"I have no friends. Except for one." - Sherlock Holmes to John Watson, The Hounds of Baskerville.
Memory - an interlude by John Hamish Watson
Perhaps no one will ever know the true meaning of friendship until one has experienced it.
I had a friend. He was the perfect example of a high functioning sociopath. A perfect package of Asperger's syndrome, sarcasm, and enough ignorance to match his remarkable knowledge. However he may have seemed to be on the outside, I discovered a part of Sherlock Holmes that made him the greatest man I've ever known.
He spoke very little about where he came from, and yet he knew everything about me just by a glance. He acted as if he never cared about what people thought about him. He didn't.
He did, however, care.
Perhaps no one will ever know the truth behind this mystery of a man. I still don't. But from what I've learnt during my time with him, I discovered that he was both a truth and a lie. Both real and unreal. I learnt he lied to protect the people he cared for. The people with whom his own truths belonged to.
It wasn't always the sleuthing or the deducing or the outrageous mannerisms. It wasn't the sarcasm, the constant roll of the eyes and the kind lies. Sherlock Holmes was more than the man I met after I returned from Afganistan. He was more than the genius, sociopath that could read you from a glance. It was all very amazing, very unbelievable. Sherlock holmes, the only the consulting detective in the world!
Perhaps no will ever believe that the things I miss the most from that impossible man were of the most little things.
In fact, quite ironically after the first few days with him as flat mates, it never occurred to me that I would be wanting to remember anything at all about that rude, insensitive man. He was deliberate and quiet yet was able to act around me as if he had known me his entire life. He spoke like someone beyond his years. He spoke like he had seen everything all at once and quickly shut his eyes because he didn't want to. When I spoke to him that day, despite how little we knew of each other, I knew that I would remember at least one thing, his old eyes.
And after he spoke,when I told him that it was late and that I didn't want to be late for my first day at work, he shrugged, turned in his chair and told me, "John, take care."
The next morning, in utter state of despair, he told me to sod off. The night before I was stood before his grave, he told me the same thing. So I told him to take care.
In response, he wore a small smile and we both knew that for Sherlock Holmes, the upturned gesture of the lips always meant the opposite. However, it was also the sincerest. It was the only expression he did not deliberately contrive to shield what he really was feeling for if one peered closer, one would see that it was his eyes that reflected the honesty of his sadness.
In other words, the face of Sherlock Holmes was unique. Often have I compared him with that of an animal. An animal of which I haven't quite put my finger on - probably a shark headed sloth or a meerkat with talons. Sherlock could never be just one. He was always a jumble of everything. There was, inside of him an inner struggle between Yin and Yang - sometimes he was both, sometimes he was one of each. Either way, I had seen him all.
The aura of something old being put into a new backdrop, Sherlock was a traditionalist with a flair for technology.
His profound habit of texting me when I was in the same room never ceased to annoy me. A proper verbal conversation never lasted for more than 5 minutes before Sherlock got bored and programmed his brain to reject the words I was sending to it. Therefore, it was only appropriate to text. In Sherlock's defense, it stopped his brain from overloading with the sound of my voice. In my defense, besides the fact, that my voice was fine, his hard rive of a mind could have just deleted it later. Texting Mrs Hudson who lived downstairs was a leap to the extreme ( on Mrs Hudson's part) who was, pleasantly surprised with the fact that she could add smiley emoticons in her messages. Her attempt of being 'friendly' only wavered Sherlock's level of self tolerance.
However, all traces of annoyance would magically disappear at the sight of the tea she brought up later on.
Picturing Sherlock Holmes carrying out a domestic lifestyle was nearly impossible. Hence, the reason why he always reminded me of my existence. In return, he agreed to partake in occasional card games as some form of recreation during the times he wasn't hunting for trouble. The once in a blue moon 'games' were Sherlock's version of compensation, therefore it was only right if he also took the liberty of using his victories against me whenever I was unhappy with his despicable behavior. There was, unfortunately, no compensation for those occasions.
Otherwise, he found constant amusement in me to pass time. It was truly amazing how Sherlock's absence affected the household temperament. Sometimes he would be gone for hours, sometimes for mere minutes but by some force of nature, his vacancy triggered the devices in the flat to somehow disfunction themselves. It was a daunting task, trying to repair them by oneself for the sake of sanity above anything else; yet despite everything, I was constantly chided by the calm amused expression Holmes wore at the sight of my flustered red face.
"Only appliances, John," he would say once he returned. "We could always get a new one."
And I would simply bow my head in shame just like all the other times, technology had bested me in battle.
The television was stroke of luck.
"A complete waste of space!" Sherlock declared once we purchased it ( in a manner, I 'deduced' that was naturally used to increase my blood pressure)
"Well, so are the microscopes on the table top and the vials of who-knows-what in the pantry," I was forced to remind.
Despite the initial reluctance, the great detective declared movie nights a commendable effort by me save for action movies that were always on the bottom of the list, as Sherlock highly disapproved of my lack of intellect which resolved me into finding pleasure in mindless violence and witless dialogue.
I remember when Christmas was around the corner and the presents he wished for, from the morgue were always highly anticipated. However, Sherlock also proved he smiled more often at his friends seated around him rather than the presents seated below the tree.
I remember the dismembered body parts in the fridge, the human head in the microwave, the bloodstains on the carpet whose blood belonged to God knows who... presumably from Sherlock soaked in someone else's blood and lingering smell of chlorine in the kitchen. We could have had a museum of decapitated human anatomy.
The exhibits of course, were unpleasant sights for the guests we had over. Well, more accurately, the guests I had over. Which was almost as seldom as Sherlock allowing guests over. And then it occurred to me , that I was just as married to his work as he was.
"Women, eh, John," he would say in attempt to make me feel better afterwards, despite the fact he knew my wounds were still wide open. And his words of 'comfort' only served as soothing as salt water being poured on them.
"Can't live with them, can't -"
"Sherlock, don't do this again..."
"Oh, thank goodness."
The awkward silence after that would only reduce us to cough away our impending laughter. That of which we would forget, and subconsciously I would remind myself to remember just in case.
Sherlock Holmes was someone that was indeed hard to forget, especially when you have grown so close to him to remember his every eccentric habit. But it wasn't just the habits that I remember. Its everything about him and no matter how hard one tried to forget and no matter how brief one's first encounter with him was, the memory of his presence lives on in the corners of the unused mind. It could have been a glimpse in a crowd of people or a bump in the shoulder while rushing down the street. The unmistakeable stare and the signature presence of the deerstalker he refused to wear plants a memory that lives on forever.
I remember his sadness, his happiness, his frustration, his desire all projected through his beloved instrument, that of which he would tuck below chin and string out the most beautiful tunes. Tunes that spoke louder than his short dismissive responses ever could. They were beautiful moments. Those moments when his violin music would sound around the whole house. Those moments when he would play to the rain against the window - his eyes melancholy and his soul tired. And I will treasure those moments always - those moments when Sherlock Holmes' emotions were simply the music from his absent heart.
And for some reason, I feel he is there now. Somewhere in the darkness. Staring out a window, at all the people who loved him and thought him dead - the people who stood on that cold January morning, in the slight breeze of the silent graveyard.
He would smile softly, state something deliriously funny and brandish the bow of his violin. And slowly, he would play a long stroke to begin a new song. A song vaguely familiar to the one he played on the third night we were together as flat mates.
Something vivid and fresh and utterly Sherlock.
"Bach," Holmes had said simply as he played on that night.
No, but this was new, this was different. I know because I remember every tune he had ever played.
This is for Watson, this one said, For my dear friend, John Watson.
The friend, he knew who was going to miss him the most.