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charleygirlTitle: The Hand of Friendship
Author: charleygirl
Rating: G
Words: 4154
Characters involved: Sherlock Holmes, Doctor Watson, Mary Morstan Watson, Mrs Hudson
Genre: Friendship, angst
Disclaimer: These characters, while out of copyright, were created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and do not belong to me.
Summary: Watson may be married now, but he has not abandoned his friend. Holmes discovers that he does not have to battle the black dog alone.
Author's Note: Inspired by a throwaway line in the play The Secret of Sherlock Holmes. My first attempt at writing married Watson. Not entirely sure it works. :/
THE HAND OF FRIENDSHIP
Though he would never admit it - strenuously deny it, in fact - Sherlock Holmes was, I believe, an essentially lonely man. His was not a personality which enjoyed the usual social niceties of the world – he abhorred small talk and dancing, and spending time voluntarily with those he believed to be his intellectual inferiors had been anathema to him before we began sharing rooms (at first from necessity, later by choice) in Baker Street. In all the time we lodged at 221B I know that I was his only intimate friend, and probably the one person who knew him best for he and his brother had never been particularly close and as far as I was aware he had no other living relatives. He was by nature solitary, happy for extended periods with his own company as long as he was working and testing his great brain to the limits. When work dried up and boredom crept in his mood descended into darkness and solitude then became a thing of malevolence. I knew well his nightmares and battles with the black dog of depression, and I like to think that, if unable to find a cure to rid my poor friend of his mental torments, I was at least able to help him through those long, dark moments of the soul with which he was plagued.
It was, therefore, with some trepidation that I left him in our rooms when I embarked upon a new life, that of a husband and a professional, away from the danger and adventure which had occasionally marked our time together. He insisted that he would be perfectly all right, his flourishing practice ensuring that there would be no difficulty in his covering my half of the rent, and reminding me that he had lived alone before. I knew this, but still I worried in snatched moments between patients or last thing at night before Mary and I retired. I did not mention my concerns to my wife, but she somehow divined them using that uncanny intuition with which women are blessed.
“Another refusal from Mr Holmes?” she asked over breakfast as I frowned at one of my letters. I glanced up in surprise to find her watching me, the teapot poised in one delicate hand. “That’s the third, is it not?”
I sighed, leaning back in my chair. “He says that he is unavoidably occupied upon a case and cannot accept our invitation.”
“Is that so implausible?”
“Not at all. It’s just that…”I ran a hand through my hair, searching for an explanation for my irrational concern from the plaster swags on the ceiling.
“He is your friend and you are worried about him.” Mary laughed when I stared at her in astonishment. “Oh, John, do you think that to be worried is unnatural? You shared rooms with Mr Holmes for a long time, seeing him every day – it is quite normal for you be concerned when your only contact with him in six months has been a formally-phrased telegram.”
Her amusement was quite understandable. I found myself smiling ruefully. “Yes, you are right. I confess I had been looking forward to showing him over the house, and hoping that he might take the time to get to know you better, my dear. It is unfortunate that Holmes has scant regard for the little things of life.”
“That is not to be wondered at, since he spends so much of his time chasing after the big things,” my wife said sagely, passing me my teacup. “You will be going to see him this evening, I take it?”
This time I did not even ask her how she knew my intentions. It would seem that I am quite transparent, for Holmes has always been able to divine my purpose in an instant. In that moment it did occur to me that Mary might have much in common with my mercurial friend. “If it will not bother you, I will call in at Baker Street on my way home, yes.”
“It will not bother me in the slightest,” she replied, and got gracefully to her feet, crossing to the sideboard. From the cupboard she removed a box secured with a tartan ribbon, which she laid upon the table before me. “You may take that to Mr Holmes, with my best wishes.”
I found myself frowning again. “What is it?”
“A gift. I am extending the hand of friendship,” said Mary mysteriously. “Tell him that.”
“But - ”
She smiled brightly and glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. Dropping a kiss on my forehead as she passed, she glided over to the door. “You had better hurry, darling, or you will be late.”
“Indeed,” I said, looking at the box and wondering what on earth it could contain.
***
The lights were on in my old apartments when I descended from the cab, though to my slight disappointment there was no sign of Holmes’s familiar silhouette upon the blind.
I still retained my key to the front door on Mrs Hudson’s insistence, but I refrained from using it, instead relying upon a tug of the bell to announce my presence. To my surprise it took a good three minutes for the redoubtable lady to answer the door, and when at last she did her aspect was flustered, worry lines creasing her homely face.
“Oh, Doctor Watson, thank goodness!” she cried upon seeing me on the step. “I was on the verge of sending for you, but I told myself that there would be no point in worrying you when you have other concerns. He’d not thank me for it and that’s the truth.”
“Whatever has happened?” I asked, following her into the hall. “Is it Holmes? What has he done?”
“I’m sure I don’t know sir – I’ve not seen hide nor hair of him since Sunday night. Shut himself in up there, so he has, locked the door and won’t answer my calls. Nor a morsel of food has passed his lips since then, unless he has something squirreled away in his rooms for he’s taken none of the trays I left at the top of the stairs!” Mrs Hudson shook her head, her hands twisting the cloth of her apron as she glanced towards the landing above us.
I sighed inwardly, recognising this behaviour from the many times I had been forced to deal with Holmes’s ‘black fits’. “He has no case on hand?”
“None at all that I know of. He’s not well, sir, though of course he won’t admit it. I hear him in the night, pacing back and forth across the sitting room.”
“How long has he been like this?” I asked, remembering the telegram I had received that morning, refusing my invitation to dine on Saturday.
“Since last week,” Mrs Hudson said sadly, “though he’s been out of sorts for longer. When he’s working I don’t notice it so much for he’s rarely here, but there have been no clients for nearly a month now and Inspector Lestrade hasn’t been by. When he locked himself away I didn’t know what to do for I didn’t like to tear you away from your wife and Mr Holmes wouldn’t hear of it. You know how masterful he is, Doctor.”
“I do indeed,” I told her, and, after reassuring her that I would do what I could for my friend, I made my way up the seventeen stairs.
Nothing had changed in my absence: the carpet was still worn on the landing, the aspidistra in its brass pot on the windowsill. Holmes’s coat and hat hung on the stand by the sitting room door, his silver handled walking stick beside them. I tried the door to his bedroom and found it to be locked – a turn of the sitting room door handle proved that to be similarly secured. Setting Mary’s gift down upon the steps which led to my old room, I raised a hand and knocked gently upon the panel. “Holmes?” I called, and after a moment heard a rustle from within, which indicated that he was alive at least. “Holmes, it’s me, Watson. May I come in?”
There was a long pause, and I knocked again. Just as I was about to try a third time, I heard footsteps approaching the door, and then the scrape of a key in the lock. The steps retreated and I turned the handle – this time it moved freely in my hand and I was able to enter the familiar room beyond.
I say familiar, but the familiarity was purely superficial. The carpet, curtains and furniture were all the same – at least the glimpses of them I could make out suggested they were – but everything was covered with a kind of horrible rat’s nest clutter comprised of old newspapers, discarded letters, scattered chemical equipment and disreputable articles of clothing. Books were piled upon every available surface, from the sofa to the table and the floor beneath the windows. The decaying remains of a handful of half-eaten apples occupied the fruit bowl, sharing the space with a pungently rotten pear which thankfully did not appear to have been touched. Unwashed cups and saucers, some of them containing the stubs of cigarettes, littered the room. It was quite clear that Mrs Hudson had not been allowed in for some considerable time.
In the midst of the detritus, the tall, gaunt figure of Sherlock Holmes made his way somewhat unsteadily back to his armchair. He was still in his nightclothes, the shirt crumpled beneath his old mouse-coloured dressing gown, an event unheard of at this late hour. His dark hair was a tousled, uncombed mop, and I estimated at least three days’ growth of beard upon his chin. This was so at odds with his usual immaculate appearance that it was quite obvious something was seriously wrong. As I picked my way carefully through the debris to put down my bag, hat and Mary’s box upon the table, he showed no sign of acknowledging my presence. Silence reigned in the room until I had cleared a small patch of cloth onto which I could deposit my burden – when I turned to find somewhere to sit he said,
“I suppose Mrs Hudson summoned you.” Before I could open my mouth to respond he continued, “As you can see I am quite well and in no need of mothering so you may return to your wife. I shall not detain you a moment longer.” His voice was flat and he did not even glance in my direction. I found my eyes drawn to his desk and the drawer which stood half open in search of the morocco case which contained his syringe, but I could not spot it amongst the paperwork and discarded pipe cleaners.
“You are not detaining me,” I said, crossing to my old chair and removing a pile of manuscripts from the seat. Sitting down I realised that the grate was empty – it was a chilly night and the temperature in the room was uncomfortably frigid, though the air was thick with the reek of tobacco. “As a matter of fact, Mrs Hudson did not summon me so you cannot accuse her of disobeying your instructions. I came to see you. I had no idea that - ”
“ – that the black fit has me in its clutches?” Holmes gave a hollow laugh and drew his bony knees up towards his chest, folding all his long limbs inwards. “Why should you? Matters elsewhere deservedly occupy your attention.”
“I am not far away,” I reminded him, attempting to contain the dismay I felt at seeing him in such a state. “You had only to telegraph me and I would have come.”
He flapped a hand at me. “There is nothing you could have done.”
“There is no medicine I can offer, but I could have borne you company, talked with you, distracted you from the demons as I have done in the past.”
“Yes, that is true,” Holmes said with a slight smile. It faded a moment later. “No, my dear fellow, I would not drag you away from Mrs Watson for so trivial a reason.”
“Mary would not have minded,” I insisted. “And the matter is not a trivial one or you would not be…” I struggled for a way of putting the situation which would not offend him and failed to find one.
“…reduced to the state in which you find me,” he finished when I could not.
Instead of agreeing with him I said, “Are things really so bad?”
He laughed again, shortly, but there was no humour in the sound. “I am managing to keep a roof over my head, so you need have no concerns upon that score. I am not about to turn up on your doorstep, carpet bag in hand, begging for shelter.”
“Should such an unlikely event come to pass, you may be sure that we would welcome you with open arms,” I said, and meant it. Recalling his refusal of my many invitations I added, “I am surprised in any case that you are aware of my new address, as you have never visited me there.”
Holmes gave me a sidelong glance, but instead of responding he fairly leapt to his feet and strode across to the sideboard. “I have been remiss in my duties as a host,” he declared, unearthing the decanter and gasogene from beneath a pile of old coats. “What will you have? Ah, I remember - ”
“Holmes, I do not want a drink,” I said, rising from my chair. “Why have you turned down all my invitations to dine with us? I would like nothing better than you welcome you into my home, and I know that Mary - ”
“I have been busy,” he muttered, fussing with glasses and whisky. I waved away the drink he offered me.
“You are not busy now. Come to us on Saturday, as I suggested – we would be glad to see you.”
Holmes abandoned my glass upon the table and threaded his way through the mess to the window. He twitched aside the blind and peered down into the street for several moments before eventually beginning, “I regret - ”
“Holmes,” I interrupted, rounding the table and trying not to trip over one of the piles of books, “you are unemployed and have no other commitments that I am aware of. Unless you are planning to visit your brother at the Diogenes, I can see no earthly reason why you should refuse my invitation. Surely an evening in convivial company can only be preferable to yet another spent amongst this…this…chaos!”
My friend turned from the window and put down his drink upon his cluttered desk. He leaned there for some time, head down and face averted. There was a sharp intake of breath and I wondered whether he might be about to collapse - he seemed far from steady upon his feet, and so I moved towards him, my hand already extended in support.
“Holmes?” I said, lowering my voice when he did not respond. “Holmes, I did not mean - ” I trailed off as I rounded the desk and was able to see him clearly. His face was twisted in pain and upon glancing down I realised that there was blood between the fingers of his left hand as he raised it from the pile of papers upon which he had been leaning. I shifted the letters and saw that beneath them was a broken chemical retort, its glass edge jagged – he had put his hand down upon it having evidently forgotten it was there. I took his arm as he stared at his bleeding hand in shock, steering him towards the sofa and shoving aside heaven only knew what so that he could sit down.
“It’s all right, old man,” I told him, gently grasping his wrist and drawing his hand towards me so that I might see the damage. Thankfully the gash in his palm was shallow and would not need stitching. I left him for a moment to call down to Mrs Hudson for some water and to fetch my bag, returning to find him looking about in confusion. He blinked up at me as I sat beside him like a man emerging from a trance.
“Watson, I don’t - ” he began, but I shushed him.
“It’s all right,” I said again as Mrs Hudson arrived. She stared in horror for a moment at the state of the room but recovered herself swiftly, bringing the water and some clean linen which she set down upon the little table at my elbow. We were silent as I carefully cleaned and dressed the wound, the only sound the steady ticking of the clock on the landing and the traffic in the street outside. As I worked, Mrs Hudson quietly moved about the room, pulling the curtains and tidying what she could, at last kneeling before the grate and starting to lay a fire.
“Forgive me, my dear fellow,” Holmes said eventually, when I had finished wrapping his hand in clean bandages. “I fear I would be far from convivial company for Mrs Watson – she will not want me sitting at her table like the ghost at the feast.”
“Mary wishes you to come as much as I,” I replied, patting his shoulder companionably. “Really, old man, you must stop thinking I that I have to choose between the two of you. I am not the first chap to be married and still retain his friends, you know.”
“I…” Holmes sighed. “I do not confess a gap in my knowledge lightly, but it would seem that I am somewhat ignorant as to the mysteries of matrimony.”
I smiled, and shook my head. “Things have not changed completely because I am married, Holmes. I have been busy, of course, building up the practice, but I had no intention of abandoning our friendship. Is that why you refused my invitations, because you thought you would be intruding?”
He shifted uncomfortably on the sofa, glancing at Mrs Hudson. Without a word, the good lady rose to her feet and sailed off into his bedroom, closing the door behind her. A moment later we could hear the rustling of fabric as she began to make the bed. “On the first occasion, I was indeed occupied with a case,” Holmes said reluctantly. “When your second invitation arrived, after much thought I was about to accept when a message came from Mycroft demanding my assistance on some delicate matter. The investigation was more complicated than I expected, which forced me to decline.”
“And the third?”
“I truth, it pains me to admit as much but by then I had fallen into such a funk that I could not believe you and your good lady would actually want me there,” he admitted with a rueful smile. “I caught sight of Wiggins in the street and sent him off to the telegraph office with my message.”
“Would I have issued the invitation if I had not wanted you to come?” I asked, wondering that a man with so great a brain could misunderstand so much.
“Though as a logician I would wish them to be, black fits are rarely rational, Watson.” Holmes raised his head and surveyed the wreckage which surrounded us. His nose wrinkled in disgust. “If they were we would not be sitting amongst this appalling chaos. I had no notion I had allowed things to reach such a nadir.”
Surreptitiously I withdrew my watch from my pocket and reached for his wrist to check his pulse. He barely reacted when I took hold of his arm. His pulse was a little weak but steady enough - a good night’s sleep and some proper food would work wonders. “Well,” I said, “thank goodness things are beginning to improve. You are coming back to yourself. And, as your physician, I have a prescription.”
Holmes shook his head. “Please, Watson, no jokes. I do not feel equal to appreciating your pawky humour at present.”
“In that case, it is just as well that I am in deadly earnest.” When he looked at me in surprise, I continued, “You are quite plainly in need of a change of scenery, and so I prescribe a holiday, which you will take.”
“Indeed?” His lips twitched, but his face remained impassive. “And where, precisely, am I to go upon this trip?”
“Paddington. A pleasant destination with only a short journey involved. You will receive the best of care - ”
“No, Watson,” Holmes said, raising a hand to forestall my saying anything more. “An invitation to dinner is one thing, but I will not foist myself upon your wife. A young lady married barely half a year will not wish her home to be invaded by a - ”
“Holmes,” I said, interrupting him in turn, “please stop assuming you know what Mary would wish. You have confessed before that you do not understand the motives of women no matter how you try, that their minds remain unfathomable even to an analytical reasoner such as yourself. Logically, then, if Mary is tolerating our friendship purely for my sake, as you seem to think, why would she have asked me to give you this?” As I spoke I reached for the box on the table and presented it to him.
Holmes peered at the white cardboard container with its bright ribbon as though he had never seen such a thing before. “What is it?”
“A gift. She told me to say that she was extending the hand of friendship to you.”
He frowned, but curiosity got the better of him and he made an attempt to remove the ribbon. This he was unable to manage with one hand, so I found my penknife and cut through the fabric, allowing him to open the box. I do not know quite what I was expecting but we were both surprised to see a sponge cake nestled within, a little blue envelope propped up in front of it. Holmes plucked the note from the icing – as he read it his eyebrows rose to meet his untidy rumpled fringe, and he suddenly barked a laugh, a sound I was much relieved to hear. Quite clearly amused, he passed the card to me. On it Mary had written:
The traditional way to a man’s heart is through his stomach. If you will not come here to taste my cooking, Mr Holmes, then I needs must send my cooking to you. I hope that it will tempt you to our door.
“You have an ingenious wife, Watson,” Holmes remarked.
I smiled. “How could you have supposed otherwise? Will you come?”
He nodded, after a slight pause, and then glanced down at his rumpled nightshirt and groaned. “I shall need to clean myself up first, or Mrs Watson will not allow me to cross the threshold.”
“We could always claim you were in disguise, working on a case of immense importance,” I suggested, helping him to his feet. His self-imposed fast had left him weak and shaky – though I knew I could trust Mrs Hudson to look after him, given his recent state of mind I would much rather have him under my eye at home. I decided that I would not allow him to lock himself away in my house, and made a mental note to remove the handle from the door of the guest bedroom to that purpose.
He snorted. “If she is as sharp as she appears, we would not be believed.”
Mrs Hudson, who had evidently finished returning Holmes’s bedroom to some form of order and disappeared downstairs while we talked, entered bearing a steaming jug. “Hot water, Mr Holmes,” she announced, and he smiled.
“Thank you, Mrs Hudson.” There was no verbal apology, but none was apparently needed. Mrs Hudson nodded, the concern which had been heavy upon her face since I entered the house relaxing, and she carried the water through to the bedroom. I followed Holmes to the door, making sure that he would not trip or stumble on the way, and left him to his ablutions. Before he closed the door I said,
“Things may be different now, but one thing has not changed and never will. Should you need me, whether it be for assistance on a case or merely a friend to share your troubles, I shall be there. But,” I added quickly for I knew how he abhorred sentimentality, “be a good fellow and make sure you leave me some time for my patients or Mary and I may be forced to move in here with you.”
Holmes laughed, and I could still hear him chuckling behind the door ten minutes later.
FIN
Author: charleygirl
Rating: G
Words: 4154
Characters involved: Sherlock Holmes, Doctor Watson, Mary Morstan Watson, Mrs Hudson
Genre: Friendship, angst
Disclaimer: These characters, while out of copyright, were created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and do not belong to me.
Summary: Watson may be married now, but he has not abandoned his friend. Holmes discovers that he does not have to battle the black dog alone.
Author's Note: Inspired by a throwaway line in the play The Secret of Sherlock Holmes. My first attempt at writing married Watson. Not entirely sure it works. :/
THE HAND OF FRIENDSHIP
Though he would never admit it - strenuously deny it, in fact - Sherlock Holmes was, I believe, an essentially lonely man. His was not a personality which enjoyed the usual social niceties of the world – he abhorred small talk and dancing, and spending time voluntarily with those he believed to be his intellectual inferiors had been anathema to him before we began sharing rooms (at first from necessity, later by choice) in Baker Street. In all the time we lodged at 221B I know that I was his only intimate friend, and probably the one person who knew him best for he and his brother had never been particularly close and as far as I was aware he had no other living relatives. He was by nature solitary, happy for extended periods with his own company as long as he was working and testing his great brain to the limits. When work dried up and boredom crept in his mood descended into darkness and solitude then became a thing of malevolence. I knew well his nightmares and battles with the black dog of depression, and I like to think that, if unable to find a cure to rid my poor friend of his mental torments, I was at least able to help him through those long, dark moments of the soul with which he was plagued.
It was, therefore, with some trepidation that I left him in our rooms when I embarked upon a new life, that of a husband and a professional, away from the danger and adventure which had occasionally marked our time together. He insisted that he would be perfectly all right, his flourishing practice ensuring that there would be no difficulty in his covering my half of the rent, and reminding me that he had lived alone before. I knew this, but still I worried in snatched moments between patients or last thing at night before Mary and I retired. I did not mention my concerns to my wife, but she somehow divined them using that uncanny intuition with which women are blessed.
“Another refusal from Mr Holmes?” she asked over breakfast as I frowned at one of my letters. I glanced up in surprise to find her watching me, the teapot poised in one delicate hand. “That’s the third, is it not?”
I sighed, leaning back in my chair. “He says that he is unavoidably occupied upon a case and cannot accept our invitation.”
“Is that so implausible?”
“Not at all. It’s just that…”I ran a hand through my hair, searching for an explanation for my irrational concern from the plaster swags on the ceiling.
“He is your friend and you are worried about him.” Mary laughed when I stared at her in astonishment. “Oh, John, do you think that to be worried is unnatural? You shared rooms with Mr Holmes for a long time, seeing him every day – it is quite normal for you be concerned when your only contact with him in six months has been a formally-phrased telegram.”
Her amusement was quite understandable. I found myself smiling ruefully. “Yes, you are right. I confess I had been looking forward to showing him over the house, and hoping that he might take the time to get to know you better, my dear. It is unfortunate that Holmes has scant regard for the little things of life.”
“That is not to be wondered at, since he spends so much of his time chasing after the big things,” my wife said sagely, passing me my teacup. “You will be going to see him this evening, I take it?”
This time I did not even ask her how she knew my intentions. It would seem that I am quite transparent, for Holmes has always been able to divine my purpose in an instant. In that moment it did occur to me that Mary might have much in common with my mercurial friend. “If it will not bother you, I will call in at Baker Street on my way home, yes.”
“It will not bother me in the slightest,” she replied, and got gracefully to her feet, crossing to the sideboard. From the cupboard she removed a box secured with a tartan ribbon, which she laid upon the table before me. “You may take that to Mr Holmes, with my best wishes.”
I found myself frowning again. “What is it?”
“A gift. I am extending the hand of friendship,” said Mary mysteriously. “Tell him that.”
“But - ”
She smiled brightly and glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. Dropping a kiss on my forehead as she passed, she glided over to the door. “You had better hurry, darling, or you will be late.”
“Indeed,” I said, looking at the box and wondering what on earth it could contain.
***
The lights were on in my old apartments when I descended from the cab, though to my slight disappointment there was no sign of Holmes’s familiar silhouette upon the blind.
I still retained my key to the front door on Mrs Hudson’s insistence, but I refrained from using it, instead relying upon a tug of the bell to announce my presence. To my surprise it took a good three minutes for the redoubtable lady to answer the door, and when at last she did her aspect was flustered, worry lines creasing her homely face.
“Oh, Doctor Watson, thank goodness!” she cried upon seeing me on the step. “I was on the verge of sending for you, but I told myself that there would be no point in worrying you when you have other concerns. He’d not thank me for it and that’s the truth.”
“Whatever has happened?” I asked, following her into the hall. “Is it Holmes? What has he done?”
“I’m sure I don’t know sir – I’ve not seen hide nor hair of him since Sunday night. Shut himself in up there, so he has, locked the door and won’t answer my calls. Nor a morsel of food has passed his lips since then, unless he has something squirreled away in his rooms for he’s taken none of the trays I left at the top of the stairs!” Mrs Hudson shook her head, her hands twisting the cloth of her apron as she glanced towards the landing above us.
I sighed inwardly, recognising this behaviour from the many times I had been forced to deal with Holmes’s ‘black fits’. “He has no case on hand?”
“None at all that I know of. He’s not well, sir, though of course he won’t admit it. I hear him in the night, pacing back and forth across the sitting room.”
“How long has he been like this?” I asked, remembering the telegram I had received that morning, refusing my invitation to dine on Saturday.
“Since last week,” Mrs Hudson said sadly, “though he’s been out of sorts for longer. When he’s working I don’t notice it so much for he’s rarely here, but there have been no clients for nearly a month now and Inspector Lestrade hasn’t been by. When he locked himself away I didn’t know what to do for I didn’t like to tear you away from your wife and Mr Holmes wouldn’t hear of it. You know how masterful he is, Doctor.”
“I do indeed,” I told her, and, after reassuring her that I would do what I could for my friend, I made my way up the seventeen stairs.
Nothing had changed in my absence: the carpet was still worn on the landing, the aspidistra in its brass pot on the windowsill. Holmes’s coat and hat hung on the stand by the sitting room door, his silver handled walking stick beside them. I tried the door to his bedroom and found it to be locked – a turn of the sitting room door handle proved that to be similarly secured. Setting Mary’s gift down upon the steps which led to my old room, I raised a hand and knocked gently upon the panel. “Holmes?” I called, and after a moment heard a rustle from within, which indicated that he was alive at least. “Holmes, it’s me, Watson. May I come in?”
There was a long pause, and I knocked again. Just as I was about to try a third time, I heard footsteps approaching the door, and then the scrape of a key in the lock. The steps retreated and I turned the handle – this time it moved freely in my hand and I was able to enter the familiar room beyond.
I say familiar, but the familiarity was purely superficial. The carpet, curtains and furniture were all the same – at least the glimpses of them I could make out suggested they were – but everything was covered with a kind of horrible rat’s nest clutter comprised of old newspapers, discarded letters, scattered chemical equipment and disreputable articles of clothing. Books were piled upon every available surface, from the sofa to the table and the floor beneath the windows. The decaying remains of a handful of half-eaten apples occupied the fruit bowl, sharing the space with a pungently rotten pear which thankfully did not appear to have been touched. Unwashed cups and saucers, some of them containing the stubs of cigarettes, littered the room. It was quite clear that Mrs Hudson had not been allowed in for some considerable time.
In the midst of the detritus, the tall, gaunt figure of Sherlock Holmes made his way somewhat unsteadily back to his armchair. He was still in his nightclothes, the shirt crumpled beneath his old mouse-coloured dressing gown, an event unheard of at this late hour. His dark hair was a tousled, uncombed mop, and I estimated at least three days’ growth of beard upon his chin. This was so at odds with his usual immaculate appearance that it was quite obvious something was seriously wrong. As I picked my way carefully through the debris to put down my bag, hat and Mary’s box upon the table, he showed no sign of acknowledging my presence. Silence reigned in the room until I had cleared a small patch of cloth onto which I could deposit my burden – when I turned to find somewhere to sit he said,
“I suppose Mrs Hudson summoned you.” Before I could open my mouth to respond he continued, “As you can see I am quite well and in no need of mothering so you may return to your wife. I shall not detain you a moment longer.” His voice was flat and he did not even glance in my direction. I found my eyes drawn to his desk and the drawer which stood half open in search of the morocco case which contained his syringe, but I could not spot it amongst the paperwork and discarded pipe cleaners.
“You are not detaining me,” I said, crossing to my old chair and removing a pile of manuscripts from the seat. Sitting down I realised that the grate was empty – it was a chilly night and the temperature in the room was uncomfortably frigid, though the air was thick with the reek of tobacco. “As a matter of fact, Mrs Hudson did not summon me so you cannot accuse her of disobeying your instructions. I came to see you. I had no idea that - ”
“ – that the black fit has me in its clutches?” Holmes gave a hollow laugh and drew his bony knees up towards his chest, folding all his long limbs inwards. “Why should you? Matters elsewhere deservedly occupy your attention.”
“I am not far away,” I reminded him, attempting to contain the dismay I felt at seeing him in such a state. “You had only to telegraph me and I would have come.”
He flapped a hand at me. “There is nothing you could have done.”
“There is no medicine I can offer, but I could have borne you company, talked with you, distracted you from the demons as I have done in the past.”
“Yes, that is true,” Holmes said with a slight smile. It faded a moment later. “No, my dear fellow, I would not drag you away from Mrs Watson for so trivial a reason.”
“Mary would not have minded,” I insisted. “And the matter is not a trivial one or you would not be…” I struggled for a way of putting the situation which would not offend him and failed to find one.
“…reduced to the state in which you find me,” he finished when I could not.
Instead of agreeing with him I said, “Are things really so bad?”
He laughed again, shortly, but there was no humour in the sound. “I am managing to keep a roof over my head, so you need have no concerns upon that score. I am not about to turn up on your doorstep, carpet bag in hand, begging for shelter.”
“Should such an unlikely event come to pass, you may be sure that we would welcome you with open arms,” I said, and meant it. Recalling his refusal of my many invitations I added, “I am surprised in any case that you are aware of my new address, as you have never visited me there.”
Holmes gave me a sidelong glance, but instead of responding he fairly leapt to his feet and strode across to the sideboard. “I have been remiss in my duties as a host,” he declared, unearthing the decanter and gasogene from beneath a pile of old coats. “What will you have? Ah, I remember - ”
“Holmes, I do not want a drink,” I said, rising from my chair. “Why have you turned down all my invitations to dine with us? I would like nothing better than you welcome you into my home, and I know that Mary - ”
“I have been busy,” he muttered, fussing with glasses and whisky. I waved away the drink he offered me.
“You are not busy now. Come to us on Saturday, as I suggested – we would be glad to see you.”
Holmes abandoned my glass upon the table and threaded his way through the mess to the window. He twitched aside the blind and peered down into the street for several moments before eventually beginning, “I regret - ”
“Holmes,” I interrupted, rounding the table and trying not to trip over one of the piles of books, “you are unemployed and have no other commitments that I am aware of. Unless you are planning to visit your brother at the Diogenes, I can see no earthly reason why you should refuse my invitation. Surely an evening in convivial company can only be preferable to yet another spent amongst this…this…chaos!”
My friend turned from the window and put down his drink upon his cluttered desk. He leaned there for some time, head down and face averted. There was a sharp intake of breath and I wondered whether he might be about to collapse - he seemed far from steady upon his feet, and so I moved towards him, my hand already extended in support.
“Holmes?” I said, lowering my voice when he did not respond. “Holmes, I did not mean - ” I trailed off as I rounded the desk and was able to see him clearly. His face was twisted in pain and upon glancing down I realised that there was blood between the fingers of his left hand as he raised it from the pile of papers upon which he had been leaning. I shifted the letters and saw that beneath them was a broken chemical retort, its glass edge jagged – he had put his hand down upon it having evidently forgotten it was there. I took his arm as he stared at his bleeding hand in shock, steering him towards the sofa and shoving aside heaven only knew what so that he could sit down.
“It’s all right, old man,” I told him, gently grasping his wrist and drawing his hand towards me so that I might see the damage. Thankfully the gash in his palm was shallow and would not need stitching. I left him for a moment to call down to Mrs Hudson for some water and to fetch my bag, returning to find him looking about in confusion. He blinked up at me as I sat beside him like a man emerging from a trance.
“Watson, I don’t - ” he began, but I shushed him.
“It’s all right,” I said again as Mrs Hudson arrived. She stared in horror for a moment at the state of the room but recovered herself swiftly, bringing the water and some clean linen which she set down upon the little table at my elbow. We were silent as I carefully cleaned and dressed the wound, the only sound the steady ticking of the clock on the landing and the traffic in the street outside. As I worked, Mrs Hudson quietly moved about the room, pulling the curtains and tidying what she could, at last kneeling before the grate and starting to lay a fire.
“Forgive me, my dear fellow,” Holmes said eventually, when I had finished wrapping his hand in clean bandages. “I fear I would be far from convivial company for Mrs Watson – she will not want me sitting at her table like the ghost at the feast.”
“Mary wishes you to come as much as I,” I replied, patting his shoulder companionably. “Really, old man, you must stop thinking I that I have to choose between the two of you. I am not the first chap to be married and still retain his friends, you know.”
“I…” Holmes sighed. “I do not confess a gap in my knowledge lightly, but it would seem that I am somewhat ignorant as to the mysteries of matrimony.”
I smiled, and shook my head. “Things have not changed completely because I am married, Holmes. I have been busy, of course, building up the practice, but I had no intention of abandoning our friendship. Is that why you refused my invitations, because you thought you would be intruding?”
He shifted uncomfortably on the sofa, glancing at Mrs Hudson. Without a word, the good lady rose to her feet and sailed off into his bedroom, closing the door behind her. A moment later we could hear the rustling of fabric as she began to make the bed. “On the first occasion, I was indeed occupied with a case,” Holmes said reluctantly. “When your second invitation arrived, after much thought I was about to accept when a message came from Mycroft demanding my assistance on some delicate matter. The investigation was more complicated than I expected, which forced me to decline.”
“And the third?”
“I truth, it pains me to admit as much but by then I had fallen into such a funk that I could not believe you and your good lady would actually want me there,” he admitted with a rueful smile. “I caught sight of Wiggins in the street and sent him off to the telegraph office with my message.”
“Would I have issued the invitation if I had not wanted you to come?” I asked, wondering that a man with so great a brain could misunderstand so much.
“Though as a logician I would wish them to be, black fits are rarely rational, Watson.” Holmes raised his head and surveyed the wreckage which surrounded us. His nose wrinkled in disgust. “If they were we would not be sitting amongst this appalling chaos. I had no notion I had allowed things to reach such a nadir.”
Surreptitiously I withdrew my watch from my pocket and reached for his wrist to check his pulse. He barely reacted when I took hold of his arm. His pulse was a little weak but steady enough - a good night’s sleep and some proper food would work wonders. “Well,” I said, “thank goodness things are beginning to improve. You are coming back to yourself. And, as your physician, I have a prescription.”
Holmes shook his head. “Please, Watson, no jokes. I do not feel equal to appreciating your pawky humour at present.”
“In that case, it is just as well that I am in deadly earnest.” When he looked at me in surprise, I continued, “You are quite plainly in need of a change of scenery, and so I prescribe a holiday, which you will take.”
“Indeed?” His lips twitched, but his face remained impassive. “And where, precisely, am I to go upon this trip?”
“Paddington. A pleasant destination with only a short journey involved. You will receive the best of care - ”
“No, Watson,” Holmes said, raising a hand to forestall my saying anything more. “An invitation to dinner is one thing, but I will not foist myself upon your wife. A young lady married barely half a year will not wish her home to be invaded by a - ”
“Holmes,” I said, interrupting him in turn, “please stop assuming you know what Mary would wish. You have confessed before that you do not understand the motives of women no matter how you try, that their minds remain unfathomable even to an analytical reasoner such as yourself. Logically, then, if Mary is tolerating our friendship purely for my sake, as you seem to think, why would she have asked me to give you this?” As I spoke I reached for the box on the table and presented it to him.
Holmes peered at the white cardboard container with its bright ribbon as though he had never seen such a thing before. “What is it?”
“A gift. She told me to say that she was extending the hand of friendship to you.”
He frowned, but curiosity got the better of him and he made an attempt to remove the ribbon. This he was unable to manage with one hand, so I found my penknife and cut through the fabric, allowing him to open the box. I do not know quite what I was expecting but we were both surprised to see a sponge cake nestled within, a little blue envelope propped up in front of it. Holmes plucked the note from the icing – as he read it his eyebrows rose to meet his untidy rumpled fringe, and he suddenly barked a laugh, a sound I was much relieved to hear. Quite clearly amused, he passed the card to me. On it Mary had written:
“You have an ingenious wife, Watson,” Holmes remarked.
I smiled. “How could you have supposed otherwise? Will you come?”
He nodded, after a slight pause, and then glanced down at his rumpled nightshirt and groaned. “I shall need to clean myself up first, or Mrs Watson will not allow me to cross the threshold.”
“We could always claim you were in disguise, working on a case of immense importance,” I suggested, helping him to his feet. His self-imposed fast had left him weak and shaky – though I knew I could trust Mrs Hudson to look after him, given his recent state of mind I would much rather have him under my eye at home. I decided that I would not allow him to lock himself away in my house, and made a mental note to remove the handle from the door of the guest bedroom to that purpose.
He snorted. “If she is as sharp as she appears, we would not be believed.”
Mrs Hudson, who had evidently finished returning Holmes’s bedroom to some form of order and disappeared downstairs while we talked, entered bearing a steaming jug. “Hot water, Mr Holmes,” she announced, and he smiled.
“Thank you, Mrs Hudson.” There was no verbal apology, but none was apparently needed. Mrs Hudson nodded, the concern which had been heavy upon her face since I entered the house relaxing, and she carried the water through to the bedroom. I followed Holmes to the door, making sure that he would not trip or stumble on the way, and left him to his ablutions. Before he closed the door I said,
“Things may be different now, but one thing has not changed and never will. Should you need me, whether it be for assistance on a case or merely a friend to share your troubles, I shall be there. But,” I added quickly for I knew how he abhorred sentimentality, “be a good fellow and make sure you leave me some time for my patients or Mary and I may be forced to move in here with you.”
Holmes laughed, and I could still hear him chuckling behind the door ten minutes later.
FIN
