If you're here, then you're probably interested in my life.
My life was boring. You're not going to find much here about my life. If you do in fact want to hear about my life, then read this next paragraph with avid attention and then leave.
My name is John Hamish Watson. I was born and raised in Hampshire in 1900. My sister, Harriet, was a drunk since she was fifteen, a shame to the Watson name. I went to university to become a doctor but was shipped out to the French lines in the First World War where I was promptly shot and I returned home to London as a broken man. I lived on an army pension for two years before I got myself a job as a writer for the Times and moved to a tiny flat in central London. I got married three times and had a stillborn girl with Mary, my first. I was sixty three when I died.
Now, if you're still here, then you're wondering what could be so interesting now that I've lived and died. The simple fact is that the other people I met after I died are much more interesting that I. You see, I lived in 221B Baker Street with my third wife and died there of a heart attack. I never really left, because I woke up the following morning and went down to rest by the window when I realized my body hadn't followed me. My wife moved out two days later but I couldn't leave my flat to follow her.
I sat by my window as a very lonely ghost more often than not and watched the days and years pass. I watched the world revolutionize and I watched my new, unaware flatmates as they came and went and cried and died. I remember them all; over nearly fifty years as I sat and watched them live.
Each of my tenants was special and personal to me. I honestly wish I had known them in my lifetime so I could have spoken to them and known them as people. But I am a ghost and I cannot speak to them. I can only watch them live.
To tell you the rest of my story, I have to tell you theirs. My life as a ghost continues and runs along the lives of the living flatmates who took 221B as theirs and conducted their lives from the room where I sat with my lovely wife every morning before I died. I learned as they did and watched their mistakes ruin their lives or make them.
My first unaware flatmate was a man called Gregory Lestrade. He was an interesting and a private man. I always feel sadness whenever I think of his time spent in 221B.
Really short prologue. Expect more soon—hopefully. Please leave a review if you'd like and I'll see you next chapter when Inspector Gregory Lestrade and family moves into 221B to not really meet the resident ghost, John Watson.
-Spirit-