If this were played upon a stage now, I could condemn it as an improbable fiction.
- Fabian, scene iv, Twelfth Night
My wife has never quite forgiven me for being the one to meet Sherlock Holmes, completely on accident. Not even the autograph will take away the sting of not having met him herself. She calls herself a fan. Always has loved mysteries, she has, and it started with Natalie putting her onto this online journal. She's on that machine constantly. Calling me over to look at pictures of the grandchildren every other minute. Nat keeps her updated daily, sends picture after picture. I love my girls, but nobody needs a half dozen pictures of a three year old picking their nose. But Nat and my Lucy have always been close, closer after we lost Billy, and it's been hard on them since Adam's company moved them across London. You'd think it was across Britain, the way they go on about it.
Nat makes up for this by documenting every single moment of the girls' lives in photos, and there's not a programme I can enjoy in peace without Lucy calling me over to look at yet another picture of a baby smearing yams across her jumper. "Only look at the dears! You've forgotten what they look like already, I daresay," as though I'm senile or we don't see Nat, Adam, and the girls close on every weekend. Don't know how many times I've told her I'll look at them when they are proper photographs, ones you can hold. This way, the bother of it will mean I'll have to look at only ten of the same posed photo instead of several dozen.
It's the same conversation each time. She interrupts the telly, shouting from the kitchen, I tell her to bring it in, I'll look at it then, and she can finish by wallpapering the front hall with it, as there's not a free space left on the frontispiece. "'My old hands like to have something real to hold,'" she'll finish for me in a sing-song voice that I take to be her imitation of mine. In reality, it sounds eerily like her sainted mother, the old bat. "Not having real pictures and news is just unnatural," I'll say, because insinuating she sounds like her mother is another row altogether. "How do you know it won't just up and shuffle off one day?"
Around here, Lucy will appear in the doorframe, grey hair done up fetchingly as it was when we got our first flat together. She hasn't changed a bit. "You and your newspapers," she says, as shrewishly housewife as she can manage, "There hasn't been anything interesting in them since the turn of the century, old man. It's all on the internet now."
The argument ends with Lucy attempting to prove her point by telling me to come see the newest photo or absolutely riveting online journal article. I refuse and she swats my arm. I punish her with a kiss, inform her of the old adages 'if it ain't broke' and 'a woman's place is in the kitchen,' and order her to fix me a cuppa. This ends with either another swat, or if she's feeling particularly feisty, burnt toast and oversteeped tea. A real pip, my Lucy.
In a thinly-veiled attempt to motivate me moving into the twenty-first century, as she puts it, she's taken to reading me bits of stories off the internet while I watch telly and pretend to listen. She's been on about it for so long that some of it must've stuck in my brain-attic by sheer brute force, because as it happens I did recognize Sherlock Holmes when I saw him.
Well, I say I recognized him. It was more that I overheard the name than anything else, "Sherlock Holmes" hardly being easily mistaken for another name. My hearing isn't so far gone as Lucy thinks, that I can't pick up what's said next to my ear, midst of a crowded train station or no.
At all events, it was purely coincidence that I'd just finished putting Lucy on the train to Brighton, dutiful daughter holidaying with lovely mother. As the last time I'd paid a call to that esteemed lady had ended with her requesting I never darken her hallowed stoop with my presence til she was cold in the ground, Lucy and I decided it was for the best to give her only one visitor at a time.
As I say, Lucy's train had just pulled out and the noise died down when I heard someone bandy about Sherlock Holmes' name nearby. I'm not one to eavesdrop, but the three men – a tall, lanky one, a fair-to-middling type, and the roughest-looking bloke I'd seen since playing rugby in my schoolboy days – weren't the quietest speakers I'd ever heard, if you catch my drift. The stocky gent in particular, the one who had a black cap covering half his face, in the ridiculous manner you see boys get up to when tattoos and motorbikes aren't enough to prove their manhood. From the stocky man's conversation, he seemed to have some business with the gentleman he called Sherlock Holmes, him and the man next to him, whom I could only assume was the chap Lucy had mentioned associated with him on his wildly implausible crime solving schemes.
Now, I've never been one awed by the pall cast by celebrity, not in my youth and certainly not as one well old enough to know better. Lucy, on the other hand, was one to be properly awed by, and her wrath on the occasion of me bumping into Pippa on my way out of Tesco's, and subsequently failing to waylay her and get a photo and autograph, was a thing, once beheld, never to be forgotten. Not that she had ever let me.
It was therefore with this, and the thought of the aftermath should I compound such an error by repeating it a second time, foremost in my mind that I approached the three men. Near as I could tell, they seemed to be having a contretemps regarding some sort of engagement that the stocky man insisted Sherlock Holmes was due for. His associate looked considerably amused. "Now look here," Mr. Holmes said, looking aggrieved, and shaking the stocky man's hand off his jacket as I grew closer, trying to find an opening in the conversation to take advantage of. "You have made a mistake, again. I am not," he began, but was interrupted by his companion, who spotted me standing about awkwardly.
"Ah," said he, raising his eyebrows and eyeing me critically. "A new player enters the farce." He and Mr. Holmes exchanged glances, but made no move to exclude me, unlike the stocky man, who seemed to be in a spot of a bother, and moved slightly behind Mr. Holmes, glaring in my direction quite rudely.
Celebrities. Nutters, the lot of them.
Despite this inauspicious first impression, there comes a time of life when one is too old to care overmuch about proprieties. I thought of Lucy, excused myself, and begged pardon for the intrusion. "I couldn't help overhearing the name 'Sherlock Holmes,' and, well, that's hardly a common name, is it?"
Sherlock Holmes' companion interrupted at this stage of the proceedings. "It's a family name," he said, with the air of a man used to this line of questioning, before Mr. Holmes could speak.
"I see," I said, wracking my brain for the scraps of information I'd ignored over the football game. "And you must be, er, Doctor Watterson?"
Mr. Holmes seemed to take offense at this, saying, "No, you've got it wrong –" but was again interrupted by his companion, who seemed in fact hugely amused by the misunderstanding, merely correcting, "Doctor Watson, if you please. A simple enough mistake, both names are quite in the common way, of course."
Mr. Holmes shot his friend a look. "I've always found Sherlock to be a terribly pretentious name, myself," and made what appeared to be an abortive attempt to move closer to his colleague before thinking the better of it, stiffening up just as though he'd been jabbed sharply. Obviously a straight-laced type.
The stocky man, who had been looking between the rest of us uneasily during this exchange, seemed impatient at the delay. Perhaps they were late for some type of board meeting. Dr. Watson seemed the tall, sober sort, but I wouldn't have put it past Mr. Holmes to be skiving off. He certainly had the air of a man whose holiday had been unfairly cancelled.
The stocky man, who still had not introduced himself and had been silent and rather dour as we conversed, had himself the air of a lackey, albeit a rather unprofessional-looking one, probably fresh out of college – today's youth, what's to be done - attempting to persuade wayward clients to a business meeting. He broke his silence by questioning me belligerently. "You are an associate of Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson?"
"Not at all," Sherlock Holmes said quickly, and rather rudely, in my opinion. "Never seen him before in my life. In fact, if you don't mind…" He sketched a gesture that intimated I should be leaving. Ah well. Takes all sorts. I could tell Lucy I'd tried, and that she was mad to be wasting her time on the exploits of the likes of these.
However, Dr. Watson seemed more agreeable than the two other, if his next words were any indication. "Now, Sherlock. You are too hasty. This gentleman merely wants a picture of the famous consulting detective, for his wife, if I am not mistaken."
The rest of us spoke over each other. Mr. Holmes said, "Vanity, thy name" - though whether this was directed at himself or Dr. Watson, I could not tell - the third man, who was shifting from foot to foot in impatience, scoffed and muttered rudely at the rest of us, and for my part I begged pardon again and would have just called that an end to the whole event.
Dr. Watson was having none of it. Ignoring the other two as if they had not spoken, he told me Mr. Holmes would be overjoyed to pose for a photo, though this was patently untrue. Mr. Holmes seemed to have been robbed of speech by such a lie, made another aborted movement, thought better of it and stiffened again. Perhaps he had a nervous twitch? Lucy would surely know. Gossip columns are her bread and butter. Knows secrets about the royal family they wouldn't tell lying on a psychiatrist's couch, though I wouldn't put a penny on the truth of even half those rumors.
The dodgy-looking man loomed over Sherlock Holmes' shoulder to address Dr. Watson. "I don't think Mr. Holmes has time for that, wouldn't you agree?" He grinned unconvincingly at the doctor, who stared back at him serenely for several moments before turning to me again. "Nonsense," he said. "Sherlock Holmes always has time for his adoring public."
This seemed a bit of a stretch, especially as the man himself muttered "Since when?" The stocky man also seemed to strain at the bonds of incredulity, and made as though to lay a hand on Mr. Holmes's jacket as though in protest. "Enough's enough," the man started, but Dr. Watson merely looked at him fixedly, saying, "Let's not draw attention to ourselves, shall we?"
This seemed to subdue the stocky gent somewhat, as he looked around for paparazzi at this. "I imagine being friends with a celebrity makes life a bit difficult, doesn't it," I said knowledgeably, though in truth I could hardly imagine living such a life, though my granddaughters, were they old enough to speak in complete sentences, should surely have told me a thing or two about having a life in the lens of a camera. "People like my wife coming up and asking for photos, autographs, that sort of thing must happen to you all the time."
"Minor celebrity," said Mr. Holmes firmly. "Very minor. In fact," here he shot his companion a long-suffering look, "you'd be astonished to know how often I'm mistaken for someone else."
I tilted my head slightly to get a better look at him. "You do have sort of an everyman look about you," I said, before realizing how that must have come across when Dr. Watson snorted with amusement. I backpedaled swiftly. "Oh, no offense meant, Mr. Holmes! In fact I must say I quite envy you, my wife is constantly on about how handsome you are, she's always looking at photos of celebrities online."
This only served to make Mr. Holmes roll his eyes up to the ceiling in resignation, though Dr. Watson seemed to take it in good humor. "But you, I observe, are not of the same mind. You're not one for trolling through gossip rags for photos of celebrities."
I laughed at the understatement. "No, not at all. My wife, though, she'll have my head if I don't ask a photo of Sherlock Holmes. And you too, of course, Dr. Watson," I added magnanimously, as he was by far the most gentlemanlike of the two, as far as I could tell.
"Of course," Dr. Watson replied, with a small smile playing about his face. "Let's see; we must have the proper lighting. Ah! The perfect place," and here he pointed to a section of the train station near a donut shop, where a bobby loitered in the queue in a typical example of police efficiency.
At this, the stocky man looked grimmer than ever, and vetoed this idea firmly, taking Mr. Holmes by the elbow, pinning me with angry eyes – he must certainly take his job seriously, these hot-blooded young bucks get younger by the day – and saying, "I think not. Mr. Holmes and I are late for our appointment as it is, and my boss is not a patient man."
However, Mr. Holmes seemed suddenly much struck by this idea. "I'm sure your boss will understand," he said, pulling his arm out of reach. The gentleman – well, I call him that, but he forgot himself far enough to make an attempt to keep hold of Mr. Holmes' arm. I stared, wondering what sort of business meeting could possibly be so important. High finance, perhaps? Seemed unlikely with his dodgy appearance and disreputable cap, but business casual is hugely different than it was in my day. I sighed inwardly at the loss of respect, and decent attire. "It'll only take a mo," I assured him. "I'll have them back in a tick."
"Yes, really," Dr. Waston chimed in, his pale blue eyes lit with good humor as the younger man still seemed poised to object. Jumpy little fellow. "You know how Moriarty hates to have a fuss made over things."
The rough man looked around at this, as though searching again for the paparazzi. I followed his gaze, but saw nothing but the bustle of Londoners gathered for rush hour, businessmen in rumpled suits, a small child crying, the bobby ordering another donut. He gave a last, almost venomous – the finance world must be more cut-throat than I had previously assumed – glare at Mr. Holmes before backing away. As he disappeared into the crowd, Dr. Watson called after him, "Give my regards to your boss! Tell him I'll catch him later!" Whether the rough man heard or not, I couldn't tell, but he didn't turn back and was lost in a crowd disembarking from a nearby train.
"What an odd man," I commented, and only realized I had spoken aloud when Sherlock Holmes agreed, idly rubbing a hand over his back, "He's quite keen on his job."
Dr. Watson looked at his colleague sharply, but addressed his remarks to me. "Let's give your wife that picture. And an autograph as well, don't you think, Sherlock? Whom shall we make it out to?"
In the end, I snapped the photo of the two of them, after Mr. Holmes had taken the phone from me, turned it so the camera was right-side up, and pointed out which button to push. I can't figure out how to delete the first, upside-down picture. Lucy, bless her, was in a state when I told her the story, kissing me in gratitude before, woman-like, swatting me for being the one to actually meet two of her heroes. She pulled some fancy magic and printed out the picture I'd taken. It's framed, and has been sitting on the side table between Nat and Adam's wedding picture and the photo of Mr. Chubbs getting his belly scratched.
It's a nice photo, if I do say so myself. It's the two of them standing shoulder to shoulder, against the world, with the donut shop in the background. A satisfied little smile is playing on Dr. Watson's face and Sherlock Holmes looks like he's found something funny but is trying not to laugh. The autograph is on the opposite side of the frame, and that's the strange part. Dr. Watson signed first, his name and wishes for a restful holiday in Brighton, though I can't remember when I must have told him where she was off to. Mr. Holmes's signature isn't at all what Lucy was expecting. She says it's always the good-looking ones who are gay, but how nice it was that he could embrace his feminine side, with all the curlicues and flourishes and xoxos. For my part, I still can't see anything particularly striking about the man. Dr. Watson had the height and dark, striking features. Lucy assures me that even though she's put the photo in pride of place, she still vastly prefers me to Mr. Holmes. If he wasn't so ordinary-looking, I might be worried.
A/N 1: Opinions regarding the relative attractiveness (and sexual orientation) of the two are solely the opinions of the narrator and Lucy; I don't think Mr. Freeman is in any way unattractive, and I in fact prefer him to Mr. Cumerbatch, if push comes to shove. Just so's we're all clear.
A/N 2: I am a yankee born and raised, so if my faux-Brit rings false, apologies, and I can only beg for concrit by an actual Brit-picker. (Pretty please?)
A/N 3: Many thanks to .Hilt, without whom I would never have de-lurked into the world of Sherlock.