Prompt: Counting sheep, from sirensbane

As neither of us had ever shared rooms before, I knew there would be a necessary period of adjustment for both myself and Mr. Sherlock Holmes when we moved into our new lodgings at 221b Baker Street in the winter of 1881. Though it soon became clear that the adjustment was largely to fall on me, as my own habits were quiet to the point of reclusivity while I still recovered from my ordeal in Afghanistan that they could make no difference to Holmes in the course of his daily life.

I, however, found myself in the position of quickly becoming used to an array of unusual characters making their way to our sitting room and the smell of noxious chemicals at any hour he wasn't otherwise occupied. Far from being annoyed at these interruptions to my recovery, I found myself quite fascinated by my new fellow-lodger, no doubt a result of the boredom that comes with an extended recovery and an inability to take part in daily life. Learning the reasons for our many unusual visitors, during the course of the case I later published as A Study in Scarlet, did nothing to dim my fascination, or indeed, to make life with Holmes more predictable.

As I recall, it was not until June of 1881 that I was awoken by the strains of a violin. Those readers familiar with Sherlock Holmes know that such midnight solos became common, yet on this first occasion, I very nearly thought it was a dream before I squinted at the clock and realized it was barely one in the morning. I yawned widely, put on my dressing gown and descended the stairs slowly, still half asleep.

In our sitting room, framed as a silhouette against the dark window, was Sherlock Holmes, his violin on his shoulder, playing a concerto I would undoubtedly have found enjoyable had it not been the middle of the night. Even now though, I marveled at his ability to play so complicated a piece from memory, while barely able to see in the darkness. He was a masterful player, and at times it seemed to me as if he put all his emotion into his music rather than in his words or actions.

"Holmes, whatever are you doing?" I asked, when he finally seemed to reach a stopping point. He had such an imperious manner that even when he was disturbing my sleep I was loath to interrupt him, yet he only turned around with a look that could almost be described as apologetic.

"Dr. Watson, do forgive me. I had no idea my playing would wake you," he said. I was about to ask how he apparently did not realize that sound carried very easily up the stairs and through the ceiling, coming to the conclusion that perhaps acoustics was yet another subject he knew little about, much like astronomy. Though such a gap in knowledge would seem a failure in so talented a musician.

"May I ask why you have decided to have an impromptu midnight concert?" I asked, in some exasperation.

"It helps me to think," he said. "I found myself unable to sleep, and in the absence of a case I found I needed to occupy my mind in some fashion."

I had often been plagued my insomnia in the course of my recovery, when my sleeping patterns were utterly disturbed. Despite my annoyance at being awoken in the middle of the night, I found myself sympathetic. Perhaps it was that I had not acted in my capacity as doctor for nearly a year, and was accordingly more eager to practice my profession, even in so unofficial a capacity as this. "Do you often have trouble sleeping?" I asked. I did remember other occasions on which I came downstairs in the morning to find that Holmes was still at the armchair, still in his clothes from the previous day.

"Sometimes," he answered, putting down his violin and sitting next to me by the long-dead fire. "You know I am often out at night on the trail of a case. In my career I must keep unusual hours."

Aside from the Jefferson Hope case, the majority of cases he had taken this far appeared to be those that he could solve from this very armchair, though he would begin to take on a more active role shortly, as his fame grew and he found ever more complicated cases.

"Besides," he continued. "It is the curse of having a mind like my own, that it craves occupation more than sleep. When I do not have something for it to chomp it, I find myself searching for something to occupy me. It renders all attempts to do otherwise futile until I have some problem to work on."

I knew something of the turn of my friend's mind by then, having been the recipient by now of many a lecture on some obscure subject, often by virtue of being a captive audience. Yet this admission revealed a great deal about what lay under the lax, bohemian image he presented to the world. While he was extraordinarily lazy while not on a case, his formidable mind was always engaged upon some problem, whether it was criminal in nature or an analysis of the varying styles of medieval chant. Still, I did not think it gentlemanly to wake up all other occupants of the house with violin concertos (for undoubtedly Mrs. Hudson was also awake, though she was still somewhat in awe of her new lodger and was unlikely to take him to task. Yet.) "Have you tried counting sheep?" I asked peevishly.

Holmes smiled at my suggestion. "That has never worked for me, Doctor. The repetition is more tedious than the lack of mental occupation in the first place."

I thought about pointing out that this was the intended purpose of the activity, that the very dullness of counting sheep was supposed to bore one into sleep, but instead I found myself beginning to chuckle. "It has never worked for me either," I said, remembering many an occasion on which my mother suggested the very same thing. "I always ended up giving the sheep individual characters and imagining what they looked like, so it became too interesting to fall asleep," I confessed.

Holmes surprised me by laughing out loud at this admission. "That is no surprise for an aspiring author," he said, and I stared at him in some amazement. I had not told him of my interest in writing; indeed, I had not told anyone how much I enjoyed it. "Oh, come now, Watson," Holmes said. "It was an easy enough deduction. When I first told you of my profession as a consulting detective, your thoughts jumped immediately to the fictional detectives Dupin and Lecoq, who you were evidently extremely familiar with by the speed at which you brought up their names to me. By that time I had already taken note of how often you are to be found in that very chair reading a yellow-backed novel. There are times when you are so engrossed you have not even heard me if I spoke to you."

This was largely because I had found out early that one could not live with Sherlock Holmes without mastering the ability of tuning him out on occasion, yet it was true that I often lost track of time while lost in a novel. Still, many people enjoyed reading without wanting to write, and I looked at him questioningly. "I have not been able to write while I have been in recovery," I said. "You have demonstrated your observational ability before, Holmes, yet I cannot see that you could deduce something I have not done since we took rooms together."

Holmes smiled in the way that usually preceded some display of his deductive prowess, though his eyes glinted with interest, and I saw that his boredom had been driven away. "Why, Watson, one need only look at our shared bookcase to see the evidence. In addition to those romantic novels you like so much, you have no fewer than three guides to writing fiction that were previously well-read, though not so much recently." Each of the guides in question had been purchased in my college days, and had given me brief respites from the rigors of my medical degree while I read and reread the advice they contained, before remembering that I was to be a doctor and writing was a fanciful dream that would not pay any future bills. "In addition, it was only a few months ago that I left you my article, "The Book of Life," for you to read, outlining the science of deduction."

I was still somewhat embarrassed over my cavalier dismissal of the article's conclusions, as I had now had ample time to see that Holmes was indeed correct in his assertions. Holmes, however, did not seem at all perturbed. "The very first thing you mentioned was that the article was well-written, so clearly the ability to write masterfully is important enough to you that it is the very first thing you notice."

"Ingenious,"I said under my breath, almost involuntarily. "You have got it exactly, Holmes." Though I knew that once on a train of thought, he was not likely to stop talking until he had finished it. At first I had thought this was the trait of a show-off, though now I was inclined to believe he simply needed an outlet for his thoughts, else they seemed to remain trapped in his head, leading directly to nights of missed sleep and impromptu violin solos.

I was correct, for Holmes continued, "Furthermore, while you do not have my observational and deductive ability, you are not without some observational skills of your own, Watson. Do you not remember your list of my limits?"

I very nearly groaned and put my head in my hands. I doubted I should ever live down the list I had made for my own amusement of my new lodger's strengths and weaknesses. "I shall not easily forget, Holmes," I said.

"Well, such a list can only be the result of your own observations of my abilities, and I am the first man to admit that you were entirely accurate in your assessment of me," he said. "You simply lack the ability to take your observations and put them together in a complete picture. I, for instance, had I been handed your list of limits, should have been able to deduce the person's occupation in a matter of moments." Perhaps sensing that I was somewhat insulted by his cavalier assessment of my lack of deductive ability, Holmes continued, "You observe as an author observes, Watson. Broad strokes of interest that create an interesting character, rather than those small details that put together a complete picture of a man. Plus, of course, you have that turn toward the romanticism that all authors share."

"Whatever do you mean, Holmes?" I asked.

"Did you not discourse to me about the beauty of the snow during the last blizzard of February?" he asked. "Your turns of phrase were most poetic, and from that, I deduced that you have the descriptive ability and imagination of a writer."

I could not help feeling a sort of pride at his words, though I knew he knew nothing of literature and had nothing to compare with my own little ability. I doubted I should ever compare with the great Dickens, Trollope or Thackeray, never mind those authors of sensational literature such as Mr. Collins, yet I had not yet given up on the idea of someday writing a novel of my own.

"With that, I believe I am at last ready to retire, Watson," Holmes said. He did appear calmer, and I reflected with some pleasure that I appeared to have helped him conquer his insomnia for at least one night. "I do apologize again for the disturbance."

"Quite alright, Holmes," I said. "I shall sleep in tomorrow to make it up."