(A recollection from the journal of Arthur Doyle, written in 1895)
It was in the year 1881 that I, Arthur Doyle, was introduced to multiple things that gave me cause to question my sanity and to ultimately rise me to the heavens of literary figures: meeting the man called Sherlock Holmes. To this day, I am astounded with the abilities and knowledge this man possessed. I am even more amazed at the difficulties he used such abilities against, but if I were to truly follow his exploits, I’m afraid the public would find me a sensationalist among the writing circles.
I met Mr. Holmes much as Doctor Watson had, but in the stories, I had changed the year to 1878 as well as changing my journal name to John Watson. I felt that my experiences with Mr. Holmes required the actions of obscurity, lest I be called a madman by society or worse, called before the White Council of Wizards.
I met Sherlock Holmes, the wizard of London, when he was beating a corpse with a riding crop.
I had recently returned from voyages to the African coast, serving as the ship surgeon on the SS Mayumba, where I had encountered, though I did not know it at the time, true and actual magic. It was in 1880, in Lagos when this occurred, while I stood on the foredeck of my ship. I was observing the coastline and the inhabitants of that land go about their business when one individual stood out amongst the others. He yelled a phrase in his African dialect and pointed a staff in our direction when I felt a horrible pain in my shoulder and came down with a terrible sickness. I believed it to be one of the African mosquitoes and its means of carrying powerful diseases. As I was the only doctor on the ship, it fell to me, my knowledge of practical medicine, and my own constitution to survive the pathogen. I was in my bed for nearly a week while I battled the disease. I remember seeing, in my mind’s eye, a dense mist around me, and an echoing, far away voice that told me to give in to the illness.
But I refused, and I fought Death with my soul until the illness abruptly vanished, leaving my shoulder aching and my constitution compromised.
The SS Mayumba continued its voyage, and I took part in several other adventures while aboard ship, but eventually we returned to England, and I was glad for it. For weeks I meandered about in the greatest city on Earth. I had endeavored to find lodgings to establish my medical practice somewhere in the city but could not find lodgings suitable to my taste or my pocketbook. I knew I would need to find a flat, or I’d be forced to return to Edinburgh and attempt at scraping a living there. I was at my wits’ end and in a depressed mood when a former shipmate of mine, Stamford, found me standing at the Criterion Bar.
From there, though I had not known at the time, I would enter the world of wizardry and the White Council, and my life would be forever changed.
“My dear Doyle!” Stamford exclaimed upon sighting me. “You look ever the worse for wear! What troubles you?”
“Scant opportunities in the greatest city of the world, I’m afraid,” I said. “I have been searching for a room that is to let, but have not found anything suitable for living, much to practice my trade.”
We agreed to lunch over at Holton, while I regaled Stamford of my travels in Africa, my convalescence aboard ship from my illness, and my disposition within the city. It was during my lamentations of a living space that Stamford gave me a hopeful chuckle.
“As it happens, I may be able to help you in your endeavor,” he said, with a sardonic smile. “I know of someone who is looking to go halves on a set of rooms within the city but has yet to find a suitable roommate.”
I jumped eagerly at the opportunity and told Stamford of my interest. “It would give me the chance that I desperately need,” I told him. Stamford listened to my explanations and nodded at my conclusion.
“If you’d like,” he said, “I could take you to him. From there, you’d have to judge for yourself if he’d make a decent roommate or not.”
I accepted the invitation, and we began our stroll down from the Criterion Bar to the hospital. Along the way, I queried Stamford about this possible roommate of his.
“What do you know of this man?” I asked, taking out my pipe and filling it.
“Not overmuch, I am afraid,” Stamford replied. “I have worked with him several times when in the labs, but I could not get him to open very much to me in our conversations. To be frank, I was quite surprised when he let me know that he was looking for someone to go in on the rooms he wanted.”
“Is he a quiet person, then?” I asked. Stamford gave me a knowing look.
“Sherlock Holmes is a man of many parts,” he said. “As quiet as the grave some days, shouting to the heavens with excitement on others. Oh, please don’t misunderstand me!” He said when he saw my wincing expression. “His excitement is very brief, and he rarely explains the reasons for the outbursts. He is usually conducting one experiment or another, and while I rarely understand the purposes of those experiments, I must admit he has a fascinating process. If I did not know any better, I’d have told you he was conducting some sort of sorcery.”
“Whatever do you mean?” I asked, perplexed.
“You will see in due time,” Stamford promised. And he was quite right.
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