Thanks to those who reviewed! I decided that in the interest of ease, I
would update with smaller blocks of the story, rather than wait longer and
have more.
Chapter five
It did not take as long for me to get back into my routine as I thought it would. Not that I forgot Mary, or any of the strange events of the last several weeks, but there was something about Baker Street that had a healing presence about me. It was all just so familiar. It must have been all the time I have spent there, all the time with Holmes.
But what I was not prepared for was exactly what I feared would happen. It occurred just days after the sale of my home in Kensington, just when I thought things may be looking up...
There was an influenza outbreak in the west end, where the majority of my patients were found, and I, along with most other doctors were trying to quell it before it turned into an epidemic. This, plus the move, and trying to decide what to do with my late wife's possessions occupied my mind fully, making me grateful for the help of Mrs. Hudson, and Holmes himself were my son was concerned. Perhaps this was why I paid little heed to what I later found the 'whispered gossip' of Harley Street.
My assistant at the time, James Parks, I shall always regard as a good man and a talented doctor, one whom I will be indebted to for all the times he took the lead for me, especially in those last brutal weeks. However, he was young and a bit impetuous at times, and more than anything else, a little too trusting when it came to those ugly rumours.
"So how are you getting along now, Watson?" He asked me one evening, as we were preparing to close up for the night. "Settling back into the same old routine?"
"Yes, I think so." What I really wanted was to get out as rapidly as possible. I was not a fellow for idle chatter those days. Always there was somewhere to be, something to do.
"It is strange, you know..." he continued, handing me my overcoat. "That you would decide to move back to your old lodgings. I mean, I understand your wanting to be rid of the house. Too many memories and everything, but back to that old flat? With Sherlock Holmes of all people?"
"I am sorry, Parks, but I fail to see how any of this concerns you."
He shrugged. "Please don't think me presumptuous. Prying into your private affairs like this. It is just..."
"What, man?"
"Come off it, John. I have known you for some time now. I thought we could speak freely to one another."
I did not like where this was leading. But I put on a blank expression, as if I had not the slightest clue what he was getting at. Casually, I slid my coat on, pretending to brush some imaginary dust from the top of my bowler. "Certainly speak freely, James. I dislike beating around the bush, as they say."
He was licking his lips, folding his hands, shifting around. It did not take Sherlock Holmes to sense the uneasiness in that consulting room. "People are talking," he said. "All around. Osgood, Johnson, even your old friend, Joseph Blakely. You are a widower. With a child, no less. And..." he leaned in so near to me I could smell the remains of iodine upon his skin. "You are living with another man. And with no nurse for your son. It's not...It's just not normal."
I nearly had to laugh at how pawky[1] he was being. From the deep tone of voice, you would think the message he was dealing was my epitome upon my tombstone. "My dear Parks," I said. "If this innocent arrangement between myself and Sherlock Holmes is causing that much rumour and speculation than I really feel that we medical men have far too much time on our hands. I will admit that the arrangement is a little...unorthodox. But as you well know, in my spare time I enjoy assisting Holmes. I am sure you have read the Strand magazine? It is more convenient living under the same roof with him to accomplish this. Not to mention that I have no need as well as no desire for such a large house now that it is just Josh and I. And as far as my son is concerned, he is being well taken care of by my landlady, I woman in whom I have complete trust. I fail to see how this is so great a blasphemy to accepted standards of living?"
"Well..." Parks said, trying desperately to come up with a logical retort to that. I smiled to myself, feeling quite victorious. Picking up my stick, I tipped my hat.
"If this conversation is over, than surely you will not think me rude if I leave? I am expected at home." But just as my hand closed around the doorknob, Parks spoke once more.
"Do you think, Watson, that it is wise to allow Josh to spend so much time with Mr. Holmes?"
That statement surprised me so that I nearly dropped both my hat and stick. Slowly I turned back around to face him. "Why wouldn't it be wise?"
"Even you have admitted he is a bit of a rum[2] fellow. When a man chooses never to marry, my friend, do you not question as to the reason why?"
"Holmes is not a marrying man, Parks. He...well, he thinks that women are not to be trusted. I do not know where exactly his misogynistic attitude came from, but...what are you insinuating, man?" I felt my grip tighten significantly on my cane. I truly think that at that moment I would be prepared to use it, if necessary.
"Are you sure that is the only reason he has never married? Do you propose to tell me that you never at least thought there could be another, more sinister motive to his actions?"
My face flooded with angry blood then. To Hell with my stick, I would thrash him with my bare hands! It would be significantly more satisfying. "How dare you, Parks! How dare you insinuate that he and I..."
"No! God, no, John! That was not what I meant!" He stepped back, waving his short arms in front of him. There was fear registering all across his body, and I took a deep breath. Truly if body-language is any indication than I believed that he had not meant that. "I know that you are a real man, Watson, and I would never suggest otherwise. You have proven yourself to both your country and fellow man. And I know you loved Mary and care deeply for Josh. But it has been speculated...only speculated, mind you, that Sherlock Holmes...well, is not all man, in that respect."
"You can believe whatever you care to, James," said I, narrowing my eyes. "My assurances that Sherlock Holmes is the best man I have ever had the privilege of knowing would do little to convince you, I am sure. But let me state it anyway. To tell you the truth, I have no idea what the man feels in his heart. If he is inclined toward anything....anything not acceptable in our society, than I am not aware of it. However, I have no regrets about his spending time with my son, as well as having no regrets about he as a flatmate, a friend and a man in general. And you can inform Osgood, Johnson, Blakely, and anyone else who would care to spread foul suppositions of these facts. Good-evening, Dr. Parks."
And with that said, I opened the door and closed it none too gently behind me.
*
It was a short cab ride to Baker Street, but that night it seemed longer than usual. Parks' words flooded my mind, and as angry as I was, I couldn't stop repeating them. I was sure that he was mistaken. Holmes was brilliant, arrogant, eccentric as most true geniuses are, but surely that was all he was. He may not be inclined toward passion with woman, but that did certainly not mean he was so toward men. After all, we had lived together for more than a decade. If he were, surely I would have seen some sign of it by now. If there was any reason to not allow Josh to be around him, it was more along the lines of his tendency to be irresponsible when it came to his own safety. Those damn chemicals...one day I was going to find the house blown to bits. Not to mention the classes of people that he carried on with.
After my argy-bargy[3] with Dr. Parks, I was nearly an hour later than I intended. Mrs. Hudson was in the kitchen, preparing supper, so I let myself in and went to the sitting room. I was sure that was where I would find Josh and Holmes.
I was not only right, but just in time to witness a brilliant display of reddish coloured smoke explode out of a now shattered retort. A disgusting foul smell filled my nostrils and burned at my lungs. The first thing that flashed in my mind was one of instinct, one of war, and that was to hit the deck-enemy fire. My shoulder and leg even gave a transitory sting of pain in response; those Jezail bullets ripping through my mind. However, my second instinct was to grab my child, and that was what I did.
"Josh! Are you alright? Are you hurt?" I covered his body with mine as smoke was still swirling from the table, clouding the room.
"It's okay, papa...I'm not hurt." He looked at me with confused eyes, slightly watery. "Me and uncle were just doing a 'speriment."
"I'm sure you were!" I said, coughing. "Holmes, what is the meaning of this? What on earth were you thinking! You both could have both been killed!"
Casually, my friend rose and made his way to the window, ushering the dissipating fumes into the London night. "Well, that was a bit unexpected, was it not, Josh? I am afraid that we may have used a few millilitres too much of bromine. The toxicity of it mixed with the heat was more than the glass could take. Oh, well. 'It is through suffering that learning comes.'[4] We shall know next time."
"Next time!" I expostulated. "Toxicity! Are these fumes toxic, Holmes?"
"Oh, no, no...of course not, Watson," he replied waving an indifferent hand. "Did you think I am mad? No, the bromine is only toxic if you ingest it. Although as you are aware the smell is not particularly pleasant."
"Josh," said I, setting him back to the ground. "Please go downstairs and visit Mrs. Hudson for a bit. I must speak with Mr. Holmes."
"But Papa"-
"Now, boy!"
His chin trembled at my rebuke as he made his way to the door, but he obeyed without another protest. I knew he detested rows even more than I. And I would bet a year's pension that he wanted to tell me not to be mad at his 'uncle.' But I was mad. Not necessarily at Holmes, just disputatious toward the whole world in general.
Holmes waved his hand over the pipe rack as if conjuring up some great illusion. He finally settled on his old favourite, the calabash, and filled it with tobacco from the Persian slipper, settling into his armchair. The disgusting red fog from the bromine experiment gone awry had dissipated and he set forth to refilling the room with thick blue smoke. "You seem distraught, doctor," he finally said. "Disagreeable day?"
He was not asking but telling me, I was sure. That was how he worked. His tone, however, suggested humour of all things. I really did not understand what had become of the Holmes I had grown accustomed to. "You know, I really can't see why you are so jovial of late. There are no perplexing problems to occupy your mind. Yet there is no black mood that I would have expected by now. How came this affectatious attitude of yours?"
"Ah, my friend, life is too short for black moods. Besides, what led you to believe there was nothing to occupy my mind?"
I was sure I was not hearing correctly. Life is too short? No, that was something Sherlock Holmes would never say. I had a brief strange image of one Holmes-cynical and barely human going over a cliff rushing with water in the Swiss Alps and another Holmes-a far more human Holmes-climbing out of the dark depths like some miraculous re-birth. Suddenly the whole conversation with James Parks seemed rather puerile.[5] Should it bother me that there was a bit of gossip about the City concerning Holmes and I? And mostly he, for that matter.
A thick breath of poisonous atmosphere exited my lungs; all I could do was shake my head. "Holmes, I am not sure how or where this new leaf of yours turned over, if that is really what it is, but you really must be more careful. People...well, just be cautious, alright? Especially with my child."
He was chewing on the stem of his pipe again, something that irritated me to the core, although I cannot say why. It reminded me of Josh and his stuffed dog. "I would not jeopardize that boy's safety, Watson."
"Ha! You don't think blowing up vials of poisonous chemicals jeopardizes his safety? Not to mention mine and your own?"
Snorting, he turned away. His way of refusing to answer. And the thin pointed jaw would stay clamped shut until the heat was off. Our conversation was at an end.
"You can be stubborn if you wish," said I. "But if you care for our friendship at all, Holmes, you will take care in regards to your actions. Now, I'm going to see my son to bed."
"Are you asking, doctor," he called as I was halfway through the sitting room door. "For the sake of John Sherlock? Or for your own?"
I silently shut the door behind me.
*
Josh insisted on being read to every night, a habit I not only encouraged, but enjoyed. He liked Grimm's fairy tales and Hans Christian Andersen, as well as the Mother Goose tales. They bored me truthfully, and I longed for the day when he and I could sit and discuss books that we both enjoyed. Perhaps he would even follow my footsteps and join the medical profession. But for now, it was 'Cinderella.'
"You aren't mad at uncle, are you, Papa?" He asked when I had finished.
"No," I said with a smile. "I just warned him that he needs to be a little more...grounded."
"Why would he need to lay on the ground?"
"Never mind," I said with a laugh. "Go to sleep, darling boy."
As I got up to turn down the gas, his small voice called out. "Are we going to stay here forever?"
"Well....I don't know about forever. But at least for the time being. Do you not like it here?"
"I like it. But I miss Ivy. And Mummy..." his eyes fell to the framed portrait of her and I that I had given him. It sat on the small night table next to his bed.
"I know..." I said. "I miss her as well. But you like Mr. Holmes, don't you? And Mrs. Hudson?"
That made his face light up. Indeed, the most remarkable thing I can think those first few weeks back at Baker Street brought on was the effect my child had on Holmes. I was busy with my practice, busier than I cared to be as I already said, and Josh was spending a lot of time with Holmes. He had already reported on all the things they had done together, such as trips to the chemistry lab at my old alma matter[6] and time spent here, 'playing with the coloured bottles,' as Josh was fond of saying. They had even made a trip to Scotland Yard, for what reason I was unsure. I cannot say exactly why Holmes preferred the company of a three year-old all of a sudden, but I can say that the two had become quite close.
"I'm to become his pro-tay," Josh said proudly sitting up in bed.
"His what?"
"His pro-tay. He says that I have what it takes. I can be just like him some day."
"God forbid...you mean he told you he wants you to be his protégé?"
"I think so."
What could I say to that? Except that I made up my mind right then and there that the two of them were spending far too much time together. I will admit that Josh did have a pleasant affect on my friend, and I hadn't noticed a single black mood, nor I think, a single use of the wretched needle, despite the fact that he didn't appear to have any work at the moment. My mind returned to our previous conversation. Life is too short, and all. Was it that Holmes now saw his life's purpose to raise another to replace him when he was gone? It was a wild, bizarre thought, but it made sense. Would he really do that? I was unsure. Holmes was a wildly unpredictable fellow, even more so of late. And also a man who I still thought of as unstable. It wouldn't do. I would have to spend more time at home. Even if it meant selling my practice and living on my meagre war pension and savings. I had to start thinking of my child.
"Go to sleep, Joshie. If you want to be Holmes' protégé, or whatever it is he thinks he's playing at, then by all means. But I hope that very soon, I shall have enough time for you to want to be my protégé as well. You are my son, after all."
"You mean you shall be home for awhile?" He looked so hopeful that I was instantly flooded with guilt.
"I shall. Now, good-night."
"Can we go to the zoo?"
"Yes. But not now. Good-night."
He smiled and lay back down. "'Night, Papa."
I stood there in the converted attic nursery in the dim light watching him for several minutes. Truly the world must be a good place when one can see the children asleep. His blond curls sprawled out on the pillow, his chubby pink cheek, his tiny chest rhythmically rising and falling. With a sad smile, I shut his door. The last thing I thought of was his small hands, newly stained red and yellow with chemicals.
It was the first thing I had noticed when I met Sherlock Holmes.
*
Rather than stay for supper, I asked Mrs. Hudson (thankfully oblivious to all the strange happenings) to keep an eye on Josh, and I headed back into the moonless, fog-of-a-winter's night to dine at my club.
Parks was there and Joseph Blakely, as well as a few other fellow medical men I was acquainted with. Why it seemed a good idea to go there after the kind of day I was having I cannot say, except that I was filled with an intense need for reassuring normalcy. Sitting at home, second-guessing all my recent decisions while I listened to the quick secessions of mind- numbing violin notes whilst breathing in far too much strong pipe smoke and chemicals did not sound like normalcy right then.
After a delicious meal of roast fowl and red potatoes, I took my brandy over to Parks' table where I was greeted with good humour. And no mention of anything distasteful. Only the usual conversations one would expect at any club with a table full of educated men: politics and Parliament, business, medicine and sports. I believe it was a young fellow I had seen only once or twice, a chap by the name of Davis who brought up the subject of a concert he'd attended the previous night at Albert Hall.
"It really was incredible," said he. "I have always desired to be more musical myself. Perhaps I should have given more attention to my piano lessons as a boy."
A round of light laughter followed. "I hear-or rather read- that your friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes is quite a violin virtuoso. Has he ever considered symphony playing?" Davis asked.
"Ah...I think he has had offers as a matter of fact. But people always assume too much about those we consider celebrities." The last thing I wanted was the conversation to turn to him.
"So he is not the master you make him out to be in your stories?"
"Oh, he is a master alright. But probably would deny being so. At least where the violin is concerned." I finished off the last draught of brandy. "But he is very good in my opinion. He can improvise anything. And I believe he knows nearly every solo piece ever penned. He's...a bit of a perfectionist."
"He sounds fascinating," Davis rolled on, leaning nearer to me excitedly. His youth and naivety were wearing on my nerves, certainly not winning him any points. "What clubs does he belong to?"
I motioned to the valet for another drink. "None that I know of...have any you read of the work of this Austrian doctor? Freud, I believe his name is. It seems he is doing fascinating work in the field of mind research."
Before anyone could even take a breath to respond, the wretched Davis broke in once again. "I say! No clubs at all? How extraordinary!"
"He is probably a very busy man, Davis," Parks said in a very rebuking voice. "You should know this. You have read every issue of The Strand, I believe."
Davis turned rather the colour of his sherry he was drinking and the others roared with laughter. I failed to see the joke until Parks explained. "Why, didn't you know, John? Sanford Davis is your biggest fan! Or Mr. Holmes' rather. It's all he speaks of. Knows every case by heart, don't you, old man?"
"I....well..." he stammered.
I joined in on the laughter then as well. Never had I felt more grateful for Parks. "Perhaps I can even obtain an autograph for you, my dear fellow."
That only made the others laugh all the more. They were still ribbing the poor boy when I made my leave for the night. James Parks followed me.
The early evening fog had lessoned somewhat, and the night was now a cold thick one. But I was warm from my meal, two glasses of brandy and a hardy round of laughter, relieved in spirit and mind enough to return to Baker Street. "I owe you an apology, old fellow," Parks said as we stood in front of the building. "I said some quite unworthy things to you earlier. I realize now I was in err."
"Don't trouble yourself. I am indebted to you for what you did back there."
"A trifle." He arranged his hat and tipped me farewell. "Until tomorrow, then."
"James, wait a moment," I said, holding him back. "There is something I wonder if you would be good enough to do for me."
"Name it and it shall be done."
Smiling, I said, "I wouldn't commit yourself until you hear it. I am thinking that I need some time off. Several months, perhaps. There is too much in my life at the moment, and I am neglecting...well, I feel neglectful. I need some time to clear my mind."
"A long holiday, is it?"
"Something to that effect. I should be with my son right now. He has already lost his mother, and I don't want him to think that he is losing me as well. I know it is a lot to ask, but I think this influenza outbreak is fairly quelled. And I could get Merriman to give you a hand..."
Parks held up his hand with a wide grin. "Take all the time you need. I can handle things until you return."
"Thank you, my friend." I shook him warmly by the hand, and pulled my scarf up around my face. It was a cold walk if I couldn't catch a cab, but I was fairly warm inwardly.
"I have two of the little nippers myself, Watson. I understand. You just come back a rested and relaxed man. Doctor's orders."
Laughing, I told him to give my regards to Mrs. Parks, and I set off home. There was something I needed to do.
Holmes was exactly where I had left him, exactly where I knew he would be. "Holmes?" I called, opening the door. "I wanted to apologize"-
He was there alright, but in body only. The violin was upon his shoulder, and I instantly recognized Pachelbel's Canon. He must be in a strange mood because unless I was there to request something, I rarely found him to play completed works. But while I had heard this particular piece before, and found it splendid, this was something else, something...dreadful. The notes sounded like Death himself had wrapped his burning hand upon my throat. Every slow and painful rip of the bow was agony, every change in pitch was done with the most horrid of hearts. It was Canon, but some bastardised version of it. Even after surviving a war, the death of my parents, brother wife and child, I have to say that it was that moment I was filled with the most hopeless, horrid feeling of my entire life. Like slowly being submerged in water, almost being able to see the top, the safety of air, but not being able to fill my lungs with it. So affected by this playing was I, that I just stood there in the doorway, starring at him.
And then I noticed the tears in his eyes.
I had never seen my friend cry before. Although this was not exactly weeping, this was as close to a pinnacle of emotion that he had ever expressed. Even more so than that impromptu embrace those nights ago. He was frequently moved by music. More so than anything else, anyway. But not like this. This was pain. This was anguish that he was feeling. Whether it was inflicted by himself, or something in his mind not connected with the music, I did not know. But whatever it was, I was completely stunned.
Forgetting all of my planned apology and speech telling him of my forthcoming holiday from work, all I could do was quickly close the door and beeline up to my own chamber. I never wanted to see him look like that again.
-Well, I intended to bring up the case in this part, but I think I'll wait for the next update. It's coming though, I promise, as well as a whole lot more. I'll update ASAP, I promise!
----------------------- [1] Matter-of-factly humorous [2] Odd or strange [3] A sort of lively argument. Isn't this a great Brit word? [4] From Aeschylus [5] Childish [6] The University of London
Chapter five
It did not take as long for me to get back into my routine as I thought it would. Not that I forgot Mary, or any of the strange events of the last several weeks, but there was something about Baker Street that had a healing presence about me. It was all just so familiar. It must have been all the time I have spent there, all the time with Holmes.
But what I was not prepared for was exactly what I feared would happen. It occurred just days after the sale of my home in Kensington, just when I thought things may be looking up...
There was an influenza outbreak in the west end, where the majority of my patients were found, and I, along with most other doctors were trying to quell it before it turned into an epidemic. This, plus the move, and trying to decide what to do with my late wife's possessions occupied my mind fully, making me grateful for the help of Mrs. Hudson, and Holmes himself were my son was concerned. Perhaps this was why I paid little heed to what I later found the 'whispered gossip' of Harley Street.
My assistant at the time, James Parks, I shall always regard as a good man and a talented doctor, one whom I will be indebted to for all the times he took the lead for me, especially in those last brutal weeks. However, he was young and a bit impetuous at times, and more than anything else, a little too trusting when it came to those ugly rumours.
"So how are you getting along now, Watson?" He asked me one evening, as we were preparing to close up for the night. "Settling back into the same old routine?"
"Yes, I think so." What I really wanted was to get out as rapidly as possible. I was not a fellow for idle chatter those days. Always there was somewhere to be, something to do.
"It is strange, you know..." he continued, handing me my overcoat. "That you would decide to move back to your old lodgings. I mean, I understand your wanting to be rid of the house. Too many memories and everything, but back to that old flat? With Sherlock Holmes of all people?"
"I am sorry, Parks, but I fail to see how any of this concerns you."
He shrugged. "Please don't think me presumptuous. Prying into your private affairs like this. It is just..."
"What, man?"
"Come off it, John. I have known you for some time now. I thought we could speak freely to one another."
I did not like where this was leading. But I put on a blank expression, as if I had not the slightest clue what he was getting at. Casually, I slid my coat on, pretending to brush some imaginary dust from the top of my bowler. "Certainly speak freely, James. I dislike beating around the bush, as they say."
He was licking his lips, folding his hands, shifting around. It did not take Sherlock Holmes to sense the uneasiness in that consulting room. "People are talking," he said. "All around. Osgood, Johnson, even your old friend, Joseph Blakely. You are a widower. With a child, no less. And..." he leaned in so near to me I could smell the remains of iodine upon his skin. "You are living with another man. And with no nurse for your son. It's not...It's just not normal."
I nearly had to laugh at how pawky[1] he was being. From the deep tone of voice, you would think the message he was dealing was my epitome upon my tombstone. "My dear Parks," I said. "If this innocent arrangement between myself and Sherlock Holmes is causing that much rumour and speculation than I really feel that we medical men have far too much time on our hands. I will admit that the arrangement is a little...unorthodox. But as you well know, in my spare time I enjoy assisting Holmes. I am sure you have read the Strand magazine? It is more convenient living under the same roof with him to accomplish this. Not to mention that I have no need as well as no desire for such a large house now that it is just Josh and I. And as far as my son is concerned, he is being well taken care of by my landlady, I woman in whom I have complete trust. I fail to see how this is so great a blasphemy to accepted standards of living?"
"Well..." Parks said, trying desperately to come up with a logical retort to that. I smiled to myself, feeling quite victorious. Picking up my stick, I tipped my hat.
"If this conversation is over, than surely you will not think me rude if I leave? I am expected at home." But just as my hand closed around the doorknob, Parks spoke once more.
"Do you think, Watson, that it is wise to allow Josh to spend so much time with Mr. Holmes?"
That statement surprised me so that I nearly dropped both my hat and stick. Slowly I turned back around to face him. "Why wouldn't it be wise?"
"Even you have admitted he is a bit of a rum[2] fellow. When a man chooses never to marry, my friend, do you not question as to the reason why?"
"Holmes is not a marrying man, Parks. He...well, he thinks that women are not to be trusted. I do not know where exactly his misogynistic attitude came from, but...what are you insinuating, man?" I felt my grip tighten significantly on my cane. I truly think that at that moment I would be prepared to use it, if necessary.
"Are you sure that is the only reason he has never married? Do you propose to tell me that you never at least thought there could be another, more sinister motive to his actions?"
My face flooded with angry blood then. To Hell with my stick, I would thrash him with my bare hands! It would be significantly more satisfying. "How dare you, Parks! How dare you insinuate that he and I..."
"No! God, no, John! That was not what I meant!" He stepped back, waving his short arms in front of him. There was fear registering all across his body, and I took a deep breath. Truly if body-language is any indication than I believed that he had not meant that. "I know that you are a real man, Watson, and I would never suggest otherwise. You have proven yourself to both your country and fellow man. And I know you loved Mary and care deeply for Josh. But it has been speculated...only speculated, mind you, that Sherlock Holmes...well, is not all man, in that respect."
"You can believe whatever you care to, James," said I, narrowing my eyes. "My assurances that Sherlock Holmes is the best man I have ever had the privilege of knowing would do little to convince you, I am sure. But let me state it anyway. To tell you the truth, I have no idea what the man feels in his heart. If he is inclined toward anything....anything not acceptable in our society, than I am not aware of it. However, I have no regrets about his spending time with my son, as well as having no regrets about he as a flatmate, a friend and a man in general. And you can inform Osgood, Johnson, Blakely, and anyone else who would care to spread foul suppositions of these facts. Good-evening, Dr. Parks."
And with that said, I opened the door and closed it none too gently behind me.
*
It was a short cab ride to Baker Street, but that night it seemed longer than usual. Parks' words flooded my mind, and as angry as I was, I couldn't stop repeating them. I was sure that he was mistaken. Holmes was brilliant, arrogant, eccentric as most true geniuses are, but surely that was all he was. He may not be inclined toward passion with woman, but that did certainly not mean he was so toward men. After all, we had lived together for more than a decade. If he were, surely I would have seen some sign of it by now. If there was any reason to not allow Josh to be around him, it was more along the lines of his tendency to be irresponsible when it came to his own safety. Those damn chemicals...one day I was going to find the house blown to bits. Not to mention the classes of people that he carried on with.
After my argy-bargy[3] with Dr. Parks, I was nearly an hour later than I intended. Mrs. Hudson was in the kitchen, preparing supper, so I let myself in and went to the sitting room. I was sure that was where I would find Josh and Holmes.
I was not only right, but just in time to witness a brilliant display of reddish coloured smoke explode out of a now shattered retort. A disgusting foul smell filled my nostrils and burned at my lungs. The first thing that flashed in my mind was one of instinct, one of war, and that was to hit the deck-enemy fire. My shoulder and leg even gave a transitory sting of pain in response; those Jezail bullets ripping through my mind. However, my second instinct was to grab my child, and that was what I did.
"Josh! Are you alright? Are you hurt?" I covered his body with mine as smoke was still swirling from the table, clouding the room.
"It's okay, papa...I'm not hurt." He looked at me with confused eyes, slightly watery. "Me and uncle were just doing a 'speriment."
"I'm sure you were!" I said, coughing. "Holmes, what is the meaning of this? What on earth were you thinking! You both could have both been killed!"
Casually, my friend rose and made his way to the window, ushering the dissipating fumes into the London night. "Well, that was a bit unexpected, was it not, Josh? I am afraid that we may have used a few millilitres too much of bromine. The toxicity of it mixed with the heat was more than the glass could take. Oh, well. 'It is through suffering that learning comes.'[4] We shall know next time."
"Next time!" I expostulated. "Toxicity! Are these fumes toxic, Holmes?"
"Oh, no, no...of course not, Watson," he replied waving an indifferent hand. "Did you think I am mad? No, the bromine is only toxic if you ingest it. Although as you are aware the smell is not particularly pleasant."
"Josh," said I, setting him back to the ground. "Please go downstairs and visit Mrs. Hudson for a bit. I must speak with Mr. Holmes."
"But Papa"-
"Now, boy!"
His chin trembled at my rebuke as he made his way to the door, but he obeyed without another protest. I knew he detested rows even more than I. And I would bet a year's pension that he wanted to tell me not to be mad at his 'uncle.' But I was mad. Not necessarily at Holmes, just disputatious toward the whole world in general.
Holmes waved his hand over the pipe rack as if conjuring up some great illusion. He finally settled on his old favourite, the calabash, and filled it with tobacco from the Persian slipper, settling into his armchair. The disgusting red fog from the bromine experiment gone awry had dissipated and he set forth to refilling the room with thick blue smoke. "You seem distraught, doctor," he finally said. "Disagreeable day?"
He was not asking but telling me, I was sure. That was how he worked. His tone, however, suggested humour of all things. I really did not understand what had become of the Holmes I had grown accustomed to. "You know, I really can't see why you are so jovial of late. There are no perplexing problems to occupy your mind. Yet there is no black mood that I would have expected by now. How came this affectatious attitude of yours?"
"Ah, my friend, life is too short for black moods. Besides, what led you to believe there was nothing to occupy my mind?"
I was sure I was not hearing correctly. Life is too short? No, that was something Sherlock Holmes would never say. I had a brief strange image of one Holmes-cynical and barely human going over a cliff rushing with water in the Swiss Alps and another Holmes-a far more human Holmes-climbing out of the dark depths like some miraculous re-birth. Suddenly the whole conversation with James Parks seemed rather puerile.[5] Should it bother me that there was a bit of gossip about the City concerning Holmes and I? And mostly he, for that matter.
A thick breath of poisonous atmosphere exited my lungs; all I could do was shake my head. "Holmes, I am not sure how or where this new leaf of yours turned over, if that is really what it is, but you really must be more careful. People...well, just be cautious, alright? Especially with my child."
He was chewing on the stem of his pipe again, something that irritated me to the core, although I cannot say why. It reminded me of Josh and his stuffed dog. "I would not jeopardize that boy's safety, Watson."
"Ha! You don't think blowing up vials of poisonous chemicals jeopardizes his safety? Not to mention mine and your own?"
Snorting, he turned away. His way of refusing to answer. And the thin pointed jaw would stay clamped shut until the heat was off. Our conversation was at an end.
"You can be stubborn if you wish," said I. "But if you care for our friendship at all, Holmes, you will take care in regards to your actions. Now, I'm going to see my son to bed."
"Are you asking, doctor," he called as I was halfway through the sitting room door. "For the sake of John Sherlock? Or for your own?"
I silently shut the door behind me.
*
Josh insisted on being read to every night, a habit I not only encouraged, but enjoyed. He liked Grimm's fairy tales and Hans Christian Andersen, as well as the Mother Goose tales. They bored me truthfully, and I longed for the day when he and I could sit and discuss books that we both enjoyed. Perhaps he would even follow my footsteps and join the medical profession. But for now, it was 'Cinderella.'
"You aren't mad at uncle, are you, Papa?" He asked when I had finished.
"No," I said with a smile. "I just warned him that he needs to be a little more...grounded."
"Why would he need to lay on the ground?"
"Never mind," I said with a laugh. "Go to sleep, darling boy."
As I got up to turn down the gas, his small voice called out. "Are we going to stay here forever?"
"Well....I don't know about forever. But at least for the time being. Do you not like it here?"
"I like it. But I miss Ivy. And Mummy..." his eyes fell to the framed portrait of her and I that I had given him. It sat on the small night table next to his bed.
"I know..." I said. "I miss her as well. But you like Mr. Holmes, don't you? And Mrs. Hudson?"
That made his face light up. Indeed, the most remarkable thing I can think those first few weeks back at Baker Street brought on was the effect my child had on Holmes. I was busy with my practice, busier than I cared to be as I already said, and Josh was spending a lot of time with Holmes. He had already reported on all the things they had done together, such as trips to the chemistry lab at my old alma matter[6] and time spent here, 'playing with the coloured bottles,' as Josh was fond of saying. They had even made a trip to Scotland Yard, for what reason I was unsure. I cannot say exactly why Holmes preferred the company of a three year-old all of a sudden, but I can say that the two had become quite close.
"I'm to become his pro-tay," Josh said proudly sitting up in bed.
"His what?"
"His pro-tay. He says that I have what it takes. I can be just like him some day."
"God forbid...you mean he told you he wants you to be his protégé?"
"I think so."
What could I say to that? Except that I made up my mind right then and there that the two of them were spending far too much time together. I will admit that Josh did have a pleasant affect on my friend, and I hadn't noticed a single black mood, nor I think, a single use of the wretched needle, despite the fact that he didn't appear to have any work at the moment. My mind returned to our previous conversation. Life is too short, and all. Was it that Holmes now saw his life's purpose to raise another to replace him when he was gone? It was a wild, bizarre thought, but it made sense. Would he really do that? I was unsure. Holmes was a wildly unpredictable fellow, even more so of late. And also a man who I still thought of as unstable. It wouldn't do. I would have to spend more time at home. Even if it meant selling my practice and living on my meagre war pension and savings. I had to start thinking of my child.
"Go to sleep, Joshie. If you want to be Holmes' protégé, or whatever it is he thinks he's playing at, then by all means. But I hope that very soon, I shall have enough time for you to want to be my protégé as well. You are my son, after all."
"You mean you shall be home for awhile?" He looked so hopeful that I was instantly flooded with guilt.
"I shall. Now, good-night."
"Can we go to the zoo?"
"Yes. But not now. Good-night."
He smiled and lay back down. "'Night, Papa."
I stood there in the converted attic nursery in the dim light watching him for several minutes. Truly the world must be a good place when one can see the children asleep. His blond curls sprawled out on the pillow, his chubby pink cheek, his tiny chest rhythmically rising and falling. With a sad smile, I shut his door. The last thing I thought of was his small hands, newly stained red and yellow with chemicals.
It was the first thing I had noticed when I met Sherlock Holmes.
*
Rather than stay for supper, I asked Mrs. Hudson (thankfully oblivious to all the strange happenings) to keep an eye on Josh, and I headed back into the moonless, fog-of-a-winter's night to dine at my club.
Parks was there and Joseph Blakely, as well as a few other fellow medical men I was acquainted with. Why it seemed a good idea to go there after the kind of day I was having I cannot say, except that I was filled with an intense need for reassuring normalcy. Sitting at home, second-guessing all my recent decisions while I listened to the quick secessions of mind- numbing violin notes whilst breathing in far too much strong pipe smoke and chemicals did not sound like normalcy right then.
After a delicious meal of roast fowl and red potatoes, I took my brandy over to Parks' table where I was greeted with good humour. And no mention of anything distasteful. Only the usual conversations one would expect at any club with a table full of educated men: politics and Parliament, business, medicine and sports. I believe it was a young fellow I had seen only once or twice, a chap by the name of Davis who brought up the subject of a concert he'd attended the previous night at Albert Hall.
"It really was incredible," said he. "I have always desired to be more musical myself. Perhaps I should have given more attention to my piano lessons as a boy."
A round of light laughter followed. "I hear-or rather read- that your friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes is quite a violin virtuoso. Has he ever considered symphony playing?" Davis asked.
"Ah...I think he has had offers as a matter of fact. But people always assume too much about those we consider celebrities." The last thing I wanted was the conversation to turn to him.
"So he is not the master you make him out to be in your stories?"
"Oh, he is a master alright. But probably would deny being so. At least where the violin is concerned." I finished off the last draught of brandy. "But he is very good in my opinion. He can improvise anything. And I believe he knows nearly every solo piece ever penned. He's...a bit of a perfectionist."
"He sounds fascinating," Davis rolled on, leaning nearer to me excitedly. His youth and naivety were wearing on my nerves, certainly not winning him any points. "What clubs does he belong to?"
I motioned to the valet for another drink. "None that I know of...have any you read of the work of this Austrian doctor? Freud, I believe his name is. It seems he is doing fascinating work in the field of mind research."
Before anyone could even take a breath to respond, the wretched Davis broke in once again. "I say! No clubs at all? How extraordinary!"
"He is probably a very busy man, Davis," Parks said in a very rebuking voice. "You should know this. You have read every issue of The Strand, I believe."
Davis turned rather the colour of his sherry he was drinking and the others roared with laughter. I failed to see the joke until Parks explained. "Why, didn't you know, John? Sanford Davis is your biggest fan! Or Mr. Holmes' rather. It's all he speaks of. Knows every case by heart, don't you, old man?"
"I....well..." he stammered.
I joined in on the laughter then as well. Never had I felt more grateful for Parks. "Perhaps I can even obtain an autograph for you, my dear fellow."
That only made the others laugh all the more. They were still ribbing the poor boy when I made my leave for the night. James Parks followed me.
The early evening fog had lessoned somewhat, and the night was now a cold thick one. But I was warm from my meal, two glasses of brandy and a hardy round of laughter, relieved in spirit and mind enough to return to Baker Street. "I owe you an apology, old fellow," Parks said as we stood in front of the building. "I said some quite unworthy things to you earlier. I realize now I was in err."
"Don't trouble yourself. I am indebted to you for what you did back there."
"A trifle." He arranged his hat and tipped me farewell. "Until tomorrow, then."
"James, wait a moment," I said, holding him back. "There is something I wonder if you would be good enough to do for me."
"Name it and it shall be done."
Smiling, I said, "I wouldn't commit yourself until you hear it. I am thinking that I need some time off. Several months, perhaps. There is too much in my life at the moment, and I am neglecting...well, I feel neglectful. I need some time to clear my mind."
"A long holiday, is it?"
"Something to that effect. I should be with my son right now. He has already lost his mother, and I don't want him to think that he is losing me as well. I know it is a lot to ask, but I think this influenza outbreak is fairly quelled. And I could get Merriman to give you a hand..."
Parks held up his hand with a wide grin. "Take all the time you need. I can handle things until you return."
"Thank you, my friend." I shook him warmly by the hand, and pulled my scarf up around my face. It was a cold walk if I couldn't catch a cab, but I was fairly warm inwardly.
"I have two of the little nippers myself, Watson. I understand. You just come back a rested and relaxed man. Doctor's orders."
Laughing, I told him to give my regards to Mrs. Parks, and I set off home. There was something I needed to do.
Holmes was exactly where I had left him, exactly where I knew he would be. "Holmes?" I called, opening the door. "I wanted to apologize"-
He was there alright, but in body only. The violin was upon his shoulder, and I instantly recognized Pachelbel's Canon. He must be in a strange mood because unless I was there to request something, I rarely found him to play completed works. But while I had heard this particular piece before, and found it splendid, this was something else, something...dreadful. The notes sounded like Death himself had wrapped his burning hand upon my throat. Every slow and painful rip of the bow was agony, every change in pitch was done with the most horrid of hearts. It was Canon, but some bastardised version of it. Even after surviving a war, the death of my parents, brother wife and child, I have to say that it was that moment I was filled with the most hopeless, horrid feeling of my entire life. Like slowly being submerged in water, almost being able to see the top, the safety of air, but not being able to fill my lungs with it. So affected by this playing was I, that I just stood there in the doorway, starring at him.
And then I noticed the tears in his eyes.
I had never seen my friend cry before. Although this was not exactly weeping, this was as close to a pinnacle of emotion that he had ever expressed. Even more so than that impromptu embrace those nights ago. He was frequently moved by music. More so than anything else, anyway. But not like this. This was pain. This was anguish that he was feeling. Whether it was inflicted by himself, or something in his mind not connected with the music, I did not know. But whatever it was, I was completely stunned.
Forgetting all of my planned apology and speech telling him of my forthcoming holiday from work, all I could do was quickly close the door and beeline up to my own chamber. I never wanted to see him look like that again.
-Well, I intended to bring up the case in this part, but I think I'll wait for the next update. It's coming though, I promise, as well as a whole lot more. I'll update ASAP, I promise!
----------------------- [1] Matter-of-factly humorous [2] Odd or strange [3] A sort of lively argument. Isn't this a great Brit word? [4] From Aeschylus [5] Childish [6] The University of London