This short story was first posted in 2006. With the release of a new film of the adventures of Sherlock Holmes, I thought that I would re-post the work. My suggestions for those who wish to read more include:
Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, The Complete Sherlock Holmes, 2 Volumes (New York: Barnes & Noble, 2003). (Introduction and Notes by Kyle Freeman.)
Nicholas Meyer, The Seven-Per-Cent Solution (New York: Norton, 1974). (Holmes meets Freud. The book is better than the movie.)
Michael Dibdin, The Last Sherlock Holmes Story (New York: Vintage, 1978).
Mitch Gullin, A Slight Trick of the Mind (New York: Doubleday, 2005).
Jacques Derrida, Of Grammatology (Baltimore: John Hopkins, 1967), translation Gayatri Spivak.
Jacques Derrida, Writing & Difference (London: Routledge, 1967), translation Alan Bass.
Please see "Sherlock Holmes," (2009), starring Robert Downey, Jr. and Jude Law, also starring Rachel McAdams. (Time/Warner). ("The Art of Robert Downey, Jr.")
"When William Gillette, the American actor, asked the author if he might introduce a love interest in the Sherlock Holmes play ... Sir Arthur briskly cabled: 'Marry him, murder him, do what you like with him.' It should be recorded that some enthusiasts regarded even this high canonical (Conanical?) authority with disfavor."
James Edward Holroyd, introduction to Seventeen Steps to 221B.
In December of 1887 my friend Sherlock Holmes endured a spell of severe melancholia. He was despondent and listless, his books lay scattered throughout our shared quarters at 221B Baker Street, fragments of malodorous scientific experiments were visible everywhere. His violin gathered dust in the usual corner of our largest room, but his pipes were filled daily and the pungent smoke that filled the premises left an imprint on the curtains, insinuated itself into the books on the shelves and the faded paintings on the walls, even into the worn carpets that I had brought home from my travels in India.
Like the fog that enveloped the city in what should have been a season of joy, the strong odor of tobacco that accompanied my friend's gray mood seemed to absorb all of the joy that might have existed for us leaving us both taciturn and sad.
It was a letter from a young lady that awoke our spirits to the call of duty:
"Look here, Holmes," I was delighted to bring the note to his attention, "A young lady writes imploring you to provide some assistance. She asks you to help find her friend, a writer, who has vanished under mysterious circumstances and whose name is Dr. Arthur Conan Doyle."
I saw immediately that I had struck a nerve, for Holmes rose slowly to his full height and turned his penetrating and steely gaze upon me and, with a wavering smile, he suggested that we invite the young lady at once to visit our quarters so as to discuss the matter further.
I knew then that all would be well. Holmes put down his pipe and collecting his books, he said: "Come along, Watson. The game's afoot."
It was not until a week later that we heard a light, but firm step on the stairway to our quarters at precisely the appointed hour of a cool Monday afternoon. I had prepared some tea and gathered my papers for note-taking when Holmes, uncharacteristically, rose to open the door for our guest.
"Miss Sharp, I presume?" Holmes was casual about his discovery and announced it matter-of-factly.
"Why, yes. Really, you astonish me Mr. Holmes." Miss Sharp smoke in a musical and practiced voice.
"Not at all. You are artistic, left-handed and probably a Catholic."
Holmes was cheerful, as always, when making his deductions. I was mystified by his intellectual powers. This was a fairly standard performance which proved to be absolutely accurate.
"You fascinate me, Mr. Holmes." Miss Sharp said.
Our guest was a young lady of indeterminate age, certainly not older than thirty. Her letter had provided only an initial by way of a signature. She wore a beautiful dress in the fashionable colors of the season -- a rich deep blue, with gold and purple trim. Ladies' fashions had come to resemble the riches and exotic tones of the distant corners of the empire. With marriage, of course, more sober hues become mandatory. Our guest was unwed. The young lady had already made an unusual impression on Holmes. Her hair was the color of fine, soft, very light sand and her eyes were like the glittering emeralds that I had seen only once, in India, in the treasure chests of the maharajah.
"Not at all," said Holmes. "Watson, allow me to introduce Miss Rebecca Sharp."
"I am delighted to make your acquaintance, Miss Sharp." I put out my hand and took the small gloved hand of Miss Sharp which had been extended in response.
"I believe that we have some friends in common, Miss Sharp. Indeed, Mr. Bram Stoker once remarked, with some amusement, on your sharing a name with Mr. Thackery's heroine." Holmes observed with a smile.
Holmes seemed quite formal as he waived our visitor to a favored armchair close to the fire. Holmes never failed to surprise me with his friendships and acquaintances. There were always odd persons involved in the theater or other marginal professions -- like solicitors or barristers -- on whom he could call for a favor or information, though rarely did he socialize with them nor, it must be said, did he care for the best society.
It was only in confronting a puzzle such as this that he normally came alive. There was clearly much more about Miss Sharp than her dilemma that seemed to "arouse," as it were, his enthusiasm.
"Now what is this trouble, Miss Sharp?" Holmes sat in the comfortable old arm chair opposite to Miss Sharp. I sat behind them as the fire began to roar.
"Well, Mr. Holmes, my friend is a writer and physician -- like Dr. Watson."
She directed a smile at me, causing me to spill my tea and mumble some incoherent remark in response.
"For some time he has been writing a novel to be called, A Study in Scarlet. He writes to me once each week, offering advice and sometimes generous support. You see, Mr. Holmes, I hope to be an actress. London is an expensive city, as you know, and one must study for years before one may hope to succeed in the theater, which many regard as far from a respectable profession for a young lady from the ... provinces."
She blushed charmingly at this revealing phrase.
"Dr. Conan Doyle's touching concern was meant to prevent my ... falling into error. I cannot tell you how much I miss the five pounds ... I mean, the kindness of this gentleman that I have never met."
She then bowed her head and seemed about to cry. Holmes immediately leaned forward and provided a handkerchief to our guest.
"You say that you have never met the gentleman?" Holmes asked.
"No, Dr. Conan Doyle attended a single amateur performance of Hamlet at which I played Ophelia. He wrote a brief note to me afterwards in which he described himself as 'devoted to my cause for life.' He asked permission to write to me and to offer assistance as well as advice on my artistic endeavors, and he promised never to be so vulgar as to suggest a meeting. I felt that I could hardly refuse such kindness. But now he has disappeared and I am so distraught."
Again, there was a tear in her eye. Holmes interrupted --
" -- Please trouble yourself no further about this, Miss Sharp. Dr. Watson and I will be certain to find Dr. Conan Doyle, to ensure that he fulfills his obligations to you as I know that he would wish. We will accept no payment for our services. You must allow us to provide you with the sum that you have not received this week."
"Thank you, no, Mr. Holmes." Miss Sharp said, with a bow and a flutter of feminine attire as she reached for the door: "Your assistance is all that I can accept from such an important gentleman."
A scent of lilacs hovered in the air for a moment or two after Miss Sharp's departure, as Holmes and I stood nailed to the floor in an unusual state of reverie and confusion.
I am afraid that neither of us were very expert -- despite our exotic learning on a great range of subjects! -- on the curious topic of ladies of fashion.
I have never seen my friend more devoted to a cause. He was tireless in his efforts. He searched throughout the city, all of the haunts of Dr. Conan Doyle, every place where he might have been found, all who might have known or spoken to him were questioned, but the mystery only increased. No one had actually met the man. There were stories of his travels in Africa, of his education in Scotland, of his friendships with prominent persons, all turned out to be based on correspondence.
No one had actually seen Dr. Arthur Conan Doyle. It all seemed hopeless and utterly perplexing.
One morning, after two days' absence, Holmes entered the flat in a disheveled state, unshaven, dirty, and signaled a "v" for victory before collapsing from exhaustion. After he had slept for nearly twelve hours and dined well, Holmes explained that the solution to the mystery would be provided that very afternoon. His investigations had led to the doorstep of the evil Professor Derrida.
There was no more feared master theorist of the "unreal" than Professor Derrida, Holmes' great nemesis, a man capable of denying all that we hold dear in the nineteenth century. Upon Professor Derrida's return to London from Paris the previous evening his interest in Holmes' adventures had become impossible to ignore. It became clear that the solution to our puzzle lay with this evil personage.
Holmes had managed to locate the Frenchman and extracted from him (tact prevented me from asking just how he had managed this!) Professor Derrida's word, as a gentleman -- who had, after all, attended a great European university -- that he would appear at our establishment at the appointed hour to offer an explanation.
At 4:00 P.M. that very afternoon a French gentleman with flowing white locks, trailing a long scarf and a black cape, smoking a pipe, entered our home. The unmistakable aroma of evil and French cuisine entered with him.
"Holmes, you fool," said the French person, "there is no Dr. Arthur Conan Doyle!"
"I beg your pardon." Holmes said.
"Dr. Conan Doyle was writing a novel about a detective named Holmes and his friend Dr. Watson. He completed the work. His presence is no longer required. In fact, now Conan Doyle need never have existed -- for the meaning of words derives not from their necessary connections with objects in the world (whatever 'world' that may be), nor from their author's intentions, but only from their relations to other words. Language belongs to no one. The crucial thing about language, my fine detective, is not its capacity to mirror the world -- for we cannot step outside of language or our minds to compare the so-called real world with the contents of our minds as expressed in language -- rather, the crucial thing about language is its ability to 'signify' independently of any author. There is nothing outside the text."
Derrida seemed amused by this unspeakable evil:
"We must live in language now, forever, Mr. Holmes. We need not trouble ourselves any longer about an author. We need no God nor gods either, incidentally, but can now dwell, together with any readers who care to join us, in these texts forever ... along with the blessedly free Miss Sharp, eh, Mr. Holmes?"
"The man is fiendishly clever, Watson, but he neglects our freedom." Holmes gathered his own pipe, then strolled over to the window.
"If we are free, Professor Derrida, able to live within the authority of these texts that need not depend on a missing (or non-existent) author -- as your colleague and rival M. Foucault might say -- then we must be responsible for what we make of ourselves and of these 'signs' that define us. It may be that we are responsible also for what is made of us by those readers that you speak of ... We must now write and live our own adventures."
Professor Derrida helped himself to an astonishing number of cakes and cucumber sandwiches, which he stuffed into his pockets:
"These are difficult to find in Paris." Derrida shrugged his shoulders in a sinister and very Gallic manner, saying: "I hope you don't mind."
The man can only be described as brazen and fearless.
"It is just as I suspected. There is no Dr. Arthur Conan Doyle. Besides, it is now as though he never existed. This French villain is responsible for theorizing all of this for us."
Holmes frowned and smoked his pipe reaching for his copy of F.H. Bradley's Ethical Studies.
"It cannot be denied, Watson."
"What will you do Holmes?" I asked this, even as I saw from the corner of my eye that Professor Derrida was escaping out of the window with a wave and a casual remark about heading off to -- "Cambridge to pick up an honorary degree ..."
"There is only one thing to do Watson. I must take care of Miss Sharp myself."
Holmes was firm -- entirely firm -- about this.
It was thus that my friend Sherlock Holmes met the woman that he would marry (so much for Irene Adler and that "Scandal in Bohemia"!), who shared many of his future adventures, not to mention our old quarters at 221B Baker Street. I did get to keep my carpets.
It took me nearly six months to find suitable quarters in London. I cannot avoid conjecturing that it might have been better, for me, if there had been a Dr. Conan Doyle to be found. I might have requested a re-write or at least some further adventures of my own. Such moments of discontent are rare.
Holmes seemed remarkably happy for the remainder of his life, doing very well for decades as the author of a number of detective stories, also lending his name to a fine line of men's clothing. As a final honor and kindness the first child born of this union was named "John" and is now studying at Cambridge University to become a philosopher ... which is also to be a kind of detective, I suppose.
