Much madness is divinest sense

To a discerning eye;

Much sense the starkest madness.

'T is the majority

In this, as all, prevails.

Assent, and you are sane;

Demur, -- you're straightway dangerous,

And handled with a chain.

- Emily Dickinson


It is cold and rainy and Holmes is out there amongst the horror that is London in the winter, aiding the Yard on some business or another. This has given me quiet and peace in which I had hoped to finish my latest submission for the Strand, but the sun has gone and taken my muse with it. I merely sit at my writing desk, notebook opened and pen still uncapped, waiting in vain for those words to finally swim to the surface of my mind and beg to be immortalized in ink and paper.

In the meantime, I gaze out of the streaming windows and wonder what sort of case Scotland Yard required Holmes' aid so urgently. I slept poorly last night, and when Morpheus finally arrived in the early hours of the morning I found myself compelled to oblige him. I slept till quite late in the morning only managed to share a sparse greeting with Holmes as I was stumbling to the table and he was sprinting out the door, laughing like a madman about the new case.

I believe that the gentlemen of the Yard believe him to be insane at most times, if not all. I myself was guilty of suffering the same thoughts during the first few months of our association.

Indeed, from the tobacco in the slipper, the bullet holes in the wall, the ungodly hours he keeps, his bizarre methods of research and investigation, the sitting room smelling like thirteen different chemicals (each worse than the last!) and that very particular gleam in his eye when he is on a case that truly interests him, I was rather certain of it.

The reactions of the constables to his methods are always amusing, though as time marches on I truly begin to pity the poor chaps. A typical encounter with members of the Yard will consist of Holmes beginning an investigation by crawling on the floor and picking at invisible specks of dust or standing perfectly still while staring at a fixed point on the scene for five minutes or more. Before two minutes have slipped by the constables will be struggling to hide their grins and sniggers. I never fail to notice their barely concealed rudeness, though I'm not sure if Holmes ever hears them, or would care a mite if he did.

It is here, staring at their laughter and almost reading their thoughts that I suffer the most profound sense of indignation on the part of my companion.

Of course, if Holmes is successful, as he often is, the grins turn into expressions of sheepish embarrassment. This is the look that Holmes never failed to notice, the look he relishes in, and the one I often wish that he would fail to see. Yet he will slip back out of the limelight as always, allowing the undeserving constables to take the credit, whether it is Lestrade or Gregson or some unfamiliar investigator. It is here that the sense of indignation returns. The men will laugh at the methods, but never fail to take credit for results that are not their own. It is a kind of plagiarism, a hypocritical plagiarism. I often wonder to myself if I did not start writing my 'dreadful romances' as Holmes calls them merely to restore the cases' conclusion to its rightful owner in the minds of the public.

His disguises are sometimes professional, often ridiculous and almost always excellent. I have seen him come home as a surly cabbie only to rush off as a poor and meek student five minutes later. I have mused upon the theatre's loss of him as an actor many times before and it is a sentiment that I still hold true. I often wonder whether the theatre or the criminal world had a greater loss when Sherlock Holmes' chose his unusual profession.

The methods by which he would expose the perpetrators of crimes to the surrounding onlookers were awe-inspiring and shaming, as he, with the skill of a magician, almost never failed to have a magnificent reveal. It was often unnecessarily dramatic purely for Holmes amusement at the bewilderment of the Yard, myself, and even the criminals who found themselves ensnared in Holmes clever traps.

He has thrown himself into danger far too many times, and not infrequent are the nights where I would bandage a split knuckle, bind a broken wrist, or, heavens forbid, treat a stab or gunshot wound.

Lately, I have taken to accompanying him on his more dangerous cases, despite protests. I have even sought to be a part of the seemingly harmless ones, as Holmes has the unusual and exasperating talent of attracting disreputable company wherever he may venture.

Holmes has some element of madness in his manner to be sure. But they only serve to highlight the fantastic brilliance of his unfathomable mind. It is these elements of madness that have forged him into the genius he is. Without those aspects of his nature, the desire to seek and search where no other would, placing the utmost importance on what others considered trifles, and tearing down preconceptions wherever he went, he would merely be above average.

There is suddenly a commotion upon the stairs and in a moment Holmes comes crashing in, boots covered in mud and completely drenched from the rain. His eyes are gleaming and I know that my peaceful repose has been cut short.

"Come Watson," he half shouts as he tears through the sitting room on the way to his room. "If we hurry to Bethnal Green we'll be just in time to catch a band of counterfeiters!" I rise from my chair and go to collect my hat and coat, and perhaps an umbrella.

"Watson what on earth is taking you so long?" he declares as he emerges from his room with a bundle of papers clutched in his fist. "If we don't head them off we're just going to have to catch them at the docks!" He grins at the thrill of this possible conclusion and begins eyeing the door in anticipation for the moment that I will be ready, tapping his foot to show his impatience, eyes bright all the while. I hurry along, chuckling to myself.

It is through his madness, and his brilliance, that he is the greatest man that I have ever known.