The Weight of Worth
In many ways, I consider myself to be a patient man.
If I flatter myself with the notion that my degree of tolerance is perhaps higher than that of most men, then it is with good reason. I entirely attribute such a disposition to my ability to weather that whirlwind of unpredictability otherwise known as Mr Sherlock Holmes for many a long year.
I will not deny that on many occasions, my patience has sorely tried. Strange chemical smells greeting me at breakfast, papers spread the length and breadth of the room, early morning intrusions when I am roused from a sound sleep and all manner of other countless irregularities which any sane man would decry as infernal nuisances.
And then there is his music.
It is true that I have a great fondness for Holmes' playing. When the mood takes him, he is capable of great flights of fantasy and his violin fairly sings of his high spirits. Even in a more lugubrious frame of mind, his melodies, as doleful as they are, rank as the finest I have ever heard from any self-professed amateur.
I could happily listen to him for many an hour. Even I, however, have my limits.
It is my opinion, for example, that the only time the strains of a Beethoven violin solo should ring out in the dead of night is when they are confined to the hallowed spaces of a concert hall. Call me a philistine, but my appreciation for Holmes' undeniable talent wanes at two o'clock in the morning when I am rudely awoken by a sorrowful wailing, interspersed with the odd scrape and misplaced note.
I understand that he must practice, but surely the hours of daylight or possibly even early evening is the time for things, not when the rest of the world is trying to take their rest. We have had complaints before now, from disturbed neighbours who have come hammering on our door in the early hours, when Holmes' inconsiderate playing has roused half the street from their beds.
I would say that it is not an act of deliberate provocation on his part, for he always seems deeply surprised that he has left such a trail of irritated people in his wake. It simply does not occur to him that fevered playing with the windows flung wide on warm summer nights is liable to cause some little distress to innocent souls who have never done him any harm.
After the last time, when our usually placid neighbour threatened to call the police after being driven to distraction by a raucous cadenza, Holmes tempered his nocturnal practice to the extent where I thought he had broken the habit all together. Peace ruled the night over Baker Street and my occasional visits were not greeted with stern instructions from Mrs Hudson to remind Mr Holmes to keep what she termed 'his infernal racket' to a minimum.
However, some time after this, I was left in no doubt that the old muse had again risen. The absence of my wife for the weekend had given me good reason to return to my former rooms and enjoy an evening in Holmes' company. We had dined out, and had returned to smoke and speak of old times and old adventures.
His manner I had noted had been somewhat distracted, as though his mind was preoccupied with other things. He had been convivial enough and I fancy glad of my presence, although I was aware of the existence of some great weight that suppressed the more exuberant excesses of his nature. Since he had no inclination to share his troubles, I did not press the subject. I retired to my bed late enough and soon fell into a deep sleep.
Then, in the early hours, the mournful strains of a traditional Scottish air rose up from the floor below and I knew that once more we were all to be denied our rest.
Normally, I would pull the pillow over my head and try to ignore it. But my own day had been especially difficult and I was still plagued by a general weariness of both body and soul that only a good night's sleep would dispel. As the melody sounded out again, I resolved to end this impromptu performance before it took full flight and we were treated to a full rendition of 'Ye banks and braes'.
Shrugging on my dressing gown, I staggered downstairs towards the thin sliver of light I could see beneath the sitting room door. It came as no surprise to me at all to find Holmes stood before the fireplace, bow and violin in one hand, a heavily annotated piece of sheet music in the other.
I entered somewhat noisily, the stupor of disturbed sleep making me rather more clumsy than usual. Holmes glanced round at my dramatic entrance and beheld my dishevelled appearance with an amused smile.
"Watson, you look a little tired," said he. "Shouldn't you be in bed?"
"Holmes, for heaven's sake, it's a quarter to four in the morning."
"So it is. Did you come all the way down here to tell me that?"
"Some of us are trying to get our sleep. Do you mind?"
He reacted as though the implication of what I was saying had suddenly occurred to him fully for the first time.
"Oh, you mean this," he said, gesturing to the violin. "I wasn't aware that I was playing quite so loud. Living alone, one forgets how the sound carries to the floor above."
"Well, it does. And may I remind you that the neighbours threatened legal action after the last time."
"Then I shall desist forthwith."
With that, the violin was tossed onto the nearest chair to land with a thud that bode ill for its continued harmoniousness. I had half a mind to retire immediately, for I read the warning signs in that careless act of the gathering clouds of gloom in my friend's demeanour.
The kinder part of my conscience, however, spoke of the consequences of leaving him entirely bereft of either music or companionship. What I might find come the morning would be infinitely more trying than the effects of a sleepless night.
With this in mind, I forced my exhaustion aside, closed the door behind me and slumped onto the sofa.
Holmes regarded me quizzically. "Aren't you returning to bed?" he asked.
"There doesn't seem much point now I'm wide awake."
"Ah, well, in that we are both at the mercy and caprice of Morpheus."
"You couldn't sleep?"
He shook his head. "My mind is distracted, and where that leads the body must naturally follow. I gave up the unequal battle and sought succour in the sweetness of melody. Even in that, it seems, I am to be denied."
That last statement had an air of reproof about it that I felt was most unwarranted. I am quite certain that a goodly proportion of the world, not to mention our sorely tested neighbours, would share my objections to this nocturnal disturbance, however sweet the tune.
In spite of this, I had some sympathy for him. The most recent of his cases had taken him abroad for several weeks and, from what little I could gather, had pushed his formidable constitution to its very limits. He had returned jaded and melancholic, and had been unable to conjure up any enthusiasm for the few enquiries that had arrived since.
The exact nature of the business was still somewhat vague to me, since he had been sufficiently reticent when I had initially asked him to dissuade me from venturing further. I had been sure he would confide to me in his own time about the nature of the thing that weighed so heavily on his soul.
Now it seemed he had picked his moment, although I could have wished for better timing than the early hours of a mild summer's morning.
"What's the matter, Holmes?" I said with a sigh. "If you clear your mind, you might be able to sleep and then I might be able to return my bed too."
A mirthless laugh escaped his lips. "I am not sure that I deserve such consideration, my dear fellow. Even so, the thing that ails me is beyond your ken."
I try not to be offended by his attempts to guess the limits of my intelligence. Compared with his own seemingly boundless intellect, I must necessarily consider myself inferior, although I dare say I would fair better than the average man on the street. After all, even the brightest star in the heavens acknowledges that it will always be outshone by the sun.
What was immediately obvious to me was that the rest of the night promised to be a long one. In such cases, I always find it always advisable to make oneself as comfortable as possible. Accordingly, I went to the sideboard and poured us both a brandy.
Holmes accepted my offering in silence and took several considered sips while I seated myself on the sofa and found a rug to wrap around my shoulders to keep out the cold.
"Well, Holmes?" I prompted.
He had his back to me, his arms braced on the mantelpiece. The empty glass had been added to the assorted clutter, jostling for space between mementos of cases past and the old metronome in its wooden pyramidal mounting, which he used when practising a new piece, squeezed into the tiniest of gaps beside the clock.
"Would you say I am a fanciful man, Watson?" he asked suddenly.
"No. I think you are probably one of the most rational men of my acquaintance."
"Given that your range of friends is as limited as mine, I can hardly consider that to be a sound recommendation."
I was too tired to rise to this attempt at criticism and steered the conversation back to the matter in hand.
"Why?"
"This last case," said he with a sigh. "There were times when I had cause to doubt most earnestly my own judgement. During the course of the investigation, I fancied…"
He trailed off into silence and took to adjusting the weight on the pendulum rod of the metronome. With one finger, he set it in motion and the rod began to count out a slow tempo, ever moving back and forth in its prescribed rhythm.
"Well, I fancied that I had erred, if I am to be completely honest," he continued presently.
"We all have days like that, Holmes. However, I'll wager you were proved right in the due course of time."
He glanced at me over his shoulder. "I find your unshakeable belief in my powers rather endearing, Watson, if ill-advised. All men must stumble in the end. It is the way of the world."
"And did you in this instance?"
"No. My initial findings were upheld, eventually."
It was the tone of his voice as he said that last word that led me to believe this sense of doubt and disillusionment had been allowed to fester during a period of uncertainty that had stretched beyond its usual term. He had been absent from Baker Street for a considerable period, which had led me to believe the case was a good deal more convoluted than he had expected.
I had not anticipated that he had been stifled by a lack of progress into inaction and depression. Certainly it would account for his dejected state on his return that not even his ultimate triumph in the matter had been able to lift.
"But they were upheld," said I, rising from my seat and going over to where he stood. "That's all that matters. I think you are worrying unnecessarily about an isolated incident."
A reassuring hand laid on his shoulder caused him to look up from his contemplation of the metronome. His expression was as inscrutable as ever and I could not say for certain whether our conversation had done him some little good. He did, however, hold my gaze long enough for a deep sense of unease to fester within me in the certain knowledge that there was more to this tale than he had revealed.
"Are you quite well?" I inquired.
He sighed deeply and turned away from me. "Watson, why are you here?"
On the face of it, there was only one answer to that. Rather, only one answer that either of us was willing to allow openly. I duly obliged him as expected.
"At your invitation. Mary is away visiting friends and –"
"Do not prevaricate. You know exactly I mean."
This was an unexpected turn. In all honesty, I did not know how to reply. If I had ever questioned my motives, then it had only ever been to approach the problem from the other angle, as for an explanation for my ability to endure.
But Holmes was right. Somewhere and at some time, I had made a choice of my own free will. It had not been forced upon me and that I adhered to it still spoke of my continued complicity in that decision.
What to tell Holmes, however, was quite another matter.
"Well, why does anyone do anything? Because they want to, I suppose."
He snorted. "As workmanlike an answer as I would have expected from you, Watson."
"Then what is your explanation?"
"If you are unable to fathom the workings of your own mind, then far be it from me to try. But," he added thoughtfully, his gaze returning to the rhythmic moving of rod before him; "It has often struck me how much we could learn of ourselves from this simple device."
"From a metronome?" said I warily, not entirely sure what this change in conversation implied. "I'm not certain I follow you, Holmes."
"Simply put, my dear fellow, some men are as the pendulum and others are the weight. If I am the former, then you are almost certainly the latter."
I did not reply immediately to this. The better part of me was all for understanding that this unkind comment sprang from Holmes' mental state of disarray and not from some deliberate intent to wound.
However, I did feel the sting of his words most deeply. As much admiration as I had for that rational mind of his, I could never quite forget nor entirely forgive the level of cruelty of which I knew from bitter experience he was capable.
"I'm going to bed, Holmes," I stated. "Good night."
"What?"
This time, his expression this time was of pure confusion.
"You are clearly in a disputatious mood and I am too tired to wrestle with you on an intellectual level."
"Whatever do you mean, Watson? I declare that such a sentiment never passed my lips."
I paused with my hand on the doorknob, looking back to wonder what excuse he would produce to pardon his cavalier remark.
"You've just stood there and described me as a dead weight and a burden, Holmes. I may have my faults, but I do not deserve such heartless treatment."
"My dear fellow," said he; "I do believe you have misunderstood. That was not what I meant at all."
I remained where I was, my hands thrust stubbornly into my pockets.
"Then what?" I retorted. "As far as I can see, I can discern only one meaning from that statement of yours."
"Oh, yes? Do tell."
"That you are as some free spirit, restricted in the fullness of your scope by the presence of a weight, a label you have just applied to me. If that is how you feel, Holmes, then in answer to your earlier question, no, I do not know what I am doing here at all."
A half-smile lifted the corners of his mouth.
"That is your reading, Watson, not mine."
"It is the reading that any sane man of normal intelligence would reach!"
"And is that the label you apply to me?"
"Not in the slightest," I said grudgingly.
"Then you at least owe it to the accused to listen to his defence."
"You can but try."
His smile broadened and he held out his hand to me, in a reconciliatory gesture that invited my return to the fireplace. I was intrigued enough to discover what answer he could give to accept this request and found myself once more at his side.
"A practical demonstration best illustrates my point," said he.
He pulled the weight from the length of the rod and gave it a hearty nudge. Free of restriction, it moved slow and wide, jarring each time it came to the end of its arc only to spring back in the opposite direction.
"Now," said he; "Tell me what you see."
"The rod is free to move as it will."
Holmes shook his head gravely. "Ah, Watson, what you see as freedom, I see as unruly imperfection. Left to its own inclination, the rod knows only one tempo, that of its own making. How few tunes may one fit to such limited beat! Add the weight, however…"
He paused in his explanation as he fitted the weight onto the rod at an appropriate height, and set both in motion again. The rod assumed a quicker, shorter beat, more uplifting and spirited.
"Now see how much more useful it becomes. Its rhythmic range becomes infinitely more flexible and interesting. It assumes greater purpose by regulation that it may better serve the needs of its creator. If it has indeed been restricted, then by how much more has it gained by this small sacrifice?"
He glanced across at me.
"The weight would still be a weight even if it was employed in another capacity, but here it has made a marked difference in terms of enrichment. We may say with some certainty that alone, both rod and weight have some, if limited, value, but together they may play their parts to the greater glory of the whole."
A slight pause followed this explanation.
"Are you still offended?" he inquired.
"Not now you have explained it," I admitted, somewhat abashed now at my hasty conclusions in the face of this eloquence.
Satisfied, Holmes replaced the cover on the metronome and took to charging his pipe with tobacco.
"You know, there were times in the course of that last investigation when I could have used your steadying influence," said he, striking a match. "Left to my own devices, I am a most unruly creature, Watson."
"You had only to write, Holmes. I would have come."
"I know it. For that reason, I did not write. You have your own responsibilities that I have caused you too many times in the past to neglect. One should never impose too greatly on the goodwill of a friend."
"I have never thought it an imposition, Holmes. You should know by now that I consider it a great pleasure to accompany you in your investigations."
He shrugged lightly. "All the same, it is never wise to outdo one's welcome."
"What nonsense. You know my door is always open to you. Some times I am busy, but on the whole, I am ever ready and willing to assist."
"My rare and constant Watson!" he declared in all sincerity. "How much better the world would be if we all aspired to your solid and rock-like qualities."
"Yes, but less exciting. The public thrills to the tales of your exploits, not mine."
Holmes shook his head gravely.
"I am but a wind-tossed straw, which dances on the breeze for but a short time before it falls to join the great mass of its fellows. It is soon forgotten. A rock, however, endures and its virtues are remembered and revered long after the reapers have laid down their tools."
I gathered this was his way of trying to pay me a compliment in his usual oblique manner. Any other man may have taken offence at the less than flattering comparison, but as I have said, I am blessed with a tolerant nature.
That, and a deeper understanding of my friend's character than I know he has of mine allows me to know that his intent is nobler than his words would suggest.
"Well, if you say so, Holmes," said I.
"Oh, I do, my dear fellow, in all earnestness."
His gaze travelled briefly to the clock and the hands that now stood at ten minutes to five.
"I take it that you would like to hear the details of the case that inspired this philosophical interlude?" he asked casually.
It was obvious that he had no intention of allowing me to return to my bed. Any attempt to fight his will in this respect was liable to be met with more persuasive arguments than I could muster at this early hour.
"Very well," said I with a weary sigh. "May I at least find something warmer to wear? It's decidedly cold in here."
Holmes held up his hand. "A little exercise, I fancy, would warm you more. What would you say to stroll around the city?"
"At five in the morning?"
"What could be more instructive to the inquiring mind than to witness the rise of a sleeping giant?" said he. "Come, Watson, let us step out for a few hours, and then I will treat us to breakfast at the Langham Hotel."
And so it was that we were amongst the first to tread the streets that morning. A few years later, the old metronome finally broke down beyond repair, necessitating the purchase of a new one. In spite of this, Holmes could never bring himself to part with the old and it remained in his room for the duration of his tenure at Baker Street.
On the day that he finally set out for the pastures new, he presented it to me, bidding me to decide its fate. My wife would have had it consigned to the dustbin, but this I resisted and instead placed it in pride of place on my desk in the surgery.
It remains there to this day, many years later, wearing its age for all to see. The passage of time has produced a pleasing patina on the wood, aided by the curious touch of many fingers. A little rust has invaded its innards and perhaps the metal no longer shines as brightly as it once did.
Devoid of purpose it may be, and yet I could never countenance parting with it.
For as long as I am able, I will continue to guard it more closely and jealously than the rarest jewel. And, more importantly, I will always ensure that it is never neglected or forgotten, if only for the sake of its worth, more precious to me than its weight in gold.
The End
Sherlock Holmes and Dr Watson are the creations are Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. Characters and incidents mentioned in this work are entirely fictitious. This work of fan fiction has not been created for profit nor authorised by any official body.