He almost called for the maid but then thought better of it. The maid would then call for a physician, and what would that do for Watson’s reputation and self-respect?
He looked at the cabinet, where there was a small bottle of brandy. Sherlock took it out and crouched over Watson. He loosened his friend’s collar and gently poured a touch of the brandy onto his twitching lips.
Watson coughed slightly as he swallowed. Relieved, Sherlock sat down on the nearest chair.
At last Watson’s eyes fluttered open. His eyes, still unfocused, swept over the room before eventually coming to rest again on Sherlock.
“My dear Watson,” Sherlock said sincerely. “I owe you a thousand apologies. I had no idea that you would be so affected.”
Would he react with anger? Curse him or pull a fit? Sherlock braced himself for both. Instead Watson leapt to his feet and gripped him by the arm as tightly as though for dear life. His eyes twinkled. “Sherlock! Is it really you?”
He seemed almost delirious with happiness. His face flushed red with joy, and his tearful eyes danced with excitement.
Sherlock returned Watson’s smile, acutely aware of how unconscionable his own behavior had been. His chest tightened. To have caused such pain to such a dear friend and companion, and then to engage in this trick upon his return? It had been a stupid thought.
Henceforth, he hoped to share every joy and sorrow with Watson. The doctor surely agreed that together, they should overcome any adversity.
40
Time simply flew by—or so it seemed to Watson, who was now 50. It was already the third year of King Edward VII’s reign. Edward VII had also been crowned the Emperor of India.
It was early 1903, and the weather in London was colder than usual that year. There was constantly a fire in the stove. Outside the window, snow still fluttered in the air along Queen Anne Street.
And yet today, Watson felt that same thrill in his chest as from his younger days. It was important to remember it all clearly—what he had seen that day, what he had felt.
Since his marriage, Watson was not as close to Sherlock as he had once been. The separation was somewhat painful. Sherlock was still a bachelor, and had turned 49 only yesterday. After so much time, even Sherlock had begun to soften around the edges. Seeing each other as often as they did, Watson sometimes worried he might forget the sharp impression that Sherlock had made in those early days. In his manuscript, he wanted to capture the surprise and excitement he had experienced ten years prior, just as he had felt it then.
He’d only received the go-ahead for his current work a few months previous. Serialization would begin in October. Sherlock Holmes’ return from the dead had already been widely reported, and few readers would now be shocked by the revelation. Still, Watson was swept away with joy at the prospect of writing of that April, back in 1894. It had been one of the happiest days of his life—the day he had been reunited with Sherlock.
Watson sat down at his desk. He was in high spirits as his pen moved across the paper. His publisher had urged him repeatedly to use a typewriter, but Watson had long since resolved he would compose all manuscripts by hand. He had his notes on one corner of the desk, but he wrote quickly, without referencing them. He remembered it all vividly, the events as clear as though branded into his mind: The loafers congregating at the Oxford Street end of Park Lane. Bumping into the old man with grey hair and side-whiskers—strictly speaking, that had been their true reunion.
He quickly filled the page. Suddenly, his pen stopped.
He was in the habit of writing down every detail, however trifling, when accompanying Sherlock on his cases. The clients’ unusual requests and the splendid manner in which Sherlock solved the cases—Watson could not have forgotten them if he tried. Their adventures had been a series of deep and truly impressive moments.
He had to admit, however, that the details he heard only secondhand were much less clear in his mind. And this meant, naturally, that Sherlock’s activities during the three years he’d been missing were still foggy. On the day of their reunion, Watson had not had the presence of mind to take notes; it hardly helped he’d fainted.
When Watson had written of his adventures with Sherlock in the past, he’d always used pseudonyms whenever he’d not been given permission to use real names. For instance, the Marquess of Salisbury had become Lord Bellinger. But in general he endeavored to be as accurate as possible regarding names and places.
Through the open door to the adjoining room, Watson could hear the hiss of the iron. Without rising from the desk, he called out for his wife. “Can you step in a moment?”
“What is it?” she asked.
“How does one spell Lama? Is it with two L’s?”
“Yes, I should think so.”
As the details came to him, Watson’s pen raced across the page. The laboratory in the south of France Sherlock had returned from—it was in Montpelier, surely. Only…
What was that fighting technique Sherlock had used at the Reichenbach Falls? It was something Japanese, he recalled. But what had it been? If he had been writing this at 221B Baker Street he might have used Sherlock’s beloved encyclopedia. Perhaps one of the books in Watson’s new lodgings might be of use?
He rose from his desk and began searching, and found the international section of a newspaper that had been stuffed into the bookshelf. The previous year, Britain and Japan had signed a military alliance; all the articles on Japan were largely concerned with that.
Emperor Nicholas II, of Russia, was pursuing a more aggressive stance against Japan in regards to Korea. Emperor Nicholas had ascended to the throne while still young; he had a short temper and seemed to hold Japan in contempt, an attitude that would likely be his own undoing—or so one of the editorials claimed.
Watson continued rifling through the papers, in hopes he might find an article on one of the Eastern boxing tournaments. Unfortunately very few of the articles were concerned with Japan. In March of last year a Japanese politician known as Hirobumi Ito had been anointed Knight Grand Cross of the Order of the Bath. The article mentioned the unequal treaty between Britain and Japan, which had been revised in the last decade or so.
Hirobumi Ito. He had once visited their lodgings at Baker Street, before he grew quite so influential. Afterward, though, there had been no connection. None of these articles had anything at all to do with Sherlock.
Then Watson found an old issue of Pearson’s Magazine. He seemed to recall a feature on a Japanese fighting technique inside.
Flipping it open, he found it was not about fighting, but rather a form of self-defense that utilized a walking stick, devised by one Edward William Barton-Wright, with a basis in Eastern martial arts. Barton-Wright had lived in Japan until three years prior. He named his technique Bartitsu, after himself. Watson read through the article, but unfortunately it made no mention of the Japanese arts upon which Bartitsu was based.
He groaned reflexively. Ought he to ask Sherlock? No, he was on some case or other and was now at Tuxbury Old Park. Or so Watson had been told. After Watson had announced he would be married, Sherlock had said quite petulantly that thereafter any cases he went on alone, he’d write about on his own as well. And now that Sherlock had resolved to write his own memoirs, it would not do for Watson to be outdone. Asking for help this time was out of the question.
Watson supposed he need rely on memory after all. What was it, then? B… B… Now he had simply gotten “Bartitsu” into his head. But he was sure it started with a B. Something Japanese.
Baritsu. Yes, that was it! Baritsu!
The longer he thought about it, the surer Watson became. He rushed to his desk and resumed writing.