Mr. Holmes (2015) - full transcript

You shouldn't do that.

Tap the glass.

How did you know I was going to?

You must forgive my son.
He loves bees.

It isn't a bee. It's a wasp.

Different thing entirely.

Was that him?

Ah, the prodigal returns.

Ooh.

Outside, Roger.
You know you're not allowed.

Like having a Welsh pony.



Will you be going up
to your study?

No, not as yet.

Ah, yes. Home again.

Home again.

Mrs. Munro!

It would appear we've had
a decrease in population.

Did Mr. Healy not come by

to take care of the apiary
whilst I was gone?

Yes, but he won't be able
to do it next time.

- Did Mr. Healy say that?
- No, his daughter did.

She's taken him to live
with her. Too feeble, she said.

- Is he too feeble?
- Seemed spry enough.

- Chattier, maybe.
- With you?

With himself.



Key to the study.

- Is that lunch?
- Mm.

Hmm...

Watson had married
and I was alone.

In fact, it was on the very day
he left Baker Street

that the case which was
to be my last began to unfold.

It was almost 30 years ago.
The Great War had ended

and the tourists
had come back to Baker Street

to catch a glimpse
of the real Sherlock Holmes.

Thankfully, in his stories,

Watson had always published
a false address

for our actual quarters.

So you found the right address.

- Why did you do it?
- Sir?

Break into my study.

My study is
my sanctum sanctorum.

Private place.

Before you went to Japan,
I saw you writing that story.

I didn't know you wrote stories.

Oh, Dr. Watson, yes,
he was the writer.

Well, so I borrowed Mum's key
and went into your study,

and there it was.

And how much did you read?

Just to where you stopped.
It was a good part too.

A man comes to Baker Street.

You say,
"You've come about your wife."

How could you tell?
Did you do the thing?

What thing would that be?

"The cane shows the marks
of a dog's teeth.

The wood is from an island
southwest of Madeira."

That thing.

And how would you tell

that a man's visit
was about his wife?

He wears a wedding ring?

No.
The clues are all on that page.

This sentence, to be exact.

"One day, into the room
came a young man,

in newly-pressed,
albeit inexpensive clothes."

The clothes are freshly-pressed.
He's a young man, though.

Not expensive clothes.

Then his wife must press them.
Men don't have the talent

and he can't afford
a servant to do so.

Very good.

That's how you knew
it was about the wife.

Well, no.

When you're a detective
and a man comes to visit you...

it's usually about his wife.

So why did you stop
where you did?

Ahh...

Ah, did you get the things
from the chemist?

On order.
Said it would be a few days.

We'll hold them to that.

Otherwise, triumphant, were you?

Like V-E Day.

Oh. Doctor's here.

- Did you catch cold in Japan?
- Does it sound it?

I thought you might be coming
off the tail end of something.

Lost some weight as well. Hmm.

Did you find
what you were looking for,

the mysterious ashy prick?

Prickly ash.

Oh, yes, sorry.

That was the reason the fellow
invited you to Japan, wasn't it?

Dig up a pile of the stuff,
smuggle it home?

It can't interfere
with anything you've prescribed.

- But surely it can't do me ill.
- In and of itself, no.

You mean there might be
side effects?

Perhaps.

- Such as?
- Hope.

What was the name of the fellow
who invited you to Japan?

You just spent a week
with the man,

corresponded with him
for months.

Do you recall his name?

There's a flat adjacent to
my surgery that's gone to let...

No!

What happens when you don't
recall where the telephone is,

or you forget
to turn off the gas?

- You can't live alone.
- I don't live alone.

I have the housekeeper.

Take this diary.

Each day you don't recall
a name or place,

make a mark on the page
for that day's date.

And if I forget
to make the mark?

Oh... Mm.

No, no, no. No. No, no, no.

It's the royal jelly.

Yes, well,
we're not using it anymore.

Instead,
we're going to use this.

- It's called prickly ash.
- Is it food?

Mm...

Eurgh. Looks like
it came out the down-spout.

It came from Japan.

That makes all the difference.

You add it in as you would
the royal jelly,

in the tea or the coffee.

And you should try
cooking with it

to enhance your specialities.

Mr. Holmes?

Mr. Holmes?

Tamiki Umezaki.

Welcome to Japan.

I am so honoured
you have accepted my invitation.

We spend tonight at my house.
Tomorrow we begin our search.

I have owned your book
for 20 years.

I purchased my copy
when it first appeared in print.

I hope you'll do me the honour
of a personal inscription.

Oh, yes. Of course.

Um...

Mr. Umezaki,
how close to the city

does the prickly ash grow?

It is found mostly near the sea.

And how far shall we have to go?

Where I am thinking
is two days' journey by train.

You are very eager?

I'm in the middle of a project
that I'm keen to finish

and my wits must be
at their sharpest.

I want to be able to benefit

from the effect
as soon as possible.

- It's that urgent?
- I fear it's so.

You are very great detective!

Thank you very much.

My mother, she wonders

if you have brought
your famous hat.

Oh, the deer stalker.

That was an embellishment
of the illustrator.

I've never worn one.

- And the pipe?
- I prefer a cigar.

I told Watson,
if I ever write a story myself,

it will be to correct
the million misconceptions

created by his imaginative license.

Did you write such a story?

But I'm trying to do so now.

I must finish with you
before I die.

"So you've come
about your wife."

"You've come about your wife."

"You've come..."

Roger.

Here.

I'll see you after lunch.

I'm going to need some help
with the bees.

So you found the right address.

A friendly porter at 221B.

It's just a minor fiction
to mislead the curious.

Most of them
seem to be American.

Have a seat, Mr. Kelmot.

So...

you've come about your wife.

- How did you know?
- It doesn't matter.

Tell me what you have to say.

My wife is named Ann.

Her mother died in childbirth.

Her father was a colonel,

killed in that business
at Waziristan.

We wanted very much
to have children.

She lost our first child
in her third month...

Our second in her fourth.

We were told it was
too dangerous to try again.

Ann was... distraught.

It was as though
each of them lost

had been a real child,
as opposed to...

Thank you.

For a time,
she even insisted I have

a pair of headstones carved

and placed in our cemetery plot,

as if their bodies
were buried beneath.

She was in desperate need

of something to soothe
this dangerous melancholy.

She liked music so I suggested
the glass armonica.

The armonica?

My father's
most prized possession.

He played it constantly
till the day he died.

I had it brought to the house

and arranged
a month's worth of lessons.

One hour per week.

Soon Ann asked me if she could

increase the lessons
to twice a week.

Then three times.
Then every day.

So, she took up the avocation
you hoped she would.

Why are you here, Mr. Kelmot?

Mr. Holmes, my Ann has changed.

And it isn't just the lessons

or her obsession
with the instrument.

One day I was outside the room

and suddenly
her playing stopped.

And I heard her saying,
quite clearly...

Grace? James?

Those were to be
the names of your children?

When I confronted Ann,
she denied it.

So I forbad her
playing the armonica

and I forbad her
taking the lessons.

The woman who teaches them,
Madame Schirmer,

is a person
of dangerous beliefs.

The dangerous beliefs
of a music teacher?

She's put a spell on Ann,

preying upon
her weak frame of mind,

for what reason I cannot say.

Have you proof of this?

Following my instructions,

she stopped seeing
Madame Schirmer.

I received in the post...
three receipts from the woman.

Each for the payment
of one armonica lesson.

Again Ann denied it.

Consequently, my wife
is no longer permitted

to withdraw money from the bank.

Then yesterday, I followed Ann

to the place where
the woman gives her lessons.

Even on the pavement below
I could hear her playing.

Naturally, I went inside,
but the Schirmer woman said,

"Your wife is not here."

Last night, I questioned Ann.

And she said that she hadn't
been to Madame Schirmer's rooms.

Not for weeks.

Do you have
a portrait of your wife?

I shall take your case if you
answer just one last question.

Certainly.

What perfume
does your wife wear?

Roger?

It's late.
Lights out like it's the Blitz.

Look at you.

Do you remember your dad?

I remember him holding my hand
and taking me to the sea.

You're not remembering.
That's the picture.

What about
the invisible stories?

Some nights at bedtime,
your dad would make up stories.

He'd... he'd say,
"Give me three things."

And you'd say,
"A ball, a cat and Roger."

So then he'd...

he'd make up some tale

about a ball that had
a pet cat named Roger.

Always a something
and something and Roger.

You don't remember
any of the invisible stories?

No. Do you?

I was never any good at stories.

Sleep well.

The first thing
to know is there's no danger.

Bees aren't interested
in harming you.

Their only concern
is self-preservation.

From people?

They're much too clever
for people.

Their enemies are the weather,
disease and predators.

The wasp is their
particular antagonist.

Did you know that one wasp

can kill 40 honey bees
in under a minute?

In consequence,
we do not like wasps.

Yes, sir.

- We do not like wasps.
- Ah.

The queen runs the colony.

The drones service the queen.

Hands up.

Workers do the work.
As it should be.

Of concern is the latest
decrease in the bee population.

We've identified the problem,
and now we must solve it.

Right. There you are.
Off you go.

Have you ever been bitten

- by a bee?
- Stung.

Bees don't have teeth.
Yes, I have.

Well, not often, though.

7,816 times.

I keep a record.

You're not entirely dreadful.

You ever been bit?

No. I have never been bit.

Well, people work with bees
all the time, don't they?

What is royal jelly?

It's a special secretion
of the worker bees.

- And it's royal because?
- It feeds the queen.

Bravo.

It was the jelly's
curative powers

that prompted my monograph,

The Value of Royal Jelly

with Further Comments

on the Potential Health Benefits
of Prickly Ash.

- What's that?
- Prickly ash, hmm?

Well, in Japanese, hire sansho

is the common word
for zanthoxylum piperitum.

It's used to treat
various degenerative diseases.

Anaemia, circulatory
conditions... arthritis and...

Hmm. What's it called?

Oh. Senility.

That was a witticism.

The newest research suggests
that prickly ash

has far more promise
than royal jelly.

Henceforth, prickly ash
is all that we should use.

Have you written more
about the man and his wife?

- All in good time.
- Is it real?

Of course. Fiction is worthless!

The place you stopped.

Why do you want to know
the wife's perfume?

- Cameo Rose, is it?
- Yes.

Always leaves a trace.

Madame Schirmer.

Madame Schirmer, this is
Thomas Kelmot. Let me in.

Madame Schirmer!

Herr Kelmot, I did warn!

You come,
I call the Metropolitan Police!

Madame,
my friend's emotional state

is such that, if denied entry,

he might not be able
to restrain his passions.

Allow us both in, and
I will take full responsibility.

- Thank you so much.
- Who is this?

- This gentleman is a detective.
- Ja? His badge, please?

His name is Mr. Sherlock Holmes.

You don't mind if I close
this, do you? Such a draught.

No. I have seen Sherlock
Holmes in the magazines.

With the hat and the pipe.
It was never this person.

Madame Schirmer,
I saw Ann enter this place,

I demand you produce her.

Your wife is not here.

- You said that last time.
- You question my truth?

Oswald, my dear,
it is a wish to know

if you are this man's wife.

- No.
- You could be in disguise.

- I don't think so.
- Voilà!

It is, I believe, what
the English call a water closet.

She was here! I saw her!

Mr. Kelmot, if you insist
on following your wife

when you have employed me
to do the same,

one or the other of us will
find himself made redundant.

- He is distraught.
- He is a fool.

The armonica
used to be thought of

as an instrument
of the black arts,

said to be used
to call for the dead.

Something to do
with the nature of the glasses.

You don't believe that, surely?

What I believe
plays no part in this matter.

When was Mrs. Kelmot last here?

Weeks now.

Then the receipts
you posted to her address

were for Oswald's lessons.

Mrs. Kelmot is paying for them.

Frau Kelmot is passionate,
but an amateur.

She knew it was Oswald
who has the gift.

- You knew she was not here.
- Of course.

Oswald doesn't wear her scent.

You are still not
Sherlock Holmes!

How considerate.

You waited for me.

What are you doing?

Trying to see
if I can tell where I've been.

Don't you know?

Mr. Holmes
can tell things like that

just from looking at a person.

- Where are you off to?
- See to the bees!

You'll eat your breakfast first!

Got a letter from your aunt
the other day.

She says there's a couple
in Portsmouth

opening a hotel there.

Need a housekeeper.

Why would we want
to live in Portsmouth?

- Can't stay here forever.
- Why not?

- Because we can't.
- What's in Portsmouth?

This couple are opening
a hotel there...

You said that.

You'll leave the table when
you're finished and not before.

I'm not finished.

You don't eat
that Japanese muck.

It's hire sansho.

I know you like working

- with the hive...
- It's an apiary.

And you like
being given responsibility,

but I shouldn't get too close.

- Bees don't bite.
- I don't mean the bees.

Mr. Holmes
won't be here forever.

Your aunt says this hotel
might even take you on.

- They got porters and...
- Have porters.

Finished.

Chemist delivered your things.

Shall I have Roger
open the crate?

No. I'll see to it
when I'm finished.

Yes, sir.

Sir?

I know Roger's been
a help to you. He's a good boy.

He's always been clever.

His dad and I
weren't the sort to know

the things a boy like Roger
takes interest in.

Exceptional children

are often the product
of unremarkable parents.

I've got a sister.
She lives in Portsmouth.

A couple of her acquaintants are
opening a private hotel there,

say they're willing
to take Roger and me on.

You have a sister?

Never would have thought it.

Is this a matter of wages?

No.

Hmm.

I shall take this
under advisement.

My mother was sad
to see you leave.

I'm rather sorry now
I didn't bring the deerstalker.

You said you never wore one.

Well, yes,
but it would've pleased her.

She wanted the fictional.
You are the real.

Well, I'm not sure that's true.

I think I was real once
until John made me into fiction.

And then after that,
I had little choice.

Play the part
as he'd fashioned it,

or become its contradiction.

I'm actually quite fond
of a pipe,

but to smoke it,
especially in public,

after it became so well known
a prop, seemed vulgar.

So, Dr. Watson's imagination
changed you?

I've never had much use
for imagination.

I prefer facts.

My father
would bring me here as a child.

It was designed as a miniature.

We walk as giants.

The stones represent the lives
of those he has lost.

Oh...

Sherlock-san!

- Hire sansho?
- Prickly ash.

- Mr. Holmes.
- Hmm?

Too late to check on the bees?

Not in the least.

Bee check!

- They're quiet.
- Yes.

What happens when the bees die?

Is this a metaphysical question?

I mean, do you mourn them?

Oh, I can't say that I've ever
mourned the dead,

bees or otherwise.

I concentrate on circumstances.

How did it die?
Who was responsible?

Death, grieving, mourning,

they're all commonplace.

Logic is rare, and so...

I dwell on logic.

Well, thank you, kind sir.

Night, bees.

Sweet dreams, bees.

Now, what do you say
we go for a dip tomorrow?

- In the sea?
- Yes.

It'll be brisk.

Good for the blood!

All right, then.

What sort of books
do you like, hmm?

Apart from Dr. Watson's stories
and books about bees.

Those are all the books I have.

Well, there's a perfectly good
library right here, inside.

You can take any book you like.

Mr. Holmes?

Are we going for our swim?

I've already seen to the apiary.

Are you all right?

I'm perfectly...

I'm quite...

Perfectly fine.

All right, Roger.

You go along. I'll catch you up.

Roger! Come along
or we'll lose the day.

Well done.

The photograph is her, isn't it?

The woman in the story.

Yes.

Is she why you're writing it?

I wouldn't say
I was writing it...

It's more I'm trying
to remember it.

Ah, thank you.

A few months ago,
my brother Mycroft died.

His club, the Diogenes,

asked that I go up to London
to retrieve his things.

I was given a small chest
containing the Watson stories,

none of which
I'd ever actually read.

They were as John
always described them,

penny dreadfuls
with an elevated prose style.

But one of the titles
piqued my interest.

The story was familiar,

but its ending felt very,
very wrong.

I'd not seen any of
the cinematic depictions.

But by a fortunate chance,
an opportunity soon arose.

It's strange to see a semblance
of one's self 40 feet high...

- I fear for my Ann's sanity.
- Fear for her sanity?

Dear man,
you should fear for your life.

Whatever do you mean?

Murder, Mr. Kelmot. Murder.

And played

as a character out of pantomime.

Poisoned?

With what means have I?

Your armonica, Madame Schirmer.

- Preposterous!
- Or rather, the glasses.

It is the lead in the crystal
that creates the unique tone.

Absorbed into the blood
through the skin,

small exposure can produce
confusion, hallucinations.

But constant, obsessive contact
can end in insanity and death.

Every plot twist
came with a twirl

of a moustache

and ended
in an exclamation mark.

Our
would-be murderer is ingenious.

Surely you're not
referring to...

I'm afraid, Mrs. Kelmot,
you will have to find yourself

a new music teacher.

Oh.

Absolute rubbish!

What possible motive

could that German woman
have had to kill Ann?

That night
I searched for something

to jog my memory
of the actual case.

And there it was... Her picture.

You know, a few years ago,
I could have told you everything

about the woman
in that photograph.

Certainly I'd recall
what had become of her,

whether she was victim
or culprit.

But that night...

I couldn't remember any of it.

All I knew for certain
was that the case was my last

and it was why
I left the profession,

came down here,

retired to my bees.

So, I decided to
write the story down on paper

as it was, not as John made it.

Get it right before I die.

You're not going to die.

Roger.

I'm 93.

I had a great uncle
who lived to be 102.

Well, then, that seals my fate.

What are the odds
that you would know

two men who would live
that long?

Well, I didn't
actually know him.

I'll see to the bees.

Ow! Mr. Holmes!

Mr. Holmes!

Aargh. Aargh.

I've been stung.

Unlike the wasp,
the bee always leaves its sting.

I must have done

- something stupid.
- Oh, no.

Sometimes...
there's no reason at all.

Right.
Salt water, you drink that.

Or onion juice
to prevent serious consequences.

And no need to tell your mother
about all this.

We don't want to worry her,
do we?

You going to go back
to the story?

Is that the price
for your silence?

Tight lips.

How considerate.
You waited for me.

Good afternoon.

- Sir?
- Tea for one in the window.

Certainly, sir. Mind the step.

Ill, do you say?

Took all the strength he had
just to write out the cheque.

- There you are, sir.
- Thank you.

Well, here we are.

- Have you used this before?
- No. I haven't.

It is highly poisonous.
A drop will more than suffice.

Thank you.

It's just Thomas
is in such a state.

He insisted I made certain.

Reassure Mr. Kelmot

that the particulars of the will
have not changed

since he dictated them.

Your possessions are bequeathed
to him, as his are to you.

Thank you so much.
It was so good to see you.

- Excuse me.
- Yes, miss?

Is the 8:10 the fast service?

The 8:10's the slow one,
makes local stops.

And the 9:05?

That's the fast train,
goes right on through.

- All aboard!
- Thank you.

All aboard.

Honeybees are attracted to you.

It's the scent. Cameo Rose.

- Oh.
- She thinks you're a flower.

Must confuse
the little thing no end.

May I?

Oh.

Very kind.

Ah. The iris.
Amazing resilience.

Enough light and they will grow

in the most
uninhabitable regions,

desert, cold, rock.

Why do you suppose it is

that something as small
and insignificant as the iris

should be so much stronger
than we are?

Perhaps they're less affected
by what goes on around them.

Hmm.

- Are you a botanist?
- Amateur only.

I am, by disposition,
a hobbyist.

In fact, if I may,
there is one particular

hobby of mine
that might amuse you.

I can see the future.

Shall I read your palm?

I promise
I'll find nothing dreadful.

What about our friend?

Oh.

Oh.

Hmm. Hmm.

Your parents are gone.

Your mother long ago,
your father more recently.

You had love in your heart
for someone...

No, for more than one person.

But they have left you,

and your love for them
has nowhere to go.

You're in pain.

But you must not allow your pain
to guide your actions.

Where that leads...
The lines are not so distinct.

- Why?
- I beg your pardon?

You see so much.

Why can't you see
what happens next?

- The lines...
- Yes, you said.

Ply your parlour tricks
elsewhere, Mr. Holmes.

Wait.

I can't...

I can't remember.

Mum! Mum!

Mr. Holmes!

Was it the smoke
knocked him out?

Could have done.

Most likely he stood up
too quickly

and lost consciousness.

It isn't the first time.

The last housekeeper
didn't know what to do.

He must have decided
to take it subcutaneously.

Well, now we can't leave.

No.
Made sure of that, didn't he?

Where's the hire sansho?

The prickly ash.

If it's not there,
I'm sure I don't know.

- Did you throw it out?
- Why would I do that?

For spite and malice.

Where'd you get words like that?

The dictionary.

Like as not,
he took the muck himself.

Got burnt up
with the rest of it.

Those can go on the fire.

Did Mr. Holmes say
you were to do this?

He always disposes of that sort.

How do you know
what sort these are?

You want to know
who writes to him?

Pensioners who think
they've solved Jack the Ripper.

Widows who've lost their cats

and just know he's the only
man on Earth who can find them.

He's the last resort
for every lunatic out there.

- It's not your decision.
- It is...

If I'm to be a full-bore
medical staff at cook's wages.

He's an invalid. Needs a nurse,
not a housekeeper.

All he did was took a fall.

Your granddad
was hale and hearty

60 summers then he took a fall.

It was three weeks
to the day he died.

Should be in hospital.
That or one of them places.

He'll get better!

And the day he does
is the day we go.

Is that clear?

Hmm.

- Oh.
- Got a letter from Japan.

It's from Mr. Umezaki.

- Have you read it?
- No. Wanted to.

Sin of desire.
You're a Catholic.

Mum says you throw out
most of the letters you get.

And why do you think that is?

The people who write
want you to solve things.

If you read their letters,
you'd want to help.

Oh, no.
You give me too much credit.

It's just
if I were to read them,

I'd feel obliged to respond.

Perhaps Mr. Umezaki's
asking you to go back to Japan.

Oh. I'll never go back to Japan.

- Why not?
- Long journey, old man.

- You made it before.
- That was before.

Maybe you could get
more prickly ash.

The prickly ash hasn't made

a bit of difference
to my memory,

any more
than the royal jelly did.

Yes.

The only inspiration

for any sort of recollections
has been you.

Go on. You open it.

He's writing to say
his mother is dead.

How could you tell?

Mr. Umezaki swore that
he would never contact me again.

The only thing that would
make him change his mind

would be a deathbed instruction
from his mother.

A good son always does
what his mother asks.

Mr. Holmes!

You're not to be out of bed!

Mrs. Munro,
I have counted the steps

from the bed to the window,
from the window to the...

You're not to do anything
on your own.

You're to ring.

I thought it was an imposition.

It will be an imposition
if you lose your bearings

and end up on the floor
for me to collect!

I hadn't realised
that this had become

an industrial dispute.

I've been trying
to calculate the likelihood

that we should find hire sansho

in a place
so utterly devoid of life.

Perhaps it is life
reasserting itself.

Hire sansho.

How does it taste?

It isn't for the taste
that we sought it.

Ah, now, before we leave,

there's something
that I mustn't forget.

I've signed it,
as you requested.

Oh.

Not certain
you can read my scrawl.

"To Mr. Umezaki, who has not
owned this book for long."

You haven't had this book
for 20 years.

It came from the library.

The glue mark shows
where you removed

the card jacket.

You know nothing about bees
or royal jelly or prickly ash.

Enough to bring you here.

During our correspondence
over the last few months...

was my name not familiar to you?

- No.
- My father's, then?

Masuo Umezaki?

I never knew your father.

He was a diplomat in London,
years ago.

He loved all things English.

The first gift he gave to me
was a cricket bat.

The second was this.

In English,
so as to "assist my education."

"After consulting

"with the very great
detective Sherlock Holmes,

"I realise it's in the best
interests of us all

"that I remain
in England indefinitely.

"You will see from this book

"that he is a very wise
and intelligent man,

and that his say in this matter
should not be taken lightly."

We never heard from him again.

- I'm sorry.
- My mother is dying.

She grew old without a husband.
All because of you.

I understand.

The last time
you heard from your father

was the first time
you heard about me.

Masuo vanished from your life

and I arrived...
in the form of a book.

One replaced the other,
as it were.

I suggest you and your mother
take whatever time you have

to come to terms
with the facts of the case.

A man abandoned his family
and wrote his son a story.

He wouldn't be the first

to cloak his cowardice
in a flag of sacrifice.

I'm sorry.

But I never knew your father.

I shall not bother you
any longer with my questions.

But if the prickly ash succeeds,
you will let me know?

Aargh, argh!

Aargh!

Help.

Help.

Thank you.

I look like I've been attacked

by the Hound
of the Baskervilles.

Can't let Mum

- see you wearing that top.
- No.

- It's evidence.
- Yes.

What of? A murder?

Oh... I've something for you.

No.

Apis cerana japonica.

- They have bees in Japan?
- Yes. Just like our bees.

Only they're Japanese.

No, it's for you. It's a gift.

Oh. Thank you.

Arigato, as they say in Japan.

Something the matter?

You lost
another dozen bees today.

- A dozen?
- What do you think it is?

An outbreak of mortality.

Could be a disease
we've not seen before,

or a sudden mutation.

You bring up some corpses
and we'll examine them.

- Yes, sir!
- And my glass.

Study.
Should be in one of the drawers.

Roger?

Roger?

- Mr. Holmes feels better today.
- Is that so?

Hmm.

Mr. Holmes feels so much better,

we're about to start
an investigation.

Of what?

The crime wave
that has done away

with a number of our apiary's
most prominent residents.

Well. If you need suspects,
you know where to find me.

Mum, wait.

I bet if we asked, Mr. Holmes
would... do his thing.

The thing he does
where he tells people

who they are and where
they've been, just from looking.

Do Mum for her.

I'm sure your mother

doesn't need to be told
where she's been.

Let's not bother Mr. Holmes
with any foolishness.

It's not foolishness. Here.

You come and stand in front
of Mr. Holmes. Just like that.

And he will tell you
where you've been.

Do it.

You want her
to turn in a circle?

No, that won't be necessary.

Turn in a circle.

You've been away
most of the day.

The soot on your dress attests

that you went by train
to Portsmouth,

as all other nearby rail lines
which might accommodate

a return trip of this length
are under repair or beyond it.

In Portsmouth, you met
the couple who run the hotel.

Your hair and nails are evidence
that you wished to make

a favourable impression.

They made you an offer,
you accepted.

You declined tea,
and did not see the sister

for whom you have
no particular fondness,

using my indisposition
as an excuse to hurry back.

- It wasn't an excuse.
- You accepted?

Start a week Monday.

Both of us?

- We're both going.
- She wants me

to be a bootblack!

Roger!

She wants me
to do what she does!

There is no shame in what I do!

You complain enough about it!
Always going on

about how hard things are.
And you wish you had it better!

She can barely read!

Go after her.

Apologise for saying things
that were meant to hurt.

You were cruel!

If you don't apologise,
you will regret it.

- People always say that.
- Because it's true.

Moi, je regrette tellement.

- You regret...
- So much!

Your dad hated
what he did for a living.

Mechanic in a garage,
like his dad before him.

When he got called up,
he said to me,

"My love,
I'll not spend this war

"underneath the oil pan
of some toff's jeep.

I'm gonna put in for the RAF."

So he did.

He trained.

Scored high marks, got assigned
to a Bristol Blenheim, Mark IV.

Blown out of the sky.
First time up.

All his mates
who worked the motor pool

came home without a scratch.

I shouldn't have said
what I said.

Lesson there, then.

Don't say everything you think.

Look.

- How did you find that?
- In your desk.

- Couldn't have.
- The one in the corner.

Didn't know it was a desk
until I opened it.

Oh, that's not my desk,
it's John's.

He left it at Baker Street
when he went off to get married.

Yes, and there's
a secret compartment

containing the very glove
you've been writing about.

I know you say Dr. Watson
didn't always

get things right,
but in the story...

I am not working
on that story anymore.

Yes, but in Watson's story,
he does have the armonica in it.

And the German lady.
And that glove.

So maybe
he did get things right.

No, that's not possible.

John had gone
from Baker Street by then.

Well, then why was it in there?

I don't know!

And if I ever did know,
I don't remember.

If you can't remember,

then why couldn't the case
have been a success

- like Dr. Watson wrote it?
- Because it was my last case.

And if I'd brought it
to a successful conclusion,

I wouldn't have left
the profession

and spent 35 years here, in
this place, away from the world!

I chose exile for my punishment,
but what was it for?

I must have done something
terribly wrong...

And I've no evidence
of what it was.

Only pain, guilt...

Useless, worthless feelings!

I wish to God I'd never even
taken Umezaki's case!

- Kelmot's.
- What?

Kelmot's case. You said Umezaki.

Roger. Tea's ready.

Best clear this up.

Mr. Holmes.
Would you like your tea now?

Mr. Holmes?

If you die...
what'll happen to the bees?

I haven't a clue.

One can't solve everything.

Said to be used
to call for the dead.

Death, mourning, grief...

They're all commonplace.

Logic is rare.

The dead are not
so very far away.

They're just on the other side
of the wall.

Now, whenever did you say that?

Ply your parlour tricks
elsewhere, Mr. Holmes.

My husband could never succeed
at deception

so long as I do his laundry.

I don't know much
about your profession,

but I doubt predicting

the future of women
you're engaged to follow

is common practice.

It was intended only as a means

to achieve a desired result.

- That being what?
- To delay your actions.

To keep you
from this appointment

you seem so eager to make.

Even before
I glimpsed you today,

I'd gleaned some
of the passionate

feelings you have
for your husband.

The man who took away
the music you loved,

denied you the pleasures
of your lessons,

even refused even
to mark a child's grave.

All these predicted
your antipathy.

And then I witnessed
your actions.

Forging his signature,

drawing down his account,

purchasing poison,
consulting his will,

planning an escape
with a mystery man

who was paid a handsome fee.

And all for my benefit.

A convincing set
of circumstances,

signalling your intention
to murder your husband.

But for two errors.

We must place blame
on your husband for the first.

If Mr. Kelmot had not blundered

into Madame Schirmer's
atelier...

and so taken me from my course,

you wouldn't have had
to loiter on the street

for such a suspiciously long
period of time.

But you had no choice,
so loiter you did.

I would also make
the observation

that there is nothing about you

that signifies the type of woman
who enjoys window shopping,

especially the window
of a taxidermist.

Was that the second error?

No, merely confirmation
of the first.

The second was unavoidable,
and all the more damning.

The man at the station.

Everything about him,

his clothes,
the patches on his trousers,

his hands,
scarred and burned with acid,

announced his profession.

Stonemason.

Money must have been
a dire necessity,

else you would never have forged
your husband's signature.

The money was to pay
for the headstones

your husband would not allow.

For Grace. For James.

For you.

Was arranging things
to make it look

as if Mr. Kelmot
was the intended victim

simply to keep me off the trail?

When I found the card...
I was furious.

That Thomas
should know me so little

that he had need to employ a
detective to uncover the truth.

Then it struck me,

if anyone could understand,
it would be you.

Thomas thinks I'm mad
because I speak to my children.

He doesn't understand.

The dead
are not so very far away.

They're just...

on the other side of the wall.

It's us, on this side,
who are, all of us so...

Alone?

I have been alone...

all my life.

But with the compensations
of the intellect.

- And is that enough?
- It can be.

If one is so fortunate
as to find a place in the world.

And another soul with whom
one's loneliness can reside.

Do you know a place where
two such souls might reside?

It was an offer
unlike any I had ever received.

She wanted to share
her solitude with me.

It was only later I realised

how fateful
my decision would be.

You have a husband
who loves you.

Go home to him.

Mr. Holmes...

You have my thanks.

What more, madam, could I do?

She had poured out
the contents of the bottle

and,
with no malice aforethought,

poisoned the innocent witness.

If it had been
one of John's stories,

he would have called it
a foreshadowing.

Our time together was fleeting.

Less than an hour, really.

Yet her death made me see
that human nature was a mystery

that logic alone
could not illuminate.

I had successfully deduced
the facts of her case,

but I had failed
to grasp their meaning.

Never had I felt

such an incomprehensible
emptiness within myself.

Only then did I begin
to understand

how utterly alone
I was in the world.

Mrs. Hudson wrote to Watson.

He came at once.

He stayed with me, in our
old rooms, for a month more.

I told him about the case,
everything in great detail.

He brought me back
from the brink.

And then Watson wrote the story.

He made me the hero.

It was his way
of bestowing a kindness.

He knew no other manner

in which to write
the character he had created.

After all those years,
John didn't know me at all.

Why he took the glove
I can only surmise,

was it to prevent it becoming
too powerful a reminder,

to keep it from being
a well of sadness

to which I might return?

But he could not bring himself
to destroy it either.

After that,
John and I were estranged.

Three years later,
he too was gone,

without us ever
having said goodbye.

And thus concludes
the true story

of a woman
who died before her time,

and a man who, until recently,

was certain he had outlived his.

Roger with the bees?

Like as not.

Must tell him
something important.

You continue with
whatever it was you were doing.

You might ask him
where the watering can's got to!

Ambulance?
Yes, this is Headly House.

- Headly?
- Yes, quickly!

And bring some supplies
of adrenaline.

- Headly House?
- That's right, Headly!

Roger?

Roger!

Roger?

Oh, Roger. Oh, no!
No, no, no, no, no, no!

Roger. Oh, Roger!

Mr. Holmes?

It's Inspector Gilbert.

Mr. Holmes?

Yes, Inspector?

They're giving the boy
injections of adrenaline,

as you said to, but...

he's not looking good.

He was fleeing his attackers.

His footprints.

Their pattern shows that
his flight was disorientated.

The swarm must have followed him
in their attack.

And before
he lost consciousness,

his skin would have flushed,

accompanied by burning pain...

A drop in blood pressure,
weakness.

His throat and mouth
would be swollen

which explains
why he didn't call for help.

Then a drop in heart rate...

Inability to breathe...

Shock.

Did you know
he was allergic to bees?

I was certain he wasn't.

No, no! No, Mrs. Munro, no!

You mustn't do that!

My son... won't wake.

He may never wake.

They sent me away till morning.

You didn't even have the decency

to tell me
what'd happened to him!

I didn't think
it would make a difference.

I'm his mother!

I'm his mother...

And you stole him from me!

He's all I had!

And I've lost him now.

Why wasn't it you
they did it to?

- It should've been you!
- The bees were not to blame.

They're all you care about!

No! I care about Roger.

I care about him very much.

The bees... didn't do it.

The bees were not to blame.

It was the wasps!

Roger was trying to find out
what was killing the bees.

And he did.
He found the wasps' nest.

He had to stop them
wiping out the bees.

And so he did
the worst possible thing.

He tried to drown them
with water from his can.

How do you know it was them?

Bees leave their stings.
Wasps don't.

There were no stings left
in Roger's face.

And when they attacked,
he dropped the watering can

and ran up to protect the bees.

There are his footprints from
the apiary to the nest and back.

He was trying to save the bees.

Yes.

Yes.

There was a woman, once.

I knew her less than a day.

A quarter of an hour's
conversation.

She needed my help.

She needed so desperately
to be understood by someone...

Me.

So, I laid out the particulars
of her case as I saw them...

To her satisfaction, I thought.

I watched her walk away.

And within hours
she'd ended her life.

By identifying the cause of
her despair with such clarity,

I'd given her carte blanche
to do just as she intended.

I should've done
whatever it took to save her.

Lie to her, make up a story.

Take her by the hand
and hold her as she wept,

and said, "Come live with me."

"Let us be alone together."

But I was fearful.

Selfish.

She's the reason...

I came here to my bees,

so that I couldn't harm
anyone ever again.

I'm leaving you the house.

You and Roger.

House, grounds, apiary,
everything within and without.

And as I shan't change my mind

on this point,
you will see, I trust,

that it will be greatly less
complicated for all concerned

if the two of you

don't go off...

to somewhere like... Portsmouth.

Mrs. Munro?

Roger's awake.

Dear Mr. Umezaki,

I write to tell you
that I have at last

recalled my meeting
with your father.

A woman had died because
I failed to solve her case.

Guilt and recrimination
having taken their toll on me,

my powers
were far from at their best

when I received
an urgent message

summoning me
to the Diogenes Club

to meet with my brother Mycroft.

This gentleman has made
an offer of service.

He wishes to work for the Crown.

I'm here to be tested,
Mr. Holmes.

I very much want to be of use.

Do you think that I am suited?

I'm sure, sir.

Good. There is one minor issue.

Mr. Umezaki
has a wife and child in Japan.

He wonders
what would be the best course.

Write a letter saying
you plan to stay on in England.

Could be a long while
until your return.

Your father went on to serve

the British Empire
for many years

in absolute secrecy and
with the greatest distinction,

from...

the Malay... Straits...

to the Arabian Sea.

He was a man of courage,
heart and dignity,

of whom a beloved wife
and cherished son

may be deservedly proud.

Sherlock Holmes.

Hmmm.

My friend John.

My brother Mycroft.

Mrs. Hudson.

Masuo Umezaki.

Maya... Umezaki.

Ann.

And who is that one for?

Me. You.

Well, not yet awhile, surely?

Did you finish
what you had to do?

Yes, I did.

My first foray
into the world of fiction.

One shouldn't leave this life
without a sense of completion.

You can use this
in one of your stories.

A glass, a bee...

and Roger.

Show me how to knock them out.

Go on.

- The queen runs the colony.
- Mm-hmm.

The drones service the queen.

The workers do the work.

Isn't it true?