(For true Sherlockians who care about this sort of thing...I'd establish the timeframe for this as being some significant time after "The Noble Bachelor" but before "The Valley of Fear," namely mid or late November 1887. For all extents and purposes, this takes place upon the cusp of Watson's boredom with his anonymous third wife, the first time Holmes called him out for an adventure post his third marriage, which took place in mid-October 1887. For the sake of convenience, she will be named Mary, whomever she really is. I refer to this guide in establishing her existence: www . sherlockpeoria . net / Who_is_Sherlock / WatsonsWives . html Then again, I'm not sure that this site is heavily populated by Sherlockian scholars who care about such things as this.)
Symphony No. 1 in E minor
The gypsy wagon had paused its creaking
With a gentle sigh, squishing into the mud,
Breathing in the relief of a break in the long journey,
Letting its wood-and-iron muscles ease.
The dingy canvas of its canopy fluttered
Every moment or so as the breeze flirted with it
Tenderly, hesitantly, like Eve tickling her sleeping lover.
Green, green, green it was around them
The leaves growing blacker as the sun began to fade
And the golden brown moss on the trees and rocks
Dimmed to the color of the earth.
He and I descended from the gypsy wagon
And moved fluidly, swans in familiar water,
Rippling the silence with the snapping of twigs,
Stretching our limbs with arms full of kindling,
Clawing at the moist ground until it flamed.
Then, ruffling our feathers to fluff the down,
We set out a can full of beans and pork
A hard bit of bread, and some bruised apples
That rounded out our gypsy fare.
I wondered what Mary would be doing that night
If I were stretched before a different fire,
One in a chimney-place fire, not on the moor,
But my thoughts did not linger too long;
The soles of my boots, wet though they had been
Were steaming and as hot as sin.
"Move them, lest they catch fire," he said,
The first words he'd spoken for hours,
Post full three pipes and then some.
But he seemed to have tired of puzzles for the moment
And instead was comfortable in the present.
We heard a distant train, reminding us that not far away
The object of our quarry was still at large.
"It's been some time since we traveled like this."
His voice was not cold but not warm.
"It's not my fault, you scoundrel," I replied,
Punching him fondly on the shoulder,
"It's you who haven't called."
"Very well," he said, "but I know too well
Not to disturb you in your...quest for domesticity
Until some time has passed, enough that you've become bored."
"Bored of home? Not I!" I replied,
More from husbandly duty than vindication.
"But I do admit that I've had too little exercise of late."
"Don't you mean too much?" he asked, with enigmatic eyes.
When I did not reply, he added, "of a less than ideal sort?"
I was baffled by the question and I told him so,
And he silently shrugged and turned to face the fire,
His face aglow, his pipe alight, his locks heavy on his brow.
I said, "I think, Mary and I, we'll find we're expecting by the time I get back to London,"
This was optimistic and a lie, borne of resolution
And a desire, perhaps, to disturb him.
Prattler as I was, I tried to read his vacant expression as he said:
"Oh, jolly day, another Watson."
It was a nondescript comment,
But made with such nonchalant carelessness
I could not help but feel sore at its lance.
There was some attitude behind the words
That discomfited me, but I could not place it.
"That's not fair, Holmes," I breathed, "I'm not trying to establish a dynasty..."
But I could not further protest, for I was hampered
By inability to discern what pressing issue he had;
Other than that perhaps I was succumbing
To the delectationes humanas to which all men
(Aside from Holmes, married to his work)
Were so pleased to be vulnerable.
I never was so instilled with hubris
To believe that I was immune to such a disease
As l'amour pour les femmes, but it seemed
That Holmes thought I should be above seeking
To play with the fire that so frequently burnt me.
(A fire that currently, as my presence there testified,
Was on its way to a stifled, bitter death.)
"But you have never been one to avoid trying
A thing once it's lodged in your brain," said he,
Brushing ash off his linen gypsy-coat sleeve.
"If all men seek immortality, as you remind me Plato says,
And you pursue your passions with this knowledge in hand,
It is clear to your astute observer – and friend –
That you would be better served to stick to the cannons
Than to shoot the brush with haphazard shrapnel.
Focus on developing your talents of the mind, Watson,
And leave other remarkable powers for unremarkable men."
Feeling somewhat violated and perplexed,
Wondering what the point of his saying such things might be,
I lit my own pipe, swallowed, chose not to answer,
And entered my own meditative trance.
Some time passed, and then he rose,
Knocking ash about as he went
To get the coarse blankets of wool
That we'd brought to make our beds.
"It'll be cold tonight," said he,
Sniffing the air and glancing about.
"Should we keep a watch on the fire?"
"I can't tonight, Holmes," I groaned,
"Truly, truly, I'm beat."
"As am I," he agreed, with a sigh, "so let us be cold."
And he threw me a bolt of cloth to unwind and lay upon.
I could scarce keep my eyes open
But soon the fire died down
And he kicked wet moss over the embers
And lay himself to rest as well.
Too soon the warmth of the fire was gone,
Bearing with it all sense of security;
I was soon awake to hear howls and screeches
Of the nocturnal beasts of the forest dark.
Holmes was unflappable in his repose,
Snoring lightly through his great large nose
And curled in an untidy heap.
I rolled close to him for warmth,
Our strong spines touching each other.
Even as the wet damp of the moor began
To cling to the very hairs of my whiskers
I'd have never moved closer,
Except, all of a sudden, in the midst of my doze
I felt a strangely gentle tug
At the corner of my rug, which emerged
From the place where my shoulder pinned it to the earth.
"That's mine," I said with staunch conviction, roused from my rest,
"You should have brought another one
If your bones can't stand the late-autumn chill."
He made no reply, appearing to be acting so in his sleep
And for a breath he paused his grappling
Only to continue, anew and fresh.
"If you are trying to solve the mystery in your dreams," said I,
"By grasping at straws for clues,
I beg of you, let it manifest some other way."
This request had no effect on my associate's wandering claws.
"Keep your hands to yourself, Holmes," I gave the command,
But to no avail my words were flung.
Without the desire to wake him fully
Or the patience to deal with the antics any longer,
I unraveled myself and flung the thing upon him,
Which quieted the hand, with a mind of its own, for a while.
Now unpleasantly awake, I rose to light the fire
But as I fumbled with a match I saw
He was reaching out again, then turning and thrashing
As though he were seized with a fit.
Ever attentive to the silent call for help
I went to him and knelt at his side.
No sooner did I lay my hand on his shoulder than did
His symptoms clearly abate.
Intrigued, I removed my hand, to receive a whimpered reply,
Only eased by my renewed touch.
My fingers beginning to numb with the cold,
I sought to withdraw again,
But the hair on my arm had barely stirred
Before his hand twisted around, clasped mine,
And his whole body realigned, bearing my arm undercover.
I was left in the uncomfortable lurch of decision:
Would I move and awaken him,
A difficult strategy, and less than kind,
Or simply let him keep my arm where it was
And sink further into the warmth he seemed to want to share?
Pragmatics convinced my conscience that I was doing Mary no disservice;
It was nothing like the fight to outlive Afghanistan,
But survival is as survival does,
And I thought she would prefer me home alive and well,
Less a cold and fever, than abstaining from an unorthodox invitation.
So thinking, I lay next to him on the ground,
My breaths barely greater than a whisper,
And I remarked upon the softness of the moss bed
And the deep rich hum of my friend's exhalations in my ear.
He was now generous in his sleep with the blanket,
Covering my body more than his own,
Though I did not see it at the time;
I was too quickly back to deep dreams.
When morning came and I awoke
To see his eyes above mine dancing with silent mirth,
To feel the wiry warmth of his immeasurably strong arms around me,
To sense the fierce protectiveness and victory in his face,
I knew I had battled and lost, but that I also had been wooed.
There on the forest floor, in our gypsy-garb
I struggled to find words, but also to collect my thoughts.
"Trickster!" I said, but meant no anger.
"That may be so," said he, "but the trickster only succeeds
Because people only believe what they want to believe."
"What do I believe, Holmes?" I asked,
Feeling an untouched tremor in my body and soul
Begin to vibrate with the force of a symphony
Played by a thousand violins.
"Data, data, data," he said in reply, taking my pulse with a thumb,
"I can't make bricks without clay."
He leaned in close to me now, as keen as when experimenting,
But different colors were in his eyes;
The same thirst was there, but far less direct, much more nuanced.
I could not bear to see his unsettling searching look
Against the glare of the rising sun through the trees
For then his face was like Adonis, beautiful and sage,
Melancholy and uncertain, not bereft of coldness or brilliance
But still more human and more divine than ever I had seen.
"Do you feel this way for Mary?" he asked, sensing my emotions, seeking truth.
I could not deny it him, and cursed his reminder of my responsibility.
"It's different with her, yes," I replied, " but damn you, Holmes,
Could not that question have waited?"
"Waited for what?" he asked solemnly, testing me,
And it was clear that there was but one way to respond.
A hesitant peck on his lips; it was truly strange
Buy at least we were somewhat now on the same page,
And I had tossed him the ball to catch.
He smiled with gratification and jubilance,
Marked with additional grace that was unbeknownst to me.
He seemed to savor the moment, so much so that
I began to wonder if I had made a mistake.
But then he laughed with a bark of liberation
And pursued my lips with a grateful kiss of reply.
I felt the tension ease from his muscles then,
As if he had kept this great secret since the day we first met,
And, truth be told, I do think that was the case.
He was both changed and unchanged when we separated again,
Panting as the gold of late autumn sunshine began
To make the wet ground steam in delight.
His ego was intact, but his demeanor more free.
We gazed into each others' eyes with new understanding
Until he chose to rise, pat and bridle the horse,
And groan that I should consider building a fire.
Nothing was different now, in truth,
I thought as I began the task,
I would return home after all to Mary and our collective brood,
But as I caught Holmes' eye,
Which was shiny and bright with the hint of a smile,
I knew that my adventures with Sherlock were no less important than ever;
There was the promise of adventurous, intriguing times ahead
Imbued in a context of even deeper, more meaningful mystery.