A/N: This is an AU version of the events presented in "The Boscombe Valley Mystery", "The Stockbroker's Clerk", and "The Man with the Twisted Lip". I'm mainly following Baring-Gould's timeline, with a few exceptions. In my version, BOSC, STOC, and TWIS start on the 8th, the 15th, and the 18thof June 1889, respectively.

Also, some bits of dialogue in here are direct quotes from canon.

The brilliant Cryptix deserves a very large and tasty cake for her immensely helpful beta work on this.

In the year 1880 I spent several long months convalescing at the British Army's Afghan Operation base hospital in Peshawur. I was sent there, along with others in the same state, after the devastating battle of Maiwand. With nothing to focus upon in the hospital except the healing of my Jezail wound, I recovered with fair speed from my injuries. Within days I was conversing affably with my ward-neighbors and within weeks I was fast friends with the lot of them. We had more than ample opportunity to get acquainted, for military hospitals are unbearably devoid of entertainment. I made a good friend in James Walsh, whom I learned was also a medico (attached to the 49thBerkshires rather than my 66th) and had served in the execrable Maiwand. He told me of his aspirations in the theological field and I in turn described my ambition to have my own practice. Feeling like we had much in common, we quickly became close.

Just as I regained the ability to walk, and with it some independence, I was struck down again by the cruel enteric fever. Time then was intangible, for I was delirious, and in such a place as a military hospital, the days and nights all blend together even without the impediment of fever. It was not a pleasant period, but I remember with appreciation that James was a comfort to me when I was conscious, however rarely that was.

With time and gargantuan effort, I pulled through the fever, though the illness left me so poorly and emaciated that the board discharged me at once. James, however, was approved to return to field service. I inquired after him a few times shortly after my return to England, but received little word back except that he was alive and well. Within a year I had lost all contact with Dr. James Walsh.

Monday, June 3rd, 1889

The first few months of my marriage to the lovely Mary Morstan were exceedingly busy(1). I had just purchased a practice from a retiring practitioner and the property yielded more patients that I had ever anticipated. This, combined with the new excitement of a wife and home, made me a harried but happy man.

I sat down at my desk one night in early June to take care of my correspondence, as was my habit. It did not surprise me to find a few letters from friends. Over time, I had built up a small network of acquaintances, a significant improvement from my kith-less state when I'd first come to London. However, it was a surprise to come across a letter from James Walsh. I recognized the name instantly, despite the many years since I'd last heard it, and tore open the letter. It read so:

My old friend John,

First and foremost I should give myself a little introduction, in the case that my name is foreign to you. I hear things are absolutely riveting for you now and I've no doubt your old army days have slipped your memory at least slightly. If you cast your mind back to Peshawur, you may find me there. I familiarized myself with you in the base hospital there for a time while we both recovered from our injuries at Maiwand. I expect that you are fully healed from that dreadful fever by now, and I hope your shoulder isn't still causing you trouble.

If you can remember, I was sent back to duty about the same time you were sent back home. I have been serving in Afghanistan and India up until very recently, as I have decided to settle down to a more peaceful life. Naturally, I have plans to come to London, and by word from a few mutual acquaintances, I hear that you are residing there. If you aren't opposed to the idea, I should dearly like to visit you and catch up. If it is any intrusion upon you, I shan't come at all, but if you should take a liking to the idea, send me a note. For now, I am staying at the Grosvenor. Any mail directed there will reach me.

Yours very truly,

James Walsh

Such a missive was surprising, though certainly not unwelcome. Despite my initial pleasure at the correspondence, by the time I'd read to the end of the letter I was having some second thoughts. It was rather clear that, though he had not directly asked, he wanted to come and stay with me. Granted, I had been cater-cousin with the man for months in Peshawur, but the present was a dreadful time for a visit. Mary and I had just moved in together, and we hardly got to enjoy each other's company any as it was because of my busy practice. This condition would only worsen if we were to let a third party into our household.

On the other, more virtuous hand, this man had been a great friend of mine in some of my toughest times, and who was I not to welcome him into my home in his time of need? I had been in the very same position once: placed in an unfamiliar city with neither kith nor kin, and I would have much appreciated someone taking me in at that time. Besides, I knew James's character. He wouldn't cause us any inconvenience if he could avoid it and wouldn't linger longer than necessary.

I brought the subject up with Mary when we sat down to supper later that evening, for it was her home and her decision as much as it was mine. She listened with great enthusiasm and at the end of the letter positively cheered me to have him visit.

"It will be so grand for you to see an old friend," she chimed, "and what sort of people could we call ourselves if we cannot show basic hospitality to old friends, especially those who are war veterans?"

With this sound logic in mind, I resolved to write a reply to James declaring that I would love to have him come and stay with us for a while, and when could he be here?

The next morning, just before breakfast, James and his bags arrived on our doorstep. I wrung his hand and we beamed at each other. Mary welcomed him in and we settled him in the spare bedroom, where he predicted he would be very happy.

My time with James was sparse. We breakfasted together, but then I left for my practice and did not get to welcome him to my home properly until I returned. We had a lovely supper and talked late into the night, he telling me about his further expeditions in the East and I catching him up on my contrastingly domestic life, with the exception of one eccentric detective.

The next few days went by in much the same manner. My practice continued to swell. Mary told me that James went out in the daytime and kept himself occupied running errands or on his own business. Despite what I had first thought, I found myself adoring his company. I rediscovered that old fraternity we had had in Peshawur, except that it was much more pleasant this time without the injuries and fever.

James promised that he would be off our hands within a month; he was searching for a job to sustain himself already. I declared that he should stay as long as he liked.

Saturday, June 8th, 1889

I postponed all my Saturday appointments until noon or later, for I had not been feeling all too well the past few days, and I knew James and I would be up late on Friday chatting. I had hoped to catch up on lost sleep from that week, and that I did. Mary breakfasted with me at the pleasantly late hour of half eleven, but James had already left on business for the day

Midway through the meal, the maid came in with a note for me. To my surprise and delight, it was from Sherlock Holmes, and read so:

Have you a couple of days to spare? Have just been wired for from the west of England in connection with Boscombe Valley tragedy. Shall be glad if you will come with me. Air and scenery perfect. Leave Paddington by the 11:15.

I was at first reluctant, for despite my great love for Holmes's cases, my practice was frantic and I had a visitor at my home. However, my wife once again persuaded me otherwise.

"What do you say, dear?" said my wife, looking across at me. "Will you go?"

"I really don't know what to say. I have a fairly long list at present."

"Oh, Anstruther would do your work for you. You have been looking a little pale lately. I think that the change would do you good, and you are always so interested in Mr. Sherlock Holmes's cases."

"I should be ungrateful if I were not, seeing what I gained through one of them," I answered. "But if I am to go, I must pack at once, for I have only half an hour."

Convinced, I leapt upstairs to pack my valise and catch a cab to Paddington Station. I wondered fondly at Holmes's apparent disability to inform me of such ventures with more than a half hour's forewarning. It was a good thing I was a fast packer.

Holmes was waiting for me at the station, and he gave me a smile when he saw that I had arrived. I reflected it back to him; I had not seen him often since my marriage.

We settled into our own train compartment, which Holmes crammed with various newspapers he'd stuffed in his valise. Holmes pored over the litter of black and grey, occasionally pointing out an article he found notable in some way.

"Here, Watson," he smirked, pinning a segment with his finger, "A substantial quantity of books are being sold in this advertisement, while not two days ago Holles Street Library filed a report of theft."

Holmes veritably glowed, solving problems with his remarkable skills of deduction in a mere matter of seconds that would have taken any other man hours and a considerable amount of legwork.

"Hallo! Here's a peculiar one," Holmes rattled, "a college principal brutally murdered the first of this month, though he has no known enemies or vices. I don't wonder that Lestrade will come knocking about that one soon."

Finally, Holmes came to the Boscombe "tragedy" mentioned in his note and expanded upon it. I considered myself lucky for this. Many times Holmes simply did not tell me the details of a case until absolutely needed. I smiled at his chattering, a picture of happiness to be once again on a case with Sherlock Holmes.

Monday, June 10th, 1889

After I returned with Holmes from the bloody Boscombe Valley tragedy, I contracted a miserable cold. I put this down to a long-approaching illness that was most likely a combination of overwork and wet weather.

Slowly my condition worsened and for three days I was laid up in bed. I was insistent that I go and see my patients, but Mary was equally insistent that I stay home.

"I have patients that need urgent attention," I argued, "Isa Whitney won't break his habit soon if I cannot see him-"

"He will not break his habit at all if you develop pneumonia and die," Mary countered, and with that, I was confined to the house until Thursday of that week. James and Mary brought me tea and soup, and gradually I improved. The next day I was nearly in top form.

James was gone more and more often, looking for occupation, and I encouraged him on his search. I even circled adverts in the paper for job openings for the three days I was laid up and showed them to him, but he seemed to receive them with little enthusiasm.

That weekend I felt much better. I breakfasted and read the British Medical Journal for a short while afterward. During that time, there was a ring on the bell and I was pleasantly surprised to find Sherlock Holmes striding into my sitting room. I hadn't seen him in a long while.

"Ah, my dear Watson," called Holmes.

I rose to shake Holmes's hand warmly. "It's lovely to see you after such a time."

"I see Mary still has not eradicated your pawky humor," Holmes remarked. "If you tire of these weekly visits, just give the word." He took my proffered cigarette and lit it.

"Not at all," I smiled. I hadn't meant to make a joke, but Holmes's sense of humor was often incomprehensible to all but him.

Holmes mentioned a Birmingham case and asked for my company on it. I willingly agreed, seeing as we hadn't been off on a case together in some time.

Holmes leant back in his chair and scrutinized from under half-closed lids. "I perceive that you have been unwell lately. Summer colds are always a little trying."

"I was confined to the house by a severe chill for three days last week. I thought, however, that I had cast off every trace of it."

At that moment, James entered the sitting room, but seeing Holmes and I engaged in conversation, made a gesture for us to continue and ignore him. He went over to where I kept my foolscap and began scribbling something down.

For a moment, I thought I saw Holmes's face convulse, but soon passed it off. Even great detectives must have twitches of the face.

"So you have," Holmes continued, "You look remarkably robust."

"How, then, did you know of it?"

"My dear fellow, you know my methods."

"You deduced it, then?"

"Certainly."

"And from what?

"From your slippers."

I glanced down at the new patent-leathers which I was wearing. "How on earth-" I began, but Holmes answered my question before it was asked.

"Your slippers are new," he said. "You could not have had them more than a few weeks. The soles which you are at this moment presenting to me are slightly scorched. For a moment I thought they might have got wet and been burned in the drying. But near the instep there is a small circular wafer of paper with the shopman's hieroglyphics upon it. Damp would of course have removed this. You had, then, been sitting with your feet outstretched to the fire, which a man would hardly do even in so wet a June as this if he were in his full health."

Like all Holmes's reasoning the thing seemed simplicity itself when it was once explained. He read the thought upon my features, and his smile had a tinge of bitterness.

"I am afraid that I rather give myself away when I explain." said he. "Results without causes are much more impressive. You are ready to come to Birmingham, then?"

Off we went on a remarkable little excursion that I have since titled "The Stockbroker's Clerk". At the conclusion of the case, Mr. Pinner, Holmes, and I ended up in the room Pinner had used as his "office" to lure in our client Hall Pycroft. Pycroft had just gone to get the police, and Holmes and I were standing guard over the pitiful Harry Pinner, curled up on himself in the corner. Holmes made some witty remark to me, as he was wont to do when he had solved some problem. I smiled and was about to reply, but before I could, my legs buckled from under me and I went down in a daze. My vision was black for the briefest of moments, and when it came back Holmes had his hands under my arms and was hoisting me up into a sitting position against the wall.

I blinked and rubbed a hand to my head, feeling a little unwell. Holmes scowled. All his attention was on me, and I was about to warn him that Pinner might get away if we did not watch him, but Holmes spoke first.

"Watson," he articulated, trying to get my eye contact.

I finally looked away from Pinner and to Holmes. "Forgive me," I said, "That must have been some after-effect of the cold I had last week. Truly, I've been feeling fine," I added when he continued to study me. I was feeling better already, and was beginning to think that perhaps I really hadn't felt very bad in the first place and maybe I had just lost my footing.

"Really, I'm fine now," I repeated, and Holmes allowed me to get to my feet, though he still peered at me as if I'd fall over at any minute.

I remember arriving home that night, but the stretch of time after my dizzy spell and before arriving home is very much muddled. I assume nothing much happened, for Holmes's scowl was still fixed on his face when our cab trundled up to my house.

I was not feeling well at all when I got home, and was afraid I would relapse into that cold again. However, I awoke the next morning much revitalized and feeling well enough for a luncheon with James and later the theatre with Mary. By the start of the week, I was back to my practice.

Wednesday, June 19th, 1889

After a weary day tending patients, I thought I might contract that awful illness once again. Late that evening, Mary, James, and I lounged in the sitting room when a ring came at the door. My wife bemoaned the possibility that it was a patient, and I grimaced with her.

We heard the maid open the door, a hurried conversation, and then Kate Whitney appeared on the threshold.

Kate Whitney was the wife of the unfortunate Isa Whitney, who was one of my regular patients and who had very recently become addicted to opium. I was under the impression that his addiction was brought on by the recent grisly death of his brother Elias Whitney, who had been the principal of the Theological College at St. George's. Kate had come to us several times before over Isa's problem. In fact, we had seen her only a week ago or so over the poor man.

Mary began consoling the unfortunate woman. "It was very sweet of you to come. Now, you must have some wine and water, and sit here comfortably and tell us all about it. Or should you rather that I sent James off to bed?"(2)

"Oh, no, no! I want the doctor's advice and help, too," Kate Whitney cried. I remembered that she had met James last week when she'd come. "It's about Isa. He has not been home for two days. I am so frightened about him!"

I realized that I would need to go collect Isa from the den, and went to get my coat and hat. James offered assistance, but I reasoned with him that getting into an opium den would be easier with just one rather than two, so he resigned to stay at the house.

Upon entering the den, I came upon Isa, who was so far out of his senses that he assured me it was Wednesday, and wouldn't take my word that it was surely Friday.(3)

I lead Isa out to where I had the cab waiting, and on my way came upon the remarkable coincidence that I have recorded in the adventure entitled "The Man with the Twisted Lip", in which I stumbled across Sherlock Holmes disguised as an opium smoker, apparently on a case. I went with him on said case to Kent, sending my wife and James a note and Isa off to the cab.

Up arriving in Kent at the St. Clair's house, I found myself exhausted and not a little peaky, and retired immediately. The last I saw of Holmes, he was perched atop a pile of pillows with an ounce of shag.

I was awoken by a sharp cry from Holmes. He sat in nearly the exact position I'd last seen him in the night before, except that now the morning sun shone in through the window rather than moonlight.

Holmes declared that he had found the key to the events in the bathroom, and then told me to dressed, as we were going for a morning drive. We arrived at the police court on Bow Street(4) and Holmes, in a brilliant swirl of deduction, exposed Mr. Neville St. Clair from underneath a mask of make-up.

I was satisfied with another of Holmes's cases concluded, and sat happily in my seat on the way back to Paddington.

"Shall I tell you the key to the events, Watson?" Holmes blurted.

I was puzzled. "I thought it was the sponge?" I asked.

"That was the key to one set of events, yes," Holmes conceded, "But I did not spend all night thinking over such a simple solution as a disguised beggar. This key I speak of fits another and far more important series of events."

"Pardon?" I queried, thoroughly confused.

"I believe you currently have one Dr. James Walsh staying with you in your home, do you not?"

I gave a small nod of consent.

"Earlier this month, I saw an obituary for Elias Whitney, the principal of St. George's Theological College. I remarked to you how singular it was that such a man should be murdered in the gruesome fashion that Whitney was. Elias Whitney, as my research has shown, had no enemies, was a loveable man, and had never done anything worth being killed over. You know his brother Isa, I believe. Despite the singularity of this problem, I could find no evidence and had to give it up until later; I cannot make bricks without clay.

"At any rate, I had other cases to work with, a few of which I brought you along on. My first clue to this particular set of events was your health- though it is not uncommon for one to develop an illness, your particular development was. Each time I drew you away from your home, your health would go through a brief worsened state, but then you improved directly afterward. I could not believe that this was merely a common cold.

"Next was your apparent confusion over normally clear things. Just last night you insisted that it was Friday when it was most certainly Wednesday. You told me twice that the street name we were on was "Upper Swandam Lane", when we were in fact on Stoney Lane, and there is no "Upper Swandam Lane" that I know of in my not inconsiderable knowledge of London(5). Between that and your fainting spell in the Harry Pinner affair, I concluded that you were not your usually solid self."

"I did not faint," I scoffed.

Holmes raised an eyebrow to the contrary but continued. "I had a theory when I came to visit you just before the Pinner case, but I needed more evidence. Finding that you had recently been sick was an indicator, and I made to ask you more, but, if you remember, Dr. Walsh interrupted my questioning. I had to improvise a bit of deduction to hide my suspicions from him, and that is where the admittedly outlandish slipper bit was from."

"That wasn't a real deduction?" I asked, amazed. "Then it was first-rate improvisation."

"Thank you, I was rather pleased with it," said Holmes, smirking. "My next step was to compound some research on James Walsh. I developed my theory further in this way, and came up with four defining points:

James Walsh was a shining theology student when he attended college, and had much potential in that field.

Walsh is a doctor, more specifically, a combat one. This means two things: first, that he would have had access to and knows how to apply medicine; and, second, he has serviced his country at war for a long while and is proud of it.

You, my dear Watson, are Isa Whitney's medical advisor.

Isa Whitney would have been the primary candidate to his late brother's position as principal of the Theological College if he was not so suddenly addicted to opium.

Holmes paused. The bits were weaving together. I could see some connections, but still not the big picture that seemed to come so easily to Holmes.

"With this in mind," Holmes continued, "My theory took hold. First, there was the murder of Elias Whitney, Isa Whitney's sudden addiction to opium, and your own questionable health. All of these, I believe, were perpetrated by Dr. James Walsh."

My head spun.

"Dr. Walsh came back to London with the intention of snatching up the principality of the Theological College, which he firmly believed he deserved after the duty he had performed for Queen and Country. Had Dr. Walsh not gone to war, he would have been principal of the college rather than Elias Whitney. However, because he served, he missed out on the job opportunity. When his service was finished, he felt he deserved the position more than Elias Whitney did, who had not, in Walsh's view, done as much for his country. In that mindset, Wash murdered Whitney.

"Still, there lay a problem for Dr. Walsh. He had a competitor for the seat now that Elias was dead- Elias's younger brother, Isa. However, Walsh came up with a clever solution. Rather than risk a second murder within the same family, he simply introduced Isa to opium, through a long and very delicate process, probably involving de Quincey's essays on the subject(6). Walsh joined the club that Isa Whitney frequents. Was Walsh gone often while staying with you?"

"Yes," I answered, "he was out looking for a job… ah."

"Quite. He was not looking for a job, but spending his time at the club with Isa. Undoubtedly, Walsh befriended Isa and presented him with the essays as a scholarly interest. Even the strongest-willed man finds himself tempted by de Quincey's descriptions of opium. I imagine Walsh encouraged him on, maybe even mentioned a name of a local den. It is no wonder that Isa Whitney is much addicted to opium. No college would elect an opium addict as their principal. Therefore, Walsh would guarantee himself the seat.

"However, Dr. Walsh wanted to be sure. He knew that Isa was a strong man and has not only a wife for support but also a competent doctor that will help him with his addiction. It is incredibly lucky that he knows you from your wartime experiences together, but nonetheless it was an excellent opportunity for him. He came to stay with you, and was therefore at once granted close proximity to you. He could monitor you and make sure you didn't help Isa out of his addiction. The easiest way to do this was to render you incompetent. I imagine Dr. Walsh was never opposed to you personally in any way, perhaps he even still had some fondness for you, because he did not kill you as he did Elias, he only drugged you. I am not certain whether it was acetate or muriate of morphia(7), but for the past three weeks, Dr. Walsh has been adding a bit of some narcotic-muddling drug to your tea, perhaps, or your luncheon. When this narcotic was used on you, you were able to go about things as usual except that your mind was muddled, and you certainly wouldn't be able to assist Isa Whitney with his opium habit. I doubt you were able to write a correct prescription all month."

I was suddenly glad that I had been away from my practice so often lately.

"Coincidentally enough for Dr. Walsh, the drug he used on you can be derived from opium. It has the same effects, essentially, except that it does not stimulate. You've been on opium for the past few weeks, just without the… fun, per say. That is why your health fluctuated when I brought you out on cases. While you were with me, Dr. Walsh couldn't dose you with the drug. You went into minor withdrawals, but eventually came out into your regular healthy state, in the pattern I noted earlier as unusual.

"I went to the opium den with the purpose of spotting Dr. Walsh there. I took on the Neville St. Clair case as an alibi- that was more of an armchair case, you see. Dr. Walsh had to have been buying his opium from somewhere, and a den would be the easiest place to acquire it. Rather than finding him, however, I found you. At this point, I assumed James was simply dosing you with opium, but that was illogical, because you were in decent control of your faculties. It was only after a long night of thinking and smoking at the St. Clair's house that the case came together. When I say I found the key to the events in the bathroom, it is because I saw Mrs. St. Clair's acetate of morphia solution in her bathroom (she has a bad hip, I've deduced, and takes it for the pain).

"I think, Watson, that if we stop by Scotland Yard on the way back, we can just catch Dr. Walsh at breakfast."

Footnotes:

1. From what I understand, it is generally understood that SIGN (a subsequently the marriage of Watson and Mary Morstan) takes place in September of either 1887 or 1888. For my purposes here, 1888 will do. It's not entirely likely, but still conceivable, that Watson and Mary did not marry until early 1889. In that case, the information given in STOC (which, for this story, takes place in June of '89), will work: "Shortly after my marriage I had bought a connection in the Paddington district", "For three months after taking over the practice I was kept very closely at work", "one morning in June". Please excuse the slight bending of chronology.

Secondly, a footnote from Baring-Gould: "Watson must have caught his chill on the Monday afternoon following his return from Boscombe Valley, that is, on the 10thof June. No doubt, having been away from his practice for two days, he was out all day in in the all-day rain. We believe that Watson was confined to his house on Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday, the 11thto the 13th, recovering in time to join Holmes in the adventure of "The Stockbroker's Clerk" on Saturday, June 15th".

2. Dialogue from TWIS- "James" is usually taken to mean John, as in Watson. There are various explanations for it- Mary was making a play on his middle name, possibly Hamish, which is the Scottish form of James, or perhaps Mary is just extremely forgetful. Here's another, albeit very obscure, explanation for it.

3. In the beginning of TWIS, Watson asserts that it is 1889. However, in the den, he says to Isa Whitney that it is Friday, June 19th, while Isa believes it is a Wednesday. June 19th, 1889 was a Wednesday. Isa was correct.

4. It's interesting to note that the police court at Bow Street was where James Boswell first saw Samuel Johnson.

5. There isn't an Upper Swandam Lane in London, as Watson remarks that there is in TWIS, but Stoney Lane was identified as a probable substitute for Upper Swandam.

6. Thomas de Quincey was a scholarly-type fellow who took opium and wrote "Confessions of an English Opium-Eater" on the effects of it.

7. "These preparations exert a very powerful narcotic influence on the system, without acting at the same time as a stimulant, like opium. They are therefore preferable, in most instances, to opium or its preparations. The dose of either is from six to twenty-four drops."-from 'DoctorTreatments' dot com.

A/N: There are some doubts as to the canonicity of TWIS, mainly because of the "James" remark, so this is a bit of an explanation for that.