Chapter II
I returned home quite soon after the late lamp lighters had scurried down from the depthless, swooning poles and the oily flames flickered dully, becomingly, as they lit the shady length of Baker Street, the greying pavement softly shadowed under the cape of night. My gullet was seized by the giddy hands of the queer sensation that precluded drunkenness, and would still be hauntingly empty, had it not been for the suggestion of the hansom driver I had mutely spoken to on my short journey some hours ago. Yet the time had already begun to slip from me as I entered the drab bar, a coyly dressed practitioner of medicine like myself becoming a terrible eyesore in a gloomy place, be it a suitable tavern for crushed souls to drown their erroneous loneliness in charmless spirits. Alcohol loved and nurtured unlike any woman or mother ever could, numbing the mind of the perilous ebb of pain that is accustomed now in our modern way of life. The greed and poverty and lust for excitement of our age often renders some blind of morals, therefore, indulging in a destructive habit was a natural compromise, leverage for the damaged psyche. I was simply doing as nature intended.
Though still this poorly thought theory provided no real comfort, no real substance except providing an illusion to dismiss my anger and, once satisfied with my consumption, I left a handful of coins upon the bar and left, quite promptly, in order to gather my thoughts. I perceived now as my footfalls shakily echoed through-out the dormant allure, both my pockets had become quite light. I, as you know, am a man of medical persuasion, and counterpart to one of the most complex, phenomenal, and ruefully aggravating minds the world has ever come upon. And though I meet my own conclusions with the aide of both logic and empathy, it appeared to me utterly astounding, that Holmes would want to do anything quite like that to me.
At first, I wondered that maybe I had simply been subject to one of his numerous social experiments (to which I was periodically horrified, humiliated and always, always clueless), but that thought had been subtly rejected after reminiscing over the serene pleasure I had seen beneath the cold vernier of his eyes. The mild brush of lips vaguely cooler than my own, drier yet fleshier than expected, the musky scent of his breath; that above all else lingered in my nostrils, a vapour stubbornly attached to the memoir. Once that memory provoked me, I felt the warmth return to my cheeks, and flushed, I swallowed a hasty mouthful of scotch, poor scotch that it was, to somehow drown out the illicit, perverse notion that pained me so. His gentleness was not uncommon when it concerned my care, and in the past he had made certain that I myself was in perfect comfort before he could rest, and still this precarious event had thrown me for all I was worth. In my staggeringly depraved state I felt unfathomable tears prick my eyes, tears I had not felt in so many years, that I could only pensively gasp, and quickly dab at my eyes, in hope that no wandering eye had come upon this, and flagged me with ridicule.
From the threshold of the stone arch I peered up towards the darkened span of our windows; the sitting room was bathed in darkness completely, which indicated Mrs. Hudson had tended to the fire. I assumed Holmes had already taken to his quarters, had quite possibly locked himself in for the night, a sign that he should not be disturbed, or face dire consequences. Only I and our kind landlady would know of the lengthy, fickle details of those conditions, common to a premature adolescent both in manner and execution. Or, like me, he could have desired to escape from our mutual lodgings for the night and taken up a room somewhere in the sprawl of the wayward city. I knew fully that the latter of these was much less likely, and yet as I let myself in, it was the one thread of hope that I clung to, praying I would not find myself in another tense circumstance this evening. Four million inhabitants occupied this dense and awesome citadel, and I felt the glare of irony look upon me distastefully, as I concluded that the one fellow I did not wish to spend the night, was laying in wait for me.
All thin hopes were soon extinguished, however, as I crudely felt my way up the dim stairwell, my steps wheezy upon the floorboards, cumbersome in stature as they sloppily tumbled over rug and the ground slipped underfoot. I did, however, prevail to reach the landing in my near-sighted, delicate state, and from there I knew the path to my bedroom, even in the dark, as I had traced it a thousand times before. I passed Holmes' closed and stoic door, shamefully avoiding to step closer to it than necessary, for I was aware of the barrage of apprehension that lay behind it. But as my fingers enclosed the brass knob of the door handle, I detected, though very faint, a relic of unusual warmth in the typically frigid metal. This was most of common, primarily as I had requested previously that my room may be left untouched if I were not present within our apartment. The thought chilled me, and for a moment I froze, my hand naturally falling toward a polished silver pistol I kept in the case of a pursuit.
With my foot I eased the door, and to my surprise it lurched ajar, freeing itself from my grasp, and yawned in to the empty room. The shallow disquiet, the passage of shadows eerily still, and the rectangles of faint yellow that were spread across the floor confirmed that my quarters were devoid of intruders. I moved across the room, setting the pistol in to a bedside drawer, petulantly muttering to myself for my puerile fear, and began to undress, my nightgown having been set upon my otherwise bare bedclothes. My hands fumbled with the smooth buttons of my blouse, and for a while I could only squint, and curse, and tug helplessly at the fair garment, as it refused to be stripped from me. Exhausted in my futile attempt I turned toward the window, replacing myself in the spot I had joyfully vacated this afternoon, which by now seemed a ripe, peaceful segment of a day I was rather hoping to forget entirely. My limbs limply hung at my sides, each as heavy and malevolent in nature as lead, and as my fatigue increased I was deliriously slipping in to a dreamlike state, my attention unfocused, my eyelids drooping, while I stood, half clothed, in the still, swarming gloom.
The rapt of knuckles on wood jolted me from my temporary paralysis, and my head jerked toward the interruption. Why it surprised me so to see my dear companion lingering there, dressed in his lush silk dressing gown even at this ungodly hour, his ashen skin illuminated by the wax candle he held cautiously in one hand, I had no clue. My nerves, shot as they were, never failed to calm in the most irritating of manners whenever he stepped in to the room. I sensed the feverish blush rise in my cheeks, as Holmes seemed to content to remain looming in the doorway, his awry visage ample, and most unsettling. The crisp angle of his broad shoulders, thrown back to suit his build, his spine erect, suggested my companion was a tad awkward, and the atmosphere spoke disdainfully of a man walking blithely in to a parlour in which a woman was changing.
"Ah, Watson?" the clarified resonance in his voice had vanished; replaced instead by a sheepish mewl, so shocking the difference, that I had to inch forward slightly to hear him. "Are you quite alright, dear fellow?"
"Holmes! What the devil do you think you're doing, scaring a man half to death! At this hour!"
"I simply heard you moving across the landing with some difficulty. I suspected you may require assistance, as your laboured steps indicated an atypical juxtaposition," said he, in to the shade. "I jumped to the conclusion that you were... injured of some sort."
"I am not," I answered stiffly, my lips burning with the bitter salt of sweat. "Do not worry yourself in future."
A silence fell like an uncomfortable shroud in the slender gap between ourselves. I noticed his eyes abstaining from looking directly at me. Instead they played nonchalantly in the shadows, never once remaining in the same place for a long period of time. I, in my terribly disordered state, did nothing to improve the circumstance, and stood rigidly at the spot beside my bed, still at work at piecing together the exact reason why Holmes had followed me in. I could imagine him vividly, pacing the floorboards of his own room, perhaps a pipe dipped in the corner of his mouth, perhaps a pocket watch of some grandeur seated and ticking contently in his palm. His skin and his eyes peered out through the obscurity, making him seem spirited, a touch ethereal to say the least. He was enthralling, a copious treat for my world-weary eyes.
I suddenly remembered in a churlish flurry of thought that he was the root cause for my current disposition.
"I am quite well, Holmes. There is no need for you to see me to bed. I bid you a satisfactory rest. Goodnight," my voice rang severely, in even my own ears, and for a moment I was certain that a glimpse of some inexplicable emotion crossed his chalky face, but in my ruffled temper I was in no mood to dissect and examine the strange occurrence. My bones wailed to be lost in the amnesiac amenity of sleep, and I agreed wholesomely with them.
"But.. my dear boy, you cannot dismiss my inquiry that simply. We must talk of this. Please, I implore you."
My jaw fell open to challenge this, but evidently surmising my answer, he lifted one finger in which to hush me, and grudgingly I obliged, my arms folded stiffly upon my breast, awaiting the postulated reasoning. Holmes' brows were drawn elaborately over his eyes, and as he peered down the pallid stem of his nose, a lenient aura embalmed within his eyes.
"Watson, I wanted to apologize immediately of our misunderstanding. You know of me and my dubious ways, and I stand here before you not in malice or desperation, but as sincere as a child. I beg your forgiveness," his head turned away slightly, and his tone thinned to a timid whisper.
"To see you gaze at me with such.. revolt, I.. do not know quite what to do with myself."
In a matter of moments he had drawn close to me, his hand grasping my shoulder quite tightly in its embrace, his long, dexterous fingers trembling quite suddenly, as though the vehemence of his words had required every inch of his physical fibre to conduct. His lean frame inadvertently pressed nearer, as though the snout of a insistent bloodhound, the flame now placed at my bedside, forgotten, as my companion gazed intently at me. Dryly his gaze washed over me, and I mirrored his actions; he drank in my loathesome appearance, the collar of my blouse hung open, exposing my neck and a narrow slither of chest. I warily threw my eyes askew, wrought with despair, and my hand lifted to brush sullenly at his.
"I reiterate. I wish to be alone. Tonight.. by my antics, I have reasoned I made that quite clear."
His eyes narrowed, oily pupils thinned to the points of pinpricks, and by a clamour of a sigh he released me with an obvious reluctance. I close to fainted as his touch left me, but my agile military flare still held strong and solid, the base that had been supporting the rather unpredictable dilemmas I tiresomely found myself facing. Respecting my impatiently made wishes, Holmes at once turned on his heel, noiselessly leaving me to my own devices, in the disrupted tranquility of my room. He hesitated in vain at the door, a graceful eye thrown over his shoulder, his profile stark and every morsel as elegant as that of royal blood. A remarkable, and frequently insufferable trait of his, was to effortlessly impress me, even when I was on the worst of terms with the sleuth.
"I forgot to mention," he said, fishing in to the pocket of his dressing gown."This came for you before noon."
He retrieved a powdery blue envelope and held it apprehensively between his savoury fingers. He tensed, possibly speculating whether to hand it to me himself, before thinking twice and flattening it upon a stack of papers on my desk. I batted a hand aimlessly at him.
"I will see to such things tomorrow, and not a moment before. Goodnight, Holmes."
"Goodnight, Doctor. Dream pleasantly," he softly called, and disappeared in to the corridor, the faint click of the latch following his departing steps. If I were to listen closely, I would then hear the latch of his own door, the exhalation of air as he moved within his quarters, and the lack of further noise, which made itself clear that he had seated himself, and would probably not move for the remainder of the night. My ears were pricked as though expecting the treacherous scrape of his violin to fill the house with the melancholic nothingness they did offer; but I was met only by cruel silence, the thing I had wished for so passionately, but instead rued, despised in fact. Desperately I wanted those crooked, sharp notes which had driven me to distraction. If I could guess at one thing that Sherlock Holmes inspired in me, it would be conflict. Of the senses, of the emotions, of the mind. So very deeply.
I felt something odd move within me as his footfalls died away, at his last words of the evening as they hung like an unpleasant odor in the air, cloyingly so. I fell immediately in to bed, wrapping myself beneath the cotton veil of my bedsheets, at once at ease in the wombing sensation. The walls leaned in oppressively, as did Holmes' withdrawing notion fall suffocatingly upon my chest. I sighed, having no choice but to push such matters from my mind, as they persisted to buzz and infest my waking moments. I pondered how such a prime example of a man, both in succession and, not to pride myself, acclaim, be so catastrophically confounded by something as insignificant as a token of affection? Was it truly such a thing to become so meagerly obsessed with? Was it worth throwing the comfortable lifestyle one had become accustomed to, or the bond me and my companion deeply shared?
I was at a loss with my own selfish nature, and for a second time this evening my vision was blurred by a brim of freshly brewed tears, and in the solitude of my own room, I allowed them to trickle freely down my nose and chin. I grimly wiped my face with the cuff of my blouse, clutching at my temples, only removing my damp fingers once the dull ache had begun to fade, as lassitude dug its talons in to me, and I was soon drowsy, listless as a sedated patient. All thought left me like the unfettered leaves scattered across the lanes once the trees had shed them, as whimiscal as nature could be.
As the flame flickered out by a quickened draft, as did I fall in to a merciful, pathless sleep; the dreamless slumber I hungered for.
"The worst solitude is to be desitute of sincere friendship."
- Francis Bacon.