Athour's note: This is my first ever Sherlockian Fanfiction, so please be leniant in reviewing it. This is merely the introduction, the action will pick up later. This I promise you.
The prestigious Dr. Watson was very skilled in his ability to misconstrued events, dates, and even people to fit in his perfect story world. His plot will not be discovered, at least not soon. Even if it were, who would believe such an honest looking man capable of hiding the actual events? In this was Dr. Watson's genius. He made a god out of a man. Then he made that god detest the press, and have them mingle and mash events. He then would shuffle the dates from their original calendar location to another more fanciful realm, where Tuesdays become Saturdays; missing years become months, and weeks to decades.
However, Dr. Watson was still often befuddled when it came to his my employer's distain for his stories. He could not understand that the facts in these cases were vital to Mr. Holmes. If Dr. Watson knew the extent of the agony the stories caused Mr. Holmes, I believe he would have discontinued immediately. Although, on occasion, Mr. Holmes would tease Dr. Watson about the stories, Mr. Holmes would not speak to Dr. Watson about his distress on the matter. Mr. Holmes permitted the errors to continue because of the pleasure Dr. Watson derived from being a 'real' writer; Mr. Holmes would not pry into it. Even if he wished to claw out his eyes after he read the nonsense printed.
Yes, Sherlock, read them. Not merely glanced over, as he may have indicated, but read them. He would pour himself over them picking out every detail, and every morning when a new atrocity was published. He would throw himself down the stairs swing open the door and bellow "The sheer horror!"
He would then pace about the room frantically, and I would always dutifully ask, "What is the matter Mr. Holmes?"
"Can you imagine, Mrs. Hudson?" He arms flailed about wildly, "The sheer withering horror of the erroneous statements in these—memoirs, if that's what you can call them.
"I could stand it from the papers, but this romantic nonsense from my best friend?"
Even when I knew he was not listening to me, I would always ask, "Why don't you just tell Dr. Watson, sir?"
Then, always, he would throw the, now, nearly illegible and completely minced paper into my lap and would storm out of the room muttering leaving little bits of paper around the floor. I would always sigh, and pick up every miniscule piece of newsprint from my freshly washed kitchen floor, and mop, again, the ink spatter that always accompanied his left foot.
Dr. Watson never saw any of this. If he had, he would have been shocked at the emotional outrage of his analytical friend. However, Dr. Watson was always gallivanting around with some girl or another. There, if not in orderly housekeeping, was Sherlock sensible. One would never catch him dallying around moping over some silly girl. Watson deemed it inhuman; I call it common sense. Those pursuits are not the thing with which to dally one's mind. Instead, that energy should be focused to practical uses, although, one can hardly call smoking up the living area with 37 different types of tobacco and leaving there remains scattered about the house 'practical'.