Sherlock Holmes: An Untimely Watson

[bizness86]

This was my entry for the more recent Fanfiction Competition; though I'm sad to say that not enough entries were present to hold the competition. It sucks that contests are held to no avail, and as a future reference, it can crush someone's spirit when they put an effort into something and it flops. I understand that people have lives, but try to stay somewhat committed...and maybe know whether or not you'll be able to participate on a deadline.

I digress--and here is my entry.
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Sherlock Holmes: An Untimely Watson



The seasons of the year were just beginning to wink towards summer; the springtime’s clouds were sent away by the sun’s doting courtship of the sapphire skies in Africa, where I had made my astounding success. Previously, my medical profession had led me about the northwestern regions of the large continent, most of this time spent in the Algerian regions and the arid lands of southern Morocco, whose plains stretch far into the vast Sahara. While I would have envisioned myself as a man of profession, during my travels I couldn’t had helped but feel that my journey was that of much needed emprise; I took pride in the fact that there was still a work which I was of particular employ. In all of my previous escapades with my friend and roommate, Sherlock Holmes, not one soul could blame me for acquiring a tinge of meekness over the years. With no offense to the man whatsoever, Holmes has the most wonderful habit of casually noting the utmost importance in clues which the Average Joe, including myself in these ranks, would blunder over as an irrelevant or of-no-worth detail. Furthermore, he relished in the thought of enlightening the ignorance of those whom suffer of it. In conclusion, the man’s deductions could have one weary from quite a few ‘wild-goose chases’.

I could have earnestly admitted that the exhilarating practices of Holmes’ profession is quite enough suspense for an entire police force, let alone one peculiar detective and his incompetent accomplice, yet Holmes marked this thrill as his reason to live. I had once heard Holmes quote one of our statesmen—a change of work is the best rest—and considering my erstwhile complications with Holmes, and my more recent complications with my wife, I chose to refrain from these stresses for two month and regress into the remedial field once more.

Altogether, my colleagues and I scoured about the Strait of Gibraltar, and now, awaited a ship in Morocco’s port city, Casablanca. One week before my departure of Morocco, I wrote to my wife, informing her of my oncoming return to London. I’ve learned this: atoning for one’s belligerencies becomes much easier with given time and space; now, I hope with all my heart that Mary entertains my humble apology in note form. That same morning, I received a letter from Holmes to which I replied concerning the tales of my great endeavor upon my return:

“As you suggested Holmes, traveling Algeria and Morocco has invigorated my soul once again! It is convenient that I just receive your letter upon sending one of to my woman Mary. You state that you’ve been to see her. I hope she mentioned less-ill things of me; if only she knew how I suffer without her beside me these days. How goes Baker Street and the old place? I’m game for a night’s tales worth of your recent endeavors. I, also, have several stories of how my colleagues and I shaped the lives of those encompassing the Strait of Gibraltar as well as a few tales of some wild beasts that we have encountered while out on safari. This day in Casablanca has been the busiest since my arrival to Africa—the largest city in Morocco, mind you. Not much time to write this, I’m afraid—I must deliver this tonight, but by my watch, I will definitely see you on 221B Baker Street, London on the very day of that show you mentioned in your earlier wire. I surmise to see you on the sixteenth hour my friend, two hours before the show. With the reviews you’ve supplied, I have to say that I would not dream of missing it.

Your friend, guy Friday, and ever-stupefied roommate,
Dr. Jonathon Watson”

“Watson, my friend…” Holmes chuckled in between taking puffs of his pipe, “this just as I deduced…”

He had told me afterwards that my wife had been late to his Baker Street address on the day of my arrival. To the best of my deductions, though that is Holmes’ profession more than mines, Holmes sat in wait for her and I, calm in his favorite chair, hunched over his lap and pipe, robed in his finest ebon coat and black slacks; then there most likely would have been a knocking. At 4:51 PM of the clock, the landlady would have answered and sent up my wife, and Holmes would have greeted, “Ah! Mrs. Watson.”

“That is Mrs. Morstan; sorry I’m late.” my wife corrected plainly with a small smirk.

“Hmph…” Amused, Holmes chuckled and showed her in, “I would surmise that Watson’s apology would have boded well on his part…Or so it would have seemed.”

Mary smiled and responded in stoical fashion, “His apologies in person will complement his apologies in writing,” she then examined Holmes abode and its meager up-keeping: His violin lay to itself in its own corner, all while books, newspapers, and stray articles of clothing cluttered the room floor; Mary easily accepted these aspects and addressed, “I see many things, but none of them pertaining to my James,” suggesting my middle name, ‘Hamish;’ Scottish for James.

Holmes gave another flimsy chuckle, glancing towards our grandfather clock which I allowed him permanent use, “My friend, and your husband, James has not shown as of yet.”

“It’s almost five,” Mary alluded to the clock.

“Yes, six minutes ‘til the hour.”

“Watson’s letter to me stated that he would reach here around the sixteenth hour.”

“Precisely!” Holmes ejaculated, “Which is why I guarantee that Watson will reach my door within five minutes’ time.”

Mary’s face staggered slightly, but eventually presented the usual smooth fashion as she queried, “But Mr. Sherlock Holmes, our show is in one hour and the cab will be here at anyone second. How can you be so sure that my husband will make time?”

Holmes smirked in his sure and robust fashion, “By Watson’s letter to me, and probably to you, I’d have you attest to him stating that “by his watch” he should reach the door of this very apartment at the sixteenth hour.”

“You are correct.”

I knocked on the familiar apartment door, and was greeted by my old landlady.

“I can easily regard your husband as a punctual man,” Holmes pressed, “furthermore a man of his word!”

“Been a while since I’ve seen you, John Watson,” she let me in.

Holmes went on, building raging rapport as he progressed, “This is why I can easily deduce that “by his watch” while in Morocco, one time-zone away, Watson will keep us waiting no longer than Morocco’s sixteenth hour, or shall I say, London’s seventeenth hour! Five o’ clock PM!”

I heard Holmes’ bustling and commotion, and assumed that he was in debate with one of his many peculiar acquaintances. I screamed out to him to protrude through all his fuss as I climbed the staircase, “Holmes! Are you deducing something yet again? We’re planning to leave already, are we? I though we were to have a good hour; the cab is already at wait outside.” I reached the room and caught glimpse of my wife and a fiery Holmes.

“Five o’ clock PM, ma’am!—” He stood towering over my dear wife with that omniscience he usually attained when he is revealing the queries of a rousing mystery.

“Oh, here you are Mary,” making my presence known; “No wonder why you weren’t at wait back at the place.”

In all his fury, Holmes gazed at our clock, and I couldn’t help be glance with him: four fifty-eight.

Holmes sighed, and offered me congenial smile in greeting, “Watson my boy, you’re early.”