Work Text:
1888
We sat together at the open air concert. I watched Holmes as I often did, studying his expression and puzzling over his mood as he listened to the orchestra with rapt attention. That we were there at all was a welcome aberration to routine. It was rare for him to suggest such an outing while involved in a case.
I felt his fingers tap on my arm. “Third row, right.” He whispered.
Perhaps the concert did have something to do with the case after all, but I couldn’t see how. The subject of Holmes interest was a young woman and her husband sitting and listening to the music, just as we were. She leaned against him, head tilted slightly towards him and her fingers resting on his arm while he stared somewhere over his right shoulder.
“What about them?” I whispered back.
“Love.” He spat the word with venomous scorn.
“What?”
“It is absurd.” He said.
“Why?”
“Look. The affection isn’t mutual. He is watching the woman in yellow, do you see her?”
Now that Holmes pointed it out, it was difficult not to see. I sat back in my chair and resolutely avoided looking at anything other than the orchestra for the rest of the evening.
No further attempts were made at conversation until after the concert ended. On our walk back to Baker Street Holmes pointed out a bench and pulled me over to sit down. “What do you see?” He asked.
“Less than you, I suspect.” I laughed. Various people walked by and none of them looked remarkable in any way I could discern. The afternoon air was cool and a slight breeze rustled the leaves on the trees around us.
Holmes remained serious and so I looked back at the crowd passing by. “I see people going home, exactly what we should be doing. Why aren’t we?” I wasn’t in the mood for this game, but that hardly mattered to Holmes once his mind was set.
“You can be remarkably dim for being an otherwise astute fellow.”
I moved to stand up but he caught my arm and pulled me back down.
“How can someone be so devoted toward someone so obviously unworthy of their attention?”
“You mean the woman from earlier? Do you know her? Why does she interest you so much?”
“Only her motives interest me.”
“We can’t choose who we love, Holmes.” I tried to explain.
“There is no such thing as love.” He stated. “It is an illusion.”
“All kinds of love?” I asked.
“No exceptions.” He insisted
“What of the love of a child for his parents.”
“Children ‘love’ their parents because they are dependent on them.”
“You love music.” I insisted.
“It is not love. When played without skill I will turn my back on it. When played well it is pleasurable and rewarding for both the musician and the listener.” He stated.
“And what of friendship?”
“That my dear Watson may be the biggest illusion of them all. Friendship is nothing more than convenience and proximity. Tell me, how long do friendships last once the parties involved are no longer forced to endure each others presence on a regular basis?”
“You are being cynical.”
“I am not. How many friends have you had over the years, and how many of them are you in close contact with now?”
He knew the answer as well as I did. There was only one person I was in close contact with and he was sitting right beside me. “Distance does not equal lack of affection.”
“And how much affection do you harbour for these long lost friends?”
“Why is this about me? What of the young woman you were so focused on earlier? You can not fault her for loving her own husband.”
“I can. What kind of person willingly wastes their affection on someone who cares nothing for them? It is an exercise in futility. Or client will find herself in the most enviable position for a woman of our society once she is in possession of her treasure. There will be no need for her to cheapen herself with marriage.”
“Cheapen? But what if that is her wish?”
“Anyone worthy of her wealth will be too far above her station to appreciate her, and anyone who appreciates her will doubtless be too far beneath her new found wealth for her to find worthy. I am afraid, dear Doctor, that you fit into the latter category of suitors.”
“Who said anything about me being her suitor?”
“You do admire her though, don’t you?”
“What isn’t there to admire?”
“And what if we don’t find her treasure?”
“What of it?”
“Would she still be as enticing?”
“It is not the prospect of her treasure that I am attracted to.”
He laughed. “Love in all its forms is an emotional thing. Cold reason must prevail above all else. I, for one, will never allow myself to be overcome with the illusion of it lest it bias my judgement.”
“Then you would be nothing more than a brain without a heart, and I know you too well for that. I know you care, I have seen evidence of it many times.”
“I do not.”
“Rubbish. You say you do not love music and friendship is nothing more than an illusion, very well. But what of me? How many times have we have nursed each other through injury and illness. You care for my well being just as much as I care for yours.”
He stared at me seriously for a moment before his eyes flicked back to the people walking by. “There is only one thing I care about, and that is my work. Through close proximity and availability, my work involves you. The only interest I have in your health is based on advancing my own self interests.”
I sat quietly.
“In that case, I can’t but agree with you.” I said finally. “Love is an absurd thing and we would all be much better off without it.”
This time when I stood up Holmes did not stop me.
I walked back to Baker Street alone.