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The Strange Case of the Third Person

"You are looking well, Watson." Holmes cast his eye fondly over his longstanding friend. Smoke hung thick in the air as the two continued to reminisce about their former adventures.

"Indeed, Holmes," agreed Watson, "and clearly the country life is agreeing with you – too much perhaps, by the extent of your midriff."

Holmes laughed. "I don't get as much exercise as I used to," he said. "Gone are the days when we put right the wrongs of the Empire together. But country air, and good food, especially home grown honey – yes, I am content. I have seen the fruit of my labour, and I do – occasionally – have the privilege of being consulted over more obtuse cases which Lestrade passes to me."

"A chip off the old block, eh?"

"Just like his father. You know, I never told him to his face, but I had a lot of time for him. Yes, he did tend to be unable to see the obvious, but his approach enabled me to refine mine. I actually owe him a lot."

Watson was unsure where the conversation was leading. They had not met for five years, and yet here they were in the Sussex farmhouse, as if it was only yesterday that they had taken their leave of each other. It was quite amazing how they had seemingly picked up exactly where they had left off. And yet, Watson could sense that there was something that Holmes had on his mind. Their conversation had been full and cordial and yet ….

"Come, Holmes." Watson could delay the moment no longer. Holmes met his gaze, questioningly. "There is obviously something you wish to discuss. Your phone call yesterday asking to see me – what is it? You can tell me… Is it a matter over your health, perhaps?"

Holmes nearly bellowed with laughter. It was a full minute before he could compose himself to speak.

"My dear Watson, I never thought my summons would have that effect on you. A thousand apologies if I have caused you any concern. No, I am well, and need for nothing. No, it is something about YOU which concerns ME, that is what I wish to discuss with you."

"Then continue. We never had any secrets."

"Oh, I wouldn't say that, Watson. I still have many secrets, but I will not share them with you at this time - just in case you choose to publish them. In fact, that is the matter about which I wish to speak with you."

"Go on …."

"Well…." Holmes was choosing his words carefully… "I am concerned over the quality of your writing."

"If I remember correctly, you usually were."

Holmes ignored this comment. "I see your work as a valid record of my successes. It is true they are a little more florid than I would have liked…"

"If you remember, I did invite you to write some commentaries yourself. I believe you found the experience …. difficult."

"It was a challenge for which I was not prepared. With practice, I know I could improve. Not to YOUR standard, of course." The glint in his eye was unmistakable. "I could never hope to attain your level of droll prose."

"Come Holmes, out with it. What is it to be? You wish to write another account? Or you have been involved with a case and you wish me to record it for you? Perhaps one of those cases you have instructed me to keep secret, you have at last decided to release?"

"No, nothing of that nature, my friend. I know you are going to take this the wrong way, but it is only your reputation I am concerned about."

Watson was getting impatient with Holmes' beating about the bush. "Well, out with it, Holmes. We've known each other long enough not to fall out over anything. Anything. Just tell me, please."

Holmes took a deep breath. "Very well. For the sake of half a century's friendship, honesty must prevail. It is your latest compendium, Watson. 'The Casebook of Sherlock Holmes'. And in particular, one or two of the stories. They lack – quality."

"Quality? What …?"

Now I know that some of these cases are over twenty years old, Watson, and neither of use are as young as we were. Memory can fool us all, you know. But really …. Well, as an example, let's take 'The Adventure of the Marazin Stone'."

"What of it?" Watson replied, stiffly.

"I do not like your 'third-person' storytelling. There, it is out."

"Well, I try to vary. I imagine it may get somewhat staid if all my work is told in the first person."

"But by using third person you lose some of the pace, the vigour – dare I say it, the sense of danger. And mistakes can creep in."

"Mistakes?"

"I do not recall, Watson, our re-use of the 'dummy in the window' routine."

Watson chose his words carefully. "I am sure that we did, Holmes. Positive. But even if it were not so, one mistake does not ruin a library of achievement."

"Ah! A veritable library, Watson! But that's not the half of it. Now use the techniques I have taught you – where did the events occur?"

"Well, 221B of course."

"So the date…?"

"Oh, I don't know exactly, but since you moved here in 1903, it must have been before then. Where is this leading, Holmes?"

Holmes leaned forward, and directed Watson's gaze to his violin. "Do you recall how I drew out the truth of the matter from Count Sylvius?"

"Well, yes, of course. You retired from the room to allow the gentleman and his associate to discuss their situation, and made as though you were playing your violin, when all the time it was a recording."

Holmes eyes were ablaze. "Yes!" he exclaimed. "And ….?"

"And…."

Holmes' eyes rolled upwards in his head. "Oh, Watson, for goodness' sake! Please do not be so obtuse."

"I am seventy-five years old, Holmes. Do not tease me in this way."

"There was no recording of Offenbach's 'Bacarolle' from Hoffman for solo violin at that time."

Watson's face fell. "Oh…."

"And nor could you have expected one of those primitive gramophones to play for fully five minutes without running down. And how on earth do you get a bay window to connect to my bedroom, I never will know. Some architect you would have been. It's just as well the human body is laid out as it is, otherwise your operations would have been very interesting. And as for 'The Adventure of the Creeping Man' – I thought I was the one who was on cocaine."

"Well, you're no better," Watson retorted.

Holmes was stopped in his tracks. "I beg your pardon?"

"Come, Holmes, as I say, you're no better. You tried to write your own stories. 'The Adventure of the Blanched Soldier' for example. That's caused me all sorts of trouble."

"Trouble?"

"You set the story in 1903, and yet you refer to my being married. Ten years out, Holmes! Now I have every enquirer writing to me, not about what it was like to be a companion of the great Sherlock Holmes, but wondering how many wives I have had."

The two men looked at each other across the table. And then laughed. "Oh, to grow old, Watson!" laughed Holmes. "What it is to grow old. It gives one so many excuses for making uncharacteristic blunders!"

"It will be the last, Holmes" replied Watson, wiping a tear from his eye. "Mr Conan Doyle has said he has lost interest in the accounts of our escapades. He accepted this one from me, but I had to beg him this time. I think he only took it because his publishers were on his back, asking for another compendium. Yes, he has made it clear, it will be the last. So my task is done. Have a long and happy retirement, Holmes."

"I will," replied Holmes, "I will." And with that, the two friends resumed their smoking, and as evening fell and the lights came on, anyone outside would have heard the barks of hearty laughter as the two of them set the world to rights – again.