I have not lived for years with Sherlock Holmes for nothing.

His eyes kindled and a slight flush sprang into his thin cheeks. For an instant the veil had lifted upon his keen, intense nature, but for an instant only. When I glanced again his face had resumed that composure which had made so many regard him as a machine rather than a man.

I felt Holmes' hand steal into mine.

My dear Watson, you were born to be a man of action.

(...) said Holmes, leaning back in his chair and looking keenly at me from under his half closed lids.

My dear Holmes.

'You’ll come with me, won’t you?' 'If I can be of use.' 'Oh, a trusty comrade is always of use; and a chronicler still more so. My room at The Cedars is a double-bedded one.'

It was on a bitterly cold and frosty morning during the winter of '97 that I was awakened by a tugging at my shoulder. It was Holmes.

'Excellent!,' I cried. 'Elementary,' said he.

I know, my dear Watson, that you share my love of all that is bizarre and outside the conventions and humdrum routine of everyday life.

I have the advantage of knowing your habits, my dear Watson.

'Come, Watson, come!’ he cried. ‘The game is afoot. Not a word! Into your clothes and come!'

My Watson.

The man whom above all I revere.

My friend and partner.

My Holmes.

It was in the year ’95 that a combination of events, into which I need not enter, caused Mr. Sherlock Holmes and myself to spend some weeks in one of our great University towns.

'Lie down there on the sofa, and see if i can put you to sleep.' He took up his violin from the corner, and as I stretched myself out he began to play some low, dreamy, melodious air,–his own, no doubt, for he had a remarkable gift for improvisation.

This is my intimate friend and associate, Dr Watson.

My dear boy.