A Slight Detour From Myself, If You Please

Will talk about someone else this day. Will not use the first-person proper noun (or any variant thereof) if it can be helped. Grammar may be a bit stilted as a result. Oh well.
Today's subject is Doctor John H. Watson, of the beloved Sherlock Holmes canon.
Watson, before he met the illustrious Holmes, was an army surgeon in Afghanistan. He was injured in either the arm or the leg (the latter is constantly referred to, but Watson has been known to have complaints that originate in his arm) by a Jezail bullet (a nasty piece of work that is filled with shrapnel, possibly) fired by the opposing force, or the Ghazis, although that may be a mistake. Watson met Holmes through a mutual friend named Stamford, who introduced the doctor and the detective at Saint Bartholomew's hospital, commonly known as Bart's. Stamford had served as a surgeon under Watson while both were employed there. Holmes and Watson sought the same thing: to share lodgings with one who would pay a portion of the rent, as it were. Watson and Holmes hit it off, and lodged at 221B Baker Street, which may not actually exist. Conan Doyle wasn't very meticulous with his locations. It may be that Baker Street only goes up to 85, unless one counts upper Baker Street, but [the author is] unaware of how high the addresses go there.
Watson met his first wife, Mary Morstan, when she enlisted the help of Holmes in the case Watson titled "The Sign of the Four". Ms. Morstan was embroiled in a conflict over a great huge Indian treasure her father had helped protect. Or something. Must read it again to be sure, but there was a vast treasure to be had, and Ms. Morstan had been receiving pearls from a mysterious benefactor.
Damn the tab key! It won't tab properly. Not here, anyways.
Mary Morstan died later in the canon, and Watson remarried. Unsure of to who, tho' she may not have ever been named. Possibly, Watson's second wife was another Mary. So many Marys! Victorian London appears to have had a slew of them. "Hey, Mary!" [Forty different women look up.] "Ah, hell. Mary Morstan! Your husband's mourning your death! Don't forget him!"
In all the pastiches that [the author] has read, Watson refers to his dear Mary (presumably this is Ms. Morstan, but [the author] can't be sure, as no reference to the second Mrs Watson has been made, save for in the Table of Contents of The Annotated Sherlock Holmes.) and how he misses her gentle personality and sweet disposition. One story in the excellent anthology "Shadows Over Baker Street" (highly recommended), entitled...oh, hell, what was it called....erm, "..." ah... Oh yes! "The Adventure of Exham Priory", it must have been! It goes as follows:
Jephson Norrys, who has been cursed by the Epic Cephalopods of Doom, or the Dark Ones, or the Old Ones, or somesuch nonsense to slowly become one of them*, comes to Holmes to have him explore the mysterious portal in his basement. Moriarty, who incidentally did not die so thoroughly at Reichenbach, wants Holmes dead, and intends to rid the world of the Great Detective by bringing him to...get ready for it... the dread city of....Yith...from which he can never return. Holmes is tempted into the portal by the plethora of great minds that promise him eternal knowledge; Watson is tempted by the sweet visage of his dear, dear wife; Moriarty is tempted by the illusion of a mortal soul; Norrys is tempted by nothing, as his life is sort of forfeit anyways, because he's turning into one of them, and not doing it very gracefully. Um. Norrys diverts Moriarty by pushing him into the portal, and Holmes and Watson escape from the hanging threat of a one-way trip to the Dread City of Yith with some of the regret that always plagues people who didn't succumb to temptation and die a horrible painful death in a portal, in a mysterious, poorly named city, as a result. Possibly. [Am] unsure about the precise feelings of guilt, but there must have been some.
The tab key? It has been forsaken. [The author] has thoroughly given up on the tab key. Thrice-accursed piece of useless plastic.
But canonically, none of that happens. *cough cough so what else is new*
You know, Watson said in the very beginning that he kept a bull pup, who was never seen again throughout the whole canon. Not hide nor hair was seen of the beast. Much speculation, there is, about the dog's fate. Some think Holmes experimented on the creature, as was explained in the new movie. Others believe that Holmes couldn't stand the dog and insisted that Watson find him a new home. Possibly the dog vacated after one whiff of Holmes' exquisitely evil-smelling chemical tinkerings. Or an Irregular adopted him, or Stamford came to rescue him, or he fled from indignity at Baker Street and became the DREADED PROFESSOR MORIARTY! Or not. It seems unlikely. Bull pups aren't that malignant. [The author] wouldn't know, however, having never kept one.
Ohhh, Watson is such a fascinating subject! There's so much to write about him! Not nearly all that could have been written about him has been written here! However, if the post continues there may be cybernetic repercussions that the whole world will feel, and tremble at.
Mehh, who['s the author] kidding? This is nothing. [The author] appears to have exhausted her reserves of Watson-isms, as she keeps digressing into other things, but fear not! Justice shall be done to the magnificent John Hamish Watson, doctor, husband, and Not-Boswell-Necessarily.


*that is to say, they're similar to sinister octopi, and he looks like he's turning into a fish, but what the hey! It makes for a good curse. The poor buggers at Exham; that is, the poor buggers whose ancestry originated there, are thus cursed. Bugger.