Introduction
The Personal Diary of JOHN H. WATSON, M.D., Late of the Army Medical Department
The year is 1890, and I have just completed and published my second novel to date,'The Sign of Four.' No sooner had it hit the shops than my publisher was at my door, begging for more. The public, it seems, is as enamoured with my companion's adventures and my retelling of them as I am living them, a fact which both flatters and humbles me, immensely.
As such, it is time, then, to put pen to paper once more, but which stories to recount, I wonder? My dearest friend and I had dozens of expeditions into the seedy underbelly of London since I had originally begun my second endeavor into the literary world. Some excursions were full of intrigue, suspense and surprises such as 'The Five Orange Pips,' while others were so uneventful as to almost not even warrant our time such as 'The Simple Problem of Miss Mary Sutherland.' Yet, somehow, all seemed worthy of the page as they involved the great talents of the most brilliant mind I have had the great pleasure of knowing.
As I drew up my list of possibilities, however, a great feeling of guilt began to overtake me. There are a great many stories which I can not relate to the public due to the grave deception which I have perpetrated through these wondrous sagas. Indeed, it is a deception which the Consulting Detective has not only encouraged, but insisted upon. Still, the act pains me greatly, not only as an honest and trustworthy man, but also because it means hiding the true brilliance and greatness of my most cherished friend and colleague. At this, the eve of the twentieth century, it is truly a great time for our Queen and empire, for reason and understanding one's fellow man. For all of its positive points, it astounds me that a subterfuge of this nature is even necessary, but alas, the collective logic of my fellow Englishmen has not yet reached a level of acceptance for a truth of this nature.
It is a fact which I have only shared with one other living soul, my loving wife Mary, and that was divulged only out of familial obligation. So, I pen it here, for if I cannot share my innermost thoughts with myself, then on whom can I truly rely? However, even now, I find it difficult to compose the truth upon the page, feeling it in some way disloyal or unwarranted. I'm sure my hesitation in the matter would be more offensive to the subject of the deception that the act itself, but still, my pen stalls. But I must remain resolute in my decision for fear of the reality dying with me.
There are stories which must be written, adventures which must live again if only in this personal record of events. Stories which, unfortunately, the public at large is not yet ready for, and they are the poorer for it. So, with a deep and steadying breath, I compose the secret I have kept so heavily guarded for these many years.
Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective and the subject of my many adventure stories, is a woman.
The fact may be at first astounding to anyone who is familiar with the fiction of my creation. That, as fearsome and formidable a creature of which I have described, could ever be confined to such a delicate frame as the female form, but, to be sure, the only detail which I have falsified is my companion's gender. Scarlet Augusta Holmes, as she was born to be known, is as tall and slender as any noble born Englishman, sporting dark, angular features which make her overall appearance quite severe, indeed. Given the nature of her work, taking the guise of a man is often to her advantage. As such, she consistently keeps her hair short, opting for a wig when necessary to return to the role of a woman. She has also become accustomed to donning a false nose, which only adds to her hawk-like appearance. Her voice is a low husky rasp, a side effect of years of smoking and habitual drug use, giving her very sound that of a man. Indeed, the illusion is quite complete, and anyone taken in by it should not be ashamed to have been misled.
Even so, the transformation back to her God-given form is truly admirable. Her figure is as fine as any in Europe and her beauty is rivaled only by a handful of her sex. As for her tastes in clothing, you'd find items to equal her closet only on the finest streets of Paris. She'll have nothing but the latest fashions, and her personal styling as both a man and woman are impeccable. Holmes will easily turn half a dozen heads on a short walk and most of London on a long one. It is a raw, natural talent which she has used to her advantage on many a case, which is what makes conveying those stories to the public at large very difficult.
It is worth noting, at this point in my recountance, that I do not, nor have I ever, had a romantic interest in my colleague.
Of all the facts which I have revealed previously, that may be the most difficult to comprehend, especially following that description. To be sure, the qualities which I have illustrated as having felt for my companion these past years, admiration, loyalty, unwavering respect, are often attributed to the feeling of being in love, but the two are in no way mutually exclusive. In a way, what I feel for Holmes is a kind of love, but a type which is no more intimate than that of a sibling or other blood relation. Your question may be then as to why, if I hold her in such high esteem, that my feelings have not progressed into anything more than professional respect. The reasons are many, though there are only three of note.
The first is my dearest and most cherished love, Mary. Though I made her acquaintance some time after the celebrated detective, I am convinced, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that she is my soul's one true mate, a match long ago determined by the universe and executed by fate. She is my everything and I am convinced that, were we ever to be parted, the most graceful part of my self would be parted from me as well.
The second is that Holmes is far too logical a being to be taken in by such 'trivialities,' so called, as love or marriage. Though it would be ungentlemanly of me to ask, I am wholeheartedly convinced that she has never shared a bed with another, nor does she desire to do so in the slightest. Such predilections would surely be viewed as nothing more than a distraction and hindrance to the delicate instrument which is her mind.
The last, and arguably most important detail is that I would never be so brazen as to steal another man's wife, no matter the situation. Yes, in fact, the world's foremost authority on crime has been married these past 20 years to one Victor Trevor. The marriage was one of convenience and logic, not of sentiment. It is not difficult to fathom that, even at the young age of 16, Holmes was more than capable of rationally deciding such an everlasting thing as marriage.
I have not been privy to all the details as Holmes finds it a subject not worth her time and I am too gentlemanly to ask, however, I have understood a few aspects of the hasty union. Classmates in school, the two developed a kinship based on similar attitudes and mutual respect. When her fate as a woman became painfully obvious, the two struck a bargain and were married within a fortnight. The 'legal matter,' as Holmes refers to it, was mutually beneficial, allowing Holmes legal and social freedoms, and Trevor social standing and a not insignificant dowry.
I have met the man only once, when a document needed to be signed by both him and Holmes. Even after only this short acquaintance, it did not pass my notice that the gentleman in his company was more than a bit familiar with the man and an active bachelor, himself. I asked no questions and was offered no answers, however their arrangement was much more clear to me after that day.
Now, I know there are some who would say a woman's mind is too feeble and delicate to conduct the acts which I have most famously portrayed. In fact, it was often that Holmes herself would be the first to speak harsh words against her own sex. That is, however, until she met Miss Irene Adler, a story which I soon hope to chronicle to the public's satisfaction. But I assure you, her intellect is keener than any man's, surpassing that of any of her contemporaries to date. What am I saying?...She has no contemporaries.
The purpose of this diary is to chronicle all of the incidents in which my colleague's true personage is integral to the plot. Stories which the current modern mentality at large is not ready to embrace. My hope is that, one day, these tales will see the light of day and be as accepted as my previous serial. That the true brilliance of Mrs. Scarlet Augusta Holmes Trevor, the world's only consulting detective, will one day be celebrated by the world.