Work Text:
Recovered from the private journal of John Watson, MD.
It was near the end of 1896, with deep snow on the ground around 221B Baker Street. Holmes had invited me over to discuss some recent cases I had not attended, and to take notes while they were still somewhat fresh. Holmes was not the only busy one, as the cold weather had brought many fresh cases of pneumonia and other winter illnesses into my regular rounds, and into those parts of the city that I helped tend to when I had the time; where poverty’s hands wreaked havoc with those who could afford it the least.
We had eaten dinner together, and then, seeing I was reluctant to head back out into the cold after a long day, Holmes invited me to my customary seat before the fire and filled my pipe, announcing that I could stay as long as I wished while he busied himself with some “unimportant work, Watson, but it pays,” at his desk. My eyes were drawn to the blue bottle still on the mantelpiece, although I needed no reminder of the case of Abbas Parva, and the woman I was in my mind already calling Mrs. Rounder. An idea had been forming on my mind over the past few days, and I wanted to broach it with him when the time was right, when Holmes would not be impatient and in foul humor. Perhaps I would ask him tonight.
Holmes had asked me to record the case, though there was no difficulty in its deduction, or even, any deduction at all. It was far from the strangest story I had experienced with Holmes, and I wondered why he wished to transcribe all the details. At the back of my mind, I made note to beg Holmes to store the bottle away more carefully before I left. Perhaps he had a need for this compound, one less gruesome than its original intent, but poison should not be placed beside one’s whiskey and tobacco.
“You are thinking about the unfortunate lady who owned that poison?” Holmes asked, as he settled into the other armchair. I hadn’t heard him move, and I knew by now that my thoughts would have been written on my face to his mind.
“Yes. I was thinking, Holmes, that we might send some unpublished cases to her. She told us of her love for reading and the news of the world, and aren’t there so many cases which have gone unpublished for one reason or another, but could still be released to one solitary individual?” He was silent, but I could see him considering the idea
“It is not a bad idea, Watson, although it will take considerable work on your part. I had considered what gift I might send her in return, but you know I am a stranger to the fine arts of writing.” He returned to his desk where the letter was now blotted and dry. “Certainly, you could send her some of the milder cases first, one that simply were lost in your detailed files. And when, as I have no doubt, those cases never leave the room, you could venture into more interesting material. I will not compromise promises of confidentiality, but there is so much still to share.”
“Thank you.” I replied, appreciating his ready consent, and braved myself to go through the detailed and often disorganized files. Were I to not need them from time to time when editing case notes, I doubt they would ever be sorted. Holmes claims he can remember the position of each document, but in impatience, he often casts them all to the floor, until the rug is as snowy as the gardens outdoors. I dare not disrupt his filing system, but I would often straighten them just a little so Mrs. Hudson could clean or clients could enter. I went to my strongbox in the corner, which Holmes had requisitioned recently, and while digging it forth from the white flurries, weighed each memorable story in my mind.
“Give me just one moment, my dear Watson.” Holmes said. “I just need to address this letter to another client, and then I will be at your service.”
“You will help?” I said, somewhat surprised, hefting the box onto the table.
Holmes smiled. “Of course.” He blotted the ink, put the letter on the tray by the door, and joined me at the table. “Remember the case of the blue hands, which was on trial when it was being written? The general London public is no longer interested in a Scottish oddity, but I suspect some might be.” With absolute ease, he located the file, with my notes scrawled together on the train ride back home, and some newspaper clippings. “I can read this over and see if any details need changing or clarifying, and then, if you would be so good as to proofread it and type it up, we can have a few stories ready by the time the snow eases. Another good one might be the ghost’s confession, remember, away in Owlthwaite at the old manor.”
My wife knew I was likely to weather out the storm at Baker street, so we set to work. Holmes talked as he worked, adding additional details to cases clients had related to him years later, or pulling unsolved or unproven cases from the box and adding his speculations on their solutions, but he didn’t stop to glory upon his own work, and we wrote and searched in companionable silence at times. At one point, I could not help but break it as the last moments of our visit replayed in my mind. “I do not doubt that you did the right thing, encouraging her to go on, and as a doctor I can hardly say otherwise, but Holmes, was it really right? Does her life truly not belong to her?”
Holmes, looking for a map, replied “I wonder if the lady hoped that unburdening herself would ease her life, or if it would ease her towards death. Had I not caught the catch in her tone, would she have acted, or finally been at peace with life? This is one case, Watson, where I am glad to not have my proofs.”
By midnight that evening, we had a packet of stories, typed up with little footnotes from Holmes and some photographs. The finishing touch was an included letter, asking the lady to perhaps read and review these unpublished stories, as a thanks for sharing her own and bringing finality to an old case. Holmes said that he hoped to send more, and promised me he would try and aid my efforts in producing them, but would certainly not stop me.
The letter was not pitiful, because I do not believe Holmes pitied her. He sympathised with her pain, one that he could not fathom himself, but he respected her courage and perseverance in the quiet way she displayed it. “I hope you do not regret your decision.” He wrote, “and I thank you, as one learning from your lesson.”
As Mrs. Hudson came in to turn down the guest bed, and we sat with one last drink, Holmes said “After all, if her life is to be lived as an example to the world, it behooves the world to give her compassion in return. We are in a unique position to help.”
“And so we should.” I answered.
“And so we must.” He replied. “The lady does not want company, so no friends could avail her, but stories and books may help the days pass with more joy. Goodnight, Watson.”