The City of Crows: Part 4
A headline on the second page trumpeted the defense pact that had recently been negotiated between Russia and Serbia. Another day I would have conned the article with great interest, and discussed the implications of such a treaty with Holmes. Today the words were black spots, dancing meaninglessly in front of my eyes.
As always when I found Holmes had outfoxed me, I couldn't help thinking about that strange mind and wondering exactly what it was he had seen that had given me away. Had I looked too quickly away when referring to the package? Had I held my arm too awkwardly? Had my stance been too rigid? Whatever my mistake, clearly Homes' powers of observation were unimpaired. But what of his skill in manipulating me so that I revealed the location of the very thing he wanted? Was that Holmes' true genius at work, or merely the sly cunning of the drug addict? An addict is but a drooling idiot, unworthy of respect, but lying is not the part of a friend, or of a man's doctor, and I resented being brought to such a pass.
These bitter thoughts were interrupted when Holmes called out to me, saying, "I'm going back to bed."
"Good," I said, coldly.
"I need help."
"Call your friend the porter."
"I can't reach the bell."
"You got yourself out there; you can get yourself back,"
There was silence. Then, pitifully, I heard him say, "Watson, I need you."
I cannot begin to tell you how those three words, from such a proud man, elated me. For Holmes to recognize a limitation! To me this was evidence that he was not irretrievably in thrall to the drug. Flinging the paper down, I leapt to my feet and ran into the sitting room.
I was just in time to catch him in my arms, as his strength failed. Holmes had been attempting to stand. I pulled his arm over my shoulder and supported him, step by step, into the bedroom. His breath, coming in little gasps and moans, told me what an effort it was for him to walk even that short distance.
He sank into the featherbed with a sigh; I sank beside him and let his head rest on my shoulder. The bony protuberances of his ribs and hip pressed against me, and, as before, it was a visceral shock to feel how slender and frail he had become. And, I confess, here and now, that his natural, masculine perfume has always been absurdly attractive to me. (Were it not so, he would be intolerable to live with.) My arm around his waist was a perfect fit and I could not bring myself to let go. "It hurts me to see you like this," I admitted.
"I know," he said. "Yet, you never failed me. I don't believe you ever will." He covered my hand with one of his, and what a turmoil of inexpressible emotion that simple gesture aroused. That he could take comfort in my closeness was a privilege and an honor; an impulse to offer my shoulder to him, to lean on forever if he would, surged in my chest. But, the words would not come; it felt as if I would shatter, should I make the attempt.
We rested together in that attitude, until he gave vent to a choking little laugh and sat up. "What a pair we are," he said, smiling at me fondly.
He then reached under my tie and buttoned that single undone button which I confess I had forgotten to do up. I shivered at the touch of his fingertips on my skin.
"There," he patted my tie into place, "all ship-shape and Bristol fashion." And then he grew serious. "Watson," said he, "I understand you've only my good at heart. I know it very well, and you shall have your way, my friend, but, please, for now…" I understood; his indomitable spirit could only be mortified by physical weakness; he wished me to leave.
But, as I exited the bedroom, I realized the pocket of my coat was lighter, by the weight of one small package. A momentary glance at the mantle confirmed my apprehension. From among the litter of pipes, pipe cleaners, tobacco pouches, pens, and other debris on its marble surface, the tortoiseshell case was missing. I expected it had not been there for some time, either.
Played! I had been played again, by the master! It was now my turn to feel completely mortified and I was tempted to storm back and demand to know what he thought he was doing.
A moment's reflection convinced me that would not have been a profitable course of action.
Besides, as Mrs. Hudson is wont to say, 'there are more ways to skin a cat than by buttering him with parsnips.'
I did march, then, back into the bedroom, and I did not imagine the slight start of his hand, drawing back from the drawer of the nightstand.
"My dear fellow," said I. "What was I thinking? I neglected you shabbily, earlier. It's obvious you are even more exhausted than I realized and I cannot, in good conscience, leave you alone now. Not, until I am perfectly satisfied as to your condition. Let me help you with that dressing gown."
"Watson, I assure you, I'm perfectly capable…"
"You are not!" I bore down upon him and had the gown off in a twinkling. I ran my hands over the satin lined pockets as I hung it in the armoire. They were empty.
Holmes looked at me with venomous eyes.
"You needn't think you're so clever."
"I've no delusions on that head," said I. "But if you think I'm going to stand by and watch you kill yourself, without making a push to prevent it, you have gravely mistaken your man. Under the covers with you. Dinner will be up shortly."
"Nanny," he hissed, as I tucked him in bed for the second time that day.
"Indeed, a sick man is a child, and so I will treat you. Whether you like it or not."
"Then close the shutters."
"No."
There was a stack of books on the nightstand. I picked up the one on top and moved the chair in which I had sat earlier to a position where I could watch Holmes' face. (Should he sleep, it might provide me with the opportunity to search the bed for the key I knew he had palmed.)
He closed his eyes and turned his face from me; I settled down to read; unfortunately, the book I had blindly chosen was Gross, 'On Manual Strangulation.'