So I seem to be chronically unable to finish a story. I WILL continue trying to finish some of the better ones, but for now I have developed the perfect remedy to my problem...the One Shot! Please forgive the artsy, rather pompous title. There is a reason behind it, and if you care, see the author's note at the end. Please Review.
Still-Life in English Grey
Holmes was draped over the settee when I came back from a long day of work at the hospital. An outbreak of influenza had left London on its knees and I had decided to do my part to aid her suffering population. The criminal classes, however, were unusually quiet in the face of this far more natural killer, and Holmes had plunged into a black mood. The boredom weighed on him heavily and he refused to eat or take an interest in his chemicals and his violin, both of which he often used to combat the tedium of inactivity. I hadn't seen him so depressed in a long time and it worried me. For the first time in months, I feared he might return to the cocaine habit that had too often served as his final recourse in the past.
"Good evening, Holmes," I said pleasantly, trying vainly to combat the grim atmosphere of the room with cheery words. Holmes lifted a long white hand listlessly in my general direction and said nothing.
"Have you no brilliant observations to make concerning my day?" I asked, a feeble second try at forcing the sun to shine from behind the dark rain clouds. Holmes shook his head back and forth without even bothering to lift it or look at me. He still had not spoken a word.
Defeated, I turned to inspect my correspondence which lay waiting on the table. Mrs. Hudson entered quietly with a tray of tea and a plate of her excellent scones. The smell wafted into the room tantalizingly and my mouth watered. I realized with a start that I had not eaten anything since breakfast, having been too busy with patients to take a lunch break.
"Oh, good afternoon Dr. Watson. You slipped by me, I didn't hear you come in."
"I came home just a few minutes ago, Mrs. Hudson."
"Would you like some tea? You look positively famished."
"Well I am a little peckish and I can never say no to one of your scones."
"Thank goodness for that or I should feel very under appreciated," she replied with a significant look in Holmes's direction. She moved closer to me and spoke in a quiet, conspiratorial tone. I had no doubt Holmes could hear every word we said, but that mattered little.
"He hasn't eaten anything in a day and a half. Not even so much as a bit of toast. He'll make himself sick if he keeps it up. He hasn't moved from that couch all day, Dr. Watson, and hasn't had anything but half a cup of tea for breakfast. I haven't seen him quite so down in a very long while."
"I am concerned as well Mrs. Hudson, something must be done." She nodded and bustled over to the settee as if in response to my statement.
"Have some tea, Mr. Holmes, it's nearing 5:00 and you haven't had a thing to eat all day. I've made some scones fresh and if you don't grab yourself one Dr. Watson will eat them all," she winked at me and continued to cajole him. At last Holmes turned to glare at her.
"Desist, woman, I am not on the brink of starvation. The human body can go several days without drink and longer without food."
His remark was delivered in a scathing, icy tone. It proved to me more clearly than any other action that he was not himself. Holmes did have a certain disdain for the fair sex in general, but he was always courteous to them, especially to Mrs. Hudson. Mrs. Hudson, however, is no frail woman, but a force to be reckoned with. She is a master of patience and perseverance, and she has been long accustomed to dealing with Holmes's strange moods.
"Very well then, but when you decide to eat like a man rather than a stray cat let me know and I'll make you some supper." She set the tray on the table and poured a cup of tea which she carefully placed within easy reach of the settee in case Holmes changed his mind. Gathering a few odds and ends, she smiled at me and left the room as quietly as she had come. Silence settled over our quarters again.
I sat to eat one of the scones she had brought, but as I did so my mind wandered over my conversation with our intrepid landlady. Certainly Holmes had been in moods like this before, but I had assumed those had been brought on partly by the cocaine. What, then, was causing this sudden depression? A lack of cases certainly, but he had been inactive for longer periods of time without such a pronounced reaction. What was different? Had he gone back to the cocaine and was concealing this from me? Was he ill? Could some secret tragedy be eating away at him with these results? I sighed and gave up my fruitless speculation. I lacked sufficient data, as Holmes was wont to say.
My correspondence was very ordinary and did not keep me occupied for long. Soon I found myself pacing the room in an endeavor to drive away the oppressive feeling of depression that seemed to permeate the room. I was debating taking an early dinner at my club when suddenly Holmes spoke. After so long a silence the sound of his voice sounded strange to me, but his words were even stranger.
"Watson, what made you decide to marry Mary?"
"Pardon, Holmes?"
"How did you determine that you loved Mary enough to marry her?" He repeated irritably.
I stammered uncertain of how to respond. "Why do you wish to know Holmes?"
His tone softened abruptly. "I am merely curious. Love is an emotion I have no experience with and I hoped to gain insight from you, whom I know to have been in love at least once."
"Well it isn't easy to describe. To tell you the truth I don't know how I knew I loved her." I considered for a while in silence. Holmes had sat up and was looking at me with something like his old sparkle in his eyes. I was baffled as to what could have caused the transformation, but relieved none the less. I decided to allow him to relax into this new mood before pressing food on him.
"One day I was standing with her at her door contemplating the ride home alone in the cab. It was a cold, rainy night, and the journey home would be miserable. You were still busy with her case and I knew you would either be out or shut in your room with your tobacco and I did not relish returning home cold and alone. I suppose in that moment I first began consider marriage. After that, every time I saw her it was not far from my mind and every evening saying goodbye grew more difficult. The more we saw each other the more I grew sure in my belief that we would make a happy couple. She shared my view for when I proposed she consented. Does that answer your question?"
"I see why your readers are so attached to your stories. You are quite a talented storyteller, Watson." By now he had curled up catlike at the end of the settee and looked very much like the Holmes whose company I so looked forward to of an evening. I poured a fresh cup of tea for myself and brought the tray to Holmes.
"Will you have some tea? It seems ungentlemanly to put Mrs. Hudson's hard work to waste."
He chuckled deep within his throat, a rare sound and one I always found pleasing and soothing. "My dear Watson you are craftier than you give yourself credit for. I will allow myself to be manipulated, though." He took the cup of tea and drank it quickly, so I replaced it with another and pressed a scone into his hand. He nibbled at the scone, but he took deep, satisfied sips of the tea. Suddenly he turned his piercing gaze on me.
"You say you loved Mary. Do you still love her?" I could not fathom why he suddenly was expressing so much interest in my marriage. He scarcely mentioned it while we were married. I shrugged it off to his eccentricity and turned my mind to his question. "Yes, I believe I do, but differently. I would find it difficult to enter into a serious relationship with another woman."
"Because it would be a betrayal of Mary?"
"No, because I simply would not wish to." I fell silent. How does one explain the intricacies of love to someone as rational and level-headed as Holmes? "I am afraid, Holmes, that love is not something I can explain rationally. It hits like lightning and leaves its scars after it has gone. There is no sense in it, no hidden pattern to find and expose, no logic. I envy you in a way. Sometimes I would like to strip it from my life altogether." He laughed again, but this time it was strange and bitter, not his deep chuckle or sudden bark that always took me by surprise.
"Oh Watson, no man is immune to love, as much as I would like to think that I am." And with that strange comment, he left the room, leaving the scone virtually untouched and the teacup half full. I sighed. Holmes was as unpredictable as a summer storm when he was in one of these moods. Perhaps later he would eat something.
A note on the title: I thought the name "still-life" was particularly apt because this story captures a small, short moment in the life and friendship of these two men. Anyone who has ever lived in England knows what I mean by English Grey. Think of a rainy, cold January morning on the Cornish coast. Grey in the sky, grey stretching out over the water, and perhaps a few grey cliffs between you and the ocean. Deep of me, isn't it? It's 1 am, that's my excuse. Don't laugh at me. Anozira