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I give and bequeath unto my devoted friend and associate, Dr. John H. Watson, often tried, sometimes trying, but never found wanting in loyalty; my well-intentioned though unavailing mentor against the blandishments of vice, my indispensable foil and whetstone; the perfect sop to my wounded vanity and too tactful to whisper ‘Norbury’ in my ear when necessary; the ideal listener and the audience par excellence for those little tricks which others more discerning might well have deemed meretricious; the faithful Boswell to whose literary efforts – despite my occasional unkindly gibes – I owe whatever little fame I have enjoyed; in short, to the one true friend I have ever had, the sum of 5,000 pounds; also the choice of any books in my personal library (with such reservations as are mentioned below), including my commonplace books and the complete file of my cases, published and unpublished, with the sole exception of the papers in pigeonhole ‘M,’ contained in a blue envelope and marked ‘Moriarty’ which the proper authorities will take over in the event my demise should make it impossible for me to hand them over in person.
To George Lestrade, of Scotland Yard, my gilt-edged German dictionary, in the hope he will find it useful should he again see the handwriting of Miss Rachel on the wall.
To Tobias Gregson, ditto, my leatherbound Hafiz, the study of whose poetry may supply a dash of that imagination so necessary to the ideal reasoner.
To the authorities of Scotland Yard, one copy of each of my trifling monographs on crime detective, unless happily they shall feel they have outgrown the need for the elementary suggestions of an amateur detective.