From ThatSassyCaptain: While "Doctor" Watson is just about as iconic as "Detective" Holmes, what else, if anything, might he have been?

"Mr Watson, was it?"

"Yes, that's right."

"Can you explain exactly what it was you were doing in the Duchess's antechamber at the time of the murder?"

I could feel the heat rise to my face, and only hoped I didn't look so obviously untrustworthy as I felt. The Inspector before me, a short rat-faced fellow named Lestrade, had his notebook out and was taking down everything I said. I cleared my throat.

"Well,er-"

"Lestrade?"

I turned my head to the door, where a tall, dark-haired man with a hawk like nose had swept imperiously into the room. Inspector Lestrade looked decidedly put out.

"Mr Holmes," he greeted the man guardedly. "I didn't know you were assisting us with this case."

"The Duchess requested my services." This man - Mr Holmes - turned a pair of sharp, interrogating eyes upon me. "And I am afraid if you think this man is a suspect, Lestrade, you are entirely mistaken. He is a journalist."

My mouth went dry at that. "How could you possibly know-"

"Ink-stained fingers, and shirt cuffs." He gestured to both of these dismissively. "And the outline of a small, square object in your jacket pocket - a notebook, I believe?"

I frowned. "But by that logic I could be an author of fiction."

Those insightful eyes widened a little, and Inspector Lestrade barked a laugh.

"Well, he's got you there Mr Holmes."

"As it happens," Holmes sniffed, "I have read an article of yours. On the Burke and Hare case, in The Aberdeen Chronicle?"

"You have?" This time I was the one surprised. With a name like 'John Watson', I didn't often get recognition for my work. "What is it you do, Mr Holmes?"

Lestrade cleared his throat pointedly, snapping his notebook shut. "Seeing as the Duchess has requested your services personally Mr Holmes, I'll leave you to it."

"I'll be sure to consult with you regularly, Lestrade."

"See that you do," the little detective grumbled, and left, perhaps to question the other guests who had been at the party at the time of the Duke's murder. Holmes watched him go, and I fancied I saw his lip twitch in a peculiar sort of half-smile.

"My name is Sherlock Holmes and I am a consulting detective," he answered my earlier question, sticking out a hand. "The last and highest court of appeal in detection."

"And my name is John Watson." I took his hand and shook it. "A journalist, as you already know."

"Perhaps we might continue this discussion in a more conducive environment?" Holmes suggested, sweeping his gaze across me. I felt, suddenly, very exposed. "Simpsons, on the Strand, have you tried it?"

"I fear it is somewhat out of my price range," I told him, although I fancied he had already figured that out. "I have met with bad luck recently."

"My treat," he insisted and, despite my protestations, continued, "I am certain the information you provide me will be more than worth the cost, Mr Watson."

I did have information, and had wondered about telling the police everything I knew. But the information regarded those in high places, the murdered duke and his widowed duchess included; my recent bad luck was due to my determination in pursuing this particular story, and as a result I had been fired from my post on The Chronicle.

And yet, there was something about this Holmes fellow, something in his direct manner, that invited my trust.

"You really think I can be of assistance?" I asked warily.

"I am certain of it," he answered without hesitation. "It may sound strange, but I fancy there is something of the detective about you, Mr Watson."

"I suppose journalism is not so different from the work of a detective," I shrugged. "Both careers seek to find the truth, in one form or another."

Again he looked somewhat taken aback at my insight. "Indeed. Now, shall we?"

He gestured me out the door and, with a deep breath, I decided to trust and follow his direction.