A/N: Title too long to fit in the chapter title: The Case of the Adventure of the Blanched Soldier.
All italicized text comes from The Adventure of the Blanched Soldier. Filling some plot holes Doyle left behind and answering the question of what Watson really thought about those two stories Holmes narrates?
"Perhaps I ought to do as you are no doubt thinking and try my own pen at writing an account of a case," Sherlock Holmes remarked lazily from the settee, which had followed him not only from Baker Street to Sussex Downs, but from Montague Street before that, and was accordingly much the worse for wear.
I, having little to do other than write in these days of retirement, was seated at my desk searching through some forty years of case notes, waiting for inspiration to strike. Sadly, in the absence of any new cases, I was beginning to think I had at last run dry of stories that would interest the public. Those that were left were either dull affairs that bored me, never mind my readers, incomplete in that Holmes never brought the affair to a close, or were cases I had not been present for. I turned around to look at my friend, whose eyes were half shut, as if showing off that he still maintained the ability to answer my thoughts rather than my words, even with his eyes closed.
He need not have worried about losing his reputation. Aside from some bouts of rheumatism, his mind remained as sharp as ever, and his energy as unflagging. Alas, few cases had come his way since the end of the war some eight years previously, and boredom was as much a danger to his active mind as ever. No doubt it was this which led him to deduce my thought process, which had indeed run from thinking about my lack of inspiration, to what Holmes would say about my story when I finally completed it, to becoming preemptively annoyed at his criticisms as I had always been, to finally internally admonishing him to try his own hand at it if he was so dissatisfied with my efforts.
It was a wonder we even had to have conversations any more. I sometimes thought he could read my thoughts so easily, and I could predict his thought process so well, that we might very well end up spending our retirement in silence.
"I am sure that there are many cases which you handled alone that you could tell better than I," was my answer. "Perhaps, after all these years, a story you penned yourself would be of greater interest to readers than one of mine. After all, it is you they have been reading for all these years."
"You sell yourself short, my dear Watson," Holmes answered. "Did you not tell me of the awe in which your soldiers in France held you?"
"That is because of you. I certainly would not be known otherwise," I said. "In any case, you ought to try it. I have nothing as of yet and I promised Doyle a story by next week for printing in November. At least if you write something I may fulfill what I have promised." No doubt Doyle would be far more interested in whatever Holmes wrote than my paltry efforts. It would at least be something new.
Holmes sat up thoughtfully. "It would be an interesting exercise. I might even improve on the form. I have often said these little accounts are wasted opportunities which could, in other hands, do much to spread the science of deduction."
"If you truly think you could do better," I said, not without some heat.
"Yes, I think I shall try," Holmes said absently. "I have several cases spanning from the year of my retirement until I began my undercover work, which you would not know, that would be suitable for publication."
"I shall be interested to read your account, then," I said, my anger forgotten. I had never lost my interest in Holmes's cases, and he was most reticent about them once the conclusion had been reached. I had heard little of the cases he took on in my absence during those eight years, and had missed them as I returned at last to the life of an ordinary doctor.
Over the course of the next week, Holmes threw himself into writing his account with as much enthusiasm as I had ever seen him give to one of his monographs. He spoke little, save to mutter to himself as he wrote.
"No, that is not interesting enough."
"Blast, I believe I skipped a deductive step!" This followed by a vehement cross-out.
Perhaps he would learn that writing for an eager public is no easy feat. I confess I was interested in the result, and not only because I would learn the details of a case I had not previously heard about. Holmes was a competent enough writer when the subject was scientific, but fiction is an altogether different matter, and I wished to see if the final story would be engaging enough to the public.
"Well, I have finished," Holmes said at last, a week later. He handed me a sheaf of papers across the table as we took a late lunch.
"'The Adventure of the Blanched Soldier,'" I read out loud. "I don't believe you've ever told me about this one." I began to read with great interest, and began to laugh almost immediately.
"Well, I must say, I am glad you admit you have invited my 'persecution,' as you call it, by constantly denigrating my stories," I said, chuckling. I read further, even more gratified as he admitted that these accounts must be presented in an interesting manner, rather than simple facts and figures. "It is certainly not too textbook-like," I added. "Your voice is distinct, so that even those who barely know you would recognize it. It is as if you are telling me the story aloud."
"Having never written a narrative account before, I knew of no other way to make it distinct, aside from writing as if I were speaking to you," Holmes said. I smiled and went on.
Speaking of my old friend and biographer, I would take this opportunity to remark that if I burden myself with a companion in my various little inquiries it is not done out of sentiment or caprice,
"If you burden yourself," I said indignantly. "Holmes, I was not aware I was a burden." I should have known he would not be so complimentary for long; time had done little to soften Holmes's sharp edges, but even accustomed to this as I was, I still found it hurtful to read his opinion so plainly.
"Have you not said that your readers ask why it is I have an assistant in the first place?" Holmes asked, annoyingly correct as always. "I seek to explain it, from my own lips, so that no one may accuse me of falsifying my accomplishments. Read on, Watson."
…but it is that Watson has some remarkable characteristics of his own to which in his modesty he has given small attention amid his exaggerated estimates of my own performances.
It was true that I had diminished my own qualities, as my works were about Holmes, not my own adventures. I felt a very ungentlemanlike blush creep up my neck at the unexpected, printed compliment. Holmes gave praise rarely, and that he appreciated my efforts of all these years enough to publicize it meant a great deal.
Then I continued to read.
A confederate who foresees your conclusions and course of action is always dangerous, but one to whom each development comes as a perpetual surprise, and to whom the future is always a closed book, is indeed an ideal helpmate.
"Holmes, you make me sound as if I were an utter imbecile! Someone to whom each development comes as a perpetual surprise! Why, according to this description I ought to be so astonished each day that the sun comes out that I would be rendered speechless!"
Holmes appeared not to have considered that his description of me could be viewed as insulting for he stared at me in genuine surprise. "Watson, I am merely building on your own characterization of yourself. I have always said you do yourself a disservice, but your readers would hardly believe me now if I were to write you as you truly are."
"They will, however, start to wonder why someone of your intelligence sees fit to associate with such a dunderhead as me," I muttered, though I could see the sense of his explanation, and my anger cooled accordingly.
"Perhaps you ought to have thought of that before you began writing yourself that way," Holmes said lightly. "In any case, I do not owe the readership of England a viewpoint into our private association, or the intricacies of our long friendship."
"In that, you are right," I said. I had barely read more than two lines further before I exclaimed, "Holmes, for heaven's sake!"
"Which part are you referring to now?" my friend asked calmly.
I showed him the offending line. The good Watson had at that time deserted me for a wife, the only selfish action which I can recall in our association. I was alone. "Most of the world would not consider it 'selfish' to simply get married. It is what people do, and I hardly could be expected to be at your beck and call for my entire life."
"You know my feelings on matrimony, Watson," Holmes said. "You can hardly expect them to change, and more importantly, neither can the reading public."
"But this isn't even true!" I burst out. "You know very well I have not been married since-"
Mary's death was still painful, even all these years later, and there certainly had been no one since her too-early passing. Once Holmes retired I had returned to practice in London, living alone until I shipped off to France for my service. It was not until after the war when, with my health ruined, Holmes invited me to join him in his retirement, where I had happily stayed since, regaining what I could of my constitution and spending my days in lazy contentment.
"I know," Holmes said softly. "I confess I took a leap with that, but it occurred to me that I still have enemies, and when an opportunity presents itself to throw them off the scent, so to speak, I cannot ignore it."
"You think your enemies are reading my stories?" I asked.
"Were someone to write stories of my enemies, I would read them," Holmes said. "It does not do to be uninformed. It can only help us to have such people believe you are married, still in London, and as far removed from me as possible."
As always, his instincts for remaining ahead of his enemies left me in astonishment. Had he been a general on the field in France, perhaps he could have worked the miracle we had needed and never received.
"Anyone who does make an attempt on my life will not be expecting you and your trusty service revolver when they get here," Holmes continued. "But anyone looking for you will then surely go looking in London, and find nothing."
"Ingenious," I said under my breath. "My dear Holmes, you never cease to amaze me."
"Oh, come, Watson, it is second nature now. I barely have to think of it," Holmes said, though he flushed with pleasure. "Now that you have reached the end of the sections about you, perhaps you can give me your unbiased opinion of the rest of my story? You have barely read three paragraphs."
"Very well," I said. "I believe I am beginning to regret suggesting that you write this."
"Really? I found, to my surprise, that I enjoyed it. Perhaps I will write another after all," Holmes said, and I laughed in a most ungentlemanly manner.