be sharing rooms with this strange and brilliant young man with the piercing eyes and strange enthusiasms — and I would begin my life as a spy. The enormity of this reality almost took my breath away.
“What have you to confess, Watson?” Holmes was saying. “It’s just as well for two fellows to know the worst of one another before they begin to live together.”
I laughed at this cross-examination. It seemed to have a farcical aspect in relation to the truth of the situation. I noticed also that in Holmes’ catalogue of his supposed failings, he did not mention that he was a user of drugs, possibly an addict.
“I am fairly easygoing, I would say,” I responded, “but I do object to rows, because my nerves are still somewhat shaken. I get up at ungodly hours and I am extremely lazy. I have another set of vices when I’m well, but those are the principal ones at present.”
“Do you include violin-playing in your category of rows?” he asked, with some concern.
“It depends on the player,” I answered. “A well-played violin is a treat for the gods — a badly played one...”
“Oh, that’s all right then,” he murmured smugly. “I think, my dear doctor, that we may consider the thing settled — that is, if the rooms are acceptable to you.”
I realised that I must not appear too eager. I knew that from now on all my actions must be guarded and calculated. “When can we see them?”
“Call for me here at noon tomorrow, and we’ll go together and settle things up.”
“All right — noon exactly,” said I, shaking his hand.
Stamford and I left him scribbling his findings in a large notebook. On leaving the hospital, we walked for some time in the direction of my hotel.
“By the way,” I said suddenly, stopping and turning to Stamford, “you didn’t tell him that I had just returned from Afghanistan, did you?”
“Of course not. How could I?”
“Then how the deuce did he know?”
My companion smiled an enigmatic smile. “That’s just his little peculiarity,” he said. “A good many people have wanted to know how he finds things out.”
“Oh, it’s a mystery, is it?”
“If you want to unravel it, Watson, you must study the man. You’ll find him a knotty problem. I’ll wager he learns more about you than you about him.”
“I sincerely hope not. I wish my skeletons to remain firmly in their cupboard.” I spoke jokingly, but I was deadly serious.
Stamford and I parted company at Piccadilly, and I strolled back to my hotel, replaying in my mind my first encounter with Sherlock Holmes in a desperate attempt to learn more about the man. It wasn’t a particularly fruitful exercise.
Sherlock Holmes and I met the following day as arranged and we inspected the rooms. It really was a perfunctory exercise on both our parts. He was very keen to seal the arrangement, and I had no choice in the matter anyway.
However, I found the lodgings at 221B Baker Street ideal. They consisted of a couple of comfortable bedrooms, a bathroom and a single large, airy sitting-room, cheerfully furnished and illuminated by two broad windows.
Our landlady, Mrs Kitty Hudson, a widow, a small tidy woman with tightly curled blonde hair rapidly fading to grey, seemed pleasant and gracious, and was delighted at the prospect of “two young gentlemen of respectable character” coming to live under her roof. Her terms were moderate when divided between the two of us, and so the bargain was concluded upon the spot.
That very evening I moved what few things I had from the hotel, and on the following morning Sherlock Holmes followed me with several boxes and a portmanteau. For a day, he unpacked and we spent the time laying out our property to the best advantage. That done, we gradually began to settle down and to accustom ourselves to our new surroundings.
The seeming normality of this arrangement, compared with the past six months of my life, was so welcoming to me, that I actually began to enjoy living at 221B. Sherlock Holmes was certainly not a difficult man to share with. He was quiet in his ways, and his habits were regular. Frequently he would have breakfasted and gone out before I rose, and he was very often in bed by ten at night, while I regularly stayed up until after midnight, reading, smoking and enjoying a brandy nightcap.
It was about a week after I had taken up residence in Baker Street that I received my first summons. It came through the post. The message just gave a date and time and location: “Today, 12 March. 11.30 a.m., the corner of Wigmore Street and Duke Street.” Making a mental note of the details, I threw the note on the fire and watched it burn until it turned into fine black ash.
At the appointed hour, I stood at the corner of Wigmore Street, when a hansom drew up and a voice from within beckoned me to join him.
“It is good to meet you, Doctor Watson,” said the shadowy figure, once I was seated. “I am Colonel Sebastian Moran, the chief of staff for Professor Moriarty.”
He took my limp hand and shook it. “Shall we go for a little ride?” He tapped the roof of the cab with his cane, and we set off at a steady trot.
“The purpose of this meeting, as I am sure you are aware, is merely to receive a progress report on the arrangements regarding Mr Sherlock Holmes. How are things between you? Have you settled in quite amicably? And more importantly, do you think that Mr Holmes has any idea of your... how shall I put this... your ulterior motives?”
These questions did not surprise me. I had been expecting some kind of inquisition, and so I was prepared. Naturally, I had taken great pains to observe Holmes in the few days that we had been living together, and already I was building up a picture of the man. In all fairness, because of my natural curiosity and my penchant for writing from life, I believe I would have done this anyway had I not a reason to do so. There were many aspects of Holmes’ character and behaviour that puzzled me, but one thing I was sure of was that he had no suspicions concerning me. For all his reported brilliance as a detective, I was — and remained — his one blind spot.
There had been three callers at our new address enquiring for Mr Holmes: a young girl, fashionably dressed, who arrived in an agitated fashion and stayed about half an hour; a white-haired gentleman with the air of the cleric about him; and a sallow, rat-faced man who was introduced to me as Mr Lestrade. The latter fellow called twice, and behaved in quite a shifty manner on encountering me on both occasions. When these visitors arrived, Holmes requested the use of the sitting-room for privacy. I agreed and took myself off to my bedroom.
I was intrigued by all these comings and goings, but I knew I had to be patient. Despite some desultory conversations over dinner, Sherlock Holmes had not yet divulged to me what his profession was, and I thought it politic, at this early stage, not to appear too inquisitive. I was sure that in his own good time he would reveal all.
I conveyed all this information to Colonel Moran, who listened in silence until I had finished.
“Capital,” he said at last. “I think you are quite right to stalk your prey at a distance for the time being. A bond of trust and reliance must be established between you, and this can only occur when Holmes feels at complete ease with you. I am a practised hand at tracking tigers in India, Watson. I’m an old shikari, and I know the value of patience and allowing your prey to feel relaxed and confident in its safety.
“You ought to know that Lestrade, the fellow you described as rat-faced, is a Scotland Yard inspector who has been using Holmes for some months. When he gets stuck — which is often — he goes running to our friend for help. I can tell you that the Professor’s organisation would not be half as successful as it is, if there was anyone at Scotland Yard with half a brain. That’s why your fellow lodger is such a threat.”
There followed an uncomfortable pause during which I felt I was expected to comment on Moran’s claim, but I did not know what to say or, rather, what I was expected to say. At length I said awkwardly, “Is that all for now?” I desperately wanted to escape from the dark confines of the cab and the company of this unpleasant man. Such a conversation only reminded me in bleak terms of the reality of my situation, the lie I was living. For the past week I had relaxed and been content, observing my fellow lodger out of a spirit of curiosity rather than with such a degrading ulterior motive as spying on him.
“In essence, Watson. But please do not be so petulant. You are being paid well for your labours. Remember
