Title: Soothing What Is Savage (a part of 'Scribbles and Such')
Fandom: Canon/Granada Sherlock Holmes
Pairings: None
Warnings: None (except maybe some fluff here and there ;)
It was, what I believe my fellow writers would term, a 'dark and stormy night.' The weather, to be quite blunt, was horrendous. For a week straight London had been bombarded with nothing but wind, rain, and the occasional nightly coating of ice. The result, I am sorry to say, was that two men each got exactly what they were not looking for. I, for example, began receiving near double my number of patients, for the simple reason that treacherous weather dictates an increase in accidents - many of them quite serious. Thus I had been spending a great deal more time running to and from my practice, with my services being called for at every conceivable hour.
Holmes, on the other hand, suffered from a lack of business. It seemed that even the most hardened of criminals weren't willing to brave this weather; prestige among colleagues and a bit of monetary gain simply weren't worth offering up life and limb to the elements. I have always found such truths to be fascinating: a man considers the gallows to be a necessary risk when going about his nefarious deeds, and yet he does not come to the same conclusion when the execution is dished out, not by the hands of mortals, but through the wrath of nature. It is the most confounding thing. And yet, be you good or evil, gentleman or ruffian, a touch of bad weather will make meek men of us all. It must be something about the human spirit, for I simply cannot explain it any other way. When storms roll in equality blankets London in the form of hot cups of tea and the firm decision to stay indoors at all costs.
However, I doubt these observations are interesting to anyone other than myself. They certainly wouldn't interest Holmes who viewed this lull in criminal activity as a crime in and of itself. There had been few difficult cases these past six months – most of them Holmes was able to wrap up from the comfort of his armchair – and thus the arrival of a complete standstill, when he needed activity the most, was… distressing, to say the least.
It was on one of these dreary, frustrating nights that I returned to find my friend in a fit of manic activity. With nothing to occupy his mind and a stubbornness against indulging his body, I am sorry to say that Holmes had slept little – if at all – that past week. Each night I came home to find his thoughts more frazzled and his physical frame similarly declining. Two nights past he had taken to shooting the walls again, this time adorning one with "A.P" for, he informed me, "amor patriae": "love of one's country." Let it never be said that my friend is not patriotic. I, however, was merely relieved that the recent thunder had covered any… ahem, specific noises from the neighbors.
Needless to say, I approached our dear Baker Street with just a bit of trepidation. I am not Sherlock Holmes - I am not skilled in the science of deduction - but I am however, trained to trust my instincts. They did not fail me this time, for no sooner had I entered our humble abode than a flowerpot shattered at my feet.
"Ha!" Holmes stood at the top of the stairs, glaring triumphantly down at both me and Mrs. Hudson's poorly treated poinsettia. I admit that even years after my service my nerves were not quite what they once were, and thus my own reaction included a few more colorful words than 'ha.'
"Holmes!" I snapped, avoiding bits of pottery and dirt. "What is the meaning of this? Can I not enter my own home in peace?" He was balanced on the top step, left hand firmly grasping the railing. He leaned so far over that for a moment I feared I would have him at my feet as well.
"It is a simply matter of air Watson. Air. We give it so little notice and yet it holds such power! Consider – a flowerpot and a feather are dropped from the same height at the same time and yet the pot falls at a far greater speed than the feather. Correct?"
"Yes…" I looked around and sure enough there were tiny feathers littering the floor. "Holmes, where did these come from?"
"Air resistance." He continued. "The feather encounters air resistance while the pot, less so. Can you imagine if one could bypass this obstacle of nature? Perhaps even use it to our advantage? Imagine Watson, keeping objects in the air as lightly as birds despite that fact that they carry thousands of times their weight!"
"I believe," I murmured "that a pair of brothers is experimenting with just such principals. At least, that is the rumor. But really Holmes, must you make such a mess?" Making use of the pause in our conversation I maneuvered myself around the shattered remains, the thousands of feathers, and peered up at Holmes. I assure you dear reader, it would not take a physician's eye to spot how tired my friend was. He still leaned forward over the steps but the arm holding him shook with exertion. There was a smudge of what looked to be charcoal on his cheek, further highlighting the bags under his eyes, and as he had not changed out of his dressing gown in many days I could see his bare feet; toes curling with exhausted energy.
I had only been gone the day in pursuit of helping my patients, and yet in that time he seemed to have deteriorated greatly.
"Have you not slept at all?" I whispered
"I see no reason to indulge myself in such needless activities when there is not even anything of interest to be well rested for." He snapped, turning shakily and stumbling back into our living room.
I did not comment on how sleep could hardly be termed 'needless' or how he steadfastly refused to rest while on a case either. Instead, I took more time than I cared to admit lowering myself to the floor (hard days and bad weather did nothing to help my old wound) and carefully gathered the remains of the pot for Mrs. Hudson to dispose of in the morning. Looking around me I decided to forego cleaning the feathers, for now at least. Where Holmes procured them was beyond me (though truthfully, I did not want to know.) Then, slowly climbing the stairs, I mentally catalogued ways to help my friend. For I would help him – this bout of destructive behavior could not continue much longer.
When I'd finally hauled myself up the seventeen steps I was dismayed to find our rooms in a state of complete disarray. Papers covered the floor (with many, too near the grate, beginning to catch fire), my journals had been taken from their shelves and tossed uncaringly about, chemicals were spilled across not only Holmes's own table but our shared breakfast table as well, and I quickly realized that the cold draft I'd waltzed into came from a sizable crack in our window.
"Holmes!" I ran for the papers that were seconds away from being fully ablaze. Seeing that they were beyond help I unceremoniously dumped them atop the nearest chemical spill, hoping to soak it up a bit. Realizing that this too was a futile endeavor I did a smart about-face in my flatmate's direction. All thoughts of helping this man flew from my mind.
"Holmes." I seemed incapable of doing anything other than repeating his name, albeit in what I hoped was a reprimanding manner. "Holmes, how did you manage to destroy our rooms so spectacularly - in under six hours?"
I was rewarded with him glancing my way but otherwise he didn't move. Well, I shouldn't mislead you. He did move, for his hands beat a constant rhythm across the armrests and his toes continued to curl, but he did not design to unwrap himself from the chair's depths. He also refused to say another word, merely glaring at me as if the lack of crime, lack of sleep, and his own destructive habits were somehow my fault.
"I understand that you have had a hard time of it lately but at the very least have some respect for our possessions! My possessions! I do not care to have my writings tossed upon the floor, nor to I wish to return to a room that's the same temperature as the night air!" I could feel myself venting my frustration, not only at Holmes but at the weather this past week, my increased workload, everything. Some part of me hoped that he would respond so that I might further lash out, but he just looked away, raising his chin in a thoroughly haughty manner.
"Very well." I said. "If you insist on sulking like a child then I shall treat you as one." With that I crossed the room – making sure he saw me treading heavily upon his papers – and shed my coat, folding it carefully against the window in the hopes that it might hold back the cold. I then moved towards our bookshelf, knocking aside his trinkets as I passed, and picked up a journal at random. I settled myself in the chair across from his and proceeded to ignore him as I would a disobedient toddler.
As you can imagine however, it did not take long for my temper to cool. Granted, my anger did remain longer than I would have originally bet on and that is entirely because Holmes decided that the best revenge was to snatch up his violin, toss it across his knees, and scrape it without stopping to see which notes might be compatible and which should stay far away from one another.
But one does not live with Sherlock Holmes for as long as I have without acquiring the talent of ignoring all manner of noises. Before too long I had tuned out his lack of tunes and was thinking about my own childish reaction to his tantrum. Admittedly, my own day had been stressful and Holmes' inability to provide a relaxing environment to return home to excused my actions somewhat… but not by much.
I admitted freely to Holmes when we first met that my temper could be fearsome, though I generally reserve it for those who have wronged me or some acquaintance of mine. Holmes had certainly done neither and I, as his friend and closest confidant, should certainly have more patience with him. I of all people knew how this lack of crime affected him.
By the time the clock struck the quarter hour I was feeling most contrite. With a sigh I put aside my journal and bent to retrieve some of the papers I had previously abused.
"I apologize Holmes." I said as simply as possible. "The day's exertions and weather have not left me in the best of moods."
"Well… you are not the only one Doctor." Save for the times his actions had led to some life threatening injury, that was the closest to an apology as I would ever receive. However, he more than made up for it by putting aside his violin – a gesture in and of itself.
I nodded, acknowledging this but he merely waved me away from the papers still littering the floor.
"Leave them Watson, leave them. It is not as if they are anything of importance, merely this past week's agony columns. I have scoured them in the hopes that something would present itself. Ha!" He scoffed, scowling at the world in general. "Do you know how much crime this great city of ours has hosted lately?"
"Very little I would imagine. Or, based on your melancholy, no crimes have been committed that you would deem interesting."
"Once again you have been presented with all the evidence needed – more so even! – and yet you have come to the wrong conclusion!"
I paused in reclaiming my seat, startled by his outburst.
"Oh-!" He immediately seemed to realize that he was once again taking the unfortunate circumstances out on me, for he winced and fluttered his hands wildly, as if to wave his words out of the room.
"What I mean to say dear Watson is that there is no crime. Absolutely none! At least, none that our dear publicists are reporting. Do you realize – oh of course you don't – but do you realize that people have actually been helping one another? Dashing young men supporting the elderly through this treacherous weather. Wealthy nobles donating dry clothes to the Street Arabs. It is absurd! There is more sentiment permeating the air than during the holiday season and I cannot take it any longer!"
With that he threw himself backwards into the chair and snatched up his clay pipe. It did not take a consulting detective to deduce that he meant to drown his frustration in tobacco.
"What of your experiment?" I asked, hoping to head off this indulgence. Besides, I did wonder… "Where did you get all those feathers?"
But he merely sighed, as if he knew my reasons for asking and did not approve – and he probably did.
"Read your journal Watson. I will smoke."
"You should sleep." I insisted
"I cannot."
"You can try."
"I wish to think."
"Holmes, you should really-"
"Leave me be!"
With an angry gesture he turned into the armchair, ignoring me completely. Perhaps, even in such an uncomfortable position, he might find sleep… but no. The only part of him that did move was his hand, continually taking the pipe to and from his mouth.
I knew from experience that there was nothing more to be done. He did not desire conversation and I had no more thoughts on how to help him. Even my childish, frustrated anger had not amused him as it so often did. There was nothing to do but what I have always done when in doubt: follow my commander's orders.
I retrieved my journal and settled in to read.
And yet, less than an hour later I found myself skimming an article that, upon reflection, I thought might be of some use. The journal I had snatched up was, as you can imagine, of a medical nature and this particular issue dealt in part with the continued mental and physical health of infants. The article that had caught my attention was by one Dr. Evelin entitled, "The Relative Efficacy of Continued Motion in the Soothing of Neonates." To summarize, for I am sure you have no desire to indulge in such bland writings, Dr. Evenlin suggested that a repetitive, gentle motion is paramount in allowing young children to drift off to sleep. Why such a thing occurs, I will not bore you with, but upon reading his thesis it occurred to me that I too had noticed such behavior. Young mothers are often seen rocking their children in their arms, or perhaps purchasing a cradle to do such work for them. Dr. Evenlin also made mention – and this is what truly caught my eye – of how this desire for soothing motion does not lessen with age. It is, according to him, a continued pleasure of the human condition. I could not help but think of old Mrs. Krass, a widow of seventy who frequents my clinic, and how much of her later years she has spent in the arms of her favorite rocking chair.
And, on the heels of this thought, I remembered the countless times Holmes and I had boarded trains together. Heading towards a case, Holmes is a mass of contained energy, ready to set himself in motion at the slightest provocation. On the way back however… well, let us say that more than once I have looked up from an engrossing book to find my friend curled in on himself, the motion of the train having put him straight to sleep.
I wondered if the roll of a cab was similar enough to that of a train.
"Come Holmes!"
Shocked by my sudden cry he started, nearly throwing his pipe upon the fire. Recovering himself however, he fixed me with another, terrible glare.
"Do leave me be Watson." He snapped. "I am not in an amiable enough state to humor you!"
"You need not humor me." I replied, reaching for my boots. "Merely follow me."
"Follow you! My dear fellow, look at what surrounds us!" He jabbed his pipe at the window where, outside, the wind still howled and the sky poured down torrents of icy slush. "You wish to go out in this? At this time of night? With a man who in no way desires your company?" He snorted indelicately. "You are far more dim witted than I ever imagined."
Knowing it was merely a lack of sleep speaking, I endeavored to smile at him. Picking up my coat I threw him a statement that, even at his most melancholy, he could not ignore.
"I would follow you out in such weather. At such a time. In such company… would you not do the same for me?"
I timed my movements perfectly so that my back faced him as I concluded speaking, giving the seconds he needed to recover. I knew from past experiences – however seldom they were - what would be painted upon his features. What he would not want me to see: shock, tempered into confusion, settling on guilty resignation. Not the expressions of a machine.
"And where, exactly, would you have me go Doctor?" He growled, already standing and retrieving his own coat. He did not change out of his dressing gown and I did not make mention of it. After all, if things went according to plan, better that he have it on.
"You shall see my friend! I have spent much of my life following you without knowledge of our motives or destination. Do you not think it time you did the same?" And with that I was bounding down the steps, my previous lethargy forgotten in the face of finally helping Holmes.
It did take some time to find a cab however – and no wonder, given what the weather was like. During our brief interval Holmes, after following me down the steps, proceeded to lean against the wall and cocoon himself in his coat. Every few moments I heard some sort of complaint or expletive – often directed at me – and it was those foul additions to his vocabulary that told me just how tired he was. I did hope that this little endeavor of mine would be a success. If Holmes did not sleep soon his body would eventually overpower his mind – something he always hopped to avoid. Thus, it was with the energy of the desperate that I finally bundled him into a waiting cab.
I will, however, admit to a bit of subterfuge on my part. It is not that I didn't wish for Holmes to be out of the elements as soon as possible – he was already far too pale - but I also hoped to have a private word with the cabbie. Turning from the vehicle, on the off chance that Holmes designed to poke his head out and read my lips, I motioned the driver down towards me.
"Oy gov'." He growled, "Planin' on givin' me an address? I'd sure as like to be moven' on, what with this weather an' all. Or do you lot like being en the rain? You a fish-fish-fishy?" He pulled in his lips, making an exaggerated sucking noise and laughed heartily.
"No doubt your day as been an unpleasant one." I said as steadily as I could. "I am so glad that you've retained your sense of humor. However, I have no address for you," Pulling out a substantial bit of money I slipped it within the folds of his coat. "Instead, I merely wish for you to drive about. Nowhere in particular, but do not go in circles mind. Pick a far off location and stick to it. If we arrive, choose another. I assume you can do such a thing?"
He did not glace at the money, but no doubt he could feel the weight of it in his palm. "Aye gov'. I can do ta't."
"Good man." Nodding, I clamored in beside Holmes. He raised one eyebrow at my soaked appearance but quickly returned his attention to the window. Beneath us, the cab began to roll.
Realizing that I might as well be comfortable, I began removing my jacket and waistcoat.
"A long journey then?" Holmes murmured.
"Yes."
"We're heading west."
"Indeed."
"You are aware that I will know where we are heading long before we reach the destination."
"Oh, of that I have no doubt."
His gaze snapped towards mine and some of his previous irritability resurfaced. "If this location is so trivial then why do you not simply tell me where we are going?"
I shrugged. When attempting to play Sherlock Holmes, it is best to give as little information as possible. It was also fascinating to witness how he reacted to information being withheld from him. Of course, he'd had to deal with much the same from numerous clients and villains, but never from me. No doubt he'd never expected to. Despite the slight seriousness of my mission, I shrugged again and smiled.
He, in turn, made a sound that crossed between a laugh and a growl and, following the pattern of the night, proceeded to ignore me.
Closing my eyes, I settled in to wait.
For two hours we sat and no words passed between us. The sound of the rain blocked out all other noise and became its own kind of silence. True to his word, the driver continued on without stop. Every once in a while there was a sharp turn as he changed direction, but other than that the soothing motion of the cab never ceased.
Tentatively, I opened one eye and peeked at Holmes.
If he had been wrapped in his coat before he was practically buried in it now. Slumped far in his seat, with his legs drawn to his chest, my friend, lacking a pillow, had settled his forehead upon his knees. For a moment I was sure he'd somehow found rest in that uncomfortable position – but no. Upon closer inspection he was still barely awake; body just tense enough to follow the motions of the cab.
"There is no destination, is there Watson?" He murmured.
"No. Which you would have realized sooner, were you not so in need of sleep."
Slowly, that head nodded.
I sighed. There are many things that can be said about me – I am a solider, a writer, a detective's Boswell – however, I have never been a planner. I am the man who carries out the orders, not makes them. And here was the flaw that came of me trying to maneuver and manipulate – Holmes may have found the relaxation he needed to obtain sleep, but it was in a less than desirable location. There was no bed, no blankets… nothing that would ease him into Morpheus' hold. If he could only find a more comfortable position…
Here, dear reader, I place a bit of my trust in your hands. There are many who would frown upon what I did next. Men – especially men of my station – are expected to keep a certain distance from their fellows. We shake hands, sometimes touch one another's shoulder, but we do not kiss and hug as the ladies do. It is 'improper.' It is 'wrong,' to physically express such sentimentality.
I find it astounding that in my previous works I have alluded to so many nefarious deeds without consequence. I can tell you that I have broken into men's homes, blackmailed them, even killed them… and you do not bat an eye.
However, many may cringe when I say that, desperate to give him some relief, I carefully – yet decisively – gathered Holmes into my arms.
There. I have said it. I can kill a man but I cannot comfort one. Does that seem reasonable to you?
Whatever you may think of it reader, the facts stand. I provided him with a pillow, and I provided him with a blanket. Holmes, far from being uncomfortable with my attentions, seemed to accept them with his unique, silent outlook. It could not have been more than five minutes after we were settled that he finally, blessedly, drifted off to sleep.
I only moved once during the rest of the night. Just once to pay the cabbie another extraordinary amount to not only continue driving, but to stay on past his shift. Of course, the monetary loss was little compared to the relief of seeing my friend finally gain some rest.
And, of course, there were other, minor consequences. My leg, already stiff from the terrible weather, had seized up under the pressing weight of a full-grown man. When we finally arrived back at Baker Street in the morning, Mrs. Hudson – already in a flurry after finding her poinsettia smashed – had to help both Holmes and me through the front door. I would be very surprised if my friend had any memories of that morning. He walked as if drugged, allowing us to lead him towards his bed where his body was able to complete what I'd helped to begin. After a dodging night of sleeping on top of his flatmate, Holmes was able to slip into a deep, healthier slumber.
With him settled – having I hoped, pleasant dreams – I too went off to bed.
Perhaps reader, you are imagining that later there was some grand gesture on his part, to thank me for my support and timely idea. Perhaps you believe that we both slept the day away peacefully and awoke refreshed, eager for one another's company. If you have read any of my previous works you should be able to deduce that this was not the case. Dramatic he may be, but 'thank you's are not Holmes' forte. As for us both being well rested… he eventually was. I however, spent the night lacking one of the necessary comforts that I had so freely given to him.
Do you recall his earlier experiment? The thousands of feathers whose falling speed he tested against various household objects? I will give you one guess as to where those feathers came from.
Sleeping without a pillow does nothing for my neck or my patience. Such is a consequence of living with Sherlock Holmes.
Although, like so many other things, it is a small consequence. Quite small indeed.