The singular Mr Sherlock Holmes, Dr Watson et al are the creations of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. This is a work of fan fiction, written by a fan for the enjoyment, I hope, of other fans. No harm is meant or intended by its creation.

The Case of the Reluctant Tenant

Chapter One

Looking back over the course of my career, in particular those few cases which my friend and biographer has been good enough to recount for the interest of the general public, I find that I am mostly satisfied with the legacy I shall leave for future generations.

I emphasise mostly, for it is my honest contention that the good Doctor has added sensationalism where there was none, colour to the dullest of intrigues and saddled my persona with the most unattractive of features. Many times did I rail at him for such banality, and his answer was invariably the same, that he could only write of what he knew.

In this argument, I cannot fault his logic. If I take a more detached perspective on the thing, I see now how I have verged on the precipice of eccentricity, if not wholly toppled headlong into the pit. Without my powers of deduction and logic, I am sure that I would have been decried as a lunatic and shuffled away to an asylum long before now.

In my December years, I find myself looking back to these early accounts if only to assure myself that this singular individual, of whom I cannot totally disavow as an inaccurate representation of myself, was not merely a figment of an overactive imagination. If truly Watson has written of what he knew, then I can only wonder that he endured our friendship for so long.

I could have wished, perhaps, for less candour, but even in that I cannot blame him. The blank page acts as confessional and rips from the soul what to speak would be difficult. I find myself in that situation now, with the pen moving in my hand almost with a will of its own, laying bare my deepest secrets, my sorrows, my regrets.

Well may Watson write of his own experience, but there is also much he does not know, even now after a distance of many years, for times there were when he was not at my side to chronicle my endeavours, times when Holmes the living, breathing entity was as distant from his literary depiction as the Sun from the Earth.

Such a time was on a wintry afternoon in late 1888 when I stood alone in our rooms in Baker Street and felt overwhelmed by such a sense of loss that logic and emotion fought their giddy battle in my head and left me in a state of confusion.

Several hours before, I had sat in the rearmost pew of a draughty church and watched at a distance as vows were made and sealed with a ring. The few people there crowded the front pews, all smiles and happy faces beaming on the newlyweds.

For myself, I felt nothing, just a cold emptiness where I assumed there should have been joy. I had never agreed with this match, as if my opinion mattered, but had not deliberately interfered, hoping that common sense would prevail.

It never did.

In fact, as the date grew never and the bands were called for the last time, he had the temerity to ask me to stand as his best man. Of course I had declined, saying that such an unreliable fellow as myself was undeserving of the honour and bound to let him down. He had accepted this refusal with good grace and found an alternative in a former army comrade, although I have since learnt of the depth of his disappointment on that day.

Perhaps, however, I have always known, and the darker part of my soul whispers that that had been my intention all along, to wound as I was wounded. That same perverseness of spirit drove me out of Baker Street at an ineffably early hour on the morning of the wedding on the pretext of some minor business and held me at bay until the service had commenced when I was able to slip in quietly at the back to take my place unobserved.

Only when the ceremony ended and the procession down the nave began did he see me. I fancied I perceived some faint smile of pleasure on his part when he saw that I had made the supreme effort to attend his nuptials, although stickler for custom that he is, he made no other attempt to acknowledge my presence until all were safely from the church.

I sidled out after the few guests and had seriously considered returning to Baker Street. Had I not been caught and pressed to attend the wedding breakfast, I should surely have spared myself the agony. Social settings hold little attraction for me, lest so when they are populated by a host of people more curious about my affairs than I about theirs.

Even with the deed done, I still could not bring myself to offer my congratulations. Instead I was abrupt, terse almost, and should have departed sooner had not I been prevailed upon to wait for the cutting of the cake. That ordeal over, I took the offering and left.

My feet should have turned for home, except that I found I had no particular desire to return after all. I wandered the streets like a lost soul until a light rain began to fall and forced me to reconsider.

Mrs Hudson had made some attempt to inquire as to the ceremony as I relieved myself of my overcoat, but I was in no mood to bandy words with her. Instead, I hurried upstairs to that unhappy state which left me reeling from its effects.

It was not that I was alone. Often were the times when he had been absent before on my return. What made it so different this time was that I knew he would not be back. He would visit no doubt, as one visits a maiden aunt, but that intimacy – the quiet pipe before the fire, the comfortable silence that exists only between old friends, the shared thrill of the chase – was forever lost

If I had not appreciated it at the time, I found I missed it all the more keenly now. Had I had my way, this state could have endured forever. But this was not my way and not my choice – it was all Watson's doing.

I felt strangely betrayed.

It was not a welcome feeling and one that troubled me immensely, being unable to isolate its cause. In reality, it mattered not a jot to me whether Watson was present or not. The economic necessity that had brought us together no longer came into the equation where I was concerned and I could easily shoulder the rent without outside help. I did not actively seek companionship and often found that the course of my investigations went smoother went I worked alone.

And yet, despite all logical arguments to the contrary, I missed him. That cold, severe machine that Watson described in the pages of his stories had a heart after all.

This state of course was quite unacceptable. I had no case to break the annoyance of these thoughts, no petty problem to occupy my mind. My attention inevitably turned to the solace afforded by the contents of the locked drawer of my desk.

I could almost hear Watson's disapproval as I prepared the solution. Just recently he had been labouring under the misapprehension that he was in some way succeeding in weaning me from its influence. I had allowed him to believe this because the notion that he had some influence over me seemed to please him, as much as it pleased me to know that he did not.

Without his stern reprobation, however, I found that the contentment my indulgence usually bestowed had little effect, as if the act of defiance alone had been the spice which had added fire to my habit. His going had denied me even that, and with the greatest satisfaction I gave into my resentment and sought escape a second time in as many hours.

Little did I know how easily it could have been my last.

To be continued.

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