Moran’s cab appeared at the appointed time and I climbed aboard.
“Good day, Watson. You are well, I trust?” came the familiar voice from the shadows of the cab. It was Moran’s usual greeting.
“I am well.”
“Good. To business. You wish to break your contract with the Professor, leave your duties in Baker Street and marry.”
“I do not wish to break my contract, I wish to be released from it — or at least have the terms altered.”
“Nicely put, Watson, nicely put. And what do you intend to do, once you have married?”
“Set up home, of course, and, I hope, start in medical practice again.”
“And Mr Holmes? Within this new context, how do you see your relationship with him continuing?”
“I thought you would tell me that,” I said curtly. I was quickly growing tired of these games.
There was a sudden burst of light in the cab as Moran struck a match and lit a cheroot. I saw his chiselled features and the shaggy grey eyebrows briefly before they faded into the gloom once more as the match was extinguished.
“Very well, Doctor Watson. Your request has been granted.”
I gave a gasp of surprise.
“But,” snapped Moran, before I could say a word, “there are conditions.”
I nodded. I knew there would be.
“First, you will keep in regular contact with Sherlock Holmes and at any time that he calls upon you for help, you will rush to his side immediately. Secondly, in a similar fashion, if you receive a message from the Professor instructing you to involve yourself with Holmes’ current investigation, you will do so immediately. Understood, so far?”
“I understand.”
“Under no circumstances must you reveal these arrangements to your wife or, indeed, any living soul. Understood?”
“Yes.”
“Good. We will leave it up to you to plan the nuptials, but the Professor will organise your new dwelling and arrange the medical practice for you in Paddington.”
“Paddington?”
“A nice little place. A semi-detached property. Cosy, by all accounts, with the front parlour used as a consulting-room. It should suit you very well. It is not a thriving practice, but we don’t want that, do we? You must have plenty of time on your hands to assist your detective colleague. If you grow bored, you could always practise your writing.”
Although, essentially, the news I was hearing was positive, Moran’s sneering tone confirmed that my shackles were neither being removed nor slackened; they were being replaced by another equally constrictive pair. But I was grateful that I now could ask Mary to marry me and to set a date.
“As you know,” continued Moran, “in this organisation we do not have written agreements. We take people at their word.”
An easy thing to do, I thought, when you do not give a man any alternatives. Moran paused, prompting me to respond.
“Yes,” I said.
“So, Watson, you agree to our arrangements and will abide by them?”
“In order to marry Mary, I will do all you ask.” As I spoke these words, I felt a leaden weight settle upon my heart.
“Good. Then it is decided,” said Moran.
Within the month, Mary and I were married. The ceremony took place at the Church of St Monica in the Edgware Road. It was a private ceremony, with only Mary and myself present. I had asked Holmes to be my best man, and with some grudging reluctance he had agreed. But on the appointed hour he failed to appear. We waited some ten minutes, hoping that he would turn up, but the clergyman who was performing the ceremony began to grow irritated at the delay and so in the end we were forced to engage the services of a loafer in the church as a witness. He was no doubt sheltering from the cold, and was most surprised when I bribed him with a sovereign in order to help us legalise the ceremony.
Despite the joy of the occasion, the fact that Holmes failed to turn up, that he had let me down, dampened my pleasure somewhat. I had hoped that he could have suppressed his own feelings about love and marriage for one brief occasion in order to please a friend. But, it seems, I was wrong.
Mary and I honeymooned in Brighton, and on arriving at our hotel there was a telegram waiting for me. It was from Sherlock Holmes. It read:
Apologies for absence. On a case. Regards to Mrs Watson. SH.
Twenty-Three
FROM THE JOURNAL OF JOHN H. WATSON
And so Islipped easily and contentedly into married life and my medical practice. Iwas so happy that for most of the time Iwas able to keep at bay the realisation that Iwas still a controlled puppet in an artificial situation. My relationship with Mary and my love for her were real, and they, along with ministering to my patients, formed the true anchor in my life. The medical practice had been neglected by the previous incumbent, and Iwas aware that it would take time and a great deal of work to build it up to create a reasonable living. Gradually, more out of curiosity, it seemed, than any other reason, Ibegan to attract a number of new patients, but Iknew that this was a long road Ihad to travel. Isuspected that the scarcity of patients was exactly why Moriarty had chosen this particular practice. He didn’t want me to be too busy so that Iwould neglect my duties to him. But neglect them Idid in the first three months or so.
I did not visit Holmes once during this time, and he did not communicate with me. Of course, Idid not expect him to. It would only be in the hour of need that he would turn to me. Ipictured him in his Baker Street lodgings — lodgings which he was now able to afford without the necessity of a fellow lodger — buried amongst his books and files, and alternating from week to week between cocaine and ambition, the drowsiness of the drug and the fierce energy of his own keen nature. However, his fame as a detective continued to spread. Occasionally, I read of some of his activities in the newspapers, particularly his summons to Odessa in the case of the Trepoff murders, and it seemed clear to me that he had completely recovered from the idea of not having a colleague to accompany him on his sleuthing quests.
I did feel a little guilty about not visiting him, not for Moriarty’s part, but because I regarded Sherlock Holmes as my friend. However, I suppressed this guilt until one evening nearly four months after my marriage, when I was returning from a journey to a patient and my way led me through Baker Street. As I passed that well-remembered door, I was seized with a keen desire to see my friend again. On the instant, I rang the bell and Mrs Hudson admitted me. She was effusive in her greeting and gave me a welcoming hug.
“It’s grand to see you back in the old place,” she said. “Things haven’t been the same since you left. At least you could keep him in order.”
“Has he been difficult?” I asked, nodding my head towards the staircase that led to Holmes’ quarters.
“You could say that. Moods! I’ve never met a man who has such moods. And how can I plan my housekeeping when I never know when he’ll be in? Sometimes he disappears for three days at a time without a word or warning — or explanation, when he finally turns up, demanding ham and eggs because he’s starving.”