Study in Gold
Many days later I sat by the bow window in the sitting room re-reading one of my favorite novels in the rare sunlight of an autumn afternoon. In this weather even the dirty grey buildings that lined Baker Street glowed as though they were made of gold. The beautiful day combined with a pleasant book and a quiet room had put me in an uncommonly good mood. Mrs. Hudson, too, had been in high spirits all day. I could still hear her singing hymns below as she prepared the evening meal.
In Baker Street, however, such moments of quiet peace are fleeting indeed. True to form, my paradise was shattered in the next instant by the sound of the street door opening with a protesting groan and then slamming shut. Footsteps rapidly ascended the 17 stairs and presently the door to the sitting room burst open, revealing a rather inebriated laborer. He leaned against the door jam with a rather impertinent grin on his face, as if he had sprung there, mushroom-like, in wake of the recent rains. I rose to shoe him out, but he interrupted me, declaring in a familiar drawl,
"All of London has gone on holiday to enjoy the weather, nobleman and criminal alike!"
I laughed as Holmes entered the room with a flourish. His tendency toward the dramatic greatly increased the longer he was forced to remain inactive, waiting for a suitable problem to come his way. He had been waiting for a long, long time now. I had high hopes, though, that a proper mystery would soon land on our doorstep. The influenza outbreak had died down considerably, and Holmes often declared that winter was the best time of year for crime. The more creative criminals, for reasons known only to themselves, all seemed to prefer to act in the colder months.
"We really must find you a suitable mystery, Holmes, before you startle the life out of Mrs. Hudson with your charades," I chided him gently
"Our landlady is a formidable woman. I doubt the intrusion of a drunk factory worker would noticeably upset her equilibrium," He replied calmly, wiping off makeup with a rag he had draped casually over the deal-topped table the previous day. I prayed silently that nothing terribly toxic had come in contact with the fabric in the interim.
"How have you been occupying yourself, Holmes?"
"Oh doing this and that. Reviving old relationships, sparking new acquaintances. I have been neglecting the lower ends of London of late and this morning resolved to take advantage of the good weather and rectify that error all in one fell swoop. I spent the morning idling in a pub with some fascinating fellows. Ruffians, the lot of them, but not as rough as they make themselves out to be if one cares to scratch the surface a little. See here, that tell-tale spot of clay on my right hem? Where in all of London is there clay of that particular color, Watson? Soho, and nowhere else!"
His speech dwindled into tuneless whistling while he concentrated on removing the whiskers he had applied with gum. For a moment he disappeared into his bedroom, still whistling, and when he reappeared, he was Holmes again, dressed in proper slacks, a crisp, clean white shirt, and the old mouse-colored dressing gown. He settled down in his arm chair, packing his clay pipe with tobacco. As he lit it, he looked to me with a smile and remarked, "Wiggins bids you a bright good day, his words exactly. He asked me to ensure that you weren't working yourself to an early grave in the midst of the influenza epidemic"
"And a bright good day to Wiggins. He can lay his mind at rest; I believe the worst is over." I answered. Holmes was ever coddling the scruffy boys he hired as an "irregular police force" during his cases. Many of them, however, had become very intelligent lads, and Wiggins was, without a doubt, the smartest of the bunch. I liked him and for unknown reasons, he seemed to regard me highly as well.
Holmes had relapsed into a reverie, his unfocused grey eyes staring in the direction of the bow window. He was curled comfortably in the chair, smoke circling his head like an oddly shaped dark halo. He seemed content for the first time in many days. I wondered idly what had brought about the sudden change. Had he gotten a case after all?
"You seem to be in an uncommonly good mood, Holmes." I prompted him.
"The sun is shining at last from behind the rain clouds," he replied ambiguously.
"You have a case?"
He laughed, "No, not so bright as that. No I spoke literally."
I thought for a minute, trying to find the hidden meaning behind his simple statement. What was it that had Holmes in such good humor? Surely more than the weather, Holmes was not a man to let rain affect him so deeply. Finally, I gave it up for hopeless.
"You confound me, Holmes." I replied shaking my head.
"I am glad of it." He shot me a blindingly bright smile. A true smile from Holmes is a very rare thing and it hits like summer lighting: one quick flash and then it is gone without a trace. It left me dazzled slightly, staring at Holmes fish-like. He looked away thoughtfully, "Were I to lose the ability to confound you our relationship would be quite different, I believe."
"Certainly it would be a great deal less confusing." I replied. An interesting thought, what would our friendship be like were we of equal mental abilities? I gave the thought no more than an instant of contemplation, without his logic and intellect, Holmes would be some other man, a very ordinary, common man.
"Relationships are always confusing. And I believe without the ability to dissimulate and confound they would become much more so." Holmes picked up a newspaper from the floor near his chair, opened to the agony columns and discarded the rest carelessly on the floor. The conversation seemed to be at an end. However, after a moment Holmes added, "I believe ours would become a great deal more confusing if neither of us were able to confound the other." I waited for him to elaborate, but no more was forthcoming.
I sighed and shook my head. Ambiguity was another aspect that seemed to categorize our relationship. Perhaps it added an air of mystery to our lives I thought whimsically. It was the closest thing to a mystery we had these days. Why on earth was London so quiet? I glanced over at Holmes again briefly. He was engrossed his newspaper, his keen gaze seemed to bore through the paper on his lap. It was the same attention he reserved for clues in his cases or his chemical experiments. As my brain wandered, I wondered what it would feel like to have such a gaze directed solely at me. The idea seemed dizzying, unnerving and exciting all at once, an odd feeling. I pushed the thought away resolutely, rejoicing instead that I would not have to worry about finding a distraction today. Holmes seemed to have provided an alternative to the cocaine for himself.
Belatedly I remembered that I had been reading. The sun had dipped lower, now. In a short while it would be behind the buildings and gone for the night, and perhaps the week. Re-opening the forgotten novel, I turned again to revel in the momentary peace and the fading sun while they lasted.
