Alright, due to popular demand I have decided to post this right now. Frankly speaking, this took a very long time to write, so don't expect more than weekly updates :p

I am thinking of creating a proper blog for this fic. Can you all suggest some domain names or a title for the blog?

NOTE-Instead of making Dr. John Watson write a novel, I have portrayed him writing a blog. I don't own WordPress or any of its trademarks.

For following all of my stories, go to yashendrashukla .in (remove the space).

A Study in Scarlet

MR. SHERLOCK HOLMES

POST NO. 21

POWERED BY WORDPRESS

PS Note - Hey everyone, John here. What I am going to describe here, right now may seem to be incredible to many of you. You may also think that I am lying. But fear not, 'cuz every word I have written here is true and you can verify them easily.

In the year 2011 I took my degree of Doctor of Medicine of the University of London and proceeded to Netley to go through the course prescribed for surgeons in the Army. Having completed my studies there, I was duly attached to the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers as assistant surgeon. The regiment was stationed in Afghanistan at that time, and I went there despite repeated requests to not go by my mother.

The campaign brought honors and promotion to many, but for me it had nothing but misfortune and disaster. In one of the daily battles in the hellhole, I was struck on the shoulder by a bullet from an AK 47, which shattered the bone and grazed the subclavian artery. I should have fallen into the hands of the murderous insurgents had it not been for the devotion and courage shown by Murray, my orderly who threw me across a red cross stretcher and succeeded in bringing me safely to the British lines.

Worn with pain, and weak from the prolonged hardships I had undergone, I was removed to the base hospital at Kabul. Here I rallied, and had already improved so far to go on little strolls using my walking stick, (because I now had a limp) across the verandah and the gardens, when I was struck down by malaria. Despite the best of care available to me, I became so weak and emaciated that a medical board determined that not a day should be lost in sending me back to England. I was dispatched accordingly in a troop-plane and landed in London. With my health irretrievably ruined, I decided to spend the 3 months provided to me by a paternal government.

I had neither kith nor kin in England, except a very distant relative, whom I talked to only once a year, and was therefore free as a bird-well as free as the meager Army pension provided for me. In London, I stayed at a hotel in the Strand, leading a comfortless, pointless and a meaningless existence, and spending so much money that I realized that I must either move to the countryside or make a complete alteration to my style of living. Choosing the latter alternative, I moved to a very small single room apartment (if only it could be called an apartment). It was during this time that I had to start going for my mandatory psychological consultancy, paid in full courtesy of Her Majesty. It is because of my therapist that I soon started to write a blog. I do say started, but what I really mean is that I posted articles comprising less than 10 words once a week. On the very day that I came to the conclusion that I was wasting my life, I was standing in the Criterion Bar, when someone tapped me on the shoulder, and came face to face with a fat man in his late 20s, with a joyful expression on his face. On seeing the look on my face he cheerfully remarked-"Remember me John?"

"I'm sorry, I can't. Who are you?" I asked in a doubtful tone.

"It's me! Barry! Barry Stamford!"

It took me a moment for the name to ring in my mind before I realized who the man was. The man was a friend of mine who had been a dresser under me at Bart's. The sight of a friendly face in London is a treat indeed for a lonely man. In old days I sadly say that I had paid not much attention to him during my early days, but now I hailed him with enthusiasm.

"Barry! It's been ages since we last met, and now I don't even seem to recognize you!"

"Yeah, it's because I have put on quite a few pounds of weight." He remarked with a smile.

"Its been what? 3, 4 years?"

"About that much time. Hey, do you want to grab some coffee? I know this great café nearby that also serves delicious scones."

"Sure." I remarked and proceeded with him towards the café he mentioned. On the way he remarked at the state of my appearance and I gave him a short sketch of my 'adventures', and had concluded by the time we had finished with the coffee.

"I'm sorry man! What are you up to now?" he remarked shaking his head after listening to my misfortunes.

"I'm actually currently looking for a place to stay, since the state of the place where I currently live is awful. However, at my current salary, I have no option but to get a flat mate. But the question is, who would want me as a flat mate?" I muttered.

"Funny." Remarked my companion; "You are the second person to have said that to me today."

"And who was the other guy?"

"A fellow who is working at the chemical laboratory up at the hospital. He was complaining about how he couldn't get someone to share a room with him. Nice place it is. Prime property too."

"Yes!" I exclaimed; "if he wants a flat mate, I'm just the right kind of man! I would so prefer being in someone's company than being alone.

Stamford looked over me strangely. "You don't know the man yet."

"Why? Is there a problem with him?"

"Oh nothing of that sort. He's just a bit queer, that's all. A science enthusiast. As far as I know, he is a decent fellow though."

"A medical student I suppose?"

"No. in fact I have really no idea on what he has done. He's a first class chemist, but his studies are extremely weird and eccentric."

"Did you never ask him about his education?"

"Oh, he never talks much. Though he does talk a lot when he gets excited." He remarked with focus on the word 'lot'.

"I should meet this man though." I said; "How could I meet this friend of yours?"

"He is sure to be at the laboratory. He either sits at his home all day, or spends the whole of his day and night there. If you like, we could meet him after we finish our lunch?"

"Sure." I answered and made my way to the hospital.

The hospital looked just like hospitals look. Cold, gloomy, dark and timeless. It was as if time passed very slow in some places, or moved very fast in others. I followed Stamford until I reached a door at the end of the corridor on the top floor. He knocked first and then opened the door without waiting for a response. It was as if he knew that no one would respond. As we made our was inside the room, I realized 2 things. The first was the fact that this place very much different from the hospital. While the hospital was lifeless, this place was jumping. Test tubes bubbled in one corner while rats screeched in the other. I could count at least experiments of at least a dozen different branches of science. And that was just in one look. Second, there was a man in the corner beating a corpse repeatedly with a whip.

"Umm. What is he doing?" I asked Stamford.

"I am testing the formation of bruises after a person has been dead for a day." Remarked the man without stopping his… work.

A few minutes later the man stopped, removed his gloves and came up to me. He looked at me in a vacant manner.

"This man here was my mate at Bart's. He is interested in the flat at Baker Street.

"Dr. John Watson." I said putting forward a hand. He shook my hand with feeble strength and said-"Iraq or Afghanistan?"

"Excuse me?" I asked in surprise. I looked over to Stamford, who was smiling in a smug fashion.

"You are obviously a military man. So, where were you stationed? Iraq or Afghanistan?"

"Afghanistan." I said; "How did you know?"

"Oh no big deal." He said chuckling to himself; "I think that roomies should know the worst about one other. So, I don't talk for days in together. You must not think I am depressed when you see me like that. Just let me alone and I'll soon be alright. I also play the violin and the way I play depends on my mood."

"And I have a…" I had barely started speaking about myself when the man interrupted by saying-"have a small dog, possibly a bull pup, you have a limp which is probably psychosomatic, even your therapist thinks so, but she thinks it's because of PTSD*, but I don't think so. And you're a person that stays up till late in the night and wake up early in the morning. Anyways, we can see the rooms tomorrow, if 12 noon is agreeable to you?"

I had barely muttered yes, still taking in the facts the man had said about my life despite never meeting me, when the man got up and went out of the door. "Wait!" I shouted; "What's your name?"

"It's Holmes. Sherlock Holmes." He said peeking his head through the door and was then gone.

*PTSD=Post Traumatic Stress Disorder

Alright, that brings chapter 1 to an end. Its 03:27 in the morning here right now, and frankly speaking, I am tired.

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Oh, and what did you think about me making Dr. John Watson write a blog instead of a book?

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yashendra2797

(Yashendra Shukla)

yashendrashukla .in (remove the space)