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One Thousand Club
[This will be continued over time, even if y'all don't like it. If you have any thoughts, opinions, or critiques, feel free to drop them below.]
In the year 1912 I took my degree of Doctor of Medicine of the University of London, and proceeded to Netley to go through the course prescribed for surgeons in the army. Having completed my studies there, I was duly attached to the Second Infantry Brigade as Field Medic. The regiment was stationed in the Port de Calais at the time, and before I could join it, it had commenced its march towards the front lines. When I had arrived in the fall of 1914, it was already suffering heavy losses at the hands of German bombardment. It's something of a Watson curse to lose a limb in war. It's rumored that a Watson was present in Waterloo, in Bunker Hill, and in at least one battle in every war, always arriving mere moments before the battle ended, always narrowly avoiding death. I found myself among my company only a day before its collapse.
I was struck almost directly with an artillery shell, detonating a store of munitions the company had worked desperately to acquire during the battle. I was struck instantly unconscious by some unknown bit of debris, When I awoke, it was in a German Camp, surrounded by beastlike soldiers shouting in broken English, demanding information. Having none to give, and a mouth full of blood, I did not respond. After a few minutes of beating, their commander demanded their departure, leaving me alone with him. He was a tall, strong man, with long black hair and piercing brown eyes. He crouched to look me in the eyes, taking a handkerchief to wipe blood away from the hastily bandaged wound in my leg.
"Sorry about the rough up, partner, but it may please you to learn that it was this or dying in the field." He spoke in an American accent, calmly, yet emotionlessly, like a machine taught bedside manner. "Now this is a fine mess, but I suppose my family has a few favours to return to yours."
This was my first introduction to the man known as Nero Wolf, private detective, son of Sherlock Holmes. A daring escape ensued, involving a fair amount of disguises, bullets, and a pair of very conveniently-size coffins. In the following years, we went on many an adventure, continuing the legacy of our fathers before us, chasing the wildest mysteries the world could muster. The Case of the Missing President, the Masked Killer of Calcutta, the Eiffel Tower Heist, countless tales of ever-increasing absurdity. Had I not participated in some of these adventures myself, I would not believe them either. I have not seen the man since our last outing twenty years ago, with yet another one of his signature faked deaths. No evidence of the man or our adventures existed in my world until an auspicious April Sunday in the year of 1943, with the arrival of a letter, baring only the following text:
9:30 AM, Monday, April 18th. Expect company in the form of my daughter.
-Nero.
It had been penned in Nero's typical, emotionless form, the one held by every Holmes before him. I identified it to be, undoubtedly, in his handwriting. I have taken great pride in my efforts to intellectually match the Sherlock lineage, but I was not looking forward to being tested by yet another one. My first interaction was testing, more to my patience than to my intellect.
In the year 1912 I took my degree of Doctor of Medicine of the University of London, and proceeded to Netley to go through the course prescribed for surgeons in the army. Having completed my studies there, I was duly attached to the Second Infantry Brigade as Field Medic. The regiment was stationed in the Port de Calais at the time, and before I could join it, it had commenced its march towards the front lines. When I had arrived in the fall of 1914, it was already suffering heavy losses at the hands of German bombardment. It's something of a Watson curse to lose a limb in war. It's rumored that a Watson was present in Waterloo, in Bunker Hill, and in at least one battle in every war, always arriving mere moments before the battle ended, always narrowly avoiding death. I found myself among my company only a day before its collapse.
I was struck almost directly with an artillery shell, detonating a store of munitions the company had worked desperately to acquire during the battle. I was struck instantly unconscious by some unknown bit of debris, When I awoke, it was in a German Camp, surrounded by beastlike soldiers shouting in broken English, demanding information. Having none to give, and a mouth full of blood, I did not respond. After a few minutes of beating, their commander demanded their departure, leaving me alone with him. He was a tall, strong man, with long black hair and piercing brown eyes. He crouched to look me in the eyes, taking a handkerchief to wipe blood away from the hastily bandaged wound in my leg.
"Sorry about the rough up, partner, but it may please you to learn that it was this or dying in the field." He spoke in an American accent, calmly, yet emotionlessly, like a machine taught bedside manner. "Now this is a fine mess, but I suppose my family has a few favours to return to yours."
This was my first introduction to the man known as Nero Wolf, private detective, son of Sherlock Holmes. A daring escape ensued, involving a fair amount of disguises, bullets, and a pair of very conveniently-size coffins. In the following years, we went on many an adventure, continuing the legacy of our fathers before us, chasing the wildest mysteries the world could muster. The Case of the Missing President, the Masked Killer of Calcutta, the Eiffel Tower Heist, countless tales of ever-increasing absurdity. Had I not participated in some of these adventures myself, I would not believe them either. I have not seen the man since our last outing twenty years ago, with yet another one of his signature faked deaths. No evidence of the man or our adventures existed in my world until an auspicious April Sunday in the year of 1943, with the arrival of a letter, baring only the following text:
9:30 AM, Monday, April 18th. Expect company in the form of my daughter.
-Nero.
It had been penned in Nero's typical, emotionless form, the one held by every Holmes before him. I identified it to be, undoubtedly, in his handwriting. I have taken great pride in my efforts to intellectually match the Sherlock lineage, but I was not looking forward to being tested by yet another one. My first interaction was testing, more to my patience than to my intellect.
