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©BBC

©BBC

You did not need to be Sherlock Holmes to realize when Sherlock Holmes had dispensed to himself more drugs than those recommended for a regular human being. Of course, he was not a regular human being. He was Sherlock Holmes. And being Sherlock Holmes implied being the most resilient drug addict that could ever exist. But a drug addict at the end of the day.
When I entered that morning into Baker Street rooms, which we did not share anymore a long time ago, he was lying, as tall as emaciated he was, upon the old sofa where he used to “meditate” (as he called that unconscious drowsiness between one prick and another) before a supposed case or any problem that required his deductive skills. Something he could not have done, not even if he had injected himself with the entire amount of cocaine and opium smuggled through London in those days; because it was merely another of his many fantasies upon being a legendary detective with sharp logical faculties, nearly wondrous. A fiction which, I have to admit, I had promoted in a particular way.
The day we met, he had performed a quite clever deduction upon my own person, emulating one of the emblematic characters from Allan Poe, who was read by him, at that time, with the relish and frenzy that just a cocaine and opium addict can develop. That first impression, and his obsessive compulsion for owning such a wonderfully deductive skill from Dupin -mostly in those moment of cathartic concentration he reached by effect of the drugs-, was what made me coming up with the idea of Sherlock Holmes. The actual Sherlock Holmes. I mean, the fictional Sherlock Holmes, the one who was known by everyone as such, and not the sad parody of him that in the real life was my addicted companion.
The curiosity upon a man who had clearly received an excellent education, who had undoubtedly an intelectual insight quite exceptional, all of which was perfectly evident in his minutes of the utmost lucidity -but mostly in those of the deepest addictive inanition-, was what had leaded me to elaborating the figure of the man as such. It was merely a matter of connecting the both facets: the man of great intellectual acuteness consumed by drugs, and his obsession for the great detective skills from a character of Poe; after that, just were required some final touches of narrative fiction, a skill that I had developed by desperation, rather than an actual fondness and pleasure for writing, in the middle of the horrors of the battlefield, in order to avoid complete madness. And the rest is now history.
The fame of the character was spread by the entire England in a blink of an eye, and then by the rest of the world. The request of new stories and adventures upon the great Sherlock Holmes was daily bread. A bread increasingly bitter each day, in fact. The timid attempt to wipe him off the map forever had failed uproariously. I was forced to revive him again and again in the face of the rage and the need.
It is known that due to constant exposing to the obsessions of a drug addict, one takes the risk of ending on the same path without even be aware of that. As much as we change the names and the places (a freedom allowed in all fiction), the root of the problem remains still the same: the addiction. And ours has one name: Sherlock Holmes.

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