The Signs of the Four

by Emma Lynch

It is 1896 and Mr Sherlock Holmes works as a famous detective in London, as single minded as ever about his career and eternally dismissive of the emotional frailties of the general populace. Mr Holmes has failed, however, to realise the value of the different kinds of love in his life, not least his understanding' with Miss Molly Hooper. Will he ever be able to find his heart?

7. Finale (but not the end!)

It is John Watson`s wedding day and a strange element of fragility is in the air, affecting all in its thrall.

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The Signs of the Four: Finale

~x~

I am not a poet, I am a scientist.

I can measure the exact frequency of your voice

When you speak my name,

But I cannot explain how it resonates

With perfect clarity, down my spine.

I can explain the process by which you inherited

Your mother's hair

And your father's smile,

But I cannot explain where the twinkling galaxies in your eyes

Came from.

I am baffled by the apparent gravitational anomaly

That draws me to you

With a force too great for your size.

I know of no way to quantify the volume of your presence

In the room…

There is nothing a scientist loves more

Than the pursuit of discovery.

(Love letter from a Scientist - by Utterlybanjaxed)

~x~

There is no remedy for love, but to love more.

(Thoreaux)

~x~

The wedding party has moved into the vast conservatory of Lady Morcar's townhouse, and I am thankful that the chattering throng is no longer within earshot. However, whilst weddings are most definitely not my area, I was proud and happy to stand beside John Watson as he pledged his troth to Miss Mary Morstan (a most intriguing young woman whose company I find quite tolerable). Vows were professed, rings exchanged, tears were shed (Mrs Hudson) and champagne was imbibed, all without loss, injury or murderous intent, which one can only be grateful for. I myself found a brief moment with my friend as we stood at the ornate gilt door, awaiting entry to the bridal parlour. He had been less than his best that morning, prompting me to bring the barber over from Wardour Street to shave him (a bloodied face does not a picturesque bridegroom make) and take it upon myself to abate his fears.

"Watson," I murmur, as the cellist begins her piece, announcing us, "do attempt a more unworried countenance if you may. I can personally assure you that I have the rings, I have the speech that Mary has written for me and intend to follow it to the letter. I know for a fact whereto you have misplaced the train tickets for your post-marital trip to Inverness, and I have the most implicit trust in you which I shall carry with me to my dying day."

I hope I had allayed (almost) all of his current concerns in order to assure his enjoyment of the event, and was therefore a little concerned to see his brow crease and his jaw tense as he took firm hold of my elbow.

"My dear fellow," he gave a slightly tremulous smile (sentiment, most likely), and clasped my other arm (kindly avoiding the ribs). "These days, they are calling it a Honeymoon."

And we both threw open the doors.

~x~

Family portraits gaze downwards, disdainful at the living, transient visitor who invades their eternal quietude. It may be poignant to note the Countess Morcar`s daughter and granddaughter, both deceased under tragic and murderous circumstances, staring out from their canvases with eyes of unperturbed innocence and optimism. Were we to know of our fate, could we bear to go on living?

I sit amongst the gilt, the fine silks and soft candlelight of the parlour, and do nothing to divert the dark thoughts that are more than ill-fitting for a wedding feast. I imagined loss would become an easier burden by the dint of time and repetition, but this is plainly a discrepant and fallacious notion encouraged by euphemistic idiots who have experienced very little of life, bar through mere literature or hearsay. John Watson shall have a happy marriage, as I do understand his eternal and inveterate optimism shall buoy him up when waters may become stormy and dark, and his new wife has promised me she will take good care of him.

I have no reason to doubt her.

Still, I know I must once more take up the mantle of solitude in a sprawling city of five million people, whose actions are occasionally appalling, sometimes shocking, but ultimately, always… predictable. I shall make my living as before and develop my intellectual theorems and treatises as before, but I shall not be as before, since frailty may no longer be an option for a man with an adversary such as mine. I must be bloody, bold and resolute if I am to enter into his dark arena, and make no helpmate of sentiment or of weaknesses; it shall be work, always the work that matters.

Notwithstanding, I am affecting an atrociously lazy comportment this evening and am pleasantly untroubled by other guests, since Watson (the Watsons?) have furnished all with exaggerated and fantastical imaginings of my injuries, and I have been allowed to lie across several armchairs, flanked by heavy crystal decanters of excellent port and golden epergnes of aspirational fruit. Although the Countess did not have the happy ending she deserved in The Case of the Blue Carbuncle (Watson`s fanciful notions again), she continues to show her gratitude to both he and myself in a myriad of generous gestures.

I am a little bored of port, but fascinated by the pomegranates jostling for space between both pineapple and melon. Pulling open the spongy, pale skin, I expose the red, glistening seeds, like small rubies, or raw, bleeding viscera (depending upon the nature of one's mood) and throw a few into my mouth (surprisingly agreeable), then a few more. Unfortunately, food taken in this manner can be nothing if unpredictable, and I find an arterial spurt of scarlet juice has blazed a trail across my collar in the process, causing me to rise reluctantly from such baronial comfort to both find a cloth and assess the damage.

An ornate filigree mirror glitters happily above the sideboard, where I find a napkin and attempt to redeem my apparel. In the mirror, the chandelier glows and flickers, casting a warmth across the gilt framed ancestors, the exotic wedding breakfast and the paleness of my face, staring back, beyond and over my shoulder into the darker recesses of the room. A tinkling melody from beyond the parlour doors heralds the beginning of the dancing in the overpopulated ballroom, and as I slowly lower the napkin, I feel a disconnection, a detachment, as her words float to me across that reflection.

"I would imagine, Mr Sherlock Holmes, that you would fail to approve of a waltz under any circumstances, let alone a wedding."

"My dear Molly Hooper," I reply to her reflection (as if facing anything more than an ethereal facsimile of her reality would render this enchantment null and void), "as you must surely know, it is a capital mistake to theorise before one has sufficient data."

"Indeed?"

She draws in closer, the shadows of her face sculpted deeply by the muted light, and the copper glint in her hair drawing the eye, like spun caramel… like warmth… like comfort-

"In actual fact, I am a rather accomplished dancer."

Her warm hand reaches up and touches my shoulder, but I am still unable to turn, for fear to break this spell.

"Of course you are," she whispers, gently turning me. "For what else could you be?"

Like warmth. Like comfort.

Like love.

~x~

Countess Morcar`s Townhouse

The Ballroom

A little after eight pm

I glance across a candlelit room of undulating folk, people I know and people I care about, and I am happy for their enjoyment, for their celebration of my life-changing day, but I have eyes for only one of them.

"Mary… Mary Watson?"

A smile; coquettish, warm, ardent, mine.

"You are correct in your address, and more than handsome in your dress, Dr John Watson."

"Soldier, doctor…"

"Husband."

I take her arm, but my beautiful wife is tempered in her manner, since she has a little more than greetings to bestow. She allows my lead, then steers me purposefully into the inglenook, where a degree of privacy is provided by a wall of solid marble. I look into her eyes and find her incandescent with intrigue.

"I adore you."

"John, you are my moon and my stars, but you must listen, since I have the most enchanting and delightful piece of information to content you on this day."

"Mary, I truthfully could not be happier."

"Molly Hooper and Sherlock Holmes sit together in the parlour, just as we stand here."

I find I am dumbly ( and rather impertinently) staring at my new wife, but she is not obviated from her discourse.

"They sit, they speak, they eat pomegranates, and all is well with the world."

I look into her navy eyes and I smile.

~x~

My heart is light; untethered and disengaged, floating and free.

Sherlock Holmes and I share a large armchair, and we both incline our feet atop an oddly upholstered footstool.

"Lion." I purport, splaying fingertips across it surface.

"Family pet," he returns, glancing beneath its moorings. "Golden retriever. Seven or eight years old at the time of death."

I almost remove my tired feet, but realise the hypocrisy of the gesture and settle into him. I am happy to an unbearable degree and will allow nothing to temper it.

"I shall not ask how you know that."

"I am gratified to hear it."

I lean my head into his shoulder and breath him in; cardamom, tobacco, rosin, camphor (still so bruised and damaged), and an indistinguishable scent that is his own, and therefore cannot be defined or catalogued.

"Sherlock, I am so very sorry-"

"I am unable to allow the continuance of your statement."

I twist my head around and find the strength of his jaw; the solution of his hand in mine.

"Whilst your sacrifice was admirable, it was unnecessary."

Flames flicker in the grate; a clock ticks, yet time stands, motionless.

"I could not allow the curtailment of… you. I would always have come to find you, when the time was right; when I had my full strength and knowledge. Our friend has shown his hand, thus exposing his ego and losing his power over you. What, now, is the worst that can happen? I see him everywhere, and I shall have my hour with him."

Sherlock pauses, and turns from the fire to look at me, and I see the flames reflecting across his eyes, making them molten metal, a crucible for genius.

"Molly Hooper, the worst has already happened- I lost you. This was quite intolerable, and remarkably inconvenient, since my deductive processes were- affected- during your hiatus."

I smile.

"One must comfort oneself as best one can, under duress. Falsehoods may provide transitory solace, but I have recently reached the conclusion that I am not made lesser by love, I am made greater."

I wish to hold him, envelop him, sheath him with myself, like a pool of varnish that seals out the remainder of the world, but I merely flex my fingers that intertwine with his and thrive in the warmth of him. Then I say:

"How recently?"

His thumb brushes over my thenar, and my hypothenar, thence to my proximal and my distal palmar before he makes reply.

"The very moment I saw your face in the mirror, realising I knew it better than I knew my own."

We both now know there is nothing more to say, and that is the precise moment at which he kisses me.

~x~