Writers can't survive without readers, so I'm extraordinarily pleased you've decided to give my work a look when you have so many choices. Below are some kind words readers who bought and read the book left in their reviews.

PRAISE FOR SHERLOCK HOLMES AND THE ADVENTURE OF THE PAPER JOURNAL

"A delicate book about love, doubts, solitude, without romance, with adventures and crimes, set in a not to far future where privacy is banned... Amazing! I am impatient to read the next one." - Amazon Customer

"A unique Sherlock Holmes pastiche, very well written, lots of detail and story build-up, but not boring or slow. I enjoyed the very clever use of the original Sir Arthur Conan Doyle writings, but moving the story into the late 21st century, a dark, Big Brother-esque and unsettling, prophetic time where everyone knows everything about everyone else, every moment of their lives logged onto their Life Management Device." - Amazon Customer

"Sadly, I'm not very eloquent when it comes to reviews, which is the reason why I almost never write one. This time I will, however, because I've become very picky when it comes to books, and this one is a hidden gem that I loved to pieces - and would thus wish would get the attention it deserves.

It's a beautiful love story between Sherlock Holmes and John Watson that made me think of the first season of BBC's "Sherlock" (the best out of all three, imho), while set against the background of a set-in-the-future Alternate Universe where The Archive (think Facebook & Co.) have entered into an unholy matrimony with the government, with mandatory regular posts about every little detail of a person's life (including health & finances), to the point that our current fears about "den gläsernen Menschen" (transparent citizen) seem like a mere joke." - Goodreads Reader

COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

Harrison Kitteridge asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

Copyright © 2016, Harrison Kitteridge.
All rights reserved.

"Populus me sibilat, at mihi plaudo. Ipse domi simul ac nummos contemplar in arca. "

"Haters hate; ballers ball."

It is difficult to know where to begin. There are so many moving parts to consider. I could start with the murder of Edwina May Lucas. That is what they call "The Inciting Incident", isn't it? Strictly speaking, though, the blackmailer, Charles Augustus Milverton, and his evil machinations were the jumping-off point chronologically. There is also a strong case to be made for starting with Mary Elisabeth Sutherland. After all, it is her paper journal that turned out to be the linchpin, providing answers to questions Sherlock hadn't even thought to ask. Each of these characters provides a useful prism through which to view the events presented. It all begins with Sherlock, though, doesn't it? And with me. So, I suppose that is as good a place to start as any: with us.

I met Sherlock Holmes not long after I was invalided home from service as an army surgeon in Afghanistan. The campaign had been a disaster for me. I was transferred from the R.A.M.C. hospital in Kandahar to a base in the interior of the country just as the fatal Battle of Maiwand kicked off. I was shot in the shoulder by a high-velocity round that shattered my clavicle and severed my sub-clavian artery. I should have bled out and died right there, but luckily a medic called Alethia Murray happened to be nearby, and she managed to pull me to safety and plug the bleeding with her finger. She kept me alive until we could safely evacuate the area. I underwent a series of surgeries and was healing well enough that my colleagues were optimistic I would recover fully, then my wound became infected, and I was back on death's door. The infection ravaged my body, and, when I came out on the other side, I was a wraith, a shadow of my former robust self. When I improved enough to become ambulatory, I was honourably discharged and sent home to England.

I could live nowhere else but London and took up residence in a moderately-priced hotel in the Strand that welcomed returning officers with lowered rates but still managed to stretch my army pension and disability benefits past their limits. I spent most of the days I didn't have physical therapy or appointments with my psychiatrist lying in bed unable to overcome the feeling that I was a lead weight sinking slowly to the floor of an oozing black bog. A large part of me longed for the metaphor to come to life. I yearned to be enveloped by the darkness. The void beckoned me ceaselessly, tempting me with its promise of eternal stillness and peace. I longed for the comfort of death, for it all to end, and it took all my strength to resist the seductive tranquillity of a perpetually silent grave. My stamina was virtually non-existent, and simple tasks like washing myself or preparing my meals sapped my energy almost completely. On the rare occasions I experienced bursts of energy and optimism, I spent more profligately than a man in my position should have. I gambled and was careless of whether I won or lost; I indulged in epicurean pleasures I scarcely tasted; I bought tickets to live entertainment where the crowds and noise only further shredded my tattered nerves, all in a desperate attempt to jump-start my ability to feel joy again. They were failed endeavours; I made no new acquaintances and rebuffed anyone who showed any interest in me. Soon I was living as a virtual hermit.

The solitude was a comfort. I was glad of having no family, of my military service having alienated me from my school and university friends. I was glad there was no one to see how pitiful I had become. Thankfully, my psychiatrist's request for a Medical Exemption had been granted, and I was (at least temporarily) relieved of the burden of having to maintain my Personal Archive File to the Generally Accepted Standards of Sociability, so I wasn't being bombarded with well-meaning Sociability Reminders. While Sociability Enhancement is a necessary element of treating depressives and sufferers from Post-traumatic Stress Syndrome, Sociability Reminders are very often counter-productive, adding to the sense of failing to be "normal" and worsening thoughts of self-harm. Our Files are handled much more delicately, and Virtual Sociability Companions are often employed. My psychiatrist helped me design a Virtual Sociability Companion in the guise of a supportive elder brother called Harry. The progress I was making with Harry notwithstanding, I realised my self-imposed exile from the world would soon come to an end, if for no other reason than the teetering of my finances towards a catastrophic collapse. I would have to find new lodgings quickly. I was pondering my predicament in a dimly lit corner of the Criterion Bar when someone questioningly called my name.

"John Watson?"