The Problem of John Watson

The Problem of John Watson

This particular mystery, which I have resigned myself to write while Watson recovers from a cold, takes place after I came back to London and brought to justice two of Moriarty's confidants. Watson and I were in the sitting-room, finally catching up with each other whilst smoking. I choose to chronicle this problem because, not only does it revolve about my Watson, but it is one which I wish I had not solved.

He had told me of the death of his wife, Mary, which you might remember from my dear friend's first narrative "A Study in Scarlet". I tried, of course, to be sympathetic to him, but it was strange; he didn't appear to want consolation. Reading him was the only way I knew how to tell what the matter was without asking, but, to my shock, I could not get anything off of him. Before I could ask, he abruptly stood whilst putting out his cigarette and stating, "I will ring Mrs. Hudson for some tea, would you like some, Holmes?"

At this point I decided it best to act natural. "Yes, please, thank you, Watson."

He promptly rang Mrs. Hudson and requested the tea, sitting back down with a novel which I had seen him frequent, ending our merry chat. It suddenly occured to me that this is what he must feel like when I abruptly break off a conversation. Mrs. Hudson brought up the tea, as well as biscuits, a few moments later. "Holmes, dear, could I bother you a moment?" She called me over to her.

I stood and strode to her side at our table. "What is it, Mrs. Hudson?" I questioned.

"I'm sure you've noticed by now, but have you seen the way Watson has been acting?"

It was a surprise to hear of someone else seeing Watson's erratic behaviour.

"As a matter of fact, I have. I was just thinking to myself on the subject. I cannot, however, deduce anything on it,"

Our landlady raised her eyebrows, seemingly intrigued.

"Well, if you do, do you tell me. It's about as much action as I can get at my age."

"I'll be sure to ring you up for a chat."

She took her leave with her empty tray and a wave of her hand.

"What was it that Mrs. Hudson wanted?" Friend Watson asked from his usual armchair, still reading his book. Picking up the two teacups, I stole back to my own armchair and settled into it, handing him his tea.

"Merely a question on some behaviour of a man she saw outside. Nothing of interest."

Watson mumbled as he sipped his tea, not entirely hearing me. Again I felt that this is how Watson must feel when I don't seem to awknowledge his presence. More and more it appeared that our roles were reversing, and I didn't like it. To become a mere simpleton was a horrifying aspect, and in order for this to change I HAD to get to the bottom of this mystery.

"Watson I am going out. Do not wait up."

This was all I said before I grabbed my coat and rushed out of the door.

Who I decided to talk to was Watson's old maid. She had asked not to have her name revealed, so we shall just refer to her as Maid. Wrinkled around the eyes with streaks of grey in her hair and a little plump, she could have been no more than fifty. However, signs of grief made her appearance much older.

"What was it that Mary died of?" I asked her as we sat in her flat.

She hesitated before answering. "I don't know, sir. She wouldn't tell me, and neither would the doctor or Mr. Watson."

From her clamped hands and diverting of eye contact, I knew she was lying.

"Maid, it would serve you well to answer me truthfully; lying to a man of justice does not suit anyone."