May 25th, 1889
There is a blister on the pad of my right thumb and a crease cut deep into my index finger, I have held a pen so long and so tightly, yet this is the first time in four days I put it to my journal instead of my notebooks. I saw Holmes again to-day.
After my last run-in with him, I took up newspaper and notepad and began to annotate the strange and unexplained rash of thefts that has descended as a plague upon London. The crimes have increased in number and intricacy, but the objects stolen were so random as to be arbitrary: everything from horses, to paintings, to the entire contents of someone's wardrobe, and most recently the disappearance of a young lady's diary. Every article in every paper we were delivered was combed for facts and hints, as I tried to tease out some common thread. Only once did I pause, long enough to ask my neighbor Anstruther if he would oversee my practice for awhile - I have done the same for him, and he was eager to return the favor. Since then I have spent day and night in the study in this fanatical pursuit, with my patient Mary bringing me meals that I nibble at if I notice them at all. I do not quite know what my goal was - to find evidence to convict my friend, if I can indeed still call him that? To build up my case against him next time we met, in the hopes that this time I would convince him to give up this queer venture? (If that was my goal, then I seem to have failed spectacularly.)
Quite a fright I must have looked, unshaven and eyes red with sleeplessness, surrounded by newspapers and notebooks and pens broken from furious scribbling. I leaned back to rub my eyes, and only then noticed Mary hovering over my shoulder, no doubt there to fetch the tea tray that I could not remember her bringing in.
"John..." She placed a trembling hand on my shoulder, concern written all over her features.
"They are completely unconnected, Mary. I don't understand it. There has to be a link somewhere," I found myself saying. I'm not quite sure I even know what I was talking about. Shock and lack of sleep make poor bedfellows where coherent thought is concerned.
"Or perhaps not," said she in the gentle manner of a governess speaking to a stubborn child. "They may be completely unrelated."
"I highly doubt it."
Her smile flickered away. "Maybe you should ask Mr. Holmes. Certainly he should have something to say on the subject."
I nearly flinched at the mention of his name. "I wouldn't like to trouble him."
She was taken aback by the anger in my voice. Without answering, she took up the tea tray and left, though I saw her shake her head before the door was closed. Guilt struck back my anger. How absurd it was that I should blame Mary at all for my troubles - no one deserved my temper less. Mary was a good wife, who had stood by me even as I neglected her in favor of this insane pursuit. Clearly I was losing track of what was important. I had the brief thought of if this is what it was like for Holmes between cases, cooped up and cut off but for the papers.
I resolved to leave the study and clear my head. After shaving and dressing in clothes other than those I had worn for the last four days, I tucked Holmes' letter into my waistcoat pocket and came down the stairs. Mary peered out of the living room, relief on her uncommon face.
"Are you going out, John?"
I smiled and took her hand. "Yes, I'm going for a walk to clear my head. I will be back in a couple of hours."
"Be as long as you wish," she replied, kissing my cheek. "It does no good to be cooped up in one room for so long."
"I whole-heartedly agree, Mary," I said, marveling that I was so lucky to find such a forgiving wife. "It seems to take a toll on the temper. I am sorry."
She smiled and nodded. "I know, dear. Will you be down for dinner to-night?"
"I think I will."
Outside it was a fine spring day, the sun shining through a clear sky without a trace of the earlier storm. As I joined the bustle in the street, with no particular destination in mind, I glanced at those around me with as much subtlety as I could manage. I did not know for certain but had the feeling Holmes would have me watched, and he would not employ any who made themselves obvious, so it was for little signs that I would have to look. I was just laying my suspicions upon a young man in gray tweed with a dark beard, when something crashed into me from behind. I caught myself before I fell and turned to find a young street Arab picking himself off the ground.
"I'm sorry, mister!" he cried.
Being used to pick-pockets and naturally suspicious of urchins, I checked my pockets quickly and found my waistcoat pocket quite empty. A corner of paper poked out of the child's fist.
"I would like that back," I said, holding out my hand.
The boy grinned and took off running, forcing me to follow. He was a quick little scrap and I a middle-aged cripple, but I could make good time when the need arose, and though I lost sight of him once or twice I always managed to catch up again shortly. He led me on a merry chase, out of the busy lane and down a side-street, then onto a row of grand houses, the pavement populated only by a couple not far ahead. The boy made to dash past them, but the man slung out a long arm and caught the little urchin about the shoulders. "Now, now, young sir, where are you off to in such a hurry?" I slowed as I recognized the austere figure, who turned to his young female companion with a smile. "You'll have to excuse me, madam, I have other business to attend to. I shall inform you if I come across anything."
"Thank you again, Mr. Holmes." She gave a sidelong glance to the urchin and then to me before she hurried away.
Holmes smiled at me as I approached, keeping a hold of the boy's arm. "Good to see you, Watson," he greeted.
I did not deign to answer him. Instead I leant against the iron fencing, getting my breath back and wincing at the pain in my leg. Holmes' brow furrowed just a little as he glanced down. "You should know better than to strain your injury after such a long period of inactivity, doctor. Do keep it moving to stop it seizing up."
"I didn't plan to be chasing a pickpocket when I stepped out." I glared at him as best I could and set to massaging the old wound.
"Pickpocket?" I could not see his face, focusing as I was on my leg, but I knew his brows rose in feigned surprise.
"Don't pretend to be surprised, Holmes."
"I'm sure I don't know what you mean."
I shot a dark look at him. "Must I spell it out before you will confess? The facts are thus, Holmes: The moment I step out of my house, I am robbed of something of no intrinsic value. The thief, though quick and being pursued by an invalid, does not manage to shake me but instead leads me directly to the street where you just happen to be. Not to mention that you often employ street Arabs in your schemes, and you are loathe to ever leave Baker Street at this time. Quite a damning case, wouldn't you say?"
The vitriol in my voice fell on deaf ears. Holmes' eyes sparkled with something akin to pride. "Coincidence is a remarkable thing," he remarked with forced insouciance. He plucked the letter from the boy's pocket, surreptitiously slipping a shilling into its place. The boy took off as Holmes studied the wrinkled envelope and smiled. "I didn't think you would keep this."
"It helps to remind me of your disguised writing." It was an excuse, and a weak one. In truth I wasn't certain why I had kept it.
"Ah, I see. I had wondered what you were obsessing over." He held the letter out to me. I snatched it away and returned it to my waistcoat pocket.
"What makes you think I'm obsessing?" I resisted the urge to look myself over, knowing that would only implicate me further. Instead I stared a challenge straight into his gray eyes.
He stretched out his left hand and tapped points upon it with one long forefinger. "You have not left your house in four days." I did not ask how he knew this. "Your pallor and the dark rings of your eyes indicate fatigue, to say nothing of the pronounced redness. Your hands are stained with spatters of ink, suggesting a number of broken pen-nibs, and your right forefinger and thumb show creases of too tight a grip upon a pen. Though you have shaved - albeit hastily - and changed your clothes, your hair is not in its usual state of regimented neatness, as if you have run your hand through it a number of times, probably due to frustration. Really, my dear Watson, the symptoms are nothing short of obvious. Clearly you have been obsessing, and it is no great conjecture to think what it is over - and a peek through your study window confirms it."
I was somehow unsurprised that he had been looking through my windows.
"I trust you made some progress?" His eyes glinted with genuine curiosity.
"If I had gotten anywhere, I wouldn't be here," I snapped, more violently than I meant to. What was supposed to be a relaxing walk was only serving to remind me of all my frustrations.
His eyes widened a moment at my tone, then his face returned to placid stoniness. His voice was quiet when he said, "Scotland Yard, then."
"Yes, Holmes. Scotland Yard." Strange that I felt some measure of shame at that admission. It wasn't as though he was an innocent, and he had threatened me - why should he not be turned over to the Yard?
He busied himself looking over the grand building we were standing in front of, without really seeing it, I am sure. "Have you forgotten what I said?"
"How could I? It's not everyday that my close friend makes threats upon innocent lives. I simply hoped that our friendship meant something more to you."
"The same friendship that meant so much to you that you abandoned it."
"Is that what you think? Holmes, I never abandoned you, I just-."
"Then please explain to me why I have been alone in Baker Street for a month and a half, with naught but the landlady and cocaine to keep me company." Though his words were harsh, they were spoken softly, with a tentativeness that was uncharacteristic of my friend. Even so, I felt a flare of anger.
"Because I foolishly assumed that a grown man could take care of himself for a few short weeks!" I struck my cane against the pavement and felt some measure of satisfaction when he flinched. "Because I have been almost buried in the amount of work I have had. I was on my way to visit you when you had me abducted! Would that I had found you in Baker Street in the grips of your seven-percent solution!" By the sudden set of his jaw I knew that I had gone too far. I calmed myself and spoke again, softly. "Look, Holmes. If my leaving has brought this upon you, then I apologize with all my heart. Believe me when I say that I have missed you these past weeks. Hardly a day has gone by that I have not thought of my good friend Holmes and wished that I had the time to see him. I have seen the error of my ways - I should have-"
"What's done is done," he interrupted my confession. "It is useless to conjecture on shoulds and might-haves."
"Holmes, my dear friend, I beg of you-"
"Don't, Watson. Begging does not become you." His teeth were clenched and his nostrils flared, eyes bright as they pointedly did not turn my way, and I knew that it was useless to appeal to him. He was set on this path and determined not to be swayed from it. I regarded him at length in silence.
"Who was that woman you were speaking with?"
"Is this a part of your investigation?"
"No, it's simple curiosity."
"She is a potential client. Like I said before, I take no personal gain from my new occupation. I must keep up with the rent somehow, now that it is all on my shoulders."
"What is the case?"
"A theft." Through his cold facade I could see that he struggled against a smile. "Today seems full of coincidence."
"I thought that coincidence did not exist."
"Indeed, my dear Watson."
"You do plan to return whatever has been taken, don't you, Holmes?"
He lost the battle against his smile. "Are you implying this is my fault? You should not make assumptions ahead of the facts, old boy." He chuckled. "I intend to return the items in question to their rightful owner, just as soon as I have had full interviews of those involved and tracked the items back down."
"Why do you bother? Surely you already know all there is to know about the crime."
"Yes, I do, but it is somewhat intriguing to study these things from another point of view."
I shook my head. "I do not think I will ever understand your mind."
"My offer still stands. You could observe first-hand."
"No thank you, Holmes," I said firmly.
He shrugged one shoulder. "Can't blame me for trying." He checked his pocket watch, and then drew an envelope from his pocket. "I received this telegram yesterday. You may wish to use it in your investigation."
Suspicious, I took the envelope from him and studied it. "Who is it from?"
"An associate of mine. It contains some vague details about something he wishes to carry out with my help. Perhaps you will be able to extract some usable information from it - even enough for an arrest."
I blinked, thinking for a moment that he meant of himself. The true answer struck me a moment later. "You want to betray him."
"Such a strong word. Betrayal assumes that I have some obligations to this man. There is still a part of me that wishes for justice for those crimes that have gone unpunished. I must admit, though, that there is a new voice telling me that one more in gaol is one less in competition with me."
I frowned. "What do you expect me to do?"
"Do what you will. Burn it. Send it on to our friends in the Yard. I don't think I can sway your decisions as I once could." He turned to look at me finally, mischief glittering in his eyes. "That does not, of course, mean that I won't try." With those cryptic words he tipped his hat and then walked away, disappearing around a corner. I made no effort to follow him. I leaned heavily against the fence and turned my eyes to the telegram in my hands.
When I finally opened it, it was to a page full of a numbers in a seemingly random order, from 1 through 25. A number cipher, then, and I began swapping out letters for it even as I stood there. By inference I was able to puzzle out the full message in only a few minutes.
It was insultingly easy even for me to decode, so it was clear why Holmes was so disinterested in letting them keep their liberty. Holmes valued intelligence and had little patience for anything less. I folded it into my pocket with Holmes' older letter and began to make my way back, my mind no clearer than when I had set out.
As I had promised, I took dinner with Mary, though I am afraid I was not good company. I spent the evening smoking cigarette after cigarette and pacing our sitting-room in agitation, unable to settle upon the right course of action. Were I to go to the police, it was possible that they would arrive at the wrong time and arrest Holmes as well - for all that I knew he had become, I clung to some hope that I could turn him back to the right path. And yet, if I ignored the information, I would be allowing more crime to go unpunished.
I think, now, that I have hit upon the only reasonable course of action in this case. I cannot help but feel guilty as Mary passes yet another night alone in our marriage bed, but it cannot be helped - I cannot stand by and let this happen. Evil thrives when good men do nothing, as the saying goes.
I only hope that I may return with some happy news.
