This is the single case involving Sherlock Holmes that I pledged never to reveal, not because of its sordidness (one becomes accustomed to that over the years), but rather due to accusations of vanity which I can already imagine being formulated -- that I, Watson, hid this account for so many years because it involved Holmes' arrest for murder, and my own successful investigation that resulted in his acquittal.
If you are reading this then I am most surely dead, as is Holmes, although the simple thought of Holmes somehow gone from this world strikes me as somewhat absurd. (Indeed, the very notion that he was once a stranger to me, and I to him, seems almost illogical.) I have carefully hidden these papers, and I know not where, or even if, they shall be discovered. I cannot even be certain that my present reader even remembers the very name 'Sherlock Holmes', given the precarious resting place of this document, although I would assume that not only his moniker but his brillance still lingers, if not resonates; the aura surrounding a person of the caliber of Holmes does not dim easily, I believe, even given the restless whims of tide and time.
These words are intended for my heirs, and their colleagues and associates, and, should the occasion present itself, for the people of London, who provided me with the sustenance and stamina to endure what we all endure on this mortal coil, until we can endure no more.
I write the following account (and this rather lengthy prelude) not to glorify my own ingenuity, for I have none. Having known Holmes for as long as I have, I cannot even pretend to compare my acuity and intelligence with his. To do so would not only be considered folly by all enlightened citizens, but crass, in my opinion an even greater and less forgivable sin.
Should I begin the narrative as concisely and intriguingly as I have all of my other accounts of Holmes' adventures, you may be misled into believing that this, too, is merely another unfathomable mystery that had the good fortune to be solved, only this time by myself. You may think you are about to be lulled into sleep by the comfort of a tale told well. I aim to deny you that comfort, because Holmes deserves nothing less than the truth, in all its ribald, untidy complexity. Never has a case depleted more from me physically, mentally and spirtually; and never has my respect and admiration for Holmes escalated more.
No, my intent is noble, and my conscience is at rest. There may come a point in time, through circumstances that have yet to be enacted, when the events of this particular winter's eve may come to light, despite the best efforts and assurances of the municipal authorities that they would be as fleeting as the mist that shrouds London each and every fortnight. I trust these gentlemen, I respect them, but nevertheless, one's own diligence and persistence should never be belittled or disparaged, even by oneself; this document will serve as a counterpoint
to any who dare besmirch the good name of my trusted confidant Holmes, a name and a legacy that, in trying to uphold, very nearly cost me my life.
Rumors have the tendency and the means to live long past the expiration point of their instigators; such being the case, I shall douse the flames of such an inferno before they have the chance to ignite.
So let me begin the tale of Holmes' unfortunate imprisonment, and my own efforts at redeeming the reputation of one whose unlikely life was nearly destroyed by the very city he did so much to protect...
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This was an extract from Dr.Watson's account of Sherlock Holmes' strangest, most unusual case (solved by Watson himself). This document was discovered in a London location (that must remain confidential) by the webmaster of canuckinasia.blogspot.com. Keep checking back periodically for further installments of this unusual tale...
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