weren't you? Don't try to tell us you haven't kept up with our new-fangled manners and toys. Bees aren't that interesting.

You're out there, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and you're just as capable as you ever were. Excuse my bluntness, but I am an American after all, and as a somewhat ill-mannered citizen of that former frontier, I'll speak plainly:

Get off your butt.

(Ladies and children in the audience will please excuse the preceding outburst, but perhaps it's time we quit taking it easy on the "old man." He never did have Watson tell us exactly what happened with Jack the Ripper, but I hope it wasn't another instance of Himself deciding to take it easy like he's been doing of late.)

Why am I writing you now, Holmes, after letting you quietly live in retirement for so long?

I think you know. Old habits die very hard, and you've kept up with the reports in the papers, as well as on CNN.

Scotland Yard has blown it again. Gregson lives. We have taken forensic science to amazing heights, but the men who wield it are not all that different than the fellows at the Yard were in your day. There are good ones, and there are bad ones. And not a one of them is you, nor ever will be.

"If a herd of buffaloes had passed along, there could not be a greater mess." Remember those words? You spoke them after Gregson, Lestrade and company had finished with Number 3, Lauriston Gardens at the beginning of your published career. I was reminded of those words recently as the verdict came in on a certain criminal trial.

The suspect had motive, opportunity, and did everything but sign his name on the corpses. The local incarnation of Scotland Yard was down on the scene like the aforementioned herd of buffaloes, followed by a herd of antelope (the press), and everything else off of Noah's ark (practically the rest of the world). And somewhere along the line the truth got obscured by all the footprints.

Sure, even Sherlock Holmes can't make bricks without clay. But from everything that did turn up, we know that there had to be more. The perfect crime does not exist, no more than the perfect anything else. And this one was far from perfect.

Our modern American Scotland Yard sorts may have even gotten the right man. But what they didn't get, and what you were always so grand at delivering, was the solid, inescapable truth of the matter. It makes all the difference in the world, especially today's world.

Everybody wants to theorize before the facts these days, and most of them arc more than happy to tell you their theories on Sally Jesse Raphael. Nobody wants to eliminate the impossible anymore, and in a lot of cases people will claim it as their most cherished beliefs. We see far too much and, partially as a result, observe not a damned thing.

Perhaps it's always been so. But a good example coming out of retirement and back in the public eye might help matters a little, and you certainly can't hope for any more from that Brett fellow. He tried, he really did, but in the end he was as mortal as the rest of us. True, there will eventually come another, as happened with Brett all those years after Rathbone left us. The real thing always makes a greater impression than an image of the thing, though, don't you think? We have far too many images these days.

Let's have the return of the real thing. Admittedly, your return is one of those things that is much easier said than done. And yes, it may take a while. Simply showing up and saying that you are who you are would probably only make matters worse. But in the meantime, perhaps those of us that know you best may just have to do our part. Observing instead of merely seeing. Not theorizing before finding the facts, nor guessing when not absolutely forced to. Eliminating the impossible, and getting down, however improbable it may be, to the truth.

It's time, I think.