Watson: My Life

by David Ruffle

  Damn, I may be repeating myself. More editing work for Mr. Huntley! The mad dash to the continent, the pursuit by Moriarty, the final meeting and death of Holmes and Moriarty at the Reichenbach Falls... all this will be familiar. The grief I felt as I travelled back to England was acute. I blamed myself for not being there when he needed me most, for being taken in so easily thus leaving the way clear for Moriarty to launch his murderous assault. Mary was on hand to nurse me through this dark time, to help restore my shattered nerves. I fancied in my darkest moments that I could hear Holmes’s screams as he plummeted to his death. I was haunted by my failure to protect the best and wisest man I had ever known. I consoled myself by continuing to write up adventures from my copious notes; in this way I could keep Holmes alive by acting as his living memorial.

  With Mary’s ministrations I was able to return to my normal self and the practice continued to thrive. The shadow, I reckoned, had gone from our lives. I was not overly worried when Mary fell ill with a heavy cold which quickly turned into influenza, she had always been susceptible to colds and coughs. The cough she now developed became persistent in its nature and she was an abject creature when wracked by bouts of coughing that would render her so weak. Tuberculosis. I knew it and she knew it.

  We discussed how our lives would be altered. We did not countenance death while there was a chance for survival. The practice was put into abeyance with locums operating a slimmed down surgery. There was evidence that fresh air and a changed diet could reverse the consumptive symptoms, mountain air was particularly recommended. Ironically, we made our way to the mountains of Switzerland where tragedy had already infused my life.

  The journey was uncomfortable, painful and interminable. Mary remained wrapped up, swaddled in layers of clothing and isolated from other passengers. The romantic poets sought to find beauty in the horror and melancholy of consumption. There was certainly horror and melancholy, but no beauty in a disease that ravaged so many.

  In the mountains, at a small clinic that was run more along the lines of a holiday resort, patients were encouraged to walk as much as possible to enable fresh air from all quarters of the compass to enter their lungs. At first, Mary could only manage a few steps, but gradually as she strengthened she was able to manage a good few miles a day. After a few weeks spent thus, she was involved in some form of outdoor exercise for upwards of eight hours a day.

  Coupled with a strict regimen of three healthy meals a day, this made for remarkable changes within her. I clung to the hope that she was cured and therefore saved whilst being very aware that sooner or later the disease could yet strengthen its hold on her. Yet, the journey back to England was so different from the outward journey. Mary was brighter although still weak. I was overjoyed to see colour in her cheeks now replacing the deathly pallor of just a few weeks ago. My joy was short-lived. There were to be no more periods of remission. Mary deteriorated quickly, so quickly in fact that another proposed trip to Switzerland had to be cancelled for Mary was far too weak to travel.

  I barely strayed from her side in those final days, her emaciated frame rendered her almost unrecognisable from how she looked when she entered the sitting-room of 221b just five years before. The end when it came was mercifully quick and Mary slipped away from me one cold, dark morning. I continued to hold her hand as I had been doing for several hours. I squeezed it as if that very act could bring her back to life. Almost at once I began to experience the debilitating effects of being alone and incomplete. The sense of feeling like you have lost an essential part of yourself is both painful and disconcerting. The world suddenly looked like a different place, often odd and distanced. I was no longer sure how to cope with life in general, and sometimes I wondered if I even wanted to try.

  The reality was that I had no one to turn to and I desperately needed someone. The opportunity to talk about the Mary, her life as well as her death, what I missed about her, my feelings of loneliness, anger and many others, and to review the final days of our life and relationship was denied to me. Oh, friends like Thurston offered support and continuing friendship, but they were not people I could open up to.

  Even Mycroft Holmes, in a rare departure from his precise routine called upon me to offer his condolences. The days that followed Mary’s death were both utterly full and completely empty... full of activity that had to be accomplished for I still had a living to earn, yet empty of life. Much of the time I sleepwalked through the things I had to do, so numb that I was often completely unaware of what was going on around me. I felt cut off from everything that I thought was my life. Then an event or a few spoken words would bring me out of my darkness, only to find myself standing alone and confused on some strange and unfamiliar street, full of feelings and memories, but also feeling utterly lost.

  Everything I did involved a great effort on my part, forcing myself to dress, forcing myself to bathe, to work. Gradually, without even realising it, a semblance of normality returned. The phrase ‘life must go on’ is much touted, but in essence it is true. There was also a realisation that Mary would have been appalled by the wreck of a man I had become.

  I threw myself into my doctoring, I once more began to read the newspapers to feel connected to the outside world. Not surprisingly given my association with Sherlock Holmes, I scoured reports of crime particularly if there seemed to be some elements which lifted such crimes out of the commonplace and into the mysterious. Reading between the lines of some of these, I attempted to apply Holmes’s methods in a modest way to see whether I could glean anything extra from these reports that might guide me toward a solution. However, I was not as adept as I imagined myself to be at sleuthing from a distance.

  There was none, however, which appealed to me like this tragedy of Ronald Adair. As I read the evidence at the inquest, which led up to a verdict of wilful murder against some person or persons unknown, I realised more clearly than I had ever done the loss which the community had sustained by the death of Sherlock Holmes.

  There were points about this strange business which would, I was sure, have specially appealed to him and the efforts of the police would have been supplemented, or more probably anticipated, by the trained observation and the alert mind of the first criminal agent in Europe. All day as I drove upon my round I turned over the case in my mind, and found no explanation which appeared to me to be adequate. The opening words of ‘The Empty House’ still thrill me because of what they would lead to. But that is a story for the next cylinder and a new morning. I feel excessively tired.

  31 Holmes’s brother. Watson had known Holmes seven years before he learned of Mycroft’s existence.

  Cylinder 9

  Mary featured in my dreams of last night. My remembrances of yesterday brought her back into focus. She had not inhabited a dream of mine for many years. So many memories still here in my admittedly fading memory.

  The murder of Ronald Adair and the return of Sherlock Holmes, that’s where I must start today. My reaction to Holmes’s return has a tendency to puzzle people. Why I did not rant and rage at his devious and harmful subterfuge in hiding the fact that he was still living? Why did I immediately fall in with assisting him? Over forty years on and I feel compelled to explain. What I described was an immediate reaction of mine to his sudden appearance.

  The friendship we had forged was at the forefront of my mind and I was, as I stated, overjoyed to see him alive and standing in front of me. Those emotions crowded out others which would bubble to the surface only later. Chief among these was my anger, unreasonable the fact of it may be, that Holmes was alive yet Mary was dead. I, of course, was not blaming Holmes for her death, but I grieved in differing ways for both of them. If Holmes could be re-born, why not Mary? Yes, irrational I know.

  Now, what I have to say may sound like heresy to some, but that emotional reunion with Holmes was not in reality quite how I depicted it. Yes, I was amazed to see him which is not
quite the same as being overjoyed. The sequence of events then differed somewhat. I demanded a full explanation of what had driven him to allow me to believe he was dead. Of why he could treat a trusted friend and comrade that way. His explanation after I fainted that he had no idea I would be so affected was particularly hurtful. Then the other side of the coin was that in front of me was a man who had a peculiar difficulty in allowing emotions to alter his equilibrium. He really had no idea of what troughs of despair his ‘death’ would bring about in me.

  That we were able to continue our friendship was a miracle itself, but at that stage of my life I realised how much I needed Holmes in my life. In some ways we came to be dependent on each other although I very much doubt that he would have admitted to such a dependency. But, as history records, I joined with Holmes in the capture of Colonel Sebastian Moran and before too long found myself back in my old quarters. Once more assisting Holmes whilst keeping my doctoring hand in even after selling the Kensington practice for a very good price indeed. History also records how that transaction came about.[32]

  The year following on from Holmes’s return was one of the busiest of his career. The cases came thick and fast with barely time to draw breath. The majority of these cases remain unchronicled. The best I could do was to acknowledge these cases in passing which even then infuriated people who reckoned I was just teasing them with these tantalising glimpses of adventures that would never be told. Perhaps I was. Perhaps I did so deliberately.

  The pre-eminence that Holmes had achieved in his chosen profession before the three-year hiatus had not noticeably been diminished in his absence and now had risen to even greater heights. I personally believe that around that time he was at the peak of his powers. Not that I mean that there was any falling off of his skills in the latter years of his career, more that his talents were seen at their best during those post-hiatus years. His mental and physical form were seen to their best advantage and he was called upon by all and sundry, even his Holiness the Pope[33].

  By comparison, 1896 was a barren year when for whatever reason, the great cases failed to materialise. Of course, there were some cases that Holmes looked into, but on the whole the first few months of the year were punctuated by Holmes bemoaning the fact of enforced idleness that he had to suffer. And when Holmes suffered, I suffered too I can tell you!

  That was all to change when I received a letter from my old friend, Godfrey Jacobs, who I believe I have mentioned before in my ramblings. The letter extended an invitation for me to visit him and his family in Lyme Regis on the Dorset coast. Much to my surprise, Holmes after a spot of cajoling on my part, elected to travel with me. Almost immediately when we arrived at that docile, peaceful spot then we were embroiled in a mystery, the like of which we had never known. Rather like the giant rat of Sumatra it is a tale for which the world is unprepared, the stuff of nightmares and dreams. Belief systems counted for nothing during that time and if you agree that faith is defined as something that enables us to believe things that we know to be untrue, then we had faith a-plenty.

  I will say only this, that I the most flat-footed of men faced head on a force I did not understand. Holmes that most scientifically minded of men saw for himself something that science could not explain. I did commit an account to paper of the nature of what we encountered in Lyme, but it is not an account for the consumption of the general public nor will it ever be so.[34]

  Amongst the dark horror we encountered was a chink, no, more than a chink of light for I met a widow, Mrs Beatrice Heidler who captured my heart when I doubted it would ever be captured again. I suffered when I recognised my feelings for her. I suffered through guilt. Guilt at loving again when Mary had been at rest for only four years. I felt I was being untrue to her, to her memory. Yet, I could not fight the feelings that were growing for Beatrice, nor did I wish to. My feelings were reciprocated to my joy and we made plans to be together. Beatrice had a sixteen-year-old son, Nathaniel and she, quite rightly, did not want to uproot him. Instead we agreed to wait until he had come of age before we could marry and be together fully.

  In consequence, I travelled frequently to Lyme Regis over the coming years and left Holmes to his own devices although I was on hand to assist quite often in spite of his dark mutterings about my imminent desertion of him. Holmes himself had occasion to further visit Lyme too. For such a beautiful resort, it had its share of bizarre crime that fortunately we were on hand to deal with, one featuring an adversary from the past bent on vengeance against us.[35]During that episode, Beatrice was abducted and held hostage and her very life threatened. It was the most harrowing of times with Beatrice adding bravery to her already formidable talents. Again, this case and a further episode in that loveliest of spots in Dorset will have to remain unpublished.

  On the whole, 1897 proved to be another slow year and as always, at such times I was ever careful and watchful in case Holmes should slip back to his usage of artificial stimulants. A veritable flurry of cases greeted the opening months of the year however and even Holmes’s iron constitution began to wilt under the pressure of sustained hard work coupled with a poor diet and lack of sleep. A sabbatical was sought and a trip to Cornwall was the favoured prescription. Life was never that simple though and once again we were plunged into another puzzle.[36]

  Some of the following years were more memorable by the failures rather than successes. I should qualify my use of the word failure as they were not cases where Holmes had all the facts at his disposal and then failed to find a solution, but rather affairs he looked into that revealed no clues whatsoever as to the unravelling the answers as to what had occurred. I am particularly reminded of the case of Mr. James Phillimore, who, stepping back into his own house to get his umbrella, was never more seen in this world. We spent two hours in Phillimore’s house seeking a solution and came away as puzzled as when we had arrived. ‘We know only too well, Watson, do we not, that there are incidents that remain outside of our understanding? This may run along similar lines,’ Holmes said as we exited the house in an oblique reference to our first visit to Lyme Regis.

  We also looked into the case of Isadora Persano, the well-known journalist and duellist, who was found stark staring mad with a match box in front of him which contained a remarkable worm said to be unknown to science. Poison was suspected, but there were no obvious signs of how that could be administered. There were no signs of madness in his forebears, nothing to suggest that he was liable to become a victim of the complete loss of his senses. The worm itself was removed to an entomology department at the zoo where the following morning it had disappeared completely. Mystery upon mystery with no answer.

  Holmes, rather surprisingly, took these setbacks in his stride, complaining only to me that he was not the magician I made him out to be. Of course, he had a point for my goal in initially bringing these adventures before the public was to put Holmes the detective, where he should rightly be, recognised and admired by all for his superior intellect and sleuthing skills and I could hardly do that by trumpeting to everyone his failures. In essence, I was guilty as charged!

  I am racking my brains regarding what I have so far recorded on these cylinders to see whether I have dealt Mrs. Hudson the ultimate injustice of not mentioning her. I believe I have... damn... why can’t I remember that when I remember so much about the events of over thirty years ago? If I have failed her, let me redress that now.

  Mrs. Hudson was what I would describe as a feisty woman, given to outbursts of righteous indignation. And, believe me, she could do righteous indignation like no other. But, good-hearted, kind-hearted and when not in the grips of an outburst, quite long-suffering. When dealing with a lodger like Sherlock Holmes patience is a necessary virtue and whilst she possessed it, she didn’t always display it. When Holmes found himself in a battle of wills with her, it was always he who backed down, she could be fearsome in an argument. She was proud of us, I knew that. She treated us l
ike her property, as an extension of her house. It was almost as though we belonged to her. Doughty, feisty, yet gentle. I thought her magnificent. I mentioned the battle of wills between her and Holmes which put me in mind of boxers circling each other, looking for weaknesses to exploit.

  On occasions like that it would be easy to assume there was no love lost between them, but it was no surprise to me that when Holmes retired to the Sussex coast, Mrs. Hudson promptly sold the Baker Street house and retired with him. ‘To look after him,’ she said, but I am of the mind it was to look after one another.

  But, I get ahead of myself again. Around the turn of the century, Holmes began to talk of retirement. I had no notion that he was even contemplating such an action. He was under the belief that his powers were on the wane. I saw no evidence of that and told him so. He was still very much in demand and recent triumphs as we headed into a new century would ensure that would remain so. The Adventure of the Six Napoleons was one such triumph. Not only did it spark a fulsome vote of thanks from Lestrade, it also revealed how Holmes could be snared himself by the softer emotions. I could not recall Holmes ever being so moved as he was when Lestrade revealed how everyone at Scotland Yard from the lowest to the highest was proud of him. It may have been a flickering emotion, a momentary slipping of the mask, but it was there, I saw it.

  I was to see it again two years later. Holmes’s determination to retire was reinforced when he received a huge reward in the shape of a £12,000 fee from the Duke of Holdernesse. This, I believe, was the final catalyst in making his mind up, this unexpected plume in his finances suddenly gave him both the funds and the reason to draw his career to a close. Not that he wasn’t a comparatively wealthy man before that despite his protestations to the Duke that he was a poor man. His profession had brought him fame and wealth and that was true for me also albeit in a more modest way.