Dr Watsons Secret Files

****There was a time when i had read and reread the Sherlock Holmes collection so many times that i could recite my favourites from memory. This parody is a tribute. You won't get many references unless you are as mad as a fan as i was, but they are not designed to get in the way. Do give Conan Doyle collection a read, they will be memorable all your life****

People believe that Sherlock Holmes was defeated only four times in his career: once by a woman and thrice by daredevil men. In fact, he was defeated five times, twice by the same woman: Irene Adler. This second encounter is unknown to the general public, because I choose not to make it public. For the account would be considered vulgar in a Victorian society, and even in America, where people are great less hypocritical, it would be considered a great shame.

To Holmes, she is always THE woman.

On a cold winter evening, I stepped into Holmes' rooms at 122B, Baker Street. As usual, I had no patients that day and had had a fight with my wife. It was a terrible day for me and I decided to visit Holmes in hope of some intellectual company. Not that i had any intellect. I had been his sidekick for nearly 15 years and he had never ceased to amaze me throughout that time with his parlour tricks.

I opened the door and entered the room. My eyes met with the first shock: the room was devoid of tobacco smoke and was neatly arranged.

I saw him curled up on the sofa. He opened his eyes, took one look at me and uttered the second shock.

"You had no patients today and your wife declined to make love to you."

No one was more aware of Holmes' supreme observation powers than I was, and even then, it was too much for me. He was dead-on. The no-patients part was ab easy guess, but thr part about not-shtupping my wife..

"How on earth-", I managed to stammer.

"I've studied your body language over the years. I've observed that your shoulder slump lags a bit to the left on the days you have no patients. And the spot of wetness at the crotch of your trousers could only be pre cum." he droned in a bored voice.

"It could be sweat. It could be the mark of ejaculation after sex," I countered weakly, hazarding my honour as a gentleman. The rebuff was robust and elegant and scholarly.

"Haven't you perused Haddock's 'The Sexual life of the British Male'? You're a model Englishman. According to Haddock, a self-respecting Englishman always strips fully before intercourse. Besides, even the dirtiest American wouldn't walk around with such an ostentatious mark on his trousers. The fact that you hadn't noticed it suggests you were angry. And I notice that even your armpits aren't soaked. Oh, and did you wait for you wife without your underwear on? I happen to think that in your anger, you pulled on your trousers without the briefs, noticed the mistake and corrected it. Bu not before it left its mark. Am I right?" Holmes drawled.

I went red, for it was exactly how it happened. With any other man, I would have lost my temper pulled my army revolver, which i always kept in my pocket to compensate for my lack of intellect, and if my wife is to be believed, lack of manhood too. But never with Holmes. I was too much in awe of his intellect. And to a dumb bubbler like me, who could be greater than a great intellectual?

Since I'm revealing Holmes' most well kept secret, I'd better throw in some truths about myself, too.

Yes, I am dumb. I had scraped through the Medical school by the thinnest of margins. The story of passing the Anatomy finals is an unpleasant adventure. On the day before the exam, I couldn't get a word of anatomy into my head. Don't ask me why. It certainly wasn't due to exam panic. After hours of effort, I gave up and thought up a desperate plan.

I went to Mortimer Street, hired a streetwalker and asked her to exhibit her private parts so I could study it. She called me a pervert and demanded 10 pounds. I never had had more than five pounds on me in my entire life. I now had only three pounds and I'd need a pound for myself. I complained that intercourse cost 8 pounds less. She retorted that it at least gave her some pleasure. I knew that nobody I knew would have so much money at the end of the month. But I also knew that the whore was the last chance of passing my exams. I had to earn the money.

I borrowed the whore's costume, disguised myself, and stepped out into the cold. I squatted on the pavement and awaited my first customer. A burly factory worker approached me. Before he could pull me up and discover my sex, I quickly pulled him close and gave him what Americans call a 'blowjob'. It was not yet fashionable in England, and therefore a novelty. After 2 minutes, it was over. The less said about the experience, the better. He grinned at me and flung down a couple of pounds. I blew six more men, each meaner than the last and managed to make it to ten pounds. I hurried up to the whore with a salty taste lingering in my mouth.

I handed her the money and straddled her legs. I spent the next hour examining at the organ covered by the pubic hairs. The whore kept bitching, but I ignored her. To her credit, she was well endowed in that area. The parts were sharply defined and had been probably developed through some sort of exercise. (The author believes that the lady was the first recorded human to practise what is now called as Kegel's exercises). I made an awkward sketch of it. My organ was raging, but the whore, divining my intentions, quickly demanded another 5 pounds. After calculating the number of blowjobs required, I equally quickly decided against it and rushed to my room.

Next day, I sat in the exam hall with a thumping heart. I wrote some silly rubbish that would have made a village idiot look like Hippocrates and then took a deep breath. I was about to attempt something that would help me pass or get me banned from academics for life.

Yes, I now know the idea makes me look like a dork. But I had a kernel of low cunning in my nearly vacant cerebrum. I knew the action had shock value. So, for the rest of the time, I drew detailed diagrams and wrote lengthy descriptions. Then I left the hall.

Believe me, it worked. The examiner was a venerable old man called Pickett. They announced the results and Anatomy was the only subject in which I had respectable grades. I also heard that Pickett's wife had applied for divorce and that the old man was excluded from the high society because he kept staring at the ladies' midsection. Well, for one to rise, another must fall. The world is unfair. The last I heard of him, he was in an asylum.

I would never have made a penny as a GP if I had not served in the army. With some standard medals, I could embellish my certificates a little and set up a practice. I knew I was a quack, but I worked to the limits of my abilities. I was also helped by the fact that most English people are hypochondriacs. I limited myself to prescribing medicines for headaches and colds and referred the more serious cases to my colleagues.

Thus I was living, when I met Sherlock Holmes. I think it was before "The Sign of the Four." I stuck up a reluctant comradeship, but he was never too close, because he was miles ahead of me, intellectually. And, I never was smart enough to attract women and I would have probably died a virgin had Holmes not helped me.

You know I found my wife during "The Sign of the Four." I had written that won my wife through my gallantry. What I had not written is that I had begged Holmes to help me corner the innocent looking lass. Holmes refused coldly. After I grovelled and said how a few more days of celibacy would turn me insane, he reluctantly acquiesced. Who else would take on the dreary job of writing down his "adventures"?

His cold brain worked out the details and in the following days, he carefully set me up. Where my intellect didn't help me, my primal instinct did. I grabbed the chances; even a newborn baby cold have grabbed those opportunities for Holmes' skilful puppeteering had ensured that all I had to do was reach out my hand or foot or nod at the right time. Once, he even tripped me so that I could fall in the way of a bullet. That was dangerous, but it got me my girl. In a week, I was free of my celibacy. Holmes became my dearest friend. He responded with amused condescension, like a master's affection for a puppy. He needed some human company and I provided it. His attitude, as I have described in the published accounts, are fiction in non-fiction. He did care a little about me, however, as you'd have read in the "Case of Three Garridebs."

Enough digression. Let me return to the story.

Once I had recovered from my shock, the thought struck me. Holmes usually abhorred talks of such nature. Why today? And why was the room so clean? I caught a whiff of perfume and was even more surprised.

Holmes read my mind, which wasn't difficult because my face was scrunched up as if I had a rash in my crotch. "We have a visitor, Doctor," he said pointing to a letter on the table.

It was written by a beautiful, feminine hand. It indicated a sharp, decisive and acute personality. The letter read:

Dear Holmes,

You must remember me from that memorable case of "The Scandal in Bohemia." And whatever little harm you did to my house on that day was forgiven, for you were merely an agent. I am in England, and I would like to meet you and toast our rivalry. I'd like to see you at you rooms on Tuesday.

Yours,

Irene Adler.

I received my third shock as soon as I had seen the name. Holmes had a smile of satisfaction on his face. "Stop looking like a frog, Watson," he chided, "That bit about intelligence and rivalry is bollocks."

"What is the reason then?" I asked, puzzled.

"She accidentally handled my male organ on that day, while trying to help me. I didn't tell you, but her hand was on my organ for about 10 seconds. I could tell she was fascinated." She still remembers it, and must be dreaming of it all these years, and yearning for it."

"Then she is here for-"

"For a vigorous shag". Like the full moon dawning on that Baskerville Hall moor, something fascinatingly evil made its presence felt in the room. Holmes went on.

"I plan not to disappoint her. It is probably my last chance to beat her. You may witness it, Doctor. I need to share this." Holmes rubbed his hands together and his eyes glittered in anticipation.

I was excited. I had a front row seat to the final encounter between two of the greatest man-woman rivals in English history. I could feel the last traces of my boredom flying away.

"She's here." Holmes sat up.

I was surprised. I hadn't heard anybody at the door. "How-," I began.

"Musgrave has a cousin in America. As a gift for solving "The Musgrave Ritual," he gave me a copy of "The Feminine Scent," by Jean Baptiste Grenoulle. I've studied it and learned to categorize women by their smells. Adler's category, a rare one, has a distinctively strong, pungent odour. And at the moment, that particular scent is wafting through into this room.

Sure enough, the door opened. A slim woman of forty stood in the doorway. She was tanned and her eyes sparkled with intelligence. Her dark hair framed her strong face. (The author thinks brunette Kathy Hepburn will be a fair resemblance). She was desirable, in a sharp, intelligent sort of way. Holmes stood up and welcomed her in. I, with my awe of intellectuals, was up already. My mouth opened automatically, and the jaw hit the floor.

Irene Adler stepped into the room.

Chapter 2

"Glad to see you in my humble abode after all these years, Irene" Holmes curtseyed.

"My pleasure Sherlock," Irene replied. Then she removed her greatcoat and placed it on the table.

She was wearing a simple red cotton frock that stopped two inches above her knee, itself a scandal. And yet that wasn't the worst- or should i say, the best- of it. Her firm breasts were outlined against the thin material, and her nipples were clearly defined. She was clearly wearing nothing under. I'd never seen a woman dress like that, even in the American fashion magazines. As my eyes travelled down, I gasped on receiving my fourth shock of the evening. There was a patch of darkness in her crotch. It stood out clearly, contrasting with the crimson frock. It didn't need a Holmes to tell what it was.

I turned towards Holmes and saw his eyes fixed on her crotch. Come to think of it, I didn't remember Holmes ever looking at her face at all. I was sure he had discovered the lack of underwear even before she entered the room. Don't ask me how. No one can tell unless the master himself deigned to explain it to us mortals.

"I see London is too hot for you, Irene," Holmes jibed while pouring her a drink. "You are sweaty. Where were you living, the South Pole?"

Irene didn't reply but took the brandy, sat down in the armchair and crossed her legs. She crossed her left leg high over her right so that her left calf was resting on her right thigh. I could see her inner thighs clearly. The legs just covered her privates. Or didn't. The shadows played tricks with my eyes. I imagined that a clump of hair was peeking out. Or were they peeking out really? (The author wishes to remind his readers that Sharon Stone famously posed in this same position in "Basic Instinct." Either Stone read this account, which is unlikely, or all smart women have it in their blood to cross their legs in such a fashion).

Blood pounded in my head and I started sweating. Holmes was cool as ever.

"What is your business, Irene?" Holmes asked. "I can't believe that you are here just to pay a courtesy call. Does it have anything to do with a mysterious cylinder you happened to pick up and drop during our last meeting?"

Irene was unruffled. "No, I came to get my photograph I lent you back then, Holmes. I don't have great hopes for it. I assume it is severely damaged from overuse. Am I right?"

Holmes nodded with a smile. The repartee was up to his expectations. I was trembling with satisfaction. Had words been weapons, each opening would have destroyed an army.

Holmes dropped the subtlety and asked direct, "And since we understand each other perfectly, lets get down to it, shall we? And I want my friend Dr.Watson to be present as we conduct our business. That is my only condition."

Irene was equally direct. She replied, "I am all for it. One condition from me, too. I came seeking you and therefore you ought to serve me. I don't want any part of the undressing business. You come to me as you were born and undress me too"

"My pleasure, Irene," Holmes replied evenly. But I could see that he was caught off guard. He had wanted her to be his servant, not the other way around. Holmes was not a virgin; he had lost it early in his life, but had remained celibate since the first time. Not that he didn't have chances. It was just that he found 'normal' women too stupid for his taste. Almost all his lady clients were attracted to him and I'm sure Ms. Violet Hunter would have married him without any hesitation.

But Irene, the only worthy woman he had met was ordering him around. It was more than what he had bargained for. But he could also see that Irene wouldn't budge. I knew Holmes wouldn't couldn't afford to give up this chance, so he submitted to her condition (for reasons still a secret, it is simply too explosive). We followed her into the bedroom. She made herself comfortable on the bed and looked at Holmes, who was standing at the foot of the bed. I quickly moved unobtrusively into a dark corner and sat down.

Holmes slowly stripped. He removed his square-checked shirt first, exposing his lean and sinewy arms and chest. His chest was surprisingly buff and his stomach was flat from years of amateur boxing. Then he bent and pushed down his pants and straightened up. I gasped at the sight.

His organ was as lean and long as the rest of his body. It was crisscrossed with blood vessels and Irene had guessed correctly, when she alleged that Holmes masturbated frequently with her photo as a stimulant. From my vantage point, it looked like a steel rod, stiff and straight from years of exercise. It twitched like a live thing. The head was enormous, disproportionately thicker than the shaft. Irene's lips parted in a delighted smile. The metaphor 'gearshift of love' was completely accurate here. Wait, that's a strange phrase. I wondered Where had I come across it before. Gearshift of love, gearshi..

It came to me all of sudden and then I almost fell from my chair. I am now forced to reveal that secret too now. It is too much for me to bear it in my heart anymore.

*****************Flashback*********************

Dear reader, you have read in the 'Final Battle' how Holmes and Moriarty died in a titanic battle to the death. I had found his last letter. When I returned home, I was aggrieved. I told my wife and she mourned him, too. Later, we had both agreed on the best way to pay tribute to the man who had united us. Previously, we had made love once in two weeks, but in those months after Holmes' death, we made love daily. We started kissing thinking of him and climaxed thinking of him. In spite of daily doses of my seed, my wife was unable to get pregnant. In the fifth month, when she had grown bold enough to give me a blowjob, she discovered that my fluid was pale white, almost clear. And from that moment, she lost interest in love. By the time Adler met Holmes for the second time, I had been celibate for a time long enough to be innumerable for the average red blooded English male. When Holmes returned from the dead, I was glad, because I could spend more time out of my oppressive household.

A week after "The Empty House," I had visited Holmes. He was not there and his housekeeper, a bosomy Scot called Mrs.Hudson, handed me Holmes' mail. Most of them were cheap looking envelopes, except one. This envelope was of the highest quality material. Curiosity got better of me and I opened it. It read:

Dear Holmes,

If you are reading this letter, then I must be dead. I wrote this letter during a bout of nostalgia, and intended it to post it as soon as I had finished it, but our unfortunate rivalry stopped me from doing so.

This letter is an old friend's reminder of the pleasant days. I still remember the day when I first met you. I was already a professor of mathematics at 31, and you were still a young student of chemistry whose reputation for observation was already infamous. I happened to witness one of your feats of 'magic' by accident. I was very impressed and I introduced myself to you. Normally, I have only contempt for the disciples of that unoriginal subject, science; the only original thing in the world worth pursuing is pure mathematics and anything else is a derivative drivel. But as they say, genius automatically recognises another genius and the recognition transcends all barriers. We sealed our friendship in a restaurant, after a delightful conversation.

After that, we spent many wonderful evenings in each other's company. I soon found the company of my colleagues boring. You wouldn't forget our arguments over the intricacies of Plato, Aristotle, Cicero, Newton, Kepler and such revered men. Such discussions always made the er.. moments.. after, better. I found your mind original and your powers of observation, of course, were otherworldly. I always had to be careful around you, or you would read my mind as if it were a tram ticket.

And then came our break up. I still don't understand why it happened. I'm pretty sure we were satisfied with each other. And the very idea of your friendship with that ignorant rake, Mugrave! He was one of those air headed aristocrats with a silly mania for trigonometry. Triginometry, indeed. The whole of it occupied me for less than a week. Only idiots like him would consider it their lifelong passion. I was very hurt, not to say disappointed. My work output declined and they denied me a salary raise. It was the moment I decided to turn against the world. And through a twist of fate, you became my most deadly rival.