Final Problem – AU
Holmes – Closing Overtures
It had been a close run thing, I reflected as I paced the length of the deck. McLeod and Neils were engaged in a fencing match behind me, the young boy enjoying the chance to learn combat with a 'sword'. With the long weeks of journey ahead of us, McLeod and I had settled to educating the young man in more of the gentlemanly arts that he would require were he to attend one of the better classes of English schools. I had already put the wheels in motion on that front and Neils, while unhappy about it, had become resigned to the idea of boarding school in England.
McLeod had departed from the library with his son in tow and nary a word to me after my request. I had spent the rest of day in an agony of uncertainty, nervously consuming more tobacco than was strictly healthy and planning how to argue my point. I would not return to England without Watson, and technically he was still not at my side, though I saw more of him every day. Charlie had returned to the hotel rooms we had hired with the stub of a tailors ticket and a gruff admonition to 'open the windows before we choke, Laddie, what were you thinking?'
When Neils had fallen asleep that night he informed me that he had given the tailor my measurements, presented me with a bill and told me he wanted the money before he returned to pick up our new wardrobe. He never said outright that he would return with me but I had learned to place faith in what he left unsaid. The language of the unspoken was a complex and difficult art that we had mastered over the last three years – and we were the closer for our efforts. Still, I was not entirely easy in my mind until the ship had cast off and he'd sent me to investigate the layout of said ship with Neils whilst he unpacked for all of us.
Charlie had shaved his beard off, the paler skin of his cheeks and chin a startling contrast to his nut brown skin. He once more looked like Watson in his light suit and moustache, though the accent and manners were that of Charlie, an uneasy overlay that unsettled and comforted me in turns. However, I began to wonder if I would ever wholly see my friend again as the voyage went on. The paler skin darkened quickly until he once more looked like the thin tired man I had met in the chemistry lab at Stamford's instigation.
I will not deny that the voyage was a difficult one. The past three years of travel had accustomed me to certain conditions, none of which were suitable on the ship. For example, we none of us could sleep the first few nights of the voyage. Though the first class stateroom had two quite tolerably comfortable berths and a settee that Neils slept upon we were still too far out of reach of each other, accustomed as we were to being able to simply reach out a hand to locate the other, sleeping arrangements that had saved our skin more than once. We had eventually given in and dragged the mattresses to the floor to be closer to the boy and each other. I recall with painful joy the one evening when, after too much port and a macabre conversation with an odd American, I was urged into a more peaceful sleep by Watson's dear voice and hand, though he was gone again in the morning.
I did not doubt that I had atoned for my betrayal. I had learned a lot about my dearest friend whilst he was someone else. I had learned that the trust that I extended to him day by day was something that could never be retracted again – no matter the danger we faced. I had learned that placing myself in another's power did not lessen me in any way at all. Watson or Charlie, I was in safe hands no matter what the situation. I had learned to curb some of my more annoying ways – seeing Charlie adopt them had been cringe inducing and it had taken all of my considerable powers of persuasion to ease him out of the worst habits. Charlie had given in grudgingly; in fact I had my work cut out for me in several cases, though the man behind his eyes had been slyly amused.
It was just that I longed for the day that I would look up and see not Charlie McLeod, the extraordinary Scotsman who had befriended me, but John Watson my dearest and most valued friend. It was John Watson that had caught my interest and held it for so long – most men were depressingly transparent to me after a short stretch of time. It was John Watson that had cared enough for his eccentric flatmate to stay through the long hours of doldrums, musical abuse and chemical mayhem. It was John Watson that had taken on the mantle of my well-being, often as not being abused for his kindly attentions.
Perhaps in a way the last three years had taught me what it was to balance a friendship evenly. Our lives in Baker Street had been unbalanced – even the times that I had been concerned for the health and well-being of my friend those concerns had stemmed somehow from my work, whilst his concern for me had been daily and never ending. Though I had acted several times to protect him from danger, he had risked far more than I ever had to keep me safe.
At first, I had longed to see my friend because I had been lonely. Now I longed to see him simply because I had missed him so these last years. My two years of grief had shown me how much I truly valued John Watson the man; the following three years had taught me how to merge myself with the strengths and weaknesses of another. I was sure that with John Watson at my side once more I could apply those lessons learned to blend the two of us into one seamless, unstoppable team. I no longer needed the artificial stimulus of drugs to tame the wildness of my mind, the monks and Charlie had taught me to control those demons. I no longer needed the stimulus of crime to engage my senses, Charlie had taught me to see the world in a much finer level of detail than I had ever thought possible. If that was how John Watson had seen the world all the time, no wonder he did not observe the same things that I did – he was inundated with information!
I longed to tell him that I understood – that I missed him and needed his return. I could not, however. I had agreed through my silent complicity all those years ago that it was up to Watson to return when he wished… now I had to possess myself with patience until he did so.
Unfortunately, despite their best teachings, even the monks in Tibet had failed to significantly expand my store of patience.
0o0o0o0
Grit those teeth, LeBeau… good things come to those who wait!