Naturally, I do not own Sherlock Holmes. He is the property of Arthur Conan Doyle.

I did not think that Holmes would have kept something so trivial or so incriminating as a diary. He had made speeches on the subject, as he was wont to do on just about any matter, in regards to his profession.

"Watson," said he. "A diary is a cruel thing to keep. It puts one in the utmost trouble if it is found or read by someone else. Many a time, in my career, I have found that the cases which are easiest to solve come when the person in question has kept a diary. It is most useful, Watson, a perfect jewel to the detective, but utter ruin to the one who keeps it."

This indictment of the habit led me to believe him incapable of keeping one. Perhaps that is why my only glimpse of his diary was when it was half-burnt by the fire. I had come in one January morning to discover a folio of sorts burning on the hearth fire along with the wood. Afraid it was one of my stories that Holmes had taken a particular dislike to, I quickly grabbed it out of the fire and did my best to salvage what I could of it. However, much to my surprise, when I looked closer I found that it was not in my hand at all, but in Holmes'.

Curious, I began reading my mysterious prize. He had written at the top of each page the date and a brief description of the London street outside, no doubt an exercise of sorts that he did in order to keep his powers of observation in top form. As I read, I noticed that the entries were of a very sensitive nature. Here, he came right out and scolded the London police system, calling them nothing more than "a bunch of rattling idiots and no doubt the cause of many a good person hanged and murderous man run free." In another entry, he expounded on the proper way to burgle a house, citing three or four instances from his casework and twice from his own experiences in breaking and entering. A good many others would have been scandalous simply from the detail with which he described some of his clients, telling his own thoughts on both them and the case in more depth than I had been graced to know upon the occasion or should have wished to know.

With each page, I noticed the word "fire" becoming more and more prevalent until finally I examined in detail one of the entries where this was most concentrated. He had evidently gotten into the habit of writing these entries then burning them before I or anyone else could read them. In the one which I read, he was lamenting that he could not seem to stop writing them, threatening to throw both it and the pen into the fire ahead of schedule so that he might curb the "atrocious habit" once and for all. However, his wishes were in vain as on the very next page he was describing in lurid detail the fingernails of a hanged man and his assumptions, for here he would admit that some of his conclusions were not all based in fact, on what the man had been hanged for.

All of these were exceedingly interesting, but one entry caught my eye above them all. It was at the back of the folio and thus nearly unscathed as Holmes had thrown the papers with the front page first into the fire. It went as such:

January 15th, 1899

Street: Deserted, save for a man and his brown-spotted spaniel sheltering themselves in the doorway of Farland's. Rain since 7 a.m. as indicated by footprints and depth of carriage marks in the street as well as depth of water in Mrs. Peterson's begonia pot. Two coaches, five carriages, and three carts left impressions. Footprints too numerous to be singled out without magnifying glass. All windows shut, apart from Mr. Henson's who no doubt has yet to discover that it is raining…

This went on for nearly half the page, as if Holmes did not wish to get to the main body of his entry. Finally, after reading about how the petunia pots on Mrs. Stinton's window had shifted three inches to the left, I got to the main part, the first sentence of which shocked me. "If I could stop thinking, I might just learn to love" was written hurriedly below the observations. At first, I thought it might have been a quote, though I on no counts considered Holmes a literary man. For Holmes to even mention love, much less express any interest in it, was beyond my knowledge of him. As I have said before, in my dealings with him he has always referred to love as a weakness—as something that destroys reason. Thus, when I saw this sentence written out in his own hand, I immediately began to wonder whether the words were Holmes' own or some other person's. However, the quick motions of the pen and the blob of ink on the left side indicative of pondering to cross out something and deciding against it led me to believe that these were Holmes' own words. I read on with renewed interest:

If I could stop thinking, I might just learn to love.

I have been trained, or rather have trained myself, to be constantly thinking. My mind so rebels at any sort of stagnation that there is not a day, not an hour that passes without the constant hum of my mind going hither and thither. I have used this to my advantage by taking up work in which one must be alert at all times, when inspiration or observation may come at the most incongenial of moments and thus must always be on the watch for. It did not occur to me when I chose this that it might inhibit the softer passions. The softer passions had never been of any concern to me, or my work as they increasingly became one and the same. John did something to stop this by showing me, however much I dismissed it, that the people I dealt with were not just variables. His accounts, if I may call them that, of my work were littered with emotions and characters that had failed to even register with me. What did I care that so and so had been happy or that another had been frightened? Unless they played a part in the problem that was before me, they were just so many extra variables—things to be set to the side as I tried to solve the true problem.

I was angry with Watson when he wrote up the case of Culverton Smith to be so against me. I was saving others by getting this murderer behind bars. What was that to a little worry on his and Mrs. Hudson's part? A mere trifle, nothing more. Still, knowing I had hurt him, "bitterly" if I recall correctly, was enough to give me pause. Little more came from it as I was soon wrapped up in another case and swept these concerns aside. Watson seemed to forgive me, over time, and there was nothing more I could do. Perhaps I will be able to make it up to him yet.

But that is not the reason for which I took up the pen. No, that reason is the obituary I found in the paper this morning. One "Agnes Shirley" deceased upon childbirth. I would not have recognized the name, but for the addition of a short biography which entailed her to be the maid to whom I had been engaged during the case of Charles Augustus Milverton. The surname indicated that Shirley had, as I had thought, snatched her up as soon as I became unavailable, no doubt wedding her in the same hour. She was evidently at least somewhat content with the marriage as the paper read that she had two other children by him, making this last one the third and youngest.

Most would say that I had gone too far in my part to become engaged to her. I know that is certainly what Watson said when I broke the news to him. In truth, I did go too far in my part, but not in the way that Watson or those that read his chronicles might expect. In my persona of Escott, I began to care for Aggie. I suspect, were Watson to hear me, he would laugh at me now. Truly, I would laugh at myself were I in his place. A reasoner, a man devoted to crime and detection, suddenly falls victim to a woman's gaze—it is too comical, too much like a French novel. I would chuck the idea aside as an impossibility were it not for the fact that I experienced it. After realizing my state, I was hesitant to keep on with my operation. I was compromised after all, for that is how I saw it and still do see it. Love is a compromised state involving chemicals in the brain, much like what happens when one takes morphine or cocaine—and, so I found, roughly as addictive.

Despite my misgivings, I returned, vowing to myself that I would not let my weakness be found out. However, as soon as I put on the disguise for Escott and began to assume his person, I felt my resolve weakening. It is strange what costume can do to a man's behavior. I have often noted how a woman will hold herself straighter when she is in a new gown or how an actor seems better able to fit his part once he has dressed himself for it. For me, the old clothes of a plumber brought about an unfortunate and entirely inappropriate sense of freedom. I would forget that I was in enemy territory and must be careful of my every move. I would forget that there were horrible crimes being committed behind the closed doors of "the master's" study. I would forget that I had a client counting on me to secure her reputation. All of it was blown to the wind and I was left with the puzzle of a series of pipes and the enigma of Aggie's charming face. It is not a proud moment for me. Indeed, I consider it to be among the lowest points in my career, the point where I stumbled and fell in the pursuit of justice. The only other involves the Woman, whom I will not bring into this matter for simplicity's sake.

It is thus with the utmost confusion that I found myself enwrapped by her arms, asking me if I would marry her. The part of my brain that was still functioning told me that I needed the information that she was giving me. Already she had given me valuable information not only on Milverton, but also on the house and the servants there. To part with her, for that reason alone, would be foolish. But marriage? I told myself that the relationship was temporary and that it would never get past the engagement stage. If I set the date far enough in the future, I would be sure to have enough time to get any information I needed and then disappear. It was a bad move morally, but what else could I do? There was information that I needed and I certainly wasn't going to get married to the creature—despite her fond nature and admirable power of will.

To be clear, I never once said that I would marry her, despite what Watson and his "dear" readers no doubt assume. A mere softening of the gaze and tightening of my grip was enough to assure her that I had pledged myself to her body and soul. Indeed, I think if I had written it in blood she would have been less sure rather than more. She was an odd creature that way—always going the opposite path from the one I expected of a woman. There was only one thing consistent about her that she would adjust and adapt for her own survival. She was a creature of endless life.

Once I had put on my Baker Street apparel again, I was surprised to find that the feelings which I had felt as Escott remained. On my way back from the Milverton Estate, I had begun imagining what it would be like to be married to Aggie, fool that I was. Would I keep up my disguise as a plumber or reveal to her that I was in fact the great detective, Sherlock Holmes? Would she accept me as such? Ah, no doubt she would. The ever-changeable must surely be able to accept a simple change of hats. What would it be like to spend my days with her; to have children by her? Even as I sat in my chair in Baker Street, with all traces of my Escott persona removed, my thoughts lingered with Aggie. I began laughing to myself, in my mind's eye seeing a small boy, my heir, examining a bit of paper I had supplied him with whilst I explained to him what facts we could deduce from the weight and the texture. Only then did I notice Watson watching me from across the room. The imaginary child passed from my mind and I began to laugh at myself. What a fool I was being! The very idea was impossible! That I was even thinking about such things was proof that I had become undone and must do my utmost to regain my senses.

Still laughing, more out of bitterness now than joy, I said, 'You would not call me a marrying man, Watson?'

'No, indeed!' he exclaimed.

'You'll be interested to hear that I am engaged.' I said, not daring to look at him directly. Instead, I gazed into the fire, hoping that its heat might melt away some of the foolishness of the past few hours.

Nonetheless, I could see from the mirror overhanging the fireplace Watson begin to get up then sit back down again in a sort of surprised stupor. Normally, I would have relished my friend's bafflement, but today it seemed only too fitting. 'My dear fellow, I congrat—,' he began, but I cut him off before he could complete his sentence.

'To Milverton's housemaid,' said I.

A silence hung in the room. Once again, I observed Watson in the mirror. His face had darkened considerably and he now looked at me with shock and dismay. I could not blame him. No doubt he thought I had cheated and tricked her into such an arrangement. To be truthful, I am glad of it since the actuality is far more embarrassing to me than the fiction. One simply paints me as a blackguard. I have been called that hundreds of times before and not once has it left so much as a scratch on my conscience. But for anyone to know that I had fallen victim to the softer passions, that would have been a far worse stain than any trick or lie I had ever crafted. It would show that my reason is capable of being compromised by none other than that dark blotch on the history of mankind, woman.

This is why I did nothing to combat his assumption that I was using the girl to gain information, indeed backing up these thoughts with my own words. It is better that I should be considered cruel rather than compassionate.

It was at this point that I was cut off by Holmes' entrance into the study. I quickly concealed the diary under my coat and rose to meet him, but his sharp eyes were faster.

Quick as a tiger, he leapt across the room and took the offending article from my breast pocket.

"I can explain, Holmes," said I, but he held up a finger and began to go through the diary much as I had done, but with an eye for what had been read rather than what was written. Finally he tossed the diary once again into the fire, positioning his lean frame in front of the fireplace so that I might not salvage it.

"Fingerprints," he muttered. "You clearly did not wash your hands after you salvaged the thing. Quite a pitiful error on your part."

I could feel the anger rising in my cheeks. "I did not pick up the thing, Holmes," said I. "With the intent of invading your personal thoughts. I saw it and believed it to be one of my manuscripts."

"Yet you did read it," he countered, his eyes blazing like the fire behind him.

"I doubt you would have done any differently had you found an article of mine in the fire," said I, now thoroughly bent on proving my innocence. "In fact, I know you have done so."

"I have a right to know what is written about me," said he, now taking the fire poker and encouraging the blaze. "And as your little accounts tend to focus on me and my work any draft which you choose to dispose of is just as much my property as it is yours."

"By that logic anything that you write about me in your diary should be open to my eyes," I retorted.

"On the contrary, Watson, my diary was, nor ever has been, written with the intent of revealing it to the public whereas your 'work,' if I may call it that, is solely for that purpose."

Content now that the paper was thoroughly burned, Holmes moved to his chair and placed a despondent hand over his eyes. "It is a harrowing realization, Watson, to find that one's own biographer cannot be trusted."

"I am not simply your biographer, Holmes," said I, thoroughly hurt by his accusation.

He removed his hand from his eyes, resting it instead on his cheek, and looked at me hard for a moment. Finally, he buried his chin in his chest and crossed his arms, letting out a little sigh through his nose. "That is true," he murmured. He turned his gaze again towards me. "I trust that whatever you read will be in your next account," he said, some of the venom returned to his voice.

"Not a word of it," I replied.

He nodded and once again buried his chin against his chest. "Good."

That was the last I ever heard of the subject. Within hours, Holmes was back to himself, studying different compounds under glass whilst he smoked his shag tobacco and chuckling heartily whenever he got a result that was to his liking. I, on the other hand, was put in a state of deep contemplation. I was still unsure whether his acute eyes had detected that I had read his entry on Agnes Shirley, for it was the last that I had read and no doubt most of the soot had come off of my fingers at that point. Yet, he made no mention of her and indeed seemed entirely unmoved by the whole proceeding now that it had passed. I never again saw so much as a glimpse of any of his writings again. As far as I could tell, my curiosity had been the lynchpin in stopping his "atrocious habit" of writing diary entries, a fact which the world no doubt mourns. As for his feelings towards Agnes Shirley, they were never mentioned by either of us. I would have considered the whole entry an absurd dream had I not found, tucked away on the mantelpiece, the obituary which he had described with a small silhouette picture of a woman attached with a pin.

This particular story came about after watching the Granada version of "the Case of Charles Augustus Milverton" or, as they entitled it, "the Master Blackmailer." The episode plays with the idea of Holmes having a tenderer side that he just doesn't use all that often or does not know how to. The idea caught my imagination and I ran with it, resulting in this story.

Reviews appreciated as always.