If I could tell you each of the virtues of my loyal friend and colleague Doctor John Watson, I daresay this document would stretch to impossible lengths and become incredibly dull to anyone who did not have the pleasure of observing Doctor Watson as I have.
He has spent much time writing about me (something I have somewhat discourage over the years, due mostly to being uncomfortably flattered by what he wrote) but he writes seldom of himself, and will sometimes even fail to recount a heroic deed he had committed.
I felt that this was somewhat an injustice, so I decided I would take up my own pen and write about him myself, the facts and facts only, nothing more. No dramatization or lack thereof. Whether this account ever leaves my notebook will be left to him; I doubt he would ever let such a thing be sent to the Strand, but we shall see. Even if it is only for his private eyes, I should hope it serves to remind him of his value not only to me, but to his country as well.
I shall firstly say that Watson is brave.
If you have read his accounts of our little adventures before, you will already have observed this. Watson has faced death several times in my company (and usually, on my behalf) and has always stood his ground with a graceful, unwavering demeanor. Not to say that he is never afraid, but that he swallows his fear always for the Greater Good, or sometimes, the inevitable.
In one such instance I recall, some time in April of '97 (I won't dig up the file, but I do believe the case began on the 24th) I was working a case involving a missing woman named Millie Whitman.
While searching for suspects on the case, we encountered a man by the name of Geoffrey (we never learned his last name) who became instantaneously enraged that we were questioning him.
After shouting many vile names and hoisting his enormous body upright (he was drunk, although it was midday) he pulled out a knife and swung it about.
Watson, quick-thinking as he is, went to reach for his service revolver, but before he could pull it out, the man had lunged forward and, to my horror, planted the knife firmly in his arm.
I am ashamed to say that I was not quick enough to stop this, but once it happened, I swiftly pushed the man off and knocked him with the butt of Watson's revolver, rendering him unconscious.
A cold fear clung to me, and I immediately fell to Watson's side, trying to take in the unholy buckets of blood he was losing.
I have seen many terrible things before, but it is entirely different to see such a thing affect a friend. I was temporarily at a loss.
“Watson,” I hissed in a panic.
“You'll have to pull it out, Holmes,” he said calmly, his steely blue eyes focused on me. “Pull it out and make a tourniquet, then a doctor can sew it up.”
I knew the pain of removing the knife would be immense, gut wrenching, but if Watson was afraid, he didn't show it. Instead he watched carefully as I slowly and meticulously removed the weapon, tossing it aside before making quick work of slowing the blood flow. Another doctor was at the scene within minutes, and saw to the sewing and cleaning of the wound. Watson healed quickly, and never once complained of it, though there is still a scar on his upper arm that I glimpse occasionally.
We never solved that case, the reason, I'm sure, he didn't write it up. He never did like to write about my mistakes.
Watson is loyal.
This, too, I'm sure you'll gave gathered. He is not only loyal to me, but all people he holds close, the same way blood is loyal to blood. I have yet to hear him utter a lie or abandon someone in need.
A fair example of this is presented in a case with the fitting title of “The Devil's Foot.” If you have read it, you'll know the series of events that lead me to burn the Devil's Foot Root in our temporary lodgings, poisoning both of us with deadly, hallucinogenic gas.
I was surprised that Watson, so eager to over dramatize, rather attached little importance to this event as a silly mistake of mine, and not something that went on to ail him long after.
You see, after Watson launched himself out of his chair to seize me and drag me from the house, he himself lay for several moments afterword, in a state of shock so horrid I thought I might have driven him mad.
Of course, I apologized, but I feared I may have pushed the limits of my friend.
That is, until he croaked out a strained, “It's all right, Holmes.”
I thought that when he came to his senses, he might be angry. Instead, through the nights of horrendous night terrors, raucous coughing, and unbearable migraines, he did not once bring up the event.
He bore the side effects of the poison without so much as a single complaint. It was then that I first understood the true extent of Watson's loyalty.
Watson is a very selfless man.
In one of the rare times I have picked up the pen myself, I have mentioned this passively, but really, it is a large part of his character.
I fear sometimes that a part of this selflessness stems from his lack of self worth, but I daresay that if he thought himself the greatest man on earth, he would still throw it all away in an instant for someone else.
I have complained to him before of his writing in “The Three Garridebs”. One of his best loved stories, with a large part missing. I thought I had read it wrong at first, but he had, indeed, left out perhaps his most selfless act in his service and friendship to me.
You see, when Garrideb pulled out his gun and shot, it was very deliberately meant to hit me. It wasn't just that he missed, however. I was in the direct path of the bullet's flight.
This prompted Watson to shove me to the ground, the bullet grazing his leg in the process. If he had fallen a different way, the he could have been shot in the head. The day Watson took a bullet for me was the day I understood what true terror felt like. The sheer possibility that my friend had been injured by a bullet meant for me was utterly terrifying. Watson was generously soft in his description of me, but in reality, I was a tearful mess, nearly weeping at the possibility that he had been hurt. It was merely a flesh wound, not life threatening, but that day still shocked me to my core. I never did learn why Watson left out how he had saved my life, but I never asked, either.
Although I could go on indefinitely about the many qualities of my most trusted companion, I fear my hand is growing tired and so I must come to an end with one last thing, perhaps his greatest virtue of all:
John Watson is kind.
He is the kindest man I have ever known, kind to me when I do not deserve it, kind when I do not ask for it, kind when I have been less than kind to him.
Some people will say it is a simple thing to be kind, but I have never seen someone be so profoundly kind as John Watson. His hands are that of a healers, and a defenders. His voice has brought me from the deepest pits of depression to which I have fallen. This has never wavered.
In conclusion, Doctor John Watson, soldier, doctor, and friend, has a spectacular heart, something I myself may never achieve.
I do hope he will discover this himself, someday.
