A Pocket book of Insanity – or ,Watson's First Case

=Notes=

When one writes a diary there are a great many details one leaves out due to time and space; counter-wise, also details one puts in – safe in the knowledge they are private... So in reading, I ask you to think not only on what is said, but what is not.

How does Watson refer to himself or his flatmate and with what degree of affection, familiarity or contempt? What events does he hurry over and what does he cover in more detail? Are there details of his conduct (or maybe Holmes' ) that Watson is leaving out? (Don't get too smutty, darlings, they've only just met. That's not to say there aren't the beginnings of interest or frisson...)

If anyone reads this and has a strong impression of the unwritten, the days skipped, the events unmentioned... or of the point repeated and too belaboured... tell me.

Because that's my point of all this, and will make it more fun.

xx

Feel dog tired. Likely look and smell like a dog too.

I have to pull myself out of this rut and stop kicking about in the gutter of misery.

Came back from Maiwand with limbs and mind in tact - but still my soul seems a sorry shadow of itself. I sound sententious no doubt, but I don't know how else to describe myself. There is a confidence, a brashness and an interest – a verve – for life that was once a staple of my character that I seem to have lost somewhere. I know the limits placed upon me by my health, can catalogue each ache and pain, each shake of a once steady hand (and I do) just as I know my strength is returning to me slowly. On board the Orontes I was still a ghost, jaundiced looking, losing my legs and my lunch at the slightest swell. My shaving mirror shows I am not so haggard now; brown as a tanner and string thin, but no longer Coleridge's life-in-death Mariner, thank god.

(Vanity John – discard it and fill your time with better pursuits.)

See - I coach myself to worthier thoughts daily but cannot quite heed my own advice.

The fact that so many others died, so many bodies destroyed or torn beyond fit repair does nothing but add guilt and vexation to my self pity. I must try harder to find my feet, pick up the threads of my life or else admit I will never be more than an invalid surviving on a veteran's pay of 11shillings/6pence and pity. An empty life and a sorry one as I already gamble too freely with both.

=March Thursday 4th=

Ran into Stamford today at the Criterion Bar. (Yes, yes, beyond my pocketbook oh thorny conscience, but I was in a god-awful temper and needed something to cheer me.)

I still find that laugh of Stamford's as insufferable as ever - and his taste in cravats hasn't improved - but he's a good fellow and his humour was a tonic I should take more of. I have need of any friendly face that can bear my company. The last real friends I had are still across the waters… or six feet down in foreign soil... I find I can't bring myself to scan the reports to discover which.

I lunch with him tomorrow. (The Holborn – not as flash, but solid fare and the taps are neither overpriced nor watered.)

Lost seven pounds on the dogs tonight. I needn't add I can scarce afford it. If I ever read this back I will see my own folly writ large in all the words I didn't scribe.

(Perhaps I should set this down plain in case I shy away from the extent of my own recklessness.) John, you're an idiot. (There.)

=March Friday 5th=

That was an unexpected turn for the books.

Come eleven I was mired in an absolute fit of misery – too much beer and sleeping badly got me a pain in my head and leg to match – I knew I'd make poor company and was of a mind to leave Stamford hanging. But I persevered; a wash, a shave, and a clean shirt can do wonders. Lucky I did: Stamford set me up with an acquaintance of his who needs someone to share digs with. I'll view the place tomorrow; Marylebone is good going if I've the tin for it.

Stamford's man was an odd chap, not certain what he does or how he's affiliated with Bart's – was all a touch vague. Not quite sure how we'll rub along together either but I'm willing to risk it just to get out of this damn room. I expect better of an establishment of the Strand...

God. I'm sick of the bloody wallpaper.

=March Monday 8th=

I write this in 221B Baker Street, new lodgings. (Does that show a reversal in the compass of your fortunes, John? We can but hope...)

The rooms are decent and the rent manageable. I have the upstairs room. It's the larger of the two but next to the bathroom; doubtless the pipes will make a racket. I may regret the extra flight of stairs, but I'm telling myself the exercise will do me good. Time will show if I live to regret such forward thinking. Walls are also not covered in the arsenic-hued artistic vomit of someone who once saw a William Morris print and attempted to replicate it. My soul soars already.

Landlady (Mrs Hudson, although I take it she is a widow as there's neither hide, hair, nor mention of a Mr Hudson) seems pleasant and eminently sensible.

Breakfast is provided, also other meals and tea if given adequate warning and funds towards the dent made in her neatly-stocked larder. She apparently cooks for my flatmate most days (what was that sardonic look about?) so is willing to do so for me also.

=March Tuesday 9th=

It would appear that Mrs Hudson and my flatmate are somewhat at odds – over supper at least, which explains her expression. She is requested to cook for him, does so, and he proceeds to ignore the fare. (More fool him – it was a very fine meal.) I have endeared myself to the stalwart Mrs H just by clearing my plate and offering my thanks.

If only more things in life were so easily achieved.

(Dear god John, do shut up before you get hopelessly maudlin, there's a good fellow.)

=March Thursday 11th=

Change is as good as a rest – I've had both so why am I dragging my feet?

Two trunks and a small carryall contain my worldly goods – still contain them - I haven't unpacked. Spent most the day lying in bed, staring at the grand panorama of the ceiling.

Noticed the acrid smell of burning coming from the sitting room downstairs. Eventually the smoke grew quite pressing; got out of bed to find out what flatmate had set fire to. (He has a name - Sherlock Holmes – I should get used to it, and him, if I'm to rejoin humanity any time soon.)

Sitting room was like some infernal Turkish bath. Apparently chemical experiment was so engaging SH forgot the toast; looked like a lump of coal on a pitchfork by the time I limped in. He looked damn silly too, standing there like the sorriest and most bemused devil to ever tumble from heaven's grace. Wild hair, wide eyes, shirtsleeves awry, toasting-fork in hand.

"Toast dear boy?" he asked, ridiculously innocent.

I glared, trying not to laugh.

He twirled the toasting fork – "Mm, you're right..." – and stuck the lot in the coal scuttle.

I wonder if this is to be a regular occurrence?

=March Sunday 14th=

Life continues. Strove to unpack today if only to prove I'm capable of some action.

Distracted myself half way through when I unearthed my service revolver amidst a jumble of socks and handkerchiefs. Stared at the damn thing remembering the last time I'd used it – shooting a horse of all things.

How I can minister to those who look more like canned salt-beef than anything human without flinching but recoil at a horse's screams I'll never know. (Lucky you chose doctor and not veterinarian, eh John?)

Depressed myself thoroughly and returned to bed.

=March Wednesday 17th=

Still not a clue as to what my flatmate does. Whatever it is it pays his rent and a near unceasing supply of shirts – I note he goes through them at a rate of knots.

Saturday's was burnt. Sunday's bloody. Monday's disappeared without trace. Tuesday's was an oddity being a dress-shirt three sizes too big that couldn't possibly be his own. What fate will Wednesday hold for his unfortunate and blameless linen? An acid bath?

(Well done, John. You spend your time observing the ceiling and noting the change in calendar only by your flatmate's unfortunate attire. Sterling.)

=March Friday 19th=

A better day today although I'm aware such a statement is akin to getting giddy on laudanum – mask the pain with opiates and tell yourself it's fine...

Got out of the house and took a turn around Regent's park. Exhausted myself in short order but kept on out of sheer bloody-mindedness. Dragged myself to the Hare&Hound to recuperate.

Recuperated more than I ought.

Got it into my head to go down to Borough to the match there – bareknuckle fights once a week. (Queensbury would have a fit no doubt, but I find it absurd some Naval College stiff-neck peer of the realm can insist on turning a brawl into a gentleman's sport. It's still a damn brawl.)

Bet on a tall Irish fellow I'd heard of; won eight pounds. Lost three of it on the fight after and innumerable shillings on beer. Had the sense to leave for Baker Street before I was either cleaned out or insensible. Returned rather the worse for wear – how I managed the stairs is still unclear. SH out - heard him come back before dawn.

What the devil does he get up to?

=March Saturday 20th=

Spent today abed with splitting head and fiercely aching leg. I'd say 'that'll teach me' but I doubt very much it will. In better spirits – hot bath helped as well as remembrance of pocketbook fatter by five pounds. Will give some to Mrs H with instructions for Sunday roast.

SH continues to come and go at all hours. To say we have conversations is to elevate signalmen and their code-lights to lengthy and elegant discourse. Still, it's amiable enough those scant times we do find ourselves at table together or before the fire at day's end.

=March Monday 22nd=

Am starting to wonder if my flatmate fronts a mind-reading act in a penny gaff somewhere. That is, of course, ridiculous... Penny-gaff shows wouldn't cover the rent. Something more upmarket then. Matinee at the Adelphi – I don't know.

He's the closest thing to walking omnipotence I've ever encountered – whilst at the same time being apparently incapable of wearing matching socks, keeping a cravat straight for five minutes, or not incinerating his toast.

What's getting my back up at the minute is the violin playing. I say 'playing' – he plucks and scrapes at the damn thing like a demented gypsy. The discord isn't loud, but it's persistent, it seeps up on one like a rising tide until all rational thought is impossible and any concentration naught but a golden memory.

Eventually my patience will snap, breaking even the fetters of laziness, and I'll sit up, intent on making SH stop or surrender his violin. At that precise moment, the unceasing musical mess will immediately unravel and reweave into something sonorous, soothing and uplifting at once. (He has quite the flair for Mendelssohn's Lieder, as well as a great many other pieces I cannot name.)

And I find my mouth twisted into some expression which feels like half smile and half despair, but all thought of remonstrating with him (with or without violence) has fled, and instead I sigh and allow the music to ease my battered senses.

How does he know the limit of my temper when we are not even in the same room?

The man's some sort of mentalist.