Just as Watson finds his heart`s desire, Holmes discovers what true loss really means.
Sign Four: Agape
"All my heart is yours, sir; it belongs to you, and with you it would remain were fate to exile the rest of me from your presence forever."
Charlotte Bronte
(Jane Eyre)
"I love you against reason, against promise, against peace, against hope, against happiness, against all discouragement that could be."
Charles Dickens
(Great Expectations)
"We were together.
I forget the rest."
Walt Whitman
~x~
Several weeks later
St. Bart`s Mortuary
A ridiculously late hour
Why am I always alone when opening one of the notes?
And why is it always dark, gloomy, and generally in the presence of the sick, dying or deceased?
Perhaps fate is questioning the hours I keep, or the career I am undertaking? Regardless, it is always the witching hour that sees me sat atop a cedar wood laboratory stool, adjacent to a dripping tap and a layered pile of translucent foolscap populated by my scrawl, when I take time to address my correspondence and discover I am not so anonymous in this great city as I had first perceived.
I recognise the hand (of course I do) and the finely milled paper, expensively weighted envelope and slight taint of blossom across the gum (witness the quick study I have become- truly, I have the most effective teacher). It seems pointless to delay, since from experience I know the hours of feigned indifference and stomach-churning denial always end the same way- my opening of the letter, and a fresh onslaught of insidious fear.
`You ensure his weakness, his vulnerability.
You place him in the line of fire.
You cloud his judgement and dilute his efficacy.
Is this your intention? Is this your desire?
You may not be secret with me;
I own secrecy.`
A single magpie is stamped, in brazen lieu of a signature, and it is all I can do to settle the trepidation I feel rising in my throat as my eyes afford the recognition.
One for sorrow,
Two for joy,
Three for a girl,
And four for a boy.
Five for silver,
Six for gold,
And seven for a secret,
Never to be told.
Who should know, and who should care?
The redamancy of Sherlock Holmes and myself is ours alone- to own, to cherish, to ruin or to refute. I had never, in my wildest imaginings, conjured a being, a creature, such as he. My father was a fine and wise man, a model upon whom I could devise the sons yet to be born as well as the man I would meet and take as a husband. I imagined a strong, solid and reliable man; honest and accommodating, genial and well-versed in the unpredictable ways of the world and well-equipped to deal with the vagaries life may attach to a new, young family in this ever changing age.
I accounted for this expectation (the ordinary), therefore the extra-ordinary did not enter my consciousness, for what did I know of the breath-taking, life-changing, all-encompassing conflagration that is the true aeipathy of love? I cared, I lost, I lived, and I believed in all that came with that burden we call humanity and all of its penalties.
In truth, I have had friendships, I have cherished familial bonds, I have adored those who raised me, who taught me, and who believed in me, yet I was still a dusty moth crashing into a flickering bulb before I met and loved Sherlock Holmes. It was as if that moth had seen the sun rise above that flickering bulb, and known that all else was a shadowy facsimile- a pastiche, a shameful game of shadow puppetry which masked the reality beyond that calico theatre.
They say you know, in an instant, when you have met the person who shall own your heart. The Japanese have named it Koi No Yokan, and I must attest that it is a very real and irrefutable notion which I can scarcely believe has happened to me- and yet, here I am.
He is singular, beautiful, and one of the rarest of creatures upon this overcrowded rock we all jostle for supremacy upon, because he is himself. I adore how he thinks, how he deliberates a problem for hours and allows life to go on around him with utter indifference. I relish the eloquence of one finger as it touches his upper lip as a solution is emerging; the glint in the eye and the bubbling energy that floods through that touch, suffusing light, life and reaction - turning on a tap and unleashing an effervescent chain of thought that throws open doors, engulfing secrets, lies and terrible deeds with truth and remedy. I love his single-minded, appallingly selfish obsessive actions and demeanor, since I know whereto they lead and why he allows his brain to shut out all else until an exposition emerges.
In all honesty, I also delight in the way his translucent eyes sweep across my universe each time we meet and invite me into his own; to share, to learn, to interact with the magical and the new. The face in the broadsheet, the mask for the public domain is someone I barely remember when we two are alone together. His long-standing love affair with logic and infamous abhorrence of `sentiment` serves to both bemuse and amuse me.
"How do you enchant me so, Molly Hooper?" A finger traces the curve of my cheekbone and I smile, because I know something the Great Sherlock Holmes does not.
"Because, Sherlock. Simply because."
Since he appears accepting of such an illogical and flimsy premise, it tells me all I need to know.
All of which is why it shall be so very dreadful and so very terrible to leave him.
~x~
Seven days later
Simpsons Restaurant
The Strand
"Mary."
"John."
I am genuinely delighted to see her. It might be rather fanciful to point out, but her speedwell eyes truly do sparkle in the low lamp light of my favourite restaurant. The linen is dazzlingly white, the silverware gleams, pristine and opalescent, the delicate pale pink petals of the flowers between us reflect the faint blush in her complexion, and the overall effect is delightful.
It is perfect, in fact.
As Mary Morstan is assisted to her seat by no less than the Maitre d` himself, I feel a weight almost lift from my shoulders, as if recent cares and conundrums have fallen away, light as spring blossoms in this April evening.
"Apologies - "
"No matter. Your lateness, Mary, is your greatness."
She sits, adjusts her napkin and quirks a smile at me, all in one efficient movement.
"I beg your pardon?"
"That is to say - " I backtrack slightly beneath her decisive gaze. "I appreciated a moment to… acclimatise."
We both take a moment to view our rather splendid surroundings, inclusive of a French chandelier and an accomplished pianist.
"John-" her gloved hand reaches across the table, encompassing my own before I have chance to acknowledge it.
"So did I."
~x~
Sherlock Holmes and myself have been regulars here over the years. A snatched supper of cold cuts after the culmination of a case; a warming glass of port or brandy once a chase has ended, landing one or the other of us in a state of distress or disarray. The staff know and are always welcoming of us, and when I requested a private corner for my proposal of marriage to Miss Mary Morstan, they were most accommodating (and far too discreet to affect surprise).
"John, this is lovely."
"Oh, goodness, I am so sorry-"
My nerves had clearly got the better of me as I knock the water carafe whilst checking my waistcoat pocket for approximately the fiftieth time.
"A little water spilt does not an evening ruin. My gown has seen worse, I must admit. This, though-
I glance around and am generally rather pleased, especially since the violinist is near our table and playing a short nocturne I vaguely recognise.
In truth, I am transported to a moment several months past, when Holmes and I had returned from a rather unusual case in Sussex, where bloodletting and supernatural allusions had left us both a little insomniatic and restless. He had waived away my offer of a sleeping draught, striding through our small apartment, dressing gown flailing and bare of foot.
"Chemicals are the devil`s work, Watson! I will have none of them."
As much as I could have remarked upon the irony of such a statement, I respected the lateness of the hour and kept my counsel to myself, only to exclaim when he emerged from his room, carrying aloft his violin.
"Holmes, it is three o'clock in the morning! This is surely not the time for a recital."
"One must listen, my dear fellow, and allow the music to envelop one's sensibilities."
"I really do not imagine-"
But, as he held aloft his bow, I acquiesced to listen, and as the notes emerged and floated across my exhausted mind, I was immediately calmed and soothed. I stretched in my armchair, violin leaching the tension of the past few days from my tired limbs, and glanced across at my friend, wondering if this was a purely selfless act, designed to quieten me at his own expense. Gladly, I regarded his focused and thoughtful countenance, and I knew he was equally as distracted as I was- he could have been anywhere- the violin and he were symbiotic and could not have been regarded as separate entities.
"John, you are quite a study. You seemed transported."
Mary's voice retrieves me from my reminiscences, the crystals embellishing her gown throwing tiny reflections across her face and neck and bringing me into the present.
"Mary, I do apologise, I am a little overwhelmed, what with the music, the setting, the occasion, yourself…" I colour slightly, as I am truthfully no skilled wordsmith. I decide upon a course of action, since I have already allowed matters to run amok with me.
"Mary, I should like to ask - "
"Yes."
"-you to-"
"I said, `yes`. It is more than likely, John, that I shall not be changing my mind."
"-marry- oh… oh, that is most… that is to say, it is entirely…"
As she squeezes my limp hand which lies redundant across the pristine cloth, I decide upon two courses of subsequent action; I would order a bottle of champagne and then determine to stay far from Baker Street until I have worded my happy news into something palatable for my flatmate.
Mary Morstan twines my fingers within her own, preventing recourse to even the first item upon my agenda, and fixes me with her bright eyes.
"Sherlock Holmes shall be pleased for you, John."
She is astonishing; am I so very readable?
"Indeed. Of course. He shall be enchanted with my choice, how could he not be?" I pause, searching. This was proving to be a little less than romantic, but it was unlikely she would understand- how could she?
The violinist, as if sensing some sign of climactic decision-making, sashays nearer, his familiar notes tumbling about me in the most potent and enveloping crescendo. I grasp the tethering hand of Mary Morstan and am glad of her place at my table, by my side, and in my heart.
"I should be so glad to tell him of our wonderful news, were he not entirely bereft himself."
Her hand tightens and her eyes glisten with an inherent understanding.
"Oh, John. Not Molly - ?"
I shake my head, as if willing away the truth of the matter.
"She is gone, and I fear he will never be quite the same again."
~x~
Four days ago, I had returned from a trip to the Old Vic with Mary to listen to some dreadfully dull musical recital. I had imagined she was entranced by its sonorous selection of dirges and po-faced interpretations, and so was reluctant to divulge an opinion as we virtually galloped down the theatre steps towards a cab.
"You seem in some hurry, John," she grasped my arm, smiling as we went. "Are you distancing yourself as far as possible from the string quartet that would disgrace an internment with their misery?"
I halted then, right there on the step, and turned to her.
"You hated it."
"As did you."
A pause.
"Thank the Lord for that!"
And we dissolved into improper and robust laughter on the busy steps, most probably appalling musical aficionados on all sides as the theatre emptied itself.
"I do love you," I declared, brazen with euphoria.
"And I thank the Lord for that," commented she, resting her head upon my shoulder as we descended the remainder of steps together.
A good half hour later, I had bid Mary Morstan a fond farewell at her door and, still most light of heart, found myself bounding up the stairs of 221B to share the appalling nature of the programme with my friend. It had long since been a hobby of his to catalogue poor arrangements and weak performers, since he was researching such information for a monograph on finger length in string players. I, therefore, retained an anticipatory grin across my countenance as I heard a shuffle at the newel post behind me and a very restrained calling of my name.
"Doctor Watson, a word, if you please, sir."
Mrs Hudson rarely invited her tenants into the inner sanctum of her own downstairs flat, and therefore I was slightly trepidatious as the door shut behind me and she bade me sit.
"Doctor," she began, before I had even sat down, as if the words could not tumble out quickly enough. "I am very worried for Mr Holmes."
Callous as it may seem, I was not initially overly concerned for the well-being of my friend, since his behaviours often induced worry in the most stalwart of his friends and associates. When one of your tenants decorates your wall with bullet holes, leaves dissected swamp adders on your best parlour crockery, and mixes noxiously-fragranced compounds with your silverware, it is perfectly acceptable to express your concerns (perhaps with irritation) for his safety. However, I noted her face was distressingly careworn, with deep circles etched beneath her eyes and her pinny stained at the hem (a most unusual event for a lady with such exacting standards of hygiene and housekeeping). Thus, I arranged my features more appropriately and accepted the tea she pressed upon me, giving benefit of (what Mary might call) my best consulting face.
"A note was delivered this morning sir, just after you left for the surgery, and Billy assures me it was written in Miss Hooper`s own hand."
This was far from unusual, since I was well aware that many notes (often five or six each day) passed between Miss Hooper and Mr Holmes, rarely containing any specific information, but often causing a discreet and secret smile to steal across his face as he read the received epistles. Mary (who had recently made the much anticipated acquaintance of my friend) deemed it `charming`, but knew better than to draw attention to it.
"I like him," she intoned, later, "and I wish to ensure he continues to like me."
It appeared, however, that this note from Miss Hooper was not of the secret smile variety.
"Since it arrived, I have been unable rouse him. He has taken neither morning coffee, lunch, or afternoon tea. I knew you were at the theatre with Miss Morstan, Doctor, so I even made him his favourite pudding, in the hope he would eat, but no such luck."
Again, this was not unheard of. Holmes would often work for days at a time, subsisting on little more than a slice of bread and the blackest of coffees, but it appeared that work was not consuming him on this occasion.
"I have had to turn away three clients today, sir. Two of them, including Colonel Ross, had prior appointments. That man is more than agitated regarding his horse, let me tell you. Mr Holmes did not inquire as to the clients, nor did he wish to re-arrange their appointments."
I was affected now, a little more by way of the anxiety that was worming its way into my gut. Holmes was often eccentric and occasionally truculent, but he was rarely, knowingly unprofessional and was loathe to break an arrangement unless he absolutely had to.
"Did Mr Holmes send a reply to Miss Hooper, do you know?" I did not wish to be reduced to tittle tattle, but it was clear that something was amiss.
"That was the most upsetting part," she twisted her sullied apron between her reddened fingers, pleating and worrying the fabric. "He replied four times, with never a response forthcoming from the lady. The boy, Wiggins, was severely reprimanded for allowing correspondence to be lost, but the lad swears he delivered it directly into her hand. In the end- just before you returned, Doctor- Mr Holmes stopped him before he set off with the last note, ripping it and burning it, Wiggins said, like it had offended him. `Enough,' he said to the lad, `the lady deserves no more of this,' and that was that."
"Oh, dear me."
"And then, all I have heard is that violin, playing the same tune over and over; it's one I don't recognise, sir, even though I`ve heard Mr Holmes play many times. This one is very melancholy."
Her eyes are sadness itself as she turns them up towards me, and I am better to understand the affection she holds for him.
"He is far from equipped, I fear, to cope with such matters. I was counting the minutes until you returned, Doctor; I know you are a little better versed in problems of the heart."
I did detect Holmes`s influence in our landlady`s opinion of me, but I was more determined than ever to be of assistance as I attempted the stairs for a second time.
~x~
She did not request it, she never asked.
You must understand this.
One day, a person you are acquainted with shall execute a movement, a brief smile, a slow closing of the eyes, a featherlight touch upon a person's wrist, and then, God help you, your life is no longer your own. You are held, a willing and ridiculous hostage of your hidden desires and yearnings. You are consumed, from the inside out, and that initial, tiny flicker that shocked your heart into life becomes a bright, hungry, devouring burst of flame, and it will burn you, it will burn the very heart out of you, and you will become a pathetic spectre of your former self.
I detest love.
~x~
I expect to see a stormswept wreck of a sitting room in 221B, but I am slightly shocked to encounter an unusually tidy arrangement, unsullied by noxious fumes or billowing piles of paper and detritus. A small fire flickers bravely in the grate and the gas mantle has been lit, hinting strongly that my friend has lost neither his faculties nor his sensibilities towards the chilly evening.
He sits sprawled across my armchair, wrapped in his blue dressing gown and resting his Stradivarius across his knee in a manner a little ill-suited to a 1709 Cremona edition, but I keep my counsel and take refuge in his chair, nodding towards the tantalus upon the sideboard.
"No thank you. I am fine, Watson, please desist from employing your best consulting face for my benefit."
Mary? How on earth - ?
"A sensible girl, Miss Morstan. You would do well to marry her."
He appears so much his normal self, I am quite inclined to attribute Mrs Hudson`s concerns as a little over protective, but I have not been a close friend of Sherlock Holmes for almost fifteen years not to have developed my own observational capabilities. The blank foolscap that lay thick across his desk the night before was quite depleted which went some way to explaining the fire burning so valiantly. His long, pale hands attempted a casual demeanour across his violin, but there was a slight tremor to be seen if one cared to look for it. His hair was less than immaculate, with no hint of dressing to tame the unruliness of the curl, and his brow had acquired a deep and unyielding crease, affecting a careworn look.
"Goodness, Watson, please share your observations with me, they seem to be nearly bursting out of you." He turns a beleaguered eye in my direction.
"I merely note that you appear… a little lachrymose this evening."
He sighs, staring upward towards the ceiling and running a hand through his dishevelled hair.
"Mrs Hudson has afforded you worry with her concerns, but fear not, my dear fellow, I shall soon be restored now I am unburdened with unwarranted sentiment."
"Holmes, I - "
He turns his head, then rights himself in one, fluid movement, so he is sitting upright, giving me the benefit of his pale eyes and his full attention.
"No," he counters, before I can proceed. "You cannot assist me, my dear Watson. Expectation is the root of all heartache, as the Bard has stated, and I am pleased to inform you that I am free of all expectation."
He stands, stretching as though he has been confined in the smallest of spaces for the longest of times.
"I trust you did not allow the appalling Bakerloo String Ensemble to ruin a perfectly lovely evening with the charming Miss Morstan. Now, do excuse me, old man, I need my own counsel tonight. Tomorrow, I feel assured that the good Colonel shall be more than pleased with my deductions regarding the wonderful Silver Blaze and all will be right with the world. Good night, Watson."
And as he takes himself to his room and the door shuts behind his back, I find myself reflecting that as an ex-army doctor who has worked through two Boer campaigns and truly seen the agony of the battlefield, rarely have I seen a man in so much pain.
"Goodnight, Holmes," I reply, softly.
~x~