Foreword
This is an account that I asked my friend Watson to jot down for me after the fact. I wanted a record of these events to be kept in with other publications that were of a sensitive nature. The following case is one of my most harrowing - and one of Watson's most brilliant hours. Watson has often humbled himself before the public in - I suspect - an effort to make my own observations more astounding than they were. This penchant for the sensational spoiled - to my mind - the tales, which should have been little more than treaties on the art of logical deductions. However, the tales had a market, and I cannot deny that they did my friend a service in the financial area.
The veracity of these events I leave for the reader to judge, as Watson sets before you the Adventure of the Mad Fakir.
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I had been feeling rather melancholy of late; something I attributed to a combination of the miserable weather, and the approaching anniversary of Maiwand - that terrible battle where so many friends and comrades had lost their lives so valiantly. If Holmes was aware of my condition he kept his thoughts to himself; for which I was grateful.
It was a slack time for Holmes and he spent the days pouring over some newly acquired books - something to do with a recently excavated ruin and it's writings and treasures. I fancied it was the writing that interested him more than the treasures, as he was engaged in transcribing his notes each night, and comparing them to notes he had taken some years ago. I honestly could not take an interest, and to this day could not tell you what it was that he was working on (1).
I retired early that wet autumn evening, and lay for some time listening to the rain that beat heavily against my window before falling into a deep sleep.
I woke from uneasy dreams some hours later to find Holmes bending over me, a queer look in his eyes.
"What is it, old chap?" I asked, pushing up and reaching for my dressing gown. Holmes was still dressed; likely he had not yet gone to bed.
"You have a message," Holmes said, handing me the paper. I looked at the slip and leapt from the bed.
"Quick, Holmes!" I cried, "Get me a cab!"
Even as my friend headed for the door I was flinging aside my dressing gown and dressing, while checking that my bag had everything it would need. As I emerged Holmes was shrugging into his coat and holding mine.
"You read the message of course," I said, accepting his help with my coat and slapping my hat on as I bolted down the stairs.
"You must admit that at this hour of the night, messages are usually more in my domain than yours," Holmes said from behind me. In answer to the shrill whistle he had let off while upstairs a hansom plodded along the road. We ran to it and I directed it to the Charing Cross Hospital as I climbed in.
"A fiver for you if we make it in ten minutes!" I added as Holmes swung the door shut. The cabby whipped the horse up and we jolted along at a terrific pace.
"Who sent the message, Watson, and why is my presence also required?" Holmes asked me, "And why is it addressed to C from G?"
"The Matron of Charing Cross sent it," I replied, "C is my initial, and G is hers. As to your presence, I would imagine that a patient requires your help."
Holmes raised an eyebrow.
"What is F?" he added after a moment.
"A monster," I replied in a low voice, "That we should have killed when we had the chance. I will explain fully later, Holmes. I really can't tell you any more now anyway - it depends on what awaits us at the hospital."
I leaned forward to gauge our progress and heard Holmes voice behind me say gently,
"I'm sure he didn't suffer long."
I stiffened and avoided looking back; preferring to pretend that Holmes hadn't heard me calling to a ghost in my sleep.
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