The next in my never ending saga. This and next chapter were originally one. But it was very long so I broke it up. Next chapter to follow shortly, within a week. Reviews make me write faster, too : )
I didn't (or perhaps couldn't is the proper word) speak to either Holmes or my son the next day, except one brief word or two over our morning meal. It seemed a normal morning with the three of us at the breakfast table-John Sherlock and I actually eating the porridge and Holmes staring at it as if it were poisoned with crossed arms and a scowl. But of course, that morning was anything but normal. From the red and bleary-eyed expressions of the two, I could be reasonably sure that they had spent the night as sleepless as I. It was the last meal the three of us would have together for a very long time, and it was done in silence. Every time a glass or a plate clanked and tinged it sounded monstrously loud.
At one point, I looked up from my plate to find the both of my party staring at me. "Your breakfast must be very enjoyable, doctor."
Ignoring him, I rudely reached for coffee pot. I would not deal with his pawky humour to-day.
"Will you be leaving soon?" Holmes continued.
"Yes. I plan to take a single room at my club for the time being." Josh's spoon froze mid-bite, but I continued to speak to Holmes rather than him. "The boy will stay here under Mrs. Hudson's care. Until I find suitable quarters, that is."
"You're leaving?" Asked Josh with wide, incredulous eyes.
"Yes."
"But why?"
I threw my napkin down and mumbled my pardons. I could not be here right now. How could I be forced to relive last night? He knew. He had seen. He was the principle reason I was leaving. As I was crossing the threshold to head to my room and dress, I heard Holmes say to Josh:
"Do not worry, my dear boy. It will all be for the best in the end."
I froze in an instant to hear. "I don't understand, Uncle. I know Papa was angry, but"-
"Yes, he was. And is. But the problem is that he thinks much of you. Too much, in fact, of your abilities. I can hardly blame him. Much of it is my own fault. But even if I were to tell him, he would not believe me. He would find other excuses. And so I must let him do what he thinks is best."
"Huh?"
I heard him pat the boy's hand. "You must trust me, lad. I will not allow either of you to be led astray."
Grinding my teeth, I continued my journey upstairs. I chose to believe that what had just been said was all for my benefit. It would not be above Holmes to do so. Oh, what fools we mortals are!
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I left the very next day, the last day of October, which turned into a bitterly nasty day at that. I had packed only the immediate necessities and left with only a carpet-bag, a portmanteau and my medical bag, which usually accompanied me. The dent it made in my room was barely perceptible and when all was in its place in my new single room at the Reform Club1 in Pall Mall, it looked a pious tomb indeed. There was only a small bed, very hard to the touch that I knew instantly would cause my old wounds to act up, a cupboard for clothes, a nightstand with a single drawer for a Bible and a fireplace. I immediately missed the well-worn comfort of my room in Baker Street.
With a forceful shake of my head, I remonstrated myself. This is the life you have chosen. I pulled the last item from the carpet bag and stared at it. It was a recently acquired possession: a photograph of Sherlock and John Sherlock.
It had been taken the previous summer and a gift to me of my last birthday. It was truly a wonderful photograph. Holmes sat sideways on a cushioned vanity bench as Josh stood next to him with one small hand on the man's shoulder and the other grasping his stuffed dog. They were both dressed immaculately in a sailor suit and hat for the boy and a silk evening suit and cravat for the man. His emerald tie-pin2, never worn to my knowledge, glistened in the camera flash. Both wore expressions of superiority. And beauty. Their pale eyes seemed to bare into my soul. If I had been a more superstitious man, I would have sworn that Holmes, with his shining eyes and slightly up-turned mouth, was speaking to me. I could not bear whatever it was he was trying to say.
But what to do with it? Should I allow it to remain out and risk possible scrutiny? Would it seem odd to anyone to have a cabaret of one's son…looking so intimate with another man. I was uncertain. No one with the photograph alone could possibly guess that there were not innocent motives behind it. But I knew this much. I could not stand to not be able to see Holmes everyday, if only frozen in one second of time. I wiped the glass with my sleeve, and set it carefully on the mantel of the small, blackened fireplace. They stared at me from across the room, making my heart turn to lead. It would always remind me of what I had done-what I had given up.
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In respect to my club, it was a place that I had nearly deserted for some two years now, as my public life was defined far more as Holmes' companion and assistant and not a typical middle-class gentleman who chose to be about others of his class. This was something I would have to learn to live with, as well as change.
I thought my very heart would stop beating when the first person I saw was James Parks. I had not seen him in the better part of a year, and for whatever reason, he looked much changed. Older. Wiser. His full head of dark hair had started to grey slightly at the temples, which seemed strange to me as I had always regarded him as young. But in reality, he was well into his thirties by now, and the stress of a full-time medical man is not to be taken lightly.
As I walked into on of the dining rooms of the Reform Club that first night, I saw him standing near the fireplace with a brandy in one hand and a cigar in his other. He was talking to Joseph Blakely-of unfortunate memory-and another fellow who looked vaguely familiar. We saw each other at the same moment. At first, Parks seemed confused, as if he didn't recognise me. His eyebrows furrowed, and he continued his conversation with the other two gentlemen, watching me out of the corner of his eyes. As for myself, I was uncertain what to do. I did not wish to cause a scene if he was determined to ignore me, and I did not want to appear desperate for companionship, so I turned away, took a table at the opposite end of the room, and ordered some supper for myself. The food did not compare to Mrs. Hudson's meals in the least, but I ate anyway. I would have to stop comparing everything with life in Baker Street.
In the past, I had never been bothered by isolation, at least not for short periods of time. Do not mistake me for Holmes, though, for I did appreciate company, but I certainly did not mind being on my own. But for some reason that night I felt the most bitter loneliness. Other than Parks and Blakely, I knew no one in the room, and no one, other than the waiter who brought me food and drink, paid any mind to me. I wished desperately for some one to talk to. But there was no one. Motioning for my man, I ordered a second scotch. What a long life this was going to be. Yet what a horrid start I had on it so far. I could not deny that leaving Baker Street and Holmes was for the right, but what of Josh? He certainly had to be confused and I had not the words to explain anything to him. Less than one month previous, I had sat in the sitting room watching Holmes teach chess to my son. Two great brains, as the world would know. Two great hearts, as the world would maybe never know. They were so alike, those two. I saw Josh as the boy Holmes would have been had his parents treated him like a beloved child and not a horrid creature. Perhaps that was why I was so afraid of my loving Holmes, and he me. If Josh was so like his mentor, did that mean he too would grow up to be like this queer man? Much as I cared for him, I did not want my only son to be a man with black fits, who abused drugs, who buried himself so deep within his own conscience that it took years and years to pull himself out.
I did not want him loving men, either.
Studying the golden liquid in my cup, I saw a watery reflection of myself bathed in light. How much of what we are is determined by nature, and how much by nurture? Was Josh's future already pre-destined by his genetic make-up? By his personality and intellectual capabilities? And how much by the sort of life I was thrusting him into? How could I know? How could I know anything for certain?
"Watson."
I nearly jumped at the sound of my own name. So absorbed in my own thoughts and my alcohol had I been that I had forgotten all about Parks, and hadn't seen him slowly make his way over to my table. I looked up at him. He attempted a slight smile, but failed miserably. He fidgeted with his cigar uneasily. It seemed the longest time that he stood and I sat, both of us ignoring the other.
"You might sit," I at last said, finishing my drink. "Certainly do not simply stand there staring at me like a freak in a side-show."
He did, however slowly and reluctantly. His eyes looked anywhere but at mine. "I am…surprised to see you here. I had thought you had given up polite society."
"I am sure you did think so."
Again, silence. What had we, truly, to say to each other? We had said more than enough when he severed ties two years previous. Parks motioned for a refill of his brandy. When it arrived, he drank it down in a single draught. It had a brazen effect on his countenance, and he sat more erect in his chair. Narrowing his eyes, he asked, "Why are you here?"
"Must I justify my actions to you, James?"
"Certainly not. I was merely curious."
"You are frequently more curious than does you good."
He raised his eyebrows. "So I've been told. In fact, Dr. Blakely-certainly you remember Blakely-has told me that on occasion. Blakely!" He called to the doctor, who still remained by the fireplace with the slightly familiar gentleman. He waved slightly and both came over. I cannot say I was exactly overjoyed to see him. He reminded me so of the death of my wife. "You gentlemen remember Dr. Watson," said Parks.
"Of course," Blakely said, smiling warmly and offering me his hand. Whatever rumours I was sure had been started, Joseph had seemed to ignore. He was a true gentleman. "How are you, dear fellow?"
"Well, thank you, Blakely." I lied. "Merely feeling a bit overwhelmed at the moment."
"Why, has it anything to do with an especially trying case of Mr. Sherlock Holmes? I certainly hope so! We could use some new cases in The Strand." The third man smiled brightly, and I suddenly remembered who he was. Davis, I believed his name to be. The fan of Holmes. I had forgotten that night at this very club were we same four had sat discussing the man.
"It has nothing to do with a case of Mr. Holmes. Rather, I do not see much of him anymore. I am endeavouring to get back into medicine. I also am looking for a reasonably priced set of rooms, if any of you gentlemen might be of assistance." I purposely looked at Parks as I said this, and noted the suspicious surprise in his face. His snifter paused just in front of his mouth, and his eyes narrowed ever so slightly.
"Really, Watson? You would leave poor Mr. Holmes all alone?"
At one point in my life, I would have had an express desire to hit him right on his sarcastic mouth. But age had quelled my hot temper somewhat, and I maintained my dignity. "I think he shall manage quite fine, James."
"Even without you to take care of him?" Parks smiled knowingly at me.
Before I could reply, Davis laughed and said, "Really, Dr. Parks, I think you underestimate Sherlock Holmes. He is not a man that forms attachments or friendships. They are-how do you phrase it, Dr. Watson?-oh, yes, 'disruptive to the senses.' Can you imagine that, gentlemen? A man so devoted to his profession that he will not allow even emotions to disrupt his advancement of his science!"
"Perhaps he is the future," said I, specifically to Parks. "The kind of man who will not allow his own biases to influence his judgement." James looked away and did not respond.
Blakely, Davis and I talked cordially for some time, making our way through several fine cigars and a few more drinks. We discussed articles on Rontgen, the German and Pupin, the American and what was being done with this new theory of 'x-rays' that we had all read in the medical journals while Davis continually tried to turn the conversation back to Holmes. It actually grew from annoying to quite humorous after awhile-the man must have memorised every story I had punished! Did you know that Sherlock Holmes actually does not know that the Earth revolves around the sun? I nearly burst into laughter when he said that. Parks and Blakely glanced at each in amazement. "Surely that cannot be true?" Blakely asked.
"A…fictional liberty, I assure you," said I. "Although there was one time, shortly after we met, that I did rather think something of the sort."3
"Could we please not talk about Sherlock Holmes?" Parks asked, glaring at me. The subject was turned back to current affairs for another hour or so until Blakely announced that it was time for him to leave.
"I'm afraid if I am too late my Margaret worries." He smiled and shook each of us by the hand. "Forty years and she will still not trust me to find my way home each night."
Forty years. It seemed an infeasible amount of time to me. Apparently, it was as much to Davis, for he added, "I've been married only five. I had hoped with time my wife might change her hen-picking ways."
Blakely laughed. "You are very young, aren't you, my dear Sanford?" Davis' colour changed slightly. "But perhaps you have the right idea, Watson. The bachelor's life is a merry one. Or so I am told, at least. I cannot say I remember. I was all of three and twenty when I married."
What was I supposed to say to that? I tried not to look at Parks. "When you have been widowed, it is not so easy, Blakely." Neither is it when you realise the one you love is a man.
After Blakely and Davis left, I was alone with Parks. And be damned if I was not going to have the last word. "I know we have been over all of this before, James. You certainly have the right to your own opinions. About Sherlock Holmes. And about myself. But if you ever say-no, even insinuate that either he or I is not completely a man again, I will sue you for slander!" Slamming my fist on the table, I stormed out ignoring the side-ways glances of the various other occupants. When I made it back to my room, I was furious. I spent the better part of the night pacing the length of the chamber, muttering to myself. I wanted more scotch. I wanted to forget. The sun was already up when at last I collapsed into bed. The linen felt strangely foreign and cold against my skin. And empty. I stayed there the better part of two days.
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When at last I did leave, I was told by the front desk that I had a note waiting. It was printed on club stationary. I recognised the hand-writing.
John- (it read)
I do not write to say that I understand and accept everything I know of you to be true, for that would be a lie. But I do write to say that I have behaved badly, and I regret that. You have not warranted the behaviour I have shown you, so for that I offer you my apologies. As a way of showing that I am really am sorry, I am enclosing the card of a recent acquaintance. He is young, and has just opened up a practise, and needs an experienced hand who can bring in clients and expand it. Do what you will with this chance I offer you. If you choose to ignore it, I will understand. But I do offer you
My best wishes,
James Parks
I held the card in my hand without looking at it. My first instinct was to rip it up. I needed no favours from that man. But I could not go through with it. I had to do whatever it took to get my new life off of the ground. My hand found its way into my waistcoat pocket and I dropped the card.
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I spent a week staring at the gold-coloured lettering on the card before I made up my mind to go. I walked slowly to Paddington street. I avoided Baker Street completely, despite their close proximity. It was all of five or six blocks from my old digs.
His name was Dr. Linwood Askew, and he was very young, or so it seemed to me at the time. Probably he was no younger than I when I obtained my medical degree. He was short of stature, lean and nervous looking, with engorged eyes of brown that darted about the room constantly. He wore a slight moustache, a queer-looking bit of facial hair that gave the appearance of a young man trying to look older. His entire face was flushed pink.
He knew me by name-Parks had apparently informed him of my possible coming-and he seemed youthfully exuberant as he met me in his consulting room.
"Why, the Dr. Watson, is it not? My land…" He smiled nervously as he offered me his hand.
"My pleasure, sir."
"No, no. I insist it is mine." I could not help but notice he had a terse, jumpy sort of rapid smile that instantly through me into a mind-set of one I did not want to think on. "I have read all of your Strand cases. How exciting a life you must lead! With…with Mr. Sherlock Holmes. He must be quite a fellow." He fluttered about like a canary in a cage.
"Yes, he is," I felt compelled to answer. "Completely…unique. May I ask if we might turn our attention to your practice? James Parks told me that you were in earnest to find another to share it with."
"Oh! Oh, of course."
We spent the better part of that afternoon discussing what exactly Dr. Askew required of a partner in his newly created business, and what exactly I hoped to bring to the arrangement. I got the distinct impression that he was more impressed with my knowledge of Holmes' cases than my medical knowledge.
"And…and the Dancing Men…how he broke that impossible code! Why, any man who can do that should be studying linguistics at Oxbridge! Not…not roaming about London memorising types of mud."
"Yes, I suppose he should. But really, sir-if I am to work here, I must insist that we do not talk about Mr. Holmes. It is a part of my life that I am moving away from. It would not do for you to constantly remind me of it."
He seemed shocked and his faced went from pink to deep red. "My…my apologies, Dr. Watson. Really, I didn't realise that you were so…discontent over Mr. Holmes and his cases. I promise I will never bring him up again." He flashed me another of his tense grins, but his face remained flushed.
Discontent. Yes, that was an appropriate word. I could not think of one better to describe how I felt.
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Several weeks later, I found a small flat on Wimpole Street. I was quoted a fair price. The landlord was a fan of Mr. Holmes. He was pleased to hear that he was still alive. "Why do you not write anymore about him?" He asked.
"When can my son and I move in?" I ignored his question.
He gave a non-committal shrug. "Immediately, if you wish. But why would anyone want to give up such an exciting life with Sherlock Holmes? If I were you, I would be writing more of your adventures together!"
I smiled politely, but did not answer. At the time I could not see it, and Josh never remarked about it, but years later I would realise that this flat was designed exactly as 221B Baker Street was.
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And now to the two I had left behind.
It is hard to say exactly what occurred in those first weeks after I departed Baker Street. I had left Josh in the care of Mrs. Hudson, but that of course meant he was also in the care of Sherlock Holmes, and I've really no idea what they may have said, done or thought at first. I can imagine; I can conjecture, but I cannot know for sure. There is one thing I can say with certain accuracy: they were both much changed.
The pressures of my return to civilisation, not to mention my return to a steady career further isolated me from my child. I can admit that I thought little of it at the time, both because I was so entirely busy proving myself to my new partner in medicine, and partly because I still had no idea what I should say to Josh. I think I probably told myself the Holmes had already taken care of it, had explained it to his level of understanding, and that there was no need to ever mention it again. Why I thought this, I cannot say. Perhaps I thought Holmes more changed than he really was.
I thought he might be pleased, for he had his own bedroom now, quite a bit more spacious than a cramped attic, and I even devoted half of my new sitting room to his private study with a fine new desk, books and a comfortable lounge chair. He seemed singularly unimpressed. Until I said to him,
"You know you can go back to Baker Street anytime you wish."
He eyed me suspiciously. "Every day?"
"If you so desire. Holmes shall continue to tutor you. At least until you are old enough for prep."
He was sitting on his bed in his new room as we talked. It was a glorious room, if I do say so myself. Everything that I would have loved as a boy his age. Books of every shape and size. A gigantic mahogany rocking horse, far better than the one he'd owned at three. A new set of toy soldiers, tin rather than wood with enemy French soldiers to fight. There was a fantastic Noah's Ark set, several stuffed animals and brightly coloured pictures of tigers, elephants and monkeys hanging on the walls. There was a draughts set, a Bilbo catcher, a spinning top, and a real naval whistle. But Josh's fingers went silently to the chess set Holmes had given him, idly fingering the black knight. He had barely given a single thought to anything else. "I suppose that will not be so bad, then."
"I should think not! You have everything a child could possibly want."
He nodded without looking at me. I knew what he wanted to ask. What happened, Papa? Why are we here? Are you angry with me? Are you angry with Uncle? But he did not. Children, it seems to me, as curious as they are, will often remain silent and oblivious at their own risk rather than risk angering or saddening their parent.4
Many times over the next few months, I thought to speak to him. Yet I saw him very infrequently. I was away at my new practise from sun-up until supper five and sometimes six days a week. I had hired a charwoman and cook, promising four pounds extra in her annual salary for the care of my son, which was truly a bargain indeed. For her, that is. He was old enough to wake, wash and dress himself in the morning. She need only give him his breakfast and see him off to Baker Street most mornings. He would stay there all day, sometimes returning for supper, other times sleeping on the settee in our old sitting room. And by the time he had turned six, he begged me to forgo her chaperoning him at all, claiming he could easily make the four block journey alone. I agreed, if only to see a smile on his face. There were so few in those days.
But somehow a black shroud of silence had been laid in our new quarters. I would ask him on the nights we managed to share a supper together, how his studies were advancing, what he had done that day, what he was reading and what he was writing. He would answer in short sentences, sometime one word. One night I asked him how Holmes was getting along.
"Perhaps you would know if we were still living there." He looked at me angrily over his bowl of soup. His eyes were like blue, hardened steel. He was not even six years old. I was shocked. Too shocked to punish him much beyond sending him to bed without supper. I did not ask of Holmes well-being again for a long time.
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In fact, it was March of '97-nearly five months after I left-before I was to see Holmes. And it happened only because of the most distressing of circumstances.
March marks the beginning of spring, and for the medical man, it is a welcome time indeed. The end of winter, the beginning of warmer temperatures, and the lessoning of influenza, tuberculosis, pneumonia and bronchitis outbreaks. I had been with Dr. Askew now four months, and was very happy with my new situation. I found my partner to be convivial, generous and very eager to both learn and please. Our practise was not large, and there were few clients of means as of yet, but we were growing nicely and Linwood (as he insisted on being called) was nervously optimistic about our profits. My professional life had improved greatly. My personal life remained stagnant.
One day near the end of the month, I was sitting in my consultation room filing some records. It had been a slow week, thankfully, and I was enjoying the gradual warmth seeping in through my window. I felt happy. At least, I repeatedly told myself I should be.
I heard footfalls running fast down the hall. "Wait a second there!" Came Askew's voice. My door was thrown wide open.
"Papa! He's very sick! You must come!"
Josh was in a complete panic such as I had never seen before. His face was red from running, long dirty stains from tears dripping down his cheeks and his knees shaking slightly even as he fidgeted hanging onto the end of my desk. I rose to take his hand.
"Alright now, calm yourself. What has happened?"
Josh took a shaky breath. He was a logical child, even under undo stress, and was able to tell me exactly what happened. "We were doing maths problems. Uncle was going over a problem at the chalkboard and I was at the desk copying. He was sweating and…and going like this"-he made a noise like clearing ones throat-"but he continued on, and suddenly, I saw his eyes roll back in his head and he fell on to the floor. I made sure he was still breathing. He looked at me, but did not say anything. I ran straight here without stopping."
I immediately pulled the boy along with me. I was not up to running six blocks, so I hired the first cab we came across, and we were at the door of 221B within ten minutes. It was only when I arrived that I realised I had run out of without even a word to Dr. Askew. I ran the seventeen stairs to the sitting room. My only thought was of Holmes.
Mrs. Hudson was with him, but he was still unconscious, and she had not the strength to move him. A weary look of concern was across her face that lightened noticeably when she saw me. "Thank the Lord, Dr. Watson," she said. "I don't know what happened. I heard a thud, and then your son was running like the Devil was after him out of the house." The two saw each other and immediately Josh ran to her and threw his arms around the old lady. "My darling boy…." She mumbled, stroking his wet cheek.
I dragged Holmes over to the settee and removed his jacket and collar ends. I could not help but notice how light he felt in my arms. He had always been thin, but he felt little more than skin and bone. Without me, there was no one to make sure he ate regularly. I felt his pulse: erratic. His breathing: shallow. His pupils: dilated. His skin: flushed and moist. His musculature…I felt his left arm. Something was wrong. Even through his sleeve I could feel it. Skin rough and uneven. Rolling up the sleeve I directly saw the problem. It was covered with puncture marks. More than I had ever seen. Some seemed to be on top of old ones when space did not allow. "God…" I heard myself mumble. I wanted to cry, truth be told. First to weep, and then to beat this fool senseless.
Clearing the shake out of my voice, I asked that Mrs. Hudson bring me a small amount of brandy. Josh stood where he was, watching me and snivelling silently. "What's wrong with him?" He asked.
How could I tell him? "I…I'm not sure. It is nothing serious, though, I am fairly certain. Probably nothing more than a simple matter of over-work and under-nourishment. Even the best of us can cause a chink in our iron constitution if we do not allow ourselves rest and relaxation. Had he mentioned any cases to you of late?"
Josh shook his head slowly. "He doesn't talk much of his cases. He said I should concentrate on…other things."
Mrs. Hudson arrived and I forced a little of the liquid into his throat. His eyes, piercing and commanding even in this state, fluttered and rolled about in his head, as I helped him set up a little. He groaned and pushed my hand away when I tried to force more brandy in him. His hand remained clasped to my wrist, and our eyes met. "Well," I heard him whisper. "They say in this sleep of death, what dreams may come5…and it appears sometimes they do come true."
"What on Earth have you done to yourself?" I asked, ignoring the riddle.
"We have fallen on dark times, Watson." He smiled briefly.
"Yes, I should say we have. How could you do this to yourself?" I was whispering to him to spare Mrs. Hudson and the boy although I felt a powerful need to shout. His face was in my hands and there was a strange sick feeling within my stomach. A single thought repeated itself in my head: It's your entire fault…It's your entire fault…It's your entire fault.
Almost as if he could read my mind (and it would not surprise me in the least if he could), my wrist was released and he pulled away from me, sitting all the way up and buttoning his collar. "I appreciate the terrified looks on all of your faces for my welfare, but I can sure you that I am fine. You needn't look so scared."
"The Hell we don't!" I swore, despite the mixed company. "You are a sick man, Holmes, and despite the anticipated objections I am sure you will raise, I am calling in a specialist."
His expression changed immediately from calm and nearly amused to forbidding. "You are hardly in a position to force your will on me, doctor." His body flinched slightly as if someone had raised a fist to him. "You have relinquished that right."
I felt myself pull away and stand before him. With a few words and a wave of the hand, I asked our spectators to kindly leave the room. Mrs. Hudson said something about tea and broth, and Josh protested, but we were at last left alone. There were heavy feelings of frustration in the air. He watched me with his eyes as I paced before him. He normally hated for me to do so, despite the fact that he frequently thought on his feet. He said nothing now, simply watched me.
"I shall call Dr. Moore Agar of Harley Street to come 'round as soon as possible. He is a foremost specialist in nervous disorders"-
"I do not have a nervous disorder."
But I was relentless in the matter. Moore Agar was called for, and when he arrived the next day, he took but one look at my friend and told me in confidentiality that he was lucky to still be of this Earth. I did not mention the cocaine. I am fairly certain I did not have too. "He must have total rest and relaxation," said Agar. "For two weeks, if not longer. Nothing must tax his mind if he wishes to keep it."
Holmes, for his part, did not put up such a fight as I might have suspected. There were a few phrases muttered about Harley Street specialists, but he agreed. He seemed, to me, only relieved I was there. There were constant looks and secret smiles to himself. There were also chest pains and extreme nausea. He said he would go to Cornwall, if I would come with. I at first thought to bring Josh along, as the idea of the two of us alone was not the brightest I fathomed, but he would not hear of it. It was to be he and I, or he was staying right here in London. Sickness or no sickness. Death or no death.
"Why on Earth would you want to go to Cornwall? After everything that has happened there"-
"If you are forcing me to take a holiday, doctor, than I will go to Cornwall, or no where at all. It's your decision."
He never did tell me why he was so admit about Cornwall. I have my conjectures. There was the sea and the moors, a desolate grey area of Neolithic burial grounds and the death of waves over rocks that appealed to his scientific mind and dislike of humanity. We would be nearly isolated, only the two of us. And of course, Cornwall has the distinction of being the last place we were together and happy, however momentary and peculiar this happiness was. I am sure you, my reader, know where I am going with this, for I have discussed the particulars of what was to come in the case that came to be known first as "The Cornish Horror" and then later as "The Devil's Foot." I immediately secured a small cottage for the two of us in Poldhu Bay near the small hamlet of Tredannick Wollas.
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1 One of the most popular clubs in the 19th century, its members included Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. Some speculate (those that play the game, of course) that Watson may have been a member of this club. Others doubt it because of its proximity to the Diogenes Club, which they say surely Watson would have commented on.
2 The one given to him by Queen Victoria, of course.
3 See "A Study in Scarlet." Doyle (or Watson) must have realised how difficult it would be to make Holmes only know things that were relevant to his profession, because things he earlier claimed to be ignorant of, he made remarks of later. No man as smart as Holmes could have been unaware of the fact that the Earth revolves around the sun, of course.
4 Whether this is the case anymore remains to be seen :)
5 From Hamlet, (III,iii)
