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Sherlock Holmes had never fully understood love. It was an abstract thing to be studied, a mere component of human behavior like any other. For most people, it seemed to drive them in the same way as the need to nourish one’s body or rest for an adequate period each night.
He did not share in that particular need, and in fact had spent most of his life entirely alone. The lack of such feelings did not trouble him any more than his deficit of knowledge of the celestial sphere. Just as the Earth’s revolution around the sun or vice versa made no difference to his work, neither did his own tender feelings or lack thereof.
Had he expressed those feelings or lack thereof to another—which he had, on very rare occasions, when someone asked a banal question about the absence of a wife—he was often greeted with shock. As though without the affections of a lover, his life must be empty, devoid of passion.
Not so.
Holmes indulged his passion for music, both in his own violin playing and attending concerts. He hurled himself into the study of all the intricate little details of the world that aided in his cases, observing, cataloguing, writing. And he devoured fascinating cases, the ones that made his mind come alive with the challenge of the puzzle and joy of its resolution.
He had never been lonely, or felt that he was deprived of any aspect of life. Love was not necessary for him.
However, after Watson joined him at 221 Baker Street, Holmes found that a little company provided a welcome addition to his life. It was pleasurable to speak with someone regularly, and Watson was an easy person to live with. He easily tolerated Holmes’ odd habits, and took to the work with zest.
They often sat in front of the fire in the evenings, sharing thoughts on life, cases, or the study of one subject or another. On this particular evening, Holmes had recently resolved a case, and found himself a touch melancholy while he awaited another. He smoked his pipe without much interest, regretting that he had no compelling problem to work at as he did.
“How about this one?” Watson waved another letter at him. “Seems a good, solid bit of mischief. A man skulking about, valuables gone missing, but the man vanished without a trace! That must be of interest.”
Holmes closed his eyes. “Not so, Watson. I took the liberty of slipping into the house in the guise of a deliveryman this very morning. The skulking man in question had merely concealed himself in the lady’s wardrobe. And as for the valuables gone missing, it seems he was purchasing two steamer tickets to the Americas.”
“Two!” Watson exclaimed. “So, he and the lady have run away together?”
“Just so, Doctor. We shall make a sleuth out of you yet.” Holmes could not help the dry sarcasm that slipped into his voice. Watson, an amiable man, chuckled. “I should like a case that does not involve the very basest of passions. It seems to me that nearly all my cases of late have been related to love affairs, and I tire of them.”
“You are a singular fellow, Holmes.” Watson gave another brief laugh. “But never fear. We shall find you a case with no love involved at all.”
Holmes felt his lips curl into a faint smile, and he tipped his head back further, pressing to the back of his armchair as Watson shuffled papers. The doctor’s voice soon filled the room again, reading a hitherto unopened letter.
There had been occasional evenings when Holmes had contemplated, with a sort of idle curiosity, whether he might form some sort of attachment to Watson. This was the closest he’d ever been to someone, after all, and they got along extraordinarily well. But no attachment had formed, beyond the friendship he had felt from the start.
“Here we are, Holmes!” Watson cried, triumphant. “This request for aid contains no love affairs, so far as I can tell. The main suspect appears to be a horse, who has been seen sticking his head through open windows to steal all manner of things, including in one instance an entire purse.”
Amused, Holmes pressed his hands together. “Ha! Whether or not the case contains any dull love affairs, the letter should prove to be of interest. Read on, my dear doctor.”
Watson launched into the reading with true enthusiasm, and Holmes listened closely. No, he didn’t require love to lead a full life, at least not in the sense that most described it. But Watson’s steady friendship was certainly a most welcome addition to that life.