After all these years, I cannot help but wonder at the lack of recognition my old friend Watson receives for his unparalleled lifetime achievement. Of course, I refer to the celebrated chronicles in which he skilfully documents the many strange and interesting cases I pursued over the course of my career as a consulting detective. In fact, he is often regarded, quite unfairly, as such a bungler that he could not have possibly penned the great anthology of my adventures himself. Admittedly, there were occasions when he quite deserved the epithet, but we must remember that we all make mistakes occasionally, myself included, and he has other outstanding qualities that elevate his stature above the common British man. We must not forget that he was a doctor, a man of extensive knowledge in a field that demands nothing less. He was a veteran campaigner, who had served his country in Afghanistan under hard conditions with bravery and fortitude. Beyond these compelling recommendations, he had a remarkable way with words, conveying the truth with impeccable memory and accuracy, and narrating with a musical charm that is seldom noted in modern literature. His writings never fail to please and consistently provide both instruction and entertainment. It is true that I was occasionally critical of my friend for emphasizing the latter above the former, but I am quite aware that this was a selfish reaction on my part. For aside from those true students of the science of criminal detection, there are surely few that would agree with me. There were a handful of accounts that I deemed the most egregious in this respect, and these few he never released to the public in consideration of my feelings. The publication of this volume of stories is a final effort to correct that glaring omission.

One other point in Watson’s favour, for which he is rarely credited, is how amazingly prolific he was as a writer. We must remember that he managed his own medical practice, spent countless hours chasing me around the whole of Britain in every season of the year, and still found the time to write detailed accounts of several dozens of my cases, many of which have never even been seen by the public. Both the quantity and the quality of his work are quite astonishing, considering the lack of time he had to devote to this herculean task. I can attest to the fact that he scarcely ever had an opportunity to pick up his quill until he reached his bath at the end of the day. One rousing chorus of “Rule, Britannia!” and the scratchings of the quill upon the parchment would invariably ensue. I never bemoaned his monopolization of the tub for I knew it was all in an effort to cement my own legacy. He was indeed a very clean man.

Few of his readers will realize just how humble Watson truly was. He held the virtue of modesty in much higher esteem than I do, and his writings reflect that generous attitude. Quite often, he would assign credit elsewhere for his own sterling attributes and accomplishments. For instance, in that strange case of the golden pince-nez, Watson credited me with the discovery that the Professor consumed a double portion of lunch. The truth is that it came to Watson’s attention because he was feeling rather famished and had high hopes of leftovers. In the peculiar case of the dancing men, one might assume that I decoded that diabolical encryption merely by spending many dull hours at the blackboard. However, it was in fact Watson, who tirelessly enacted the various poses of the dancing men, enabling me to visualize the true meaning of the code, while at the same time exhibiting his natural aptitude for avant-garde choreography. And when Doctor Grimesby Roylott bent that iron poker in our sitting room with his bare hands—yes, it was actually Watson who straightened it—with his teeth! It is not for me to say a word against his most excellent set of molars.

One might question how we now view my friend Watson these many years later as others have picked up their own quills and recreated my adventures in various forms of modern print and media. It is quite natural, of course, that I should take some offense to some of the inaccurate and sometimes unflattering ways in which my character has been depicted or even reinvented. However, I must confess that I am quite entertained by many of these adaptations, despite the almost inexcusable latitude the creators have been allowed for artistic license. These wildly varying recreations have certainly given me pause for much soul-searching, and I daresay have had a profound effect on Watson as well. I believe I can best demonstrate this disorienting effect by sharing a recent conversation between Watson and myself….

“Watson, if you could spare the time, I am on my way to meet Lestrade, and I should be much obliged if you would join me.”

“Just a moment, sir. Surely, I know you. But no—you cannot be Sherlock Holmes!”

“Tut, tut, Watson. How can you fail to recognize your old friend? It is I, the one and only Sherlock Holmes.”

“Oh, no, you shall never convince me of that. Surely, you must be that impolite, bombastic Sherlock that randomly bursts into fits of anger at the slightest provocation.”

“No—”

“I see—don’t tell me. I have it! You are the action hero Sherlock, grandmaster of martial arts and ninja slayer.”

“Really, Watson—”

“Wrong again? Well then, I suppose you must be time-travelling Sherlock, who has returned to rescue us from a dystopian future.”

“I confess that would be unique in the annals of crime.”

“An arrogant teenage Sherlock driven by angst? A macho Sherlock?”

“Hardly, my friend. Do you not trust your own eyes?”

“Hmm…a twenty-first century Sherlock with emotional problems? Oh, even better! A multi-dimensional Sherlock from an alien planet?”

“Calm yourself, Watson. I am none of those. Surely, you of all people should recognize me no matter how many fantastic outrages have been committed against my character.”

“I must say, you have little reason to complain. The general populace thinks I am a blithering idiot.”

“Well, here it is, dear Watson—a fair chance to restore our once lofty reputations. Join me for a new set of intriguing adventures in no place other than nineteenth-century England. I daresay we shall enjoy the opportunity to simply be ourselves, at home in our natural milieu, framed in a narrative rich with Victorian charm.”

“In that case, I should be delighted. I shall soon be at your service.”

“By the way, I think you would do well to bring your revolver.”

“Certainly, Holmes. Oh, one more thing…”

“Yes?”

“Do you foresee a need for zombie repellent?”

By Steve Nunes