This journal is the true account of all that has happened during the time I was acquainted with Mr. John Watson from my perspective, including my thoughts and, dare I say, my feelings. Watson's chronicles of many of my cases are only partially true, for on my request and by his intuition he left out the relationship that we held during the time. I write this with the hopes that one day in the future my reputation would not be as harmed by these uncontrollable feelings that passed over me in this time and the relationship that sprung from them.

Mr. John Watson

The day I met Watson was most possibly the most fateful day of my life. I was looking for someone willing to split the board of some rooms I found on Baker Street, but there had so far been no luck. Until Stamford, an acquaintance of mine, introduced an old comrade of his, Watson, to me. When Watson arrived I had just finished creating a solution that only reacts with blood, to test if a stain on a suspected murderer's clothing is in fact blood and not another substance. We shook hands and I explained what my research had been and all of its applications, clearing up Watson's skepticism. Honestly, since that is what this account is supposed to show, I felt intrigued at first. Beyond the basic deductions of his past and occupations I felt that there was something I missed, or maybe noticed too well. Once I had finished my explanation of the experiment Stamford explained his reason for introducing us. My instant thought was a definite yes for two reasons; the obvious reason of giving me someone to split the price of some rooms, and that it would give me a chance to spend more time with and learn about this man who intrigued me so. Soon, though, my common sense took control and I determined the best course of action. I asked him if he minded the smell of tobacco or the presence of chemicals. When he replied that they would not bother him I listed my faults, just to be sure that he could live with me. He listed his also at my request. I rather nervously asked about violin playing, I wanted to insure our ability to live together, though I would rather not lose this chance. Thankfully my worries were unnecessary; my violin playing is quite good if I say so, so he had no objections. We then declared it settled and arranged to meet the next day to look at the rooms I was considering. I returned to the chemicals as he left.

The next day we met at the rooms at 221B Baker Street that I had mentioned at the meeting. Watson inspected the rooms, and found them so much to his liking that we agreed upon the deal on the spot. He moved his positions that very evening and I brought mine in the next morning. For the next day or two we unpacked all our positions and lay them out as we liked in the apartments. We then settled in to the life we came to share. It was quite easy to live with Watson; he didn't mind my unusual habits and didn't ask too many questions despite his curiosity. I was honestly great full at this effort and would tell him when the time came. I carried on with my regular work; taking the occasional job that interjected the feelings of boredom. Yet the mere intrigue I felt originally had deepened into fascination, coming to border on obsession; the thing I felt I was missing (or over seeing) in him had not gone away, instead it intensified. For days I would lay and let my mind wander, it would soon turn to the thing in Watson. But never did I express my curiosities, I knew too well to do such, instead I would play violin to release my feelings, never words, though occasionally I would play a piece of his liking at the end of a day's playing to apologize for forcing the playing on him.

I noticed Watson's apparent interest in my occupation and was thankful, as I said above, of his not asking about it, as I would come to it when I felt it right. It was the 4th of March, as Watson kindly reminds me, that he found an article written by me about the science of deduction. I do not recall the exact dialogue, and it is unimportant that I would because he does and has it recorded in his recollections of our adventures. Anyways, Watson was quite skeptical that it would work and of any practical use before he knew that I was the author. I explained its practical usage by informing him about my career as (most likely) the one and only consulting detective in England (if not the world), and convinced him that it worked by identifying a passerby on the street who had come with a letter for me. The letter contained quite the mystery (that you can read about in Watson's chronology of A Study In Scarlet) and it sent Watson and I on our first mystery together.

This mystery was the trigger to an amazing line of feelings. I find it unimportant to explain the mysteries themselves, as Watson has done that and published it and anyone could read it in their own time; this is a record of my truth. Watson and I started going on these mysteries so it became unavoidable that we start saving each other and end up together in the assortment unusual cramped spaces to hide. The effects of the two were quite different but showed the same thing. Whenever Watson would get hurt I slowly started to wish that no more harm come to him no matter what. I had the urge a number of times to rush over and ignore the criminal, because nothing could be more important than Watson. The close spaces made me quite uncomfortable because my mind would later linger on the feeling of his body pressed against mine.

These early days were days of great stress and confusion to me. For as you see, I had never experienced love before, a long time ago I had purged myself of most emotion, yet that left me unprepared when a new emotion I had never before felt gained control. I pushed it back, but it was pleasurable, yet it got in the way, and there was a feeling it was socially unacceptable, an unspoken taboo. It was, overall, a bundle of contradictions that I had never felt before. At first I had no idea what it was, yet I slowly came into fearful realization, yet there was a final thing that proved it exactly.