Note: Although I read canon years ago, my current visioning of the characters is from the 2009 movie.

The Not-Entirely-Dry Well Incident

by Helen W.

Geltsling Cottage, Chichester

January 21st

My dear Mrs. Wilson,

Thank you so much for your letter! I am delighted to hear that Albert is getting on so well with his new governess. It helps ease how much I miss him and our mornings together.

John and I have settled well into the quiet rhythm of the countryside in winter, and to life as man and wife. Mycroft Holmes's kindness in letting us begin our marriage here, away from the bustle of London, will not soon be forgotten. The house is lovely, and the estate is maintained this season just aggressively enough to provide residents and staff alike with fresh eggs and milk.

Sherlock Holmes has been with us since the 10th, and he has proven to be a veritable volcano of information about a range of subjects, though I am not at all sure he knows how many planets there are in the solar system. Men!

You were very kind to express concern about my 'sharing' my husband with 'the notorious&celebrated Mr. Sherlock Holmes.' I would be lying if I said that there has been no tension. However, Mr. Holmes, I am finding, has his charms beyond his encyclopedic, if erratic, knowledge. Or, perhaps more accurately, I am finding that the good of being on intimate terms with Mr. Holmes outweighs the bad.

Perhaps the following story will illustrate how and why my views of Mr. Holmes have been evolving.

As we discussed in the weeks prior to my marriage, the very traits I find most attractive in John - his bravery, his intellect, his very goodness - of necessity lead to a life which differs from that of the typical physician. And so I bear Mr. Holmes no ill-will for the precarious situations John finds himself in on occasion. My tale begins, however, with John in jeopardy completely unrelated to their acquaintanceship.

Well, this is not quite true, because it is Holmes's brother's hole that John fell into.

Yes, my darling, brave John, who has traversed continents and navigated oceans successfully - well, reasonably successfully - found his match last week in a derelict well just outside the cattle pen. And now we know why the fence bends as it does there!

Back to my poor John. Cook was gone overnight, so he decided to rise early and see what the chickens had produced, thinking to surprise us all with omelets. As he was making his way around the fence toward the henhouse, he says he was extremely startled to discover the ground rising and himself sliding down through roots and dirt, finally coming to a halt in mud and pebbles perhaps twenty feet below the farmyard. I imagine he started yelling straight-away; we all, being still abed, heard nothing.

I awoke a bit after the sun and, finding my husband absent, figured he'd taken advantage of the lack of precipitation to take in some exercise. I made my way down to the kitchen and was beginning to prepare some porridge when I was joined by Mr. Holmes, who inquired as to John's whereabouts. When I told him I supposed he'd gone for a stroll, Mr. Holmes said, "Then why is his walking cane in that corner? Don't you know your husband well enough to know he would never voluntarily take a stroll before noon, and without his cane, especially where he is sure to encounter uneven terrain?"

I was, of course, taken aback by his rudeness, but I couldn't ignore the accuracy of his observations; John's walking stick was, indeed, where he had become accustomed to leaving it when indoors. As for John not rising early - well, I could think of at least seven occasions when he'd not only risen early due to some plan of Mr. Holmes's, but had returned from his efforts somewhat the worse for wear; once perilously so. I was sufficiently alarmed to hold my tongue, however, and proceeded to search the house while Mr. Holmes drew on his greatcoat and headed outside.

Not three minutes later, while I was lighting a lantern to take down into the cellar, Mr. Holmes rushed back inside. "Go and see if Jennings is about," he said, "Watson has gotten himself stuck in a most precarious locale!"

Of course I ignored his order to find Jennings, his brother's steward, instead following Mr. Holmes out into the farmyard and across to a patch where the browned January grass rose a little higher.

The hole, an ancient well which we later learned Mycroft had thought he might restore, was not over two feet in diameter; one would have to hit it square to fall in. But, yes, my John was in it, looking up at us from some distance.

"We'll get a rope; won't be any trouble at all to pull you up," Mr. Holmes said, but I could tell from John's expression that he had his doubts.

Having nothing to add myself, I then did go retrieve Jennings from his cottage. By the time we returned, Mr. Holmes and John and had determined that indeed John's extraction was not going to be as simple as pulling him up. He'd injured his good shoulder in the fall, and was wedged so tightly into so narrow a space that he couldn't get a loop around his body.

So Jennings and Mr. Holmes started digging, aided after a bit by several neighbors. The first strategy was to try to expand the hole, but after several shovelfuls it was found that it was impossible to do this without at least a little debris falling onto John. Which, you can imagine, displeased him. And Mr. Holmes and the other men decided that this would only get more difficult to prevent as the work progressed.

Therefore, a second hole - more, a narrow, slanting trench - was excavated, the men at first tossing up, then eventually having to carry, the earth shovelful by shovelful. I myself kept busy (and, I hoped, useful) providing refreshment (with the eventual help of the cook, who returned mid-afternoon), bandaging blisters, and, eventually, managing a lantern so that work could proceed after dusk. Through it all, we all maintained a tense silence, save for Mr. Holmes's occasional inquiries to John as to his well-being. I confess my own intercourse with John was limited to the visual. The diminishing strength of his glaze through that long day told me all I needed to know, and more than I wanted. He was fading away from us as the men got closer, from cold and thirst and pain and exhaustion.

Finally Mr. Holmes proclaimed the trench deep enough; then began the painstaking work of taking down the boundary between trench and well. All was fine for the first few yards; then some shift of man or tide, or misestimation of wall width, caused a length of what remained to collapse, with much falling on John's half of the divide; in the dim, we lost all sight of him, and he did not answer our calls. How frantic Mr. Holmes became then, a change from the hard, grim pragmatism he'd shown all day! Though fortunately there was actually very little material to remove. Not more than a minute later he called that they'd reached John, who was not more than a little choked.

I passed Mr. Holmes some tea, which John drank with some enthusiasm; this probably helped my spirits as much as his.

It took another half-hour to finally pull John free. To the cheers of all assembled, Mr. Holmes half propelled, half carried John out of the abyss, then thanked all who'd helped us and sent them on their way, with promise of later recompense; I tasked cook with preparing a light meal. Mr. Holmes was giving John some privacy, of course; I think he would have been happiest if I'd made myself scarce too, but that was not going to happen!

Together we got John inside and out of his filthy, damp garments. (To call that well 'dry' would have been an exaggeration.) Mr. Holmes examined at John's injured shoulder, then manipulated it a bit. The pain it had been causing clearly eased and John regained some strength in his arm; the relief was enough that we decided not to summon the local country doctor.

Together we cleaned John as best we could without a tub (there was not enough hot water, so that was put off until the next day) and made him comfortable in the sitting room with a brandy and a hot water bottle, covered with blankets. Mr. Holmes then himself collapsed onto the chaise, and I practically spoon-fed them both when supper appeared.

Though John was, of course, shaken, seeing them resting there together I was struck by how well they knew each other, how easy they were with each other, and how sure. John had never doubted his rescue; he'd only had to endure. And Mr. Holmes had never wavered from the task, though I suspect he knew water had been leaching John's strength and that speed was critical. If the well had been three times as deep, or as ten, he would not have slept until John had been reached.

I am not so cruel as to ever limit such a friendship.

We had the well and the trench both filled as soon as we could. I am afraid that part of Mycroft Holmes's yard is a bit of an upturned mess, but I cannot feel too badly for him; he should have dealt with that hazard years ago.

John and Mr. Holmes both slept most of the next day, but were recovered fully the day after. John has not embarked on any more predawn adventures, however. And I still don't know whether I've married a man who can manage an omelet.

We arrive back in London the 7th of next month; I would be delighted to see you then. Give my love to Albert!

Fondly and Sincerely,
Mary

* * * THE END * * *

All comments welcome, here or to helenw at murphnet dot org.