Doldrums and Deep Waters
Chapter 2: The Argument
Holmes seemed to interpret my weary sigh as an indirect reproach.
"Honestly, Watson, must you be such an old maid? I do not appreciate my room-mate censoring my conduct."
"Perhaps you should try to moderate your conduct a little then!" I snapped in return, my temper itching to erupt.
"What, precisely, do you mean by that, Doctor?" Asked Holmes, his voice superficially sweet, but his steel-grey eyes glinting ominously. He managed to place an insulting little emphasis upon my title.
"I mean," I elaborated, feeling my face beginning to redden, "that you could perhaps try to stop inflicting your foul humours upon the world at large, and especially upon me. You whinge when you have no case, and you when you do, you whine that it is not fit for the Mighty Sherlock Holmes to undertake. It's enough to drive a man to distraction, you snorting and stamping around the place, criticising, swearing, making snide remarks. Grow up, Holmes!"
I was surprised at my own outburst, but not sufficiently so, at that point, to rescind it. Sherlock Holmes' haughty reply did nothing to soften my resolve.
"Good Lord, Watson, what has got into you today? I recommend returning to your normal blend of tobacco if your new mix has such an unedifying effect."
"I have not changed my tobacco," I hissed, angrily, "As you would no doubt be able to discern if you stopped searing your sense of smell away with your disgusting dottles, as if you were trying to kipper yourself. God knows how you ever manage to spy upon anybody with your clothes reeking the way they do!" The quarrel was rapidly descending to nursery level, but I felt neither the inclination to laugh, nor apologise. Holmes' eyes narrowed further.
"I may not have to resort so heavily to tobacco if my interfering physician had ceased shamelessly nagging me to give up certain other comforts!"
I was on my feet by now, my voice raised. "Ah, yes, back to the drugs. Of course, weaning you away from your pathetic self-poisoning is shameless nagging. How thoughtless of me not to allow you to go your length. Well, get on with it then, inject yourself full of the stuff. Die twitching and senile in a puddle of your own urine and vomit, like the vile little addict you are!"
I did not previously know I had it in me to spout such vemom. Holmes was justifiably furious by this point.
"And to think I wondered why it was you chose to idle around the house, rather than finding yourself some gentle employment. Now I have had a sample of your bedside manner, I see why you need to speculate upon the gee-gees instead of making an honest living. Shall I give you your chequebook back? Although, if I do, how will I meet this month's rent, when your obviously limitless willpower fails you again?"
I snatched a guinea from my pocket, and hurled it at Holmes' head, necessitating him hastily ducking. "Oh, I am quite beforehand with the world. Take this, with my compliments, to buy yourself some drugs with!" I bellowed, then stormed from the room.
I sat in my bedroom later, trembling, and wondering what on earth had come over me. I have always had a temper, but such hurtful outbursts were completely out of character. Now that the heat in my cheeks had cooled, a deep sense of shame was creeping upon me.
Holmes had worked very hard at detaching himself from the cocaine and morphine. He had endured my assistance and companionship throughout most of the early stages of withdrawal, which must have been deeply humiliating to a man of his private temperament. He had bourn the ordeal with fortitude, and even good humour, giving me once more a sincere respect for the strength of his character. He had not, at any time, during his difficult initial convalescence, allowed me to doubt the affection, esteem and trust he held me in; only the most trusted of companions could have been acceptable to him at such a time. Now I had repaid his trust with betrayal and his esteem with contempt. What could I have been thinking? As well have flung vitriol at him. I rested my elbows upon my knees, and raked my fingers through my hair. A dreadful headache was beginning, but I preferred that to the guilt.
As my guilt grew, so did a lowering sense of depression. If I had thought myself dismal before, it was nothing compared to the creeping fingers of despair, for all the world as if I were surrounded by one of the vile London fogs, and it was seeping blackly into my very soul. Was this how Holmes felt, when he lay upon the sofa, too lethargic to even scrape his violin? However did he endure it?
Thinking of Holmes was sufficient for me to overcome the sense of apathy the depression had cast upon me. Difficult or not, Holmes had not deserved such treatment, and I was determined to apologise. I rose to my feet, and, feeling nauseous, I descended to the living room, my heart hammering in my breast, half-rehearsing, then rejecting, inadequate apologies.
Holmes was seated at his chemistry table, fiddling with a few retorts and a Bunsen burner. He did not look particularly absorbed, and, to my surprise, he had flung wide the window. He did not normally display such consideration, and I instinctively braced myself for a preternaturally revolting odour.
He looked up at me, his expression at once wary, yet rueful.
"Watson."
"Holmes, I am so deeply sorry for my utterly uncalled for words of earlier. I don't know what...."
"Watson." He interrupted, rising from his chair and crossing over to me. "I don't doubt you have rehearsed an admirable apology, but I really cannot allow you to take all of the blame. I have been treating you worse than a dog for the last fortnight, and I can only be astonished that you have not erupted before. Your outburst earlier was only so striking in its contrast to your usual kindness and patience. Please let me hear no words of apology. They are already taken as read, my dear chap."
I had hung my head throughout this speech, but I met Holmes' eyes at the end of it, and extended my hand to him. We shook hands with relief. I realised I was still shivering with reaction, and Holmes, looking at me in disguised concern, but forbearing to comment, ushered me to my chair, poured me a brandy, and passed me his Persian slipper.
"You have had little in the way of conversable companionship in the last few days, friend Watson. Let us have a comfortable smoke and catch-up. Let me fill you in upon this dreary case of Lestrade's, and you can tell me about your corpulent visitor of earlier, and what he said to you to throw you into indecision."
I smiled, impressed but not surprised at his apparent omniscience.
"That sounds a most convivial programme for the evening." We lit our pipes, and fell into the type of effortless conversation that is characteristic of intimate acquaintances. Silently blessing Holmes for his clemency, I revelled in the easy companionship. I sincerely hoped the week was to improve.
I was not to know then that, if the week had began dismally enough, it was to continue through thoroughly dispiriting, and reach quite intolerable by Wednesday. And I would not have sat so comfortably, had I known the horrors Friday had in store.
Ouch! Where has patient, kind Watson gone? And how could things get any worse than that horrible argument? Find out in Chapter 3
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