This Life of Ours
I still play the violin on occasion. When the weather is conductive to such an activity (by which I mean not too cold) I find the scarlet case— by the bookcase, beneath the settee, or by my bed –and get the instrument out. Though the mark of time is not yet visible on its soft wood, the brightness of its sound is evidence enough - it has only seemed to increase over the years, and, if possible, the notes are also warmer and fuller, having gained infinitely more range in their expression of melancholy and exhilaration alike. And if the mood were to strike me, Watson, who has also taken to remaining at home most of the time, will smile and listen. That, at least, has not changed.
Our activities have dwindled considerably over the years. I consult for Scotland Yard and private persons whenever the matter is of the most extreme importance only. The murders of three MPs and a Cabinet Minister, for instance. Meanwhile, the bees keep me fully occupied, as do my monographs and experiments. Still, when there is a case that requires travel (as the minority of them do), Watson, true to himself as always, and although nearing eighty years of age, will not rest until I allow him to join me. That is, if he is not busy writing for medical journals on his own or publishing some of his writings of some of our more trivial cases that he has not already imposed upon the unsuspecting public.
He will join me, but that is not often. Semi-quiet retirement is the norm for both of us.
Watson lived in London, a practising physician in Kensington, until about eight years ago. Having retired, he came to live here, a country house in Sussex, thus burdening himself with me once more. The man continues to be an enigma.
His gait lurches to some degree to the right as he treads from the kitchen to the hearth. The weight of his footsteps upon the floor is alarmingly uneven. I drop my bow from the strings, my attention having been directed elsewhere. His particular limp, which causes him still to drag his right leg whilst his left leg is forced to compensate, does not originate in his psyche, as the one caused by the wound on his shoulder did, but from a stray bullet fired from a miscreant's revolver shortly before my retirement. Slowly, he bends down to liven up the flames, and refrains from making use of his knees. As he grabs his cane to stand up, his thumb rests only superficially upon the wooden top and the rest of his fingers do not curve around the full circumference of the handle. He is in obvious pain.
I speak first. "Mary Louise contacted you after I fell asleep last night."
His gaze is bright but he doesn't speak. He doesn't need to. I know not why, but I feel compelled to add, by way of explanation, "You seem to have forgotten taking your pain medication this morning."
"And the only explanation for my forgetfulness would be emotional upheaval?"
"Balance of probability, Watson. Just how ill did they find her husband?"
"Pancreatic cancer. Inoperable. Knocking on heaven's door, now, poor chap."
"I see." I make my way to him and rest my hand, the one not wrapped around the violin bow, upon his shoulder. "Go to her."
"I fear she would not want me there."
"Yes, she would. Her father has been known to be a beacon of light once or twice. I consider she would find that light… comforting at this time."
"Holmes, I—"
"Off to London with you, Watson. Say no more about it."
"All right." He smiles. "All right."
He starts towards his room without looking back. That little push was all he needed. He crosses the room with some difficulty and gets as far as the coffee table.
"Watson."
He turns around.
"Why—" Uttering these words is exceedingly difficult. "Why exactly did you leave London in the first place?"
He has always had a unique way of expressing several shades of distaste at one of my remarks all at once—in a long-suffering stiffening of his lips when he looks at me, in a concerned tightening of his brow, and in the affronted way he inhales and blinks as his left index finger suddenly clutches at the wood of the cane. This particular comment of mine is not insensitive, I know, but could be construed as one if my inflection was one that lent itself to such an interpretation.
Thus I make an addendum to the question. "Why not be with her? She is your daughter."
"Yes," he returns. And with his characteristic patience, he explains. "Children leave the nest, Holmes. I accepted it. Ages ago. Whereas you…" He pauses, the way he does when the following words will have an especially large emotional weight. His voice is silk, his breathing laboured. "I was not ready to let you go: how could I ever be? When you retired—"
"Is that the way of it?" I cannot help but smile. His sentimentality is endlessly amusing even in the worst of times.
"Yes."
"I never knew."
"I hardly believe that."
"Nor I."
He smiles and begins his journey to his room again. I sit down, and resume plucking Brahms.
"John, are you happy here?" The words burst out of me, the unwitting receptacle for such undecipherable emotions. It strikes me that perhaps I meant to ask "are you happy with me? (have you ever been?)" but I let the words stand as they are nonetheless.
His steps stop abruptly before getting to the kitchen, but he does not turn towards me again. The clock on the mantelpiece ticks, counting several uneven seconds.
"Beyond my wildest dreams," he says, quietly, and I hardly need to see the light in his eyes or the curve of his lips when his voice alone seems to smile at me.
Someday, perhaps in a fortnight, when he returns from London, perhaps in six months or a year (before the mass making my lungs and liver its home claims me), I shall tell him what this life of ours meant to me. How the worth of my existence, from the instant he walked into the laboratory, was made to grow to… unimagined heights, and how, every second, its joy was augmented infinitely by his presence alone. How he is undoubtedly the greatest single lightning-bolt of coincidence to ever happen to me and — I feel loath to say, for it is so maudlin – to anyone. I ought to say I owe him (and his unmatched bravery and his steel-like loyalty)… everything: life, limb, and soul. For the love I gave away, I daily received multiplied in return— undeservedly. It is difficult. No doubt I shall struggle with the words. And undoubtedly he knows every one of them, even now. But I shall say it (some things clearly need to be said, some sentiments expressed – he has taught me that much). If only to make his smile the last thing I see.