Mary Morstan’s early life was lonely and drab. Her mother died when she was an infant, and her father spent most of his life stationed in India. During her formative years, Mary attended Stonyhurst Boarding School which seemed to exist only in shades of grey, from the stiff woolen uniforms and perpetually overcast skies, to the dour, unfriendly ( Read more... )

At a laboratory in Montpellier, France, Sherlock Holmes was recording his latest observations on the coal-tar derivatives when the door opened and the page boy appeared.

“Pour vous, Monsieur Lefitte,” said the boy, tossing him a large envelope.

“Merci, Georges.”

Holmes placed his notebook aside and examined the envelope with his magnifying ( Read more... )

Of the scant good fortune I had been granted in those days, the fact that I had set up my practice next to a music teacher turned out to be one of my greatest comforts. In the busy first months of my practice, I’d taken little notice of my neighbors. It was not until I reduced my patient load after my return from the Continent that the harmonious ( Read more... )

Mary Morstan and I married just before Christmas of that year in a small ceremony at our local parish. I had moved out of Baker Street in the weeks preceding it, though the wounds from my clash with Holmes were so fresh that I hired a crew of men to pack and remove my things. He had not come to our wedding, and while it saddened me to realize that ( Read more... )

A blustery wind rustled through Baker Street, which looked as mute and cheerless as the grey late-autumn sky. Busy Londoners hurried about with coats drawn tightly about them, pinched faces cast towards the street, aware that these were the last days they could survive outside without the protection of muffs, scarves and woolen hats.

For nearly ( Read more... )

It took me several days to recover myself before I could speak to Mary about what had happened during our last moments of intimacy. I was shocked when she calmly suggested we invite Mr. Holmes into the bedroom with us, not merely for the fact that she was willing to accommodate my proclivities but because the thought of presenting this to Holmes ( Read more... )

It was Jane Turenne who first planted the idea for this pairing. I hope to do her proud.

Mary Watson sat at a small table in the corner of the cafe and stared into the leaves at the bottom of her cup of tea. She remembered being a little girl when her aunt told her tea leaves could predict her future, and when she read them she told young Mary that ( Read more... )

Mary’s body was soft and yielding as I slid gently but purposefully in and out of her wet heat. She pulled me closer to her breast and wrapped her legs around my body, squeezing me tighter, urging me deeper, her breaths coming in quick bursts, perspiration casting shimmering beads across her forehead.

“John, John…” she mewled, and reached down to ( Read more... )

The vicar smiled benevolently when he bowed towards me and said, “John Watson, repeat these words as I recite them.”

“I choose you, Mary, on this day to be my wife…”

I felt the warm lips of Sherlock Holmes yield to mine as I pushed his dressing gown from his shoulders.

“I promise to love you and care for you with joy…”

I smelled his ( Read more... )

From the unpublished papers of the Dr. John Watson Collection in the Sherlock Holmes Archive.

The faithful readers of the Strand are no doubt aware that my adventures with Mr. Sherlock Holmes frequently appeared outside of the proper chronological order in which they actually occurred. The reasons for this are numerous. It was sometimes ( Read more... )