4. From Michael JG Meathook: Watson discovers he has innate magical abilities and endeavors to hone them so as to finally be an equal partner with Sherlock.
Readers of The Strand magazine and the cases I have penned featuring my dear friend, Sherlock Holmes, often marvel at the extraordinary feats of genius to which my friend is prone. And indeed, my portrayal of Holmes' powers is not exaggerated; were he born but a few centuries ago, I have no doubt he would be burned for witchcraft. And yet, in chronicling the cases which I present to the public, I have, of necessity, given myself rather a smaller role in his adventures than perhaps is entirely truthful. I do not regret this; Holmes' extraordinary powers are of the utmost interest to the public, far more than the exploits of a retired army surgeon, and are indeed worthy of such interest.
However, here in the pages of my private journal, I must recount a curious series of events that befell me, and me alone. For though they may seem inexplicable, yet I have hopes that by setting my thoughts to paper, I may make sense of all that has transpired.
It happened first in my surgery. A young man came to visit me, complaining of a pain in his abdomen. I retrieved a notebook with which to take notes, and as I hunted for a pen, idly pointed to a place just beneath my own ribs. "A sharp pain here, followed by twisting sense of nausea?"
It was only when I noted the young man's wide-eyed stare that I realized he had not yet given me a description of the pain. "E-exactly, Doctor Watson!" he said. "H-how did you know?"
At the time, I put it down to a shrewd guess on my part, or even perhaps a deduction of my own drawn from a dozen details about the young man that I had not consciously perceived. I administered the proper treatment, and sent the young man on his way much impressed with my medical expertise. And yet, three days later, as I walked down the street outside my practice, I was seized by a sudden certainty that the tradesman whom I had just passed was extraordinarily hungry. Turning to observe him, I witnessed him just turning into a bakery, already pulling out a handful of coins.
As the days passed, these strange certainties became more and more frequent. I was able to diagnose several of my patients before they had even expressed their symptoms, and more than once I felt anger, exhaustion, or happiness as I walked along the street that had no correlation to my own emotions. I thought of confiding this strange phenomenon to Holmes, but I half suspected that he would dismiss the notion out of hand, as something inimical to the logic to which he had devoted his life. Yet for my part, I could not help but wonder if this was not something far beyond logic, drawn from the fantastical instead of the mundane.
"Watson!"
I jolted out of my reverie to find Holmes watching me keenly from his place near the fire. I did not need my newfound powers to read the supreme irritation in his face. No doubt this was not the first time he had attempted to gain my attention.
"Yes, Holmes?"
"I asked what you thought of our client, Mr. Bunbridge. What do you make of his story about the sardines and the chemical experiment?"
"He was lying about the cause of the fire," I said. "No doubt he was responsible for the death of the workers." No sooner were the words out of my mouth than I paused in confusion. Despite his unusual story, Mr. Bunbridge had seemed quite sincere. Indeed, I could think of nothing in his testimony that would lead me to such a conclusion.
Was it my imagination, or was Holmes similarly startled? "I am inclined to agree with you, Watson," he said after a moment. "I believe I will investigate more closely. Although this case appears simple on the surface, it does present a few elements of interest."
Of course, when Holmes' investigation was concluded, I was proven right. Mr. Bunbridge had indeed been the cause of the fire that had killed two workers at the sardine factory, and had enlisted Holmes' help in a bold attempt to brazen out his crime. Holmes made no comment, but he gave me a strange look as the police led Mr. Bunbridge away to Scotland Yard.
It was this incident that has given me hope that my powers can be used to somehow aid Holmes in his cases. His work often brings him into contact with the most dangerous of criminals. If I am able to determine their motives or sense their actions in advance, I will be able to provide my friend with a measure of safety that he has not hereto been afforded.
Perhaps this power, inexplicable as it is, will prove a blessing.
