In the Grass
The next morning, Watson was relieved to discover that Holmes was still – soundly – asleep when he eased open Holmes' bedroom door. The twitches and frowns that usually accompanied Holmes' tense rest were absent, and Watson hoped that he would wake refreshed.
He took breakfast and sat down to read, grateful for the quiescent nature of the household. Eventually, Holmes stirred and entered the sitting room, minimally dressed in a clean shirt, trousers, and comfortable dressing gown.
"Good afternoon, Holmes."
"And to you, Watson." Quietly, he poured himself cold coffee and picked up a slice of toast that had been left from breakfast.
"If you wait a moment, old chap, I'm sure Mrs. Hudson will be up with lunch."
"No, that's alright. I'm not terribly hungry." He settled himself into his chair with a sigh.
If nothing else, at least Holmes looked better. The shadows under his eyes were not nearly as worrisome, and the tremor had left his hands. "Well, Holmes," Watson began suddenly. "How do you feel?"
Holmes lifted an eyebrow in faint amusement. "If you mean, how did I sleep? Better, Watson."
"Good. I'm glad to hear it."
Holmes nodded evasively, casting his glance about for the newspaper. "Where is the—"
"Table, Holmes."
They did not speak to one another again for several hours. Both could sense the growing discomfort in the air, an unfamiliar entity in their quarters. Holmes, it seemed, was absolutely unwilling to begin conversation. Watson suspected that it was for fear of discussing what had been on his mind the evening previous.
Hours later, Watson tried to initiate a conversation again. "So, Holmes. Do you think you will take on a case soon?"
"I really cannot say."
Watson frowned, turning in his seat to stare at Holmes where he sat idly adjusting his chemistry equipment. "You must be deucedly bored," he observed frankly.
The detective gave a blank look and small shrug. "I suppose I'll accept a case when one appears of sufficient interest."
"Holmes –"
"Please excuse me, doctor. I wanted to do some research this afternoon." Without further delay, the detective swept into his room. Watson had never known his friend to flee, but he could not help but feel that this was precisely what the detective had done.
Two hours later, when the sun was making its descent upon the horizon in anticipation of an autumn sunset, Holmes reemerged. He stretched and went to the window to observe the street below.
Watson checked his pocket watch and stretched as well. "I daresay Mrs. Hudson will be by with super soon, old chap."
Holmes hummed in assent. Eventually he turned around with a wan grin. "So, Watson. What shall the diversion be tonight? A game of chess? Or perhaps a stroll to one of the parks."
Watson smiled softly, but the edges sunk downward all too quickly. "Well, actually, Homes. I had rather hoped you'd be more open to… talking. This evening."
Holmes' grin weakened as well, and his shoulders tensed in the too-familiar melancholy of the last few weeks. "Really, Watson, I think I'd prefer not." He wandered over to his armchair and sank into it.
"Well, as I've said before, it may help you to discuss what is bothering you."
"Really, dear fellow, there is nothing to discuss."
Watson's eyebrows shot up. "Really," he stated blandly.
Holmes' mouth twitched in irritation, but his voice remained even. "Really, Watson. I insist. I am alright. There is nothing ailing me that time won't fix."
Watson felt himself cringe inside, his reply coming quickly to his lips. Quietly, he reminded, "It's been weeks, Holmes, and I don't think you're getting any better."
The piqued glare returned, and Holmes' jaw clenched.
"Please, just listen. Last night, Lestrade offered you a case. Why did you turn it down?"
"I have turned down the Yard's cases in the past, Watson."
Watson shook his head. "Not like that one, Holmes." In the silence, Watson raised a hand in appeal. "Come, now. You know as well as I that it was a case perfectly suited to your interests."
The detective scoffed. "Watson, I don't understand you. Moments before the Inspector's arrival, you were scolding me for neglecting rest for business. And after all of that, are you saying you want me to pursue a murder case at present?"
Watson felt a flush rise across his neck, and he cleared his throat. "Holmes, you know what I meant."
"Actually, no, perhaps I don't."
The flat reply did nothing to ease Watson's hair-trigger temper. "Holmes, I only mean to say that it is unlike you. And it was evident that you were not denying the case for sake of sparing your health. There was more."
Holmes threw his hands in the air. "I reiterate. What might I have done to appease you? Accept the case? Solve a nice little puzzle like a good detective and return home in time for supper and bed?" Watson's sigh was more akin to a growl than a breath, and Holmes' expression darkened still further. "No, please tell me, doctor."
"I would just like to know what is wrong with you!"
Holmes surged to his feet. "Must I define it for you? Insomnia. I would have thought that diagnosis was simple enough, even for you to manage on your own," he sneered angrily.
Watson found himself on his feet, closing the distance between himself and the detective. "Holmes, you know damn well what I'm talking about!"
"Don't presume my intelligence, doctor! Please, enlighten me!"
"Why are you prevaricating?!"
Holmes growled and spun away, hands shaking anew as he sought out his pipe. Watson felt his voice rising. "Why do you persist in avoiding my questions? Fine! If you need my help explaining the obvious, then I'll happily oblige. I've tried to be patient and understanding, but this has gone on too long. You, Holmes, are currently a useless wreck."
The detective thrust his pipe back upon the mantle with a slap. "I am not here to be your wind-up sentinel of justice, doctor." He spun around with a snarl, outrage contorting his features in rarely displayed passion. "I am only useless because men like you have made me into a purpose! A tool! I am neither, doctor!" This was delivered in a furious shout.
Watson seethed, hand jabbing through the air at his target. He was not sure if he was even making a point anymore; all he knew was that his mouth was suddenly betraying every dark thought he'd hidden away in the intervening weeks. "I don't know what the hell happened on the last case – because heaven forbid you share the details with me – but I can only presume that you failed. Utterly. Abysmally. That your great damn towering logic deserted you." Holmes' face paled, and his head jerked back as if struck. "Predictably, you have decided to compound your failure by locking yourself away, keeping company with your doubts and self-recriminations, and thrusting any concern back at those sympathetic enough to mete it out. And now you have the audacity to blame 'men like me' for using you?"
Suddenly, his voice became plaintive. "Using you, Holmes?! What could possibly deliver that thought up into your mind?"
The silence was stifling, and it entered the vacuum of fiery shouts with shocking promptness. The two stood apart from one another in frozen postures, the doctor flushed pink from his angry tirade, and the detective dreadfully pale.
"I. Your friend, Holmes…!"
Agitated, Watson turned away. Holmes, for his part, appeared shrunken against the mantelpiece.
A cough preceded the disheartened croak of, "Watson…" and it took all of Watson's will to bring his self-control back into line. As often happened, it took only moments to regret his loss of composure.
Quickly, he ran through everything he'd shouted. How much of it did I mean, he wondered desperately.
It was discomfiting to realize that he'd meant every word.
Had he meant to hurt Holmes' feelings? Turning around to face the detective, observing the guarded expression and unconsciously defensive posture of his oldest friend, he quickly decided that there had to have been a better way of dealing with their frustration.
Even so, he couldn't help but feel a flicker of liberation for having vented his emotions so completely. In his mind, he felt the insults only equal recompense for the offenses made first by Holmes.
Slowly, Watson's temper waned, and he took a heavy breath. Holmes straightened, eyes flickering around the room. Only when Watson moved first – to pour a brandy at the side table – did Holmes turn to pick up his pipe.
He paused in the act of lighting it when Watson returned, wordlessly offering him that same brandy. Solemnly, he accepted it and murmured, "Thank you, Watson."
Watson nodded with a weary sigh, clapping a hand upon Holmes' shoulder. The detective tensed, but said nothing.
It was uneasy and imperfect by all measures, but it was a signal of truce. For now.
Neither of them had the will to speak, so Watson gathered up a book that had been resting upon the table and poured a second brandy before going upstairs, leaving Holmes to stare at the glass in his hand.
In the comfort of his own room, Watson realized that, really, Holmes had still revealed nothing concerning the root of his black mood. The only concrete declaration he had made – a desperate accusation, really – had been regarding his usefulness as a detective.
I am not here to be your wind-up sentinel of justice, doctor, the acerbic snarl echoed in his mind. I am only useless because men like you have made me into a purpose! A tool! I am neither, doctor!
He remembered the look in Holmes' eyes, furious and spiteful. He had made that dreadful statement wholly aware of the depth of its censure. There had been a very dark and deep shadow in those words, and for the first time, Watson felt an uncomfortable chill. What, precisely, was Holmes thinking in that moment? Feeling?
Somewhere in those words lay the origin of Holmes' agitation; of that, Watson was sure. Like Lestrade had said – I don't think I've ever seen him in a state like this. He had the impression that Holmes was experiencing a grave valley of doubt. And to what end? From what origin?
A door closing downstairs jolted the doctor from his thoughts. Curious, he reentered the sitting room and found it empty. Looking out the window, he spied Holmes' dark, familiar stature making his solitary way out of Baker Street.
From the personal journal of Anthony Dubeck, November 12th
Last night, I met Sherlock Holmes.
This is an aspect of fate which fascinates me; I believe I shall have to discuss it with Meyer, when next we meet. Consider: Have you ever been caught in the tangle of an unwieldy moral thought, or the complicated skein of a plan, that requires some outside signal or element to assist you in clearing it up? I confess it has always happened thus; that I may reach a juncture of indecision and be rescued by the timely appearance of a catalyst.
As I sat in that dilapidated, ruined tavern contemplating my lot, I could only regard the entrance of Sherlock Holmes – modern England's very symbol of logic and justice – as the very same hand of fate that has guided me oft before.
Meyer, you are aware of my fascination with Mr. Holmes. I have studied his monographs with the utmost interest and followed his exploits in the newspapers. In the quest for clear thinking, there is no hero as enviable as Holmes.
What a gift fate had lain before me last night – while I sat debating the nature of homicide, the champion of crime himself appeared!
I will recount our conversation. I was unable to last night, for reasons I shall indicate later.
He entered in disguise – oh Meyer, it was perfectly delightful! – and, in gruff playacting, demanded beer and food. These he accepted and tossed upon a table in the corner, settling himself that he may observe and be undisturbed.
You'll remember that I am awfully good at faces. He'd done up his cheeks with false whiskers and held his jaw in a different manner than usual, but I could tell by the eyes and shoulders that it was Holmes all right. I'd studied the photos and been by his house on Baker Street enough times to be sure.
I hesitated, but I reminded myself of the coincidence and fate, and so stood with my own drink and approached him.
"What do you want," was the terse demand.
I confess I laughed. Poor Holmes frowned at the reaction, so I hastened to explain. "I'm sorry, sir, but I only desired a conversation. One poor pub goer to another," I said slyly.
He regarded me strangely, then, so I raised a placating hand. "There is so little opportunity to have intelligent conversation in these parts, and I'm afraid that… Well, I recognize you, sir."
He continued to frown at me, but I do believe I saw disappointment flicker across his eyes. "Well, sit down, then," he conceded finally, picking idly at his meal. "If I can't manage a proper disguise, I suppose I should suffer the consequences."
"Consequences?"
He gave a heavy sigh. "Well, what is it then? Are you a reporter? A reader of Dr. Wats—"
"Actually, sir, I am neither. I rather wished to discuss your monographs. Perhaps even philosophy."
An eyebrow quirked at that. The intelligent expression seemed out of sorts with his disguise. "Is that so?"
"Indeed. I am much intrigued by your scientific mind. Indeed – with the role science may play in moral judgment."
His responses were guarded at first, but when it became clear that I had no intention of beleaguering him about his cases, he began to relax, warming to the unfamiliar territory of our discussion. My confidence thrilled as his responses made clear that his thinking was similar to my own.
"You are familiar, I presume, with the works of Dostoyevsky?" I queried.
He nodded, taking a swallow of his drink. "I am aware of them, yes."
Our conversation segued into the debate of accountability. "It is a fascinating concept; are there heroes among murderers?" I settled back in my chair. "Is it the responsibility of intellectuals to deliver omniscient justice?"
Holmes said nothing for a short time, his brow clouded as he considered my words. "Justice," he repeated thoughtfully. "Justice is indeed a strange concept."
I said nothing, but my heart delighted to hear him consider my words. Our conversation came to an end not soon after, Holmes standing and, in the character of his disguise, growling, "Intrestin' conversation, lad. 'Ere." He threw down several coins with a half-smile. "One on me."
He sauntered out of the tavern, presumably to make his way back home.
Fate had provided me my catalyst, and I took her advice. At Holmes' acceptance, I decided I must continue my intellectual investigation. Luckily, the gentleman I had had in mind – a blackmailer, the parasite, no doubting his guilt – frequented a tavern down the street. I'd done my research and kept tabs on him. The concoction I'd perfected weighed my coat's upper pocket – Meyer, it had been sitting there for two weeks. You see, then, the blessing of Holmes' appearance?
That is enough for now. The first experiment has been completed, and I shall be eager to contemplate its implications. I look forward to my next intellectual debate.
Just a quick clarification, because reading back through it I don't know if it's clear. The journal entry was written the same day as this chapter, so "last night" was last chapter.