WATSON: I say, Holmes.
HOLMES: Yes, Watson?
WATSON: I do believe it's time to cut the cord.
HOLMES: Watson, if it's about those chocolate hobnobs that you polished off last night, it's OK. Really.
WATSON: No, Holmes, you've got the wrong end of the thermometer. It's time for me to leave.
HOLMES: And you want me to approve it?
WATSON: Not exactly. I just thought...
HOLMES: That I might persuade you to stay? My dear batty quacky, man is born with freewill and the ability to make his own decisions. If you want to leave, you must have a perfectly good reason for doing so. I shall not intervene in your yearnings.
WATSON: So that's it, is it? Fifteen years of unwavering devotion and all I get is a footnote about "yearnings".
HOLMES: My dear boy, what more do you want? A touching speech that tugs at the heart strings of every sensitive maid in Old Albion? A notice in the Times about your impending departure and a few lines of deep gratitude for all you have done to assist the great Sherlock Holmes on his travels? A commemorative fruit cake with the words "So long, Watty, old chum" emblazoned on it? A limited edition mug with your mug on it displaying that hallmark puzzled yet gormless expression? A telegram from the Queen requesting the pleasure of your company for the awarding of the CBE? What, pray, do you want?
WATSON: Nothing, Holmes. Nothing at all. But when it all goes, pardon my French, boobies up and there's no one to deal with your vagaries and penchants and you fail to solve a single crime, even of the most petty nature such as which dog piddled on which lamppost in which street, I hope you will regret your ill-conceived words. Because Holmes, and don't let me mince my pies here, you are NOTHING without me. And you just can't bear to admit it. Sir, you are below a sub-atomic species from the green lagoon. Contemptible would be too high an accolade for your sneering, petty, anal-repressive attentive misdemeanour. What an uttter plank you are! Goodbye.
HOLMES: Watson... Oh, for pity's sake. Must everything be a competition? Must I pretend to be that which I am not for the sake of domestic harmony? Must inadequacies in one's near and dear be brushed under the carpet and left to fester? Must sheer genius be misinterpreted as arrogance and abject selfishness? How long must I bear the burden of being superior and always right? I am reminded of my dear friend Baden-Powell's words: "We never fail when we try to do our duty, we always fail when we neglect to do it." I have tried to do my duty to Watson, God knows I've tried. But nothing lasts forever. And frankly, I think I've been holding him back. There is a darkness in his soul that needs to be let out. He needs to live more, get laid, get drunk, make mistakes, get hurt, wallow in humanity's mud. I've protected him for long enough. True, he might get seriously burnt by life's woes, he might even kick the bucket, but no longer will he be gaining sustenance from my shadow. It's for the best. It might affect revenue from the books and serial rights, but it's a risk I'm prepared to take. Can there be any greater sacrifice than letting your closest companion free to face certain oblivion, I mean to ascertain why we are living? It's got to be done. Besides, he'll turn into a raving lunatic if he stays here much longer. On the other hand, they'll be no one to whip at croquet or chess or to tell me just how great I really am... Oh, all right. He stays. Happy now?