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Over the years of knowing and being around Sherlock Holmes, Dr Watson has come to make some deductions of his own about his dearest friend. Observing his habits cannot be helped; he is a singularly fascinating creature, filled with many idiosyncracies, prone to both periods of ceaseless energy and black, lethargic depressions.
He also, on occasion, is rendered entirely mute. This is not entirely unheard of by Watson given his profession, but never before has he had a chance to experience these sudden lapses in speech so closely.
He has noticed it happens more often than not when Holmes is particularly anxious or agitated; these are the times when his friend will catch hold of his wrist and tap two fingers against his pulse in a silent signal. It intrigues him how differently Holmes speaks when he is using his hands instead of his tongue. The phrases are shorter, simpler - they must be, if only for the reason that no form of sign language Watson is aware of could keep up with the speed of Holmes's mind. No, his friend must think over his words, deliberate how to distill what he wants to say into its purest form in order to communicate. It strikes Watson that, though the inability to speak aloud must frustrate Holmes no end at times, perhaps it also presents a unique sort of challenge for him to tackle.
All that being said, it has never yet happened during a case.
They are standing in a bedroom belonging to the home of one Dr Charles Aveyard, a rather squirrelly bespectacled man who has summoned them to investigate his only daughter's disappearance. The furnishings are plain, yet there are vases of bright flowers which perfume the air, and combined with the bright February sunshine streaming through the window they lend a discordantly pleasant atmosphere to the otherwise bleak room. It is clear to Watson's eyes that the bed was not slept in the previous night. There are also dark streaks staining the carpet under the windowsill. He suspects mud from a flowerbed, as this room faces the Aveyards' garden.
Holmes has seen them too - most likely before he did - and crouches down to take a closer look. He plucks at the carpet fibres, rubbing the substance between his fingers. He follows the trail up the wall nose-first, rising like a serpent until eye-level with the windowsill. There, he produces his magnifying glass to peer more closely at the dark wood.
"There was no struggle," he says at last, as though he has been performing an entire soliloquy in his head and has only just deigned to speak his lines to his captive audience. "One person came into this room, and two people left. Both of them willing participants."
"I beg your pardon, sir!" blusters Aveyard. "What the devil do you mean, willing participants?" He strides across to the windowsill and peers down at it, seeking the mysteries only Holmes can see.
The detective himself raises a single eyebrow before standing to his full height, at least half a foot taller than Aveyard. More when Holmes pushes his shoulders back and lifts his chin, as he is doing now. He begins to explain his reasoning. Watson does enjoy these explanations - he quickly pulls out his pocket book to make notes for later reference.
"See here," he says, pointing at the windowsill with one long finger, "a ladder was propped against the sill. Done from the inside, going by the scrapes on the window frame here and here." He gestures to each marking. Aveyard opens his mouth to interject with outrage and denial. Holmes silences him with that same finger still raised. "Dr Aveyard, I beg of you to hear me out - if you summoned us here only to contradict us at every turn, then we are wasting the time of everybody in this room."
Aveyard falls silent, lowering his gaze. Over the top of his head, Holmes catches Watson's eye and winks.
"If I may direct you to the bookcase," he continues, strolling at a leisurely pace, "you will notice the faint divots in the carpet where a ladder once stood. Where, pray tell, is that ladder now? I suspect either hastily hidden in the rose bushes under this window, if not elsewhere in the garden. It's hardly subtle for a young lady and a companion to be seen carrying about a ladder. Far too incongruous and noticeable when you wish for a hasty escape. So!" He claps his hands. "Our guest climbs up the ladder, over the windowsill, and down onto the carpet, where -" he points back to the stained spot "- they remove their shoes to muffle the sound of their entrance. And, perhaps, so as not to trail mud all over the floor. Rather considerate of them."
"And then what?" Aveyard is transfixed. "Did he take her? Did someone take my Caroline?"
Holmes tilts his head to one side in consideration. Watson caught it too; up until that point, nobody but Aveyard has referred to the possible intruder as a "he".
"Quite the opposite," he remarks slowly. "As I said, the young lady was a willing participant in her disappearance. There are several items missing from her dressing table, and the bed is made up; both indications that she knew she was going to leave." His tone alters, barely bordering on derision. "One would also suggest, if she were being abducted, she may have attempted to defend herself or raise the alarm in some way."
"She could have been gagged!" Aveyard insists. Evidently his will is too weak to contain his desire to argue for very long. "Restrained, even! Rendered unconscious!"
Holmes has turned away from him now to further examine the room, his attention elsewhere. He follows him doggedly, his face turning an interesting shade of puce as he continues to harass Holmes for answers. He resembles a poorly-behaved terrier, nipping at Holmes's heels. "I refuse to believe she would vanish without a word when I have explicitly told her she must remain by my side at all times! She is simply not capable of managing the world without me!"
On and on he goes. The dissonance in the man's mind is staggering, Watson thinks, shaking his head to himself. His gaze drifts from his notebook back to Holmes. Going by the set of his friend's jaw and how low his eyelids have fallen, he is beginning to lose his patience. His lips part, he inhales as if to deliver some sharp retort - and then he closes his mouth again with a quiet snap.
Watson frowns. He looks back up at Holmes's eyes and finds he is looking right back at him. Unable to reach across the room, he instead turns his left hand palm-up and taps the first two fingers of his right hand against his left wrist.
Oh, dear. They will have to treat this delicately. Holmes's occasional silence is not a secret, per se, but they have never deliberately revealed it to anyone else. It has only ever really mattered when they are alone. He nods at Holmes carefully, trying to convey his understanding and sympathies, then closes his pocket book and tucks it away.
Their client hasn't noticed any of this wordless conversation, continuing to berate Holmes, insisting his presence is no longer necessary and that he is lying or laughing in his face. Watson bristles at the accusations. The time has come for him to step in.
"Dr Aveyard, please!" he barks, quite a bit louder than he intended. It has the desired effect, however; Aveyard shuts his mouth like a trap and stares at him in surprise. Watson takes a moment to straighten his spine before continuing. "Mr Holmes needs to think this through. Whether the young lady left this room of her own volition or not, there are many other questions which must be considered. Where is she now? Will she make contact with you? Is she in good health, is she likely to return? Many possible answers to these questions must be eliminated before we can arrive at the truth. For that, good sir, Holmes requires your patience and time. I understand both are valuable to you, are they not? One could consider them as a vital component of determining your daughter's whereabouts, an offering for which we should certainly be grateful. That is, I assume, that you do still wish for us to find her?"
"Why, of course I do!" Aveyard's colour has receded now he is not treating Holmes as a verbal punching bag. He even looks somewhat contrite. "I would very much wish for you to find my Caroline, Dr Watson. The police have been unable to offer me any substantial assistance."
"Quite so." Watson nods sagely. "If you please, we must return forthwith to Baker Street. We shall call upon you as soon as we have made any progress, no matter how small. If you have not heard from us within the next two days you may visit us again, but not before. That ought to be plenty of time, of course, but there is no predicting how these investigations unfold."
"Indeed, indeed." How polite Aveyard is now, how chastened. His smile is an unfortunate specimen. "I shall expect word from you very soon, Dr Watson! Very soon. Fraser will show you out."
The footman leads them downstairs to where they may collect their hats and coats before finally being free from the stifling confines of that house. Holmes falls into step beside him, head bowed, the corners of his fine mouth drooping. Watson can't imagine how keenly he must be feeling what he perceives to be a failure.
He slips his arm through Holmes's and pulls him a touch closer. "What a belligerent, frustrating little man," he comments, aggrieved. "It is a shame that he and I share a profession."
Holmes's lips twitch briefly.
"I fancy you've already solved the mystery, haven't you, old boy? Only the shortest of loose ends to tie before you present the resolution, hm?"
Holmes looks down at him fully, his grey eyes showing some signs of twinkling life amid his morosity.
Watson pats his hand where it lies on his arm. "Come now, Holmes, I highly doubt Aveyard suspects anything of your sudden silence. He hardly paid attention to a word you said regardless, from what I could see. And I know," he pauses for emphasis, "my skills of observation are not as keenly honed as yours. It was an obvious enough conclusion, even for me."
Frowning, Holmes shakes his head. It is not a dismissive gesture, but one of disapproval that Watson is downplaying his own abilities.
They are walking down a populated street, so the gestures are subtle, but Holmes brings his free hand up to sign. To a passer by, he might have been stifling a yawn before adjusting the lapel of his coat. Thank you, he says. You help me. Then, he quickly holds up two fingers in a V and shakes them vertically, a touch sharper than usual. Again.
"Oh, always, my dear fellow," Watson replies naturally. "Never let it be said that I do not take my position as your biographer seriously. My skills extend beyond ink and paper, you know."
Holmes finally smiles at this, fully, like a flash of summer lightning crossing his face that makes his eyes crinkle at the corners. He gestures for Watson to go ahead of him as the street narrows, then immediately links their arms again when they can walk side-by-side once more. A close examination of his features would reveal that he has still not forgiven himself for his lapse, but he will in time. Watson will make sure of it.
First, though, it's about the right time to be having some tea.