The Doctor's Secret

I record this tale not for the sake of readers as I fear certain revelations herein could compromise the careers and in fact the lives of certain individuals should it ever be published. Therefore I shall take this as an opportunity to present a more honest perspective than I usually allow myself.

These events occurred in the winter of 1885. A cold but not entirely miserable winter by most accounts. I had received a letter from an old friend of mine; he was, since I have committed myself to being completely candid, my former lover. Our correspondence though infrequent had been a regular occurrence in my life for some years at that point. That is to say, I was neither surprised nor concerned at the arrival of the letter. What was cause for both however were its contents.

I sat in the parlour of the apartment I shared with one Sherlock Holmes. It was evening: the curtains were drawn, the fire burning. My companion sat opposite me, in one hand he held a lit cigar and in the other a book which he seemed to be thoroughly engrossed in. I took out the letter, looking forward to reading of the recent events in the life of a man I had at one point been quite close too - I had been busy that day and had not had time to read it until then. When I reached the end of the page my good mood was gone.

I set the letter down carefully. I coughed loudly. Holmes seemed not to notice - no, that was false; Holmes noticed everything, it was what he did. Holmes pretended not to notice.

'Holmes?' I said.

'Hmm?' he responded, not looking up from his book.

'I have received a letter,' said I.

'I noticed,' said he.

'From an old friend of mine,' I continued.

'That's nice.'

'It concerns you.'

This time he looked up but still did not set his book aside.

I did not give him the letter itself, sure the mundane affairs my former companion had decided to include alongside his query would be of no interest to the detective. Instead I undertook to explain the contents myself.

'You know of the city of Bath? In the south west,' I did not pause for his answer, I knew he would know it, 'There is a man there, a doctor, who has found himself in some trouble. He is a friend of my own good friend who hopes I may be able to help.'

'I assume that is where I come in,' said Holmes.

I nodded my confirmation, 'A murder has taken place. Two in fact,' now Holmes set his book aside, 'They think this man, Dr Labey, has some connection to it. My friend is of course aware of our relationship and had hoped we could clear Labey's name.'

Holmes looked into the fire and did not speak. He drew a long puff of his cigar. It was impossible to tell what he was thinking but I had picked up a thing or two since I had first begun to live at 221b Baker Street and I could observe from the way he rolled his cigar between his fingers and the slight movement of his leg as he subtly tapped his foot that he was in fact deep in thought.

After several long moments of appearing unconscious to the world, Holmes looked back at me.

'And how,' he asked slowly, deliberately, his voice soft, 'Do we know this Dr Labey is not responsible?'

I felt some indignation at the question but put my feelings to one side. Holmes, being a man of logic, asked what he needed to know, the feelings of those involved did not factor into it. (Though perhaps, I let myself hope for just a moment, if he knew of mine and my old friend's previous relationship, some jealousy might factor into his coldness. I quickly dismissed this thought.)