The Pumamouse Website: Stories And Sagas: My Sherlockian Saga Volume One Chapter One

It has been my good fortune to seldom be faced with the problem of deciding the appropriate time to tell of my varied adventures with Mr. Sherlock Holmes. As a matter of course, for the most part, I have always written of them and had them published as they occurred, save those occasions when such delicate circumstances might have prevented the story from being told at all. In the case of these latter, I have oftentimes written of an adventure while it was still fresh in my mind, but postponed publishing these works until, at some later date, the contents of my manuscripts would in no way injure any of the parties of whom I wrote. I find myself quite perplexed, however, as to how to proceed with the recording of the most current events, for they are of a most personal nature. I seriously doubt that there will ever be an appropriate time to disclose these events to the public, and yet, I am compelled to keep a record of them, if only for my own personal use.

It was late last March when it all began. As I remember, there was a frightful storm that evening, yet it paled in comparison with the one which was brewing within our flat at 221B Baker Street. It had been some time since his last case, two months to be exact, and Holmes had fallen into what I can quite honestly call his deepest depression. For weeks he had refused to venture out, and for days he had not eaten. As was his custom during these dark spells, he indulged his cocaine habit and his pipe, forsaking all other means of sustenance. Finally, I could keep silent no longer.

"Holmes, you must snap out of it. Surely, there is some reason, other than a case, for you to take better care of yourself," I had urged. He made no reply, save to walk to his desk, unlock the top drawer, and withdraw the small wooden box which I knew to contain his hypodermic and 7% solution. "Holmes, if you continue along this line, your fate is sealed." I paused in my efforts, hoping my words would cut through the wall he had erected between us, but still, only silence. "Very well, but I will not sit here and watch!," I offered in earnest, then I left the room with my heart in my throat. I believe he knew that he was killing himself...slowly, methodically deadening his pain...to the point where he would eventually wither, or his heart would give out. With all my knowledge of medicine, all my good intentions, I could do nothing to help him. My dearest friend was in danger of his life, and all I could do was wait and pray for a miracle...a case which would, once again, test his powers and cause him to have, even if only for a brief time, some interest in living.

As I walked to my bedroom, I thought of what an impact his death would have upon me. "Indeed, he is as close to me as if he were my own brother," I thought. Then it occurred to me that, perhaps, his own brother, Mycroft Holmes, might hold some insight into the situation. I decided to call upon him the next morning. As I put out my lamp, I said a prayer that morning would not be too late.

STORIES AND SAGAS
My Sherlockian Saga Volume One Chapter One

The next day, I rose early in the hope of finding Mycroft at his usual respite, the Diogenes Club, before breakfast. As I entered the hallway, I could not help but reminisce of my first encounter with Mycroft Holmes, during our involvement in the "Adventure of the Greek Interpreter". It had always been exciting to watch Holmes at his work, but, to see him join forces with his brother...that was an experience which I shall always cherish. As I walked down the corridor towards the small room where speech was permitted, the silence of the members brought back the image of Holmes, as he was at present, to my mind. The contrast was staggering.

I entered the room to find Mycroft, perched on his stool by the bow-window, overlooking the street below. It was exactly the same position in which he had been when first we met. "Tell me, Dr. Watson, how bad is he?," he asked. He turned towards me, and I could see the concern in his eyes, despite the lack thereof in his well-practiced tone. I must admit, I was surprised by his ability to know, without my telling, the reason why I had come, though I suppose I should not have been.

"It is very serious," I said. The full reality of the situation was beginning to hit me, and I felt myself shiver.

Mycroft quickly read my mind and offered, "Now, now, Doctor. We mustn't think the worst. Sherlock has had these spells before, you know. Even as a boy. I used to find him sitting by himself, or sometimes up a tree, totally immersed in his own little world. Not talking, not eating. And then, all at once, something would catch his fancy, and he would be off again. All he really needs is a diversion...something to work his brain."

"Do you have any suggestions?," I asked.

"Yes," he stated readily. "Why not take a few days away from your practice, and away from my brother. Go to the country and enjoy the fresh spring air."

His apparent lack of concern both surprised and angered me. I thought to myself, he must not fully understand the situation. However, before I could put my thoughts into words, he did it again.

"I am quite clear on the matter, Doctor," he assured. "There really is nothing we can do for him, at the moment. But, not to worry. I am sure something will happen to bring him around. Do call upon me, if you need my assistance."

With that said, Mycroft turned back towards the window. For a moment, I stood there in disbelief. I could not understand his complacent manner, and yet, somehow, his demeanor left me unable to offer any argument. As I left the building, I turned one last time to look up at that window...and I saw him smile.