Sherlock Holmes walked over to the window, glancing only briefly at the carnage that remained of the sixth Napoleon. He craned his neck, peering through half closed eyes down into the street, as Lestrade departed. "You must forgive me Watson, for my overreaction earlier," he said at length, breaking a silence which had lasted for several minutes. "I was most surprised by Lestrade's remarks. I have affirmed several times to you, as you will doubtless remember, that although he acknowledges my superior abilities to you and me, he would never admit it in front of any official force."
"I recall you saying." I took down my cigar case and offered Holmes one, before taking one myself. We smoked in silence, looking out at the street. It was beginning to rain slightly. "So will you go to the police station tomorrow?"
"Indeed I shall not. Surely you know by now that for me, an acknowledgement of such magnitude from one in authority is reward in itself. Besides," he added, "He will have to explain to the force anyway how he came to get his hands upon the Black Pearl that has been missing all these years. Even he is not fool enough to try and invent a story. He will give a true account of the events – I can guarantee it. I would merely be a prop were I to attend; something to be marvelled at." He tapped nonchalantly on the window frame, but I saw a glint of pride still lurking under those hooded eyes, and in the corners of that firm mouth.
"Holmes," I said curiously. He looked round in response. "Have you ever been to see an optician?"
"Why do you want to know?"
"Because your chemical analyses and your observations of the minute during your cases must strain your eyes dreadfully. Especially given the fact that much of your work is completed at night by the light of a gas lamp. Furthermore, you need a magnifying lens to read standard sized print that I am able to read from several inches away. And finally, you look at everything through half-closed or puckered eyes, which, as you know, is often a subconscious method used by short-sighted people to sharpen the image they get."
He smiled. "Your powers of observation and deduction improve every day, Watson. I hadn't noticed, myself. It has never affected my work, so until now I have had no reason to pay it any attention. Although," he added, anticipating my admonishments, "I do often find, especially after looking through a lens at writing, that I suffer from headaches. You may have noticed that my mood often deteriorates when I have been poring over an article or document for some time."
"Indeed I have," said I. "Migraines can sometimes be the result of strained eyes, especially when there is underlying short sightedness. If you went to an optician and purchased the correct prescription of spectacles, you would not only see more clearly (and therefore observe and deduce more quickly and accurately), but your headaches would improve." Holmes looked dubious. I pressed further. "You would also find that your chemical analyses could be far more precise, and your aim with a gun would improve dramatically." At both these, he half-stirred, and a glitter of interest came into his keen features. "Besides," I added with a serious manner, "Over time, if the eyes are repeatedly strained, it is possible that your vision could steadily deteriorate."
I have seldom seen Holmes properly taken aback, and very rarely has it been my doing, but now I noticed his face pale slightly and his thick eyebrows go up. "Deteriorate…and then presumably cease to function altogether?" He enquired softly. I nodded. He paced around the room in a quandary. "Oh very well," he snapped at length. "After all, my trade depends on all my senses functioning to their optimum ability. We shall go tomorrow after breakfast."
So it was that at nine O'clock the next day, Holmes was seated in the optician's chair, while the optician ran the various tests that, combined, would indicate the standard of his vision. I had been allowed to go in with him without comment, and I restrained a half-smile when I noticed a fleeting expression of relief cross Holmes's otherwise impassive countenance. I could see that he wasn't enjoying the process. The worry-lines stood out on his brow: He disliked it intensely when other people pried into what he considered to be his affairs. To some extent he was also not looking forward to hearing the results of the assessment, for nobody wishes to hear bad news, and he could not deny that my deductions had some merit in them. Lastly, nobody likes it when bright lamp light is shone in their eyes and they are forced to wear ridiculous looking contraptions while reading letters from a screen.
When it was all over, the optician turned the gas up fully and sat down opposite the two of us. "Well Mr Holmes," he remarked. "You have nothing to be overly concerned about. Your vision is functional certainly, but you are a little short sighted. In a profession such as yours I can imagine that would be a distinct disadvantage. The good news is that you have nothing wrong with your eye-sight that a fairly gentle lens cannot correct. We can have spectacles made up for you today if you wish."
I had never imagined Holmes in spectacles before. His mood had become tiresome after leaving the optician's room, and he could not have cared less what frame type he took. It was a combination of luck and the good judgement of the optician's assistant, which led to Holmes coming away with a relatively becoming pair of thin, oval, steel-rimmed spectacles perched on his hawk-like nose. Despite their tasteful design, it took a considerable amount of self-discipline not to chuckle at his appearance.
Things did not get off to a good start with regards to his purchase. As soon as was reasonably possible after walking in the door, the spectacles were off and laid down in the seat of his armchair. Holmes sat down at the table and helped himself to a cup of tea. He did not speak much, and I tried to draw him into a conversation about classical art, but he responded monosyllabically. I gave up and contented myself with silence; it is best to leave him be in such moods.
"Well Watson," he said at length, rising from the table. "Let us see if your predictions are correct, and if my skills as a marksman have improved." I was not altogether happy with this plan, given the VR that stood out starkly on the living room wall, but I decided not to comment, knowing that anything I might say would not, in this instance, dissuade him. He almost flung himself down into his armchair, and it was only by grabbing his arm and making a swipe for the spectacles that disaster was avoided.
He donned them, loaded and cocked his pistol and aimed it at the wall.
Several deafening explosions later, Holmes put down his gun with a flourish. "Capital, Watson, capital! Take a look for yourself! On all but two occasions I have exactly hit the already existing bullet holes!" He swept across the room and pressed his eye against one of the holes. "Watson, I can see into my bedroom. I am sure that will be most useful at some juncture and for some purpose." Like an excited child, he bounded across the room to the window. I had rarely seen him this animated, and certainly never when he was without a case. He peered out at the passers-by. "That woman comes from a long line of rich females," he remarked, pointing to a small woman with her hair fastened in a hairclip, dressed in black and carrying several brown paper bags, who was standing under our window attempting to hail a cab. "That hairclip is at least one hundred years old. Its design is typical of the mid-eighteenth century, and the rust and worn state of it indicate that it is both genuine and has been frequently used. Had such an article passed from buyer to seller it would have been cleaned up professionally, and this clearly has not. It has therefore been passed down the female line. It is – or was once – silver, so this family is rich, or was at some stage…"
Holmes removed the spectacles for comparison, and shook his head. "Watson, I have been missing out on so much detail! Now I can act tenfold quicker and plan my actions much further in advance. My hiding places can be more concealed, and I shall operate a gun with absolute confidence from now on! What do you say to that?"
I should have felt happy for Holmes. Certainly it was very good for his career, and I was of course relieved to think that he would not end up blind through over-straining of the eyes. However, at the same time I felt that the end of an era had come. I had not realised how much Holmes had leaned on me as a companion and assistant in our cases, and now it appeared that he felt he would not need such assistance in the future. Thankfully though, I managed to give a smile, before retiring to my room.
Unlike most patches of unemployment, comparative tranquillity reigned throughout the household for a few days as Holmes occupied himself for hours on end by reading the papers, translating passages from his classical volumes, or by going through orchestra scores. However, some days after obtaining the spectacles, a young, shy woman was ushered into our living room. Her name was Miss Marion Braithwaite, and she was at her wits' end. She was a governess whose charge had gone missing, almost literally from under her nose. She had let go of his hand for an instant during their visit to the park, turned to admire a flower, and when she had looked up he had gone. This had been only two hours ago, and after searching the area she had hurried straight to us. It seemed to Holmes that an investigation of the scene was necessary, and she and the lady got up to leave. Before I could speak they had, in their excitement, gone out the door. Trying not to feel personally about this, I sat down and proceeded to scan the morning papers.
Some minutes later I heard footsteps on the stairs. "Come, Watson!" said a familiarly high, strident voice. "Leave your paper and come with me!"
I was about to obey as I habitually did when Holmes gave requests or orders in his masterful and persuasive tones, when some inner realisation held me back.
"You go on, Holmes," I said. "She's an intelligent woman, and I'm sure that between you it will be possible to solve the case." Something that resembled dismay momentarily flicked across Holmes's face. "But I may need your input and observations. Not to mention your skill with your trusty service revolver." I said nothing, but gestured at the new holes on the wall. "Oh now come, Watson," he said in a reproachful tone of voice, "You are the one person whom I can absolutely trust to be discreet and honest with me. It is much more than your physical capabilities that I value."
"Oh yes?" Somehow the comment slipped from my lips before I could prevent it, and the tone in which it was spoken was unintentionally sarcastic. Holmes stared at me in confusion it seemed, and then he did a most extraordinary and startling thing. He took off the spectacles which, with a slip of his fingers, fell to the floor. At the same moment he stumbled inexplicably, saving himself only by stepping forward onto them. There was a dreadful crunch and Holmes feigned a surprised start. His face instantly became a mask of well-acted chagrin and concern as he picked up the irreparably smashed, bent and damaged spectacles from the floor.
"Holmes – those were new!" I ejaculated on horror.
"Oh…so they were. Well, that is a pity. They appear to be irreparably damaged," he mused, turning them over, a gleam coming into his half-closed eyes.
"Ten shillings – and they last four days." I continued ruefully.
"Well…" said Holmes, imitating that half-comical, half-philosophical air he invariably adopted in the face of failure or disappointment, "Perhaps it's for the best. It would almost certainly have happened at some point." His face broke into a smile suddenly, and he clapped me on the arm. "Well, Doctor," he exclaimed, "Fate appears to have dictated that I shall now need not only your company and input, but also your eyes and your marksmanship too. Come quickly, for our young lady friend is waiting, and I feel this case will be a memorable one."