Greetings, Dear Readers!

Inspired by my visit to the Criterion one year ago today, I present an updated version of my first short Watsonfic, One Afternoon In Piccadilly - now the first chapter in a series entitled, BULL PUP'S PAPERS.

Watson: *cringes*

Me: *pats his hand* No worries, Doc. I'll go easy on you. *crosses her fingers behind her back* And if you hadn't insisted on putting this story into my head while I was dining at the Criterion, we wouldn't be here, now would we?

BULL PUP'S PAPERS

Ever since A Study In Scarlet was published back in '87, I have been told that I described our first encounters with far too much brevity. Thus, at long last, I take up my pen and endeavor to record the true circumstances of my introduction to the man who was to become known as the World's Only Unofficial Consulting Detective, and my dearest friend.

Dr. John H. Watson, M. D.

Late of the Army Medical Department,

December, 1922.

~ Chapter 1 ~

ONE AFTERNOON IN PICCADILLY.

LONDON.

NEW YEAR'S DAY, 1881.

"Oi! Watch where the bloody hell you're goin'!"

The bicyclist who hollered out curses as I stumbled across Piccadilly didn't phase me in the least. My head felt like a clock factory at noon; even the slight pressure from my bowler was like an anvil. I could barely see. The only cure was a bit of the hair of the dog. And The Criterion was the place to find it. At least 11 shillings and 6 pence daily was good for something. That's about all it was good for.

The glittering crust of golden tiles above my head did little to cheer me. Would that I had some of that kind of wealth. Then maybe I could escape this comfortable yet meaningless existence which I had been living for the past nine months. I removed my bowler, made my way to the long bar, and leaned my right arm on it. The cold weather was playing hell with my leg. Even with the cane, it was still painfully stiff. A strong hand on my bad shoulder snapped me to my senses, and I reached for my cane.

"Happy New Year, Johnny!"

It was Jack, a regular whose purse would no doubt outlast his liver. I swore and lowered my cane. Normally he was great entertainment; the kind of fellow who was more social when drunk. But today I was in no mood. He looked at me, though I wasn't sure which one of me he was looking at.

"Aw, what's the matter, sonny?"

"Not now Jack."

He put his arm around me. "Aw, poor puppy. You want to take a tip from me - a raw egg in sherry, that'll set you right. Didn't teach you that in medical school did they? Hey, you alright, Boy?"

His breath was like a hot mince pie. I swallowed hard at that and smiled somewhat.

"Fine, Jack."

"Or maybe it wasn't just the booze, eh? I say, she must've given you a right going over. She were too much for the old soldier, eh, sonny?" He laughed and clapped me hard on the back.

I turned and rested my head in my hands. "Bog off, Jack."

"Aw, come on, Johnny."

"I. Said. Go. Away."

And mercifully he did so. I gently lowered my head to the bar, desperately trying to will away the image of whipped eggs. Then I felt a hand touch my wrist. From the direction of the fingers, I knew it was the bartender.

"Well, what do you know? It has a pulse. That's a good thing; no corpses allowed at the bar."

I chose not to dignify that with a response.

"For a moment there I thought old Jack was going to have the imminent pleasure of meeting the famed bull pup. Come on, Watson, up you come. There's a good lad." I heard the all too familiar clink of a heavy beer glass set down very close to my head. My only reply was a muffled, monotone "Ow".

"Sorry, Mate. Bad one, huh?"

"You could say that, Bill," I said in a muffled voice, my face still on the bar.

"You alright, John?" I heard Bill inquire.

I gulped down a big sip and rested my forehead back on the bar. "Yeah."

He exhaled rather loudly through his nose. "That wasn't very convincing, John."

"Well I'm afraid it's the best I can do at the moment," I stood up slowly and took another sip.

"Has the muse hit you lately? Any writing? You've said that you like to do that sort of thing."

"No," I said.

"Ever think of working for one of the papers? At least it would be a job."

"What, me? Ah, yes, I can see it now. Bull Pup's Papers. Give old Pickwick a run for his money. Except I can't run. I can't do anything. Orders of Her Majesty's Royal Army. I must rest. And stagnate." I said that last sentence as I slammed my glass down upon the bar. The scream that resonated up my arm told me just how hard I had been clutching the handle.

Bill put down the glass he'd been wiping and leaned in closer. "John, I know this chap who writes for the Strand. He might be able to help you. Nice fellow. I think I've got his card here somewhere." He began rummaging around near the till.

I took another swig. "Not interested."

"Oh come on. He writes historical things, the kind you like. Might be worth contacting. Yes, here it is, Mr. Doyle. Here you go, John."

I shoved the card into my pocket. "Fine, if it will get you off my bloody back, I'll think about it."

"Good." he said with a smile, and walked away to serve another customer.

Setting down the empty beer glass, I contemplated having another. Suddenly someone tapped my shoulder. It was swiftly accompanied by a voice I never expected to hear in a thousand years.

"Dr. Watson!"

I turned around, hangover forgotten, and smiled from ear to ear.

"Stamford!"

Note: I originally submitted this piece on 27 July, 2010 - the 130th anniversary of the Battle of Maiwand - 27 July, 1880.

Watson: Why thank you, my dear.

Me: My pleasure, Doctor.

Holmes: Ahem, when do I appear?

Me: *rolls eyes* Patience, my dear Holmes, patience.

Holmes: Hmph.

Watson/Me: *snicker*