Mr. Monk meets Doctor Watson
What would happen if Doctor Watson, tired of covering Sherlock Holmes' eccentricities - decided to pay a visit to California and write his experience on a case with Mr. Monk and Sharona. Meant to be humorous. Watson's character is partly based on the "canon" - partly based upon the more blustery/ bumbling Watson played by Nigel Bruce in the movies/ radio series with Basil Rathbone.
During this story Watson is married (to Mary Watson - ne Morstan) though naturally it can't be placed in any chronology.
CHAPTER 1 - 221B BAKER STREET
It was a dreary evening. I was making my medical rounds. These days, I'm something of rarity. A doctor who has the common sense to make house calls. I always considered it the height of imbecility to make the sick ramble out of doors to see their physician - rather than peacefully convalescing at home.
And what a day it was to be ploughing through the London streets. It was unseasonably cold, and the city was gripping in one of its deadly, damp, murky yellowish-black fogs.
"And I thought we had finally put to rest those dreary coal furnaces and coal fires," I said to myself. I was making my way along Baker Street, picking my way tenderly against a crowd of aimless youngsters.
I was walking past by my old lodgings. To my surprise, I saw the silhouette of my old friend in the lighted window of 221B. Knowing him usually to be out at this time of day, I seized upon an inspiration. I would pay a visit to my old friend Sherlock Holmes, and rest up for the final leg of my journey.
I rang the bell, and went up the familiar set of stairs.
"Watson," said Holmes, graciously, as he greeted me at the door of my old chambers. "I see your practice is doing well."
"Too well, Holmes," I commented, as I sat in my accustomed chair - in the corner by the fire. "I'll drive myself ill running here and there through the city."
"Now, now, Watson," chided Holmes, lighting his pipe. "Surely you're not going to change your methods of practice merely because some infant patient received you in a most ungracious manner."
"Ungracious," I snorted. Holmes was certainly prone to understatement.
"The fact the young boy wouldn't take his medicine, threw a tantrum and effected battery on your person seems to have put you out of sorts," he said, smoking.
"Why Holmes?" I asked. "How could . . . ."
"Elementary, my dear Watson. When a good doctor has a toy car concealed in his waistcoat pocket, I know he has been visiting a child patient. When he sports a spot of sticky raspberry flavored medicine on his collar, I know that child would not take his medicine. It is evident from the faint marks on your left thumb that the child bites.
The child has all his baby teeth - and chooses to bite. That he chooses to bite, - that makes him no older than six. Thus, I should place his age at four or five.
When a competent doctor - with a record of military service - places his equipment in his black bag in such a disorderly manner - see, how one side bulges outward - one may deduce his last patient had been quite a disorderly one."
"A beastly five year old by the name of Rex Smith," I mumbled. A boy who found medicine horrid, and the doctor distasteful. Any normal child would ordinarily be grateful to be home from school. . . ."
I was interrupted.
"Wait, there is the bell," said Holmes. "If you'd be so kind as to stay, you should hear a very interesting case."
"Of course, Holmes," said I, "As soon as I tell Mary. . ."
"Yes," said Holmes, seriously. "But I must ask you to promise not to reveal the details of this case in you memoirs."
"Yes. I understand if this is a case where discretion may be advised."
"Oh, it's not that, Watson" said Holmes, laconically. "I cannot stand another of you writing a hammed drama of what should be a textbook case on the science of deduction."
"My dear Holmes!" I said, somewhat indignant.
"That is my final word," he said sternly.
I was in no mood to acquiesce to such an affront upon my efforts.
"Perhaps I'll write about another detective," I huffed. "Maybe that Adrian Monk chap in San Francisco."
"Mrs. Watson has been wanting to visit California," observed Holmes, nonchalant. "And you have always wanted to see where Petri Wine is manufactured. I think it would do you a great deal of good, old boy. From what I can gather from the papers, that Adrian Monk would make an interesting study!"
"Well . . . if I'm not wanted here" I mumbled, picking up my hat and medical bag.
Deeply offended, I solemnly marched out of the room, past a surprised Mrs. Hudson and Holmes newest client, a rather comical man in top hat, black coat, and striped trousers.