chapter 9
life in london

Over the next few weeks, I had the good fortune to see Holmes much more frequently than I had before. I did not return to Baker Street, for I felt uncomfortable about calling there again, despite Watson's assertions that Holmes would not be offended. But I soon learned there were other places where the great detective was prone to turning up. On several occasions, Dr. Watson took the entire family for a refreshing stroll in the park, and we ran into Holmes who was striding past energetically in a top hat. He always seemed to be going somewhere, but always took time to stop and chat with us for a few moments. Watson's little son Charlie was exceedingly fond of Mr. Holmes, and he would often snatch the little chap off his feet when he wasn't expecting it, and swing him through the air until he shrieked with giggles.
Another time we were attending the latest museum exhibit, containing several fascinating artifacts brought back from a recent trip to Africa. We ran into Holmes in the hall, who said he was in-between visiting clients and had dropped by to see the exhibit.
"But the facts are all wrong, Watson," he exclaimed adamantly to his friend. "Their method of dating the artifacts is exceedingly clumsy. Perhaps I might accompany you all for the rest of your visit, and explain the actual facts of the matter."
On more than one occasion, he actually came to the Watson's residence for dinner. I was surprised at this, but the doctor assured me that Holmes had become far less Bohemian in his treatment of the Watson family since the time of "The Engineer's Thumb," in which Watson had written that Holmes had to be "persuaded" to pay them any visits.
I couldn't help but notice that Holmes talked to me a good deal during these little visits, but I refused to flatter myself that it had anything to do with me. Doubtless the Watson's often grew tired of his constant digressions into the theory of crime, and he was glad to find anyone else who was a willing listener. I was exceedingly interested in all he said about his detective methods, and I got to hear about numerous fascinating cases that never made it into the canon. I even had the chance to ask him several questions I had always wondered about the canonical stories. Often, though, our conversations delved into music and our likes and dislikes thereof. Sometimes I was even able to draw him into the subjects of philosophy and literature, although I knew he was not usually accustomed to talk about those things. It was very funny, though also sobering, to hear his opinions of what he had observed of 21st-century entertainment. I was becoming aware, as never before, of how low public standards of morality and decency had fallen since the Victorian era.
As I grew more and more accustomed to Holmes' company, I found myself opening up to him as I had to almost no one else since the death of my parents. I told him what he hadn't already figured out about my work at the college, about my happy memories of growing up in midwestern America, even about some stories I had written, the convoluted plots of which I had trouble getting anyone else to listen to. He in turn amused me greatly with stories of he and Mycroft, when they were growing up in the English countryside. I reflected that we had not yet met Holmes' reclusive brother, and wondered if we would ever see him during our stay here.
The peace of our first week in London continued on, with only one unpleasant event to mar the holiday spirit. It occurred one evening as Mary, Jeanette, and I were in the sitting room, Charlie playing with some wooden blocks at our feet. Mary was teaching us how to do some embroidery, an occupation that was new to both of us (although Jeanette was an avid knitter) and we were both enjoying it very much. As the clock struck six, Dr. Watson entered the room with a cheerful greeting. Mary ran to greet him with a hug, and Charlie, gabbling baby talk, ran over to his father with a wooden block in hand. As the trio stood before the window, momentarily framed by the last rosy rays of sunlight, something about the way they looked reminded me of an old home video I had watched of my parents and me when I was a toddler. Instantly, I was plunged into vivid memories of the first few months after my parents' death, when I would shut myself up for hours on end in the guest bedroom of Uncle Oakes' house, playing through home videos over and over, choking with unrestrained sobs as I tried to mentally re-create the parents I would never see on earth again.
"Why, Shirley, dear, whatever is the matter?" cried Mary, seeing that my eyes were dripping with sudden tears.
"Nothing, Mrs. Watson, nothing," I stuttered, ashamed to be crying like this in front my kind hosts. "Please excuse me." I evaded the concerned gazes of all three of my friends, and fled from the sitting room into the corridor. But I did not make it far before Mary and Jeanette caught up with me. They did not speak a word, but each took one of my hands and waited for me to stop crying.
"I'm sorry," I said, when I had dried my eyes. "It's just that...Mrs. Watson, I don't know if Mr. Holmes told you about it, but my parents died in a car accident almost three years ago. Well, by my time that is. And when I saw you and the doctor and your little child it just reminded me--" my throat choked up and I couldn't finish the sentence.
"Don't be sorry, my dear," said Mary very gently. I saw that Jeanette was looking teary-eyed as well. I knew she missed my parents almost as much as I did. Before the disruptive accident, Oakes and Roger Ingham and their families had been very close.
We both calmed down, though, as Mary whispered a quiet prayer for us. "You might talk to Mr. Holmes about this one day, Shirley," she said when she had finished. "Did you know that he, too, lost both his parents when he was about your age? Their end was very tragic indeed, although he isn't permitted to speak about the particulars, since it involved a secret government mission to which Mr. Holmes' father had been assigned. I know he still misses them both very much. I never had the pleasure of meeting them, but from what he has told Watson and me, they seemed to be very exceptional people indeed."
"Thank you, Mrs. Watson," I said, managing a smile. "Maybe I will, one day."
But after that there came a string of days with very bad weather that prevented us from going anywhere or seeing anyone, although Watson stalwartly ventured out to tend to his patients. One stormy, humid evening, little Charlie was becoming very rambunctious due to not having been outside for several days. After he had broken one of Mary's favorite vases and finally been sent to bed, Mary turned to her husband and said, "I daresay, John, that if we don't get out of the house for a bit of fun soon, we shall all go quite mad! I wonder if there is anything of interest going on in town this week?"
As a matter of fact, it turned out that there was an elegant ball being held downtown. The Watson's had not been planning to attend, but as a special treat for their visitors, Mary persuaded the doctor to take us all. Jeanette and I were thrilled, though I was a little nervous, at the prospect of attending a real Victorian ball. But Mary calmed my nerves by giving the pair of us hasty dancing lessons in the upstairs hall (much to the delight of Charlie, who capered around with us on his chubby little legs) and by lending us two of her nicest gowns for the evening. On the day of the ball, the weather cleared up beautifully, and the four of us set forth in a carriage under a crystal-clear moon.
"I tried to persuade Holmes to come with us," said Watson as we rumbled along, "But he was far too busy with that case of his."
"That's a shame," said Mary, and the conversation turned to other matters.
I looked out the window feeling a sense of disappointment. Well, what did you expect? I asked myself. Sherlock Holmes at a fancy ball? Come on, Shirley.