Of late Sherlock Holmes had brought several delicate investigations - some involving the noblest families of Europe - to satisfactory conclusions, that brought well-earned gratitude, and even a whisper of honours, although on this my lips must remain sealed.
However these exertions left my friend utterly exhausted. Concerned for his health, I proposed we take a short Continental holiday, and was gratified when he embraced my suggestion.
We determined we would travel to Russia, a country of which neither of us had any personal acquaintance. Messrs T. Cook arranged our passage and transportation, and secured for us accommodation in a charming dacha, as the Russians call holiday homes in the country.
Having ascertained in advance that our dacha had its own telegraph connection, I took with me a portable telegraph machine. Even though our time in the dacha was to be a period of relaxation for my friend, I realised instinctively that his restless intellect might demand to know the latest news from the heartbeat of that great capital city, London.
We quickly settled into our dacha. I spent the time agreeably, working on my memoirs of life as a military medical man, while Holmes put some final touches to his monograph on the identification of large dogs by their paw prints. We kept in touch intermittently with Mrs Hudson, who furnished us with choice news items, although Holmes often tutted at the lack of detail.
On third day I looked from my work and glancing out of the window beheld a large number of bears advancing towards our home. Strangely each covered its face with a paw, in what seemed a bashful manner. Yet their demeanour seemed hostile; even aggressive.
”What d'ye make of this Holmes?", I asked. My friend looked up and his keen intellect at once grasped the situation.
"Switch your electrical machine off immediately Watson", he cried, "Can't you see we are under shy bear attack?"
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That would work well as a Sean Connery 007 story. What with hish lishp and all.