I do not recall if I have ever before, up to this point, documented the tale of how I first came to meet that most noble of gentlemen: the extraordinary and much-admired Sherlock Holmes. The reader is likely unaware that we were both still relatively young men, with grand ideas and brash enthusiasms only slightly tempered by life's buffing. We met at Bart's Hospital; our mutual acquaintance Stamford as intermediary.
"You probably will not like the fellow," Stamford had said to me, with a nervous twitch of his left eyelid.
"Oh, and why is that?" I countered, the more intrigued as we sat to lunch at the Criterion that day to exchange our news; strangers met again, after so long.
"Well, for one thing, he is a lunatic," said my former colleague.
My right eyebrow raised a notch or two.
"How so?" I enquired.
"He is one enzyme short of a full test-tube... a half-turn shy of a focused microscope... a -"
"Yes, yes," I interrupted, pressing a napkin to my lips to absorb my spluttered gravy, "I understand your general drift, Stamford. But if the man is such a bedlamite, then how is he so well respected within his field?"
Stamford shrugged. "Search me," he said. "Still, all the same, I rather like him. His eccentricity is endearing."
I was confused. "You like him, but you believe that I might not?"
"Well, it is not me that is looking for rooms or contemplating the possibility of living with him," replied my old friend. "Just one week in close proximity with him would surely send any sane soul over the edge."
"Thank you, Stamford, at the very least, for deeming me to be a sane soul," said I, shaking my head, yet now ever the more curious to meet the formidably bizarre Mr. Sherlock Holmes. "Let us settle our bill here, then, and be off to the hospital before you think twice of your foolishness."
Stamford took me through the familiar winding corridors of that vast building, leading me at last to a large laboratory, set with a great many tables and equipment for the students. At first I believed the room to be empty, for all was quiet and there seemed nobody about. Then we heard a distant rustle and a clatter at the far corner, and a dark knot of hair poked up from behind a microscope.
"There he is," said Stamford. He waved across to the shadowed outcrop in cheerful greeting.
"Go away," came the reply; a quavering high timbre. "I am in the middle of a thing."
"Your 'thing', whatever it is, cannot possibly be as important as meeting this charming gentleman stood beside me," replied Stamford, not remotely fazed by the rebuff. "He is seeking affordable lodgings, the same as you, Holmes."
The figure straightened up a fraction, leaned around to one side of the desk and deigned to eye me most severely. I shuffled, a little uncomfortably, I confess, but I smiled in my most friendly fashion.
"Good afternoon!" I called. "May I introduce myself?"
There was a moment's pause while the fellow seemed to contemplate the proposition.
"...Yes?" came the eventual reply, apparently with effort.
"It was not our intention to disturb you," I said, contrite. "Perhaps you would prefer if we returned later?"
Mr. Holmes rose up from his stool and fairly rushed up to the two of us, an apologetic grimace upon his face.
"It is all right," said he, with a flourish. "I was eating a sandwich. An egg one. With a big tomato," he added, proudly.
"I thought that you were busy working on your haemoglobin?" said Stamford, still standing next to me.
"No," said Holmes, with a toss of his head. "I did that ages ago." He looked at me again. "What's your name? How do you know Stamford? You have crumbs in your moustache."
I wiped self-consciously at my upper lip.
"We had lunch at the Criterion," I explained, blinking up at him. Then: "I am Dr. John Watson. Stamford was a dresser under me here at Bart's, years ago." I rubbed my moustache again. "Crumbs all gone?"
Holmes nodded. "Yes." He accepted the hand I had thrust out towards him, and shook it firmly. If he had grasped it any tighter then I suspect he would have crushed one or more bones of me. "My name is Sherlock Holmes," said he. He was tall, overly slender, remarkably intense and potentially insane. And I could be sharing rooms with him within a matter of short days.
"I am very pleased to meet you," I said. "You are a student here?"
This horrified him.
"No! Why ever should you think that?"
I scratched my head. "Well, because you are here, in this laboratory, sitting at one of the desks and using all of its equipment?"
The fellow stared at me oddly. "I do not follow your logic," said he.
"That would infer the likelihood of your being a medical student, would it not?" I persisted.
"But I am not," he said, with a frown.
I gave up.
"You know of some rooms, Stamford here has been telling me," I said, encouragingly. I could hear my old hospital colleague shifting uncomfortably at my side, edging further away from me towards the exit.
A curious light sparked behind the grey eyes of my new friend.
"I do indeed," said he. "A remarkable suite at Baker Street. The rent is regrettably too high for myself alone. Are you rich?" He examined me keenly. "You have spilled gravy on your waistcoat. That is in addition to the crumbs that were in your moustache. Do you have an eating problem?"
"No," I retorted, sharply. "I do not have an eating problem. The dining table was merely situated a further distance from my chair than I might have liked, and I simply -" I broke off suddenly, irritated by his rudeness. "Why on earth should I have to explain myself, or indeed the state of my wretched waistcoat? You, sir, have no manners."
Holmes's expression became crestfallen. He bowed his head to gaze at an indeterminate spot upon the floor. His hands flailed in minute distress until he anchored them within his trouser pockets. I felt a small pang of sympathy, despite his poor behaviour.
"What is the property address?" I asked him, kindly. "And when would you be free to show me around them?"
He looked up, possibly dumbfounded at having been so swiftly forgiven, for his face was now all smiles.
"Oh," said he, "shall we say tomorrow, at noon? The address is 221B. Baker Street," he repeated, in case I had not heard him the first time. Then, very rapidly, in a nervous stream of words: "I smoke a great deal, play the violin very loudly, am intolerably appalling to most everyone I meet, cast foul-smelling chemical experiments, and keep strange hours that would try the patience of 20 saints." He looked at me anxiously. "How about you?"
I laughed. "I can only identify with the first of your admissions," I told him, "but I expect I have a great many others if I put my mind to think of them. None that need immediately alarm you, at any rate."
Holmes sat back against the corner of a desk, and eyed me.
"You're nice," he said. He seemed rather surprised by this.
"Thank you."
"I like your moustache."
I blinked. "Thank you?" I quelled the urge to dab at it. I turned around to where Stamford had been standing, but he had long since vanished, the door an inch or two ajar. I set my lips in tight disapproval. I wondered then how many friends Sherlock Holmes might have, or if he was as solitary a creature as I myself was, alone in London. He was an oddity and rough around the edges, yet I found myself quite fascinated by his gaucheness, and curious to find out some more about him.
We shook hands again to go our separate ways.
"What is it that you do?" I asked him.
Holmes smiled at me mysteriously.
"Oh, wouldn't you like to know," he said, as the laboratory door clattered shut behind us.