The telegram read, "Mrs. Watson I need you, come at once 221bBring husband if you must. S. Holmes." Unfortunately my wife had gone to be with her cousin in Balliston, who had taken ill, to ride roughshod over her cousin's three children. I had no patients scheduled that day, so I decided to call on Holmes and see what was so urgent. Taking my medical bag I set off for Baker Street. Finding a cab I settled in and my imagination was stretched to its limits. I could not imagine why Holmes would request my wife's service. The cab pulled up in front of 221b and I stepped out. I had just reached to pay the cabman when I heard Holmes call down to me.

"The door is unlocked, have your wife come right up."

Before I could answer, his head disappeared back in and the window slammed down. I finished paying the driver and made my way in and up the stairs to the rooms I had formerly hsared with Sherlock Holmes. Reaching the landing, the door swung open and there stood Holmes. Hair uncombed, unshaven and still wearing his old moth eaten mauve colored robe. His eyes filled with pleading despair. He looked past me and glanced down the stairs.

"Your wife, Watson, where is she?"

"Wish her cousin in Balliston. She has been gone two days now." I answered.

"Damn." Holmes said, in a whisper.

"What's wrong, you look like you are at your wits end. Holmes, you haven't taken to the needle again, have you?"

"Not yet."

"Tell me what is so terrible that it is causing you so much stress?"

Turning about and looking in toward the sofa, he pointed. "That is."

There, sitting, her white gloved hands folded across her lap, was a girl of 6 or 7 years of age. Long blond curls framed her face, making her rose colored cheeks seem to glow. On her head she wore a bonnet of blue trimmed with lace. Her dress was a white chiffon trimmed with gold colored thread and royal blue flower buds.

"It's a girl." I said.

"Excellent, Watson, you have solved it. Now I can retire."

"Solved what?"

"Exactly."

Holmes now walked over to where the child was seated very poised and proper. Holmes folded his hands behind his back and stood towering over the child.

"Now, young lady." he began, only to be interrupted by the young girl.

"I told you my name is Violet. Violet St. John."

Then, looking at me, she said softly, "He doesn't listen very well."

Holmes stood erect, looked at me, then to the little girl, then back to me. He held his hands out, palms up, and shrugged his shoulders. I stepped closer and stood nearer to the sofa.

"Hello, Miss St. John, my name is John Watson. I am a physician." I said, extending my hand and receiving her small gloved hand in a hand shake.

"Is he ill?" she asked, nodding her head toward Holmes.

"Throwing his head back facing the ceiling, Holmes said loudly, "God yes."

"Is it contagious?" she asked.

"No, miss, not at all."

Turning to face Holmes, who now had sunk his hands into the pockets of his robe, I asked, "Who is she?"

"Violet St. John." she answered, then adding, "You don't listen very well either."

"Yes, dear, I know your name." I said.

"Then why did you ask?" she said.

I meant, why are you here? Where are your parents?"

"Mother left me with her uncle Sherlock while she and grandfather Mycroft had to tend to some business. My parents are Mr. and Mrs. St. John of Ludlum and I am Violet St. John of Ludlum."

"And I am seriously considering something more than a 7% solution." Holmes said, lowering his head so as to let his forehead rest on the mantle.

"She is your niece's child, Holmes, what is the problem? I asked.

"What, pray tell, am I supposed to do with her? I know nothing of the care, feeding, or cleaning of children and I have no intention to learn now."

"How long will she have to remain until her mother retrieves her?"

"Too long." Holmes then went on to tell me that his brother Mycroft sent a telegram saying a family emergency arose requiring his and his daughter's presence, and that a carriage would drop off Violet and he knew between Mrs. Hudson and myself she would be tended to.

"Then, Holmes, Mrs. Hudson will be overjoyed to watch Violet. That should ease your mind."

"If she were here. Mrs. Hudson went to Durham yesterday and she will not be returning till tomorrow evening."

"Oh, how long has the child... er, Violet been here?"

"Lifting his head and looking at the mantle clock, he said, "Nearly two hours." Groaning, he laid his forehead back down on the mantle.

As I look back over the years, certainly the ones I spent sharing rooms with and being involved in the many cases handled by Sherlock Holmes are the fullest. I have learned much and hope I have also taught.

As the years went, the visits were less and less. Holmes with his bees still resided in Eastbourne. I am too accustomed to the pace of city life, though my pace is much slower. It was on my last visit that I asked a question that was in the back of my mind for many years. It concerned our late landlady of 221b Baker Street in London. I knew of her sister, but there my knowledge ended. So, asking Holmes, I learned a little of Martha Hudson.

She was, according to Holmes, born in Dundee, Scotland. There her parents raised sheep for wool and children to shear them. Six or seven, perhaps eight children, Holmes added. When one of her sisters married and moved to London, Martha was asked to visit. She was on one such visit introduced to a young man - a Gilbert Hudson - a paid firefighter in London. Over a period of time Martha moved to London, renting a room from her sister and finding employment at Abernathy and MacDunnes Mill. She continued to see Gilbert and fell in love. They married.

It was her husband who purchased 221b Baker Street for added income and security.

"Martha, if anything ever happened to me at least you'd have a roof over your head and a bit of an income." A premonition, for within a month of moving into 221b Gilbert Hudson was killed fighting a fire on Swallows Lane Road. There were no offspring from their short union. So, over the years she mothered her tenants, feeding them, worrying about them, listening to, laughing with, and crying with them.

"As good a lass as Scotland had to give." Holmes said softly.

After they had chatted a bit Holmes turned toward the other patrons and called out in a loud voice.

"If you gentlemen would care to join us, the next round of drinks are my treat." Needless to say, they each accepted Holmes' offer, as did I. They in turn reciprocated. I believe I did also, more than once. At one point Holmes even accepted a challenge to a game of darts, loser to buy the next round of drinks, which the fellow who had challenged Holmes did rather reluctantly. The proprietor was a robust looking fellow named Gilbert. I noticed him staring at Holmes and me. He had a troubled look on his face and he appeared rather nervous whenever he came near to Holmes. We were in the Feather and Sword for the better part of an hour before the proprietor worked up enough nerve to approach us.

"You be Sherlock Holmes, the London detective."

"Yes, I am he," Holmes replied.

"Blimey, me 80 year old mum says you're not real that, that fellow Doyle invented you."

"Children should always listen to their parents," Holmes said, adding, "and did she also tell you that Doctor Doyle also invented Doctor Watson? He did, you know, and if you doubt me you may ask him yourself." Looking at me the proprietor said, "She didn't mention you at all."

"How fortunate," I said, picking up my glass. A heated discussion erupted between Gilbert and some of the more intoxicated patrons. Holmes quickly tired of all the questions and diverted their attention to me. "Gentlemen, allow me to introduce my friend and colleague, Doctor John H. Watson, who can assure you we are both flesh and blood and not a figment of someone's overactive imagination." I now found myself the object of everyone's attention. I was the recipient of a barrage of questions. I attempted to answer them as best I could. Holmes had positioned himself at the end of the bar. The majority of their questions had to do with "That Doyle Fellow." I explained that Doctor Doyle was an old associate of mine who was now a proofreader, editor, and literary agent, a fellow medical man and writer himself. I often found myself becoming confused. This was due to the exact names and dates of many of the cases being changed to shield a person's identity or at the request of the government. I was able to get Holmes' attention and ask him.

"Holmes, would you care to answer some of these questions?" I asked.

"Thank you, no," he said.

With each gust of wind the rain stung against my face. As I approached the livery stable I saw Holmes leaning against a tree. Holmes was using the tree for shelter from the storm, which was now at its worst. Why he did not use the stable for shelter puzzled me, for Holmes was just as drenched as I. As I pulled the cart closer, Holmes made a limping dash for the cart. I offered him my hand and with a bit of effort on both our parts managed to get him into the cart and seated. He reached over for the reins. Just then a voice called out.

"Mr. Holmes, Mr. Holmes." I turned toward the sound. There in the doorway of the stable was a muscular young man, who I assumed was Robert Kendall. Again he called out.

"Mr. Holmes, you and your friend will catch your death in this weather. Pull your cart into the livery until the rain stops." Holmes said nothing. He looked at me and before I knew what happened he was off the cart. I watched him make a dash for the livery door. He stepped inside out of the rain, then, turning back to me he shouted out.

"Come on in, Watson, it's raining." I will not record here my thoughts, but I do remember saying in a clear, precise voice,

"Brilliant deduction, Holmes."

An open dogcart exposed to the cold blast of an English winter is not advisable. Both Inspector Lestrade and I were nearly frozen by the time we came upon Holmes. Actually, it was Holmes who saw us first and called out to us. But with the wind and our collars raised up, we could not make out what he was saying. He was waving his arms frantically and yelling something. I cannot remember ever seeing Holmes act so nervously. Lestrade pulled up on the reins and the dogcart came to a halt.

"What's wrong, Mr. Holmes?" he shouted down to Holmes, who was now making his way back to a small abandoned livery.

"Hurry, Watson, and bring your bag," Holmes yelled back as he disappeared inside the building.

I handed my bag to Lestrade, who was already off the cart. Once down, we set out in all haste toward the door Holmes had entered. The only light cast was from an oil lamp - like the building, also abandoned.

"Here, Watson," Holmes' voice called out. As I approached him I saw a young woman lying on some straw in the stall with Holmes' Inverness wrapped about her. Certainly not long out of her teens, she seemed to be in a great deal of pain. Lifting the Inverness, the cause was quite evident. She was in the agony of labor pains. As cold as it was, her face was covered with perspiration. She was in a great deal of pain, as her cries attested to. I removed my coat and, rolling it up, placed it under her head. I called out to Lestrade, who was standing there hypnotized by the sight before him.

"Lestrade, bring the lamp closer."

"Ya ya, yes," he stuttered. As soon as he approached with the lamp, the young lady gave out an awful scream. Lestrade jumped backward, still holding the lamp.

"Lestrade, the lamp, bring it closer," I shouted. With faltering steps, he came forward. Again, as soon as the glow from the lamp came near, the young lady cried out. This time, Lestrade almost backed out of the stall.

"The light, bring it back," I said. Lestrade just stood there, frozen, not moving. The next thing I knew, Holmes grabbed the lamp out of Lestrade's hand.

"Damn it, man, it isn't the light that is causing her to cry out," Holmes said. Leaning forward, Holmes held up the lamp.

"What do you think, Watson?" Holmes said.

"She is pregnant," I said.

"See, Lestrade, all the years of medical college are finally bearing fruit," Holmes said. Lestrade just stood there in silence, his eyes as wide as saucers, his mouth hanging open.

"Who is she?" I asked.

"From what I could gather from her husband, whom I came upon outside the village, lost and in a near panic for his wife, they were on their way to Beth someone. They took a wrong turn and got lost. They stopped here so his wife could rest a bit, out of the wind. Their horse took off with their wagon and their belongings. He set out on foot to get help. I took him back to the village and left him in the care of the local innkeeper. I set out on my own to find her and, as you can see, I have accomplished that."

"Oohh," followed by a loud cry that filled the stable.

"It's nearly time," I said.

Turning toward Lestrade, I said, "Hold her shoulders." There was no motion from him at all.

"Lestrade, help me," I shouted. Holmes stood straight, turned about, and with an outstretched arm pulled Lestrade by his coat collar forward.

"Here, take this," Holmes said, putting the lamp in Lestrade's hand, "and do not move one step." Holmes stepped around me and knelt down by the girl's head. Looking at me he asked, "What should I do, Watson?"

"Let her rest her head on your thighs, and when I tell you, lift her shoulders just a bit, to brace her and for support."

"All right," Holmes answered.

"All right, Miss, I am a Doctor. Everything is going to be all right. When I tell you to push, you push as hard as you can." The first sound was an "aaagh," followed by an "oh, oh, okay."

"That's the girl," I said. "And tell me, what is your name?"

"Mary... aah..."

"Well, Mary, my wife's name is also Mary."

"You will be fine, Mary. Doctor Watson is a very good Doctor." She lifted her eyes to look at Holmes. Reaching back with her right hand, she took hold of Holmes' hand and squeezed it. When the pains were so bad, I could see her fingernails pushing down into Holmes' hand. Holmes said nothing and not once did I see him show any signs of discomfort. I will not record here all the contractions, cries of pain, or the pain in my legs and back. Nearly forty minutes later, a beautiful baby boy was born, mother and son doing very well. Holmes removed his vest and wrapped the baby in it. Ten or more minutes passed and then we heard an enclosed wagon from the village pull up outside the livery. A young man rushed in, followed by Doctor Petersen from the village, and a young woman who I heard Mary call "Beth." All in all, an interesting event totally unrelated to Holmes' pending investigation. But, there was just one more item worth noting. It was Holmes who carried the baby to the waiting wagon. Then, seeing them safely on their way, Holmes, pulling his Inverness closed about himself, said quietly, "What better place to be of help than in a stable on Christmas Eve, with a Mary, her child and three not so wise men."

Holmes was adamant. But I felt I still needed to make my point.

"Holmes, is it so wrong for people to pay you a compliment in their own way?"

"Let them say thank you and then be silent," came his answer.

"These organizations are only being formed as sort of a way of honoring the work you have accomplished." Holmes folded the newspaper and dropped it on the floor by his chair.

"These organizations go far beyond a mere thank you. They try to discover every bit of information about every person mentioned in my cases. Not only about the persons involved, but about me and you. Our private lives, the who, what, where. This information in the wrong hands can prove fatal. That is why, if you recall, I asked that no personal information about myself or you or anyone else in the cases of mine you have written about be included. Though more then once you have slipped."

"If you are referring to your brother Mycroft I have apologized for that more than once." I said in self defense.

"Luckily for you, Watson, these members of these Sherlock Holmes societies, or Baker Street whatevers, are so blind they cannot see what is before them." Holmes said reaching for the Persian slipper that held his tobacco.

"Such as?" I asked.

"Such as including Mrs. Hudson's sister, Mrs. Turner's name to appear in one of your writings. Another time quoting your wife when she mentioned having your son James leave the room. Watson, I can go on. So far thankfully these organizations make up their own theories and completely ignore facts."

"Such as?" I felt silly while the words were passing my lips. Holmes, having filled his pipe, struck a match and puffed away.

"There is one story floating about concerning my family heritage. I am reported to be Norwegian or Eskimo or French and Irish, pure rubbish. If they used what brains the Lord gave them ,they could clearly and accurately deduce my heritage. Is it not logical for a person to seek who and what and where they would be comfortable and at ease with? To seek his own people, food, habits, manners. So we find John H. Watson, Scot, Mrs. Hudson Scot, Scottish flavored meals prepared by Mrs. Hudson. So naturally Sherlock Holmes is Norwegian or Eskimo or some other ignorant fairy tale."

"Then Holmes why get in such a state? If they are so far from the truth of the matter that should put your mind at ease."

"Because one day one of them may open their eyes."

"Well Lestrade doesn't mind one bit. He even asked if I could work his wife's name into one of your cases" I said.

"Lestrade at times is capable of standing in for the village idiot and doing a much better job of it." Holmes said picking up the newspaper.

I was feeling more relaxed, it may have been due to the many rounds of drinks. The questions were lessening, or so it seemed. I do not recall why, but I remember looking at my watch. My vision made it a bit difficult to focus my eyes. After finding the right distance to hold my watch I was able to make out the time. It read 7:30. I could hardly believe my eyes, I brought the watch closer to my eyes to no avail. So again finding the correct distance to hold out my arm I was able to make out the numbers 7:30. I decided to locate Holmes. I worked my way through the crowd toward where he was in conversation with one of the locals. When I got near enough I said, "Holmes do you realize what time it is?"

Holmes reached into his pocket and pulled out his watch and said.

"Seven-thirty."

I know what time it is, "I shouted over the noise."

"Then why did you ask?" Holmes said leaning back with his elbows resting on the bar.

"I didn't ask. I mean I only wanted to inform you of the time. I think it best if we try to find lodging for the night. The rain has not let up any and it is too dark to be stumbling about."

"It may subside. But to put your mind at ease, I will make inquiries to learn if there are any rooms available."

Holmes had just finished speaking when we were again separated by the growing number of patrons. I found myself wrapped up in a game of darts. I did not mind losing, the wager was for a pint of bitters. I am not sure how much time elapsed before I saw Holmes and Mr. Robert in conversation. Holmes' head was moving up and down in agreement. Some minutes passed before I was aware of Holmes standing along side me.

"We seem to be in luck, Watson. Mr. Robert has informed me he has a vacant room. It is up over the kitchen, and it has not been used for quite awhile. He will have his daughter prepare it for us. It may not be as warm and comfortable as 221b, but it is dry and a fire left burning in the kitchen oven will send up enough heat."

"Holmes, we might also ask Mr. Robert to prepare something for our supper. Do you know what time it is?"

"Do you want me to look at my watch and tell you? Or are you playing games again?"

"I just meant it is getting late, and we had best get something to eat."

"Now wouldn't it have been much simpler to say exactly what you meant the first time?" Holmes said.

Before we could exchange any more words we were again separated by the crowd and with more questions. Holmes somehow again managed to remove himself from the center of their attention. So naturally this caused me to be the target of more and more questions. The next time I caught a glimpse of Holmes he motioned me to join him. I managed to excuse myself from the group that had surrounded me. I made my way to where Holmes was standing.

"Mr. Robert has a meal prepared for us in the kitchen. I think it would be wise if we play the Arab and steal away silently into the night. Mr. Robert will convey our apologies for making such a hasty departure. He will say we were summoned to Twainscroft."

"Yes, Holmes, by all means, let's go before I lose my voice and my mind. I swear I have answered enough questions to last me a life time."

Holmes set down his cloth bag.

"The Times had 3 columns on the events that occured in Bebington Wirrals. You should be pleased to have successfully brought the case to its conclusion." I said.

Holmes, removing his hat and coat, moved across the room. Reaching, he retrieved his cherry wood stemmed pipe from its place on the mantle. Holmes turned and, looking over his shoulder toward me, said, "I would be more pleased, and I daresay the world would also, if our civilized brethren would stop perpetrating every type of horror on those who do not believe or pray like they do, then claim they do their horrors in the name of GOD."

"I gather you have learned of the latest events that have taken place in Ireland."

"At every train station." Holmes said while stuffing his pipe with tobacco from the Persian slipper. "It is a shame, Watson, that those so-called Defenders of the Faith cannot peer into Heaven. They maybe shocked to discover those they despise for their beliefs are there also. Perhaps if the heads of their churches taught them that Heaven is gained not just by how they pray or believe, but rather that they just pray and believe."

[As the young girl is not named. I do not know if she is Mycroft Holmes granddaughter mentioned on a previous page. This may be a continuation of that page.]

This exhausted my knowledge of and ability to amuse a child. Luckily Holmes exited his room, clean shaven, hair combed, and wearing his tweed jacket. Before he approached, I stood up and said,

"Holmes, I really should be getting back to my home."

"You can't," he blurted out, adding, "I mean you can't, what am I supposed to do?" At this point he leaned toward me and whispered, "With her." nodding his head toward the young girl.

Turning my back toward her so as not to be heard I said softly, "Why not play a game with her or read her a story?"

"Do you think she knows how to play 3 card monty?" he asked.

"I would be greatly surprised and, may I add, I should hope not."

"Maybe she can play chess? No, I suppose not, too young." Holmes said.

"Then read to her, Holmes. You certainly have enough reading material about." I said looking at the stacks of newspapers piled about. Holmes turned and reached up to one of the shelves. He took down a green colored folder that held a collection of loose papers.

Turning toward the young girl, he asked, "Would you like me to read to you?"

"Yes please, that would be ever so nice." She answered with a smile on her face. Holmes sat in the stuffed chair across from the couch. Opening the folder, he removed a single piece of paper. Clearing his throat he began.

"Brighton strangler chokes child, it has..."

"Holmes." I screamed.

"What?" He yelled, so suddenly even I jumped.