He never describes himself, though illustrations and portrayals have given me the impression of brown hair, a modest moustache, a solid, slowly fading athletic figure, and all the amiable, patriotic, rugby-playing, good-humoured qualities of an average, middle-class Englishman.

But--who is he?

Why can't I see clearly anything of this nebulous, continually slipping away creature? He's quietly retreating into every shadow. A pair of eyes through which we look but never, in turn, can see. His build I know. A healthy rugged squareness and firmness. Not lank and nearly withering away like Holmes's wiry, surprisingly strong figure. Watson is evident, his shape never deceptive, revealing all openly of his limitations and his strengths.

It is his manner that belies him, that understates. I can see, hear, the quietness of his tread, like the delicacy of his voice, the discretion of his writing. He knows with unerring sensitivity when too much is too much, when to press no further.

It is the people he enjoys, more than the particular abstract features of the cases, and to the people and their drama will his thoughts continually attract and focus. To them, and Holmes. But not himself.

John H. Watson, M.D., late of India Army--author, husband, adventurer, chivalrous gentleman, soul of discretion, possessor of a "pawky humour", stalwart friend and man of action, humble Boswell, affectionate biographer of "the best and wisest man" we ever knew--immortal... ghost.

Wisp. On the edge of our fingertips. Sensed, but unseen. Purposely disguised details, dates, memories, and truths. What is there to catch hold of? So few concrete details. How vague are his build and his moustache to identify him, to specify him out of a crowd.

Who is he?