As I fell, drunk, out of a carriage in Baker Street, I reflected upon my relationship with that great man Sherlock Holmes. He was a bit of a pain in the arse, cocky, and a junkie. I was a doctor, a learned man of great responsibility. We were strange bedfellows indeed, but we had never shared a bed. That rumour, spread by London villains to discredit Holmes, had destroyed my marriage. Holmes and I had only ever shared a kiss – we had become a little bit giddy in a bubble bath after a night at the opera.
I knocked on the door and was received by Holmes’ landlady, Betty Rawcook. “Dr Watson!” she exclaimed. “Where are your trousers?” I pushed past her, fell, and my face smashed against an oak sideboard. When I came to, I was in Holmes’ room, and the great man was standing over me with a grin on his face.
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