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The despairing tune behind him came to a quiet end. Watson didn’t look up from his typewriter, though in truth, the rhythm of his fingerfalls had more-or-less the same melancholy demeanor. Whether his own tendency for laziness or simply the rain spotting lethargically against the window was the cause, Watson had been unable to grasp the thread of it. How could one describe Irene Adler’s exceptionality without making her into a strange creature of myth – he had done so for Holmes, so why…
Perhaps he was out of practice. After all, he had gone some months without gracing the halls of Baker Street, much less putting any of Holmes’ exploits to paper. Though he spent the better part of the last few weeks here (indeed, Holmes had even allowed him use of his old rooms, which remained curiously preserved), this was the first he’d sat to write of his friend again.
Or… attempted to write of his friend. As the case might be.
Behind him, Holmes stood up from the sofa. He had not uttered a word since breakfast. Thus was his usual mood after a case’s resolution. Watson expected, with nary an air of frustration, that he would not hear a word from his friend for days unless another case were to turn up. Watson focused on his typewriter as Holmes began to pace behind him.
No, not pacing.
As the floorboards creaked under Holmes’ socked feet, Watson thought he was being stalked - as surely as a gazelle on the savannah.
Watson beleaguered a sigh and carried onward. Perhaps he ought to move onto the case details themselves, and Irene Adler’s literary personality would arise from them. He paused, searching for a letter, before he heard a severe sniff behind him.
Holmes normally made great effort not to startle Watson (unless it were necessary, which happened more frequently than either of them would like). However, in his moods, Holmes could work himself into such a state of agitation that such social cares were tossed into the fire.
“ Yes, Holmes?”
Nothing. Holmes resumed his stalking about the room. Occasionally he would pick up and fiddle with some belonging or other, only to set it down.
And yet, some minutes later – another snort, ringing with disapproval.
“Can I help you?”
Evidently, Watson could not, as Holmes resumed his safari.
These distractions did not bode well for Watson’s work today. He bravely plodded on for another few minutes, before giving it up as a loss. His shoulder had started to ache in a rather discouraging way, and little mortified Watson more than being laid up for a typing injury.
He removed the paper out and, brimming with annoyance, crumpled it into a ball. It fell to the floor, amongst the other soldiers.
A pale hand shot out and snatched it from the grasses of the African savannah.
“ ‘It is a shame that the case ended with Irene Adler’s nuptials intact,’” Holmes read aloud, “ ‘For if not, I can imagine no better candidate for Holmes’ affections.’ “
“I am under no impression that it is worthwhile, Holmes. That is why it is on the floor.”
“But even in the discarded, there is something to be gleaned.” He brandished the paper. “Is this what you think I would want as payment? The woman’s hand in marriage.”
Watson sighed and stood up from the table, going to sit in his chair. “No, Holmes. I only mean to say that you seemed… seem captivated by her. By what she was able to accomplish.”
“And that necessitates my desire to make her my wife.”
“No, not –” Flustered, Watson sat back in his chair.
Truthfully, to think of Holmes taking up a wife was as strange a thought as Watson could manage. He seemed ever-suited for bachelorhood – not because of his personality, which Watson thought was less grating than Holmes had previously expressed, but because of his profound disinterest in domestic matters. He eschewed most friendly company, after all, excepting Watson’s own.
“What would you have me write, then?” He made no move to get up from his chair. “If I am to document this case, I ought to document how singular she was.”
“I have a fascination with how she managed to outmaneuver me. It is one thing, Watson, to earnestly believe that my methods could be put into practice by everyone should they educate themselves enough – and it is quite another to have someone implement my methods without any such education at all.” He drew himself over to the window, hands folded behind his back. “I have never felt any emotion,” he said tersely, “Akin to love for Irene Adler.”
“Because she’s American?” Watson could think of no other cause.
“Because I have never wanted to marry, Watson. I would go so far as to say that I have wanted not to marry, many times.”
“Because of your… habits?”
“No. It is not a suppression, it is not some smoldering fire that I am trying my hardest to snuff out so that I may remain on my usual track. I have no patience and no desire for love.” Even the way he pronounced it, love, with a scarcely concealed sneer, made Watson wonder. He rarely saw Holmes sneer anything, other than a particularly aggressive client.
Holmes arched his back somewhat, his chin going to tilt in the air. “I derive no pleasure from emotion. If my brain is an instrument, then I only feel it of use when it is set on its purpose. Love, among everything else, is little more than useless detritus.”
“ Now, Holmes. I know that isn’t true.” If there was a vaguely disapproving air to Watson, then it made no impact on his companion. “You are perfectly capable of experiencing emotion – in fact, I would say that I’ve seen you enjoy it, many times.”
Holmes stood by the window, still as a statue.
“You are a flesh and blood being. Come now,” Watson said, pulling himself up to stand with a grunt. “Haven’t you told me on many occasions that I shouldn’t idolize you in my manuscripts? That I shouldn’t make you out to be a, an untouchable, unknowable figure? I beg of you, don’t do it to yourself.”
He joined Holmes by the window. Outside, they saw Baker Street through the raindroplets. Horses dashed by, vendors sold their wares, and – yes – even some lovers strode arm-in-arm. Watson’s gaze flicked to Holmes, but he didn’t see Holmes linger there.
Holmes’ arms were crossed over his chest, protecting his own heart.
“You are keenly interested in your work, Holmes. You are thrown in anguish when we are too late. You have your black moods and you skip like a – like a schoolboy when you are excited,” Watson remarked, a fond smile crossing his face. “And furthermore, you have been a tender and devoted friend to me, even when I –” Abandoned felt a strange word to use between friends, but they were strange friends indeed. “Abandoned you. What is all of that, if not emotion?”
Watson dragged his eyes away from Holmes, returning to the street. He looked beyond the lovers, now. A mother holding her child’s hand, two friends chatting merrily as they ate, a driver brushing his horse, a vendor investigating the quality of an apple.
“You do not wish to get married, fine. You have no interest in courting or having a sweetheart or – or anything of the kind, fine, Holmes, that’s actually rather unsurprising, now that I’ve given it some thought.” Frankly, the thought of the word ‘sweetheart’ leaving Holmes’ mouth seemed utterly bizarre. “I have already planned, no matter where your life takes you, to remain an intimate and frequent friend of yours. That I shall know my old bachelor companion rather than a married pensioner makes little difference to me.” He tried to be terse, a tone more often found in the battlefield than in the sitting room. “I will not leave you again. You have my word.”
Watson looked up at Holmes, then, and saw that a little light had entered his eyes. Or, rather… no, it seemed to twinkle, nearly, against the dim lamp in the front room. Lights didn’t particularly – oh. No, it couldn’t be. Could it? Certainly his words were something that Holmes had already known, certainly he hadn’t uttered something surprising.
Whatever the deduction, Holmes whirled away from the window. He reached for his violin again and settled himself in his chair. With the instrument under his chin, he seemed just moments away from playing – before pausing, considering.
“Thank you, Watson.”
There was some weight to it that Watson couldn’t put his finger on, but it took him aback nevertheless. The gratitude of him – like Watson was not the grateful one between them, for being allowed to participate in this marvelous life of his.
An astonishing idea took hold of him briefly, one that Watson couldn’t dismiss.
If Watson were to die in Baker Street, or at least wherever Holmes kept his rooms, he would consider it a life well lived.
“Of course, Holmes,” he flustered out. He returned to his typewriter after a moment. At least starting from the beginning was better than forcing his way through rubbish.
Holmes played a short series of notes before stopping once more. “And, Watson, if you would be so kind as to include what I said regarding my original feelings on love. Make a metaphor out of it, you have some talent on those. Grit in the lens of my mind-microscope or… something.”
“ Holmes.” Watson turned about in his chair, eyebrows furrowed. “Why on Earth would I –”
“You will get my admiration across. Of that, I’m certain.” The bow drew across the strings, underlining Holmes’ point. “I would only rather that the red-minded population of London doesn’t think there was anything more than that. Emphasize it, until there can be little doubt. The woman has had to endure enough, rather than having to field claims of adultery.”
Yes, yes. There had been gossipy pieces about that, from to time. Holmes was a public figure, for better or for worse, and some of the claims they made on him… well, it boggled the mind. Really, Holmes wouldn’t have had time to be intimate with half so many people as the papers claimed he did.
Still. “Are you certain?”
“You have fabricated details for me before. I fail to see the difference.”
“The difference is… well, what they would think of you, Holmes, calling yourself a machine.”
There, a genuine smile spread across Holmes’ face, full of warmth and joy. More than Watson had seen in a day, that was for certain. A machine, good God. Holmes’ heart had more compassion in it than anyone Watson had met, of all different shades.
“So long as you know me, my dear Watson,” Holmes announced with a flourish, “As you so clearly do – then all else is piffling.”
Clouded both by uncertainty and understanding, Watson gave Holmes a short nod and turned back to his typewriter.
And what an honor it is,
Watson thought to himself,
to know him.