It is of my friend Sherlock Holmes, and the woman whom he would come to be involved with which is why I am putting this tale to paper. No, I doubt that I shall ever publish this one as I had so many other adventures that my friend and I had gone on. Alas, this must be written down just so I may forever keep the memory of when Lady Anna Windsor came into our lives and changed everything, forever.
The year was 1889, I was to be married to a woman that Holmes and I had met during an adventure known as the Sign of Four. A rather nasty affair in which I have already detailed. Regardless, it was at this time that I had begin to collect my things from 221 B Baker Street and begin to move in with my fiancee. To say that my friend was upset at my leaving would be an understatement. He attempted to pass off his melancholy state due to the face that he was out of work. But, it didn't take a Sherlock Holmes to see the true reason behind his poor humor. In a way, I felt bad for my friend. He and I had been through so very much over the past few years and due to that we had become very close indeed. The cynic in me felt that Holmes was simply upset because he would have no one to stare in amazement as he went off on one of his rather admittedly brilliant deductions.
Despite how many times I had advised against it, Sherlock had gotten himself into his habit of a seven-percent solution of cocaine. I detested such a thing but when confronted he would simply reply that he detested the bore of mundane. While most sought comfort in the familiar, Holmes hated it with a passion to rival any. He craved excitement, mental or physical stimulation. And, if he could not receive such naturally then he simply would chemically instead. He sat there in his chair, staring at the fireplace with his pipe in hand. He had already gone through smoking three pipes worth of tobacco as I collected my things. Of course, he never offered to help. Why would he? Regardless, it was clear to me that even with the cocaine going through my friend's system he wasn't truly nourished. His violent mood swings were beating out the artificial stimulation he had hoped the solution would bring him.
As I grabbed the last of my bags and headed for the door I said my goodbyes to my friend. I assured him that this wasn't the end, and that we should get together for lunch or a nice spot of tea soon. I also told him to go easy on our poor land lady. It was she whom I felt the most pain for. Without me around, there would be no one that would save her from the antics of the world's foremost consulting detective. And oh how he enjoyed his petty torments. I recall, a week before I moved out Mrs. Hudson had stopped me in the hallway and begged me to stay so that she wouldn't have to be alone with him. Poor woman.
"Come now Holmes. I know that I am leaving but the least you could do is be more chipper. Happy for me that I'm moving on with my life. A hearty handshake would be nice." I said to him. Then, his cold blue eyes fell upon me and my heart stopped a moment. I saw such pain and hurt and a bit of anger in the eyes of my most cherished friend as he looked upon me.
"A hearty handshake? Be happy for you? Perish the thought Watson. You are leaving me at a very inconvenient time." Said, Holmes.
"And why makes this so inconvenient?" I asked.
"You have known me long enough to know how my mind works. How it rebels against me in stagnation, how it cannot function properly without proper stimuli. And here I sit, with none whatsoever." He practically flew out of his chair as he went over to his large stack of requests for cases which he had loving stabbed through with a dagger atop of the fireplace. "There is no cases to be had here. Due to the notoriety in which you have given me, ever single last person who has lost a simple object or requires some sort of legal advice have written to me." With that, he pulled from the top of the pile and looked at it. "Lost pencil, sorority girl needs advice, puppy gone missing..." As he continued to pull the requests he crumpled them up and threw them into the fire where they were quickly reduced to ash. "Any infantile child or Scotland Yard detective with a quarter of a brain would be able to solve such petty things."
"And this is somehow my fault?" I asked, obviously offended.
"Yes, yes it is." Was Holmes's only reply.
"And pray tell, just how exactly it is my fault Holmes?"
"Do you truly not know?" He asked as he walked back over to his chair. He moved some papers around and pulled forth a book titled 'A Study in Scarlet' a book that I had written, detailing the first case I had ever been apart of with Holmes. "You have made our exploits into some cheap thrill adventures. You have capitalized upon the crimes that had occurred and not the methodology, the logic, the deduction into how they were solved. You have made me out to be some sort of super powered thing you would find in a Penny Dreadful, not a true consulting detective who has created his own form of investigation. I do not rely on interviews and contradictions in testimony such as Mr. Poirot from France. No, I see minute details and make observations. You should have documented my methods, not the crimes. As I have told you a million times Watson, crime is common but logic is rare. And you~"
At that moment, Holmes stopped. His head tilted towards the door for a moment as if listening. "We have a visitor." Was all he said before quickly falling back into his seat, crossing his legs, and smoking his pipe as if nothing had even transpired between the two of us. "I shall see you soon then my friend. Good day." He tried to shoo me away, but I was going to stay and see who this guest was. And I was still very much put out over what he had said to me and about my writings.
