This is written in Holmes' notebook soon after John Watson's The Study In Scarlet is published. Holmes is alone in the flat.
I stood in the middle of our living room, reading Watson's little story, fancifully called "A Study In Scarlet." As I read, I grew more and more stunned. He had not really told too much about himself, about his war experiences, or even about this Murray fellow that had saved his life. And I had no idea that Stamford thought me too eccentric to really be a good companion for Watson, but then what was his reason for bring us together? I pushed the matter to the back of my brain-attic for the moment, and read on as i slowly sank down into my chair by the fireplace.
He had gotten our first conversation almost completely corect; he must have a phenomenal memory. I was pleased at his description of me; quite unlike my first impressions, merely the actions and words, and not everything that I see.
It was rather disconcerting to find that I exerted such a fascination over the man. I had noticed his eyes on me, of course, and his polite questions about my future and contemporary news. But I had no idea that he was so . . . fixated on me, and I wondered what he meant by, "I had no friends who would call upon me and break the monotony of my daily existence." I wondered if they had all died in the war.
His list of my limits, I have to say, was incorrect in almost every way. Though I did remember those days when he had been trapped inside and I had gone for 'walks'. (My work, which apparently, he still was in the dark about at the beginning; how he couldn't figure it out I don't suppose to know) He had seemed interested in my deductions, which, of course, made me start explaining in too much detail about dirt.
I do wish he hadn't mentioned the violin. After all, who will read these sensational stories? Some may remember my brief career that had ended so badly, and connect the stage name with my true name. Actually, I do wish he hadn't mentioned me in such detail . . . These really should be merely a study of the scientific reasoning I use to get to the conclusion; that I could live with. These details will undoubtedly fall into the hands of my enemies. But he really didn't understand the people I deal with. My reticence of involving him in my business was definitely well-founded. Why had I started to tell him about my life? He had read my article, and as always, not believed me. I should have just left it at that. But then he went on to mention those infernal characters of literature, bumbling detectives that he had idolized.
He thought I had been bragging when I had said that I could have solved Lecoq's case in a much shorter time, and I wondered why that bothered me. It really shouldn't have; after all, he was one of the blind mortals, living their lives blissfully oblivious to the world around them. It really wasn't my place to disabuse him of this comfortable notion, but if this man was to live here, I would have someone who I can converse with, one who would know what I was talking about.
Or was this foreign emotion merely loneliness? I really should not involve him in any more of my cases, though he really is a good recorder of conversation. How does he remember so well? Ah, yes, I remember his face when I had received the letter. Perhaps his time in the war had made him more keenly aware of the injustice of the world. He had convinced me to go, when I might not have. Why had I invited him to go with me? I had lasted so many years with no real friend; surely I needed no biographer to glorify me.
I did enjoy his description of the house and room; he does have the talent to bring the image back to me so sharply. I had no idea I had made so much noise when I was investigating the room. But I do take offence at his 'observation' of me, "I had already observed that he was as sensitive to flattery on the score of his art as any girl could be of her beauty." I am not, but I really must try to keep my emotions locked away, away from any prying eyes, especially this recorder of every motion and word.
Why had I asked him to stay up for me that night during the case? These thoughts are getting quite bothersome. I am not that lonely; to befriend another, just to have them be scared away later, is not for me. And I had no idea he was going to write up my blunder of the carriage. I do hope the professional beauties do not read his sensational little tale.
He was quite a help in the capture though; if he not fully tackled Hope and brought him down, and held on to his legs all during the ruckus, we might have lost him. And he completely downplayed his part there; I wondered what was going on in that mind. Of course, the tale told by Hope needn't have been so romanticized.
He referred to me as his friend. He, himself, must be pretty lonely to refer to me as his friend. Though I have to say, a warm feeling came over me when I read those words.