Watson's Woes

Disclaimer - If I owned them, I'd be dead!

See bottom of last chapter for authors notes explaining the 'thinking' behind this fic…

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Anyone at all familiar with my writings will know that my publicised account of Holmes return to England, entitled 'The Empty Room' is very different to the events recorded in this manuscript. As I believe I said at the beginning of this tale, my friend found my twisting of events to be a very odious lie, though he could hardly protest that I 'save face' by altering certain facts for the reading public at large. I had no wish to expose my foolish behaviour to the readers of The Strand, and Holmes had indeed deceived Moran with a wax works bust at one point in his hiatus.

I merely dovetailed several events and re-organised several dates, omitting certain facts and people from the public tale, and crediting others with events and actions that had not occurred precisely as I reported them. As an author, that is my privilege, and in this particular case, Holmes agreed wholeheartedly with my motives.

There are some elements of truth to 'The Empty Room' and a final event that I wish to include in this recount. It is in some way a confession to Holmes; forgive me old chap, I couldn't resist at the time, and when I saw how badly my reaction had shaken you I thought it best not to refer to it again.

After the conversation during my Sunday afternoon visit to dear Mary, Holmes once more began to call upon me with cases. My practice was busy as ever, and the demands of Scotland Yard didn't lessen, which meant I was not always available to attend to my friends work. Sometimes it was all I could do to play my old role of sounding board, and sometimes I accompanied my friend at the eleventh hour, only gaining true understanding of a case well after its denouement. Young Dr Poole made great strides in his bedside manner during that time, motivated partly by his 'vigorous discussion' with Holmes. After six months in practice with me, he was able to find a small practice of his own, closer to his mother's home. With him returned to his family home, my own house was once more rather empty and I began to spend more time at Baker Street.

Mrs Cooper offered her notice three months after Dr Poole left, to work in his own newly bought establishment. It seemed that he'd developed a sense of respect for her, and had recommended her to his fiancée, who promptly bought my housekeeper out from under me. I was pleased by this, to the surprise of my general acquaintance, as Mrs Cooper belonged in a family home, not a bachelor's house. Holmes was also pleased, as he saw it as yet another reason for me to return to my old address as a fellow lodger.

I was considering the sale of my genteel practice against the weight of my bills, because I had no intention of abandoning my poorer patients, and the genteel practice had gone some way to defray their frequently unpaid bills, when the maid I had engaged on a temporary business announced that there was a 'queer old bookseller' here to see me.

I recalled bumping into a bookseller on my rounds that morning, and picking up the books that I had knocked down accidentally to a snarl of anger on the old chap's part. I bade my maid to show him in, hoping that he wasn't going to attempt to extract payment from me for any damage the books had incurred. They hadn't been in pristine condition before I knocked them from his hands, and I didn't relish getting into an argument with him about the matter.

The stoop shouldered, white-haired man was duly shown in, and I ushered him to the chair opposite my desk with a smile and polite enquiry. I have to admit that I was a little bemused when he began the conversation with a heartfelt apology for his ill tempered snarl, which then segued into an inventory of what he was carrying, and an offer to fill the 'untidy gap' on the bookshelf behind my desk. I turned to look, and when I turned back there was Sherlock Holmes, his infernal disguise on his lap, beaming at me as of old.

This, I fear is where my own so-called 'pawky sense of humour' got the better of me. Holmes did so love to surprise and shock me with his disguises. I confess that the phrase 'turn about is fair play' crossed my mind as I jumped to my feet in surprise, mouthed his name in silence and then dramatically 'fainted' sliding to the floor in a heap. I fear I gave him quite a fright, for he almost shouted my name as he rounded the desk. It was all I could do to stay still as he loosened my collar and gave me brandy. I allowed him to help me to a seat, and promised that no harm had been done – merely that I was a little tired from a series of late nights, a little white lie that was based somewhat in truth.

Well, Holmes, I've confessed. A small price to pay, I think you'll agree, for setting the true events of your return down. I would have preferred to 'let sleeping dogs lie' as our American brothers are fond of saying. You never were one for letting a falsehood stand unless it served some sort of justice, and I grant that the events I depicted in 'The Empty Room' could be counted as a grievous lie. So here, old friend is the truth, as you requested.

Moreover, if I have offended you in any way, then you will have to forgive me.

END

Authors notes – this has been a while in the writing, and in fact was 'lost' on my hard drive for a while, which resulted in me forgetting precisely where it was going and how I wanted to end it. Based on a 'what if Watson didn't just forgive and forget in the first blush of realisation' in the Empty House by Conan Doyle: it was a good excuse for some angst and smarm, no?

Any character you recognise isn't mine. Any you don't recognise is. (Does that even make sense?)