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It was the middle of a rather dreary and wet January in 1882 that I found myself sitting in a rattling hansom opposite my friend and cohabitant, feeling equal parts restlessness and exhaustion the likes of which I had not experienced since those long, arduous days of convalescence in Peshawar. Sherlock Holmes and I, fresh off of the resolution of one of his cases, sat in silence as the cab rattled its dreary way down dreary streets to a dreary Baker Street.
How abominable is the word ‘dreary’!
“—that of course, was what led me toward the truth almost immediately. The home and hearth of a man is a sacred place, Watson. Within it, he places his true self, in all its varied shades of sin and shame and joy and aspiration…”
I felt my mind wander as my companion waxed eloquent about the philosophical path his deductions had taken. I was nearly always rapt when Holmes spoke in such a manner, but this was one of the rare occasions when I did not—and possibly could not—pay attention to him.
Home, thought I weakly. What a beautiful notion. I had a brief flash of my younger self, determined and curious enough about the world to sign up for a bloody war. I wondered if he ever could have seen himself making a home out of the rooms I had at Baker Street. Truth be told, he would probably have scoffed at the very idea.
I was roused from my stupor when Holmes paused his précis of the investigation. “You are very silent this evening, Watson.” He paused another moment. “I do hope I'm not boring you.”
The mixed exasperation and concern in his voice seemed to awaken me. “Certainly not!” I cried. “I beg your pardon my dear fellow. I—well, that is to say—”
“You are tired,” Holmes remarked astutely. “I am not surprised. Indeed, I have been expecting such a thing for some time now.”
The Adventure of the Gaping Charwoman is a tale sufficiently horrific and scandalous enough that it will be many years before my account of it will be made available to the public. It was also, in my experience, one of the shortest cases I had—as yet—witnessed Sherlock Holmes set his mind upon: brought to his attention at the dinner table, it was already closed and the culprit apprehended in the small hours of the following morning. It was the resolution of this very case that we were returning from. All this to say, Holmes’ remark of suspicion ‘for some time now’ took me rather by surprise.
“Surely you didn’t already deduce my exhaustion at dinner, Holmes,” I said, half in jest and half in confusion. “Why, Major Richards was still explaining the incident to us at the time.”
“I do not mean from this case,” said he, a trifle impatiently, “though its circumstances have been dreary enough”—I startled, not pleasantly, at his utterance of the very word plaguing my mind—“to warrant some malaise of the soul.”
Holmes said no more, only continued to look at me meaningfully. My weariness made me impatient as well.
“What do you mean, my dear fellow?”
Holmes leaned back with an annoyed click of his tongue. “Either I have overestimated your capacity for brain work and inference, or you are indulging in prevarication!” As if goaded by my frustrated demeanour, he continued, “I mean, Watson, that you have perhaps reached the saturation point of your participation in my endeavours. Many men would have had enough of crime and corpses far sooner and you have been partnering me for over ten months. Indeed, Doctor, I would not begrudge you for tiring of this sort of work,” he added, with a hint of unexpected gentleness. “I have no illusions of the rigours and demands of a life spent in the pursuit of crime, amongst the very dregs of human society.”
Were I not as thoroughly spent as I was at that moment, I am sure I would have responded in a kindlier manner. As it were, my strange temper and depleting energy only made me say quite acerbically, “And here you wondered at overestimating my ‘capacity’ when you are rather underestimating it! Really, Holmes.”
What followed was one of the few rare moments where something I said or did seemed to leave Holmes at a brief loss for words. While these moments were usually followed by spirited conversation or gleefully sarcastic banter, this particular instance stretched longer than was comfortable, and we spent the rest of the drive home in silence.
We arrived at Baker Street at a little past three in the morning, that darkest and quietest hour of the night at any time of year. To our surprise, our rooms were neither dark nor quiet when we stepped over the threshold into our abode.
“Oh, Mr Holmes,” cried Mrs Hudson, our long-suffering landlady, bonnet askew and hands aflutter.
“Well well, what is it?” muttered Holmes with not a little asperity, for as much as we appreciated Mrs Hudson’s helpful and kindly manner, we were not inclined to bear any sort of hysterics at the end of a day as long as this had been.
"Your chemicals, sir," said the lady, her expression an intriguing mélange of nervous fear and righteous offense. “Something in those glass jars of yours went bad, sir, for a fairly rotten stink came floating down to my own flat and I couldn’t bear it Mr Holmes, not for another moment smelling like it did—”
Holmes had turned pale. “Did you break the jar? Or, heaven forbid, attempt to wash it?” He cried, bounding up the stairs. Mrs Hudson and I followed close upon his heels, our own sedateness dashed by Holmes’ urgency.
“Neither, Mr Holmes!” gasped the lady, “For the smell was so strong I could not bear to be near it, let alone hold it for too long—”
We had burst into our sitting room and there was indeed a pervasive stink about the place, despite the open windows. I recognised the scent immediately.
“Sewer gas!” I exclaimed, revulsion rising in my throat.
“Dihydrogen monosulphide, if you please!” Holmes slid both the windows up as high as they could go, and I took his place with a gasp of relief while he gravitated toward his chemistry bench, looking heavily put-upon. “Well, Mrs Hudson, where is the jar?”
The poor lady’s hand-wringing turned even more emphatic. “I took it up with every intention to toss it sir, as far as I could, or pour it down the sink or on the ash-heap in the grate!”
Holmes groaned. “Not the ash-grate!”
Mrs Hudson was weeping now. “I couldn’t do it sir! I never had the strongest disposition, and upon gathering the jar I felt so faint I was certain I would collapse then and there on the hearth-rug!”
“Yes, yes, but the jar is not upon the hearth-rug.”
"No Mr Holmes, for I thought of my poor niece—out in Birmingham sir, the one married to the ferrier—and of poor Mrs Turner who does the kitchen and little Alice that does the sweeping and the dusting and her young man being ever so nice and economical for the chimney sweeping, sir—once every fortnight, punctual as you please—and you kind gentlemen, why I thought of each and every one of you finding me in such a state upon the hearth-rug—”
“The jar, Mrs Hudson!”
“It is in one of your bedrooms, sir,” Mrs Hudson said finally with a tremulous sniff. “I had some thought of getting it out of the sitting room at once, but the strength that pushed me from that hearth-rug sir, why it barely got me through the hallway and I placed it, none too carefully, I’m afraid, in the first room I stumbled upon and slammed the door shut upon it.”
A sinking suspicion had settled within me during the course of Mrs Hudson’s fluttery narration, and I knew, as she finished her rambling tale with some abruptness, that the unfortunate sod whose room was now entirely stuffed with deadly sewer gas, was of course to be me. Holmes had evidently come to the same conclusion and his eyes were now upon me, looking, to his credit, faintly apologetic.
“You did very well in clearing this room, Mrs Hudson,” said he as he ushered the flustered lady toward the door. “I will take it upon myself to dispose of the abomination in Watson's bedroom.”
I sank rather than sat on my customary armchair by the unlit fire. The cold, wet winter air seeped into the room through the open windows, but I knew we could not dare light the fire until the gas was entirely cleared out. I therefore did not bother divesting myself of my coat and gloves, and upon feeling the chill when I took off my hat, I decided to put it back on as well.
Holmes lingered for but a few moments after Mrs Hudson had descended to her own rooms. With a curt request to stay put, he strode out of the sitting room with purpose, and I heard his footsteps make their way unerringly to my room followed by the familiar creak of my bedroom door announcing his arrival at his destination. Then, as I listened, I heard his footsteps turn soft yet quick, followed by the loud slide and slam of my bedroom window. Any further sounds were deadened by the closed door of the sitting room, but I could hear them in my head: the quiet gagging of his breath in the toxic atmosphere, the tinkle of glass as he worked to neutralise the compound using whatever was in the beaker he had snatched up as he left my presence.
The silence persisted for several long minutes, until I, despite my exhaustion, was ready to get up and follow him into my room. But I did not have to, for no sooner than I sat up did Holmes sweep open the door and hurry inside.
“It is done,” said he, his face pale, his eyes bloodshot, his voice thick and raspy.
“Good God, Holmes, that bad?”
“I’m afraid so, Watson. You must take my bed tonight, with my humblest apologies.” He gulped down some clear liquid from another beaker on the chemistry bench, and smiled at my expression. “Do not fear, my dear doctor. It is only distilled water. Safer than the carafe, I’d wager.”
“Certainly,” said I, quite at a loss for words. My mind was a tired jumble of statements and emotions: of consideration to wave away his apology, of embarrassment to apologise for my turn of mood, of relief that the deed was finished, of still some weariness from my foul ill humour.
“You may borrow my nightclothes as well if you like,” said Holmes, sinking heavily onto his own chair opposite mine. “I do think all yours will need a good scrub and rinse in the morning.”
I sighed. “I thought as much. Thank you, Holmes, I think I shall borrow a shirt.”
Holmes picked up his violin and waved his bow languidly in acquiescence. “What’s mine is yours,” he murmured, and began to play.
I have written of my friend’s prodigious skills several times before in varying detail. As a violin player he is practically a virtuoso, a fact that is impossible to forget, but which impresses itself anew upon me every time he picks up his Stradivarius. I have seen him play difficult concertos, fresh and jaunty jigs, even some melodious, moaning strains that I have suspected were his own creations. And on this dreary night, less than a year after our first meeting, I heard him play, for the first time, a lullaby.
It was a delicate tune, a little sombre here, a little hopeful there, with a deeply calming cadence throughout. I felt my muscles relax of their own accord: my shoulders slumped, my legs stretched out to their limit, my toes curled in my boots. Despite the unlit fire, I felt a spark of mellow warmth in my chest.
Holmes noticed my relaxed state. He continued to play without pause, but his severe lips softened into a quirk of a smile, and he nodded at the table by my side. I was surprised to find a glass of hot water and brandy at my elbow. So focused was I on Holmes’ playing that I never noticed Mrs Hudson come in with the drinks.
With a half-smile of my own, I picked up the glass and sipped the drink, letting out a soundless sigh of relief when my insides warmed even more.
“You look cosy, Doctor,” Holmes remarked, eyes twinkling.
“You don’t,” I said pointedly, and Holmes swept aside the violin bow in response. There was no pause in the music, however, for the long fingers of his other hand were still curled around the neck of his instrument, and they continued to pluck the simple refrain of the song on the strings. He took a swig of his own drink in this very fashion.
“That is quite a lovely little melody,” I remarked. “I have never heard it before.”
Holmes shrugged and placed his glass back on his table. “Nor have I,” he murmured, and brought the bow to string once more. I felt a small burst of pleasure and triumph. So I had guessed right.
“I felt as if I had to contribute to the momentousness of tonight’s events,” said he a minute later. “Something to celebrate.” The tune rose in a brief flourish before relapsing into its quiet rhythm.
“The case has certainly been an extraordinary one,” I agreed. “I must thank you for allowing me to witness your work tonight.”
One of my first impressions of Sherlock Holmes, made all those months ago as we followed the trail left by Jefferson Hope, was of his inhuman qualities. The machine-like precision of his theories, the abandonment of human affectations like hunger and politesse to keep his senses sharp and his mind sharper. I have come to know him far more intimately than I did in those early months, and I know now that Sherlock Holmes is more than just an automaton, a detecting machine. I have seen his heart and the warmth that burns within it and I am convinced that he is one of the best men I have ever come to know.
But in January of 1882, I was still learning. I was still caught by surprise by many things that Holmes would say or do. And on this dreary cusp of night and day, I saw, for the first time, that as much as I had come to regard my friend with some warmth, Holmes had come to the same understanding and acceptance of me.
“You flatter me, Watson,” said he, the gleam in his eyes quickening for a second, “but I was not speaking of Major Richards’ case.” When I continued to gape uncomprehendingly at him, he whipped away the bow of his violin once more, but this time he stopped playing altogether.
“I speak, my dear doctor, of your intention to remain in these rooms and participate in my vocation.” He turned his eyes to the ceiling. “As of today, you have become the longest-standing roommate I’ve ever had. Barring, of course, my fellows at school and university.”
He looked as nonchalant as ever, but I could tell by his sidelong glance that he was awaiting my response with some eagerness.
“I… I'm honoured.”
The gleam returned into Holmes’ eyes, and he leaned forward and squeezed my hand briefly. “The honour is mine,” said he earnestly, and there it was! The spark of warmth within Sherlock Holmes, the existence of which I had already begun to suspect, but finally had the occasion to see it displayed, directed at me. I have found such moments always creep upon one when least expected, at the most mundane settings. There in the dark and the cold, I sat and listened to Sherlock Holmes serenade me and let grow that bond of trust and friendship that would last both our lifetimes.
I would have stayed awake longer if I could. But when I felt Holmes nudge my arm gently after some time I realised I had already nodded off for some indeterminate period of time.
“It is late, Watson,” said my friend gently. “Off to bed with you.”
I stood up without protest. “And you, Holmes?”
“The settee will do nicely.”
“But you must take your own bed—” I began with some consternation, but Holmes interrupted me. “Consider it recompense for making your own bed unavailable to you tonight. Come, come, Watson, I will not be so magnanimous for much longer!”
“It is cold here,” I said stubbornly.
Holmes shut the windows with a snap. "The danger has passed from this room. I will light the fire." Within the next minute he proved his words true.
“Well, if you're certain.”
“Less and less every second,” he snapped. “Carpe diem, my dear Watson, or rather carpe lectus, as is the case!”
Masterful as ever, I let Holmes usher me out of the slowly-warming sitting room. I paused just outside the doorway and glanced at his noble profile, edged both by shadow and light.
I remembered my errant thought earlier in the carriage. My younger self could not even have dreamed of the home I had made for myself. The thought made me smile.
“Good night, Holmes.”
Sherlock Holmes looked at me and his superficial annoyance faded away. His quirk of a smile gleamed back at me in the firelight. "Good night, Watson."