Greetings, Dear Readers!

As promised, here is the next installment of a series which is now entitled, Bull Pup's Papers. There are nods to the Holmes Canon throughout, most notably in the italicized text, taken directly from A Study in Scarlet. There are also homages to the Granada Television series, but while you're reading this feel free to envision whichever Holmes and Watson you prefer.

And lest I forget, special thanks to all those who gave me feedback for One Afternoon in Piccadilly. ;-)


~ Chapter 2 ~

TO LIVE AGAIN

"By Jove!" I cried, if he really wants someone to share the rooms and the expense, I am the very man for him, I should prefer having a partner to being alone."

"You do not know Sherlock Holmes yet," he said; "perhaps you would not care for him as a constant companion."

"Why, what is there against him?"

"Oh, I didn't say there was anything against him. He is a little queer in his ideas - an enthusiast in some branches of science. As far as I know he is a decent fellow enough."

Stamford had warned me, it is true. But my alarming lack of funds had won out. There were no two ways about it, this was an offer that I had to take. And, truth be told, I was finally growing tired of having no one to talk to. I wanted to live again.

Upon returning to my hotel room in The Strand, I lit a lamp and looked around. For seemingly the first time, I saw the deplorable mess which my life had become. Bed unmade, newspapers and racing forms strewn everywhere. I saw the boxes of books that lay unopened. I hadn't even looked at them. My bed was unmade. Had I really been living like this? Shocking for an Army man! My few clothes were hanging limp in the large wardrobe in the corner of the room. They didn't belong there. I didn't belong there. And I was running out of money. How had I gotten myself into this god-forsaken mess?

Removing my hat, the familiar twinges in my left shoulder and leg reminded me that I was not the man I once was. But what had I become? A wounded soldier, a doctor without a practice, a man with no family; my friends all blown to bits or hacked to pieces before my very eyes. When I had returned to England all I had wanted to do was escape. I wanted time to myself to rest. To forget. But I could still smell their blood. Every night they came to me. I dreamt of them all over and over again - dying in my arms or just out of reach. I would wake just as I had on the previous night, bathed in sweat, trembling, and alone with their voices still ringing in my ears. They always called for my help. And I could not save them.

Help. Heal. Save. Cure. Comfort. Those were the things I was best at. I was a Doctor, but could not even heal or comfort myself. I had first been trained to heal people. Then to kill them. Now I could do neither. I couldn't do anything. I had slept for days in that room, wrestling with the fact that I had survived when so many had not. Why me? What good was I to anyone now? What good was a retired army doctor who was forbidden to practice medicine for the next nine months in order to recover his irrecoverably ruined health? How would I make a living? I was useless, and I knew it.

But the stubborn Scot in me refused to give up the fight. I vowed then and there to never let my life sink to such a shambles again. No, I had best get to bed, and make tomorrow a fresh start. I would need my strength if I was to be moving soon. Reaching instinctively to my waistcoat pocket to retrieve James's - my - pocket watch, an image of my brother lying dead of drink penetrated my vision. I closed my eyes, trying to will it away, and whispered into thin air:

"That will not happen to me, Father. I promise."

I walked over to the nightstand and set my watch down. It was then I glanced sight of the little notebook that I had bought a few weeks ago. It still lay on the nightstand exactly as I had placed it, unopened and unused. The words just would not come. Wearily, I sat down on the bed and thought about tomorrow.

"I think we may consider the thing as settled - that is, if the rooms are agreeable to you."

"When shall we see them?"

"Call for me here at noon, to-morrow, and we'll go together and settle everything."

"All right - noon exactly," said I shaking his hand.

Little did I know as I got into bed and blew out the lamp that the next day my life was about to change forever. Only this time, it would be for the better.

The next day, I had some difficulty in hailing a cab at first. But a short while later, thankful that I had enough left from my most recent victory at the races to pay for the cab ride, I beheld Mr. Holmes waiting for me under the arch at St. Bart's. He was dressed impeccably: black and grey striped waistcoat and trousers, white shirt, black tie, black frock coat, black shoes, and a black top hat. His appearance was completed by a handsome cane with a curved silver handle. He looks like a penguin, I mused. He was holding his watch in his black gloved hand, his face set in an air of disgust. Nevertheless, I decided to greet him with a cheery smile. After all, if we were going to be living under the same roof, better put my best foot forward.

"Good morning, Mr. Holmes," said I, extending my hand to him. He shook my hand just as he had the previous day. His grip held a strength for which I would hardly have given him credit, considering his lithe form.

"Good morning, Doctor. Though you are one minute late," he said, pointing at his pocket watch.

"Am I?" I said, shocked as I looked at my own. "Oh, I am sorry. I had some difficulty in getting a cab and-"

"We are now two minutes late. Shall we?" I followed him into the cab.

"Now then, Sirs," said the driver, "Where to?"

I opened my mouth to reply, and it was in that instant that I realized that I had absolutely no idea where we were going. I looked at Holmes, who smiled and responded to the driver:

"No. 221B, Baker Street, please."


Yes, I know, this one is dreadfully short. But it will be worth it, so please stay tuned...and please (pretty please!) send me a review!

~Faithful Bozwell.