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This is just for fun -- no infringement intended, none taken.
Rated -- PG
ICARUS DESCENDING
BY
GM
14 MAR 97
Sherlock Holmes: deductive genius, loyal friend, cocaine addict.
The morning dawned unforgettably cold and damp. I had spent some hours at my desk in an attempt to organize the notes of several cases. We had been engaged in many investigations in the last few months, with the Adventure of the West End Strangler just completed. The important and sometimes hazardous missions had pushed Holmes to the limit of endurance. He had driven himself; to extreme tobacco poisoning, exhaustion, insomnia and diminished appetite. Aggravating his condition was his headlong descent to a daily indulgence in the horrid cocaine. No longer was the drug used exclusively between investigations to relieve boredom, or when a case stagnated. Holmes was seriously addicted, dependent on the drug's false and destructive euphoria.
Staring from the window I realized I was brooding; despondent, disheartened, over Holmes' health. I cajoled, suggested and badgered him to adopt regular eating and sleeping habits. My entreaties had little effect.
I feared the all-too-foreseeable destruction of his brilliant mental capacities. How unbearable to think he was degenerating that powerful intellect because of his injudicious habit. Beyond that tragedy, I also feared his eventual death from the drug.
A mental possession drove Holmes to his decline; a powerful emotional force, not some vague inborn nature. Holmes was haunted. Spectres ate at his soul, excluding his sense and will. As his friend and physician, I had spent years subtlety studying Holmes and his past to uncover the threat. I had even attended mental analysis seminars in Vienna to aid me in my special study of my friend. I had always felt that if we could extricate the problem we could eradicate the cause of his self-destruction. After all this time, I realized that was exactly what Holmes was doing. The abuse to his health was nothing short of a conscious, or unconscious, long-term suicide. At the recent rate, my friend's descent was headlong, the inevitable destruction closer than I wanted to admit.
'How could I have allowed him to plunge so deeply into this mental crisis? Why did I not stop it before his mind and health were collapsed and so near hopelessness?'
I knelt by the fire to stoke the coals. One of the large chunks tilted and fell; glittering, fire-dust embers showered out like a fan of meteor-rain. The thud of the coal was unusually loud in the still room. The glowing shards of fire burned out to black, and I considered the symbolism fitting to my friend's comet-like existence.
Holmes was curled in his chair. He had not moved for hours. The only sign of life was the lethargic trail of smoke ascending from his pipe. He was wrapped in the protective armor of his dressing gown, staring with glassy eyes into the fire.
I drew in a deep breath. "Holmes."
"Yes," he responded after a moment.
"We must do something."
"We have no clients, Watson."
I ruthlessly stabbed the poker into the heart of the undulating flames. Sparks exploded round, and then cascaded to the hearth. Still on my knees, I turned to face him, tightly reining in my irritation. "You know what I mean."
He looked past me, into the fire, without change of expression. I waited, determined to outlast his silence.
"Curb your energy, Watson," he finally sighed despairingly. "You cannot change the past."
"We can but try to heal wounds from the past."
"You cannot chase away the dreams, Watson."
It had been some time since he had mentioned the nightmares, which haunted his slumber. "If you let me help you, perhaps we can vanquish them together."
His eyes darted to me and I saw I had touched him. I held my breath. This could be the moment I had longed for, the instant when Holmes committed himself to a cure. Then he turned back to the fire. From the sag in his features, I knew we had lost the opportunity.
"There is nothing to be done."
We had been over this ground so often, yet I felt sympathy first, then irritation at his forlorn, self-pitying attitude. Too irritated for words, I flopped into my chair and noisily rattled the afternoon paper. If he would not cooperate, I would push him in the right direction myself. The question was: how does one outwit Sherlock Holmes? My mental capacity was no match for his intellect. All my remonstrations had been spoken before.
I fell back on my own well of obstinacy and refrained from further comments. My arguments would not sway him. Perhaps silence would achieve something.
Holmes blandly puffed at his pipe as if he had not heard a word I had said. After what seemed like a long elapse of time, I realized I had already lost this round. Irritation, anger and crushing disappointment rushed over me. Holmes was, at the moment, under the influence of the cocaine. He was in the lethargic, downward plunge, which made him drowsy and apathetic.
It was almost more than I could endure to see him destroy himself thus. How could such a brilliant, noble gift to humanity enslave him to the path of destruction? How could I help him when in truth, only Sherlock Holmes could overcome the addiction? If only he could find enough inner fortitude to endure the cure.
"Holmes . . . ."
The plea in my voice effected him. He turned to me. I was chilled by the cutting glare.› "I do not want your medical advice." His refusal was brittle, his voice matching his glacial-green/grey eyes. "It is better if you leave me to my own devices."
"You expect me to abandon you to self-destruction?"
I came to my feet and paced to the end of the mantle. How could he be so selfish and short-sighted? Surely, he knew how much his life meant to me. Our fates were inevitably and irrevocably intertwined. After all we had been through, did he think I could ever let any harm befall him -- by the hand of others or his own foolhardiness?
Pushing aside my own sense of inadequacy and dejection, I said, "I must do something to help you, Holmes. If you won't listen to my medical advice I will call in someone else."
"Hah!" he proclaimed. "I forbid it."
The tone was more like a dare, a challenge, than a rejection. For a split-second my mind snagged on that odd piece of trivia, then was overwhelmed by my own instinctive obstinacy in the face of his demands. I called his bluff.
"I shall send for a specialist this very day if you refuse my help. Your condition is serious, Holmes. You are close to a complete breakdown and I will not allow that."
He turned back to the fire. His entire frame was stiff with resistance. "I refuse to see any such charlatan!"
"Then you will heed my counsel?"
"No."
"Well, if you won't accept my advice, I am compelled, as your doctor and your friend, to call in another --"
"Then separate yourself as my doctor!"
"I cannot!" I countered with a cracking voice. "My friendship and medical obligations are one and the same."
I felt my heart plunge to a deeper depth. I could, reluctantly, accept his doubts of my abilities as a physician. How could he doubt my devotion as his friend?
"As my friend you will abide by my wishes," was his crisp, heartless reply.
Inadvertently I was reminded of his dying masquerade of years before. Now the risk to his health was frighteningly real. I could not retreat in the heat of his anger or surrender to the power of his harsh commands.
"As your friend," I replied in a barely audible voice, "I cannot let this go on."
Holmes shook his head. "If you are my friend you will accept me on MY terms, or you may leave!"
My heart ached with tight agony. I gulped down a constricting knot of fear caught in my dry throat.
Only once had he ever requested I separate myself from him. Then, it had been out of concern for my safety. On our last visit to Switzerland, Holmes had wanted me to leave him and spare me from danger. I had adamantly refused. For one of the few times in our association, I had won the debate.
He could now actually command me to leave. If he found the strength or bitterness, or whatever it would take to demand my departure, I would argue and refuse again. Even under the withering force of his towering power, I could not ignore my conscience, or my commitment to him. However, the demand itself would cut deep. I felt the whole of our existence balanced on this moment.
'We need each other -- I need you, Holmes. Don't give up,' I silently pleaded. Was this the crisis where he would choose which he needed more, the cocaine, or me?
When I spoke, my words were dulled by a thunderous pounding of anguish echoing in my ears. "Are you indicating I should leave Baker Street?"
"No," he whispered.
There was a tremor in his tone, which shattered the fear that held us both. I felt we had passed over the edge of a desperate precipice. I started to breathe again. Strength in unity, disillusion in separation. Somehow, whatever else happened, I felt -- hoped -- we could get through it together. I thought we could manage almost anything together. Including his addiction.
Slowly, lethargically, he said, "There is nothing to be done."
The words were a familiar, inevitable echo of our every confrontation on the subject. However, the defeated, wounded, petulant attitude, which still clung to his manner, again struck me as some sort of strange, obscure dare.
"If you will not accept my medical advice," I said with all the courage I could summon, "I am calling in a specialist." Somewhat assured he would not throw me into the street, I took the wild risk of this bold approach.
"I will see no one."
I ignored the self-pity. "Then, we are going on holiday," I told him with a brisk, commanding tone I did not feel. I had no heart for this conflict, yet my friend's preservation depended on my resistance to his opposition. "We need to get you out of town for awhile."
"It will change nothing."
"Nevertheless, we will go!"
Without glancing my way, Holmes launched from the chair and crossed to his desk with defiant energy. In silent revolt to my proposals, he gave me his answer. He drew out of the drawer the morocco case containing his cocaine.
I could not bear it. Without further word, I retreated the field, knowing when I was outmaneuvered by a master strategist. In this battle of wills, Holmes did not have the endurance and patience I possessed, yet his insensitivity struck the deepest wounds.
Aggrieved, disconsolate, I nonetheless left the house with a purpose in mind. I cabled an old medical college to secure a cottage in Cornwall. With or without Holmes' cooperation I would remove him from town. I had to jolt him from his rut. In isolation, I hoped he would stop running from my attempts to help; from the demons within his mind, from his own destruction.
Rarely had I felt so dejected. I had not been able to help Holmes. In fact, under my care, Holmes had declined. A mediocre physician, I should never have taken on so important a case by myself. I should have gone to a specialist years ago. Some common sense filtered through my cloud of dreariness. Holmes would have never allowed interference from any outsider. Now, however, there seemed no choice.
Desperation spurred me to the improper and impulsive action of calling, without appointment, on Doctor Moore Agar, the well known Harley Street specialist in mental aberrations. Agar, whom I knew only fleetingly, was the best in this experimental field. He was costly and arrogant, but money and pride were of no consequence to me.
Agar was a cool, slight man with a modestly neat full-set beard and mustache. He fingered a gold-framed monocle -- an affectation since he never used it. Without too many private revelations of Holmes' difficulties, I explained what I wanted of the specialist. I briefly outlined Holmes' condition and reluctance.
Surprisingly, Agar agreed to come the next day. His excitement at meeting the "brilliant and famous Mister Holmes" made me wary, however, Agar WAS the best, and I would accept nothing less. My friend's life hung in the balance of this conflict of wills, this war with Holmes' inner devils.
I warned Agar that Holmes was not his normal self. The Doctor replied he had experience dealing with addicts. In addition, he had read all of my stories and knew to expect an eccentric. Not exactly confident in the Harley Street specialist's attitude toward my friend, I left in an unsettled mood.
***
I stayed out for the entire day and much of the night. Aimlessly and blindly, filled with self-doubt and depression I walked the city. We were the closest of friends -- intimates in a rather isolated existence, which we had created round our select society. I had acquaintances at my club. Holmes had a few acquaintances in the scientific realm, although he hardly ever saw or corresponded with them. Holmes was not close to his brother or his distant cousins and I had no relations at all. Indeed, I loved Holmes as my friend more than I ever loved Henry, my own brother. By and large, our social circle included no one other than ourselves, so well had we met each other's needs. It was impossible to imagine life alone again, away from Baker Street and alienated from my only close friend.
I would never desert the field on my own, of course. No matter how harsh his stubbornness and resolve became, I would never abandon him. Even if I could not cure him of the cocaine; even if he slowly and painfully disintegrated before my eyes, a distinct possibility since I suspected his mother was an addict (re: Mrs. Edwards description of Mrs. Holmes) and perhaps had died from an overdose, either accidentally or otherwise. Heaven forbid, if my worst fear was realized, and the drug finally took Holmes life -- even then, he would die in my arms, because I vowed I would never forsake him.
Would his resistance grow so strong he would change his mind and demand I vacate Baker Street? I would wager not. The drug was our common enemy. It sometimes caused us conflict, but I felt Holmes, even under his addiction, would not let it destroy our friendship. I was aware how much he needed me as a confidant and aide. He relied on my support and companionship, even though he rarely expressed any such requirements and never voiced such feelings.
What would I do if Holmes refused to see Agar? I doubted my abilities to pull off a cure for Holmes, yet resolved I had to. 'I CANNOT let Holmes destroy himself!' I reaffirmed. The only alternative was to cure him of his addiction because I refused to let the cocaine dictate our lives any further.
***
I returned to Baker Street deliberately late in the night. I did not desire a confrontation with Holmes -- especially if he was under the influence of the drug. When I entered the cluttered sitting room Holmes was asleep, draped on the sofa like a rag doll. I stepped over the newspapers aimlessly strewn on the floor and stood next to his still form.
'The cocaine doesn't last as long as it used to,' I thought.
For a moment, I considered destroying the drug supply, but that would be childish. Holmes would simply buy more and be more obstinate than ever, more angry and resistant to my interference. The horrible rat's nest clutter of the room added strain to the situation. I would have to make peace with Mrs. Hudson in the morning.
The way to combat Holmes was to fight him with a battle of nerves. Certainly, a battle of wits could not be a contest. I had an edge in patience, determination and tenacity. I could out distance Holmes in a waiting game. In a lengthy game, however, Holmes became the ultimate loser.
With that sober thought, I arranged my slumbering friend into a more comfortable position on the sofa. I placed the blankets over his long form and studied him for some time. I was reminded of the glorious, bright day he had appeared resurrected from the dead. I did not understand how we had descended here to this pit. For years, the cocaine was a mere whispered threat, incidental to our daily routine. Now it overshadowed and interfered with -- threatened -- our lives. Saddened and unsettled, I went up to my room.
***
For both of us it was a restless night. I had tossed, turned and lain awake -- alert, in case I was needed. Sometimes the cocaine induced in Holmes nightmares; horrid, snatched fragments -- sometimes from a tortured childhood, sometimes from a spectral future. I would stay with him then, waiting for the dawn. This night brought disjointed slumber, but not disturbing dreams for him. In the early morning, I heard Holmes shuffling about in the sitting room. What little sleep I had achieved had been unfitful. My conscience was in misery over the upcoming confrontation.
When I descended, the sitting room was grey with layers of haze from Holmes' most noxious shag. The coals had died down to almost dim embers from lack of attention. Holmes was curled in his chair. His face looked horrible -- dreadfully pasty and vacant, lank and discolored. His eyes were lackluster and sunken in deep, shadowed sockets. His hair was disarrayed and dull. As was typical when he was in a drugged state, the dressing gown and afghan were wrapped tightly round him like a protective shield.› "Morning," I said with forced, flat civility.
Mrs. Hudson, in some astute perception given to housekeepers, had not laid breakfast, just coffee. I crossed to the table and poured coffee for myself. I desired something stronger, but restrained the urge for any artificial stimulants. Holmes was indulging enough for both of us. One of us had to keep a clear head.
Holmes showed no interest in my arrival. I stood at the window and gazed out on the dull, misty-grey morning choked with fog and frost. A fitting accompaniment for our bleak and chill moods. I noted he had left his morocco case out on his desk in plain sight.
'Doctor Jekyll and Mister Hyde,' I had thought since I had read the insightful, troubling story. The twin natures of my friend were not as extreme as Stevenson's characters representing good and evil, but there were chilling similarities. The sinister, hidden demons exposed from beneath the brilliant, inquisitive scientist. Subliminal darkness from his childhood drove my friend to the brink of endurance and into the deceptive and temporary relief of the drug.
From his behavior, I guessed he had indulged in cocaine in preparation for another confrontation. Alternatively, perhaps to combat the pressing darkness. Night was always the worst for Holmes. 'When the powers of evil are exalted,' he had told me when I had gone off to investigate the Baskerville case. This morning I questioned what two mortals -- an all too fallible physician and a consulting detective could do to combat those powers of darkness within a human mind.
"Watson."
His waspish voice was deep. The accusation cracked in the silent room guilt-edged with frost. "You have called in a specialist named Agar."
The opened cable was, I now noticed, next to the morocco case. I restrained a quirk of amusement on my lips. 'At least you can still deduce something.' The silent neglect had succeeded in drawing him out of his shell. It was a glimmer of hope in a wall of bleakness.
"A Harley Street specialist."
"Charlatan!"
I refused to be baited and silently lit a cigar.
"What can a Harley Street specialist," the last word spat with the utmost contempt, "know of me?"
"An unexpected amount very shortly, I imagine."
I thought I heard a repressed snigger to my dry sarcasm.
"When is Agar to arrive?"
I glanced at the clock. "Within the half-hour."
"It will not work." His voice contained a curious mixture of scathing resentment, defiant resistance, and self-doubt.
I had expected worse. He could have left -- fled the field of upcoming battle. He could have barricaded himself in his room and refused to see Agar -- and might yet -- except he was not a person to make a scene. Such a move was defensive. Nothing about Holmes in dealing with others was ever defensive.
He could have thrown my belongings and self into the street (what a scene THAT would make to the local gossips!), but that was not his modus operandi. He could have commanded me from his presence; the house, his life. He still might. I was grateful he had not, thus far. I did not know how I would react if he did. Rejection by Holmes would have been another death for me.
Holmes could have done many things in alternative to staying his ground. That he did not, I found significant. Perhaps, in the back of his mind, he would allow me to guide him through this treatment and recovery, which he outwardly resented and resisted. His mild rejection this morning could mean he secretly wanted help but was too proud to ask. He could never admit he WANTED to be a participant in a cure.
He would be mollified to know I felt as reluctant and resentful as he -- perhaps more. I know how he valued his privacy. To bring a stranger into our midst to expose his intimate frailties was unforgivable -- I freely admitted it. I could see no other option.
In a way, I had almost expected the threat of a specialist to be enough to sway him to my methods. I half-thought he was calling my bluff on the matter. If so, he had underestimated his Watson. I would never bluff about something as vital as his health.
Holmes shifted in his chair and used his empty pipe to beat a rapid and agitated tattoo on the chair arm. His demeanor suggested a block of ice encased him.
"Will you stay?"
What a curious blend of demand and doubt. Holmes was incapable of asking, of admitting he wanted me to stay.
"I had intended to. If you prefer me to leave --"
"No! By no means," he returned with a touch of acid. "This was YOUR idea, Doctor. Surely you wish to stay and enjoy the fruits of your labor."
At no point during our conversation had he turned to look at me. Now he dropped his head back and engaged in an intent study of the ceiling.
"I doubt anyone will find enjoyment in this interview," I responded wryly.
"Hmph," was his laconic response. Did I imagine the undercurrent of humor in the sound? It was at least a slight sign of optimism if we retained our customary amusement for life. Certainly, then, not all was lost.
The bell rang.
I jumped. For the first time I realized knots twisted in my stomach from the tension of the impending interview. My hands were clutched on the now cold coffee cup. I placed it carefully on the desk and crossed to the door. Doctor Moore Agar entered, then handed me his coat, hat and stick with an imperious air. This morning his impressive, dark, pointed beard and immaculate clothing accentuated his demeanor of arrogance. His intent eyes had focused on Holmes and speared my friend with an open, almost rude, gaze of dissection.
"Mister Holmes."
My friend did not reply. He remained, like an eastern holy man, cross-legged and inscrutable on his throne. He gave a slight nod of acknowledgement and Agar advanced to sit down in my chair, opposite Holmes.
"No need for introductions, Mister Holmes. I would have known you anywhere. I look forward to this unique study." His tone surpassed my friend's occasional egotism. "I have as my patients some of the most famous in the land. So nice to add you to my list."
I was transfixed. I could not discern whose manner was more imperious, superior and cold: Holmes' or Agar's. I tossed the specialist's belongings on the sofa and took my place standing beside Holmes.
"No need for you to stay, Watson," Agar dismissed.
It was one thing to be discharged like a common servant. To be pushed aside in the medical care of my friend was beyond the pale. I sensed Holmes bristle at Agar's attitude and was warmed at the silent support.
"Mister Holmes is my patient," I retorted incredulously. "I certainly will not leave."
Agar did not deign even to glance at me. "He is MY patient now. You are not needed."
Holmes shifted in his chair. His back was stiff, his expression set in stone.
"Mister Holmes, I understand you are suffering a breakdown from overwork. I can see that is true."
In an aside he gave a brief diagnosis. "A page from your book, Mister Holmes," he said, deducing what he thought to be the problem. That I had indicated these details to him the day before slipped his mind, I observed in rueful silence.
"How astute."
They were Holmes' first words to the specialist. They could have been etched in granite for the cold, clipped way they were delivered.› Agar seemed unaware of the tone. "I can deal with your nervous state, Mister Holmes. For a talent like yourself, I am not surprised at the breakdown. I know how difficult it is for the brilliant to survive in the mundane world."
Holmes' tone was irony itself. "The cocaine is not the problem?"
Agar waved away the comment. He claimed the drug was nothing -- a social trend. He himself occasionally partook of opium to no ill affect.
Holmes' reaction to this was eyebrows raised to nearly his tousled hairline. He darted a glance toward me. My reaction was more vocal.
"How can you possibly claim cocaine has no -- "
He dismissed the drug and my opinion. "You are not a chemical specialist."
"Neither are you!"
From Holmes I heard a suppressed chortle. His misplaced jocularity was his way of toying with the specialist and possibly me. I was vexed that the debate was of such amusement to him, when, in fact, it had the utmost bearing on his well-being.
Obviously Agar had no interest in Holmes. My friend's reputation and illustrious name were the physician's only impetus. He cared not a whit, as I did, what happened to Holmes. It struck me I cared more about my patient than anyone in the room. What a mistake this idea had been. Holmes had every right to chastise me.
Agar speared me with a contemptuous glare. "Watson, this is a private consultation. Whether you agree or disagree is immaterial."
I nearly gasped at the effrontery. "You uncivil --"
"You did not call me for social amenities," Agar interrupted. "Please leave, Doctor. You are interfering with my work and you are out of your depth here!"
Holmes launched from the chair. He flung the blanket to the floor and stood with his feet apart, hands behind his back. He took a defiant, imperious stance -- back to the hearth -- facing Agar with a daunting, visible fire in his eyes.
"Watson stays."
It was nothing less than a royal decree. Agar was intelligent enough to read the commanding -- stubborn -- set of my friend's countenance; the dangerous flame in his eyes, the steel-edged sharpness of his tone.
Agar acquiescence. "It is your health we are concerned about, Mister Holmes. I really should have been called in sooner," he chided me without glancing my way. "How could you wait so long, Watson? Well, you are only a general practitioner. You lack the skills of a specialist."
I was offended by his stark rudeness, but could not refute the truth when spoken even in such a graceless manner. I HAD waited too long. There was no one to blame but myself. I was nothing more than a retired G.P. My only specialty was the personal addiction and mental stresses of Sherlock Holmes. I had an intimate knowledge of my patient, which no one else would ever attain. I HAD failed, however, to help him in his greatest need.
"Doctor Watson has more skills than you imagine," Holmes countered acidly.
"Excuse me, Mister Holmes," Agar returned, "but this is not your specialty either."
"This is too much!" I cried out. "Agar, you are insulting and rude to Mister Holmes. You talk as if he does not exist. You disregard a drug which is detrimental to his health --"
Agar stiffened with anger. "I am a specialist in my field, Watson. You do not have to agree with my methods. When a person suffers a breakdown they are like a child. I am paid to treat that child." He turned to Holmes, ignoring the glare from my friend's shadowed, disturbed grey eyes.
"I insist you take a long rest in the country, Mister Holmes. I own a hospital in Wales --"
"I will NOT go to hospital, Doctor!" Holmes interceded sharply. There was an intent, predatory look on his face.
"A stay in the country is the first step to your cure." There was a hint of dismissal in Agar's voice.
Agar's recommendation of my own prescription of rest was ironic. "Mister Holmes is not going to your hospital," I said with finality.
"Do stay out of this, Watson," Agar sighed. "You do not know what is best for Mister Holmes. Your incompetence has dragged him --"
"Enough!" Holmes snapped.
Agar, and I, both stared at my friend. His demeanor of power was so profound it seemed to draw the very air to him. We were transfixed by the dominance of his personality.
"You will leave now, Doctor Agar." It was an imperious command. "We no longer require your services."
Agar's face reddened. He glared at Holmes, then me, then Holmes again. "You shall be receiving my bill!" He muttered a few ungentlemanly comments while I escorted him to the front door.
For a time I leaned on the wall in the vestibule, collecting my thoughts. Unable to face Holmes after my most recent and most devastating failure, I took up my coat, hat and stick and left the flat.
Through the wet, friendless streets of London I walked for uncounted hours, as was fast becoming my habit. I had no care and little memory of where I went. So deep were my meditations I rambled the streets until after dark. Once I was stopped by a constable who enquired my business. He thought me a suspicious character to be out in such a condition. I realized I had no umbrella in the cold, heavy evening rain.
With slow steps I made my way back to Baker Street without resolution to my problems. My mind churned with the complexities of the muddle I had created for Holmes and myself. Each good intention had led to disaster, yet I still strongly felt that there was no choice but to eliminate Holmes' dependence on cocaine.
For the past hours (years) I had contemplated the root of his problems which drove my friend to his extremes. Over the years of our friendship I had seen a gradual worsening of the addiction and erratic behavior. Since his return from Reichenbach the decline had escalated to this terrible abyss of depression and poor health. In this time I had done my best to draw him away from the habit. I thought there had been progress until his hiatus following Switzerland. Upon his return I realized he had increased his cocaine habit. Three years later, he now could no longer control the addiction and my constant entreaties seemed less than useless. The drug now inhibited his ability to function as a consulting detective.
I still determined to stand by him no matter what. I would make yet another attempt at convincing him to break with the drug. After the disastrous interference of Agar I had no idea what mood Holmes would be in. Certainly his bitter resentment and resistance would not make my job easier.
Agar had been right on several counts. The truth had been painful to hear, yet it had been necessary for me to face: I had failed to draw Holmes from cocaine. My gradual, gentle persuasion had been useless. My sympathetic and slow attempts had been unsuccessful and had done nothing to stem the tide of addiction. I had not been able to keep his health on a steady plane.
In my defense I had to admit it was impossible to force Holmes to do anything he did not want to do. He was as stubborn as he was brilliant and no force on earth could sway such an immovable object. My instincts told me I had made the correct choices. My patience and tolerance was strained but yet intact and my gentle persistence could yet win out over his resistance. Confrontation would gain nothing but belligerence. Subtle suggestion was the only answer.
When I approached 221B I was heartened at the golden glow of lights behind the curtains in the sitting room windows. It was a comforting feeling to see the rooms I automatically associated with fond memories and hearty friendship. I was overcome with the sentimental thoughts of home and belonging. An inner warmth burned within and almost drove away the chill of apprehension still lingering, still surrounding my heart.
I was unsure what reception I would find when I entered. I steeled my resolve and crossed the familiar threshold. Whatever transpired, I would have to make the best of it.
The sitting room fire was blazing with toasty, crackling flames. For the first time I realized how frozen I felt -- inside and out. Foolish of me to leave so impulsively. I was soaked to the skin. A physician should know better!
Holmes was sitting in his chair. Blue smoke spiraled from his long clay pipe. His face was sober, then became almost cheery when he welcomed me.
"Watson!" He leaped to his feet and ushered me toward the fire. "My dear fellow, you are positively soggy! Remiss of you to leave without an umbrella," he clucked.
His effusive greeting and gentle chiding took me off guard. Without a word I allowed him to take my sodden coat. I accepted the drink he thrust into my hand and slowly sipped the burning liquor as I stood by the fire. He dashed to his room and brought back his purple dressing gown, which he wrapped round my shoulders.
There was no sign of the morocco case, I noted. No symptoms indicating he had indulged in his habit during the day. He still looked acutely pale and drawn, but there was some heartening return of his old energy and spark.
I saw two Gladstone bags at the door. At first I thought Holmes really HAD gathered my belongings to throw me into the street. Then I realized, by his greeting and by identification of the bags, that he would not evict me. He had packed HIS bags for a trip.
Edging his excited manner was a seriousness I found difficult to interpret. There was a sense of resolve and challenge in his manner. It could be attributed to his own contemplation of the day. Perhaps Agar's visit had jarred him into some valuable and enlightening introspection. Perhaps, I had theorized correctly, that he DID secretly wish to throw off the cocaine, but was too proud to ask for help in a normal fashion. That would be just like him. It would also be typical of him to make this an ordeal, when simply asking for help would have solved the problem.
"I have decided to take a holiday in the country."
"Agar --?
He shook his head. "No, not his hospital. And we shall not pay that charlatan a single shilling!" From the pocket of his dressing gown he pulled a wrinkled piece of paper and waved it in the air like a flag. "A cable came from Cornwall," he explained. "You have borrowed a cottage for us there. We can catch the morning train."
His tone was what swept the depression from my heart.
He dropped the cable to the floor. He turned to the mantle and dug long, dancing fingers into the tobacco in his Persian slipper, yet never charged his pipe. He was angled away from me, but I could see from his profile his face was as taut as his strained voice. "Will you come with me?"
"Certainly."
He glanced over his shoulder. "I am packed and ready to go," he announced with a twitch of a nervous grin.
All these touching gestures were his unspoken means of sincere apology. He could not bring himself to say so, but I understood his every sentiment. This old silent and nerve-wracking game we played had rounded a decisive corner this time. I sensed he had crossed a monumental Rubicon.
'Holmes HAS decided to change,' I thought with elation! 'Or at least to follow my advise! Or at least give it a try.'
Whatever the motives or plans underlying Holmes' intentions I greedily accepted any concession he would make. There seemed a good chance for progress if my friend was willing to come so far to meet my proposals.
I wondered about his thoughts. Did he recognized the need for rehabilitation himself? Did he agree to this on my account? If Holmes cared about me enough to make this concession, then he might care enough about himself to make a change. We were no longer descending. We had leveled off. It was too soon to hope for more than that. If, on our holiday, I could make Holmes see the dangerous crossroads he was at, then perhaps upward progression could come about. I would not ask any more of him. My slow, silent support was the best treatment for a personality like Holmes'. Patience was the only way to guide him toward a permanent and lasting cure.
"I think the country will do you good," was my neutral response.
"You are the most qualified specialist in a field you have created for yourself. I accept your diagnosis."
The tone could have been derogatory had it not been for the slight spark of wry warmth in his eyes. His sense of irony conveyed an acknowledgement of deferment to me. In his off-handed, oblique way he complimented me as a unique specialist on the intricacies of Sherlock Holmes. He could give me no greater honor than to name me as the one devoted to the care and protection of the greatest gentleman of my association. I took my profession very seriously and intended to succeed in bringing him back to health no matter how difficult that path would be, or how treacherous Holmes himself would make the ascent.
JHW
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