It has been thirteen years since the day I lost him. I went back to Mr. Baxby's establishment to see if the offer for work was still valid a few months after my departure. It was, but with a few extra services on the side that I was not willing to subject myself to at the time.
I wrote my brothers in Ireland but received no response, but I cannot say I was surprised considering their estrangement from my mother.
I wandered around for about three years after that, doing odd jobs. Desperate times call for desperate measures, and I did a few things that I am not proud of, and I would just as well like to forget. By the time I grew desperate enough to return to Mr. Baxby, the place had been turned into a butcher's, and they were not so inclined to hire a dirty street woman with one bag of personal effects hanging at her side.
I went from day to day after that, concentrating on finding food to eat and maybe a soft place to lie down at night. I sold most of my things for sustenance, except one pair of clothes (a simple dress I kept as clean as I could, some boots, and a pair of undergarments), the present he bought me that day at the shop, and my precious book.
I eventually was forced to sell the brush and my one remaining comb. I fought back tears as I handed it over to the pawn shop owner. I did not argue with him at the change he gave back to me, despite the fact that I was aware of how much they were worth. It kept me in food, and I stayed at a doss house for a whole fortnight on that money, without being subjected to any humiliating tasks. But money runs out, and I was soon back on the street. I always wondered if those fourteen days were worth what I had to give up; I still have not decided.
I was not so keen to part with my leather-bound fairy-tale; the gift he was still willing to give me even after thinking that I had betrayed him. I slept on the streets many nights because of that book; only because it was from him.
I wonder about his mother a great deal. Sometimes I can see her vividly in my mind; her steady hand clutching at her chest, her white pearls scattering onto the ground. My heart quickens when I see her that way, for I do not know if that image is truth or a figment of my own over-active mind.
I dread to think any ill has befallen her. There are some people, who through some special quality of their personality, cannot stir up hate in you, no matter what.
It was a quality she shared with her son.
I went to his flat once, during especially dark times about three years ago. I knew where he lived; I had heard of the detective, The Great Detective. Everyone had, especially in my district. Unlike the police, who were viewed as enemies, he was talked about in hushed tones as a sort of savior of anyone who needed help. I was at a pub, having drinks with another girl, when I heard his name in those reverent tones. Strangely, it made me very proud of him.
I knocked on his door. An older woman answered with a shawl wrapped tightly around her. She was maybe five-and-forty, tall and slender, with the kindest eyes I had seen for a while. I just stared at her, too scared to ask about him, too scared to see him.
She must have been used to this type of thing because she merely smiled and informed me that Mr. Holmes was not at home at the moment.
I still did not respond; I backed away from her and ran down the street, my book tucked in my apron pocket; my one last possession. I did not hear the door close behind me, and I knew that she had watched my departure, in all likelihood thinking I was an infatuated reader of Dr. Watson's stories.
I wonder if she ever related that incident to him; told him about the disheveled street woman that had knocked on the door and then run away without ever uttering a word. I would have liked to see his reaction; maybe he was intrigued, maybe he even tried to find me. Or maybe he didn't even remember me. Or perhaps our time together was a simple memory, a season that had faded a long time ago. I knew I shouldn't presume how he felt was perennial; that he hadn't let go.
Over the next week, I thought about it more, about whether it was wise to flee. I started trailing him. It was an imprudent decision, born from an acute need to see him. I kept my distance the best I could, my face covered with my shawl, and my head bowed. I followed him as he left his rooms, and I hunted him as he worked as long as it was feasible. He had grown up. He enthralled me.
Keeping him in my sights was not a good idea; it only reinforced how attached I was to him. When the sun would fall on that sharp curve of his jaw or in the rare instances when he would smile, it made me agitated. It grew harder to stay away from him.
A few days ago, I followed him to an outdoor café; watching as he sat down and waved the waiter away, obviously expecting someone. I stared at the back of his head as he sat, his jacket thrown carelessly over the rear of his seat. His hair was short now, and it curled around the back of his ear.
From this angle, it was all I could see. I watched his throat move as he swallowed. He sat peacefully, though his fingers tapped the tabletop, long and dexterous as always. As he settled his glass down onto the white linen tablecloth, his thumb wiped the water droplets off the side of his glass.
I leaned against the wall and closed my eyes, so lost in the sickening wave of wistfulness that started at my chest and went down to my toes that I didn't notice until he was on the street that he had gotten up. He was coming straight towards me. I turned sharply but could not work my way through the few people who lined the street.
I knew he was behind me, every nerve I possessed could sense him close to me. His shoulder bumped mine, hard enough to make me stumble. He grabbed my wrist to prevent me from falling. I kept my head bowed, but at his touch, so warm as his long fingers circled my small wrist, my legs turned to liquid. I floundered and then jerked from him before he could speak. His voice would undo me. I pushed through the crowd to flee from him, though I was sure he had not seen my face.
My legs were shaking, and my wrist tingled where he had touched. I had to buy a hansom cab for the ride back to Whitechapel, spending all my coins for the day. It was unwise to venture so far. I sat back in the cab and watched the scenery go by. My head hurt as my body settled down from the thrill of seeing him. I squinted out the window, though there was no sun.
We rushed by some galleries. I would never be allowed into them. I didn't care so much.
I dreamt of being a little girl in a Wonderland where the outside rules had no purpose except to be mocked. I dreamt of Ireland, of roaming the inland landscapes and sycamores as a girl with my mum. I dreamt of the green groves and copses and the smoke wreathing up from the cottage houses and pastoral farms. I dreamt that we were still happy and content, serene amongst the lofty hills and horizons. I saw my mum, outlined by the pink sunset, her shawl wrapped around her shoulders as she called to me to come inside, her hair whipping into her young face.
I paced my small room when I arrived home, staring at these papers, which were supposed to be letters to him. I could have written over a hundred notes to him with the amount of paper I foolishly purchased, but I did not compose one. I had started on these memoirs a week ago and had grown tired of them. I continued to pace, my skirt lapping at my ankles and my bare feet chilled by the hard floor.
"I hate you," I seethed to the air. The words fell flat to the ground, scattering around my feet. The walls laughed at my weak defiance.
I wanted to see him so much I ached. My need for him had only intensified over the years. I wondered if he even remembered me. My dress suddenly felt caustic against my sensitive skin. I flung it onto the chair and climbed into bed in my chemise. I scooted over to the edge and stared at the space next to me. He was a tall man, and not frail in the least. I tried to decide if he could fit in the small cot next to me. If he held me he could. The thought made me flush.
But I shouldn't think of things like that.
I stroked the sheet beside me quickly, pretending that it was the sleeve of his shirt, and fell into a fitful slumber.
The first few nights following that encounter were the same.
Tonight, though, I do not think I will sleep. Tonight my mind is disrupted. I spoke to him tonight. He kissed me tonight.
I was rambling around the streets. He was still on my mind. I should have never allowed him to touch me. I had no inclination to work. Perhaps if I starved to death, I would be put out of my misery.
Though, that would certainly prevent me from seeing him again, even from afar.
Pushing an empty discarded bottle of rum away with the toe of my boot, I settled my back against the brick wall behind me, staring at the gaslight a few inches from my feet. The street was quiet, though there was a man sleeping on the corner adjacent.
I lifted my head to the sky. I couldn't see the stars. In Yorkshire, you could always see the stars, glancing like the rays of a thousand lamp lights of heaven. Even in the frosty winter, the fog could not veil them, and the moonlight merely illuminated the numerous droplets of water in the air. Running your hand through the streams, the vapor would scatter, clinging to your hands or floating off.
I wondered if the primroses and asters were still in bloom around the hedges of the land or if the sunset still cast a lovely violet and orange hue onto the grass.
I let my eyes close and pretended he is touching my cheek beneath the sky of North Riding.
Arms slid around my waist and, for a moment, my mind tricked me into thinking it was him. But then the smell assailed my nose, and I opened my eyes to a burly face. The man had me up against the wall and leaned towards my mouth. I pushed his face away with my hand and told him I was not working. I tried to duck under his arm, my pleasant thoughts irritatingly twisted by the reality of this man.
He didn't let me slide past him. He pressed a gruff kiss to my cheek. I would have laughed if I had not been so terrified. I went stock still, as was the instinct in Whitechapel. It was like we were all animals, afraid to move too suddenly and catch the notice of each other.
He was lowering another kiss to my cheek and throwing some coins at my feet when he was suddenly pulled away from me.
My savior threw the man into the lamppost as if trying to cast him into the underworld with brute force and glowered at him. It was enough to intimidate the dreadful aggressor into fleeing and my hero stood for a moment with his back to me. I pressed myself further into the wall, wishing I could melt into it before he turned, but life was never so kind. He stared at me when he finally faced me. I inched to the right, hoping he wouldn't even notice I was moving until I was out of reach. That sometimes worked with poor sods half-drunk off of whiskey, but it didn't work with The Great Detective.
He frowned fiercely at me and struck his arm out to bar my path. I parried to the other side but he was too quick, trapping me between his arms. I could only look at his light eyes, clouded with knowledge and too many things seen, for a second before squeezing my own shut and turning from him. I felt like a girl in one of those horrid shows that sometimes play in the pubs, being uncomfortably ogled, as you stand unclothed to everyone. I waited for him to scold me.
He didn't.
Once he seemed satisfied that I would not dart away like a hare into the underbrush, he stepped back slowly.
"I thought I had imagined you, Mary," he said, that nearly clinical but somehow sensitive tone so familiar to me. That peculiar voice had not changed, nor had the way he breathed my name.
"I thought I had finally lost my mind." He smirked, "Doctor Watson often tells me I'm on the verge of that. I'm glad he still has not been proven right."
I said nothing, trying to regulate my breathing. At my silence, his face grew somber, and he stepped close to me. As if I indeed were not real, he lifted his hand slowly and pressed it against my cheek. His bare skin was cold.
His expression shifted into something curious. I felt like an experiment with results that were incomprehensible. But beneath that, I could sense how nervous he was. Horribly, he leaned forward. His lips found my mouth and parted against it. I followed his example and waited for him to take control. His skin was salty. Between kisses, I murmured his name, and he inhaled sharply, pressing his cheek tightly to mine.
"I don't remember your hair being so red, Mary," he whispered, his words blowing against my throat.
He terrified me, perhaps more than the man he had just run off. I slid down the wall quickly, taking him by surprise in his present state. I ran from him, my heart hammering and disappointment echoing in my stomach as I realized he was not coming after me.
I fought the urge to go back to him. I sat in an alley about ten blocks away and cried for a while. I don't know how long I stayed that way before picking myself up and trudging back to my room. When I opened the door, I stepped on some paper.
I could tell immediately it was from him. I knew his elegant but messy handwriting. It's odd to think of the things that stick in your mind; why his handwriting would be so familiar to me was unexplainable.
I placed the letter on the desk and stared at the wall. How did he know where I lived? How long had he known where I lived?
I put an old rag into the hole of the window, my hands trembling, my mind merely trying to find something to do. I was just as scared of his letter as I was of him. I took off my dress and knotted my hair up by the nape of my neck.
I sat at the desk and took a deep breath, preparing myself for whatever he felt he needed to say to me.
The letter ran this way:
Mary,
I apologize for my handwriting, but I need to get my thoughts down before that dominating rational side of my mind prevents me from composing this for you. I also deeply apologize for my behavior this night, I acted ungentlemanly, and you deserve so much more than that. I was merely overcome by seeing you again. I am usually a man of trained self-control but the thoughts that have been building over the last few days overtook me at the sight of you.
I haven't been able to stop thinking of you since I literally ran into you on the street days ago. I couldn't understand why you fled from me, and it wounded me more than I could imagine. But it brought you to the fore of my mind. I had locked you away for quite some time, and you were only a shadow that loomed over my every action and moment. But the sight of you made me think of you much more, which is a feat, I assure you, Mary.
My work is an escape from thinking; of life, but mostly of you. But I am growing wearied with my crusade; it means little in the world. It is a hard thing to realize: that your whole life has not held the importance you once believed it did. These vultures and thieves I've vowed to fight are not declining; I am trying to empty the ocean one cup at a time, and I am tired.
I am not particularly adept with words. I never had to use them much to get what I wanted. I told you once that I was no artist. So I can only say bluntly that I've missed you.
And it makes me greatly regret the years I shared with you because I was too young to see things as I see them now. I'm too old now to want games or unsaid things to be the only interaction between us. I was a child, and I behaved like one. I daresay I even ill-used you, though I realize now that you were far too good for me.
I am a man now, Mary, and I do not much care for the thought of standing on the precipice of action and vacillating as I did in the past. I will not cower from you or pretend anymore. I will not believe quaint lies to avoid making hard decisions. I will willingly take whatever you offer to me. I have become certain that I cannot forget you. Love is not love which alters when it alteration finds.
I know it annoys you, but I am familiar with your thinking enough to know you will likely be frightened by this. I know your first inclination will be to run from me.
I hope you do not disregard any of this as simple hope. I do not care what has become of either of us, for I assure you that my own flaws and sins have become numerous. Do not grieve over any deeds you have done. Roses have thorns and silver fountains mud. You are still my Mary. My Mary who loves poetry and wishes she was Alice with a blue dress and white stockings.
Thinking of you, I have to fight the urge to come to you tonight. I am not a happy man, I have never been. The modicum of satisfaction I have found in my work, in the thrill of the danger, is only a substitute for what I really desire.
We need to talk.
My mother died in a riding accident while I was away at Oxford. We believe her heart may have given out, but she was crushed beneath her horse. My father followed much later, but he had expectedly disowned me. I have no name, no place in the world except the small one I've created with my talents and tenacity. I am a free man, but all I want with that freedom is to do as I please with you.
I will come by your room tomorrow at midday to talk. I wish to work out what is between us. There is nothing that cannot be taken care of. Unless of course, you no longer feel the way you used to. Though, I doubt this. I am sure you are still mine. A grown man can tell easily enough when a woman loves him.
Please be here if you wish to see me again. If you plan to reject me, please disappear. If I see you, I will not let you go, and I do not wish to make a fool of myself at the feet of any woman, even you.
Especially you.
S.H
I am restless after reading his letter. I seem too aware of everything about me. My fingers clench as I sit at my desk and then stand, again and again until the woman above me taps the floor with a broom. I pace, the very air too rough against my skin. I finally sit to compose the rest of these notes, keeping my mind off the desire to throw something or scream. I am anxious for distraction. I wish he would come tonight. I know I will not sleep soundly with our meeting ahead of me. He must know it is torture to wait for him.
But I will try. I will pacify myself with the thought that this is the last night I will spend in this awful room and on this unpleasant bed; that in the morrow, I will no longer stand on this wide world's shore alone.