VIII. BEWARE THE TOWERS
After that day they made it to Strasbourg.
Watson in his recount of the facts invented a whole story about how they had received a telegram in their hotel, by which the police told them everyone had been apprehended except Moriarty who had escaped, and that Holmes told him to leave to London because he was now a dangerous companion and he had said no; the truth was that Holmes knew that Moriarty would escape, that he was after them, that all was fatal as in fate, a resolution outside the limits of order was due to take place, unexpected or thrilling, dry or anguishing but never in the realm of a formally "happy-ending", if it was happy for him it wouldn't be happy for Moriarty and now Holmes without Moriarty was no one, he would get high in such quantities and so many days and hours following that he would end up killing himself soon anyway… But it was his duty to have finally Moriarty fall down, at whatever cost. What happened in Strasbourg was that Holmes confessed to him, when they were in the "salle-à-manger":
- "Watson I was thinking… It is my guess that Moriarty wants to kill me and only me and yet I cannot assure it, I cannot assure you that you're not in danger. Do you want to stay or do you want to go back to London? I am truly asking you, you may do what you want; I would in fact recommend you that you go back Watson… Go back."
Watson wrapped the hand of a Holmes who suddenly was about to have a nervous crisis, have his things thrown from the window of their hotel room so that he would leave. He elegantly cleaned his mouth with the fabric napkin. – "Of course I'm not going back; I've barely met Strasbourg, and I just want to go back to La Petite France. Then where are we going?" Holmes shrugged. – "Whatever, I'm sure I'll love it."
They had already seen the Cathedral of Our Lady. – "Gothic", Holmes had said.
- "I could have guessed that."
And after the meal again they had walked by La Petite France, now standing in the Ponts Couverts, between the second and the third tower; sandstone had never been used so successfully, so well employed to create a certain ambiance, one that spoke of the people there, and their delusions, of what they wanted and could believe reality was. Holmes and Watson were staring down at their reflections in the water, with the soil and the profundity and sun inflection that made it look green. - "It was in a place like this that Alfie Gray was killed", Holmes said, with certain solemnity.
Watson looked at him intrigued; wanting them both to laugh though, he grimaced in confusion: - "What?"
Holmes did smile, but only weakly. – "Alfie Gray, the head of the Continent's division of Moriarty's gang… It is his death that brought me to him… Thanks to his death, more criminals than I or Britain could ever kill have died, to each other's hands."
- "Oh, I see."
The calm water of the river Ill had only temperate undulations.
- "You know Watson, I don't believe in justice."
Watson stared at him incredulous. – "But Holmes… you are the principal tool of our British justice system, dear Lord!"
- "I only try for other people not to get hurt, that's my only objective; one less person hurt is one less criminal, because Watson I know criminals… Sometimes they just want justice outside the system, a true one." He sneered: "I've even been involved in political crimes!... I wish I hadn't been so egocentric, I wish I hadn't taken some cases just because I'd have yet again a chance to prove to myself and to everyone just how smart I am, because they would entertain me?... I wish I had thought of them, of Lockhart who laid dynamite in the embassy…" He continued after a pause, his sneer fading away. – "So often, their thirst for vengeance has only the whole extent of the harm that was done to them. A single person in a few aggressions, in the hatred from one single another or immersed in hostility, in misunderstanding and loneliness… they can in a single strike experience the strength that all the world's hatred could lash…" He shook his head, the sneer wanting to come back. – "Watson it always starts with someone who has done nothing wrong. We are abusive by nature, I! have insulted less intellectually endowed people; it is enough with that, with someone being stupid or extraordinarily physically disagreeable, or with an obvious defect, an abomination from nature but an innocent one, guiltless… Suffering is great all around, all around. Ask yourself the lives of how many criminals have been hell before they could even decide for wrong or right, and not because they were children but because sometimes there is no possible choice. I'm killing a human being soon, I don't have a choice. The earthy hell that so many, not you and me, not my brother, not Mary, oh no!, we're good-looking, we're confident, we're privileged, we surround ourselves with everything good; but so many others live under this… abrasive horror!, and they endure it because the human being has this… pathetic! instinct to attach to life even when it isn't worth it! And the earthly hell is perpetuated, it perpetuates all on itself through these, in essence, innocent people, like a perfectly stable motor… There are such horrible lives in this world Watson! God for the meek my ass!, the meek can eat shit or dirt!, their decision entirely!… If I finish them, if I do is only because I don't want any more damage… Watson I don't want any more damage!" He covered his face as he grimaced, his mouth opening in the parody of short screams; the water was now blurrily reflecting his tense hands.
- "Holmes" Watson murmured, giving a step closer to him. – "Holmes what's going on? What are you not telling me?"
Holmes uncovered his face and looked at him, tortured. – "I don't want to live anymore."
They had to go back to the Hotel, Holmes guiding by the arm a weeping Watson that couldn't see clear.
"I'm sorry", he repeated in their room. – "I'm sorry Watson I don't know what I was saying; I don't feel like myself, I'm depressed."
- "But why? ! We were having such a wonderful day!"
"Pay no heed Watson, I'm sad today; it should be a passing mood I'm sure." – "Listen Watson, I didn't mean it. I'm not dying, no one is dying but Moriarty…" but his sentence was broken, his face snapped to the left, his scowling lines engraving in his face painfully, his jaw sliding a bit forward; something about the perspective of a world without Moriarty had appeared in his mind through loose words and isolated images: it was something quite like sheer void…
Watson lost his temper; in what to anyone else in the scene would have been funny except for them, he hurled his glove at Holmes's face. – "What is it with you and this fucking professor? ! I hope you both die as it is your wish!" But immediately he almost strangled Holmes in his arms, repented from his words breathless. – "Oh God I didn't mean it! I didn't mean it Holmes, I didn't mean it. Please don't let yourself die, don't… We're going to have such a great time tomorrow."
…
That night they headed south for Geneva. Holmes settled them in a first class cabin of a passenger's steam boat already known for having a first class first class, so that they would cruise pleasantly by the Rhône River, admire the Alps and the strong current.
There was a chasm of nothing separating them. Watson hadn't even noted all the wonderful embellishments of their cabin when entering, hadn't been aware of the unusual welcoming softness of the mattress when sitting down (being him the only one of them both that could appreciate unnecessary comfort; Holmes could convince himself of being just as well sleeping over wet naked ground; sometimes he forced himself to suffer). Then he had tried to rest in a good mood all morning, smiling more than he should, making jokes that were no longer good, and now the muscles of his cheeks and his brain were tired; 'go to the devil' he had thought against a Holmes that was obliging him to be that ridiculous.
Conversation never died away between them, not even then, but each resented a tension that was mutual, something about the subjects of conversation coming up only to quiet down what was unspoken.
Then after three days they sat silently on a bench at the stern of the vessel; it was night and they were looking different tones of blue, gray and that much that was black, and the foamy revolted water the vessel left behind, its white almost seeming to shine when all else was unidentifiable. No one was around and Watson took the hand of a Holmes that was always brooding, the intangible distance between them narrowing a bit when Holmes reacted by pressing his hand affectionately and interspersed their fingers, not that his index and thumb from the other one would ever stop supporting his face in an intelligent pensive gesture, and his stare was lost.
Watson stared at him, moved his head to get sight of some of the other half of Holmes's, returned and looked at their joined hands, tried then to know what Holmes was looking at and imagine what he was thinking, but there was nothing out there, and his constant movements and obvious scrutinizing weren't getting his attention; so he tried a more direct approach: - "I am dying to make love to you tonight."
'You don't make love to me' Holmes thought. – "Me too. But can we rest here some more time?"
- "Sure." Watson answered simply.
A couple of hours later Watson was over Holmes, penetrating him with a lustful predatory gaze on his face. Holmes clenched his jaws, believing there was no need for paradise in the afterlife since he was experiencing it now, no need for a divinity, because some human acts, such as this, were as much divinity as a man could take. He was thinking even as Watson thrust in and out in long movements, that in moments such as this he could trick himself into believing him and Watson were each other's, truly meant to be instead of a fleeting coincidence.
When they were done, and yet he was seeing that up to three hours after neither could sleep, Watson opted for conversing; the fact that they were naked in bed and it was 3 in the morning, an hour of debauchery all on itself, resting over a moving surface on which they were floating, floating over deep waters in what seemed a "country far away", made him speak of grave things much more than conviction. - "You have never forgiven me, have you?"
Holmes slid his arm beneath his neck and attracted his head, so that he would be lying on his chest again. – "Forgive you? My dear Watson what for?"
- "For marrying Mary."
Holmes's other hand dismissed it, a brief low grunt. – "There's nothing to forgive."
- "Homes I'm speaking honestly."
- "So am I. You aren't mine Watson, you aren't Mary's. I'm all on my own."
With his hand on Holmes's chest Watson reincorporated to frown down at him, complain with an adorable pout. – "Is that what you brought me here for? To tell me you're lonely without remedy. Poor Holmes!, he's so depressed because the world is not good enough for him! What did the Gods think when letting one of them come down to live between us? ! Let optimist Watson undo himself trying to make him conform!, he is pure and will not be broken!"
- "You are ranting."
- "So what? ! I'll rant at my will!"
Holmes caressed his cheek. – "I'm glad that I met you."
Watson rolled his eyes. – "Why didn't you try to come see me this whole year, and a half?"
Holmes's hand went to the crook of his neck. – "Why didn't you?"
- "I did!"
- "You're trying to make me feel more loved during this voyage that you have ever before; let off, we're not like that."
- "I'm not doing anything different."
- "I was trying to forget you."
- "Why? What for?"
Holmes shrugged and pouted, aloof. – "I thought it was time."
Watson's eyes narrowed in annoyance. – "Just like that?"
- "You were trying to have a kid; you had been trying before too but I just thought: 'Holmes you're immature and clingy, it's time you accept there's no place for you anymore.' There isn't Watson, it's time for you to become a full-time husband and me, the lone wolf that I've always been."
Watson arched his eyebrows in amused disbelief, nodded slightly. – "Wolf…"
Holmes shrugged again. –"What? You wouldn't want me to pity myself would you?"
- "Prick!"
So you can see that when Watson wrote this it was nothing but denial: "And yet for all his watchfulness he was never depressed. On the contrary, I can never recollect having seen him in such exuberant spirits. Again and again he recurred to the fact that if he could be assured that society was freed from Professor Moriarty he would cheerfully bring his own career to a conclusion."
What Holmes had indeed said was: - "I think that I may go so far as to say, Watson, that I have not lived wholly in vain. If my record were closed to-night I could still survey it with equanimity. The air of London is the sweeter for my presence." Period.
Next chapter will be the end in two short chapters
