1987
You will not find my name in this report. I am not a Holmesian fan and this is not a regular Sherlockian pastiche. It is just THE Holmes story. I would never publish it under my name – it is only for the sake of truth that I am doing it this way.
My dad always smiled enigmaticly when somebody talked about his late father, John H. Watson, and his stories. Retired, he often accepted the invitations of different Holmes societies, gave interviews about his father and the famous detective and so on. He really liked it. I despised it and I was surprised that he kept doing it. I knew him to not to be pretentious or snobbish, he always told me that we have to work hard to be successful and he did so as well; so I could not understand why he liked to profite of his father´s glory. Once I asked him.
„For the fun of it," he said.
„Do you find it funny?"¨
„Yes, very much. And I am looking for somebody too. You will understand it one day. In the meantime, please be indulgent to your old father´s foibles."
Now he is dead. I can´t cry for him. He was 84, he had a long rich adventurous life as an army officer and he spent his winter years with Holmesian fans telling stories about his father and listening to the dissections of his books. He did it „for the fun of it", as he told me. I never understood why the others are doing it. I miss him, anyway. He lived with me for the last 10 years and he was ... well, simply my father – I definitely didn´t inherit any literary skills.
There were a lot of people at the funeral, I didn´t know many of them at all – the Holmesians, no doubt. Some of them were wearing that impossible cap – the deerstalker. Surely they must be crazy.
That young man was dressed very properly. No small talk, he just came to me and gave me the box.
„Your father asked me to give you these, to be sure that you will not just throw it out with the other papers."
He said goodbye and disappeared before I could ask any question.
It was a very hard day. I put the box in my bedroom and completely forgot about it. About a month later, I saw this young man again. In a music shop; I went there to buy a present for my son. The choice was rather difficult, I haven´t see him for a long time. The man´s face was on a cassette cover – Colin McNicol, a violinist. I put it into the cassette player in the shop. I am not an expert, but I liked it. I bought it. Home I started to look for that damned box. I felt I have to look at these papers at least. The housekeeper put it on the cabinet. I took the box to my study and opened it. It was heavy and full of old papers, as I supposed. On the top there was a sheet of my father´s handwriting. It ran:
Dear Peter,
I know that you always disliked all the humbug about your grandfather´s stories. You are a man of science, of precise mind, and you felt very well all these gaps and holes in your grandfather´s recits. You also disapproved my dealing with the people who like his stories. I told you once it was for the fun of it. You will perhaps understand it if you will read the papers below. I said you too that I am looking for someone. These people did a lot of work for me, even if they know nothing about it. Well, I found this person at least. It is the man who gave you the box.
Peter, my boy, there were things I should tell you about, but I could not. First I thought you too young so I didn´t wish to disturb you and suddenly you were a grown man and I didn´t dare to do it. After all, you were the only son I´ve ever had, and I didn´t want to lose you. You´ll find in this box an old manuscript – my father´s and at the end of it, there are a few pages I wrote to finish the story. I want you to read it as it lays before you - start from the very beginning, don´t peep at the end. Kindly do it for you and for your father, who did a lot of mistakes, but always loved you.
The old manuscript was composed of a pile of sheets in a big crumped envelope. I opened it and started from the very beginning, as my dad requested.