Modern Sherlock Holmes story inspired by Benedict Cumerbatch and Martin Freeman. Seriously, who could fail to be inspired by these two? Based on the characters created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

I have uploaded this article to my "Science of Deduction" site as I think it will be of interest to other practitioners of the science who come after me. It illustrates how logic can be applied to the knowledge of human character and motivations as securely as it can to physical facts and clues. This case may also be of interest to followers of Dr John Watson's blog, as he will not allow it to be posted there.

The Case of the Bitten Bullet

The case began one evening when we were spending a quiet evening in 221B Baker Street. We had been living together for several months, and had fallen into a comfortable routine. John was reading the evening papers, while I was measuring and defining the exact coagulation point of the vitreous humour. It was detailed and absorbing work, and our apartment had been silent for well over an hour when a loud knock interrupted our solitary pursuits.

In his usual obliging way, John opened the door of our sitting room to admit the officer Mrs Hudson was showing into the apartment. The young soldier was dressed in an immaculate dress uniform, and braced to attention on seeing John. My companion unconsciously also straightened into a more military posture and looked as if he wanted to exchange salutes, but remembering he was in civilian clothes he merely extended his hand and gestured towards a chair.

The messenger addressed the air above John's head in the most formal of military manners as he stated, "Dr John H. Watson, previously known as Captain Watson of Her Majesty's Armed Service."

"That is correct," observed my friend in his most neutral tones. "How may I serve Her Majesty?"

"You are requested and required to attend a court-martial on June 15th, exactly one month from today. Here is your copy of the subpoena." The boy stood stiffly to attention, holding out the paper to John and did not appear about to offer any further information.

John sighed and reached for the document. "And what is the nature of the case to which I am to provide my testimony? One month is not long to gather my medical records, and I will need the name of patient to find the correct files."

The messenger's eyes were fixed with military discipline on the picture over the fireplace, but he blinked rapidly and a slight flush heated his cheekbones. I realized that he was embarrassed and distressed by the nature of his communication. But like a true soldier, he gathered his courage and stated the facts baldly. "You are not being called as a witness, sir. The details are in the document. You are asked to present yourself for trial by court-martial. You stand accused of shooting and killing Cpl Harris while he was under your medical care." The boy's nerve then broke. He saluted and fled.

John was staring at the paper in his hand without reading it. He whispered so quietly that only my excellent hearing could catch the words, "So, finally it comes to this." His face was a mask of dismay with perhaps a little fear, but no surprise.

"John," I asked, "Did you kill a patient under your care?"

In that same quiet voice he said, "Yes, Sherlock. God help me, I did." The paper slipped from his hand as he limped to the door and clutched the handle for support. I could hear his uneven steps as he retreated to his upstairs bedroom and threw himself down on his bed. He did not sleep though, as he lay far too still for that. He lay rigidly staring at the ceiling without sleeping for most of the night.

At breakfast the next morning John was quiet and pale, and though he mashed his usual soft-boiled egg across his slice of toast he was still making cross-hatches in it with his fork ten minutes later without having taken a bite.

"John, do you need my professional assistance?" I enquired. "Do you need me to help you find evidence to clear yourself? Or to make some?"

He gave a violent start, as if he had forgotten there was anyone else present. Then he cried, "For God's sake Sherlock, stay out of it! You go meddling in this affair and you could ruin everything!" His pale face was now flushed with some heated emotion I could not identify. "Leave it alone and I will attend the court and be acquitted for lack of evidence." His emotional storm seemed to be passing now. "I know there will not be enough evidence to convict me." He paused and added slowly, "I just dread the process of reliving those days just before I came home."

I glanced sharply at him. It was true he looked depressed and a little anxious but not nearly as anxious as most men facing a potential murder charge. Something was not right. "But you told me last night that you shot him."

"Did I?" John frowned down at his plate. "Well, yes. It was a difficult time for all of us, you know. Our regiment was about to be withdrawn from Afghanistan."

I probed for further information. "Was this just before you were sent home?"

"I was shot the next day while on patrol and was evacuated, but the rest of my unit was withdrawn later that month. I just came home a little early." This litany of facts was given very flatly, as if it had been recited many times. Even for a soldier it sounded curiously unemotional for someone recounting a murder and then an injury serious enough to end his career. I wondered how many times he had told this story, and if he had come to believe it himself. The John Watson I knew was painfully honest and had never lied to me before. Yelled, yes. Lied? Not until now.