"I fear that it may be the last investigation in which I shall have the chance of studying your methods. Miss Morstan has done me the honour to accept me as a husband in prospective."
He gave a most dismal groan.
"I feared as much," said he. "I really cannot congratulate you."
I was a little hurt.
"Have you any reason to be dissatisfied with my choice?" I asked.
"Not at all. I think she is one of the most charming young ladies I ever met and might have been most useful in such work as we have been doing. She had a decided genius that way witness the way in which she preserved that Agra plan from all the other papers of her father. But love is an emotional thing, and whatever is emotional is opposed to that true cold reason which I place above all things. I should never marry myself, lest I bias my judgment."
There is so much to unpack there. Holmes regard, then the stab at love, and his stance on marriage, half sad, and also, half romantic, because not said there is that for him, marriage is for love *grin*
"The division seems rather unfair," I remarked. "You have done all the work in this business. I get a wife out of it, Jones gets the credit, pray what remains for you?"
"For me," said Sherlock Holmes, "there still remains the cocaine-bottle."
I will forever wince at those last lines. I'm aware that in context, the opium and cocaine thing is akin to chain smoking and monster espressos/energy drinks, so it's not exactly the jolt of time marching on, but this full circle we make with the beginning. He lives for the mystery and is truly alive during the case. It's brilliant to see, but sad, and lonely.
Also, I've seen a lot around about Holmes being a depiction of a manic-depressive, but I wonder. He's very trigger-orientated on his phases.
Onto the short stories now