Dear Mr. Holmes
I wrote this little piece a few months ago after contemplating the possible everyday effects of fame on our somewhat reclusive detective. I hope you enjoy. :)
-- AR
"Of all the gross misjudgements one can make when chronicling a man's life, your style of presentation is certainly one of the worst!"
I looked up from my cup of tea and across the room to see the petulant profile of Sherlock Holmes -- illustrious detective, intimate friend, and insistent literary critic. He stood with his grey-robed back to me, his head turned just enough over his shoulder that I could glimpse on his face the same sharp exasperation that resonated in his voice.
"And pray, what shortcomings must I answer to this morning?" I sputtered.
Holmes whirled on his heel and gazed upon me wildly. "The same, Watson. All the same."
I set down my teacup with a clatter. Only a week earlier had I called upon my friend to find myself enduring one of his familiar tirades on the evils of my prose -- specifically, on my recently published The Sign of the Four, a novel detailing the extraordinary case of the Agra Treasure. Today, upon dropping a casual good-morning at Baker Street, I had found Holmes civil, albeit cool, so I had decided to partake in Mrs. Hudson's eggs and toast with him. This visit, however, which had begun and proceeded in only a few laconic phrases, soon descended into a silent and portentous unease -- one that roused my curiousity and seemed to chafe my friend's composure. It was a far different unease than that decisive anger which had surrounded our recent clash; it breathed of uncertainty and hesitation. I was surprised, therefore, when as was his wont Holmes abruptly disclosed the issue that was troubling him. I had not readied my pride for another assault on the same grounds.
"Holmes," I groaned, "we have already discussed this in detail."
"You stand fast?"
"They are my scribblings, Holmes. They are written in my hand and through my eyes. I must ask you not to expect me to detach myself from them."
"That is precisely the problem," he stated. "Your romanticism runs rampant through your tales. It is demeaning, Watson. Thoroughly demeaning."
"And I am sorry I have touched on that concern," I replied tersely.
"But not repentent," he snapped. "As warmly inclined as your Study in Scarlet was, this latter work is simply delirious. You will recall my apprehension of your wedlock -- it has not been unfounded, Watson. You have developed an even keener eye for the romantic."
"Well, perhaps so, though I hardly think it is as catastrophic as you make it out to be. But surely, old chap, you must admit that while I have shone light on my own sentiments, I have not misguidedly attempted to do so on your behalf."
"Oh ho ho, certainly," he sneered. "And darkness is a far more alluring thing than light."
I paused, taken aback. This was new ground.
"Holmes, I confess that you have lost me."
To my surprise, I saw my friend's face redden slightly. He pressed his lips together and tilted his head disdainfully while one hand reached to the mantelpiece for the inevitable cherrywood pipe and the other fished in his robe for a match. I could not explain it, but I suddenly felt embarrassed.
Holmes spent some moments filling and lighting his pipe with waspish deliberation. When he had finished, he looked up, stared into my eyes, and spoke.
"It will not do, Watson," said he, his voice low and ominous. "Letters -- letters penned in ornate and vapid hands, letters floral of presence and doubly so of content, mutually impetuous and designful -- "
He stopped, glaring at the utter perplexity written on my features. In an instant, he had paced to his desk, drawn open a drawer, and flung a white envelope out of it that landed haphazardly upon my knee.
"These I might grudgingly grant to the author of biographical romances, but never, my dear Watson, to his guiltless victim!"
I turned my eyes from the acerbic gleam of my friend's and opened the missive in my hands. As I began reading it, a jolt of surprise and realization struck me. I will not reproduce the contents here, but the piece consisted mainly of girlish and enamoured declarations of love. When I had finished reading , I folded the letter carefully, set it on the table, and met Holmes's gaze once more.
"It is a love letter," I said.
"Oh, well observed! I might also add that the writer is approximately eighteen years of age, is slightly far-sighted but does not wear eyeglasses to correct it, takes an intimate interest in French poetry, and has painfully chapped hands."
"Ah. Holmes, how long ago did this arrive?"
"Three days ago by the evening post."
"Hmm," I mused.
"Doctor, logic and its workings are the only subjects worth your prodigious consumption of ink and foolscap. You have filled in peripherals, and this person has become entangled in them."
"Well, she could pick a less advisable idol. Perhaps from you she will learn to observe."
"Observe!" said he, with a hint of madness. "Watson, the girl has read both your works, and she has not yet grasped the obvious regarding my views of the softer passions. What, I ask you, has she learned of observation?"
As I looked upon my friend and saw his expression -- the vividly flushed cheeks, the drawn brow, the gaunt mouth, the starkly piqued eyes -- I experienced a genuine qualm. I must confess that I remained somewhat affronted by his criticisms and that an impish mirth at the situation lurked somewhere in the back of my mind. But I could not help but feel that by writing as I did I had unlocked certain gates around Holmes's privacy and unique sensitivities. I regretted now that an outsider had trespassed there.
Holmes's voice broke in on my reverie. It was subdued now, solemn yet cynical. He had crossed back to the fireplace and was studying it distractedly.
"Women may be your field, my dear Watson. But I suppose I cannot ask you to anticipate all of their whims when writing your stories."
I watched him closely.
"It was an isolated incident," I said ruefully.
Holmes stood motionless in front of the fire, as responsive as a stone statue.
"Holmes?" I ventured.
It was a memorable look that met me when my friend turned from the hearth. His eyes glimmered with simultaneous amusement and disgust. A bitter smile -- more of a twinge than a smirk -- tugged at the corners of his mouth, and he raised one eyebrow in an unequivocal look of condescending incredulity.
"Good Lord," I whispered.
A few moments passed in silence, and then I heard the familiar knock of the postman rise from below. Bolting from my seat, I left Holmes pulling slowly at his pipe, and I rushed downstairs to intercept any forthcoming news, inquiries, or amorous addresses that had arrived in the mail.