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Chapter Three: The Importance of the Truth

For the rest of the day, no matter what I attempted to engage myeslf in, I was a distracted and useless man. Mary's letters provided nothing but nostalgia, and all my friend chose to do all day was to sit in his chair, smoking his pipe and murmuring to himeslf about the disappearance of the jewel thief, just loud enough so that I could hear snatches of his inner monologue. I, who had nothing to offer to such but awe and admiration, sat by myself, seperated as far as I could from him by the table and the sofa, pretending to read a book. After a while, Holmes gave up his speculation, and turned to his chemical researches, leaving me free to watch him as he meddled with the different multicolored chemical substances that were the sole partners of his leisure time.

Despite my best and most valiant efforts, there were only two thoughts that continually occupied my mind. One was that of Mary's soft expression as she wrote me the love letters of our younger days, and the other was of Holmes' own expression as he watched Miss Fairchild's loving dotage on his brother Mycroft.

To those who said that Holmes was not capable of human affection, I had always insisted that they did not know him. Perhaps I didn't know him well enough myself to make any claim to the contrary, perhaps no one could know a man who was so deeply immersed in his own thoughts most of the time. But what I had seen in him was the potential, the potential to be as gentle and surprisingly sensitive a man as anyone could imagine. To think that it was only in these last two days that I had managed to catch a glimpse of the fulfillment of that potential.

After all of my devoted observances of my companion's methods and of his madness, he doted suddenly on the idea of a dark-haired girl with sharp, suspicious eyes, a girl whom he could never have even entertained the notion of having for his own. And yet it was she that evoked that passionate loneliness in his eyes that I had been so loathe to see, and for what reason? I supposed that it was expected for me to attempt to protect Sherlock Holmes from the very heartsickness that envelopped me every time I cast a glance at my dear wife's correspondance. In fact, the feelings of loss that I had for Mary, and the feelings of concern and consternation for Sherlock Holmes seemed to take the shape together of one large knot in my chest, which became so entangled that I could not seperate my thoughts of Mary from my worries for my friend.

It was understandable, therefore, that I found myself at a loss, staring off into space while Holmes mixed his test tubes across the room.

"It's a pretty little trouble that Mycroft's in," Holmes was saying as he poured the result of his mixture into a beaker. "There is nothing he can say against the lady, and yet I would not be too very surprised if she'd misplaced it herself, after taking it out to have a look. I should hardly think that she has stolen it intentionally, that would be pure foolishness on her part, and yet I think that this may be a much simpler situation than we've been making it out to be." He gave his beaker a pleased look, and, holding it up to the light, nodded to himself, and then turned around. "Watson? Watson, for god's sake, man, look alive."

I met his gaze with a raised eyebrow. "Do you want to believe, then, that she had no malicious intent when she took the bracelet?"

"Well, it seems perfectly ridiculous to think that she would take her own wedding gift from the home of her fiance, don't you think?" Holmes paused, and then the import of my words seemed to catch up with him. He gave me a puzzled, expectant look. "Do I want to believe? We don't believe what we want to believe. I've said to you a hundred times that what is important is the truth."

I grunted noncomitally, and Holmes went into the other room to wash his hands of the stuff he'd been working with. When he returned, there was a curious smile on his face, and he looked at me for a long moment before shaking his head, and seating himself back in his armchair.

"Watson," he said reflectively, "I think it might be time for two middle aged, bored gentlemen to take a change of scenery for the sake of our health and happiness."

This was something new. It had always been I who had recommended such changes of pace, since my friend had never seemed to take any interest in anything outside of his sphere of crime and counter crime. I surveyed him with pursed lips, starting to worry that perhaps this drastic change of heart that I had noticed in him lately was more illness than emotional outburst.

He read the doubt on my features, and laughed. "I'm not ill," he said. "If either of us is ill, it's yourself, my dear doctor. You look peaky and pale, and I should not be surprised if it had something to do with the way we've been stagnating in London lately. No," he shook his head with another of his little smiles, "No, I couldn't feel better myeslf."

I busied myself with rearranging a few books that had been left out on the table, and said nothing.

That evening, it occured to me that I would do much better to make myself useful, rather than to lie around like a lump and to squander my time bemoaning my own situation. After much consideration, I realized that the most help that I could be to my friend would be to walk over to Mycroft Holmes' residence, and to take a look around by myself, not being expected by Mycroft or his young lady. After all, I felt at this point that Sherlock Holmes was rather too biased to correctly deal with the case, and pleased myeslf with the thought that I could be of great use.

With all of this in mind, I set out without warning for Pall Mall, leaving Sherlock Holmes rummaging around in a trunk in his bedroom. I heard a thunk from upstairs as I left the house, and presumed that what I heard was the sound of his pulling over his old metal trunk to pack away some of the mess that I had so complained about earlier.

I was used to hurrying around after dark, since more than many times I had spent long evenings with Holmes chasing after one man or another in darkness. It was not difficult, therefore, for me to make my way to Pall Mall in a short period of time. It was still ten o'clock when I reached Mycroft's residence, and I felt slightly guilty about calling so late. Still, I decided, he would never resent me for visiting on Holmes' behalf, and he should never expect that I was there for any other reason. It was an absolutely fool-proof alibi, and the knowledge that I had the ability to make secret trips of my own comforted me.

I rang the bell, and straightened up importantly as Mycroft Holmes came to the door. " Excuse me," I began, "but I thought that I should take another look over your rooms, for the sake of making completely sure that there was nothing of note."

Mycroft gave me an extremely strange look, a mixture of surprise and of some sort of gentle trepidation. "Oh, really," he said, with a hesitant smile and a little cough. "Well, I suppose that if that is what Sherlock would prefer, I had best grant you some freedom in the rooms immediately. I hardly think it will be of any use, however, Miss Fairchild and I have been tramping around all over the place and acting as if nothing had happened. I'm afraid we haven't preserved any clues that you may find of interest."

"I'm only going to take a look for safety's sake," I insisted, and, sliding past him, I began to circle the room much in the same way that I had seen my friend do only that morning. Mycroft watched me as I went with a frown, and made a little noise of consternation before drifting off into his upstairs rooms.

As I should have expected, and much to my chagrin, there was nothing to be seen of any criminal or clue. I had so hoped to find something to contribute to Sherlock Holmes' case, that my heart sank entirely when I realized that I had been foolish to think I could surpass his skills of observation. I had been quite convinced that this trip to Pall Mall would be my salvation, but it seemed as if I was as lost in my occupation as ever, and there was nothing for it.

"Thank you," I called upstairs to Mycroft's bedroom, attempting to sound dignified and resolute. "I think I've seen enough here, and I assume that we will call on you very soon to revisit the case." There was no response from upstairs, and I assumed that he would be glad if I ended my intrusion, so I slipped out the door without waiting for him to come down and bid me goodbye.

It was then that I heard, to my surprise, the voice of Sherlock Holmes coming from around the corner of the house, by the window. I waited for a moment, and then heard, in response, a woman's voice, high pitched and whispering. Knowing as I did how rude it was to continue listening, I could not help myeslf, and I peered around towards the sound, to see my friend standing at Mycroft's washroom window, with the tiny, sharp face of Miss Fairchild framed inside. There was a smile playing on the corners of Holmes' lips, a sort of mischevious merriment that was usually the result of a successfully solved mystery, and Miss Fairchild had a smile of her own in her eyes. As I watched, he reached forward, and took her hand in one of his in a gesture of thanks and warmth.

My stomach dropped, and suddenly I felt as if I might faint. In desperate earnest to prevent this from happening, I stumbled backwards, and kicked a rock as I attempted to get my bearings. I heard no sound, but Holmes' head snapped around, and I saw that he noticed my presence. His eyes widened in complete astonishment, and he opened his mouth to say something, but I, unable to trust myself, bowed my head in a curt nod of greeting, and then started for home.

I thought I could hear his footsteps following me for a time, but as I did not turn around, I could never be sure that it was he who was following me, and not simply a bystander taking the same road. After a while, the steps ceased, and I entered our rooms in Baker Street alone.

I would like to say that because of all of my analytical training from Sherlock Holmes, I found time in those moments to reflect carefully, and to draw my own conclusions about my friend's presence at Mycroft's home. I would like to be able to tell the reader that I was very logical and detailed about my observations, and that I found myself drawing to a reasonable interpretation of events. There are a lot of things that I would like to say. All that I can say, however, is that had more comfort in Mary's letters that night than I had expected to have at any point, and I found myself, for the first and last time in my life, eyeing the cocaine bottle on the desk.

It was very late in the evening when Sherlock Holmes crept upstairs to my room. He was already in his dressing gown, and he had his pipe between his fingers, as if he had been downstairs in the sitting room for some time after he returned. I did not acknowledge him at once, as it was late, and I was unsure of what to say, my mind was so crossed with confusion.

He walked around from one side of my bed to the other, in one of those pacing, anxious gestures that I knew so well as the prelude to some great revelation. I was almost afraid, therefore, that he was going to tell me the truth, all at once, something that I did not believe I was prepared for.

"Watson," he said in a whisper. "You're awake."

There was no deceiving Sherlock Holmes. I sat up on my elbow, and nodded blearily.

Holmes knelt down beside me, resting his arms beneath his chin on top of my rumpled covers. "Did you find anything at Mycroft's, then?"

"Nothing," I said. "Nothing of any importance."

'No, I though tyou wouldn't." It was a pointed remark, that had something of a plea in it, as if my companion was suggesting to me that I should not say that I had seen anything at all. I was offended, and closed my eyes, turning my face back into my pillow in protest. "You were right," I agreed, and then tried to seem as dormant as I could, hoping that he would go away and amuse himself as he chose for the rest of the evening.

Holmes stood up as if to go, but looked at me for a long time before he left. He had a queer frown on his face, and his fingers drummed nervously against his leg as he watched me where I slept. Just as I was about to speak up in my annoyance, he spoke up, a little bit louder than he had previously. "Watson?"

"What is it?"

"It's nothing. I won't keep you up any longer."

Then he padded away, and I heard the door to his own bedroom close, although I could hear him continue to pace around his own bed until I drifted off to sleep.