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Dr John Watson, a kindly, competent man, was quite outshone by Sherlock and, searingly so by his sister Scarlett too. The man was too good for his own good but found a place, even some solace, in a supporting role to each of them. Every dog has its day and, amongst it all Watson has his moments of triumph.
We can suppose his medical training was similar to Dr Conan Doyle himself. In Watson’s
case, having become an army surgeon, he was invalided out of the regiment, by an
Afghan bullet. Returning to London, on a meagre pension, he needed a place to live
and a well-
The mixed fortune of being introduced to Sherlock Holmes, a clever chemist, enabled him to share rooms, to have a profitable area for his practice, and to have a worthy companion. He did not expect to be so shadowed by the astonishingly perceptive Sherlock. As we all know, he became a whetstone for that man’s pioneering forensic skills.
Whereas Holmes is unaffected by the allure of women, Watson is deeply appreciative.
Eventually Doyle has him marrying Mary Morsten but, in these tales he meets his room
mate’s sister: Scarlett, and is quite captivated by her. The woman, whilst having
academic hauter, is also a femme fatale. What is the fellow to do when drawn and
driven, yet repeatedly rebuffed? Well, like many a good dog before and since -
Oh, the flowers they bloom in Spring, tra la . . .
But they fade in the Autumn . . Oh dear.
(With apologies to Gilbert & Sullivan)