Chapter III
The next morning I rose as late as the solemn ache in my limbs would allow, my temples stinging of stale resentment, the streaks of hunger pains in my gut swelling to proportions to which I could no longer ignore. In my slumber I had dug myself pensively within the bedclothes, which lay heaped upon my coiled form like piles of a fresh upheaval earth. Stirring, I cocked my head from beneath an endearing flap of blanket. My eyelids drew upon a glorious sight, the entire room bathed in the golden radiance of a morning caught in the premature birth of spring. I fully expected my windows to yawn open in in accordance to their own, breathing a heavenly scatter of cherry blossom across the floor; the scent of my imagination so divine, for a fragile moment I lost myself in the moment, a lethargic grin plastered upon my ruddy cheeks. The crackle and hum of the kitchen below me aroused keen interest, and tumbling from the mattress, I ventured outward, in to the new day.
The house was unusually quiet for a pert morning, save from the distant bustle and crack of whips from the rousing London yonder, and of course the feathered steps of the maid that pattered like the indifferent paws of felines. The door to Holmes' room was widely open, gaping almost, and from the corner of my eye I regarded the looming towers of books stacked high upon the floor, the flurry of papers collected together in unkempt piles, that were any mortal hand to touch, would presume the clutter to be of a mind as strewn as the eccentric disarray. Perhaps they would be correct in that assumption, aside from the fact that such a man was as brilliant as he was so deeply intolerable to a tidied room. It was odd that his door was left open, as he despised the meddle of persons in his business, albeit endeavouring my opinion on occasion, when the fancy took him.
In fact it was I who he solely allowed in.
Fearing the wrath of Sherlock Holmes may come down upon our tormented maid like the hull of an iron sailship, I hastily closed the door with a wicked clatter, my clammy palm reducing the valour of my grip, and for a moment I fumbled, fazed. My head felt wrapped in folds of cotton, as though I were still reeling from the effect of that dismally swallowed scotch, and turning I made my way down the lucid stairwell that dipped and rose as my lumbered feet commanded. A giddiness warmed within me, though my hoarse throat begged for a cup of sweetened tea, I was at rest, spurred by the optimism of the hustling morning. The rich aroma of simmering bacon swam over me as I reached the foot of the stairwell, uplifting my already splendid mood at the thought of a proper meal; my wry stomach growled its agreement.
I sat myself down at the dining table, a sole place laid for me, and a startling array of eagerly glistening food awaiting upon spry trays of gleaming silver, upon dowry china laden with borders of finely painted ribbon. I smiled, so lovingly the meal had been arranged, quite reminiscent of a proud mother preparing breakfast for her doted children, and I comfortably sat, flattening a napkin across my thighs. As if on cue, the maid entered, a kettle held gingerly between two gloved and docile hands, and poured the readily brewed tea in to a cup, which she then handed to me, her poise polite, her smile jejune. She was a young, fair girl of eighteen at least, with skin no paler or softer that the petals of infant rosebuds, her hair spilling from her cap in wispy blond tendrils. Her eyes were large and periwinkle blue, and often her rose lips were pursed, pouting, as if she were embroiled with questions that she daren't ask. She resembled a doll in many respects, in her reserved approach and her insipid beauty.
Upon her first arrival I was at first utterly spellbound by her, unlike I had been by any other woman I had been acquainted with in the past. Her employment had come soon after the unexpected departure of our last maid, who, fleeing the residence without so much as a word to the tenants, had claimed that the bouts of emphatic violin rehearsal in the dreary hours of early morning and her subsequent banishment from Holmes' quarters when she complained of this, had driven her to take up a position elsewhere. I myself was vaguely surprised it had taken the wretched woman so long to tire completely of Holmes' concise profile of madness, and felt inclined to mention that at the very least, he had not caused her to inflict bodily harm upon him, to which he deserved absolutely. He made habit of grieving that woman, and to some extent continues this now upon the girl in our current employment. Perhaps even more so, as my infatuation with her had distracted my attention from a case, and that had left a seed of dislike growing within my companion, that as of late had come to hostile flowers. His animosity toward her unnerved me, for she was a lovely creature, as any man would notice. Queer as it were, Holmes took no notice of her whatsoever.
And queerer still, Sherlock Holmes had certainly taken notice of me.
"Is the breakfast to your liking, Monsieur?" the maid asked leniently, in her timid broken English, unsettling me.
I dabbed my mouth with a corner of my napkin and thoughtlessly nodded, preoccupied with easing the choleric pains of my stomach. She smiled and glided to the far end of the dining table, to the chair that was normally harbouring my dear companion, and that now spoke to me sorely of emptiness, of a hovering thought that I rejected in favour of particularly urgent desires.
"By chance have you seen my companion this morning, Rosalie?" I inquired once a dry mouthful sank down my throat. Her stance instantaneously stiffened, and for a moment her eyes brazenly closed, as though she were quite distressed by the mention of my colleague. I have mentioned that the tones between them were not as abundantly peachy as desired, but seeing her pallid hands curl to quivering fists that shook at her sides, I admit I was rather bemused, and wished I had not cited Holmes to her at all. Then she reopened her eyes and the delightful hue returned to her cheeks; she inhaled sharply before replying.
"I am afraid I have not, Monsieur," said she, stroking the varnished surface of the table with a tatter of rag. "Perhaps you should ask Mademoiselle Hudson. She would know more of Monsieur Holmes' comings and goings than I."
"Is that so? Then perhaps she could tutor me in deciphering Mr. Holmes' thoughts," I muttered indistinctly in to my teacup, draining the last of the golden-tinted water as the conclusion of the meal. Thus I folded the napkin and placed it neatly beside my plate, my manners intact in spite of my recent discontentment, and motioned toward the door to quietly leave, when the maid straightened sharply, a contorted frown upon her seraphic features, an ambiguous hand thrown out in front of her, indicating to the space I resided only mere seconds ago. I coyly watched, my head titled.
"Is there something you wish to tell me?" I attentively inquired, though to no point, for my question was answered by a thrust of paper landing in the center of my chest, the maid offering me a faintly crumpled envelope at arms length, the tips of her cheekbones engulfed in a flush of chagrin rouge. As I turned the powder blue paper between my fingers, wonderfully silken beneath my touch, my lips parted to ask of her apparent discomfort, but when my eyes lifted from the strange letter- the very same that Holmes had left upon my chest of drawers after our brief discussion late last eve - I found myself alone beside the table, the dishes vanished from their placement by a soundless spirit.
To say I was not shaken by her aggravated depart would be a crude understatement, and for a moment I stood speculating the meaning of the gesture, as if I were a sleuth in my own right. But I was not; currently, I was a poorly dressed, sufficiently fed and profoundly troubled doctor who was neglecting his research for self-indulgent misery, and this thought above else displeased me most. Never have I been so entangled with such peculiar woes as these, with such persistence and lewd contemplation. In retrospect, however, nor have I ever been this intricately engrossed with such an individual as I have, and will forever be, with Sherlock Holmes. And still I wished for the black formation of these thoughts to pass with the spill of sunshine that illuminated the sitting room as I ventured in. Spreading out upon the lavish velveteen sofa, head propped upon the pillows, I peered through the large, observant windows that ran alongside the opposite wall, analysed the familiar romp of patrons marching up and down Baker Street on their daily excursions, and from where I lounged the sun was hot and pleasant on my face.
Between my hands the envelope remained, held to my palm by the sharp dip of my thumb, stiffened now by practice, and lifting it toward me I inspected the script. It simply read my professional title and our address, supplying no clues to the author or the nature of the letter. The paper itself was close to crumbling at my touch, dainty and partially translucent. I was fascinated by it, as I remarked outloud to myself in the quiet of the sitting room that there had been only one place where I had seen such paper used before.. but that today was a cordial memoir, a fixture of the past long since forgotten in my memory, of a self that I once knew well.. but for the life of me could not understand.
"Is that not what youth is?" I smiled to myself, fully aware that Holmes' had remarked to me - on several inappropriate occasions - that this frivolous habit of speaking outloud to oneself would someday show me up to be a madman.
"You do realise, Watson, that a tendency to engage oneself in conversation is a token of the mentally ill," a smooth, condescending voice echoed from the hallway, followed by the faint shut of the door. The voice grew louder as my colleague joined me in the sitting room, stalking past me to stand before the gargantuan wall of bookshelves, running an absent finger along the precocious spines.
"However, I would not fully insist that you see a professional unless you begin to answer the questions to which you asked."
Evidently discovering the desired book, he nimbly plucked it from the shelf, and turned to me with a vacant grin. The sudden appearance had confounded me, and at once my heart began to throb restlessly. My hand closed protectively around the letter, and I was foolish to believe this minute action escaped the notice of the ingenious detective. Regardless, he chose to toy with me.
"Ah, I see you have the letter that came for you. How delightful," his fingertips ran submissively over the thick wedge of pages. His arrogant smile spoke volumes. "Perhaps from an old regiment comrade, or by perchance an associate from your schooling days..? Most likely the latter, as the make of pap--"
"What am I to you, Holmes? An expendable plaything?" I suddenly burst, my voice climbing though hoarse, my chest clutched in the agonies of seizing anger; a fury so pure and so ravenous that my hands were bound tightly to fists, fingernails drawing pain as they dug senselessly in to the flesh cushion of my palm.
"You know perfectly well of the letter's origin, having collected it yourself, and still you plauge me with your useless knowledge as if I were as ignorant as a child! Please desist!"
Holmes scanned me with an agile eye, and lightly cocked an eyebrow, which simply indulged my temper, and then moved swifter than I have ever seen him do so before. In a matter of moments I was pinned against the sofa, one writhing hand either side of my head, with Holmes' weight crushing my chest, restricting my ragged breath. He brought his face very close to mine, the ashen visage contemptuously cold in contrast to my haggard, flourished skin, and firmly his flaxen fingers were pressed to my jaw, guiding my chin upward, to meet his serritipous eye line. I fought him, deafened by the crescendo of blood pulsing beyond my ear drum, and was flabbergasted, irreverently struck, when Holmes' ghostly lips shyly skimmed my mouth. Our struggle ended immediately; I was a placid doll, no breath drawn in by my petrified lungs, gazed unblinking at the curtly smiling man above me.
"My, my," Holmes remarked, shaking his head with a churlish bounce of dark curls. "I forget of that wicked temper of yours."
"You.. are the most atrocious man whom I have ever had the misfortune to know," I barely whispered, a tide of godawful tears threatening to spill and reduce to me to the level of Holmes' audacious farce. Brusquely I turned my head away, my jaw clenched in the most despairingly painful ways, my lips moist and quivering, distracted by his profuse bodily warmth, his wonderful exotic flavour ripe, lusciously novel at the beckoning of his grinning lips. I squirmed, simultaneously infuriated and enticed.
"You always were a man of flattery, Watson," sighed he, retrieving his desired book from where he had discarded it on the floor, and tucking it beneath the length of a sinewy arm, soon strode from the sitting room to leave me at peace. It was only when I heard the tedious pad of his leather boots ascend the stairs that I groaned outwardly, flinging my arms above my head and burying my face within the dour comfort of a velveteen slip. My exuberant lack of comprehension had once again foiled me, made myself the ardent fool of my companion's lavish cabaret, and this daunting aspect left me reeling, such like that sweet, penchant kiss, that deadened by senses and filled me with a complex unknown to my studies of psychological trait.
I had all but forgotten the paper, plastered to my clammy palm in my scarce grip, and sighing meticulously I dismantled the flimsy envelope and drew out the breadth of parchment that laid within. Unfolding the laboriously creased paper, I squinted at the small inscription, and after a brusque moment I recognized the script to be that of a man I had not seen, or heard from, in an ample amount of years. It filled my heart with pure delight to read the garbled note he had forged. It simply read:
Dear John,
My dear boy! Has it truly been twelve years since we last exchanged words? I hear you have become quite the talk of the academic confederacy, especially considering your choice of partner.
I take it you have been infiltrated in to the seedy world of crime? I dearly hope not!
If it takes your fancy, I propose we meet for tea and discussion.
You do still remember the address of my estate, do you not?
Come any time after 1 o'clock; it is then I will be at home to see you, if you wish.
Sincerly, Dr. Christopher William Riley.
Checking the face of the elderly grandfather clock, I surveyed that it had just gone past 11 o'clock of this fair morning. Rising from my place on the sofa, I absently tidied the mess of strewn cushions Holmes and I had made, and curtly made my way to the hall. The maid was kneelt beside the door, a scrubbing brush in her paltry fist and a pail at her elbow, and as I brushed past her, she cocked her head toward me expectantly, her doll-like expression piqued with interest, her blond lashes aflutter. Nearly ignoring her in my coherent rapture I turned quizzically on my heel, meeting her with a smile sewn with glee.
"Rosalie, promptly run me a bath, and if you would, collect my dining attire from the tailor some minutes' walk from here and prepare it for half past twelve," I ordered, rubbing my palms together in a gesture of impatience. She jumped to her feet, the pail hung from her hands; she silently questioned my enthusiasm.
"Of course, Monsieur, right away. Is there any thing else?"
"Yes," I answered in a hushed tone, one hand planted steadily upon the gleaming curve of the banister. "Do not tell Mr. Holmes of the hour of my leave. It is not necessary for him to know of my appointments unless I have told him. Understood?"
With a cautious glance she nodded, and wove past me in heed of the kitchen, the kittenish dab of her feet echoing across the dull tiles of the kitchen. Supine silence followed, to which I could almost weep, as the thought of reacquainting myself with the old, wiley dog that was my good friend Christopher Riley burst from me like song. I bounded the stairs in my hast, surveillant of a lecherous ear that may of overheard the prior conversation, but to my pleasure found nothing but the welcome solace of my quarters, where I found myself humming a mirthful tune.
Nor did I pay a morsel of attention to Holmes' door, as it was perfectly still, albeit a fraction ajar. Just wide enough, as it were, for a skilled ear to eavesdrop.
"A man should not strive to eliminate his complexes but to get into accord with them, for they are legitimately what directs his conduct in the world."
- Sigmund Freud