The Literary Agent

The gaslight flickered against the November fog as Dr. John H. Watson made his way up the narrow stairs to the modest offices of A. Conan Doyle, Literary Agent. The brass nameplate on the door had grown tarnished since Watson's last visit, and he wondered if that was symbolic of something larger—the dimming of a once-bright collaboration.

"Watson!" Arthur rose from behind his cluttered desk, extending a firm handshake. "What
brings you to my humble establishment? Surely you haven't brought me more of your case notes to dramatize?"

Watson settled into the worn leather chair across from Arthur's desk, noting how his literary agent had aged in the months since Holmes's death at Reichenbach Falls. There were new lines around Arthur's eyes, though whether from strain or relief, Watson couldn't say.

"Arthur, my friend, I must speak plainly." Watson withdrew a thick bundle of correspondence from his coat. "The public response to your dramatization of 'The Final Problem' has been... extraordinary."

Arthur's jaw tightened. "If by extraordinary you mean hysterical, then yes. I've received no fewer than three hundred letters demanding Holmes's resurrection. One woman wore black mourning dress to my lecture in Edinburgh. Another gentleman challenged me to a duel for 'murdering' what he called a great man." He laughed bitterly. "They seem to forget these were merely your case notes that I adapted for publication."

"But don't you see?" Watson leaned forward earnestly. "That passion, that devotion—it speaks to something profound. Holmes may have begun as entries in my medical journal, but through your literary skill, he's become something more. He's become real to these people. He's become hope."

Arthur turned to gaze out the grimy window at the London street below. "I agreed to polish your notes and prepare them for publication as a favor, Watson. A simple detective story to help you earn some income from your years with Holmes. I never intended for them to overshadow everything else I write."

"But Arthur, you've done more than merely transcribe my observations. You've brought Holmes to life on the page in ways my clinical notes never could. Your literary artistry has made him vivid, compelling." Watson's voice grew gentle. "And think of what he's given others. In these letters, people write of finding comfort in Holmes's logic during their darkest hours. They speak of his methods helping them solve problems in their own lives."

Arthur turned back, his expression conflicted. "But at what cost to my own career? Every story I craft from your notes is time taken from my historical novels, my medical treatises. The critics dismiss me as a mere sensationalist, not knowing these cases actually occurred."

"And yet," Watson said quietly, "which will be remembered in fifty years? Your monograph on tubercular conditions, or your masterful adaptation of 'A Study in Scarlet'?"

The question hung in the air like the fog outside. Arthur slumped back into his chair.

"The truth is, Watson, I sometimes wonder if I've become merely your scribe. These readers don't want Arthur Conan Doyle's literary interpretation—they want more of your actual experiences with Holmes. They want the real detective you knew."

Watson opened his leather satchel and withdrew a worn notebook. "Then perhaps it's time I gave you this." He placed it on Arthur's desk. "My notes from those final months before Reichenbach. Cases I never shared because... well, because I thought Holmes was truly gone."

Arthur stared at the notebook. "Watson, what are you saying?"

"Holmes was always thorough in his preparations, Arthur. Always three steps ahead of his enemies. These notes detail his contingency plans, his arrangements for what he called 'the final gambit.'" Watson's eyes met Arthur's. "I don't believe he died at those falls."

"But you were there—you saw—"

"I saw what Holmes intended me to see. What he needed Moriarty to believe." Watson leaned forward. "Read my notes from that day carefully. Holmes knew I would document everything, knew I would provide the testimony the world would accept. But there are details, Arthur— small inconsistencies that only became clear to me months later."

Arthur opened the notebook with trembling fingers, scanning Watson's precise handwriting. "The climbing equipment found in his hotel room... equipment he claimed to have no interest in."

"Purchased weeks before we traveled to Switzerland," Watson confirmed. "And the letter he left for me—supposedly written in haste as Moriarty approached. Yet the penmanship is remarkably steady for a man facing death."

Arthur was quiet for a long moment, his fingers drumming against the notebook. "If this is true... if Holmes is alive... why hasn't he contacted you?"

"Because his work isn't finished. The Moriarty organization had tentacles throughout Europe. Holmes would need time to dismantle it completely before emerging from hiding." Watson paused. "But I believe that time may be nearly over. There have been signs—crimes solved with methods that bear his unmistakable stamp, always committed while the investigator remains unseen."

Arthur reached for his pen, then hesitated. "And if I'm wrong? If I publish a story claiming
Holmes survived, but he truly is dead?"

Watson gathered up his letters, preparing to leave. "Then we'll have given the world hope, even if temporarily. But Arthur, those notes don't lie. They're as precise and factual as every other case record I've provided you. Holmes taught me to observe, to document, to see the truth others miss."

He paused at the door. "You've been more than my literary agent, Arthur. You've been
Holmes's biographer, the one who made his methods known to the world. Through your skill, his legacy lives on. But perhaps it's time to reveal that the legacy isn't finished."

After Watson left, Arthur sat alone in his office, studying the notebook by gaslight. Page after page revealed Holmes's meticulous planning, his preparation for what appeared to be certain death but might have been elaborate theater.

He pulled out a fresh sheet of paper and began to write, transforming Watson's clinical
observations into dramatic narrative:

"It was in the spring of the year 1894 that all London was interested, and the fashionable world dismayed, by the murder of the Honourable Ronald Adair under most unusual and inexplicable circumstances..."

The greatest detective in the world was about to return from the dead—not as fiction, but as the continuation of a true story that had never really ended.