Sitting across from me, back against the wall, is a man who appears so harmless, it's nearly impossible to believe he can create anything but comforting stories. He frequently pauses when he speaks, unable to do anything but orchestrate the entire conversation as if he were writing it in one of his novels. But he is also carefully guarded, deliberate, and has none of the flash one would expect from a man of his renown. The other restaurant patrons are wearing suits; he is wearing jeans and a button-down. The earthiness, whether natural or fabricated, has a soothing effect on anyone lucky enough to speak to him. This is our author spotlight this week at Liber Weekly, the crime writer who keeps you up at night: John Watson.

Kitty Riley [Liber Weekly]: You're a surprisingly hard person to pin down, Dr. Watson. We were beginning to think we'd have better luck reaching the queen.
John Watson: Elusiveness is an occupational hazard, I'm afraid.
KR: Over the past years you've built a reputation for yourself in the book world, and it all started with –
JW: Boscombe Valley.
KR: Yes, Boscombe Valley. Did you have any idea, at the time, how the novel would take off?
JW: I've been at this for years, and I still don't know how the public will react to anything I publish.
KR: Did you hope it would take off, then?
JW: I'm supposed to say yes, aren't I? But honestly, I was just glad to be rid of it.
KR: Why is that?
JW: You spend that long working on something, it starts to wear you down. There comes a point where all you want to do is foist it on the public so you don't have to think about it anymore. [Laughs] Not to say I don't have a soft spot for it now, of course, but at the time I was glad to have it out of my hands.
KR: The book turned you into an overnight success. An international bestseller. Ten books later, and you're revisiting some of Boscombe's themes, yes? A man haunted by another man for past crimes?
JW: I suppose it's an idea that keeps me up at night.
KR: But this book, Gloria, has a more modern feel to it.
JW: Does it?
KR: Yes. Victor Trevor took the world by storm. Is he inspired by a real person?
JW: Hardly. No one that pleasant would associate with me.
KR: That would make Gloria your first book since Boscombe Valley that isn't inspired by real events.
JW: Yeah, the real world was getting very bleak. Even crime writers need a break now and then.
KR: Do you think you'll go back to what you're truly best known for? Fictionalized versions of crimes that interest you? You've covered so many over the years, the Fritzl case, the Canadian Schoolgirl Killer, the West Memphis Three, and of course last year's bestseller based on Genie the so-called "feral child." Isn't it tempting to go back to that? To all the cases?
JW: Yes and no. There's a certain catharsis, in fictionalizing things. I think it's one of the ways human beings cope with all the horrible things we have to see and hear. But the real world gets exhausting, even when it's your version of it. I needed a break from all that. It was time to get back to my roots, I suppose.
KR: I understand you were in the army for some time.
JW: Regrettably.
KR: Have you ever considered writing a story based on those experiences?
JW: Never. It's never been something I wanted to revisit. Besides, war is a different kind of crime than the ones I'm used to.
KR: Does it feel like being haunted, like in Boscombe Valley and Gloria?
JW: Not as much as you'd think.
KR: Do you ever find, even in books based on existing cases, do you find yourself inserting people you know into the stories? Fictionalized versions of people just like fictionalized versions of crimes?
JW: Now and again, although it's been many years since I've done that.
KR: When was the last time?
JW: It wouldn't be right of me to ruin all the mystery, now would it?
KR: Will you at least shed some light on what you'll be working on next, now that Gloria is hitting shelves?
JW: I'm always working on something. That will have to be clue enough.


From a six year old edition of Liber Weekly:

Sherlock Holmes: The fundamental misunderstanding here is that poetry means anything at all.
Kitty Riley [Liber Weekly]: Doesn't it? Doesn't all writing mean something?
SH: No, not all of it. In fact, not most of it. But certainly not poetry. People worry so much about what a poem means that they end up missing the point. The question you should be asking yourself is, what does the poem evoke.
KR: Explain.
SH: A poem's job isn't to tell a story. It's to elicit an emotional reaction. If you want to tell stories, be a novelist. If you want people to think your work means something, then be a Pulitzer winning novelist. Otherwise it's a waste of your time.
KR: Is poetry a waste?
SH: Anything can be a waste. No writing has intrinsic value, only extrinsic, the value that readers assign to it.
KR: You make it all sound very cold and devoid of heart. You have a sort of reputation, Mr. Holmes, of fabricating emotion, given that the poetry you write is so emotionally driven but you...
SH: But I'm not.
KR: Well, yes. Poetry isn't the typical avenue for someone of your disposition.
SH: And what would be suited to me, Miss Riley?
KR: Science, perhaps.
SH: This idea that writers all have a certain amount of mysticism and romanticism about them is outlandish. I've met enough other writers in my days to know that. Most of them are all ego, and very little heart, despite what their work might lead you to believe.
KR: Don't judge the author by the book, like don't judge the book by its cover?
SH: If that comparison suits you. But the author of anything, well, it doesn't really matter what they're like.
KR: What about context for the work itself? Or authorial intent?
SH: Both are meaningless. If people really wanted context, the about the author page would include more than four sentences. And it doesn't matter at all what the author's intent for anything is.
KR: Why not?
SH: Because ultimately, the reader will think what the reader wants to think. All readers are biased from the start, regardless of their claims otherwise.
KR: What's next? After Sic Transit? Or are you tired of talking about that collection?
SH: I feel like I've answered every conceivable question about those poems. And who knows what's next. That doesn't matter either.
KR: If so little matters, then what's the point of writing at all?
SH: What indeed?

Sherlock Holmes is the author of the poetry collection, Sic Transit, winner of the T.S. Eliot Prize, the Costa Poetry Award, The Forward Prize, the National Poetry Competition, and the Geoffrey Faber Memorial Prize. He lives and works in London.


"Please try to get me out of some of these."

"John, I already got you out of enough of them. What is the point of being an author if you refuse to do the tours? You have to promote your work." John could hear Ella's exasperation through the phone. He hit the speakerphone button and leaned his head on his hands.

"It's not like they don't know who I am already, El. I've been around long enough. James Patterson doesn't need to do tours to sell books."

"It's part of the work. Just because you don't have to do so doesn't mean you should cut it out. It's hard for writers to build a public image."

"Maybe I don't want a public image."

"Look, if you don't want to deal with Barnes and Noble or Waterstones I understand, but the local shops? You're a big draw for them. If anything, think of it this way: you're putting food on the booksellers' tables."

"The tour for The Silent Child was agonizing, Ella. The one for Gloria is going to be beyond unbearable. Cut as much of it as we can afford to cut. I'm sick of answering people's questions. I wish they'd just read the damn thing and leave me alone." He reached out a hand to the Newton's cradle on his desk, pulling one of the silver balls back and letting it go, staring at them as they swung back and forth, the constant clacking oddly soothing.

"John, quit playing with that thing and listen to me."

John didn't make a move to still the silver balls. "What?"

"I've known you for ages now. I know sometimes the job gets exhausting. But you survived the military. You can survive a book tour. But I promise I'll cut what I can. And you know what? They're going to love Gloria."

"I'm sure."

"Do you love it?"

"I don't know. I don't know if I love any of them."

There was a pointed silence on the other end of the line. John knew she would be sitting in her office, psychoanalyzing him. He reached out to still the cradle, and only then did Ella speak again.

"Don't forget the signing tomorrow night."

John hung up the phone and sighed.


Sherlock walked along the pavement by the Thames, hands deep in his coat pockets. The flat had become claustrophobic, and he had hoped being out in the open in the city would counteract the effect. It hadn't. If anything he felt more closed in by the hoards of people that apparently flooded the streets at night when he was ordinarily shut up at home behind closed curtains. When had he become such a recluse?

But he answered his own question even as he thought it: after Sic Transit.

The perk to being a poet, rather than a novelist, is that the people on the street rarely, if ever, recognized you. It was the closest one could get to being invisible even in a crowd. But that didn't make the crowds tolerable. The noise was the worst part. Why were human beings so goddamn loud all the time? Didn't they ever shut up? Why did everyone feel the need to drown out everyone else? It was like an unspoken competition between the billions of people on the planet, everyone trying to make the world notice them, when they had done absolutely nothing worth noticing.

The other writers – the ones who made their living monetizing human beings in magazine articles – had pestered him for a while when he was trying to make his exit from the public eye. They all wanted to know so much, when was the next collection coming out, what would it be about, who were his favorite authors, on and on and on, the same series of tedious questions. And then there came a point where he could no longer dodge these questions, could no longer put them off. When that time came, the questions became more serious. They all wanted to know why he hadn't put out more work, why he seemed to want to talk about anything except his own work.

But how could he make them understand that there was no work. And from the looks of things, there wouldn't be any for a very long time.

It wasn't as if he had stopped writing entirely. Quite the opposite, in fact. It was just that most of what he wrote ended up thrown into the fireplace at home. What was the sense in keeping something that was sub-par?

He had heard the stories about sophomore slumps from every writer or filmmaker he had ever met, but for the longest time he didn't believe the phenomenon really existed. He still didn't, really. The problem was perception. The world had reached a point where it almost expected an artist to fail on their second venture. So the quality of the work was irrelevant; the world would see failure no matter what the artist produced.

There were people who beat the curse, of course, people who could churn out book after book or film after film. And once they got to number three they usually managed to cement themselves in the creative world. It was just a matter of getting past number two, the project doomed regardless of its quality. It was all fear, in the end. Some people could handle the derision that often accompanied second works. He had discovered that he simply was not one of them.

Which was asinine. He had never cared what people thought of him in any other sense. But it mattered what they thought of his work. Without his work, what was he?

Evidently, he was the kind of man who wanders around London at night trying to make his brain fall quiet.

Earlier, a few blocks back, he had been stopped by some clueless tourists who wanted their photo taken. A man and a woman, in their late twenties, so transparent they may as well have been glass. The woman had straightened hair and thick mascara, and the man wore those horrendous knee-length khaki shorts that made him look like a teenager. Both of them had smiles that were a little too wide and falsely welcoming. They weren't married yet, but would be soon enough, and then likely would divorce five years down the road. People were so predictable.

They had handed him a smartphone, and he had been annoyed that operating it required removing a glove, but he took it all the same. As he held it out in front of him, framing the photo, they blathered on and on about how they were on their first real trip together, and how beautiful they thought English weather was – not nearly as gloomy as everyone says! – and how "magical" nights in London were.

"When we got here, I suddenly understood why there were so many British poets," the man said in a voice that Sherlock was sure he thought sounded sensitive and cultured. He snapped the photo and passed him the phone. "Do you live here?"

Sherlock only nodded, didn't want to dignify them with speech. Rather than take the hint, they both talked about how lucky he was to live in such a romantic setting year round. "It's a wonder you're not a poet too, living here," the woman said.

It had taken all of Sherlock's self control to not tell her very politely to go to hell.

It was a wonder that he wasn't a poet. He had been one, once. And the worst of it was that that was still the primary facet of his identity. If anyone asked what he did, he always wanted to answer automatically with, "I'm a writer." But was he, really, if he produced so little over such a long period of time? That thought had haunted him for months now, creeping into the back of his mind when his guard was down. At what point did one cease to be something they have always been? And how did one ever get back to that person again? In the interim, he felt like he hardly existed. He imagined it was how soldiers felt when they came home. To them, they were always soldiers. Now they were civilians. And what the hell were they supposed to do with such a change?

But he had no great battles to show for his time in the literary trenches. Just old wounds.

Over and over, he would ask himself who he was. What he was. But he never came close to an answer.

Maybe he hoped that these walks would inspire him enough that he would fine such an answer, but thus far they had yielded nothing. All he had gotten out of it was a thousand overheard conversations about how magical London at night was. He was so fucking sick of it. What did everyone find so damn magical about some lights strung up in trees by a river? About a ferris wheel putting on its own multicolored light show? About street lamps and flood lights and heels on pavement? There was nothing inherently magical about any of this. It was pretty, yes, but magic? There was no magic here. People always believed there was something about late hours that made them special, otherworldly. But in London, you couldn't even see the stars. He would know; he had tried often enough.

Sherlock had written so many words about the stars over the years, in one way or another. The artificial ones in the trees and on the tips of iron lamp posts didn't measure up, no matter how hard he tried to love them. However, they suited London well. Real stars were far too still and silent for a place like this.

He could understand someone seeing magic in the universe. But in a city at night? Never. Growing up, he noticed people turned night into something mystical, hushed late hour conversations and cheap takeout food, the knowledge that they'd be exhausted come morning, the fact that come sunrise, they would banish everything they'd talked about hours before into the no man's land between midnight and dawn. But night had never been that to him. His memories of it mostly involved sitting up alone working at home till ungodly hours before collapsing, waking up late the following morning and destroying everything he had put on paper before sunrise.

When he looked ahead of him and saw a very boisterous group of tourists, he decided he couldn't stand the company of so many exuberant strangers any longer. Avoiding making the slightest bit of eye contact with any of them, he stepped off the pavement to cross the street, burrowing deeper and deeper into the insulated stone and brick walls of the London night.


Mike Stamford's bookshop had always been one of Sherlock's favorites. It had both new and used books, stayed open late, and was designed in such a way that one could get lost entirely in the shelves like an animal camouflaged in leaves.

Regrettably, it was also a rather popular bookstore, and would occasionally attract authors for meet and greets, readings and signings. Mike had known Sherlock for years, and at one point he even tried to convince Sherlock to do a reading during a poetry festival he was putting on, but he very quickly learned Sherlock's opinions on such things and politely never asked again.

He had to weave through a cluster of people, the bell above the door announcing his presence. Blessedly, the people in the shop were too preoccupied to notice him slinking behind them. Somewhere outside the safety of the shelves, Sherlock could hear the murmur of voices, a low mumbling noise like bees buzzing. He pulled back farther into the dark corners of the poetry aisle. Mike always had the older editions mixed in with the newer ones, and Sherlock naturally gravitated toward the worn spines and cloth covers of the old books, running his fingers along them, scanning for the collection on his mind. It wasn't as if he didn't have copies of the collections at home; he had nearly every volume of poetry he could get his hands on. But he loved accumulating different editions, and any time he found a poem was stuck in his head, he would silence it by adding an edition. As a result he had nearly an entire shelf of Byron, nearly an entire case of Neruda.

Tonight it was Auden, a frequent offender in the catalog of Sherlock's mind. He nearly hated himself for allowing the poem to bore into his brain. It wasn't obscure or particularly revolutionary, a poem taught in literature classes all over the globe. But it was the thing that, lately, kept him up at night, staring past the electrical glow of his laptop screen into the empty mouth of the hearth.

But he had to have it on paper, a physical form, something he could glare at whenever he felt the need.

A few aisles away, he could hear the murmur die down, voices coming now one at a time. Half-listening, he caught the familiar questions as they drifted through the space between books.

What inspired you to write this book?

Do you think you'll ever write another book like the last one?

How do you stay so motivated?

What are you working on now?

Will there be a movie?

They were all questions he had heard in some form or another posed to various novelists who had come through Mike's shop. On the rare occasion a poet was the center of the night, the questions were always markedly different, always about existential dread and catharsis.

If Sherlock was being honest, he almost preferred the entirely unimaginative questions people asked the novelists. Everyone always expected some great meaningful response from a poet. From a novelist, a clever quip every few questions was all they required.

Lucky bastards.

He tuned out most of the talking, turning his eyes to the book in his hand, the pages yellowed with age. These were the best kinds of books. They felt more real, more grounded. All Sherlock had ever used newer books for was to take on long trips because he didn't care if he lost them. Hardback, cloth, green cover with a tattered yellow spine, dust jacket long since gone. An edge of the cover was a bit discolored, like its original owner had spilled coffee on it, but that didn't matter. It had the poem in it.

Sherlock walked to the end of the aisle as he flipped through the book, and in the process nearly ran into Mike, who had stationed himself at the edge of the shelves, leaning against one with a pleased smile on his face. Rather than even trying to make his presence known, Sherlock merely sidestepped him, feeling considerably safer once he was on Mike's other side, and therefore had a clear escape route. Mike was staring up the center aisle at the little gathering he'd orchestrated, practically beaming over the guest, despite it being highly unlikely that he could actually see the person, given that even Sherlock could hardly catch a glimpse through the crowd.

"Who did you rope in this time?" Sherlock asked, glancing back down at a page in his book.

"John Watson," he said, a proud father at a son's graduation.

"Who?"

"John Watson, Sherlock. The crime novelist."

"Whatever you say." Sherlock caught the slight movement in his peripheral vision, Mike shaking his head. He only knew about ten percent of the people who came to the shop. This person fell in with the other ninety.

The crowd shifted enough to open up a line of sight, and Sherlock glanced up the slightest bit to see who sat at the table up front answering questions. An unassuming, down-to-earth looking blond man, who Sherlock finally recognized from seemingly endless dust jacket photos and displays in Waterstones.

"What's so special about him?"

"He's a brilliant writer, Sherlock."

"He writes thriller novels."

"Incredible ones."

"I never saw the point in crime fiction. There are plenty of real crimes to read about."

"He's written about lots of real crimes before."

"Fictionalized, based on, whatever you want to call it."

"Well lots of people find police reports to be a bit dry."

"Why are they all fawning over him though? It's not like he's a Pulitzer winner." Mike said nothing. Anytime the answer to a question should have been common knowledge, he wouldn't answer.

As the silence between them stretched on, Sherlock reached into his pocket to retrieve money for the book, but when he held the note out, Mike just waved his hand away.

He could have left. He could have retreated back into the London night. But he didn't.

"You know, Sherlock, I think you'd quite like The Silent Child, actually."

"Why do you think that?"

"The case it's based on is one you've mentioned to me before. Genie?"

"If I read about that case, it's for the sake of reading about language acquisition and neurological development. I don't need a watered down happy ending fairytale version of it."

"It's a very smart book. He was a doctor, you know. And it doesn't end happily."

"It doesn't?"

"No. It's very realistic. But none of the hopefulness you see in Room."

"What on earth is Room?"

"A novel, Sherlock," he said, still staring at Watson. Sherlock might as well have not been there. "Still, I think the two of you would have plenty to talk about."

Sherlock ignored the comment. Mike was always convinced he'd get along with one person or another. He hadn't been right yet. Although that was more Sherlock's fault than Mike's. There had been Sebastian, a literary agent who worked primarily with young adult fiction who appeared to be in a state of suspended adolescence himself. There had been Greg Lestrade, who wrote true crime books, but whose writing was so basic and his choice of cases so banal that Sherlock couldn't stand discussing crimes with him at all. He had gotten along half-decently with Molly Hooper, who wrote science textbooks, but she had been so clearly infatuated with him that it was physically painful. Oddly enough, the one he had gotten along with the most was Martha Hudson, his landlady, who wrote little domestic columns and articles for women's magazines. But generally, Sherlock dreaded any introduction of Mike's. He managed to find the strangest people. He also couldn't believe that Mike knew this novelist well enough to know how they'd get on.

He shut his book of Auden and looked around him for the nearest display, taking a few quiet steps to reach it, plucking one of the copies of The Silent Child from the stack. The about the author section on the inside flap of the dust jacket contained a very simple photo of the man, and the text below it was notably brief: "John Watson was born and raised in Somerset. He served as a doctor in the military in Afghanistan. He currently lives in London."

More vague than a Wikipedia article.

The front cover of the book was a portrait of a girl's face, maybe thirteen, with her features partially obscured by the artistic equivalent of a camera blur.

Sherlock tried to wrap his mind around why the writer had been so preoccupied with the Genie case; it wasn't as if there weren't thousands of interesting medical marvels that a doctor could latch on to. He flipped through the pages, catching a few words here and there, unsure what he was actually looking for. And then he turned to the dedication page.

"For Harry."

He looked up at the man, sitting behind the table with body language that was clearly making an active effort to not appear defensive and unwelcoming. But he was still visibly uncomfortable. It didn't look as if the general public noticed, but Sherlock knew the tells, the little details, twirling a ring on his finger, pulling at a loose thread on his sleeve, tapping the pen against his hand. He was almost ready to rise from the table and bolt.

Sherlock heard the split second pause, the author waiting for the next question. And although there were people sheepishly raising their hands, gearing themselves up to speak, he ignored them and stole their moment from them.

"Who is Harry?"

Heads turned to find the source of his voice, a handful of whispers passing through the crowd, likely something to the effect of how rude. Even Mike was looking at him a bit incredulously.

Watson's eyes scanned around the room, finally landing on him. His shoulders were already more tense, a soldier used to attacks slipping into old habits.

"Sorry?"

Sherlock held the book above his head, the cover displayed for all the eyes that had turned to him. "Harry?"

"Not important," he said, smiling in a failing effort to remain polite. "Or relevant."

"Important enough to merit a dedication in a bestseller. The book is about a little girl, so a dedication to a man is less likely unless it's your agent or editor. You mentioned your agent and editor by name a few minutes ago, so it's not either of them. Family member or romantic attachment? Why him? What earns someone a dedication?"

Sherlock lowered the book as he waited for his answer, and was nearly ready to question the man again when he finally said, "Book dedications are only relevant in the moment they're made. I've known people to dedicate books to classmates they haven't spoken to in twenty years, a childhood friend, countless dead relatives, even celebrities. I've dedicated books to all sorts of people over the years, even men I fought with overseas, even Mike Stamford who owns this store. It's really not as full of hidden meaning as you're thinking it is."

"That doesn't answer the original question, Doctor, but since you're so visibly uncomfortable, I'll return the floor to the others."

The whispers rose again before John Watson said, "Next question," with an edge of harsh finality.

"You love to antagonize, don't you?" Mike asked.

"It was an honest question. Which I'd still like answered."

"Good luck. The only person more private than John Watson is you."

He attempted a whole slew of witty responses he could give to that remark, but ultimately failed.

Sherlock remained at the back of the crowd during the rest of the session, and when the fans began to line up for autographs, Sherlock stepped in toward the end, the copy of The Silent Child nestled in the crook of his arm.

When he finally reached the front, he set the Auden down on the table, opening the novel to the title page and extending the book out to John. He was met with a look of pure irritation. And since presumably Sherlock broke the line of sight between John and the other fans, Sherlock noticed that he did absolutely nothing to try and hide his expression as he had earlier.

Neither of them spoke as John glanced between Sherlock and the book, slowly uncapping his pen.

"So?"

"So what?" John responded, turning his eyes to the page.

"Aren't you going to answer my question?"

"Hadn't planned on it, no." He ran the pen – roller ball ink, medium point – over the paper, sharp scratching as he scribbled his signature over the page.

"Who is Harry?"

"And who the hell are you, exactly?" He looked up at him, pen still hovering over the paper.

Sherlock began to smile before he could stop himself. "My name is Sherlock Holmes. Address of 221B Baker Street."

John snapped the book shut and handed it to him. "Why would I care about your address?"

"Useful information for when you ultimately decide to tell me who Harry is."

"I have no intention of ever doing that."

"You will, though."

"What makes you so sure?"

Sherlock smiled as he returned the book to the crook of his arm. "As I believe you'll appreciate the phrasing, I'm inclined to say, because I can read you. Wonderful to meet you, Doctor Watson."

He turned and cut through the crowd, passing Mike without a word on his way out of the shop. The brisk night air, when it hit him, seemed to wipe the smile from his face, replacing it with a creeping sense of dread.

Still, it wasn't until he was safely home that he realized he had left behind the book of Auden, carelessly set on the table. He cursed himself for being so caught up, distractions leading to the ultimate betrayal.

But The Silent Child sat on his coffee table in Baker Street, ready and waiting, and his hands were already typing out the name "John Watson" on his computer.


John had signed three more books for grinning fans before he noticed the book sitting on the edge of the table. None of the people at the signing seemed to see it, and for a moment John wondered if he was imagining it, hallucinating. But the reality was simply that the people in line were blind to everything but him.

Between fans, John reached out a hand and slid the book across the table, laying it down on the chair next to him with his coat and satchel. He couldn't rationalize why he'd done it. He knew exactly who had left it there, and whether it was simply forgotten or deliberately placed there for him, he wasn't sure. But it was currently the only tie he had to the bizarre interloper. It would have to do.

Once the signing was over – he had done the rest of it on autopilot if he was being honest – John stood with Mike in the closed bookshop, chatting. Or rather, Mike chatted and John made every effort to pay attention when all he wanted was to go home.

"And I'm sorry about him, by the way."

John snapped his eyes back to Mike. He had gotten distracted at was staring absently at the display Mike had set up of all his books. For a moment, he found himself dissociating entirely, and the books were written by a man he didn't know.

"Sorry about who?"

"Sherlock, of course. I'm afraid he's always like that."

"You know him?"

"Oh, yeah, known him for ages. Strange fellow, I'll give you that."

"Christ, that's an understatement."

"I've been recommending The Silent Child to him for a while now. I hope he actually reads it."

"I get the impression that my kind of novels aren't really what he likes."

"What do you think he likes?" Mike asked, laughing a little.

"You know, something heavier, something meaningful, like, I don't know, War and Peace."

Mike shrugged. "He always called the Russians unnecessarily bleak, so don't be too sure."

Suddenly the weight of the green and yellow book grew heavier in his bag. John had been so distracted at the time that he hadn't even noted what book it was, which title, which author. It was simply Sherlock Holmes' book. Once he realized this, he quickly made excuses about meetings and deadlines to Mike and threw around promises of lunches and free afternoons, anything to get him home faster.

On the cab ride home, he almost told the driver to go to Baker Street twenty times. After all, he knew the owner's address, it was only right that he return the man's property to him. But somehow the book felt like a key in a fantasy novel, mystical and sure to unlock something important. He could have pulled it out on the ride, but decided against it. The flicker of street lamps wasn't enough. The book merited a slower going-over; it demanded real light.

Thankfully, light was something John Watson had plenty of. Over the years he'd grown to hate dim rooms and kept his flat flooded with brightness from all sorts of lamps. When he had first come back from Afghanistan, he had gone so far as to even sleep with lights on, when he slept at all. And somewhere along the line, he'd never quite gotten fond of darkness again. So he shut the curtains to block out the blackness beyond his windows and sat down on his sofa. For a moment he just stared at his bag sitting on the table in front of him. But finally he couldn't still himself any longer.

He was not expecting a book of poetry. Granted, he wasn't that sure what he expected at all, but it wasn't poetry. Perhaps the childish characterization of poets as sensitive and thoughtful people was what made it so absurd, given the brusque nature of the man who had forgotten it. Maybe it was meant to be a gift, and that lack of personal investment was why it had been forgotten. But Sherlock Holmes didn't seem the gift-giving type either.

John had never read poetry, not really. In all honesty, he read very little in general. But poetry had always escaped him, had never drawn him in.

Unfortunately, there were so many nights where John felt he would never be drawn in by anything ever again. Ella would say it was depression talking. John would say it was practicality. It wouldn't be the first time they had an argument along those lines.

Equally puzzling to John was the condition of the book. For a man who seemed so prim and put together, he had certainly picked a book that was nearly falling apart. His clothes had been expensive, so it wasn't as if cost was a factor. Why did the weathered hardback mean anything to Holmes at all?

And why couldn't John leave it behind, or return it, or at the very least allow it to rest for the night instead of letting it keep him awake?

He turned the book over in his hands finally, running his fingers along the edges of the yellowed paper. Auden. He had never heard of Auden.

By two in the morning he had read a good piece of the collection.

Though his head was beginning to kill him, he read on, and came to a poem that sounded vaguely familiar, perhaps a tiny piece of a long since forgotten literature class. But this time around, he could only read it in the context of Sherlock Holmes. He turned the page, his eye lingering on a stanza near the end of the poem. And for reasons he couldn't begin to understand, the stanza had the effect of a literary sucker punch, and forced him to finally close the book and walk away from it for the night.

O stand, stand at the window
As the tears scald and start;
You shall love your crooked neighbor
With your crooked heart.


Sherlock couldn't manage a single act of productivity that night, although truthfully he felt as if he hadn't been genuinely productive in years. But all he had managed was a cursory search of the thriller novelist online and a great deal of staring at the ceiling agonizing over the forgotten book. Had he left it behind in the shop? Had he dropped it somewhere on the way home? He almost wanted to call Mike and wake him up just to ask him if he had seen it lying around anywhere, but showed – he thought – remarkable restraint in not doing so.

The search for information about John Watson had been equally futile. He had hoped that the internet would be able to provide more information than the blurb on the dust jacket had, but details about the author were notably sparse no matter where he looked. No details about his early days except the same note of him being from Somerset. There was a fair bit about his military service, but nothing about his family or personal life. Yet somehow, this man had cultivated his public image in such a way that his fans viewed him as family and felt like they knew him. He had an easy charm in his interviews that made him seem so personable, but Sherlock noticed that mostly his answers seemed designed to keep everyone safely at arm's length. Certain topics he avoided more than others. Any questions about his youth were immediately and skillfully redirected into another avenue of discussion, so expertly that the interviewers didn't seem to realize they'd been played. Questions about the military he answered, unless they were questions about the actual people he served with. Unlike most military men he seemed reluctant to talk about other soldiers he knew, giving no sentimental tales of brothers in arms and rescues and miracles. But he talked very casually about some of the terrible things he saw, as if the deaths and bombings didn't seem nearly as emotionally demanding as simple questions about his favorite movie or whether he was married or whether he came from a large family or – god forbid – questions about why he chose the subject matter he chose.

How could such a well known man be so unknowable?

He considered starting the book, but it was late, and he had already decided that any potential source of information deserved his full attention, not the distracted half-awake focus he currently had.

It was a toss up as to which item was more taunting: the copy of The Silent Child sitting on his coffee table, or the once again blank page on his laptop with its horrid little blinking cursor.

Another night, wasted. Another night with no updates, no productivity, no words put to paper. But it wasn't as if he could force the words out, however much he may have wanted to. Instead he was forced to turn in, and as he tried so desperately to sleep, he found that all he saw when he shut his eyes were the typed out words from the poem, still trapped in the forgotten book and yet still taunting him even now:

O let not Time deceive you,
You cannot conquer Time.