Chapter 1
I sat down on the wooden bench by the boat-dock. I carried with me my doctor's case—I was a doctor by trade—and my dear friend, Sherlock Holmes, sat beside me.
Now, dear readers, do not mistakenly take me as the late John H. Watson, Ph.D., the famed boswell of the deceased Sherlock Holmes, the famous amateur detective and last court of appeal in many criminal cases. I am John Watson, Jr., and John Watson sr. is my late father, who sadly passed away in 1901. I was only 2 when the incident happened, and, though I have myself few accounts of his habits and personality, relatives and friends often inform me of the uncanny similarities we have. My friend, Sherlock J. Holmes, was the son of Mycroft Holmes, who graciously named his son after his brother.
Seeing that his uncle and my father were as close as close could be, we associated regularly even in our youth. I became, like my father, a practitioner, and he followed in his uncle's footsteps and became an amateur criminal detective. This is not the first case I have worked with him upon, as my late father and his friend commonly did; however, it is the first I have documented on paper.
We were travelling from Switzerland back to London, to take over a quite extraordinary case. The details given over the telephone were vague, but it interested my friend deeply and he was determined to take part of it. As we sat, waiting for our ferry to dock, a short, stout man with a hat and quite a nice beard sat to the other side of Sherlock Holmes.