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 cocaine- bottle.' 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.