The Woman
Chapter Four
"Are you sure you're alright?" Watson asked. In truth, he was getting worried about Holmes. The younger man hadn't eaten much in the past few days. In the past couple of weeks his behavior had become even more erratic than usual, and so far as the doctor could tell, it was without benefit of Holmes' seven percent solution of cocaine. Or at least, not in his usual quantities. Watson considered giving Holmes a sedative - he kept a supply on-hand for just such eventualities - but without discerning the cause of Holmes' manic behavior, it seemed unwise.
"You worry too much, Watson," Holmes said. He was playing Beethoven's Adagio from Opus 31, No. 1, and the slow strains of the music filled their home on Baker Street. The beauty of the song was tarnished for Watson, however, by his concern.
He tried again. "Look Holmes, I'm having dinner tonight at the Savoy. I insist you join me."
"No."
"Why not?"
"Not hungry."
"You're starving yourself!"
"I assure you I ate a hearty lunch today."
"Oh?" Watson put his hands on his hips. "And what precisely did you eat?"
"I don't know. Chicken, too dry. Some vegetables. A lump of something starchy. A pie that effected me in most ... unexpected ways."
Watson drew a heavy breath and commanded, "Clean yourself up, Holmes. If you don't come with me to the Savoy, then I shall ask Mrs. Hudson to cook us a nice meal. And I will ask her to join us. I will see you putting food in your body. One way or the other."
"Nanny," Holmes grumbled under his breath. With a discordant screech of bow against strings, Holmes flung the violin away from him. "Can a man have no privacy with you around?" he exclaimed.
"No." Stated flatly and without any room for argument.
The two men stared at one another for a long, cold moment.
"Very well then," Holmes grudgingly acquiesced, looking away.
"Fine then."
"Fine."
"Clean yourself up. Put on a jacket. Remember we will be around civilized people."
"You forget where and how I was raised. To me, your civilized people are crude and barbarous."
"Here we go again," Watson sighed. "You know, you really can be a snob sometimes."
Tightly, Holmes replied, "I am simply trying to explain why the company of what you call 'civilized people' can be so onerous and tiresome to me."
"Says the man who fights in the pits and enjoys the company of London's most disreputable. Fine. Clean up and put on a coat anyway. Pretend, for my sake, that the barbarians at the Savoy are worthy of at least your polite behavior."
Grumbling, Holmes complied.
They hailed a cab, then traveled in mostly silence despite Watson's best attempts at conversation, with Holmes staring disconsolately out the window. At the Savoy, they followed the waiter to their table.
Holmes ordered a chateau briand, and a bottle of marsala wine for the table. After Watson had ordered for himself, he turned once again to his friend.
"So. Holmes. You um, you haven't mentioned anything to me lately about what case you're working on."
"No cases. I'm afraid you'll have to pay the entirety of the rent this month. I trust you haven't squandered the sum of your income on gambling debts."
"Well, no."
"Good. Because I haven't the slightest inclination just now to earn our rent in the fighting pit." He fidgeted with his napkin. "In fact, you might as well accustom yourself to being the sole bread-winner, old boy. I doubt that dear Mary would go into the pits for you if you gamble all your money away."
"Holmes!" Then the image of slender, delicate Mary Morstan beating some brute into unconsciousness in the fighting pits made him chuckle despite himself. Gladly, he found it infectious. At his own soft laughter, he saw Holmes hiding a small grin.
The wine arrived, the waiter poured. Holmes emptied his long-stemmed glass and refilled it himself.
"Um," Watson began. He had no idea how to proceed. It was a delicate subject even with someone more approachable than Sherlock Holmes. "You know, Holmes ... being responsible for Mary's health and happiness is a thing I actually look forward to. It's what love is all about."
Surprisingly, Holmes turned a sharp gaze upon the doctor. "I doubt that's all that love is about. Surely there's more to it than just the requisite duties involved?"
"Well, yes. Of course." Watson was pleased that Holmes had responded favorably to his opening statement. He still wasn't sure how to proceed though. "There's the closeness, the intimacy."
"Ah yes," Holmes smirked, "the intimacy."
"I didn't mean it that way, Holmes. I meant the sharing of one's life with another. The absolute contentment that comes when someone is closer to you than your own shadow."
Holmes found fascination in the play of light in his wine as he gently sloshed it around inside the glass. "And what do you feel? When you look at her, I mean." Quietly spoken, a hint of what might have been sadness in his voice as he said it.
Watson closed his eyes, trying to find words to describe the indescribable. "Hope," he said at last. "Joy. The promise of a life no longer spent alone."
Holmes' voice dropped to the barest whisper. "And if you see none of that in her eyes, Watson? What then? If your ... heart races, if your bones melt every time she looks at you. If you would happily sacrifice your life a thousand times over to protect her ... but there is no hope, no joy beyond the moment. And you know that despite everything you feel for her, you will still live your life alone. What then?"
His words broke Watson's heart. "Who is she?" he whispered softly.
An indrawn breath carried on a small, sad smile. "No one, Watson. She's a ghost. A will 'o the wisp. A muse that will inspire me only to abandon me in the end. Ah," he said, "here's our food now."
When they returned home that night, for the first time that Watson had witnessed in many days, Holmes indulged in an injection of his seven percent solution. For the first time in a long time, Dr. Watson did not berate him for it.