Author's Note: I own none of the standard Sherlock Holmes characters. Only the supporting characters I created for this work of fiction are my own.
This story is going to be quite long: pretty much a novel. Early chapters have already been written, at least in first draft. Later chapters will come more slowly, but hopefully at fairly regular intervals. Although I have written professionally before, this is my first attempt at fiction. Your reviews, comments, and suggestions for improvements will be most appreciated. Thanks in advance for reading – especially if you make it all the way to the end!
Prologue:
Portsmouth, October 8, 1920
It is an unusually warm Friday in early October when I pick up my pen to write what is likely to be the last major case of my old friend and colleague, Mr. Sherlock Holmes. Although the events of this case happened years ago, it is with a sense of reluctance and anxiety that I finally commit these events to paper. Even now, the extraordinary sensitivity of the case, the ghastly and traumatic details – and my friend's reluctance to discuss the details - all give me pause and leave me wondering if I have made the correct choice in committing this most singular case (actually a series of cases) to history.
In truth, I am driven by recent world history and personal circumstances to record this terrible case. I've convinced myself that I can always lock this narrative away, in my old dispatch box in the Charing Cross Bank vaults, and that it may never see the light of day. History may benefit – eventually – and it is better if the facts are told by someone with intimate knowledge rather than risking a later disclosure rife with the half-truths and wild speculation. "The Truth Will Out." Better it come from me.
As for recent history, there is the inevitable march of time. In two weeks, it will be my sixty-eighth birthday. I am reasonably healthy for my age, but can no longer deny that I have lived longer than the average man born in 1852, especially considering my personal history. My war service wounds, and the numerous other injuries I suffered through the years of faithful service by the side of my friend, leave me aware of how lucky I am to be alive and in reasonable working order. But I am a doctor; I know better than most that my clock is ticking.
History matters. It is why I am here in Portsmouth. It's past, national and world history, as well a sense of the age we are moving towards, that bring me here to this city, to support, to bear witness and to respond to the needs of the moment and the lessons of our times.
Tomorrow I will attend the unveiling of a war memorial dedicated to just a fraction of the brave men and boys lost in the recent Great War. I am here to support an old medical colleague, Dr. Elliot McKenzie, and his wife, Anne, as they honor the memory of their dear nephew, Eliott Olmstead. Eliot was the doctor's namesake, and a young lieutenant lost at sea in a naval engagement with the German battle fleet. Sadly, this memorial is just one of countless memorials rising from the grief stricken ashes of war – mute testimony to countless lives lost.
The war… the grief is everywhere. It is in the air, in the faces, in the passersby. Nobody talks about it. Perhaps nobody wants to. Perhaps they don't see it. "You see, Watson, but you do not observe." By Holmes' standards, I miss much, but after decades of living and working with the man, I've learned to see much – and unfortunately, I have seen too much.
Grim faces, set expressions, downcast eyes avoiding contact, stiff gaits, no relaxation anywhere. I see war's impact as I look out the window of this quaint tearoom, as I watch the people walking through this busy market square.
I see their expressions and behavior. I see what they do. I notice who is there – and who is not. Maybe I am the only person who consciously sees it – all the people who are missing. In crowds of people walking by, there are many fewer men, especially younger men, than once would have been the daily norm. Even so, many of the men that do pass by move stiffly, awkwardly, as if injured or in pain. My sharpened skills, along with my medical training, cause me to automatically diagnose their injuries and their mental state: a wounded left leg, wounded shoulder, left limb with prosthetic, blind in the right eye, crippled left arm, profound shell shock… So many.
Unlike Holmes who observed and deduced everyone all his life, my skill, observations, and deductions don't sit well on me. I can't set my feelings aside, both as a doctor and a human being. If anything, it's been harder as I get older. I saw so many families suffer unbearable grief as husbands, sons and brothers left for war and the promise of glory only never to return – or to come back broken wrecks of men, their bodies and futures shattered. Young men I doctored earlier in life, or even helped to enter this life at birth became casualties of the endless slaughter. Their families grieved, and so did I. Our collective grief continues.
Few if any of us saw what the war would become: an industrialized, mechanized, worldwide slaughterhouse of millions of soldiers and citizens alike. A conflict most originally believed would be over by the end of 1914 lasted almost four years longer - culminating in a grim ceasefire in November 1918. Week by week, day by day, the mass carnage continued. The world watched in helpless horror as endless battles raged, sometimes for months, with astonishing casualties, absolutely no advantage gained, and few winners. Battles eventually ended, not through decisive victories or grand strategies, but rather the brutal cold calculation of war by attrition. Mass industrialization of warfare, war waged by one country's corporate arms machinery against the opposing side's counterparts, made men just one abstract variable in the equation. New tactics, weapons and technologies came up against what ultimately proved to be absurdly obsolete antiquated war strategies. Horses and dogs were up against machine guns, automobiles, airplanes, and tanks. Men with rifles huddled in open trenches for months, even years, guarding against the elements, disease, snipers, machine guns and vast unprecedented amounts of heavy bombardment.
Men lived or died in those deep gashes cut into the countryside, subjected to more lethal bombs and shells in a few hours or days than had been unleased during entire wars in the nineteenth century. Battles were waged where more men died in one day, on either side, than had been lost in entire wars previously. for example, the Battle of the Somme opened on the fist of July,1916 with 57,000 British casualties alone – and that was only the first day, on one side of the engagement. Days almost as bad followed, one after the other … and there were many battles, with many days per battle. The war finally ended, not with a decisive victory, but because Germany spent itself into absolute exhaustion. We won only because Germany ran out of resources – men and the elements of mass industrial warfare before we did. So much for glory and patriotism.
We who survived learned: the old world was gone. A new, darker, cruel, industrial, and indifferent society seems to be our collective mass reality. Little remains of the world I spent most of my life in. Perhaps it's because I am old and cannot change. The young – the ones who survived anyway – seem far more comfortable in these times. It is their time after all. They still see possibilities while people my age can only see what we have lost. It's not just me. Holmes, ever a man of his times, says he no longer feels comfortable in London – and doesn't even recognize some of the city anymore. If ever there was a man who knew and loved London better, I don't know of him. We of the old century have been abandoned by the new.
Holmes and I both feel crushed by this new dark age of callous industrialization. It is the impact of this new world of industry and science, and my unease with it, which has caused me to pick up my pen again to write one last story about my dear friend. For indeed, the events in the narrative I am about to relate precede, and yet herald this new age we find ourselves in.
Holmes and I rarely speak of this case. The events are too ghastly and ended unsatisfactorily. I know Holmes sees this case as his greatest failure – certainly the most costly. Yet, I disagree. Holmes shed light on great evil lurking in many dark places and he did so with extraordinary skill, infinite patience, and dedication – and against astonishing odds and pressure, even from the highest levels of the British government.
The case is noteworthy also for the way it impacted the relationship between Holmes and his brother, Mycroft. It illustrated not only the great intellectual powers of both great men, but also how they used their gifts in vastly different ways. Sherlock and Mycroft were always intellectual giants far above their peers. Sharpness of mind, keenness of vision, perception, deduction, and analysis led them to become the most respected men of their age, each in his own sphere. Yet for all their similarities, they were far different from each other in how they saw the world, and how they made both personal and professional decisions – often even when aware of the exact same set of facts. Mycroft was almost entirely focused on the big picture view of the world, national politics, strategic advantage, cold calculations, and the trade-offs necessary to achieve desirable outcomes. Sherlock was driven by his pursuit of justice, the rightness of a cause, and redressing wrongs for the victims of crime, cruelty, abuse, or neglect. Holmes would, and often did, go to extraordinary lengths to bring justice, closure, dignity and even vengeance for those unable to get it for themselves. He would reduce his fees or even eliminate them all together if he felt the cause was right.
In past cases, I have often described my friend as a cold man of logic and unfeeling, especially when it came to the finer, softer emotions. I did that because it was far simpler than constantly explaining the complex dynamics of his emotions, and how he dealt with them. It was also a way to respect his privacy. Homes was, and remains, an extremely private individual. Emotion is anathema to the deductive process used by the observant mind. Emotions bring vulnerabilities and biases; they cloud the mind and lead easily to faulty conclusions. Better to have none, or to set them aside.
It took me a long time to fully understand Holmes, and I've lived with him, and often worked with him for many years. He disclosed little, so facts, especially personal ones, were often hard won. I only gradually came to see that he was far more than a cold unthinking machine without emotions. Holmes had both emotions and feelings, very deep ones. He simply chose to set them aside for the purposes of logical deduction and analysis. He also had a powerful code of conduct, and a deep, even profound, sense of morality. Holmes often told me that I was his conscience. It is far closer to the truth to say that that his conscience was fully developed, and something he did not easily set aside. If anything, he wanted me to be an additional check on his conduct and moral behavior; he cared too much, not too little. The events in this case proved to me that not only was Holmes a man of deep conscience, but he rose to his greatest feats of deduction when in pursuit of justice for those neglected or wronged by those with no conscience at all.
I believe Holmes was at his best when he pursued a case primarily on the merits of justice. The case I am about to narrate shows Holmes as I had never seen him before. His relentless pursuit in the cause of what is right makes this case (actually, a long series of cases) one of the greatest successes, even achievements, of the greatest man I have ever known.
One of Holmes' most brilliant successes or his greatest failure? I invite you to decide.
I fully intend to ensure this case remains unpublished for at least fifty years. That way, those most impacted will be long gone, and the more unsavory and embarrassing aspects, especially for the British government, will be less damaging. It's possible that even after fifty years, my literary executors may choose to let more time go by, or even not publish this case at all. Published or not, I only ask that this manuscript not be destroyed. The lessons it holds for posterity are all too important. They are vital for 1920 and perhaps even more so in 1970 - or for some future generation of decision makers.
John H. Watson, M.D.
1920
