Many times in my association with Sherlock Holmes, the clients who entered our sitting room and embroiled us in some remarkable adventure surprised me. In most of those instances, I was a bystander, an assistant who contributed little more than the chronicling of notes. Most of 1881 elapsed before I did more than scribble quotations or general outlines of cases into notebooks. It was not until the end of our first year together that my resentment for Scotland Yard and the popular papers motivated me to advance the step from bystander to biographer. Irritated with the injustice of Holmes being publicly overshadowed by the inadequate Yarders, I began to feed information to reporters. At that point I had neither the health nor the aspirations of a literary career. The minions of the press soon recognized a colourful character in my friend, and my Holmes' name was in print on a regular basis.

Holmes had no knowledge of my part in his escalating fame, and often murmured his displeasure at the notoriety. The discontent quickly changed to mute acceptance of the good advertisements, because the press favoured Holmes' dashing style over the plodding clumsiness of the official detective force. The exposure was also a wonderful source of new clients who were willing to pay handsome prices for a 'famous' consulting specialist.

At some obscure point beyond these genesis years, I toyed with the notion of writing the notes into narratives, then into full-scale adventures. I was encouraged by an acquaintance, Dr. Doyle, who was himself an author, who offered to edit the writings under his own name. This course was chosen for several reasons; one, he had the publishing connections and experience that I lacked, two, he was an excellent editor, and three, it would not do for an assistant of Sherlock Holmes to reveal confidences of clients.

When A Study In Scarlet appeared, there was narry a ripple of interest in the neither literary nor popular press. There was, however, great consternation, within the walls of our sitting room. Holmes was most displeased with my little 'surprise' and was very vocal in his attacks of my melodrama, romanticism and choice of case to publish. The second novel, and succeeding tales, might never have been published, except for the surprising intervention of an odd ally.

In the early winter of '88, Holmes was pasting articles in his commonplace books. I was staying warm by the fire while reading over the racing reports. It was nearing teatime when the slow tread of feet rumbled from our staircase. We both looked up as the door opened and Mycroft Holmes entered the room!

"Brother mine!" Holmes cried out in astonishment. "Has the government collapsed? What other than such a catastrophe could jolt you off your rails?"

The elder Holmes took the jesting with a faint attempt at a smile. "Sherlock, Doctor," he nodded in greeting. He shouldered out of his greatcoat, which he offered to me to be taken, while he settled into Holmes' chair by the fire. "I have informed Mrs. Hudson I am staying for tea."

"I'm sure she was flattered by the honour," my friend reposted. "You still have not revealed your purpose here."

Mycroft turned to me. "Can't I simply come to visit a relation?"

Holmes and I exchanged skeptical glances. "No," was my friend's blunt reply. "Not in this weather, and not away from the Diogones Club. Pray, tell us what brings you to our cozy little room?"

I had, of course, met Mycroft; Sherlock's older, more intellectual, more sedentary brother several years before. Our only contact had been at the bizarre Diogones Club, and on one rare occasion, when Mycroft joined in on one of our cases.

Mrs. Hudson arrived with a more formal tea than usual. Mycroft settled at the table, munched on cakes, drank his tea and extolled the delights of our talented landlady. We were compelled to await his explanation until he had satisfied his appetite and his command of our attention.

"Now, what is this important case you have come upon?" Holmes asked after the cakes had vanished and the teapot was empty. He rubbed his hands together with relish, his eyes bright with anticipation of the forthcoming revelation of government intrigue.

"Actually, Sherlock, I have not come to engage you at all."

My friend's face fell into such a look of dejection it was almost comical.

"I have come to consult Doctor Watson."

I choked. Holmes' brow wrinkled, his eyes darkened with irritation.

"Tell me, Doctor, will you denounce the Caduceus in exchange for the pen now that you are an author?"

I did not know what to say. It would have all been amusing if Holmes was not so sensitive about his pride, his accomplishment as a detective. I looked at him, but instead of being insulted at his brother's ploy, he was amused. His mouth twitched with the hint of a grin.

"Ah, already I am overshadowed by my own biographer."

"Unlikely," was Mycroft's droll reply. "You would never allow it. Seriously, I do wish to ask you a favour, Doctor."

We settled into our chairs, Mycroft on the sofa, with cigars and brandy. Mrs. Hudson had cleared the table. Darkness and rain blanketed the windows. The stage was set for the unveiling of Mycroft's mystery.

"I know you are a patriotic subject of the Crown, Doctor," he began. "It will surprise you to know you have been serving your country, when you thought you were merely serving my brother's career by touting his talents to the press."

Holmes stabbed me with a glare.

"I -- uh -- don't know what you mean," I stammered.

"Oh, come, I know you have been feeding reporters tidbits about my brother's triumphs. It is a common practice."

"I was only trying to help," I said in weak defense. Holmes was ominously silent.

"My department does it all the time."

"I'm sure I don't know what you are talking about."

"It is common to pass messages to agents through key words found in articles, advertisements, even obituaries," Holmes clarified. "That is, when there is a wish to be more subtle than the agony columns." Clearly unhappy with these events, he dryly said, "Watson, the scope of your talent amazes me."

For the first time in the visit, Mycroft smiled. "I see I bring tidings of surprise for you both. Well then I shall continue. It has occurred to me, Doctor," Mycroft continued with utter delight, "that your talents could be put to use by those operatives I am in contact with. Just before publication, you could insert pre-arranged codes for the benefit of my agents."

I was stunned. Mycroft a spy? More than that, a coordinator for espionage activities!!! It was hard to imagine this sedentary civil servant of Whitehall being anything more sinister than a mathematician. If I factored into the equation the Holmes' trait of subterfuge, disguise and deceit, which I had seen from my friend, then Mycroft's similar talents seemed even more cunning and dangerous.

"It would be an invaluable help to me, to my agents."

I looked at Holmes.

"It would mean more of your chronicles would see print," he sighed in exasperation.

"It will improve your pocket-book," Mycroft supplied practically. To me, he related, "I have contacts at The Strand. Circulation reaches British outposts and foreign capitols without comment. My agents will have no problem receiving the codes." To his brother he off-handedly assured, You, dear brother, will not become too famous. There is only a small following for these mild entertainments."

"I would have to change dates, places -- what about the accuracy of the cases?" I protested.

"You are compelled to disguise names, dates, places already for confidences, are you not?"

"Yes," I agreed.

"What are a few more little inconsistencies? Who will notice? No offense to your literary efforts, Doctor, but these trifling narratives are only designed to bring attention to my brother's work. Is that not so?"

"Yes."

"Well, then, if we sacrifice a jot of accuracy, no one will be the wiser."

"Well, yes --"

"And you must keep the Blakeney name out of it. Our cousins have obtained enough notoriety. The Baroness dragging up those old tales of the Scarlet Pimpernel. We don't need any more yellow-backed heroes in the family. And you will be of great service, what?"

Holmes nodded his approval. "It is quite clever, Mycroft. You have outdone yourself."

"What say you, Doctor?" the elder brother enquired.

I could do naught but agree to the outrageous plan. Thus began the literary career of John H. Watson, the fame and fortune of Sherlock Holmes, and the secret intrigues hidden within adventures. Little did we know that from our small conspiracy would emerge the most famous consulting detective in the world!