Chapter Text
“It is the unofficial force — the Baker Street Irregulars.’
As he spoke, there came a swift pattering of naked feet upon the stairs, a clatter of high voices, and in rushed a dozen dirty and ragged little street-Arabs.
There was some show of discipline among them, despite their tumultuous entry, for they instantly drew up in line and stood facing us with expectant faces.
’Here you are’, said Holmes, producing some silver. ‘In future they can report to you, Wiggins, and you to me. I cannot have the house invaded in this way.”
Dr John Watson, The Sign of the Four
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Doctor Watson got it wrong.
He told the whole world that Sherlock Holmes had sacrificed himself for Justice. The greatest of all detectives died dragging Professor Moriarty, the master of undiscovered evil at the center of Britain’s gaslit underworld, down with him into the rocky maw that lay slavering for their flesh far, far below the icy Reichenbach Falls.
I am very happy to report that the news of Holmes’ demise is premature.
Dr Watson wasn’t lying – Holmes was.
The vestiges of Moriarty’s criminal empire had their vengeful sights set on the good doctor.
So, to save his dearest, his only friend, Holmes let him return to the filthy, foggy streets of London all alone and wrapped in misery.
Watson is the best of men, a fiercely loyal friend and a terrible, terrible liar.
Instead of going to his grave, Holmes went on the hunt – and took me with him.
In Watson’s absence, Holmes bids me pick up a pen, and spill some ink (so to speak) to tell the real story of the battle at the falls and chronicle his — our subsequent adventures.
I am certainly not the master story-spinner that Dr Watson is. In my defense though, I don’t think he was at my age either.
Who can refuse Sherlock Holmes? Certainly not his humble scribe.
So now, poor reader, you must now make do with me.
My name is Wiggins – Captain Wiggins of the Baker Street Irregulars.
Or rather I was…
I well know that we are unknown to all but the privileged, perceptive few.
His brother Mycroft knows, (though he is too lazy to even visit), some of the smarter inspectors of Scotland Yard know (that’s the police for you lot in America), as well as the more perceptive readers of Watson’s beloved stories.
We Irregulars are Mr. Holmes’ eyes and ears on the streets and secret alleyways of London. We can go everywhere and see everything.
There’s nothing as invisible as a homeless child with their hand out.
You learn that early in the East End — the hard end — of London. I was born within earshot of the great bells of Bow’s church, to a common family, held together with common despair.
Don’t believe that I’m Cockney born and bred? Readin’ ‘ez ‘ere pages’ll set ya strait right quick-like Guv.
I’ve been tying the Queen's English in knots like that since birth; and vanity won’t make me paper over the truth of what I sounded like before this all started.
Or, is showing you how far I've come my real vanity?
“Puttin’ on airs above my station”? It’s not my idea.
It's Holmes who insists that I learn to sound (and act) like a toff, so that I can be “more useful” on our travels.
Recording our exploits here in my poor imitation of the doctor’s colorful style, is merely a way to burn his lessons on “Proper English” into my brain.
I believe “a necessary literacy exercise for your scholastic development…” was how he put it.
He says he'll make an Educated Man of me — even if it kills me.
I must admit that with Holmes’ constant lessons and positively endless revisions to this journal, I may be gradually getting closer to Dr Watson’s shining example of storytelling.
But you, dear reader, must be the judge of that...
All the same, I wonder if he’s changed his mind about Watson’s "romantic embellishments" and “literary flourishes” ruining what should be a “series of lectures on logical deduction”.
Could it even be possible that he is secretly pleased to be the hero in these ripping yarns?
That my dear reader, I must also leave to you…
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