Sherlock Holmes feels little affinity with friendships, counting John Watson as his only one. Sherlock Holmes is hardly ever wrong, but in this particular case he is more than mistaken, heartbreakingly so.
Sign Three: Philia
"Loyalty is what we seek in friendship."
(Cicero)
"It`s not how many friends you can count, but how many of those you can count on."
(Anthony Liccione)
Three days later
In a Hansom, en route to Great Scotland Yard
In his dealings with the constabulary my friend Sherlock Holmes was often of the opinion that least said, soonest mended. That is, to share only what was absolutely necessary. Many times, Gregson, Lestrade, Simpson, and numerous other members of the Capital's law enforcement consulted with Holmes on matters that required his assistance. This happened fairly frequently- "Whenever they are out of their depth – which is always – they consult me."- yet Holmes was often less than forthcoming with cases that had come his way privately. I was, therefore, a little surprised to learn of our destination, and to discover that Detective Inspector Lestrade himself was accompanying us on a visit to the Limehouse Quayside to (presumably) shed more light upon the dreadful business of the SS Appledore.
I was also soon to learn that Holmes had not been idle.
"There were traces of opium everywhere on the ship, Watson," he mused, fingers drumming restlessly atop his walking stick , as if attempting to hasten the journey. "It was clearly being used to import opiates as well as its African captives."
"You know it was slaves, then? "
"It was not used for transporting convicted criminals, since their shackles would never have been fixed so close together. It seems the rules governing criminals of this country do not stretch to the enslaved. The numbers, too, Watson; branded into the planks of the hold. The crew would have not bothered with names or titles for slaves, just numbers. The decks and compartments had been repaired several times with cimaru, a hardwood native to the tropics, Sumatra in particular, showing that adaptations had been made while the ship was on voyage, picking up its `cargo`. The bottle I found was a brand of rum very specific to a certain area."
"Of the tropics?"
"No, of the East End. This variety is distilled exclusively in Brackshaw`s, on Tierney Street, a mere five minutes' walk from the dock."
"But Holmes, Brackshaw`s is a renowned opium den!"
He shrugs.
"Amongst other things. Lestrade has been rather helpful of late. He has located a small set of rooms in the vicinity of Brackshaw`s and the SS Appledore which have been rented by a certain Mr Edward Norton, husband of one Irene Adler; a man both surplus to requirements and without the most basic sense of self-preservation, demonstrated by his lack of an alias. It was here, Watson, that he felt free to indulge his baser instincts away from his wife and society alumni before his unfortunate and macabre delivery this week."
"Hiding in these rooms would be rather obvious, would it not? Even for such a stupid fellow."
Holmes uttered a humourless huffing noise, illustrating his disdain.
"Such a degree of stupidity as to confound even the most average brain, Watson. No, the man himself will not be there, but I need to see where he has been; more data is needed."
Rhythmic hooves punctuate the silence for several minutes before Holmes breaks from his reverie to comment:
"Lestrade really has proved himself uncommonly useful these past few days. He is indeed the least ineffectual of the Yarders."
I felt a pang at his words and remembered my neglect of this whole affair, owing solely to my increasing workload at the Marylebone Dispensary. The issue of illegal slave trading had haunted my dreams for days, and so any progress in the case was tremendously useful, but still –
"Watson, do not trouble yourself. Your conscience is admirable, but this is my livelihood, not yours, and you must nurture your future prospects at every juncture. Lestrade has found mention in police records that the Captain and several crew members of the SS Appledore have either gone missing or been found dead. I do believe the first mate found his way onto Molly Hooper`s table at Bart's before Christmas. To change a ship's name is regarded as unlucky, but even before the Appledore became the Matilda Briggs , there were relentless whispers in the maritime community that the vessel was cursed."
I chose to ignore his frighteningly accurate summation of my private thoughts.
"Cursed? Surely, in this day and age–"
Holmes leans forward, bringing his pocket book from his inner jacket. Flipping open page after page of his spider-like scrawl, he locates a recent entry with copied insignia, several of which I recognised from the lower decks of SS Appledore.
"These are all talismans, used by the Akhan people of Ghana. They are called Adinkra symbols and are used to express sentiment, as well as to send warnings." His long fingers trace their shapes as he continues.
"These four interlocking curls centred upon a cross are ram`s horns, signifying strength. This was found in the rat sent to Davy Smailes, the bo`sun and chief flogger. The captain's diary tells how he would lay a slave across the windlass, tying his feet and hands before flogging him to within an inch of his life. Mr Smailes was found face down, floating beneath the jetty last Thursday gone."
"My God, Holmes."
He continues, relentless.
"This one, a triangle above a circle, is called Sepo and represents an executioner's knife and justice. It was found in the possessions of Jeremy Smith, ship's surgeon and the man responsible for keeping as many slaves alive as possible during the journey. Large penalties would be incurred if more than one in eighteen died during the crossings, however it was often more than a third. The diary describes the hold, with its loathsome stench, fetid air and near suffocation. Smith would battle pestilence, typhus, and flux, and he and the crew told the slaves that `bad spirits' would kill them if they attempted to fight back. In truth, they were too weak and devastated by disease to take a stand."
I can only shake my head. I knew of such atrocities, but hearing the words spoken of such a recent voyage brought a weight to my chest I could not shift.
"Smith was found half crazed and near death in his lodgings near the wharf and now resides at the Bethel. When they found him, he was still clutching the rat and its contents. Watson, no other crew members have been found, alive or dead. They have fled, presumably afraid for their lives. Mr Norton, I believe, had connections with this ship, else would he have received this warning? Too stupid to have the wherewithal to deal with human cargo, but opium? Much more his glass of tea, I should think."
He leans back into his seat as the cab rounds the corner of Northumberland Avenue and continues to Great Scotland Yard.
"Either way, we shall soon see his lodgings. Let us hope they are more eloquent in their revelations than the man himself is."
~x~
Tierney Street
Limehouse Wharf
East London
Cold night had descended, thick with a layer of creeping, greasy estuary fog making its way up from the river. It was indeed a night for mufflers and lanterns as myself, Holmes and Lestrade (flanked by two constables) crept warily betwixt doss house, tavern and opium den. Few brave souls frequented the area on such an ugly evening, and most had good sense enough to be indoors beside a fireplace.
"If we can find a living witness, this business can be cracked wide open, Mr Holmes- we've had our suspicions about this dock for a number of years… Ah, I think this is the place – break down the door if needed, Johnson."
"No." Holmes had brought out his lock picks, and within a minute we were entering a low ceilinged hallway with peeling paint and a strong stench of damp and... something else.
"Smoke," murmured my friend. "There has been a recent fire."
Bounding up the stairs, we found a small, non-descript bedroom adjoined to a small office, which had the honour of housing the only window in the entire residence. Gloomy and sparsely furnished, papers were piled high on the desk and several empty bottles of rum were perched on various surfaces, silently telling their own sorry tale. Holmes was everywhere at once as we entered the scene. As the constables flanked the lower door, Lestrade and I stood and watched as he took his data from that place, just as you or I would take it from a morning newspaper.
At length he stood, snapping his lens shut and turning to us, mouth grimly set but eyes sparkling. I knew the signs.
"Mr Norton spent the days before his disappearance in a most agitated and anxious state. The blotting paper upon his desk shows a tremulous hand, which was not his customary style, judging by the letters in this pile. There is a worn path of footsteps in the dust leading to the window, all made by Norton himself. The frequent (and recent) scrapings of his chair in the boards below show how often he stood up to check the window. He knew something-or someone-was coming for him. These door locks are obviously new and shards of metal at the base of the window show the recent addition of a stout lock. As if that wasn't enough, you see here, gentlemen, that the window has also been nailed shut. "
He walks over to the grate, crouching down and reaching into the charred fireplace where it is obvious there had been a recent blaze.
"In spite of a full coal scuttle here, Mr Norton chose to burn a great deal of paper rather than trouble its contents. It was not warmth he sought, but secrecy in the destruction of his past."
Holmes then retrieved his notebook once more, flipping to a symbol showing two interlinked diamonds.
"Last week, Mr Edward Norton was sent this symbol enclosed in the belly of a rat, a creature hailing from overseas and that had followed him back home with its warning within. This is Epa, the handcuffs, symbolising bondage. I saw the symbol on the ship, I saw it in his package and I see it here today."
We look across to the grate where, amongst three or four cremated poppy heads, lay two charred pieces of wire, fashioned into interlocking diamonds, glinting in the light of our lamps.
~x~
Two days later
St. Bart`s Mortuary
Holmes had always been quite fond of discounting the truth of coincidence. He would suggest that there were, in fact, no accidents, only logical causations predictable to the trained mind (meaning his own, naturally). Thus, I was perhaps a little more prepared than I might have been as I met Detective Inspector Lestrade in the corridor at Bart's morgue for the third time that week.
"Good afternoon, Doctor." He greeted me quite jovially, all things considered. We had reached an impasse with the case, resulting in my more frequent avoidances of Baker Street whilst a surly Sherlock Holmes paced intermittently amongst the fug of his own tobacco and dark thoughts. As we made our way to the mortuary, Lestrade made polite enquiry regarding my new practice.
"I am finding it challenging, yet rewarding. The company is rather pleasant when I need respite," (here Lestrade nodded sagely) "as Miss Hooper is frequently around to converse with."
To my surprise, I then witnessed a distinct discomfort outlined in his features -he is suddenly a bit ill at ease. He jostles the file beneath his arm and suddenly cannot leave my presence quickly enough, making his excuses and beating a hasty retreat to the Yard. Shaking my head, I enter the swing doors of the morgue to seek out the lady in question. She has been granted permission to assist in the re-autopsy of the bo' sun, Davy Smailes, and promised a most copious set of notes regarding the tissue samples. As desirous as Holmes had been to retrieve them personally, I had suggested that his latest black mood and lapse into tobacco might be less than impressive to a woman of Miss Hooper`s gentility.
"Watson," he had replied to this, "Molly slices corpses and lances pustules on a daily basis; her gentility would be quite compromised were she such a delicate flower." And despite his ill-humour, an approving glint appeared in his eye, and the shadow of a smile across his lips. "I thank the Lord that she is not."
Nevertheless, I was glad to take the errand and pleased to see her scribbling away at a desk in the corner rather than elbows deep in some poor soul's chest cavity. As ever, she appeared thrilled to see me and insisted on a recount of our progress in the case and a full reportage on the current humour of my flat-mate.
"Best avoided," was my wry response, earning a twitch of the corner of her mouth. "Unlike Detective Inspector Lestrade, it would seem. Three times I have witnessed him in these corridors- I had no idea he liaised first hand with the mortuary here."
Molly Hooper`s large dark eyes widen slightly as she nods.
"Goodness, yes, I have seen much of Mr Lestrade of late. He is the most thorough breed of policeman and I quite see how Sherlock trusts him- more than the others, in any case. Inspector Lestrade has had cause to share some case notes with me on several occasions this week, and he values my opinion, which is a marvellous thing for a doctor so inexperienced as I."
"Indeed it is," I agree, recalling Lestrade's earlier reaction and attempting to repress a slowly burgeoning theory that had been nudging at my skull. "Have you been able to shed light upon those cases?"
She turns, sighing ruefully.
"I would think not, Doctor. I am a hopeless ingénue in the ways of criminal medicine. He was very charming, however, speaking of his family in Dorset, and his plans to take a wife when the time is right. A very dear man, to encourage my career when his own time is so limited."
As I doffed my bowler and bid her farewell, I had good cause to contemplate recent events.
In truth, it seemed Holmes was right- the universe was far from lazy after all.
~x~
Great Scotland Yard
Later that day
If only the blasted case was going as well as I'd like it to, I'd have myself a little distraction, see? If the case down at Limehouse was turning up an over-privileged drug smuggler and a boat load of slave runners, I'd be kicking my height, impressing both the Commissioner and Sherlock Holmes in one fell swoop, wouldn't I? But the case isn't going well; there has been no sign of Edward Norton, and the autopsy on the bo`sun threw up nothing new regarding the cause of death, bar the rictus scowl on the body when it was found (attesting to the fanciful notion of Davy Smailes being scared to death).
Oh, I know Mr Holmes is up and running with his theory of a `cursed' ship, but I find my comfort in good, old fashioned police work, which can take time, and has little tolerance for fanciful notions.
In that same vein…
I blame Mr Sherlock Holmes for a fair few brickbats that come my way in my line of work. He is a great man, but can sometimes act in a way which makes us forget that he is a good one. He has the ideas, no-one can deny that, and his processes of deduction (as fanciful as they can appear) have helped us unravel many a case Gregson or I would have deemed unsolvable. However, his unorthodox methods of approaching a case and (frankly) blatant disregard for police procedure, staffing, or chain of command have led to some rather uncomfortable discussions with the Yard Commissioner of an evening, where tempers have oft been frayed to the last thread. In addition, I also lay the blame for my current predicament at the door of Mr Holmes, since it was he who decided to take Miss Margaret Hooper under his wing – make her his protégé, if you will – thus bringing her to my attention. Since noticing Miss Hooper, you see, I have been able to think of little else. Her kindness, beauty, skill, and perfect gentility have fairly knocked the wind out of the sails of a man who swore he wouldn't be bound by the constraints of matrimony. Despite the lady`s insistence on entering such an ugly, man`s world, she is quite the most fragrant flower in the nasty, grime-filled piece of London slime that is my line of work. Truthfully, I fear I have not been able to keep away these last few days, since she has been quite the soothing balm on these grey and gritty winter days. For someone like Sherlock Holmes to express such a profound interest in the her potential lets me know what a rare and precious find she is, fallen on ill-luck since the death of her parents and doing her best to struggle through life alone. She is a gentle creature that must be protected and nurtured, see? Gregory Lestrade may not be titled or landed gentry, but he knows how to care for a woman, especially one who may have cause to become his lifelong companion.
I had always believed that marriage wasn't for me (not my division, you might say), but it seems I`m a bit of a fool for love, and Miss Margaret Hooper may soon find that her troubles could be over.
~x~
The very next evening
Fieldgate Street, Whitechapel
The Six Bells Public House
I must admit that I do enjoy drinking here, even after that nasty business a few years ago. People don`t forget, but I'm a local in these parts, and I won't be cowed by no murderer, no matter how famous he might be. Tobias Gregson usually makes mention to join me but most times has some distraction due to his domestic situation, so it makes quite a nice change to have him here, drinking his porter and easing himself into the snug`s best settle opposite the crackling fire.
"Mrs Gregson at her mother`s I take it?"
"Oh, absolutely, Lestrade, and I`m surely making the most of it!"
He grins his huge, ruddy faced grin as he takes a sup of ale, gathering a halo of foam about his gingery whiskers for his trouble.
"And you, my lovelorn lad? Has the delightfully fragrant Miss Hooper given you her hand yet? This time next year, it might be you confined to hearth and home of an evening, kneeling at the feet of our favourite lady doctor!"
Used as I am to his ribald, Gaelic humour, I am chagrined to discover an ugly heat of embarrassment creeping across my cheeks- confound the Scottish buffoon and his roughshod ways!
As it happened, that day I had visited Miss Hooper on legitimate Yard business, as Sanderson, one of our pathologists, had mislaid some of her notes and replacements were required. And, seeing as things had been a little quiet … (and I happened to be passing by)…
Approaching the door of the mortuary, I determined upon a little rehearsal. Although used to speaking to a roughened bunch of constables and sergeants on a regular basis, I often felt a little unpractised in conducting a conversation of a more genteel disposition. Previously, we had quickly exhausted the topics of weather, work and general health, and I wished to have more stimulating topics (without being overly familiar, of course) with which to impress her. The approaching Diamond Jubilee of our dear Queen; the price of coal in the inner city this winter; brass band concerts in the Marylebone Gardens; who would be elected Mayor in the upcoming elections… the list was promising, and I felt sure the lady would find a topic to her taste. I found myself in the (admittedly ridiculous) position of standing outside of the mortuary door, contemplating my opening words (and her responses) when I became aware of a sound coming from within. A low murmur of voices, culminating in a restrained rumble of laughter. I became a little concerned – who would be finding humour in a mortuary?
Water was running and the metallic clang of metal clashing into wood momentarily cut through the rest. A familiar resonance reached my ears; that of a revolving coin or metal object coming to rest in a gradually less and less agitated manner, until it was entirely still. A split second was allowed before another murmuration of restrained laughter ensued, lighter and feminine this time, and I decided to open the door and offer my assistance, whether or not it was needed.
The click and creak of the old door did much to announce my presence should any skulduggery be in the offing, but in the event, I was astonished and pleased to see both Miss Margaret Hooper and Mr Sherlock Holmes, attending to note-taking and microscoping in various parts of the laboratory. No trespassers nor ne`er do wells to trouble people going about their daily business.
"Ah, Lestrade, I sincerely hope you come with a signed confession from our missing gentleman smuggler."
Mr Holmes appeared at home as ever in the laboratory, his apparel immaculate (bar a tiny conflagration of his cravat which, having caught my eye-line, he then adjusted). I have rarely seen a gentleman better turned out, you see, and I was more than happy to see him in a better humour this day.
I shook my head in regret and outlined my request for Miss Hooper. I noted her skin to be flushed, her eyes sparkling and a tendril of hair to be escaping from her chignon, yet she looked more beautiful than I recalled from even the day before, and it was all I could do to retain my professional demeanour.
Before she was afforded chance to reply, Mr Holmes was swift to exhibit his opinion of Sanderson`s professionalism in the form of a rather unrestrained expulsion of air.
"Idiot!" was the general weight of his meaning, issued before smoothing back his hair and returning to his slides.
Handing me a copy of her notes, Miss Hooper assured me how happy to see me she was, and that she would love to discuss the up and coming brass band concerts in the Gardens, but had a tremendous amount of work to get through and felt awful, but needed to shorten and postpone our meeting, perhaps for another occasion?
As I left, I pondered how Holmes was able to work, without distraction, within a mere room`s distance of such an enticing young lady and I envied his easy distance from love and attraction. How simple a man`s life must be in which he is a brain without a heart, and no mistake. I bade my farewells, and as I picked up my hat, I righted the metal bowl that lay upturned beside it.
How strange that a small sprig of bright yellow celandine, a flower that heralds the spring, should be nestled beneath it. A flower in a morgue? As practical a man as I often spots the most vital clues in the oddest of places, and such an occurrence is not altogether lost on me – the flower most likely contains toxins that need distilling or some such, but I`ll leave that to the experts.
Science? Not my division, see.
~x~
A few days later, lunchtime.
The Marylebone Gardens, London
I half rise from my seat as I see her approaching, but her pace is so brisk and efficient I barely have time to raise my hat before she is beside me, bringing a smile as bright and fresh as the early spring day that witnesses it. Speedwell blue eyes flash in my direction, and pale hair, the colour of early primroses, peeps from beneath her bonnet.
"John."
"Mary."
A lucent sky and budding branches add wonderfully to the lightness of my mood as we gently perambulate along the immaculate gravel pathways and past flower beds burgeoning with promise. I point upwards with my stick as a sweeping murmuration of starlings takes flight above the lake and the impressive Benedictine Fountain, and she takes my arm and smiles as she says my name. A nurse at the Marylebone Dispensary, I had only met Miss Mary Morstan two weeks previously, when she and Molly Hooper had been discussing the need for some new bedding and disinfectants. We had exchanged pleasantries, and I had been immediately struck, not only by her beauty, but also by her sharp wit, humour, and quite miraculous interest in me. An orphan, Miss Morstan lived in modest lodgings barely three miles from Baker Street, and I soon found myself suggesting a visit to the British Museum.
"Do you enjoy museums, Doctor Watson?" She tilts her head, bright eyes searching my own, and I ready my lips to form the expected response, but something in her face stops me, and I reply:
"Ah, not especially, actually."
And her porcelain face shifts into a playful and knowing smile as she says:
"Then let us not go! Let us go elsewhere, somewhere without the encumbrance of dusty ceramics and ancient bones to trouble us."
And I knew then that Miss Mary Morstan was indeed someone more vibrant than I had anticipated, and certainly less than commonplace, both being attributes I prize above all others.
Back in Marylebone Park, we pause and gaze up at the Italian marble fountain and its hypnotic, rhythmic, cascading torrents.
"Do I remain your secret, John, or do your friends know of me? Does Mr Sherlock Holmes know his best friend has a new friend?"
With the unpleasant business of the slave ship hanging over us, I have been more than willing to keep Miss Morstan detached and protected from all of it. As for such a discussion with Holmes, particularly in the current climate, I truly had no idea where I would begin. I begin to form words to express and apologise for such reasoning, but she squeezed my sleeve gently, interrupting:
"Take your ease, John. I rather think your world is full beyond reckoning at present. I am sure I shall meet your friends and family when you decide you are ready."
It was then and there that I knew she was the woman I would marry.
~x~
Two days later, evening.
Great Scotland Yard
I am about to berate the clerk for the lack of coal in the scuttle (again) when John Watson`s head pops round my door, his face a mask of alarm and consternation.
"Lestrade, you must attend! The Marylebone Dispensary – Molly Hooper may be in danger – at once!"
Crashing through endless corridors, a plethora of fearful thoughts tumbling through my head, I follow close on the heels of Watson, summonsing two constables on my way. Mr Holmes, it would seem, was in the cab ahead of us with one of his Baker Street Irregulars, who had received word of a threatening situation at the Dispensary. In our cab, the good doctor furnished me with details of the situation, but my heart could not quieten and an odd mix of fear and barely repressed anger bubbled beneath my ribs.
"A Mr Robert Collins lost his wife to the sepsis ten days ago, and maintains that the hospital is to blame. Miss Hooper in particular seems to have become the focus of his ire and aggression, and word has it that she is held captive in a consulting room on the top floor corridor and he is not to be reasoned with."
Holding tightly onto the strap as the cab whips us around the darkened, narrow streets, I determine that a weighty truncheon and a stout pair of handcuffs might offer some reasoning power for Mr Collins when I got near.
"Should anything happen to Miss Hooper, I cannot say what may emerge in lieu of justice," I mutter, grimly. "The kind of men that trouble innocent young ladies shall not receive much in the way of mercy from me, Doctor Watson."
I feel his glance find me in the darkness of the cab, but my own eyes only gaze forward as I mentally urge the horses onward.
We rendezvous with Sherlock Holmes at the foot of the stairwell leading up to the second floor. The building has been evacuated by quick thinking staff, and my own men are about to take the route upwards when he stops them. Although the run from the cab was short, Holmes appears to be breathing hard, his face pale and strained in the lamp light. His tone is calm and solemn, but its firmness brooks no refusal or argument.
"Lestrade, I know this building and its layout. I shall take the attic stairs with you whilst Watson and your men take watch on the top corridor; Watson has my signal. I know there is a large cupboard adjoining the room where Miss Hooper is held which has a loft opening into the attic. We shall enter this way and I shall have my turn with Mr Collins –"
"Holmes, you must allow the police to –"
"No." His voice is still, like the calm before thunder rumbles and cracks across the sky, so I listen and nod as he moves silently upwards, and I barely catch his second word:
"Hurry," he breathes.
~x~
Crammed into an earthy and dusty cupboard, Sherlock Holmes and I are barefoot, coatless and barely able to draw breath in the tight, inky blackness. Mercifully, an ill-fitting door allows a god-awful viewpoint, but a viewpoint all the same, and my heart pounds savagely in my chest as I see Molly Hooper perched upon a stool whilst a dishevelled and most disturbed fellow paces about her. I can see enough to know his hair is wild, eyes crazed, and manner most agitated, and that his left hand holds a six inch blade which catches the light with a heart-stopping regularity.
I am pushed up tight against Holmes and I know he sees what I do, and I wonder if he too is ill, so much does he tremble and catch his breath. His voice comes low and faint through the stifling atmosphere:
"When you hear the knock on the other door, count to three, then open this one as wide as you may."
And I nod, my trust in him burning bright through the darkness.
~x~
Seems you can tell a man is blind in his left eye by the way he shaves his face and fastens his coat, and also by the way he holds his murderous looking knife. A man blind in one eye, see, has only monocular vision and is unable to judge a distance, or note when a fellow is disarming him on his blind side. A grieving man with a brain fever brought on by the loss of his beloved wife might tremble and allow himself to be disarmed so very easily. No man can be taken to task and brought to bear when he is sobbing like an infant on the ground, as the woman he took to harm moves to take his shoulder and offer him comfort.
See, I am a policeman, and one with a good heart I do reckon, but no scientist, and certainly no great thinker. Seems a man must be more than blind when he sees Sherlock Holmes take firm hold of Molly Hooper`s hand (wrenching it away from Collins) without seeing the truth; to witness the fury across both their faces as he holds fast her wrist (trembling hard in one suspenseful moment) and still not realise. Can a man (particularly a police detective) really be so blind until the very second that Holmes leaves go of that wrist and takes his long, pale hands to her small shoulders, tilting his dark head to look into her eyes?
"You must not," he sighs, in a tone I have never before heard in all the years we have worked side by side.
"Molly, you must not. I could not bear it."
And I find I have to look away, since sometimes, and on some days, it is better to be blind.
~x~
Two days hence
Great Scotland Yard
" – thus, you do see, Lestrade, that these talismans were not, as I first thought, a warning, but a protection? This symbol," he points, gesturing to a scribble resembling a fishhook, "Akoku Nan, offers protection to those who believe, who know what is to be done with the contents of the rat`s belly."
"And what is to be done with the contents?" I have long since given up hope of matching his high mood this day, since I have not slept since Thursday and am gripped by a melancholy that is taking its toll upon me.
"One should burn the poppy heads, bury the fingers beneath a mango tree on the evening of a new tide, and wear the symbol next to one`s heart for five days and nights."
"This is pure nonsense, Holmes."
He swings his legs from the window ledge of my office where he has been perched, and hops down to retrieve the cane he has leaned against my desk.
"Not to the Akhan people of Ghana, nor to the slaves upon that boat who cursed its crew for the evil they bestowed upon them, including one Edward Norton, who had taken a passage for nefarious purposes of his own. And, judging by the untimely ends and disappearances of many of that crew, it seems they believed it, too. Norton tried to burn poppy heads, but they were clearly not the right ones, since he took fright and disappeared before Miss Adler took the delivery of his own giant rat of delights." He smiles at me, devilish and entirely enjoying every aspect of this nonsense.
"You look happy," I comment, tonelessly, watching him walk towards the door and suddenly turn, as if in acknowledgement of my misery (miracles do happen, don't they?).
"Lestrade, Watson tells me you are determined to find yourself a wife. May I suggest you make haste with such a quest? I have noticed of late your collars needing starch, your coat needing taking in, and your hat would truly benefit from a good brushing. A man who brings such poor repast to work," (here he points to the contents of my wastepaper bin) "and wears a disposition of such melancholy either requires a wife, or has a wife surplus to those requirements. You, I am glad to note, are in the former category."
When Sherlock Holmes shines his searchlight across your bows, you know you have been truly seen, as many a criminal might attest. However, it was a genuine glance of comradeship and empathy I saw in his eyes that day, and I am not ashamed to say I felt my own sense of camaraderie prickle, just a little.
"Not such an easy task, Mr Holmes, to find a lifelong companion, the person who is absolutely right for you."
"Perhaps."
"Perhaps?"
Already, I can see his face has lost some of that sharpness he carries with him on the battlefield that is the London streets, and I now know why, and I cannot begrudge him.
"Perhaps," continues Sherlock Holmes, "on occasion, it is the easiest task in the world. The glove fitting the right hand, the shoe on the right foot, the key in the right lock."
Then, the wistfulness is gone and only the detective remains, turning on his heel and striding out into the cool morning air, raising his cane in farewell as he goes.
~x~