'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.