Chapter 4

Sherlock Holmes's voice had sunk to an almost inaudible whisper by that moment, and I rose to join him by the piano to understand him at all. "He hit her, Watson, but she would not back down. I don't remember what they said.

"Ultimately, he cornered her, and I have no doubt that he would have directed his rage at her, had she been male. As a female..."

He did not continue the sentence, but it was no mystery to me what he implied. "Go on," I prompted gently, much as he did when he talked to his clients.

For the first time since he had started his narrative, Holmes met my gaze with his, and instead of the glimpse of his magnificent intellect that was usually visible in his stare, I for once could see the hurt and terrified young boy behind it.

"There does not remain much to tell. When she broke free, she fled, without a second glance. Mycroft – he had frozen, much like I had – now yelled at our father, and knocked him unconscious as he charged at us... but the events are a blur. I must confess, I am rather glad that my memory fails me on that account.

"It was a wet night, it had been raining all day. The driveway was always slippery. She had taken the carriage, and the accident happened just at the point where the driveway met the road. We heard the horses. Mycroft tried to keep me inside, but I could not... Her skull was cracked open. She had died instantly."

"I am sorry."

"Don't be. Her death was not the thing that drove me out of my mind for several weeks, and the one question I fail to solve even now. It wasn't even guilt. The accident was not my fault. It was selfishness, Watson. I felt... abandoned. She had left me in the crucial moment. She had run away... And yet, I did blame myself. For... trusting her in the first place."

He started violently when I placed my hand on his shoulder. "I understand."

Holmes shifted away from under my hand, closed the violin case and sat down again. "You never were a good liar, Watson. Regardless, that dish was the one Celine had made for us that very night."

"Miss Duncan didn't know that."

"No, of course not. I fear it is beyond my control – I just cannot bear the look, or even the smell of it... Don't you want to go to bed now, Watson?"

I understood that he wanted to be alone, and I was only to glad to grant him his wish. I felt that we both needed to reflect on what he had told me. While I was deeply flattered that his trust in me was deep enough to tell me about his past, and, more so, his childhood, what he had said was quite true – I could not imagine, or even understand, how he could have reacted so callously, although it, of course, explained a great deal, especially his reticence to trust anyone. Maybe, in a way, he had indeed loved Celine, as a child loves his mother, and still felt that his love had caused harm to himself and those around him.

The recent medical theories considered problematic relationships to one's parents to be the source of a variety of problems in later life, but I could not – and would not – accept that all my friend was, was a result of some misfortune in his early childhood.

I had not yet heard Holmes retire by the time I drifted off to sleep.

It did not surprise me to find him the next morning, curled up in the armchair he had settled down in when I had last seen him, fast asleep. Apparently, his exhaustion had taken its toll. I left him to his rest, although I covered him with a thin blanket and even tugged a little at his arm, which had stiffened and would only hurt more if he kept it in that position. Neither of which woke him.

Therefore, I went downstairs to take my breakfast in the company of Marian Duncan, who then went into town to buy some goods. I took at tray with breakfast up into the music room, where Holmes was now stirring.

"Go back to sleep if you want to. You need it."

He folded the blanket, and rose, still fully dressed, although he had at some point loosened his collar and opened the upper buttons of his shirt. He looked disturbed and dishevelled, almost haunted. "I am rather hungry."

"No wonder. You have skipped your evening meal. Here you are."

"You have already eaten, I take it."

"Yes. Nightmares, Holmes?"

His expression clouded over. "Yes."

"I shouldn't have forced you to recall those unpleasant memories."

"You didn't force me to do anything, Watson." He seated himself at the table and fumbled for a moment with his collar before he gave up and ran a hand through his already dishevelled hair. "Actually, I think it is good that you know."

"I will keep it out of my journals, of course."

Holmes poked around in his scrambled eggs, pushing them around the plate without actually eating. "Oh, do write it down, old fellow. I have no intention of mentioning the subject ever again. Just keep it among those unpublished accounts."

"As you wish." I sat on the windowsill and marvelled on the beauty of the countryside. I was eager to go for a walk in the fresh, but pleasant air, even though the constant worry for my friend had done little good for my own health. My leg throbbed continuously, a dull ache that would only pass when we had again reached happier times.

I heard the clattering of the fork on the plate, but as I turned again, Holmes had still not eaten one bit. He had only succeeded to building a wall of now smashed egg on the edge of his plate. Much to my amusement and worry, he did not seem to notice. "Holmes?"

His head snapped up in a gesture that was reminiscent of a frightened animal. It was only after some time that the haunted look left his eyes, and he cleared his throat. "Yes, what is it?" he snapped, rather brusquely.

"You do realise you are not actually eating, do you?"

He did not answer, but I took it as a good sign that he had not yet fled from the room. At some point during his black moods, he would usually seek the solitude of his own room, and not emerge for days on end. I knew this behaviour was equally driven by the definite desire to be alone, and, on the other hand, the desire to spare me from being a witness to his misery. Over the years, he had slowly learned that I was ready to help him whenever he fell prey to his depressions, and the occasions where he would lock himself in became fewer and fewer, for he knew that I would only worry more. Now, I was actually surprised and not a little flattered by how much this trust had advanced.

Sherlock Holmes sighed, and the misery of the sound was heart-wrenching. "Well. It doesn't look very edible now."

"Indeed."

He gave a wry chuckle and rose. "Were you going for a walk, Watson?"

"Yes, and I wish you to accompany me."

"Oh, my dear fellow, I don't know if that is such a good idea. I have no desire to spoil a beautiful day for you with my dumps."

"Then, as your doctor, I order you to come. The air and the sunshine will do you good."

"Whatever you say, Watson."