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The Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes (1893)
—Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
1. Writer's Block
Mark Watkins
?It was the winter of 1887, when the unexpected letter found its way to our rooms at 221B Baker Street.
?Holmes had been in one of his melancholy moods of late, as often occurred when the cold weather forced him indoors. Added to this fact was that, although his services were in demand, there was nothing that challenged his unique mind.
?Until that letter.
?Mrs. Hudson, our landlady, brought it up with several other envelopes, as soon as the morning post arrived.
?Holmes’ trained eye went to it immediately, and with a quick move of his catlike reflexes, he tore it open and perused it as I examined the remaining correspondence.
?Holmes rose to his feet, held the letter aloft, and turned to me to say, “Watson, the game is afoot!”
?I dropped my hands from the keyboard, shook my head, and muttered, “Utter crap.”
?I shut down the word-processor program, then my computer, and gave up for another day.
?It was pointless to even try.
?I stood and my eyes fell on the full-length mirror in the room that was both my office and bedroom. The one Susie insisted I get her.
?I saw her there in my mind’s eye.
?“I need something large enough to see if my outfit looks right.”
?“You always look beautiful,” I told her.
?“Flatterer,” she said with a smile, as I kissed her cheek. “You’re just trying to turn my head.”
?I was back in present time, where all that was reflected was a middle-aged man, not thin but not yet fat, about five feet seven, with sandy-gray hair and horn-rimmed glasses. I needed a shave, and wore pajamas and a bathrobe that was more wrinkles than anything else.
?I approached the mirror like an adversary as I examined myself in all my glory. I’d gained weight, with a bit of a belly where there never had been one. I glared into my bloodshot eyes. Too little sleep and too much alcohol.
?Susie would be disappointed in me. But she wasn’t here to say so.
?The buzzer for the outer door of my building went off.
?Who would that be? I thought. I felt it was too early, then I glanced at the clock. It was just past 11:00 AM.
?Well, early for me.
?I walked to the intercom which stood on the wall, hit the button, and yelled, “Who is it?”
?“Mark?” came the garbled reply, made even less intelligible by the cheap speaker. “Hey, babe, it’s Jeff.”
?I pushed the other button, which buzzed open the front door so he could enter. If you live in Manhattan, it’s like you’re a prisoner. Everywhere you go you pass through secured areas and deal with surly doormen, whose attitudes often resemble prison guards. This is all for the illusion that you are somehow safer, when on any given night some crazed, strung-out addict could break into your apartment through the one spot you didn’t cage.
?I ran a hand through my hair and adjusted my glasses.
?Fine time for my literary agent to show up. A thought occurred to me. If I wanted him to stay away, all I had to do was show him the crap I’d just written.
?Probably not. Jeff was a friend, and a good one at that.
?Besides, I was still considered one of the finest Sherlock Holmes writers of the new millennium. My novels were actually much better than that cliché-ridden garbage I’d just knocked off.
?The death of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, creator of the most famous of all fictional detectives, Sherlock Holmes, had been a boon to writers everywhere. There were still a good dozen or two of us who knocked out new adventures with regularity for the long-deceased detective. That is, of course, if he had ever lived.
?And in my case, they sold quite well.
?I’d received good reviews for each of my five novels. Death In The Borley Rectory even got to the New York Times Best Seller list, though it hovered near the bottom in its brief stay.
?I’d been able to write what I considered good books, and I didn’t resort to the popular trick of having Holmes and Watson meet historical figures: Freud, Jack the Ripper, the Prince of Wales, et cetera. I preferred my fiction unsullied by what I always considered a trick: the writer trying to be far too clever for his own good.
?Of course, that all happened when Susie was alive.
?It was easy with her there to read my work, correct my childish typing or spacing errors, and encourage me along.
?Before the cancer.
?The knock came at the door and I jumped. I stared at the door for a moment and didn’t quite remember who I expected. I gave a quick glance through the fisheye peephole and undid the three locks to pull open the door.
?Jeffrey Moss, literary agent supreme, burst into the room like a runaway subway train.
?He walked past my series of built-in bookcases that lined one wall, filled with books from
classics to modern. Although I often read books on an electronic device these days, I still loved the feel and smell of the real thing.
?“Mark!” he bellowed, and pushed the shock of his unruly white hair out of his eyes. “Hey, is it okay if I smoke, babe?”
?I nodded. Jeff was the only person Susie ever let smoke in this apartment. That rule started when we moved in back in the ‘90s.
?God, we were just a couple of kids when we first rented this place, straight out of college. She was such a beauty then, petite, dark-haired, dark-eyed, with an intellect that made my head go soft and a body that made everything else get hard. I thought I was the luckiest man in the world.
?Which, of course, I was.
?There was such a sudden lump in my throat, I coughed to clear it.
?“I think you know where the ashtray is,” I told him.
