Although, essentially, the news I was hearing was positive, Moran’s sneering tone confirmed that my shackles were neither being removed nor slackened; they were being replaced by another equally constrictive pair. But I was grateful that I now could ask Mary to marry me and to set a date.
“As you know,” continued Moran, “in this organisation we do not have written agreements. We take people at their word.”
An easy thing to do, I thought, when you do not give a man any alternatives. Moran paused, prompting me to respond.
“Yes,” I said.
“So, Watson, you agree to our arrangements and will abide by them?”
“In order to marry Mary, I will do all you ask.” As I spoke these words, I felt a leaden weight settle upon my heart.
“Good. Then it is decided,” said Moran.
Within the month, Mary and I were married. The ceremony took place at the Church of St Monica in the Edgware Road. It was a private ceremony, with only Mary and myself present. I had asked Holmes to be my best man, and with some grudging reluctance he had agreed. But on the appointed hour he failed to appear. We waited some ten minutes, hoping that he would turn up, but the clergyman who was performing the ceremony began to grow irritated at the delay and so in the end we were forced to engage the services of a loafer in the church as a witness. He was no doubt sheltering from the cold, and was most surprised when I bribed him with a sovereign in order to help us legalise the ceremony.
Despite the joy of the occasion, the fact that Holmes failed to turn up, that he had let me down, dampened my pleasure somewhat. I had hoped that he could have suppressed his own feelings about love and marriage for one brief occasion in order to please a friend. But, it seems, I was wrong.
Mary and I honeymooned in Brighton, and on arriving at our hotel there was a telegram waiting for me. It was from Sherlock Holmes. It read:
Apologies for absence. On a case. Regards to Mrs Watson. SH.
FROM THE JOURNAL OF JOHN H. WATSON
And so Islipped easily and contentedly into married life and my medical practice. Iwas so happy that for most of the time Iwas able to keep at bay the realisation that Iwas still a controlled puppet in an artificial situation. My relationship with Mary and my love for her were real, and they, along with ministering to my patients, formed the true anchor in my life. The medical practice had been neglected by the previous incumbent, and Iwas aware that it would take time and a great deal of work to build it up to create a reasonable living. Gradually, more out of curiosity, it seemed, than any other reason, Ibegan to attract a number of new patients, but Iknew that this was a long road Ihad to travel. Isuspected that the scarcity of patients was exactly why Moriarty had chosen this particular practice. He didn’t want me to be too busy so that Iwould neglect my duties to him. But neglect them Idid in the first three months or so.
I did not visit Holmes once during this time, and he did not communicate with me. Of course, Idid not expect him to. It would only be in the hour of need that he would turn to me. Ipictured him in his Baker Street lodgings — lodgings which he was now able to afford without the necessity of a fellow lodger — buried amongst his books and files, and alternating from week to week between cocaine and ambition, the drowsiness of the drug and the fierce energy of his own keen nature. However, his fame as a detective continued to spread. Occasionally, I read of some of his activities in the newspapers, particularly his summons to Odessa in the case of the Trepoff murders, and it seemed clear to me that he had completely recovered from the idea of not having a colleague to accompany him on his sleuthing quests.
I did feel a little guilty about not visiting him, not for Moriarty’s part, but because I regarded Sherlock Holmes as my friend. However, I suppressed this guilt until one evening nearly four months after my marriage, when I was returning from a journey to a patient and my way led me through Baker Street. As I passed that well-remembered door, I was seized with a keen desire to see my friend again. On the instant, I rang the bell and Mrs Hudson admitted me. She was effusive in her greeting and gave me a welcoming hug.
“It’s grand to see you back in the old place,” she said. “Things haven’t been the same since you left. At least you could keep him in order.”
“Has he been difficult?” I asked, nodding my head towards the staircase that led to Holmes’ quarters.
“You could say that. Moods! I’ve never met a man who has such moods. And how can I plan my housekeeping when I never know when he’ll be in? Sometimes he disappears for three days at a time without a word or warning — or explanation, when he finally turns up, demanding ham and eggs because he’s starving.”
I couldn’t help but chuckle at Mrs Hudson’s dilemma.
In response, she chuckled too. “What a man, eh?”
I nodded.
“Can’t you come back and put some routine and sense into his life, Doctor Watson?”
“I’m a married man now, Mrs Hudson. My main responsibilities lie elsewhere.”
“Of course you are. What can I have been thinking? And you look well on it. I can see your good lady is looking after you well.”
“Almost as well as you,” I said.
Mrs Hudson patted my arm and smiled.
“Is he in?”
“Yes, Doctor, and I’m sure he’ll be happy to see you.”
I was not quite so sure. On opening the door, Sherlock Holmes gave me a brief smile and bid me enter. The room looked as though a whirlwind had rampaged through the chamber minutes earlier. There were papers strewn everywhere.
Holmes cast aside a sheaf from my old chair and bade me sit down.
“You catch me in mid-search,” he said casually, indicating the papers. “There’s a particular piece of information I need, and I am having trouble locating it.”
“Your filing system used to be so accurate.”
“So it seemed. I cannot understand it.” His eyes had that dreamy, faraway look that told me that he was under the influence of drugs. He lit his pipe, the hand wavering unsteadily as he applied the match to the bowl.
“You don’t look well, Holmes. You are ill-using yourself.”
“Probably,” he nodded. “I get down in the dumps now and then, especially when there are no cases on hand, but that is my way.”
I caught the hard, cold inflection of that last comment, which was telling me to mind my own business. I knew it was useless to pursue the subject. There was an awkward silence while I struggled and failed to find something to say.
“Wedlock obviously suits you,” he remarked at last. “I think that you have put on seven and a half pounds since I saw you.”
“Seven,” I answered.
Holmes raised his brow in dispute. “Really? I should have said a little more. Just a trifle more, I fancy, marital contentment is to blame, no doubt. And in practice again, I observe. You did not tell me that you intended to go back into harness.”
“Then how can you be so sure?”
“Because I am Sherlock Holmes. Have you forgotten, Watson? I
I nodded and smiled weakly. “Sharp as ever.”
“You are too kind. And now, Doctor, what reason do you have for calling upon me this evening, having dragged yourself away from your cosy hearth and adoring wife?”
