How well my friend Arthur Conan Doyle would tell this
story! How exciting and interesting he would make it.
I cannot do that. I am no writer. I have been a
doctor and a soldier. All I can do is make my report.
But who will read my words? What will the world be
like in 1976? Perhaps by then nobody will know the
names of Sherlock Holmes and Jack the Ripper.
Perhaps all Conan Doyle's wonderful stories will be
forgotten. There is so much to explain. I must ask my
reader to be patient!
I had known and worked with Sherlock Holmes for
almost four years when I first met Arthur Conan Doyle
- ACD I always called him. Like me, he was a doctor,
and we quickly became old friends. He told me
amusing stories of hospital life, and I raid him about
my life as an army doctor in Afghanistan.
I often talked to him about Sherlock Holmes. At that
time most people had never heard of him. Only the
police and some criminals knew what a great
detective he was. ACD seemed to enjoy my stories
very much. He was never too tired to hear 3.bout
another of Holmes's cases.
We met many times and enjoyed many good
dinners together before I realized that ACD had a
special interest in Holmes. He wanted to be a writer,
and had already enjoyed a little success. Now he
wanted to write about Holmes, using -Le facts of a
real case, but adding his own ideas to the story.
I found this an excellent idea. I was happy to think
that my dear friend would become famous.
I explained the plan to Holmes. He listened in silence,
his pipe in his hand. Then he said, 'Can he write, this
friend of yours? Can he tell a true story? Does he
understand the difference between facts and lies?'
'I think so,' I said. 'He has just begun to write, but
already he is becoming fashionable.'
'Fashionable!' Holmes said coldly. 'How can it interest
me that he is fashionable? Can a fashionable writer
have a serious interest in the facts of one of my
cases?'
I could not reply. Holmes sat silently, looking into the
fire. At last he said, 'Well, he may try. Let him do what
he can. You may send him your notes on the Hope
case, Watson.'
I wrote to ACD the next day, and he began work on
the story.
He called it A Study in Scarlet. When it appeared in
the shops, I hurried out to buy it, and then sat for
hours in a park reading it. The story was excellent -
fast -moving, exciting and clever. I ran back to Baker
Street. I could not wait to give the book to Holmes.
He looked up quickly as I entered the room.
'You're late, Watson,' he said. 'Were you ashamed to
come here with that book in your hand?'
'Ashamed, Holmes?' I cried. 'No! ACD has done well. I
see you have read it. Why don't you like it?'
I was soon sorry that I had spoken.
'Like it? It is rubbish, wild and fantastic rubbish. He has
been careless with the facts, added all kinds of
unnecessary lies, and made the most stupid
mistakes.'
'But Holmes ... ' 'I wonder what kind of doctor he is. I
am sorry for his patients. I would not be surprised to
hear that he had cut off a man's leg because the
man had a stomach ache. He is clearly not
interested in facts.'
'Holmes,' I said as calmly as I could, 'a writer does not
just report facts. He must make sure that the story is
interesting to read. I am sure you understand that.'
Holmes smiled at me sweetly.
'My dear fellow,' he said. 'I forget. You know all about
fine writing. How stupid of me to worry about a few
careless mistakes! But your friend Mr Doyle has shown
that he does not understand how important my work
is. He thinks that the criminals I fight against are
stupid, miserable little beings. They are not. I fight
against evil itself. He has failed to understand that.
The book is worthless. Away with it, and with your
friend the writer!'
I wondered what to say to ACD, but there was no
need to worry. A Study in Scarlet was not a success,
and he began to write about other things. Several
years later he decided to write about Holmes again,
but at that time 1 had other things to think about. I
had fallen in love with Miss Mary Morstan. When she
agreed to become my wife, I hurried to tell Holmes. I
was full of happiness.
I can still hear the cold surprise in his voice as he said,
'I cannot pretend to be happy about this.'
This hurt me terribly, but I tried to laugh.
'Well, Holmes,' I said, 'I hope you won't be too lonely
When. I go home to my wife.'
A shadow passed over his face.
'Oh no, Watson,' he said. 'I still have my cocainebottle.'
Was he asking me for help? Was it still
possible, then, to save him? Perhaps. In my heart I
know only that my dear friend needed me, and that I
failed him.