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Watson often makes the claim that I confound all his experience and reasoning. Little does he know that the reverse is equally true: for every instance I leave him without explanations for my moods or actions, he confuses me in full and more than equal measure. That is, as often as he debases my scientific skills of deducing his then-current mind by attributing to them the magical quality of 'mind-reading', he defies my prediction of his general behaviour and forces me to reconsider what takes me weeks to formulate.
Anyone with sufficient training in the science of deduction should understand the unfairness of the situation because, for such a person, the intents behind my actions are easily transparent, while those behind Watson's are not so, if my confusion is any indication.
Make no mistake; I have long concluded that whatever the Doctor is, he is not that person. Thus, I am in a safe position to always surprise and extract praise from him. What motivates this activity is logical and happily unromantic: he is my associate and my biographer, and I will be extremely inconvenienced if he were to abandon his post. I am admirably aware of my alienating nature: as a creature of solitude, I would rather demolish the falsehoods that socialising men present themselves as than form relationships that are not based on predictable self-interest. Perhaps one with some inkling of my condition would find my preferences highly hypocritical, but the validity of such a debate would depend on the definition of truth.
In any case, at the inception of our association - that is to say, lodging arrangement, I had planned to be nothing but a roommate and an occasional nuisance to Watson. Imagine my surprise when he successfully withstood my unforgiving rhetoric and inconvenient habits, and became involved in my cases. It was, as it were, a greater surprise still that he has made himself necessary. That is to say, his presence is very useful; and he continues to supply it despite the attractive prospect of leaving me for a merrier, not to mention more conventional, life. Building a career is far easier without interruption from my cases, and with means guaranteed in this manner he can start a family. But he has stayed, even though I offend his medical sensibilities and insult his intelligence on a daily basis; even though chronicling my cases offers meagre compensation and is not conducive to what any sane British gentleman aspires to do with his life.
Though welcome, this behaviour was puzzling to me, and therefore troubling. Watson must never know that for a period I had a disproportional interest in his senselessly romantic drivel of more or less imagined chronicles. I judged the insights his writings provided to be worth the suffering they inflicted.
Indeed, they introduced a further troubling, but terribly illuminating fact: his depiction of me in his writings, in which he narrates in first person. I am not as omniscient as he cheerily portrays me to be, and clearly much more unpleasant than he has so far let on. His frustration with me is evident, both in his works and the stern facial expressions that he frequently adopts in our conversations, yet he also infuriatingly downplays my shortcomings, save for the one which he has apparently deemed 'humanising'. These peculiarities, fortunately, have ceased to be an issue. Obviously, his curiosity of what strange contrivances the human mind is capable of fashioning, combined with my weakness for dramatic finales, appeals to his appetite for adventure and serves as a diversion from my insufferable company. I was most relieved to have solved this absurdly simple conundrum. Of course, his disturbing obsession with my habits, my personal history, and even my physical features is consistent with this explanation: they are symbols of my eccentricity and give my adventures a deeper shade of that mysterious and exotic color. Watson is indeed a romantic writer.
Thus, I have re-oriented my strategy to increase the life span of this amiable state of affairs. I am queer enough as I am, so that aspect of our dealing needs no accentuation. However, constantly giving out performances that appear miraculous and spectacular does, tantamount that I keep a high level of suspense over the course of my investigations to ensnare his interest and conclude with a satisfyingly shocking ending. The Inspectors have found my actions suspicious and remarked upon it, though they can scarcely suppose the rationale. Mycroft, on the other hand, finds them self-serving and, shall I say, pitiful. Not the good Doctor, who seems to believe in the inherent goodness of man, including mine, despite a daily confrontation with evidence to the contrary.
That said, it is still difficult to articulate his thoughts, for it is much more than finding out what he knows and what he does not. For example, I am certain that he does not know a seemingly unassuming series of footsteps on the muddy ground after rain is very pretty data of wonderful implications, nor does he know how one can prove a murderer guilty of crime by a slip of the tongue, an inconsistency in witness accounts, or any impossibility that exists unless the only solution available is true. However, for all that is clear about his limits in deduction - an under-appreciated and admittedly specific sort of limits - he more than makes it up with this maddening ambiguity, this violation of rationality and selfish passions, as if he knew…
What I meant to state is that there are facts about Watson that are not wholly compatible with my theory. His concern for my health and frequent lectures on this topic can arise from misplaced professionalism or habits, and therefore are perfectly understandable. So is his disarmingly fond smile, which is often directed at me and must be due to the comfort of familiarity and the simple admiration for my singular abilities. Although this is a difficulty that will be overcome in time, the concentrated way in which he studies me has from time to time nearly obliged me into revising my hypothesis. Even now, as I compose this monograph on him, I need not look up to know that his eyes are trained on me, sometimes following the movements of my arm. My breath catches; he is standing up, and by his gesture he probably will approach my side of the desk. This monograph will have to wait.
It is just as his wont to undo a perfectly sound set of logical connections. Since the incident that transpired in the last hour is highly relevant to this monograph, I should endeavour to recount it, in all of its excruciating details.
As I had last suggested, Watson had walked over to my desk and placed a hand on the back of my chair.
'What were you writing about, Holmes?' he frowned when I shoved these incriminating sheets of paper into my drawer.
'On the variability of lunar illumination and its relation to the visibility of criminal acts,' I lied instantly, 'The examples I've cited contain sensitive information that I swore not to release - not even to you, Watson. Of course, since the confidentiality agreement will soon expire, I've decided to make use of them in my monograph, which won't be published until several months after the expiration.'
He seemed unconvinced, 'Didn't you say you dislike astronomy?'
'I don't "dislike" astronomy,' I replied tersely, 'That would imply an irrational preference without proper assessments of potential value. I simply consider astronomy to be mostly useless. The effect of moonlight on the observers' ability to witness crimes, on the other hand, is clearly important.'
'Well, that explains it,' said he with an easy laugh, 'For some reason, I thought it was I whom it concerned! I really should have known better.'
'You're essential to my work, Watson,' said I; these words were absolutely true and utterly devoid of feelings, 'But you are not…if I may, an intricate subject of such immense complexity that a systematic method must be employed to analyse. Furthermore, a monograph on you can hardly be useful to future practitioners of my craft, can it?'
'Pragmatic as ever,' he smiled self-depreciatingly, inefficiently masking his disappointment, 'Here; this is something that I hope measures up to your high standards of pragmatism.'
He had handed me a small, well-made, obviously expensive wooden box; its smell of English oak and fresh paint confirmed it. I stared at the object numbly, at a complete loss. What was he trying to accomplish? Was I supposed to deduce its contents? Must he test my abilities in so imprecise and underhanded a manner?
Watson, leaning on my desk, watched me with amusement. I rapped the box, shook it, and heard the muffed yet resounding thuds of metal colliding with the box' thin confines. Evidently the metal, rectangular, partially hollow object was not much smaller than the box, and was padded in cotton. But the box was also extraordinarily light, and I thought of the most likely object with such dispositions.
'It's an aluminum cigarette-case,' I declared, with no small amount of pride, I now regret to say.
'Excellent, Holmes,' said he; the dripping sarcasm almost jolted me out of my chair, 'Even though you were supposed to just open the box.'
I freely admit, in the privacy of this writing, that Watson is amongst the few souls who could embarrass me. He has the uncanny talent to make every situation far more awkward than it needs to be. I attribute it to a want of perceptiveness.
So I opened the box and found the object within. Of course, it was a cigarette-case. It was chaste in design, and possessed an elegant simplicity that nevertheless proclaimed substantial value. The metal was definitely mined in the Dark Continent, but the new state of its packaging demonstrated its British manufacturer - probably a jewelry store with connections and not far from Baker Street. I had begun to eliminate possibilities from a list of names when I intentionally pushed the thought out of my mind. Watson was watching me anxiously, and for the second time within five minutes I did not know how to proceed.
'It's a gift,' he explained hurriedly when I made no reaction, 'It's been…a full-year since our meeting, and I, well, it's only appropriate that I commemorate the occasion. It will be convenient for you to carry, even in an investigation, because it's easily portable - but also appropriately quite fashionable and handsome, though of course only in my opinion. The merchant Mr Sainsbury said -'
He stopped his bumbling explanation abruptly, and held his breath when saw my attempt to speak.
'That's…very thoughtful of you,' said I politely, completely out of my depth, 'You must desire something in return, surely. Perhaps a new pen for more poorly-fabricated cases disguised as serious literary efforts?' asked I with a shrill laugh.
'It's a gift,' he repeated, annoyed, 'And my stories are not fabrications.'
'Your "facts" hardly agree, even with each other.'
'I don't - this is not a discussion on the merits of my writing,' he cried, 'Good God, Holmes, can't you adhere to social decorum this once and just accept a gift? A simple "Thank you" would be enough!'
'Thank you,' said I promptly.
He stared at me, aghast. I realised that he had, again, misread my expression, or the lack thereof. I would like to point out that it was not a matter entirely in my control, incredible as this claim may sound; any contractions or stretches of facial muscles make a dangerous window to one's heart, and I have made it my life-long mission to bolt this window as much as possible.
'It's a lovely gift,' so I added hastily, 'I'm sure I will…find it useful. Very soon.' I allowed my face to contort into a stiff grin.
That seemed to have satisfied him. Perceptiveness, Watson!
'Good. For a moment I thought you would toss it into fire.'
'That would have been the ultimate exercise in ineffectuality.'
'I know,' he chuckled, 'Still, pray excuse my earlier astonishment and apprehension. It took me some hours searching for the proper present, yet your initial response did not look favourable. Are you…well?' he was suddenly all concern.
'Well enough, dear fellow,' said I, recovering my composure, 'I apologise if I behaved tactlessly. You must know I'm rarely placed in such a position.'
He widened his eyes, 'You mean you never received a gift?'
'On the contrary, I have,' said I impatiently, 'for my services, and never in-person.'
'And when you were younger?'
I did, of course. Always with Mycroft. Since he was the elder and favoured child, it was appropriate that he thanked the gift-givers on behalf of both of us. 'It never was a problem,' I told him truthfully.
The Doctor kneeled beside my chair and took my hands, obviously taking it to mean that my childhood was an unhappy one. If memory serves, it was comparatively acceptable, I suppose, but such judgment is subjective and not worth mentioning. Warm sympathy was apparent in his expressive eyes. It was strangely comforting, despite the intellectual turmoil this gesture raged in my brain.
'If you're so inclined, I would gift you every holiday, if only to make you practice,' he teased tenderly.
'Why?' my voice, I regret to report, faltered, for I cared not to give this sad performance regularly; I needed to know why he wanted to impose it, and why, for God's sake, he cared. Did he not merely tolerate my person for the promise of brief escapades from the routine of human existence?
Watson looked at me oddly. 'Because I'm your friend,' then a sudden panic overcame his features, 'I'm terribly sorry for any offence. You've never pronounced me as such, I merely guessed, and I will understand if -'
'Of course you are,' I interrupted this absurdity with sufficient concealment of my own distress, for now I knew this is why Watson has chosen to stay.
He gave a long sigh of relief. I distractedly wondered for how long he had been holding it.
'I'm glad,' he smiled. It was a genuine smile and hence exceedingly difficult to look at, but I managed. I fancy I saw tears, even though it was only a brief, soft glimmer. 'That is the single gift that I desire,' he whispered.
Ah, yes, his romanticism. I produced another horrid grin in response to this naked display of excess emotion, and surreptitiously withdrew my hands. It was not without fretfulness that I noted them perspiring and clutching his gift as if it was far more interesting than any vital clue that I had encountered so far. Frankly, I found my susceptibility to this inane sentimentality disturbing, and desired to escape from it at the earliest possible opportunity.
We exchanged a few more pleasantries before Watson retired; he joked that he had plans to make based on today's events. As soon as he departed, I returned to my monograph.
I have never known friendship. My cases require, at most, useful acquaintances among Scotland Yarders and resourceful persons. My relatives do not even belong to either category. But Watson thinks he is my friend, and he might be right.
Again defying my predictions, he does not view me as a merely fascinating vehicle for exciting adventures; he views me, as I should have suspected, as a human being. It is as if he wants to understand and reach me despite my best attempts at seclusion. Undoubtedly there is some play of power and control present, but the rest of it can only be due to his sweet and amicable nature. I know naught whether to celebrate or be terrified of this prospect. However, I do curse how I have been so very, very unobservant.
For if I have not, I could have taken measures to inform him of the futility of his quest. It would be foolish and reckless of me to let him succeed, though he must never know the real reason. However, any attempt to reveal such, at this critical juncture, is a monstrous abuse of his feelings and will provoke him into breaking off our association entirely. Therefore, it is a matter of choosing between the risk of letting him know, then losing him, and the risk of certainly losing him.
Why, the former, of course! I have mentioned the strangely comforting knowledge of his friendship; perhaps it is, against all laws of science known to men, worth the risk it entails. Very well; I shall reluctantly observe how this development unfolds.