Title: Ochi Chornye (Dark Eyes)
Author: harmonymarguerite
Summary: Watson has come to the end of his rope in dealing with his annoying roommate, Sherlock Holmes. Thank goodness he has a pen pal to whom he can turn.
Pairing: Holmes/Watson
Rating: PG-13, mentions of drug use and murder.
Genre: This was meant to be a happy romantic comedy, but alas, there is a healthy dose of angst amidst the happy. Sorry.
Words: 9,866... Holy Crap!
Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes and company are the creations of Arthur Conan Doyle, while Shop Around the Corner belongs to MGM.
Notes: Based on a sherlockkink prompt for "A Holmes/Watson take on "The Shop Around the Corner". And the plot of that is: "Two employees at a gift shop can barely stand one another, without realizing that they're falling in love through the post as each other's anonymous pen pal" for op: mothergoddamn. Detailed notes are at the end.
BIG THANK YOU TO: mothergoddamn for being so patient with this, and gyzym for helping me when I was stuck and clawing my eyes out, and smacking me in the head a few times. Also to coasterchild, along with everyone in the chat for letting me go "ARGH" at them all the time.
John Watson woke up as he had for every morning in the last month. Slowly coming to consciousness, opening his eyes to soft sunlight streaming into his window, stretching out his bad leg, and cursing the day he met Stamford.
From the other room he could hear the screeching of a horribly played violin as his (still slightly) new roommate wandered around, thinking, or some other such rubbish. Watson was tired of asking why the violin was played at all hours of the day, mostly because he never got a straight answer out of Sherlock Holmes, and his shattered nerves were getting close to the end of their limit.
While Watson dressed, he could hear violin (temporarily, most likely, damn the man.) stop as the clatter of a tray filled the next room, and low voices bantered back and forth. Obviously, Mrs. Hudson was delivering breakfast, and likely scolding Holmes while she was at it.
The one small piece of sanity in this living situation of his was Mrs. Hudson, who put up with far too much from Holmes and Watson had no idea why. Though he had a sneaking suspicion that Holmes paid slightly more than he did for the rooms, just so he could freely be an irritant to those around him.
Why Holmes hadn't said that at their impromptu interview upon first meeting, Watson will never know.
It was natural; Watson felt, that when one had such a cold and unsociable roommate as Holmes, that a person would feel the need to enjoy company outside of the home. However, his health being as it was, he could barely muster the energy to go to the post office some days.
Yet, to the post office he did go. Once a day, sometimes twice, he would drag his aching leg outside. Not only was the exercise beneficial, he felt, but there was always the possibility of a reward in the form of a letter residing in box 237 and addressed to "Dear Friend."
When Watson first came to London, he saw the value in immediately making the correct connections for a man of… unusual tastes such as he was. While his health kept him mostly indoors, an old acquaintance led him to a small paper, published in a little-known club, for, though the city was vast and catered to every need, there was always the necessity of being discreet. There he placed an advertisement, in the hopes of at least making a friend whom he could converse with and tell some troubles to. It had read along the lines:
Recovering soldier wished to correspond on cultural subjects anonymously with intelligent young man whom may need a friend as badly as I.
To his surprise, he soon received the first of many letters, with a return address in Pall Mall. None of them had any personal information, but the subjects were varied and deep, ranging from classical literature, to the flaws of the justice system. Without ever meeting him face to face, Watson already felt closer to his 'dear friend' then to any other man he had met.
At least, Watson thought as he took a deep breath in order to step out and face Holmes, he could be certain there was one person in London who wasn't a complete ass.
"What was that tune you were playing when I first awoke, Holmes?" Watson asked, pouring his first cup of tea.
"It's called Hommage-Valse." Came the curt answer, followed by a screech on the violin as Holmes adjusted something or was just deciding to torture the instrument and therefore, Watson.
"Do you know any other pieces?"
"Possibly." Could the man even be bothered to look at the person he was conversing with?
"Well, could you play them once in awhile? I don't mind practice, but the same tune over and over again every morning is a trifle annoying."
"My dear man, there is nothing like a rousing Russian Gypsy melody to stir the blood first thing in the morning. It should be the policy of every household to awaken in such a manner. You should feel privileged to be one of the few who get to do so."
Watson was forced to roll his eyes. "Not every person feels the way you do about that particular melody, I'm sure. Especially, so early in the morning. What did Mrs. Hudson have to say about it?"
Holmes sniffed disdainfully. "Mrs. Hudson is severely lacking in musical taste."
Code for 'Mrs. Hudson told me admirably this morning to bugger off and shove my violin somewhere not appropriate to repeat in polite company.'
"Mrs. Hudson shares my thoughts then."
Also code, for: 'I think you should bugger off too, and you'd better do it quick before I smash that stupid instrument into a million pieces and hopefully, make you cry.'
Finally, Holmes actually glanced at him, a frown crossing his features. He was quite good at hearing what was unsaid. "Are you truly so uncultured as to…"
"I am cultured well enough. Far more than you appear to be. I enjoy music as much as the next man; I told you so upon our first meeting. What I didn't know was that you only knew one tune! It's fast becoming the most annoying tune on the face of the earth, and I wish you'd stop, or learn something else."
Holmes sniffed and turned away. "If you snap at everyone for their failings so, it's no wonder you have not a friend in London."
"I… you… I have plenty of…" Watson closed his eyes, picked his plate up and moved to the desk. "Forget it. It's not worth explaining myself to an imbecile."
Holmes watched him with barely disguised glee. "Giving up already, Doctor? Normally you last a good ten minutes into a fight before you walk away."
"Don't talk to me."
"Now you're just being rude."
He didn't bother dignifying Holmes with a reply, merely picked up his pen and began to write:
Dear Friend,
GET ME OUT OF HERE.
Too desperate.
Dear Friend,
Perhaps you know of some cheap lodgings anywhere in this great city? I fear that if I spend much more time in this room I shall kill my roommate, and, as an inexperienced criminal, they shall no doubt figure it all out before too long. I don't suppose you are as willing to converse with a war veteran who is also a convicted killer, are you?
Too homicidal.
Dear Friend,
I know that we agreed early on to never share details on our lives, but I am fast approaching the end of my tether. My nerves are shot, and if something doesn't change, I believe I shall go out of my mind.
I need a friend. Not just a friendly piece of paper, though in the past you have filled in rather well. Yet, I find myself desiring someone whom I can talk to directly, and receive an answer and more so, advice. For I so desperately need it. Perhaps more, I need a sympathetic ear whom can listen and not judge. I need someone who will get me out of this house, encourage me to explore this great city, and share in the wonders with me. Someone who can add a little color into my life.
Can you be this person, dear friend?
It is, perhaps, far too forward, but you are the only one I know, even a bit, in this city. I should like to meet you. Please tell me I am not being rude, and say you desire, as much as I do, to talk to me in person as we have done in this letters.
Could it be that you need an ear as much as I? I am willing to hear of your troubles as well, dear friend.
I need you so badly now.
Yours,
Dear friend
Perfect.
…there is nothing on Earth I should like so well as to wander about with you, taking in the galleries, concerts, operas, all that this fair city has to offer. I am certain that it would invigorate you, for as Boswell quoted Johnson; "When a man is tired of London, he is tired of life; for there is in London all that life can afford."
My greatest fear is that you should meet me, and find me lacking. It is far easier to converse on paper, when I have an unlimited amount of time to chose my words carefully, and rewrite everything so as to appear my best. In person, I fear that I am very different, though, hopefully, not lacking in the essentials which have drawn us both together so. While my mind is the same, my demeanor, perhaps, is not.
However, I cannot refuse you when I am needed very badly, and if you can overlook those flaws, I should very much wish to try and please you. Therefore, if you are amenable, I shall meet you tonight…
The small restaurant they were to meet at was certainly busy, with only a few tables being empty. Watson sat at one, a copy of Shakespeare's comedies before him with a pink rose tucked in the pages. The waiter had taken one look at him, and walked away smirking. Once more, Watson looked at the clock.
He was late.
A voice came from behind him. "Fancy meeting you here, Doctor."
Shoulders slumping, Watson turned around and glared. "Holmes. What a delight. I'd love to chat with you, but I'm meeting someone."
"That's quite a coincidence, so am I. Mind if I sit down?"
"Yes, I do."
Holmes nodded, but sat anyway.
"Excuse me, but that seat is taken."
"Well, your someone isn't here yet, are they?"
"I wouldn't want them to get the impression I'm occupied."
"Nonsense. Is it a lady or a man?"
"A man."
"Well, they certainly won't have any qualms about interrupting, will they? As soon as your friend gets here, I promise I shall vacate the seat. Or until my friend gets here."
"I wasn't aware you had any friends."
"That's cold."
"Oh, I forgot. You have friends who visit you at all times of the day, not excluding the middle of the night, some of whom decide to have shouting matched at you, and all of whom are special enough for you to evict me from the sitting room. Though you don't call them 'friends', you call them 'business associates'."
"Until I can afford to have a separate office, the sitting-room is my current place of business."
"What exactly is it that you do?"
"Ah, Shakespeare." Holmes picked up the book, beginning to flip through the pages, almost dislodging the flower, which was only met with a raised eyebrow and a quick silent laugh.
"You're avoiding the subject, and give me that."
"Which one is your favorite?"
Watson was distracted from rearranging the book on the table, hopefully someplace conspicuous where his friend would see it and save him from this conversation. "What?"
"Which play is your favorite? Or do you prefer the sonnets?"
"Does it matter?"
"Well, I think you could tell a lot about a man's taste in literature from his favorite play."
"Well, Much Ado About Nothing, I suppose."
"Ah, see, you go for the romantic, you want your heart to be wrenched half way through, but in the end, all of the couples are united happily, and ride off into the sunset."
"I never pictured you as reading Shakespeare."
"Yes, I saw your list, 'Knowledge of Literature- nil.'"
"You weren't supposed to see that!"
"Don't leave them on the desk for everyone to see then. I use it too, you know. You should be more considerate."
"More consid… Now see here, I have been the most considerate roommate to you, which is a lot more than I can say for you."
"Lower your voice, you're embarrassing yourself."
"Myself! I don't have to embarrass myself, you manage to do the job all by yourself quite nicely. In fact, do you know what is embarrassing? Embarrassing, is having to be seen in public with a man who doesn't know common courtesy from a rock-"
"I can identify rocks fairly well, actually. 'Knowledge of geology – practical', remember?"
"'But limited', and who hasn't taken a bath in… When was the last time you bathed?"
"Haven't the foggiest."
"Hasn't taken a bath in longer than he can remember, who wakes everyone in the house at odd hours with impromptu violin solos that make a glancing resemblance to music—"
"The music helps me to think."
"Sometimes it makes me wish to help you think off a cliff. A man… is that my shirt?"
"You took the last scone yesterday, and I was saving it for an experiment. Your shirt is payment."
"What? Are you psychologically disturbed? Who does that? And about your experiments, I've been meaning to bring up the fact that if you blow the rooms up one more time, I will hang you by your ankles off the roof, not to mention what Mrs. Hudson is about to do."
"Mrs. Hudson is recompensed for her pains admirably."
"If you're so rich, why did you need a roommate?"
"I'm not rich, I have a varied income."
"Doing what?"
"At least I have never been late with the rent, which is more than I can say for you."
"One time, one time, I was late—"
"Yes, I've been meaning to bring up the fact that perhaps you should stay away from the dice games, old boy. You don't seem to have much luck with it."
"Don't tell me how to live my life."
"I wouldn't dare."
"If you don't leave now…"
"What, are you going to hit me? Oh please do, it would be ever so amusing. Here you are, pretending to be a respectable doctor, and threatening to hit your poor dinner companion, in the middle of a crowded restaurant."
"I am a respectable doctor, neither of those words apply to you, nor do the words 'dinner companion'. You are not my 'dinner companion', you will never be my 'dinner companion', and I am having a difficult time seeing how you could ever be a companion to anyone. You are the most despicable, annoying little man to ever grace the face of the planet. You have no redeeming qualities what so ever, in fact, there is not one thing about you that anyone could possibly find likeable. You are the most unintelligent, sallow faced rat I have ever had the displeasure to meet. And you can't play the violin."
For a brief moment, and Watson would not have seen it if he hadn't been looking straight at Holmes, the other man looked wounded, but he regained control of himself quickly.
"I see." He said, standing. "Always a delight to hear what one's roommate thinks of one's self. Thank you for the illuminating character discussion, Doctor. I hope your evening turns out far better than mine has. Goodnight."
Watson sat in the restaurant for three hours longer, but no one even glanced at him. His 'dear friend' was not coming, and he wasn't certain if he should be angry at Holmes for ruining his evening and possibly frightening away his friend, or guilty that he had actually managed to wound his enigmatic roommate. Now, the one person Watson could have turned to for advice, could have poured his soul out to, and would have given him advice on how to proceed, didn't show.
There was only one way to redeem this mess of an evening, and that was to head straight to the bars, get completely drunk, and forget about that one brief moment of hurt crossing Holmes' face.
The next morning, Watson awoke with a hangover and the sound of voices arguing outside his door.
"We could use the opinion of a medical man." An unfamiliar voice was saying.
"Don't you employ surgeons for that reason?" Holmes replied.
The other man coughed. "There have been several cases of influenza recently…"
"The Doctor himself is ill. He was out late and returned quite out of sorts. Don't you have any surgeons you can call?"
At that point Watson opened the door himself. "Is there a problem?"
Both men had slightly startled looks as they turned to him, Holmes' quickly morphing into one of slight concern. The visitor, Watson recognized as the ferret-like man who had been to see Holmes a few times, Mr. Lestrade.
"Doctor," Holmes began. "Are you certain you should be up? Mrs. Hudson mentioned you seemed quite ill when you returned last night, pardon, this morning."
"It's only a headache, and that will pass. What is the matter?"
Both men seemed to look him over, winced, and glanced at each other.
"Ah, Lestrade, perhaps it will be easier if I meet you at the scene? I'll explain to the doctor here, and come by later."
"That would probably be best. Dr. Watson, I hope you feel better soon." He nodded to both of them, and took his leave.
"Alright, what is going on? I heard you need a doctor, is someone ill?"
"Not anymore." Holmes spoke in a low dry voice Watson almost missed.
"What?"
"The patient is beyond your help. Shouldn't you be in bed, Doctor?"
"I'm perfectly fine. Are you disparaging my skills? I'm a good doctor." Watson began throwing clothing on himself haphazardly.
"I'm certain you are. However, I insist you return to bed, you're not well. You look awful, dear chap, what were you drinking last night? Besides which, the patient is actually a corpse."
Watson actually paused and simply blinked at him. "I think you should explain fully, Holmes."
"The gentleman who just left is named-"
"Lestrade. We've met before when he's been over."
"-Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard."
"Inspector-?"
"Yes. Today, he discovered a corpse, a rather interesting crime, and not only as he asked my assistance on the case—"
"You're assistance? Are you a policeman? Pardon, but I can't really see that."
"No. I'm a consulting detective—"
"What the deuce is a consulting detective?"
"Am I ever to finish a sentence around you?"
"I'm sorry, please go on. Have you seen my shoe?"
"… No. When Government detectives or even private ones have a particularly knotty problem they are having difficulty with, they come to me, and a little advice from me, puts them back on the right track. All those people who have been coming in are in need of my advice in a variety of problems; I am able to use a line of reasoning I have developed, solve their mystery and pocket my fee. Understand?"
"Not really, but I'm hung-over at the moment. So, Lestrade has asked for your assistance in a case, but what does that have to do with me?"
"There seems to have been a large number of police surgeons who have taken ill recently, leaving the Yard slightly short-staffed. Since you are a doctor with exemplary credentials, they would like you to step in for the day, and perform the autopsy."
"Certainly I shall. Hang it all, where is that shoe?"
"Nonsense Doctor, you have been ill this morning. It would be far better for you to stay in bed and relax, before you decide to ruin any evidence on the corpse by puking on it. Do you need the basin?"
"I'm perfectly fine, which I have told you half a dozen times already this morning—"
"Once."
"What?"
"You've only said you were fine once, twice now."
"It's felt like more."
"That would be the alcohol."
"Look, I'm fine, I'm fine, I'm fine. There."
"One more."
"I'm fine! I know what this is, you think you're so important that the Yard comes to you for help, and you don't want me to out-shine you. You would rather I stay here, nice and coddled and going half out of my mind, while you go gallivanting about—"
"I resent the implication of 'gallivanting'. I do no such thing."
"—And refuse to allow me to begin to work again! Now let me tell you something, Mr. Holmes—"
"I have never tried to keep you from work."
"I am perfectly able to go down to the Yard—"
"You're swaying. Are you going to faint?"
"—No! Hang it all, stop interrupting me!"
"You started it."
"Holmes! I'm perfectly capable of performing an autopsy, if only I could find my blasted shoe! What are you doing? Put me down!"
Who would have thought that such a scrawny man could lift another gentleman who had at least five inches on him, and practically throw him into a bed? Holmes leaned over Watson, a hand on his chest preventing any ideas Watson may formulate about rising.
"Doctor, you are still pale, turning slightly green at the moment, actually, swaying on your feet, and certainly in no condition at the moment to go down to the Yard and deal with a dead man. I suggest you stay here and rest for a few more hours. Come down after luncheon, it will probably take that long to bring the body down and organize everything anyway. By then, you may feel more yourself, and be far more useful to us then in your current state. I can promise you, he won't be going anywhere."
"I—"
"I will send Mrs. Hudson to sit on you until you are well again."
"That won't be necessary." The man did raise a few good points, and Watson was beginning to feel slightly dizzy.
With a satisfied nod, Holmes stood back up to leave, turning as he reached the door. "When you are ready, it may help you to know that you're missing shoe is one foot under the bed, near the headboard. Oh, and I brought you some ice cream." Holmes said as the door closed behind him.
Watson hadn't noticed, but at some point, Holmes had placed a penny-lick on his dresser. A mostly melted penny lick, now; that had turned his dresser, several papers, and a stray cravat into a sticky mess.
A sweet, if sticky, apology, Watson thought, only leaving the bed to eat what he could salvage of the treat, and who cared if it came back in a few hours, it was worth it.
Damn the man, he might actually start forgiving him.
Well, only for the small things, perhaps.
By lunch, Watson was feeling far better, bolstered as he was by a good meal, a nap, and a letter that the page-boy had brought up. Watson had sent him out three times that day to go to the post office, and when the letter finally arrived, it carried the expected apologies.
My Dear Friend,
I know it was unforgivable to not meet you last night, but once I was outside, I found that I could not bring myself to enter. I have never before thought myself a shy man, yet my legs would carry me no farther. Doubly was my error, I realize now, for I had seen you through the window, and even from that distance, I could tell how unhappy you were. I knew that I should interrupt, for the handsome man you were sitting with was certainly not helping you. If anything, I could tell that you were becoming very angry with him.
I must apologize for my cowardice, it is my greatest error, and we know that "all men are liable to error; and most men are, in many points, by passion or interest, under temptation to it."
Perhaps, I am not yet ready to meet with you, though I would dearly like to, and I know you need me.
Unfortunately, work shall delay me for awhile, there is a project I am working on, and I would like to finish it before we attempt to meet again. Until that time, it is my dearest wish that we continue as we always have, though now, perhaps, we may add more details about our lives.
I should dearly love to know you, dear friend.
I hope that you can forgive me.
Sincerely yours,
Dear Friend
Naturally, Watson would forgive him, and really it was to be expected that a man of such high ideals, who obviously spent so much time on his letters, would be shy of meeting Watson face to face. There were expectations that had been raised in a relationship such as theirs, and not being able to meet those expectations was a natural fear. Watson had entertained similar feelings the night before, and had even thought of leaving once or twice before Holmes had distracted him.
Holmes, on the other hand, was to blame for this farce, and not even gallons of ice cream would placate him.
However, it did seem that Holmes had at least arranged for Watson to have a little work. Though his health was not yet up to a practice, he could certainly perform an autopsy, and would help to recover some of the money he had drank away last night.
Bag in hand, and spirits high; he made his way to Scotland Yard.
By the time Holmes and Watson parted company with Lestrade, Watson had lost track of the exact time, and only knew that the sun was fast disappearing, he was starving, and frankly just wanted to have a bit of a lie-down as his headache was starting to return with a vengeance. He would have walked aimlessly down the street, had Holmes not taken his arm.
"Do you know what we need?" Holmes asked, free hand fluttering around as though a handkerchief in the wind. The man was a reservoir of energy when working.
Watson hated him for it.
"We need… to remember never to perform an autopsy when ill."
"That… would be useful, I'm certain, but nicely done on getting to the bucket on time."
"Thanks. It's a talent, I'll admit."
"Are you still hung-over? I'd really like to know what you drank, and take it off the market. It is, apparently, a lethal weapon."
"I forgot."
"Forgot?"
"After the second bottle, things get a little fuzzy."
"I'm amazed you made it home."
"I think there were… children following me."
"Ah. Remind me to give them an extra few shillings."
"You know them?"
"I employ a few street Arabs now and then, as they can hear and see information officials and adults have difficulty obtaining. Hardly anyone notices a child, but they are ever watchful of adults. They probably recognized you as my roommate, and followed you to ensure your safety home."
"You shall have to introduce me to them, so that I may thank them."
"They would be delighted to meet you. No doubt you'll ply them with candy and win them over immediately. As I was saying, Doctor, do you know what we need? There is plenty of time left in the night, and we could use a nice outing between roommates."
"Oh delight, a lovely outing not involving dead bodies and you crawling all over the ground and snarking about Lestrade's skills."
"If Lestrade would learn to be more observant at his crime scenes, I wouldn't have to snark, and least my crawling was far more useful than Lestrade standing around and doing a wonderful impression of a guppy. Might I also add that, turning the color of the bushes to blend in was a brilliant idea, though not necessary when we are there lawfully. If you could do that on command, I might have to take you on more cases."
"It was a one-time deal, sorry. You're just lucky I didn't throw-up in the damn bushes."
"Considering that's where we found the wallet, I appreciate it. Though, I don't think Lestrade does."
"I told him I'd pay for the shoes, and I meant it."
"And the dry-cleaning."
"And the dry-cleaning. This isn't the way to Baker Street."
"Aren't we the clever one tonight? We'll make a detective out of you, yet."
"I pray you not to be sarcastic when my head is throbbing. I'm not able to process you at the moment."
"Stick around long enough, you'll learn. At any rate, we are going to the opera."
"The opera? Tonight?"
"Can you think of a better time?"
"Shouldn't you be thinking of the case?"
"What would be the point? I need more data before any final conclusions are formed, and a little fun certainly won't hurt us."
"You, maybe, I'm not entirely too certain about myself. Not to mention the fact that we are certainly not dressed for the opera."
"Has anyone mentioned that you are rather grumpy when you have a sore head? Not that I've noticed that much difference from your normal behavior. But come, you'll feel far better with a bit of food and the music will make you forget about your pain. Besides, where we will be sitting my dear, we are dressed perfectly."
They wandered to the opera house, stopping at various food vendors, who had not yet packed up, along the way, and assembling their own impromptu picnic dinner. Holmes assured Watson that they could eat during the performance, and no one would mind, though he bought a few flowers to 'sweeten the opinions of those around'.
Holmes led them through a stage door and into an out-of-the-way nook in the wings. He dragged over several pillows that he assured Watson would not be needed, and they were able to spread the food out, and watch the performers ready themselves. Several noticed them, and most wandered over to greet Holmes and ask if he was to play tonight.
"Not tonight, my dear." He replied, grinning at everyone who approached, and handing out flowers to the women. "Tonight is about enjoying your lovely performance, and introducing my friend here to the wondrous things our beautiful city has to offer. He's been ill, and has only recently recovered his health enough to go out."
Watson nodded to each in turn as they fussed over him, and assured them that he was entirely prepared to enjoy the experience, assured by all parties that Holmes would not have brought him if he wasn't entirely certain they were worth Watson listening to.
Pleased, and strangely flattered, Watson settled in, enjoying the small meal and attention rapt on the bustle around them. When they performance began, he kept half on ear on the music, and his eyes on the backstage rush. It was thrilling to see how the magic of the theatre worked, and far from disillusioning him, he found himself enjoying it more.
Half way through the first act, one of the actors who hadn't talked to them beforehand, caught sight of them. He seemed to want to come over, but ended up smiling in Holmes' direction and turning away. Interested, Watson turned to ask Holmes if he knew the man, but the words died on his lips.
Holmes had his eyes closed, a look of complete rapture on his face while his body swayed slightly to the music. One hand rested on his knee, fingers moving quickly to form what Watson guessed to be the chords the violins were playing, while the other hand swayed about like a conductor's baton. There were certain points in the music that Holmes went completely still for, not even breathing until the music moved on, and Watson found himself breathing in time.
He couldn't tear his eyes away.
During intermission, Holmes translated the basic story so far for Watson, apologizing for not doing so while the show was on. Watson almost laughed, and replied that there was certainly no way they would be able to hear each other during the show, and Holmes would just have to catch him up when it was over.
"What do you think of it?" Holmes asked.
"Thank you for dragging me here." Was all that Watson could reply.
At that Holmes visibly brightened, and they settled in for the second half.
Afterwards, they walked back to Baker Street, a cab far too troublesome to find with the crowd leaving. Holmes hung on Watson's arm, cheeks flushed and eyes bright, speaking the entire way as one long fingered hand gesturing madly in the air while the fingers of his other hand, trapped on Watson's arm as they were, twitched with the desire to join its companion. Watson barely marked where they were going, eyes riveted to Holmes. Even finally back at home, the household asleep, Watson exhausted and fairly collapsed in a chair, he could not tear his eyes away as Holmes swayed about the room.
He spoke of the music, which pieces were better composed than the others, but which ones tended to draw the most emotions out of the audience. The soprano was one of his favorites, and he always tried to see one of her performances when she was in town, because she always had such crisp and clear high notes; far more pleasing to the ear than some of the others who put more power into the notes, but usually managed to miss them slightly in compensation. The tenor was off in three separate places, but, Holmes owned, they were the more difficult sections and with a little more practice, he should certainly conquer it in a week. The violins were lovely, but perhaps Holmes should have played, for he could certainly do the piece more justice than the third chair, who had never been able to get his fingering quick enough.
Most of it was lost on Watson, but he could do nothing but sit in his chair and smile, letting Holmes' enthusiasm rush over him. Whatever pains he had started the day with were gone, replaced with the rapt attention he gave this creature of music before him.
Watson was beginning to see why it had always been so difficult to speak of music to Holmes, why Holmes resigned himself to playing the same piece over and over. He didn't enjoy it as Watson did, he became it, and that was something that was difficult to describe to someone, unless they were here to see it.
The third time Watson nearly fell asleep in his chair, Holmes noticed, and ushered him to his feet. "I'm so sorry for keeping you up." He murmured. "I tend to get carried away."
"I hadn't noticed really."
"You need to get some sleep. I'm certain it will be another long day tomorrow, keeping Lestrade in line and solving his little problem."
"You want me to come with you tomorrow?"
"If, you have nothing better to do."
"I think my schedule is free tomorrow."
"Excellent! Goodnight, old boy."
"Goodnight, Holmes."
Watson didn't even remember his head hitting the pillow.
Watson awoke to the sound of the violin playing, a light melody he recognized as one of the parts that caught his attention the night before.
Holmes was right, the egotistical bastard, he probably would have been better than the third chair.
Once dressed, he found himself with his ear pressed to the door, listening carefully to every note, unwilling to interrupt. Another half hour passed until Holmes ended the piece, the soft snick of the violin case shutting, proving he was done for the morning, and seeming to be the cue for the household to move again.
The sitting room door opened and the room was filled with the clattering of dishes as Mrs. Hudson entered, late with breakfast. Watson got the feeling she had been waiting outside the door as well, unwilling to interrupt as Watson was.
"Good morning, Mr. Holmes."
"Ah, Nanny and what is it today, cyanide, arsenic, or worse, sugar?"
"Well, I thought I'd try a little oil from the lamps today for flavoring. You'll love it. And, I burnt the toast, just for you."
"Is there jam at least?"
"Not enough to cover burnt toast, you can be certain."
"Why do you hate me, Nanny?"
Watson chose that moment to enter, glancing between the combatants. Mrs. Hudson, with her back to Holmes had a wide grin on her face, and Holmes had even allowed himself a small smile.
"Doctor!" Mrs. Hudson said. "Are you feeling any better?"
"Much, thank you."
"I'm glad to hear it. Will you need anything else, gentlemen?"
With a glance at the table, Watson assured her that they would be fine.
"Oh, Nanny," Holmes spoke up. "We have work today, so the Doctor and I will most likely be out for lunch, probably supper too."
"Ah. I shan't cook the Christmas goose tonight then." She glanced quickly at Watson, and said in a low tone, "Make certain he eats something, will you Doctor? He's liable to forget."
"I'm not hungry!" Came the sing-song from behind them.
"I'll see what I can do." Watson rolled his eyes. "Thank you Mrs. Hudson."
"Yes, thank you Nanny."
"You don't need to be sarcastic about it."
"She really did burn the toast, you know."
"… Pass the jam."
Hours later, somewhere past midnight and nowhere near morning, Holmes and Watson made their way back to Baker Street, and though his mood was somber, Watson couldn't help but be in awe of Sherlock Holmes. Though it seemed commonplace once all the pieces had been explained to him, the case had been a complete mystery to Watson until Holmes had captured the murderer. He had seen clues in the smallest of places, the merest twitches in a face telling of a lie, all falling together to create a thread of narrative that no one else saw.
"I feel sorry for him." Watson said eventually.
"Who?" Holmes asked.
"Mr. Maudsley."
"Why feel sorry for a murderer? If you must feel sorry for a person involved in a case, the sympathies usually settle upon the victim."
"Yes, I do feel for Mr. Kerfoot as well. After all, he did absolutely nothing to warrant being shot at. Yet, I feel sorry for Mr. Maudsley; because he has to live with the fact that he shot the wrong man."
"He won't have to live with it for very long, he'll hang shortly."
"Still…"
"If Mr. Maudsley had any sense in the first place, he would have hired someone to find out if his wife was cheating on him, versus simply running out and shooting a likely suspect. The fact that he shot an innocent man simply shows the futility of acting without full data."
"What will happen to Mr. Vasher?"
"No doubt as soon as Mrs. Maudsley becomes a widow, he'll marry her."
"If I were her, I'd keep a close eye on him. A man, who has shown a taste for married women, might be once again tempted."
Holmes made a noncommittal grunt.
"Even Lestrade commented on the uselessness of it all. Don't you feel anything for them?"
"My job is to solve those cases that come across my path, not to feel sorry for those involved."
Watson held his tongue, no matter how desperate he was to accuse Holmes of being a heartless automaton; he knew that some part of Holmes felt. If the crime had been put to music, he would have understood better.
Holmes seemed to sense Watson's surrender of the topic, and perhaps unwilling to invoke an argument himself, he changed threads. "However, now you are one of the privileged few who have an insight to how our Scotland Yard works."
"There was a lot of standing around and watching you work."
"Scotland Yard is full of conventional Investigators who have yet to learn to look at a crime scene without destroying half of the clues, and if I'm on a scene, I much prefer them to stay out of my way. They have learned that after a few cases. Lestrade, and another one, Gregson, who I don't think you've met yet, are the smartest of the bunch… Which, isn't really saying much when you think about it."
Watson caught himself mid laugh, and was treated to a raised eyebrow and a quirking of Holmes' lips. He hadn't intended to laugh when Holmes was insulting someone, but it had slipped, and he wondered slightly as they approached their front door, when the quips had become amusing.
"I am," Holmes said, seeming to read Watson's mind. "Imminently more amusing when the barbs are not directed towards you. Or after the tenth drink, whichever comes first." He paused a moment to unlock the door. "Usually, it's the drink." He shot Watson a sly smile, and he could do nothing but laugh in return.
They went up the stars in silence, taking care not to awaken the household, "for who knew what Nanny would poison the tea with in the morning," Holmes had whispered. Watson felt as though a recalcitrant child, practically sneaking into his own home, and thought that he could get used to the feeling.
Watson called out to Holmes before entering his room. "I just wanted to thank you for allowing me to follow you on the whole investigation. It has been the liveliest few days I've had in some time."
Holmes brightened. "You're welcome." There was a pause as Holmes opened the door without looking, not taking his eyes off of Watson, and this time, Watson knew he was being dissected by that gaze. "By-the-by, I enjoyed working with a competent surgeon for once."
He disappeared into his room; leaving Watson staring after him, mouth gaping slightly until he remembered himself.
Ice cream, adventures and complements, in a Holmesian sort of way; he would be saddened tomorrow when he woke up and the world was back to normal.
Unable to sleep, Watson sat in bed, hands moving across envelopes full of letters as the sky showed signs of lightening. There was no need to open them, for he had read them all often enough to commit them to memory. He called to mind the passages, letting their beauty sooth away the ugliness he had seen that day.
That was the only reason he heard the shattering of glass from the sitting room.
He crept silently, he hoped, to the door and cracked it just enough to catch a glimpse of Holmes bent over his table, a shattered beaker amongst the chemicals.
"I have of late," he whispered, just loud enough for Watson to hear. "But wherefore, I know not… lost… all my mirth…" There was a short burst of laughter, tired and worn, as one hand crept up to rub at his eyes.
He was bleeding slightly.
"And here we have the futility of life." He went on, reaching into a drawer and withdrawing a Moroccan case. "What do we exist for, but to help our fellow man? This case could have, should have, been prevented. "
He moved to the window, taking the small case with him, and stared out into the breaking dawn. "This, goodly frame, the earth, seems to me a sterile promontory; this most excellent canopy, the air, look you, this brave o'er hanging firmament, this majestical roof, fretted with golden fire…" He opened the case and took out a syringe, rolling it across his finger. "Why, it appears… no other thing to me than a foul and pestilent, congregation of vapors. What a piece of work is man!"
He fell silent, gaze caught on the needle, before slowly allowing his forehead to rest against the glass of the window. He laughed again, slightly broken this time.
"Man delights not me."
Watson withdrew.
The sun was almost fully up, and the sounds of morning on the streets of London were beginning to creep through the walls, and Watson lay in bed, watching the early shadows dance across his ceiling. While he wasn't normally a man for introspection, he found it difficult to quiet his thoughts, and so let them loose to take him where they will.
Thus, he thought about Lestrade, and how every five minutes he seemed ready to reach over and slap Holmes upside the head for being rude, or annoying, or just a general arse as Holmes was wont to do with apparently everyone.
And here Watson thought he was just special, being able to see the nastier side of Holmes.
Yet, for all his annoyance, there lingered a large bit of respect in Lestrade, granted it was very, very… it was so hidden twelve men with shovels would take weeks to find it. When Holmes laid out his evidence, point by point, and Lestrade, catching on and following the wild train of thought, saw the crime as Holmes did, Watson caught it. There was a slight widening of the eyes, a ghost of a smile, and Lestrade hung on every word as though a student to a beloved teacher. Lestrade respected Holmes' abilities, and if the offer of a drink after was any indication, he actually liked the abrasive detective.
He thought of Mrs. Hudson, and how sometimes her eyes darkened when they looked at Holmes, the lines around her mouth becoming deeper, and lips pressing together as though not to let something escape. Before he had believed it to be her disapproval, yet it happened only when Holmes hadn't left the settee in far too long, or the tuneless pickings of the violin hadn't ceased for hours, or the wildness in his eyes caused him to lose sight of the room, and curl into a corner, begging them to please just be silent for a while, he'd be alright soon. In his mind now, it became the face of helplessness, the desire to speak and the inability to say anything that would change hands clutching over ears to hands reaching for diner.
He thought of Holmes, imperious, rude, and uncaring of civilities, giving commands to a group of children who looked at him adoringly, and worked hard not only for the money, but to receive Holmes' smile and quiet "well done, lads". He thought of how no less than three times in the busy store, or a crowded street, Holmes' eyes glazed, and Lestrade gently prodded him into focusing on one object, whispering to Watson how there was occasionally too much information Holmes took in and he would become overwhelmed if not forced to narrow his attention. He pictured the slouched figure standing before the window as the rising sun lit his anguished face, syringe trapped in one hand, and quoting Hamlet for the frailty of humanity into the city he was trying so hard to save. A wounded musician's soul, torn at the thought of a murder he could have prevented.
He pondered masks people wore to protect themselves from pain, and how it was far easier to push a stranger away than to ever risk a friend walking away on their own.
He acknowledged self-blindness, and how others had managed to see in Holmes what he wouldn't let himself.
He thought of letters, and wondered if an unknown face behind pretty words was worth more than attempting to save a brilliant genius from destroying himself. Was there enough strength in a broken ex-army surgeon to tether the ephemeral soul behind the exterior, and would it be worth it? He wondered if it was even possible. He thought about who would be destroyed first- Holmes or him, and he wondered if it even mattered, or if he even cared.
And when he quit his room and discovered Holmes curled on the settee wrapped in a tattered blanket and staring at the open Moroccan case containing the syringe and drugs, while an untouched lunch grew cold on the table; he wondered, as he pushed Holmes to lie down and knelt by his side, fingers wrapped around a fragile wrist and counting pulses, if there was a choice anymore.
"I do feel for them," He whispered to Watson. "I just can't-"
"I know."
My Dear Friend,
"If a man does not make new acquaintances as he advances through life, he will soon find himself left alone. A man, sir, should keep his friendship in a constant repair." I believe it is time for me to repair that rift which I so caused in our friendship several months ago by not meeting with you when we agreed to.
If you are amenable, I should like to meet you tonight. We shall go to the same place, so as to erase our previous disaster from our minds, and begin anew with fresh pages. I shall ensure that my legs carry me beyond the door, and you shall ensure that your roommate stays home.
On the subject of, it seems to me that your roommate is the most horrific person to live with. Perhaps, if all goes well tonight, we two should share rooms, with far more congeniality than you receive from him. I have found a most comfortable set of rooms that I believe you shall enjoy as well as I do.
Tonight, Dear Friend; tonight shall see us both happier people than we began the day, and I should think, satisfied in our new lots in life.
Always yours,
Dear Friend
Watson made his slow trek back to Baker Street, the letter tucked safely in his pocket. A few months ago, he would have jumped at the chance, his bags would be packed within the hour of his return, and he would have to regrets as he left Holmes, and his insanity, behind.
Now though…
Now, it was hard to imagine waking up and not hearing, his favorite pieces for the violin serenading him, or at least the clatter of a tea tray accompanied by Mrs. Hudson and Holmes bantering. He could give up the silent days, where he would wake in cold fear and run out; praying Holmes was at least slightly lucid when he got there.
He was also beginning to understand that with a man like Sherlock Holmes, you could not have the high times without the low, even if some months had been more bad than good.
It was becoming difficult for him not to recall a time before he started to receive smiles across the breakfast table, with questions on if he was free, and if he would like to join Holmes on a case today, at his convenience, of course. A time before Holmes would run suddenly into the rooms, or quickly throwing on his jacket after leaping up from a throne of pillows and thick pipe smoke, shouting at Watson to grab his revolver and follow, they would catch the criminal tonight.
The time before Watson became involved in the enticing world of crimes and detectives, villains and heroes, was almost a distant memory to him now. Granted, Holmes still drove him crazy half a dozen times a day, but it was something he was becoming used to, and unfortunately for his sanity, rather fond of.
Yet, to give fair arguments to his Dear Friend, the man was most assuredly well spoken. They had similar tastes in many subjects, yet disagreed enough on others that he felt they would never run out of things to discuss. His friend would never smoke them out of the rooms, or blow up bits of it, and once or twice, themselves, with a strange chemical experiment. He would never begin a violin concert at three in the morning, or even scrape upon the instrument carelessly.
Holmes still insisted it helped his thinking process, Watson still insisted he took particular delight in driving the rest of the house insane with it.
His dear friend would not involve him in an occupation that could possibly be their end one day.
He wondered if he would be bored with an ordinary life.
He wondered if he would drive himself out of his mind over-thinking everything.
So he stopped a few houses down, gazing up at the familiar window, one distant part of him unsure whether to be worried or not that no smoke emanated from it. It would be hard to leave, but there was certainly no harm in meeting the man face to face at last, and he could certainly leave the decision until then.
Before he moved, a hansom pulled up as a rather large man exited the house. Curious and hopeful, as Holmes hadn't had a case in a week and Watson was afraid he would soon descend into a mood, Watson watched the man ride away, and headed inside.
Upstairs, Holmes was at his chemistry table, intent upon some notes, but he looked up eagerly when Watson entered.
"Watson, I'm glad you've returned. What are you doing tonight?"
"Actually, I am to meet with a friend for dinner."
"Ah."
"Did the gentleman who just left bring you a case?"
"The… oh. No, he was… He was looking for you, actually."
"Me?"
"Yes, he said he was your new roommate."
Watson could feel his face heating up, and Holmes wore a puzzled confused expression that was oddly endearing. "Nothing is decided yet, Holmes."
"I didn't know you were thinking of leaving."
"I'm not… Listen, it's complicated. I'm not certain myself yet."
"Mr. Popkin seemed fairly sure."
"Mr. Pop…kin?"
"That is his name, isn't it?"
"Oh yes, Popkin. He was the one that just left?"
"Indeed." Holmes perched on his chair, an odd grin playing about his mouth. "At least your doctor sensibilities won't be as alarmed by him. I'm quite certain you'll never have to cajole him to eat."
"Unlike you."
"Unlike me. It will be a nice change for you."
"Nothing is-"
"Decided, you mentioned. Well, his mind at least is made up. He seems a very pushy sort of man, very used to getting his way."
"That at least, I know how to deal with."
"Are you implying something, Watson?"
"Wouldn't dream of it. Ah, didn't he impress you as rather witty? He has a fine mind."
"I'm sure, but he seemed rather dull and boorish to me, but then, it's hard to judge a man when he's depressed and out of a job."
"Out of a job? He didn't mention that."
"He must be one of those sensitive sorts, who don't wish to worry the new roommate about finances before they've moved in."
"I should think that would be a very important piece of information to give a new roommate."
"You didn't know what my job was when we moved in together."
"Ah… Yes, I think I was psychologically disturbed at the time."
"… And you're not now?"
"Shut up."
"At any rate, he believes the two of you can make it on your pension, though you might have a third or fourth roommate until he can find a job."
"Third or fourth—"
"You'll like them, I'm sure. Mr. Popkin assured me he was on intimate terms with all of them."
"Intimate… How intimate?"
"I thought you would already know. Really Watson, that's not the sort of thing one asks a man."
"Yes, of course not, but I had thought—"
"I'm certain the three, or four, of you will get along famously. You do have a habit of that. Besides, I should think in such close quarters, you'll get to know them fairly quickly."
"I never believed… He seemed much more considerate, in his letters. Not the sort of person to make several people live in a small space. And to suggest we move in together just as he's lost his job…"
"Well, I'm sure it doesn't help that he is being evicted from his old lodgings and needs to find new ones quickly."
"Evicted! Why?"
"I didn't ask."
"Well, what do you deduce?"
"Obviously, he cannot afford the rent."
"Obviously."
"Or, his landlady is tired of him bringing home young rent boys"
"What?"
Holmes was twitching in his seat, mouth threatening to erupt into a large grin, and Watson finally threw his hands up in exasperation. "Enough! What is going on?"
That caused Holmes to burst into laughter. "'Dear friend,'" he gasped out "'My heart beats faster every time I approach the Post Office, for I know that when I open box 237, there you will be. I wonder as I take you out of your envelope, what wondrous conversations we shall have today.'"
Watson paled as Holmes seemed to get himself under control. "Did… Did he show you that?"
"No, even worse; 'I need a friend. Not just a friendly piece of paper, though in the past you have filled in rather well.'"
"Dear Friend… You?"
"Me."
There was silence for a moment, and then a pillow flew across the room, smacking Holmes in the face, who almost fell to the floor with laughter.
"What the deuce is wrong with you? You had me believing I was friends with a large, penny-less, philanderer!"
"The look on your face!" Holmes cried out amongst giggles.
Watson beat him with the pillow again. "I'll have you know I was considering staying before two minutes ago, now I'm really thinking of leaving."
"Watson! Calm down!"
"Who was the man I saw leaving, whose character you have abusing?"
"That was my brother."
"Your brother?"
"Yes, you must admit that he played a rather nice part, don't you agree?"
"I didn't know you have a brother."
"I think there is still much we don't know of each other."
"How long have you known? No, you knew it was me at the restaurant that night. Why didn't you tell me?"
"Would you have been willing to accept the fact that the person you've been writing to, the person who you've felt closest to since returning to London, was in fact, the person you hated as well? I needed time to change your opinion of me."
"Now I don't know which is the real you."
"The letters are real, and these last few months have been fairly normal… Normal for me."
"Explain one thing."
"Anything you wish."
"Why were you so awful to me when I first moved in?"
Holmes started to turn red, and avoided his eyes. "I have a running bet with an… acquaintance of mine, for when I can drive a new roommate off. If my roommate is gone before she's bored with her new husband, I win."
"What do you win?"
"I thought we were going to work on you not gambling?"
"Ah… right."
"Besides, it doesn't matter now. She left him last week."
"Then, you still had plenty of time to drive me off. What changed?"
"You were the one who wrote those letters, and I was not leading you on when I told you I looked forward to them. I enjoyed the exchange, and then we worked that first case together."
"We do make a rather good team."
"Exactly. I can rely on you, Watson."
He had to laugh, dragging a hand over his eyes. "You know, a part of me had hoped it was you. I don't want to leave."
Holmes smiled. "Please forgive the deception, dear boy, but I knew of no other way to turn your opinion of me."
Watson could do nothing but laugh, moving to cup Holmes' face in between his hands. "Dear friend, 'twice or thrice had I loved thee, before I knew thy face or name', and now, I would like to know it all. Don't ever change."
THE END
End notes, A.K.A. annoying historical facts I researched for this sucker you probably don't care about:
Florian Hermann Hommage-Valse, Opus 21, is the melody of the song we know as "Ochi Chornye" (or "Ochi Chornya", "Ochie Chornie", "Otchi Tchorniya). You know, the tune in the cigarette box in the original movie? I unfortunately could actually use Ochi Chornye in the fic, since it wasn't published until 1884, and even then wasn't really known until 1897. However, what resources I found lead me to think the melody would have been known, and it was written as a duet for piano and violin. In 1884 it was set to a poem called "Dark Eyes" (In English) and became the Ochi Chornye we know today. Or at least, what was mentioned in the movie.
In use of the Post Office Box: I have gathered that they did exist, and it is entirely possible for Victorians to use them. (I found that letter boxes were invented in 1815, and wall boxes at home came into use around 1849.) Also around this time, letters were being delivered around four times a day. Thus, if your timing was good and the mail was fast, you could receive a letter for breakfast, send a reply before lunch, get the reply for that one around tea time, and send out a final letter before supper. How's that for service?
Ice cream: There was a penny-lick (a scoop of ice cream in a shell bought for a penny) ice cream stand outside of Charing Cross Station established in 1851. However, during the mid-Victorian era, large quantities of ice were imported from Norway and the U.S., making ice cream a more available (and less expensive) treat. The U.S. had a national distribution started in the 1870's, but until refrigeration units became popular and standard in most homes, not a lot of people could hold ice cream themselves unless they made it. Ice cream stands were more popular in the U.S. and didn't come into the U.K. until, as mentioned, more ice was imported.
The (slightly abridged) "What a piece of work is man" soliloquy, is from Hamlet, Act II, scene ii, lines 306-322(-ish, depending on your version). It is honestly my absolute favorite piece from Hamlet.
"When a man is tired of London…" Boswell's Life of Dr. Johnson, Vol. II, pg 131. Dude, it's Sherlock Holmes, how could I NOT quote Boswell SOMEWHERE?
"All men are liable to error…" John Lock, Essay on Human Understanding, Book IV, Chapter 20, section 17.
"If a man does not make new acquaintances…" Boswell's Life of Dr. Johnson, Vol. I, pg 182.
"Twice or thrice I loved thee…" John Donne, Air and Angels, stanza I