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The Observation
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It was after having taken Watson to meet Mycroft at the Diogenes club that I was surprised to find him sitting up late into the night. It was not like Watson to brood. In fact I have never known a man less given to the habit than my Watson. He had been sitting staring at the empty fireplace for a long time - the house had been silent and the lamp, which I had refilled that evening, was almost entirely burned. I have seldom seen a more melancholy expression upon the face of my friend.
I turned on the gas, re-lit the fire and seated myself in my usual chair. I made a steeple with my fingers and waited. He knew this meant I was ready to listen, and yet it was some minutes before he moved, and when he did, that which was on his mind became instantly clear. He picked up that old pocket watch of his, opened the back and simply looked. It was easy to read his mind. He was thinking of the time that I had deduced the existence and life story of his older brother solely from the scratchings in this same watch.
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The Deductive Sequence
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He was grieving. Understand that I read this solely from his actions – for, save for the time of night and his quiet reflection, he gave no outward indication. I find it ironic that he has referred to me as a cold, calculating machine, and yet he is in turns characteristically flippant or taciturn about his own sufferings. But whereas I do not, or will not easily disclose my inner demons, there are many things that Watson cannot share with anyone, even if he wanted to. I still think of the time I broke in on his thoughts about the preposterous nature of war, and his unexpectedly defensive initial reaction.
Watson and I have very different mentalities. I can cut myself out of any mental picture, change my train of thought or inactivate my emotions at will. These abilities are crucial in detection or any other science – one must remain professional and dispassionate on the job, especially in front of the clients. Yet if I were wholly unemotional, I would have no drive, no inspiration, no joy in my work, no feeling of triumph when I succeed, no connection with music or my hobbies. Cumbersome and difficult as emotions may be, one must have them, yet be master of them, to remain sane.
I deal with my more difficult demons by reacting to how Watson reads me. Either that or his reading of me allows me to see the best way to deal with them alone. At any rate I do deal with them. But my poor, imprudent Watson – oft-times he will try to 'bury [his] sorrows in doing good work'. Now I don't ever mean for a second that his generosity, friendship and selflessness are false, but a pattern emerges that I have seen in many clients, such as Elsie of the dancing men: The more suffering, the more compulsive and whole-hearted the giving that results. He has very extrovert tendencies, both in manner and writing: He subconsciously directs general attention away from himself and onto me or a client.
Watson therefore currently depends upon me – mixed up, unorthodox me, to provide him with a subject upon which to exercise his attention and generosity. And though I find him invaluable as an assistant on my cases, I have also formed the habit of looking towards him and his views, not only as a means of heightening my deductive powers, but also for a sense of my own identity. Holmes and Watson, possessive and protective respectively, you might say. Ha.
But then there's the gnawing discomfort I get when I perceive Watson is unhappy or in trouble. And the terror he shows when I am in danger. And the exultation he exhibits when I solve a case. And the effort I made to be gracious and to add his wife into my world view when he was married. And implicit two-way trust, I in his ability to deliver action where needed, he in my ability and methods in solving a mystery. Those reflect genuine, strong, real friendship, not built on dependency or functionality.
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The Resulting Consequences
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"I'm sorry about your brother, Watson." I paused. "I should have anticipated that meeting Mycroft would naturally make you think about your older brother too."
He fiddled with the watch uneasily. "It was years ago now," he shrugged. "The silly old fool. Very stubborn. Never listened to anyone else. He had it coming to him, he really did."
"Well, Fate can be unkind to such people too, you know."
"Yes…" he sighed and shifted position. "Yes, I suppose it can be." We both stared at the shimmering, flickering flames.
"You know," I ventured slowly, and with a twitch of a smile, "You can share Mycroft with me if you like. Not that it would be replacing him…" I added hastily, worried that I might have struck a nerve.
He sat motionless for a moment, then he gave a smile which turned into a chuckle. "That is very generous, Holmes," was all he said.
After a while we each retired to bed. I was relieved to find my friend in better spirits the following morning.