Sherlock Holmes became a detective in 1877, four years before I met him. At first he enjoyed every case, but soon he began to find the work easy. Ten years later he was famous, but he was unhappy and bored.
'The modern criminal is so painfully slow and stupid,' he often said. 'I need an interesting case, Watson, one which will make me think. Are there no clever thieves or murderers in the world these days?'
It is dangerous for a very intelligent man like Holmes to become bored. Some days he grew violent and once he shot several bullets into the walls of his room. He also began to use cocaine.
Does my reader know about cocaine, I wonder? Perhaps it is no longer used in the world of 1976. It is a useful medicine, and doctors rightly give it to patients who are in pain. But Holmes had no disease of the body. He used cocaine as a drug, because he enjoyed it. It made the long days seem more exciting. Soon he needed it every day, and could not live without it.
I told him to stop, but he only laughed at me. 'My dear fellow, I wish I could! Only bring me an interesting case, a difficult problem, and I shall forget my cocaine!'
One day in 1888 a note arrived from Scotland Yard. When Holmes opened it, he laughed and jumped to his feet. 'Inspector Lestrade wishes to see me,' he said. 'The police need my help, Watson. You know, of course, that someone is murdering women in Whitechapel?'
'Of course,' I replied. 'The newspapers are full of it. Three women are dead, and the police seem unable to find the killer. Everybody knows this. Life is cheap on the streets of White chapel for women of that 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 kind. What can interest you in their miserable deaths?'