Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.
My pen scored onto the paper as I finally finished working on an exceedingly long account of a most unusual case. Holmes and I had been asked to find a lady's diamond and sapphire ring, which had been stolen by a trained toad owned by a baker. I was supposed to have written the account up back in late May, but obstacles, such as many more cases, Holmes breaking his ankle, Lestrade contracting pneumonia and lack of inspiration prevented me from completed the account. But now, in late October, I was finally finished.
Feeling satisfied, I looked out of the window onto Baker Street. Darkness had long claimed London, and the rain pelted down on the windows like stones. Shuddering, I pulled my dressing gown closer to my sturdy frame as my war wounds began to throb dully.
'I'll go to the Strand in the morning.' I thought. So I retired to my room to read a new novel I had obtained the other day in a bookshop. I soon got so engrossed in my book that a knock and a deep, familiar voice made me jump and my book was soon out of my fingers and taken an acrobatic manoeuvre onto the rug.
"Watson, what is the meaning of this?" Sherlock Holmes asked me. In his hand he was holding the manuscript I had been completing downstairs.
"Ah, well, that is the case with the trained toad, Holmes." I replied in bemusement.
"That," hissed my friend. "Is obvious. Have you read this, Watson? It is full of romantic and flowery drivel. Where are the facts? You always overlook the facts!" He threw the manuscript at me, narrowly missing my thigh.
"Now, if you would be so kind, would you write this again?"
I was seething with fury at this question. I had worked on that for months, and Holmes expected me to repeat that heinous torture?
"Excuse me?" I asked, coldly.
"I believe you heard me, Doctor." He responded in kind.
"Yes I heard you, Holmes. But why should I write it out again?"
"Well, you are my biographer, and-"
"Holmes, it is most appalling of you to ask me to do all this again. I picked up the sheaf of papers and waved it at him whilst I spoke. "This took me five months longer to complete than it should have. I am sick and tired of that case and now that I have finished this, I intend to take this down to the Strand and ensure its publication!"
"I will not allow it- the public would not wish to hear such rubbish anyway!" Holmes boomed, drawing up to his full height. But I was not intimidated by him that easily.
It was then that foul, bitter resentment and anger boiled forth, and in a moment of rage, I forgot to check my temper, to my great shame.
"And how can you stop me? They say, Holmes that the pen is mightier than the sword. I could expose you! I know more about you and your work than the general public. I could send an article detailing all your finest points in eccentricities for them to read!"
Holmes paled at this remark. "Watson, you know that-"
"I could ruin your career!"
"Watson please I do apologise-" He began, but I interrupted once again.
"By exposing you Holmes, I could easily have you sent to Bedlam as I could ruin your career!" And with that I picked up the object of our quarrel, and threw down my papers- which scattered across the rug.
Holmes froze, and looked at me. I steeled myself for a look of pure and utter anger. But the look I saw instead haunted me forever.
His steel grey eyes had somewhat softened with sadness. A lone tear cut its course down his pale face, to which he turned away from me. Taking long purposeful strides, he soon reached the door, and without a parting word, he was gone, the door slamming shut behind him.
I stood by my bed, shoulders shaking with nerves. Wearily I collapsed onto it, unable to process what had come over me.
I stood up again and stooped to tidy the mess up. It would not be hard to organise- I had numbered the pages I had after a publishing mishap, but it was not this task which overwhelmed me.
A wave of guilt washed up in my throat as my eyes moistened. All the unkind words I had hurled at my friend were instantly recalled. The wounded look Holmes gave me was also ingrained into my memory. I drew out a shaky breath. One word circled in my head. Bedlam- how could I be so cruel?
Feeling a mixture of guiIt, shame, and fear, I suddenly burst into tears. Some of my account was smudged by my burst of guilt. I may have had spent five months working on my writings- but what would that matter? I had spent an indefinite amount of time forming a friendship with the detective. And now, just with a few words, I had probably destroyed what little faith he had in humanity.
How could he ever forgive me?
Would he even want to forgive me?
...
A/N: Jaeljin has kindly given me permission to write this story, so thank you! It is a possible precedence of chapter 95 of 'Four Strings and a Bow.'
Link: s/5871767/1/Four-Strings-and-a-Bow