But seriously, the rest of this chapter isn’t funny at all.

Basically, here’s how reality exists:

• Danites, i.e. Mormon militia, really did exist at various points in time, and some really were called “Avenging Angels”.

• They were totally not down with people going against Church doctrine and were not nice about this. At all.

• For a while, Joseph Smith endorsed their violent vigilantism.

• Brigham Young, on the other hand, both denied that the Avenging Angels existed and threatened to bring wrath down on people, not necessarily of an Avenging Angels nature, but similar.

• The Mountain Meadows Massacre happened. The murder trials were in the 1870s after the mess of the Civil War had mostly somewhat stopped.

Note that there’s a lot of material here for a budding adventure/mystery writer who fancied a bit of American West action. A clandestine, violent vigilante group that participated in killing over 100 people, and was sometimes endorsed by at least some of the Church leadership, one of them Joseph Smith? There’s a lot you can do with that kind of set-up without fibbing one bit.

Here’s what Doyle actually wrote:

• The Avenging Angels were not a clandestine, shadowy threat, but a secret police faction fully endorsed not just by the Church leadership, but by a Council of Four.

• Rather than just being a few people in the community, they were so populous that there was a good chance your friend would be one of them, and your friend would kill you.

• Many male Mormons disappeared in this manner. In fact, atrocities worse than the Spanish Inquisition’s were performed on a regular basis.

• The Avenging Angels raided neighboring gentile communities so that they could kidnap the women to fill up harems.

• Brigham Young was so insane that the fate of one woman not marrying Mormon would cause him (rather than a messenger, say) to pay a personal visit and then call down the Avenging Angels on one man.

So. Yeah.

There’s not much else to this chapter, except to reflect upon the callback between John Ferrier and Lucy fearfully fretting about the new threat to their lives, and how they began this journey together.

And to cringe.

I’m not Mormon, but I’m told that the pressure to marry (and marry, and marry) is true to form in real life; in the first half of the chapter, it’s remained peer pressure and not attained cult-like “do or die” status; Ferrier remains faithful to his promise of celibacy, and isn’t shunned by the community. He actually becomes respected.

Then Lucy grows up, the Flower of Utah (oh dear), and everything changes.

Her beauty is rather over-dramatized, and I suppose that’s the point: this is Ferrier’s retelling, essentially, and he’s naturally going to look back at Lucy with devotion and a worshipful mien that almost parallels what the LDS community has for Joseph Smith or Brigham Young. That knowledge doesn’t make this sappiness any easier reading.

Fortunately something exciting happens, Jefferson Hope (Jr.) rescues Lucy, and love eternal springs in their breasts. Or possibly lust. It’s hard to tell sometimes, with young love.

This isn’t going to end well, we already know.

And… that’s really all I’ve got on this chapter. It’s set-up for the next few parts, and it’s not terribly exciting—a shame, because we know from the Holmes-orientated chapters that Doyle can do better set-up than what he shows here. There is a beauty to the beginning where Doyle tells how the Mormons settled in the valley of Utah, succinctly and yet with enough details so that we can see, almost before our eyes, the settlement develop and grow. And then it gets boring quite quickly.

Also, thank gods this post is short. It’ll likely become very painful about… oh goodness, the next chapter, which reaches awkward levels and will prompt a talk about Nuanced Portrayals of Uncomfortable Historical Events, or, how not to shoot your plot point in the foot with an uzi because you wanted drama over fact. Especially when fact would have provided drama enough.

Right now, what I’m seeing is a mystery writer taking some time out in the middle of their corpus to basically scream, “I are a WRITER of LITERATURE, I writes awesome LITERARY stuff too, look ye upon my BETTER work and admire!” The tonal shift rarely works. This isn’t to say that Doyle writes descriptive passages poorly—indeed, one of the things that works in his favor when writing mystery stories is that attention to detail, drawn in non-boring fashion—but the first chapter of Part 2 is very much over the top.

There’s some good drama here, but Doyle doesn’t know how to write a decent American patter. It’s like reading a non-English writer doing a British patter when all they’ve seen is Monty Python and a few sitcoms. It’s hard to get through paragraphs like this:

“No, there ain’t nothing, dearie. You’ll just need to be patient awhile, and then you’ll be all right. Put your head up ag’in me like that, and then you’ll feel bullier. It ain’t easy to talk when your lips is like leather, but I guess I’d best let you know how the cards lie. What’s that you’ve got?”

Ooooh I hate dem rabbits!

Also, such dyed-in-the-wool Americans don’t visit their aunts “for tea”, especially not at that time.

That said, Doyle does demonstrate that he’s a good writer with information dump in that previous horrific events (of an entire wagon trail dying as they attempted to cross Utah) is done through interesting dialogue between two very different participants: to put it in Doyle’s words, “the little prattling child and the reckless, hardened adventurer.” So it’s not entirely boring, it’s just threaded through by endless. Gradual. Description.

Fortunately, the two starving companions are rescued by another caravan that is apparently not all that stupid. John Ferrier (our murderer’s friend) realizes who their rescuers are:

“I see,” he said; “you are the Mormons.”

“We are the Mormons,” answered his companions with one voice.

Yes, Doyle, lay on the “they are all brainwashed cultists” some more, why don’t you. Wait. Forget I said that. Forget I said that!

*headdesk*

“You shall remain here,” he said. “In a few days you will have recovered from your fatigues. In the meantime, remember that now and forever you are of our religion. Brigham Young has said it, and he has spoken with the voice of Joseph Smith, which is the voice of God.”

Are we going to find out that Joseph Smith is the Devil over the next four chapters? Why yes. Yes, we are.

I’m sorry, I thought I could struggle through this and roll it up in one go, but this is one hell of a lot of backstory, with all the hallmarks of a “I discover as I write” author who hasn’t realized that the bit he’s embarked upon is going to end up as endless as the “Alkali Plain” he keeps on about.

BBC’s Sherlock did it much, much better.

The atmosphere is tense, as Lestrade, who’s just dropped in to deliver the shattering news to Gregson’s case, is dumbfounded and not afraid to admit it.

“I freely confess that I was of the opinion that Stangerson was concerned in the death of Drebber. This fresh development has shown me that I was completely mistaken. Full of the one idea, I set myself to find out what had become of the secretary….”

He also comments that he’s dropped in on a council of war, and that’s exactly what it turns out to be.

The murder of the main suspect is both similar and unsimilar to the first, except this time the man has been killed in his own rented room, but with the word RACHE again written in blood on the wall, and with a very clear, very bloody stab through the side and into the heart.

Watson, as this is gradually revealed, feels that his “nerves, which were steady enough on the field of battle, tingled as [he] thought of it.” Oh Watson, you’re so jonesing for adventure.

Holmes remains poker-faced throughout Lestrade’s story (the story-within-a-story that Doyle is getting better at, and will become a vital mechanic through the rest of the series), a far cry from the man dancing with joy at a scientific discovery. Events seem to have doured even him.

And then, this happens:

“And there was nothing else?” Holmes asked.

“Nothing of any importance. The man’s novel, with which he had read himself to sleep, was lying upon the bed, and his pipe was on a chair beside him. There was a glass of water on the table, and on the window-sill a small chip ointment box containing a couple of pills.”

Sherlock Holmes sprang from his chair with an exclamation of delight.

“The last link,” he cried, exultantly. “My case is complete.”

This is one of the things I love about Sherlock Holmes: he’s almost childlike in his enjoyment at discovery, even if it happens within some of the most joyless subject matters. And, of course, his brilliance.

And now we come to the dog-poisoning.

This tends to be skipped over when people remember fondly A Study in Scarlet, and Watson makes very sure that we know that the dog was old, sick, and needed to be put out of its misery before Holmes poisons it with the evidence that Lestrade has so carelessly put into his pocket, but plastic baggies weren’t around back then:

I went downstairs and carried the dog upstairs in my arms. Its laboured breathing and glazing eye showed that it was not far from its end. Indeed, its snow-white muzzle proclaimed that it had already exceeded the usual term of canine existence. I placed it upon a cushion on the rug.

Unfortunately, the dog is a long time dying, and seems fine for minutes on end. This provokes another outburst from Holmes, this time far less joyful.

Holmes had taken out his watch, and as minute followed minute without result, an expression of the utmost chagrin and disappointment appeared upon his features. He gnawed his lip, drummed his fingers upon the table, and showed every other symptom of acute impatience. So great was his emotion that I felt sincerely sorry for him, while the two detectives smiled derisively, by no means displeased at this check which he had met.

He’s now moved, impassioned, by the case; whereas before, Watson actually had to drag him along to Lariston Gardens in the first place. Also, nobody except Watson is actually being mature in this room.

And then Holmes tries the other pill, which is when we come to the deviousness of the case ¹: the dog dies (not all that well, it has to be said). And it’s all because the murderer presented his victims with the most nerve-wracking of choices: choose between two pills, “one was of the most deadly poison, and the other was entirely harmless.”

Holmes further comments, “I ought to have known that before ever I saw the box at all.” And can’t you just love that: what he views as a failure on his part is beyond the reasoning of those around him and probably most readers, but he’s a quick study. Sherlock Holmes isn’t perfect, but he’s pretty damn good.

It’s the cabbie what done it. ² It’s brilliantly done, with the right amount of storytelling vigor as the man is captured and Holmes proclaims the murderer’s identity, and the murderer attempts to escape by jumping through the window—with cuffed hands I might add. Cue satisfying fight scene.

And then we end the chapter with what seems to be the perfect lead-in to the next: “…we have reached the end of our little mystery. You are very welcome to put any questions that you like to me now, and there is no danger that I will refuse to answer them,” says Holmes.

But the next chapter is a non-sequitar into the next story-within-a-story, and that one goes on for several chapters. If this was a serial, no one would get answers for weeks on end.

Oh Doyle. Pacing, what did you do to it? Even when read straight, the sudden break is jarring and not at all satisfactory. ³

Notes:

1. And which actually has been copied over in BBC’s Sherlock, “A Study in Pink”. [back]
2. There are additional echoes in Sherlock: “for we have a shrewd and desperate man to deal with, who is supported, as I have had occasion to prove, by another who is as clever as himself.” [back]
3. This is where Sherlock‘s “A Study in Pink” wins over the original: the ending is tighter, the murderer more frightening to a modern day tale, without having to resort to stereotypes… much. [back]

First of all, in ye olden days, the media circus took a little while to take off ¹, so it’s only now that the newspapers are—incompetently—covering the murder case. It’s nice to know that some things never change. Watson acts as our RSS reader, if RSS readers had wry senses of humor.

The Daily Telegraph remarked that in the history of crime there had seldom been a tragedy which presented stranger features… After alluding airily to the Vehmgericht, aqua tofana, Carbonari, the Marchioness de Brinvilliers, the Darwinian theory, the principles of Malthus, and the Ratcliff Highway murders, the article concluded by admonishing the government and advocating a closer watch over foreigners in England.

The Standard commented upon the fact that lawless outrages of the sort usually occurred under a Liberal administration….

The Daily News observed that there was no doubt as to the crime being a political one….

Wow. Come to think of it, it’s as if nothing has changed. I think that’s the NYT, WaPo, and take your pick of random news channel right there. It’s too bad there apparently wasn’t a Daily Show or Onion back then.

Sherlock Holmes quips, instead of being bitter, over how Scotland Yard will score well no matter whether they screwed up or not ²:

“Oh, bless you, it doesn’t matter in the least. If the man is caught, it will be on account of their exertions; if he escapes, it will be in spite of their exertions. It’s heads I win and tails you lose. Whatever they do, they will have followers. ‘Un sot trouve toujours un plus sot qui l’admire.’”

Holmes is fluent in French (and German, actually, as will be shown later on in the canon, though no doubt he knows the words “murder”, “revenge”, “blood”, etc. in any number of languages), and the last sentence means: “A fool always finds a greater fool to admire him.”

I love this chapter already.

No, wait, I love it even more, although…

“It’s the Baker Street division of the detective police force,” said my companion gravely; and as he spoke there rushed into the room half a dozen of the dirtiest and most ragged street Arabs that ever I clapped eyes on.

Watson, what the hell. Argue all you want that this is just Victorian vernacular to refer to urchins as street Arabs, but that’s still thoughtless. “Rats” is also thoughtless. Oh Watson.

Anyways, we get to meet the Baker Street Irregulars, a group of street urchins led by Wiggins who act as Holmes’ unusual eyes, ears, and messengers throughout London. He talks to them as if they were adults, gives them money, and sends them on their merry sneaking ways. This is just awesome, and in the present day, would have turned into a spin-off a la the Sarah Jane Adventures.

“There’s more work to be got out of one of those little beggars than out of a dozen of the force,” Holmes remarked. “The mere sight of an official-looking person seals men’s lips. These youngsters, however, go everywhere and hear everything. They are as sharp as needles, too; all they want is organization.”

I so love this chapter. And also more Holmes snark: “Here is Gregson coming down the road with beatitude written upon every feature of his face.” It’s even more amusing that Holmes is nonplussed when he suspects that the worse may have happened, that Tobias Gregson has figured things out, but is relieved (visibly so) when it’s just another screw-up. Oh Holmes. The conversation between the two is vitalized and energetic, and Doyle is really on a roll here, what with the story-within-a-story being far more lively than the previous interview with $RANDOM_CONSTABLE.

And then it ends on a legitimate cliffhanger: Lestrade rushes in to tell us all that Gregson’s top suspect has been murdered.

This is by far the most well-done chapter in the book so far, and thus gets a rating of “Must Read”.

Notes:

1. Unless Sherlock Holmes was Murderously Attacked. [back]
2. Well. That’s not like the present, I guess? Maybe? [back]

Watson’s sensitivity is further illustrated by his musings on the nature of the murder, which has disturbed him greatly, even though he’d seen his comrades-in-arms hacked to pieces (good gods).

For Holmes’ part (and retelling), that involved tailing a (seemingly) old woman, then leaping up on the back of the cab she takes, showing us Holmes’ nimbleness and dogged determination. His imperfection, strangely good humor, is shown by how easily he’s fooled by an admittedly excellent actor, and thus loses the bait of the ring from earlier without much to show for it.

We get very little for not very much in this chapter, which feels almost like filler as Doyle grasped for the next event in his story; still, you can see it as a transition from a wavering involvement on Watson’s part to a more serious role as partner and confidant. There is some character development, a pleasant touch, although it’s not as deep as it had been in previous installments. And thus this chapter gets a rating of readable, just above “we read it so you don’t have to”.

A Study in Scarlet is even more imperfect than I remembered. Bert Coules & company had better rescue this one full mightily and well (they’ve managed to do it for “The Lion’s Mane”, which I never thought possible. They pull off miracles, they do; I may just crack the audio drama adaptation early, the canon text is painful on analysis).

Next time: Watson is actually involved, bringing us closer to the end of Part 1 and to the beginning of Part 2, where we must endure flashbacks not involving our main characters, and laced with sensationalistic and nigh-intolerant views on the part of the author, and I rarely ever enjoy an Author Tract.

Oh, and if you ever had doubts of the canonicity of Holmes’ vanity, here it is:

My companion flushed up with pleasure at my words, and the earnest way in which I uttered them. I had already observed that he was as sensitive to flattery on the score of his art as any girl could be of her beauty.

Of many aspects of Holmes’ character, this one does not change until his retirement. Possibly.

During the constable’s retelling (a technique that Doyle uses fairly often), Holmes interrupts from time to time with deductions that throw the constable out of his wits. But the constable’s story itself lacks some flair that’s present later on. Hm; “later on, in the later stories”, and soon, “in the next book, The Sign of Four“. Perhaps A Study in Scarlet was not the wisest choice to redux, but at the same time, I need a base comparison for the undoubtedly more lively adaptation from Coules.

We again refer to Watson’s lighting of Holmes’ fire (something unnecessary as time went on) in Holmes’ rather pleasant gratitude and the title drop:

I must thank you for it all. I might not have gone but for you, and so have missed the finest study I ever came across: a study in scarlet, eh?

And as for Holmes, an item that Watson should have added to his list of Sherlock Holmes’ limits would be musical knowledge, in particular that of the violin. Although that might be tempered by Holmes’ singing, which doesn’t appear all that impressive:

“And now for lunch, and then for Norman Neruda. Her attack and her bowing are splendid. What’s that little thing of Chopin’s she plays so magnificently: Tra-la-la-lira-lira-lay.”

Leaning back in the cab, this amateur bloodhound carolled away like a lark while I meditated upon the many-sidedness of the human mind.

Watson, you’re more observant than you give yourself credit for. Whatever happened to you?

Like… a ghastly murder! You know, detective stuff! ¹

After Watson inadvertently fans Sherlock Holmes’ ego by being astounded at the chain of deductions made about the sergeant of Marines, we get to the letter from Tobias Gregson, a colleague of Lestrade. They’ll provide our comic relief this chapter, as Holmes comments: “They have their knives into one another, too. They are as jealous as a pair of professional beauties. There will be some fun over this case if they are both put upon the scent.” Indeed, this ends up being not an insignificant part of his motivation for actually getting to the scene of the crime. Sherlock Holmes: solves crimes, trolls the local police force. Just think of what he could have done with a smartphone. ²

The other part of the motivation is, surprisingly, not on Holmes’ part, but on Watson’s.

“Surely there is not a moment to be lost,” I cried, “shall I go and order you a cab?”

“I’m not sure about whether I shall go. I am the most incurably lazy devil that ever stood in shoe leather—that is, when the fit is on me, for I can be spry enough at times.”

“Why, it is just such a chance as you have been longing for.”

“My dear fellow, what does it matter to me. Supposing I unravel the whole matter, you may be sure that Gregson, Lestrade, and Co. will pocket all the credit. That comes of being an unofficial personage.”

Yes, the chance that Holmes has been whining about not a few hundred words ago. Watson only has to badger him a little, but that he has to badger him at all is interesting; it means that the choice to venture forth was Watson’s, not Holmes’, at least not initially. Later in the canon, Holmes is a much more driven character and the one who sweeps Watson away to cases, but it’s here that we see the kind of person Holmes would have been without Watson’s presence.

And finally, we get to see Holmes at work. Watson loves to present the spectacle of Holmes in his investigative mode, always doing the unexpected: not rushing into the crime scene, but nonchalantly gazing about; not gingerly examining the corpse from a distance, but getting rather intimate with it ³. It’s also here that Watson’s ability to paint a picture in words is highly valuable in a detective story; if you have nothing for the reader and the characters to observe, you have nothing to detect upon. From the beautiful to the macabre, Watson covers descriptive ground quickly when needed and rarely when it would be in excess. ⁴

And then Lestrade exudes in scoring a point over Gregson when he discovers “RACHE”.

The Yutzy Yarders assume that this means “Rachel” only the murderer left early before the “l”, but of course readers know that foreign languages is always helpful in a crime career, and all is not as it seems to those two. Again, Watson catches what the best of Scotland Yard miss:

Gregson and Lestrade had watched the manoeuvres of their amateur companion with considerable curiosity and some contempt. They evidently failed to appreciate the fact, which I had begun to realize, that Sherlock Holmes’ smallest actions were all directed towards some definite and practical end.

And they’ve both known and worked closely with Holmes for longer than Watson had. Their arrogance is rather sad.

Then there’s the burn, when Gregson and Lestrade ask Holmes what he thinks of their progress.

“You are doing so well now that it would be a pity for anyone to interfere.” There was a world of sarcasm in his voice as he spoke.

The two Yarders don’t seem to notice anything is amiss until the end, when Holmes makes his famous “Parthian shot” (parting shot).

Next time: more detective stuff!

Notes:

1. And here’s a sonic screwdriver. [back]
2. Oh wait, you don’t have to imagine it—BBC’s Sherlock has done it, and brilliantly so. [back]
3. Not in that way. [back]
4. Characterizing the narrator versus praising the author… it’s sometimes a wash when it comes to first-person perspective stories. [back]

But enough of that. Let’s get on to the story.

I’ll note that while Watson brings about his meager belongings to the flat (they must be so, since they fit into what must be a rather cheap hotel room), but Holmes brings along several boxes and portmanteaus ¹. I remember my University days; I’m not sure Holmes’ belongings could exactly fit into a small car, but this could be read as an allusion to Holmes’ later terror of throwing anything away, even when he was stuck in a small dorm room.

Amusing in hindsight is Watson’s initial discovery that Holmes is “not a difficult man to live with”, quiet and regular, if sometimes given to fits that left him lying still for days on end. All but the last would change dramatically, leading to interesting theories as to why Holmes’ character changed so much (my favorite would be, well, the fact that he really was using a narcotic even during this time, and probably started the habit during his University days; and it’s not like gradual over-use of cocaine isn’t going to leave you changed).

And now we get to the appearance of Holmes himself. I’ll just drop this here and note that Jeremy Brett captured the appearance of Holmes the best. This doesn’t necessarily mean that he should be everyone’s favorite adaptation character, of course, but he was the most accurate.

In height he was rather over six feet, and so excessively lean that he seemed to be considerably taller. His eyes were sharp and piercing, save during those intervals of torpor to which I have alluded; and his thin, hawk-like nose gave his whole expression an air of alertness and decision. His chin, too, had the prominence and squareness which mark the man of determination. His hands were invariably blotted with ink and stained with chemicals, yet he was possessed of extraordinary delicacy of touch, as I frequently had occasion to observe when I watched him manipulating his fragile philosophical instruments.

All of this would seem rather prying, except that Watson reminds us that he was bored, bored, bored during this period. Which all the more gives us reason to conclude that his desire to live a quiet life is merely subconscious denial (something made very obvious in BBC’s Sherlock, to the point where they had M actually state it to the audience). Watson wants adventure, and I have no idea why some adaptations (which will not covered on this blog) forget this part of his character. In fact, Watson goes so far as to make a few rather intelligent, if not genius-calibre, deductions about Holmes:

Desultory readers are seldom remarkable for the exactness of their learning. No man burdens his mind with small matters unless he has some very good reason for doing so.

People keep forgetting that Watson is actually smart. Even Doyle. Gods, we’ll get to that much later.

There continues to be tension as Watson continues to observe his curious flatmate, which starts to increase as we discover, first, Holmes’ strange gaps in knowledge:

“But the Solar System!” I protested.

“What the deuce is it to me?” he interrupted impatiently; “you say that we go round the sun. If we went round the moon it would not make a pennyworth of difference to me or to my work.” ²

As well as not knowing astronomy, Holmes also apparently doesn’t know about literature, philosophy, politics ³; but he does know about a lot of odd facts about geology (dirt, mostly), botany and poisons, chemistry, “sensational literature” (e.g., real crimes). This puts Watson at a loss as to what Holmes’ final aim is for, but he does know that Holmes has an object in mind—something that Stamford (and likely many others) missed by several miles.

You just have to read about the violin sessions. They are Holmes at his best charming annoyance: annoys Watson with his random violin playing, and then makes up for it by skillfully playing airs that Watson requests as compensation.

Then we finally happen upon Holmes’ egotistical genius, when he explains how he deduced where Watson hailed from, and then makes several degrading remarks about other detectives, both in literature (Dupin ⁴, Lequoc) and in-universe (Lestrade, “a famouse detective” by Holmes’ word, although he doesn’t quite get entirely on Lestrade’s case as he would later on. Just the entirety of Scotland Yard). Watson comments: “‘This fellow may be very clever,’ I said to myself, ‘but he is certainly very conceited.’”

Holmes’ case is not helped (or, perhaps, it’s helped quite a bit) when he muses on, “What is the use of having brains in our profession. I know well that I have it in me to make my name famous. ⁵ No man lives or has ever lived who has brought the same amount of study and of natural talent to the detection of crime which I have done.”

Conceited, yes; accurate, maybe.

At this point, Watson suddenly has a chance, or so he thinks, to disprove Holmes’ brilliance; naturally, instead of bursting Holmes’ bubble, Watson is proved wrong on nearly the spot.

And then we suddenly end the chapter. It’s a tease to get to the next chapter, but it’s not as strong as it could be. That’s the problem with origin stories; they often roll along instead of racing.

Next time: excitement and blood.

Notes:

1. Suitcases that had parts that fit together. That’s why “portmanteau” also means “words put together to make up other words”. [back]
2. Amusingly, BBC’s Sherlock did make this matter. [back]
3. Later on in the canon, Holmes starts to quote from Shakespeare and other masters of literature and philosophy, so perhaps Watson’s list did make an impression on him. [back]
4. Dupin’s trick of “mind-reading” is, ironically, one that Holmes himself would employ many stories later. [back]
5. He’ll do a complete 180º after Reichenbach. [back]

But the first chapter ever written in the canon is hardly about Holmes, but about Watson. While this may seem disappointing to those who are all about Holmes, it’s actually unique to read, for once, about the man through whom we see Holmes. What kind of a man is Watson? Not a coward, but brave; not a nobleman, but a noble man; not an idiot, but a knowledgeable medical doctor.

We start with Watson’s tale of woe. Serious woe.

First he gets involved in a war in Afghanistan and that never goes well ¹; his regiment is horribly slaughtered; he himself is severely injured by a bullet wound, which he remembers accurately in medical terms ²; he catches enteric fever, more commonly known these days as typhoid fever, and nearly dies; finally, he’s discharged on a measly pension to try to heal himself. ³ This litany of ills doesn’t even mention what happened to his brother.

Why would this man, who considers himself as having had enough adventure for a lifetime, hook up with someone like Holmes? Well, the truth is that Watson, like the best of companions in adventure tales, is extremely curious despite himself. He has a thirst for adventure that just can’t be beaten out of him (literally, in this case), and here it shows up in deciding to settle in with a… very odd roommate. It’s hilarious how Stamford keeps dropping unsubtle hints about how disturbing the prospective roomie is, and only manages to intrigue Watson rather than shake him off.

As for Holmes himself, we’re introduced to a manic version of him, clapping his hands in joy for making a (rather crime-relevant) chemical discovery, bowing dramatically for an invisible audience. I wasn’t kidding when I said earlier that Holmes was a Cloud Cuckoo Lander in Study. But while this is a brighter Holmes than typically depicted later in the canon or its various adaptations, there’s still evidence here of more moody turns (not easy to draw out into conversation, except when he is; either avoids the lab entirely or is a workaholic; Holmes himself admitting to getting in the dumps and not speaking for days on end… It’s no wonder that people can think of Holmes as being manic-depressive).

We of course get the famous “You have been in Afghanistan, I perceive,” bit, where we see the first instance of Holmes’ client impression routine: deducing parts of their recent history, motives, and even past. It is quite a good opening move, but really needs the accompaniment of a promise of danger to be seasoned properly.

And the chapter ends here. Too early, but within what I will kindly assume was a word count limitation.

Next time, Holmes and Watson meet in 221B Baker Street! And the story will still need a good kicking into second gear, but we’ll get to that.

Notes:

1. It’s also an interesting coincidence with modern times, and thus a direct tie could be made in BBC’s Sherlock. [back]
2. Or possibly wounds, considering the later canon inconsistency of where Watson’s bullet wound actually is. [back]
3. Ahhh, healthcare in the Victorian days. It’s so American. [back]