Session #2. Five Weeks Ago
One of the marks of a good psychiatrist is the knowing when to deploy silence. If the patient will not talk, sometimes Dr. Doyle finds it helpful, instead of asking questions, to allow him to stew in his own thoughts. Most often, the patient finds himself unable to stand it and begins conversing with more effort and honesty than before the long silence. The problem with treating Sherlock Holmes was two-fold for Doyle: not only was Sherlock Holmes extensively educated in psychology and thus able to foresee the tactic being deployed against him, but he also was entirely comfortable using the usually discomfiting quiet to instead "deduce" the psychiatrist himself.
His most clever deduction, Sherlock thought to himself, was that the good Dr. Doyle's wife no longer loved him. This he had deduced from the photographs on the doctor's wall, the clothes he wore, and, most importantly, the cartoons taped to his filing cabinet.
Doyle wore expensive, well-made, and well-tailored clothes, yet his expensive tie, his socks, his accessories—all top quality—did not exactly match. From the degree to which all the colors clashed subtly, Sherlock deduced that the man was red-green colorblind. Yet, all of the photographs on his desk and wall, taken several years ago, show a man well-dressed and well-coordinated, vain even. That, combined with the lack of color coordination both this week and at the last session suggested that the wife no longer cared whether he clashed or not. She simply didn't dress him any more.
Even more telling, to Sherlock, were the cartoon cut-outs littering the side of his filing cabinet. Some of them were so old that the print had faded and could hardly be read. They seemed to span regular intervals dating back fifteen years or more. All them featured some kind of psychiatric humor. One in particular had the image of a psychiatrist talking to a patient. Written down on the doctor's notepad are the words "just plain nuts." Some of the cartoons have the same woman's writing underneath, with some kind of inscription.
But the cartoons, so regular for so long, stopped abruptly within the last few years. Sherlock wonders if his psychiatrist is able to diagnose his own disintegrating marriage to the same degree he thinks he sees the inner life of his patients. Probably not, Sherlock thinks and smirks triumphantly to himself.
"Is something funny?"
"Not in the least, really."
"What were you thinking about just now?"
"Entropy."
"Entropy?"
"The transfer of energy from . . . "
"I know what entropy is, Sherlock. What is it about entropy that you are thinking about in particular?"
"Just the amount of energy that has to go into any system for it to remain stable."
"For example?"
"A bath."
"A bath?"
"Yes, think about how hard it is to enjoy a long bath. At first, it's nice and hot, quite relaxing."
"Yes."
"But it doesn't take long for the bath to grow cold, so you pump more hot water into it to make it warm again. But soon enough it grows cold once more. And it soon becomes a losing effort to regain the heat and the initial enjoyment of the bath as you attempt over and over again to add more hot water but with less effective results. Eventually, the bath water does what it is meant to do and which all things do: return, forever and always, to room temperature."
"That's bleak."
"That's reality," Sherlock said, coldly.
"Well, you could always take a shower." Both men laughed. "So, do you feel this way about all human endeavors?"
"More or less."
"So do you want to talk about 'the more' or 'the less'?"
"Pardon?"
"Do you think some human endeavors are more or less prone to this kind of destruction?"
"Yes, I suppose so."
"Which ones do you think are more prone to entropy?"
"Romantic attachments I should think."
"Why do you think that?"
"The evidence of it is everywhere. Everywhere you look you see the cold remnants of what were once passionate, hot attachments. The world is full of the walking, talking examples of entropy," Sherlock offered, thinking potentially of Doyle's own marriage.
"Hmmmm."
"You disagree?"
"No, not necessarily. I certainly see your point. Most relationships do indeed end. To use your scientific language, each new relationship is an experiment. Our atoms bombard each other to see if some new molecule can come into being. Most experiments will fail, ultimately, but you just need for the experiment to succeed but once." Sherlock chuckled to himself. "You don't agree?"
"I think people fool themselves into thinking the experiment has succeeded, but, in time, the bathwater will run cold no matter what, the atoms will wrest themselves apart, the molecule will divide, etc., etc., etc."
"You speak from experience?"
"No, from observation."
"Does that describe your parents?"
"No, they are an excellent example of the right neuroses finding their perfect complimentary object."
"So they are exempt from your theory? What about your own relationships?"
"Friendships have their own chemistry, although they too can fall to the laws of entropy."
"I meant your romantic relationships."
"I haven't any."
"Ok, but what about ones you've had in the past?"
"I told you, I haven't had any."
"Ever?"
"Never."
"Oh, ok. So, am I to understand, um . . . "
"No, I've never had sex, if that's what you're about to ask."
"I see. Have you ever felt sexual attraction toward someone?"
"Certainly."
"Ok, and when you've experienced that sexual attraction, do you ever get aroused, that is, get an erection?"
"Yes."
"Do you do anything about it?" Sherlock narrowed his eyes, as if not understanding. "Do you masturbate?" The doctor clarified.
"Yes, sometimes."
"Ok. Are you attracted to women or men or both?"
"Just women."
"Ok. Have you had any sexual contact at all with a woman?"
"I hardly see the relevance of this."
"You don't? Really, Sherlock? I know you know quite a bit about psychology, criminal and otherwise. From your own observations and education, you don't see the relevance of someone's sexual attitudes and experiences upon their mental state?"
"But that's exactly what I've tried to avoid my entire life, the sexual and romantic entanglements that ensnare and destroy great minds and lay waste to their vast potentiality."
"Well then, you clearly don't have any issues about sex we need to explore, do you?" Even Sherlock laughed at that. "We're almost out of time for today," the doctor announced, "but I do want to pick up here where we left off next time. But, before you go, I wanted to ask how Molly Hooper is."
"She's . . . safe."
"Good. That's good. I did want to get back to what you said last week about no longer being friends with her. You said you couldn't talk about it or wouldn't talk about it."
"Yes, and I still can't and won't."
"I see. Sherlock," Dr. Doyle said, leaning in toward him, "this process can only be as successful as you let it be. Redacting large swaths of your life ultimately undermines the work we must do. I'd like you to think about what keeps you from talking candidly to me and decide whether you can be a full participant in therapy or not."
Sherlock nodded reluctantly.
"Same time next week, Sherlock?"
Reviews are things of beauty and keep the demons away and the muses close by.