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“Watson,” said my old friend, knitting his brow as he pondered the magazine in his hand. “What the devil is this?”
“What the devil is what, Holmes?” I said, voice thickened by the vestiges of troubled sleep.
He responded not in words, but in a gesture, tossing it over to me as if availing himself of a curse. Upon catching it and laying it beside the eggs, I found that it was the latest copy of the Strand.
It was not without a little dismay that I regarded it, for though on all accounts Holmes was as great of heart as of mind, he often complained my stories focused far too little on the science, and far too much on the sentiment.
(Perhaps it is a weakness of mine; for though Holmes impressed with the former, he inspires the latter in myself.)
I could not, however, recall a time where he’d spoken in tones so disparaging as this, and I found myself left as baffled as I was hurt.
“Forgive me for critiquing your gift for exaggeration in the past, dear Watson,” said Holmes with narrowed eyes. “For it holds no candle to this incomprehensible evil you have wrought.”
“What evil, Holmes?”
“Your latest story, Watson!” he said in an impatient and irritable voice. “I thought better of you!”
This was rather odd, given that I was absolutely certain I had written no such thing. But I confess the words did not fail to cut me deeply.
I told him as such, and he responded with a disbelieving look, and jabbed his finger at the issue with a petulance that, were the circumstances more agreeable, might have fostered feelings both fond and amused. Then he collapsed back into his chair, drawing his gown-covered knees to his chest, and rested his chin upon them so that he might glower at me in comfort.
“It is on this page here, the blasted thing,” he said wearily, as if the affair had drained his spirit. “Never have I seen a more absurd fabrication than this dreadful bit of pulp about some ‘Wisteria Lodge’.”
“‘Wisteria’…?”
“I misspeak. Your story is about ‘Wistaria Lodge’. Atop every other offense, Watson, you fail even to adequately spell a flower.” 1
Strangely, the name rang a bell. A distant bell, vague and indistinct - a toll muffled in fog, as if in a faraway dream.
“It is treachery enough on its own that you have published such lies about our adventures - and in two parts, no less, though by the grace of God my eyes never fell upon the first. Foolish enough, that you have dated them in a time during which they would have been wholly impossible. But to suggest that I would ever condone - nay, congratulate - the police arrest of an innocent man!”
“…Oh dear,” I said quietly.
“A rather subdued reaction, my dear Watson, for the damage your fanciful imaginings have undoubtedly done to both of our reputations.”
But I was not paying attention to his words, for I had realized that the reason why the floral name of this lodge seemed a relic left behind by the sandman was, in fact, because it had been just that.
“If you are content, however, to bid us play the parts of the propagandous heroes of your yellow-backed novels, then I expressly forbid you from writing another word - ”
“The yellow-backed novels!”
My outburst unquestionably surprised him, as he started in his chair; but swiftly, he composed himself, and allowed his face to settle once more into raging stone.
“Yes, Watson - ”
But though I was fonder of little more than hearing him speak at length, it felt sufficiently pertinent to interrupt.
“As you well know, Holmes, I have taken to reading before I sleep. And around a month before today, I started upon a new novel - The Tiger of San Pedro.”
The daggers of his gaze were sharp and keen.
“Do you mean to tell me, Watson,” he asked me in a voice like acid drops, “that you have plagiarized the whole of your story from the pages of boilerplate adventure tripe?”
“I mean to tell you, Holmes,” I answered quietly, “that I believe I fell asleep reading it.”
My companion’s expression shifted to something the faintest bit perplexed.
“And that when I awoke the following morning, a substantial quantity of my ink and paper had disappeared from my nightstand. As well as a number of my stamps.”
I did not say that I had passed it off as nothing, for that would imply the truth, which was that I had assumed Holmes had spirited them away for some unknowable experiment, and would touch upon it at a later date.
Holmes stared at me in silence for the span of a minute.
“A dream.”
I nodded solemnly.
“In which we were made your protagonists.”
“I’m afraid so.”
“Somnambulism so pronounced that not only did you mark this story in its entirety, but also posted it to your literary agent in time to make the September issue of the Strand.”
“I cannot imagine another explanation, Holmes.”
My friend twitched. His lips trembled. Then the whole of his body began to vigorously shake. Then -
“Aha ha ha ha ha ha!”
- he exploded into a peal of hearty laughter, the thunder fading from his cloud-coloured eyes.
“You are lucky your popularity affords you such creative freedom!”
“The freedom to ruin the both of us,” came my dismal reply.
“Ruined? Perhaps!” Holmes chuckled again, though I could scarcely fathom why. “But it is amusing ruination, and that I am more than willing to forgive. Besides, the mind of man is fickle. I imagine little will truly come of the error. Only the thought of your betrayal left me sore.”
“I suppose you are right, Holmes. It would not be my first published mistake.”
“Certainly not,” said Holmes, laying a hand upon my shoulder, “but do not fear. I doubt that anyone will think too deeply about it.”
1. Yes, it really was spelled “Wistaria Lodge” in The Strand. Though “wistaria” is evidently an acceptable alternate spelling of the flower. Don't listen to Holmes. return to text