Warnings: mentions of mysticism, aftermath of The Devil's Foot.
Word count: circa 870.
Summary: In 1895, John Meade Falkner's novel The Lost Stradivarius came out; a tale of madness-inducing horror sought by some, and of grief born by their loyal friends. In 1897, Dr. John Watson and Mr. Sherlock Holmes "found themselves together in a small cottage near Poldhy Bay, at the further extremity of the Cornish Peninsula".
A/N 1: rather leaning Granada-verse, emotion-wise.
A/N 2: Christian Holmesians would probably like the referenced book the more for its (not deep, but somehow grown-up) reflection on paganism and suffering. See also Falkner's Moonfleet, which is a story about smugglers, for its vivid imagery of the Downs (1757–c.1790) among other things. I've read a crossover between Sherlock Holmes stories and the Aubreyad (a series of novels by Patrick O'Brien); and it seems that Moonfleet can be easily connected to both, because it has both the detective and the naval elements and an inviting world to play in.
The evening drawing to a close, I opened the window for at least the pretense of fresher air. Back in London, summer had stifled whatever vitality it used to hold, yet the content of tobacco in our rooms surely had to exceed that outside.
The sounds of the city gained presence. I was reminded, again, why I liked it better than the country, for all the wholesomeness of the latter.
"Watson."
"Yes?"
Surprised, I turned to my friend who sat unmoving near the unlit hearth. Holmes's taciturnity was nothing strange – though everything was, after our latest misadventure, – but a silly instinct had made me stay up for longer than was my habit, and my mind had wandered.
"I keep thinking about that book you presented me last year," said he, out of the blue.
I groped for a guess, having not prepared for that in the slightest.
"The one..."
"About the possessed Stradivarius." He grimaced. "More to your tastes, rather."
At once it came to me – he meant the recent tale of Falkner's, which I had bought as a joke gift without really looking at the contents. It was a mistake I swore to never make again, since Holmes reading all the spookiest places while practicing his ventriloquism was not my idea of a stormy October night.
"What of it?"
He lifted his head and subjected me to the familiar weighing scrutiny. At last I yawned, and he straightened in his armchair.
"The gentleman who played it lost his mind, without doubt. His sister's feeble protestations to the contrary are not remotely convincing. He had had access to good councel, which he eschewed, and knew enough to not end in an asylum."
Such a beginning alarmed me, but I resolved to see it through. The plight of the poor youth was a good metaphor for that which we did not discuss. Perhaps indulging this fancy would bring my friend relief; certainly it seemed a safer cure than another vacation.
Holmes frowned a little, expecting my comment. I shrugged.
"It happens. I cannot quite diagnose him from a fictional description, but even if I knew it to be based on fact... It was an aunt's account for her only nephew, son to the afflicted. Anything could have been omitted."
"True," he aswered with some effort. Again, he looked me in the eye, conveying some demand which I could not discern.
"Holmes," I began, now really worried. "If anything troubles you – anything at all, – you need but-"
"Thank you," he said hastily. "It is..."
For a long moment he collected his words, while I waited with bated breath.
"I had used you badly," he said at last. "No, hear me out. Even had I alone breathed that vile smoke and survived, which seems laughably optimistic – sit down! – I would have, in all probability, lost my mind. They would have sent me down that same road, perhaps in that same carriage."
"I would have never let them!" I said, now fully awake. "If the worst came to pass, I would have found a way to subdue you and call for assistance. Sent a telegram to Mycroft. You would never have been confined in an institution like that."
Holmes smiled, taking his cheroot from the mantelpiece. There was no mirth in his expression.
"I swear, this is what I would have done," I insisted. "And if you lived for fifty more years, – which I hope you will, – we would have cared for you till the last day ever!"
My words were met with silence, but I waited before filling it. I had to gauge his reaction first.
"My dear Doctor," he said fondly. "I have never thought otherwise. It is for that very reason that I should have exhausted any other opportunity, or even staked my already formed suspicions on a guess. Yes, you did not mishear me. I should've called upon Sterndale without performing the experiment."
I swallowed. I did, generally speaking, agree with that sentiment. The image of Adrian Temple, forever white-faced from what he had seen and done yet still a man in his right mind till the night of his murder, had been a ridiculous notion not two years before. The image of Brothers Tregennis playing whist with their dead sister...
"And then, the pain you bore yourself," he went on in a low voice. "Watson, I can't – I can promise you as much as words can express, and mean more than that. I do promise."
He rose, and touched me briefly on the shoulder.
"Anything that troubles you; remember that."
After a while, when I would not speak, he picked up his fiddle. The irony wasn't lost on me, but Sherlock Holmes needed not a cursed masterpiece to say his piece. I closed my eyes for the night, and in the morning opened them to a cleaner world which smelled of rain.