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I admit that arrogance has always been one of my flaws, and it was never so evident as it was upon that January day when I was introduced to a potential flatmate.
He caught my eye from the first, heaven knows why. Though he must once have been striking, he had clearly been terribly ill and shattered in his nerves. He held up his military bearing by pride alone, and I have never had much interest in military men. But there was something about the contrast between his wasted figure and the utter determination beneath his expressions that I found instantly appealing. His ability to appreciate my discovery, and his astonishment at both my personality and my deductions were even more so – you see what I mean by arrogance.
But I did not, in fact, intend to seduce him. I did not even think of it, or inspect his behaviour to see if he would be amenable. I was, at the time, entirely certain I had finished with sexual matters. Indignities of body, distractions from my work, and likely, from the superabundance of evidence before me, to lead to utterly illogical passions and thence to crime – so I considered them. This opinion combined with the law’s disapproval of my own particular inclinations caused me to swear them off utterly.
But I was rather happy at the idea of sharing rooms with the doctor. I should quite enjoy having a handsome young ex-soldier ornamenting the apartments, and my utter, arrogant certainty of my own incorruptibility convinced me that I need not worry about my desiring to take any interest in him further than that.
I was absolutely certain, even while listing my faults, that he would have no objection to sharing rooms with me. But that was hardly arrogance – I was entirely correct.
It was a good thing, too – my last landlady, unappreciative of the violin, had at last told me that if I was not out of her house by February 1st she would sell everything in my room to the pawnshop. Luckily Mrs. Hudson was quite happy to have me move in the very day after we looked over the place.
At first it all worked very well. He stayed out of my way, showed a natural interest in my oddities but did not interfere or complain, and was pleasant enough to talk to. And then he criticized my theories of deduction, and I found myself overwhelmed by the desire to prove him wrong.
And so I did. At first with only the smallest things, but his clear admiration at those was enough for me to decide to bring him with me on a case. That was the mistake, though I did not see it.
And so began Watson’s career as my colleague and support. For after his amazement and assistance with the Jefferson Hope case, and the revelation of his excellent memory and note-taking skills, I brought him with me on all possible occasions. Scotland Yard’s inspectors became accustomed to the sight of the doctor at a crime scene, walking just behind me, glancing over some corpse or piece of evidence, or sitting in a corner writing in his notebook. I knew I was right as to the man’s value when I saw the constable taking notes in shorthand lean over and ask Watson what had just been said.
Watson was thoroughly reliable in a crisis, surprisingly good in a fight, and, I soon learned, an amazing shot with a pistol, but his primary worth was as an audience. Not solely an admiring one; I soon found myself explaining my theories and honestly asking for his opinion on them, and often his contributions were useful. He made suggestions based on medical evidence, showed a fine understanding of human nature, and somehow could tell when I was going off track even if he had no better suggestions of his own. Even his erroneous guesses often illuminated some point of the matter to me, whereas I found the police’s ideas merely tiresome.
Even after the end of a case, when previously I would, after exulting over my successes, almost immediately drift into bored melancholy, I found that explaining the thread of my deductions to Watson brought me back, somewhat, to the thrill of the case, and prevented natural exhaustion from maturing into true despondency. When normally I wished to speak to no one, I was happy to speak to him.
I saw no problem with this at first. Watson himself was fascinated by my cases and eager to follow me on them. I assumed, therefore, that there would be no chance of his being unable to come if I wanted him.
I had, of course, reckoned without the weather. That autumn was particularly stormy, and Watson quickly began to show signs of being affected by it. At first I could forestall difficulties by merely remembering to take cabs as often as possible, but at last, one morning in October, matters became more serious.
It takes me some time each morning to assemble Mr Sherlock Holmes. I can, with effort, manage to look quite ordinary and forgettable, apart from my height. But it would not do for Mr Sherlock Holmes to look so. Right now I am not so well known that men will think to guard against me personally, but someday I intend to be. And then it shall be quite useful to be known as a striking, dark-haired, stick-thin, queer looking fellow, since I have the ability to make myself look less or differently queer if I need to.
So I shaved, and slicked back my hair, which emphasized the sharp angles and odd lines of my face, and began to feel properly myself. It is not a disguise, this face – it is simply my face. I may lounge around in my dressing gown, or occasionally my shirtsleeves for experiments, but I would never appear even in our sitting room with unkempt hair – at least, not in my own person.
Had this effort been for an audience, it would have been wasted. Watson did not come down to breakfast. I would have let him alone, but there was a telegram from Scotland Yard waiting for me with the mail. “Your assistance required re missing Rembrandt. 107 Pall Mall. Jones.” Peremptory as always, but I had read in the paper about the Athenaeum’s missing painting and been interested. I thought I might go, Jones or no Jones.
I ran upstairs, knocked on Watson’s door, and opened it at once. He was sitting on his bed, hunched over, his forehead resting in his hand. He glanced up as I entered and gave me something too pained and transitory to be a smile.
He had been recovering splendidly. I had watched as his form returned to something like its former size, as his tan grew lighter but his colour healthier, as his limp became less and less pronounced and he was more and more ready to join me in any exercise. His military review had been several weeks before, and he had been declared unfit for service, but I had thought only that that would mean I would not have to give him up as an assistant. With time, I had believed, he would recover fully. Now, overnight, he was almost back to the state he had been in in the spring.
“Is everything all right, Holmes?”
“I was about to ask you that, my dear fellow. Not the weather, is it?” I had barely noticed, but there was certainly a gale shaking the house. At least if that was the cause it would be temporary.
His lips thinned. “I am rather feeling it this morning.” Pride. I had deduced his pain already, of course, but wanted to know the extent of it. I hesitated, thinking whether I should mention the wire.
“Is there a case?” he asked. Of course that was the only reason I normally came into his room.
“There is, but I should be capable of managing it on my own.”
He winced slightly. “I am afraid I would be of little use to you today.”
“It is a trifling matter. You needn’t worry about it.”
His lips smiled, forced. “Enjoy yourself, if that is the right word.”
I grinned. “I expect it shall be dull as dishwater. Is there anything I can get for you?”
“No. Thank you.”
“Shall I send Mrs. Hudson up with breakfast?”
“No.”
“Tea?”
“Holmes, I am fine as I am. I shall be quite able to go downstairs myself in a minute.”
“All right, then. Good day, doctor.”
It had been the wrong form of address, I realized by the wince hidden behind his farewell. I would remember that, I thought, making my way back downstairs.
I did not for a moment consider refusing the case because of Watson’s illness, however, and shortly found myself at the rather magnificent premises of the Athenaeum Club. I would have to tell Mycroft I had been to Pall Mall; he had visions of living there once his government work had led to more of an income. Not that he would spend his time with the over-privileged, stodgy patricians of this establishment.
Jones was showing off his expertise to the servants, but he left that no doubt necessary practice to quickly give me a rather biased summary of the situation. The Rembrandt was missing along with its frame, no one had seen it go, it could only have been taken between five and seven in the evening on Monday – hours when the club was normally quite crowded. Yet at five it had been there, and at seven it had not, and anyone leaving with a framed painting that large would have been impossible to miss.
Jones prattled on about servants’ exits and secret passages and such nonsense while I examined what was left of the evidence. I was terribly distracted. Normally I would simply let him talk and filter out everything not based on solid fact, but I found myself incapable of doing so that morning.
I snapped at him, was unforgivably rude to the servants when questioning them, unleashed my sarcasm at those few club members who would deign to be interrogated. I might regret that in future, for my career’s sake, but I did not care then. I felt surrounded by fools.
I had no idea at the time why I was irritable. The case had not been badly handled. Every room had been searched, and the searches had not been poorly done. I had the inventories to glance over, if I liked. Even though Jones was convinced the painting had already been spirited away, he was sensible enough to decree that no one be allowed to leave the club carrying anything that might conceal it. All appropriate enquiries at art auctions, private collections, and the like were already being made – indeed, this was where Jones had decided to focus his energies. Photographs of the painting had been printed in all the papers, along with its frame and dimensions.
And yet in spite of this excellent starting place I could think of nothing, no further actions to take, no possible hiding place. I could see flaws in the others’ work, but even then I knew they were not to blame for my inability to form a pattern. I pursued various possibilities throughout the building until I had made myself a decided nuisance to all the staff and three of the members had threatened to have me thrown out. All I discovered was that the upstairs maid was pregnant, several of the potential suspects were deeply in debt, and one of the members’ sons was a frankly terrible amateur artist. At last I retreated to Baker Street to think.
It was later than I had thought. I stopped at a restaurant for supper before returning, and found when I at last ascended to the sitting room that Watson had already retired. It spoke all too clearly of the pain he must have been in. I paced a little, decided against going up when I heard no sound that might indicate he was awake, and then settled myself into my armchair with my pipe.
I found it incredibly difficult to focus, even with the aid of a pot of strong coffee which I at last procured from Mrs. Hudson just before she too retired. The night drew on and on, as I considered the problem. Every so often there would be a shifting noise from upstairs. When Watson groaned once – not loudly, but loud enough, I nearly abandoned my occupation and went upstairs, before a glance at the clock reminded me that he would object to an interruption to his sleep. Hopefully he was sleeping. Mrs. Hudson had said only that he had not seemed outright ill. Surely even nightmarish sleep would help him recover. The storm had cleared up at some point when I was in the Athenaeum, and the next day would surely be better for his health.
I set my mind back to my case, feeling that I was missing something obvious. The painting, the corridor – well frequented but not always busy – the doors, the servants and the members...
Half the possibilities had money troubles of one kind or another. Anyone might have noticed the hallway was empty and taken the opportunity. I could not narrow the matter down that way; I must find the method and deduce the criminal from that.
It ought to be obvious. The police had an abysmal record with art thefts, admittedly, but I was not the police. Why then was I so baffled? It was all ridiculous. Probably I was wrong and the thief had cut the painting out of the frame and sold it to a collector on the Continent days ago.
The frame was the problem, of course. The painting itself could have been rolled up and smuggled out easily enough, but anyone would have been noticed carrying the frame with them. So why had they bothered taking that as well? It was an ordinary enough frame, but no empty frames or suspicious scraps of wood had been found in the building, and I had checked all the fireplaces and ash heaps myself. The best assumption was that the painting was still in it, but that would make the whole thing far more difficult to hide.
Unless it made it easier -
I had found a crack to sink my fingers into, and the case began to break open in my mind. I live for such moments, when one can pull away all useless information and see behind it the pattern linking all the relevant details one had previously observed but not understood. Having first divided the useless from the essential, the remainder is generally not difficult to order. Once I had the means, the culprit and even his opportunity became obvious.
I worked the whole thing out slowly over another bowl of tobacco, carefully searching for flaws. By the time the entire pattern was laid out in my head, it was nearly eight o’clock. Late enough, I decided, and I set out for Scotland Yard, stopping to beg a bottle of turpentine from Mrs. Hudson on the way.
*
I left in triumph later that day, a sizable and very much appreciated cheque for the reward in my pocket. The paperwork necessary for the Yard had taken longer than I expected, and I was still irritable. Jones, despite having had no idea what I was doing until I had already done it, had laughed and said “Obvious, really,” after his moment of shock, and I found myself unable to ignore his idiocy as I usually would. I stopped at my bank to cash the reward and then set myself homewards. Watson would be up by now.
At the top of our staircase I was rewarded again – and how ridiculous to think of it that way – by the sight of him walking to the table with only a little assistance from his cane. He smiled at me at once upon my entrance. “The case is over, then?”
I realized I was grinning like a madman and attempted to remedy that. “Yes. It went quite well.”
“What happened?”
“Have you heard anything of the missing Rembrandt at the Athenaeum?”
He had returned to his armchair with a cigar, and I took up my pipe and joined him in mine. I tried at first to downplay the matter, but far too quickly I was caught up in the story and his reactions. I had missed them earlier.
“It quickly became clear,” I told him, “that the painting simply could not have left the premises. Jones, of course, took this as a sign that the thief had come up with an exceptionally cunning method of sneaking it out.”
“And you?” He was half smiling, one eyebrow raised, awaiting my theory.
“I, my dear Watson, started from the assumption that the Rembrandt had never left the building at all.” I grinned at him, anticipating his astonishment, before I noticed what I had called him. ‘My dear Watson.’ It had just slipped out. I’d called him similar things before – my dear fellow, my dear chap – but I had not expected how personal the endearment would sound with his name attached.
He seemed not to notice it. “But how was that possible, if the building had been searched?”
“Ah,” I said. “It had been searched; twice, in fact. But the searches were useless. What was needed was only to look in the right place. I mentioned, I think, that Lord Fanshawe kept a collection of his second son’s paintings in a back room there, much to the other members’ dismay?”
“Yes?”
He had not quite got it, but he would. “I did not realize the significance myself, at first. But where better to hide a painting, my dear fellow, than in an art gallery? Not that it could ever be described as a gallery.”
“Good heavens,” he said, laughing. “But Holmes, surely if the son was that poor an artist -”
“He would be easy to imitate,” I finished. The dawning understanding on his face was beautiful.
“It was painted over,” he said. “Holmes, you are brilliant. But would it not be unrecoverable, then?”
“No,” I said. I suspect I was glowing by then. I have always been susceptible to flattery, most particularly flattery from him. “The original was varnished, of course, and oil paints take weeks to dry. I understand that galleries do not consider paintings fully dry until half a century has passed. Having been applied only days ago, the overpainting was still wet to the touch. It came off at once with a bit of turpentine.”
“Brilliant,” he said again. “Why did he do it?”
“Gambling debts,” I said. “Common enough – there was no way of finding a suspect from motive alone.” I did not feel comfortable speaking further on the subject – I hated Watson’s gambling with an unreasonable passion. Horses, and cards, and Watson returning and shutting himself in his room and refusing to speak to me. Someday I would find a way to address the matter, but not today. Today, after I had suffered a full day without his presence, Watson was gazing at me as if I had just turned water into wine, to use a rather blasphemous metaphor.
And how had I gotten to a state where Watson’s presence was more important to me, to my state of mind, than the case itself?
The thought was extremely disturbing, for it was true. I had pretended I had no idea why I was out of sorts, but I knew myself better than that.
Watson’s health was a distraction. Watson’s absence was a distraction. But his presence wasn’t. It was unexpected. I was not used to the idea of preferring company to solitude.
The first time he had had a nightmare after moving into Baker Street, I had run up the stairs and nearly into his room before realizing what was happening and deciding not to embarrass him. For certainly he would be embarrassed. After that, whenever I heard any sounds from upstairs I took up my violin at once. It seemed to help, judging by his expression in the mornings and the fact that he had never complained about my music. But primarily it was so that I would not have to hear him should he scream.
The thought of the violin gave me an idea. Watson was about to ask something else, but I jumped to my feet and found my instrument’s case.
“Any requests, dear fellow?”
He raised his eyebrows, but said simply, “No, nothing in particular.”
There were all sorts of things I could have played, but I set myself to Bach’s Sonata in C major, which would certainly occupy my mind. I kept myself ruthlessly to the piece as written, restraining myself from variations or improvisation. Near the beginning of the third movement, I realized Watson was staring at my fingers, and had been for some time.
I did not have the leisure to consider his expression then. I played my disturbing emotions into the music even more fiercely than before, until the piece was finished and I’d realized how badly I needed to rosin my bow and Watson was still amazed, still smiling at me. Of course he was; playing Bach as it ought to be played was not likely to make him stop, even if it temporarily kept me from saying anything untoward in response.
I smiled back – it was not a matter of choice. Something had softened with the last variation on the theme, and I could relax a little more. This was not a calamity, I told myself. But I chattered about the case over lunch, the ease of bringing in a canvas covered painting and then sliding a second painting into the cover, the likely time his Lordship was planning to wait before the police enquiry died down, all the little details remaining on the top of my mind looking for an outlet. Watson listened, though his expression was beginning to lean toward tolerance rather than fascination. Good. It would help me eventually shut myself up.
But I found I could not manage it on my own, not when he was in the room and I could not stop looking at him, so I went out again, and gave myself to London.
I have never understood the descriptions of London as “dreary,” or “grim,” or any of the myriad synonyms found in bucolic novels. For me it is beautiful, roads and bricks and archways and towers all stretching and ascending into artwork. Even when the fog is so thick one cannot see one’s hand before one’s face, the city is still navigable to me. The fog is a protection: when even the most determined criminal is driven inside by the smoke I walk through it as if it were clearest air. The areas around Baker Street and my old digs in Montague Street I have so well memorized that I could navigate them blindfolded, and it is not impossible that someday I may have to. And when the fogs are lighter, or lifted entirely, the streets in every shade of grey stretch out before me, and anywhere in the city I can see every corner and alleyway and turn before I come to it, set down in my mind and yet still changeable enough to surprise me, memorized and unknown at the same time. The city shines in my head with five million points of light, all of them together forming something far greater than simply a maze of avenues and alleyways.
I am most often private in my wanderings, sometimes disguised, yet when Watson was with me I found that everything was changed, the city become not itself but a background for him. When idly calculating alternate routes I found myself accounting for his broader shoulders and lessened reach and mobility automatically. But he did not eclipse the world entirely; rather, his interest in passers-by spurred me to deduce from observations I would otherwise have dismissed from my mind, and his curious glances at buildings led me to explain their occupants and history, if I knew them. He encouraged my mind without even intending to.
Just as with my work.
What was worst was that it was not sexual, mostly. I wished that it were, with all the passion that I had formerly used to reject the entire sphere. Such desires were ridiculously easy to satisfy, compared with what I wanted, and had never needed before.
God, but what did I want? Watson with me, Watson healthy, following me, smiling at my brilliance and frowning with scepticism at my wilder leaps of theory, behind me when I needed support, and thinking, always, questioning, trying as hard as he could to follow me. For me. I wanted to watch him speculate and so myself come to better understanding. I wanted him with me every possible moment, now, even, so I could amaze him by telling him the life-history of that Catholic journalist there and smile at him as if it were the simplest thing in the world. I wanted his assistance, in my work, always. It was dreadfully impractical.
And yet it was there nonetheless. And the thought of Watson was enough to make me want to make it practical.
I returned home. Watson had gone off somewhere. Excellent, I told myself firmly – he was well enough to get around by himself. There was no need for my concern.
Luckily, Watson did not yet know me well – though by then he likely knew me better than anyone other than Mycroft, to tell the truth. I have never encouraged a multitude of friendships. But he had not yet realized how out of character it was for me to be as solicitous as I was to him that winter. I watched for any sign that his leg was failing him or his shoulder seizing up. I concerned myself with the heat of our rooms and the supply of brandy in the spirit case and blankets on the settee. And I did all of this as covertly as possible – and I can be very unobtrusive when I choose – so that he should not feel that I thought him weakened or deficient in any way. His guard against such accusations was more formidable than Jericho.
And so I managed to have him with me whenever I wanted him, more or less, though I attempted to keep him from anything likely to be too taxing. This was not a particularly successful project – Watson was as eager as I was for cases, though he, I think, wanted physical enjoyment more than the mental stimulation I gained from them. Or perhaps not. He was no more satisfied than I with a case left unfinished, and I could see his irritation whenever I kept him in the dark as to my plans. Though that did not stop me doing it, given how admiring he looked when seeing everything fall into place at once.
I took advantage of what chances I had to satisfy my interest in him. I played up my discoveries – I have always had a tendency toward the dramatic, but it became almost baroque then, as I laboured for his expressions of wonder. I suppressed any verbal expressions of affection – not difficult, for me – so that he might take my casual touches as a mere moderate replacement for that rather than an extreme restraint of what I wanted.
And I watched him, every second, when we were in public. At last I came to the conclusion that he was, in fact, interested in men – might even be interested in me. And yet that was no good basis for action. The eternal problem for the observer is refraining from allowing his own prejudices to contaminate the data. It was entirely possible that Watson’s theorized regard for me was no more than my own desires embellishing upon the evidence of his friendship.
Besides, while Watson perhaps had some experience with men, he clearly had no interest in pursuing any of that now. I had no wish to be thought of as a poor substitute for propriety.
And yet I had no wish to be abandoned for it either.
I told myself there would be little likelihood of that so long as I could keep the man interested, and luckily my life was certainly calculated to do that.
That Christmas Watson left to visit unspecified relatives – I theorized a sibling of whom he disapproved, but there was not enough data for anything further – and I remained in London cheering myself with Mrs. Hudson’s cooking. Neither I nor my brother attach much sentiment to Christmas, and I expected us to pass it as usual with no sign.
However, shortly before the date I received a cheque, and a note.
My dear Sherlock,
I see from the papers that you have discovered that the benefits of foregoing credit are not entirely compatible with your chosen profession. I hope you are having an easier time finding work than you were. Certainly you deserve recognition, if you want it.
You are of course always welcome here, and should you wish to take up commissions for me I hope you will call. Competence is distressingly rare in the circles I am beginning to have to move in, and your assistance would be welcome.
I hope both you and your doctor are well, and that you find your company in this season congenial. Merry Christmas, dear boy.
Mycroft Holmes
I read it over again. Well.
Well.
Good Lord, I had seen Mycroft exactly twice since I moved into Baker Street. How on earth did he know?
For of course he knew. His phrasing was always very precise. If he called Watson “my” doctor, and coupled us grammatically, it was because he had reason to believe it was warranted
God damn the man. It is only when dealing with my brother that I realize how irritating the rest of the world must find me. It is well we do not live with one another.
Not that Watson seemed to mind living with me.
So. Mycroft knew. It was to be expected, really. I found myself something to do at the docks. Otium, Catulle, tibi molestum est.