Sherlock Holmes

Battle of Wills

...

If you haven't read the description at the beginning of my story "Sherlock Holmes - the Case of the Crimson Clues", then I'll put it here as well. For those of you who have, you may now skip the next part and go straight to the story. ;)

This story is based off of the Sherlock Holmes series made in 1954 that ran for 39 episodes (it was intended to be a short series). Despite it being a hit, sadly it's one of the lesser knowns. Holmes was played by Ronald Howard and Dr. Watson by H. Marion Crawford. Some episodes being based off of the original book stories. The series portrays Holmes more as the character Sir Arthur Conan Doyle had originally intended him to be - brilliant and ready to dive right into things (as we know him of course) but also more easy going, fun spirited, curious, and maybe even slightly naïve. One of the biggest differences from any other SH version is that he cannot play the violin at all well. Even so, he still loves playing and treats his violin with the utmost care, and is constantly grinding on Watson's nerves with his screeching and off-key music. Watson isn't the bumbling doctor as in the Rathbone series, but is portrayed more as a level-headed person who can sometimes get frustrated (even slightly irritated) at Holmes' experiments, tactics, and quirks (more then once threatening to get another flat mate). But he always remains the loyal and protective friend though all the adventurous (and comical) situations Holmes gets them into.

It was actually the very first Sherlock Holmes I ever saw, and, even after seeing the Rathbone and Brett film series, it still remains my favorite of all the Sherlock Holmes. If you've never seen it, then you don't know what your missing out on! Please go watch it! I highly recommend it!

Also, I only put this story under the "movie" category of Sherlock Holmes because the "TV" category didn't have what I wanted. Enjoy!

"Thank you, Watson. I don't know what I'd do without you."

"Probably either blow yourself up with your own experiments or let some lunatic shoot you." Doctor Watson finished tying the last bandage end then motioned to his finished work. "Or burn yourself to death."

Sherlock Holmes raised his hands from the table and looked at them. Both were well wrapped in white bandaging from the wrist joint up, the thumb wrapped separate; making it appear rather like he was wearing a pair of mittens. "Well it was either that or let that murderer escape justice by letting him burn all the evidence. If he'd destroyed those papers we would've had no case, and I wasn't about to let that happen, my friend. Not after all the trouble I went through to beat him at his own game. So naturally when we rushed into the room and saw him throwing everything into the fireplace I had to do something to save it."

"By roasting your hands."

"Ah, but it was worth it, my dear fellow. And London is now free of one less killer."

Watson stood, placing the supplies back in his medical bag. "Maybe so, but those bandages are going to have to stay on for at least a week or more. Most were first degree burns, but there are some nasty second degree ones as well. You'll be feeling them for a while."

"Oh? I don't feel anything."

Watson grinned as he reached out and patted Holmes's shoulder. "That's because the painkiller hasn't worn off yet. Believe me, you'll feel them."

"Oh," Holmes muttered as he thought of the future perspective of that sentence.

The doctor moved away to his favorite armchair before the fireplace and picked up a book as he settled into it. A moment later, he was aware of Holmes taking the other armchair across from him. But his attention was soon not on the pages, but was instead drawn to something more interesting – and comical. Holmes was desperately trying to fill his pipe from the Persian slipper, but it was like trying to perform surgery while wearing winter gloves. He had put the slipper on his knee and was shoving the pipe into the opening, being just able to hold it between bandaged wrapped fingers and thumb. But it was being very uncooperative and the bowl refused to scoop up more than a few flakes of the tobacco. Quiet mutters of threats growled occasionally at the pipe as Holmes scowled in frustrated concentration.

He finally couldn't hold it back and the snort of laughter slipped out, but Watson felt pity at his friend's expression of despair that he gave. Laying the book aside, he reached for the pipe and slipper which were readily given up.

"Here, Holmes. Allow me." He filled it full and handed it back. Holmes could just bend his stiff thumb enough – with a slight grimace – to grip the pipe. A bit awkward, but it worked. Without a word Watson then struck a match and held it to the bowl. No way he was even going to think of letting his friend attempt to light it himself.

He'd probably end up setting the bandages on fire, he thought with a little amusement. And the entire flat.

"Thank you, Watson," Holmes muffled through teeth gripping the stem firmly.

"You're very welcome," the doctor grinned as he retook his seat and book.

The rest of the afternoon was spent mostly by the fireplace. It was a cool London day so the steady heat radiating from the low burning embers felt good and neither of them had any urge to move from their comfortable setting. Holmes continued to smoke his pipe and engaged his friend in a bit of friendly idle conversation every so often, to which Watson would put down his reading to readily reply. The late afternoon passed like this until it was it was time for dinner, which Mrs. Hudson brought up right on the dot as usual, giving her two tenants a jovial smile and well-wishes before leaving.

The two men eagerly sat down to enjoy their meal, which consisted of baked ham with potatoes and butter and cooked vegetables with a saucière of gravy. The aroma was literally mouthwatering. Watson filled up his plate with a generous helping and began feasting. And, though not showing, was well aware of what his friend was doing.

Holmes was finding himself in a bit of a predicament. In order to fill his plate he needed something to fill it with, but that was easier said then done. The thick bandaged hand were making it near impossible to pick up his fork and knife. He would just get the handles in-between his thumb and finger, with some cringing, before the heavy end would make it slip out again. Several attempt were made before the detective deduced this just wasn't going to work. Watson had continued eating as if noticing nothing.

Holmes stared down at his plate. "Um … Watson."

"Yes?" answered around ham and potatoes.

"I seem to find myself in a rather … awkward dilemma." Holmes held up the thickly wrapped hands. "I am unable to grab the silverware."

"I've already thought of that."

"And you're conclusion?"

"I've already thought of that too." Without further explanation, Watson filled his friend's plate before setting it between them, keeping the fork. Holmes looked rather blankly at the doctor. Watson stabbed one of the chunks of meat and held the loaded fork out. "Open up."

Holmes stared. Blinked at Watson. At the fork four inches before his face. Back at Watson. An incredulous grin came over his face. "Oh come now, Watson. You're joking."

The doctor said nothing. The fork didn't retreat.

The smile turned lopsided. "You are joking. Right?"

Still no change.

Disbelief struck. "You're not joking!"

"Do you have a better idea?"

Holmes squirmed to the far end of the chair, as far as he could get from that fork. "Watson, this idea is … is utterly ridiculous!"

Watson sighed as he set the menacing fork down on the plate. "Look, Holmes, there's simply no other way to do this. Now you can't pick up the silverware so isn't it logical deduction that someone has to do it for you?"

"Do not use my methods against me!"

"I'm glad you agree. Now are you going to cooperate?"

Holmes's head tipped away. "I utterly refuse to be hand fed. There must be a line drawn in every man's dignity."

Watson shrugged and tuned back to his own meal. "Very well. Have it your way."

He filled his own fork extra full and took the bite, slowly chewing and making small humming sounds – while Holmes watched the whole thing. Again he put more in his mouth and moaned dramatically.

"Mmm! This is absolutely delicious! I must say Mrs. Hudson has really outdone herself this time."

Holmes subconsciously swallowed as the aroma made his mouth water.

"I mean this ham is absolutely perfect! Moist and tender; and the flavor? Mmmph!" Another mouthful. "And the potatoes are cooked so nicely! And this gravy, well, I think this is some of the best gravy that–"

"Oh for goodness sake, Watson!" Holmes suddenly burst out. "We get the picture! The food is delicious! It's wonderful! Now you'd you kindly desist your narrative?!"

Watson looked up, feigning innocence. "Why whatever do you mean, my good fellow?"

"Ohhhoho, don't 'good fellow' me, old boy! I know exactly what it is you're very well trying to do. You're trying to break me down, make me give up my pride of dignity! Well let me tell you this, Doctor Watson!" Holmes stood to his feet, stretching to his full wiry height over the frustratingly placid doctor. "It's not going to work! I refuse now and I will continue to refuse and shall simply do so until I can eat for myself. No sir! No one is going to make Sherlock Holmes lose his manly dignity. Not today or ever!" Speech ended, he stomped off to his room and the door shut a bit more than "gently" behind him.

Watson only chuckled silently. He'll break down once he gets hungry enough, he thought as he continued his meal.

Watson didn't see Holmes again that evening as the detective stayed in his bedroom, more than likely sulking, and was still there when Watson retired for the night. He couldn't help but smile waggishly as he thought of Holmes in the next room trying to sleep on an empty stomach. They had been so busy with the case that day they had forgone breakfast and lunch. It was certainly going to be a long night for the detective.

...

The next morning, Watson was sitting at the table sipping a cup of tea while reading the morning paper when the bedroom door opened. Holmes was not an early riser when there was nothing happening, so Watson wasn't surprised at the late time and looked up from his paper. He quickly bit his lip in restraint. What emerged was a pitiful sight indeed.

The thin figure quietly sulked into the room and stood there. Brown eyes staring in the doctor's direction with a slight indignant air.

"Would you, uh, like any help?" Watson couldn't help but ask.

Holmes chin came up. "What makes you think I need help?"

Watson could've laughed. The detective was in an utterly disheveled state. It was evident that he had slept in his clothes by their rumpled appearance (Holmes had found it too difficult to get undressed the night before), and his hair was quite the tousled mess. It was evident he hadn't gotten much sleep by the tired appearance of his eyes and his countenance was a gloomy as a rain cloud, face creased with obvious annoyance.

Holmes walked away and grumpily flopped down in his armchair.

Watson gestured with his steaming teacup to what was left of the toast, eggs, and bacon on the tray Mrs. Hudson had brought up a while before. "Would you like some breakfast?"

"No."

There was a long pause.

"Would you like your hair combed?"

"No."

Another pause.

"Well, would you at least like a clean shirt?"

"No."

Watson rolled his eyes with a sigh. I swear, he can be as stubborn as a child at times. Very well, if that's the way he wants it, he can stew in his own soup. It's only a matter of time anyway. He went back to his newspaper and tea.

Waiting for the will to break down didn't stop the doctor from continuing to offer his assistance though. To which each was answered with the same obstinate "no". The only thing he allowed Watson to do was fill his pipe, apparently looking on that as more of a gentlemanly courtesy or he was simply desperate from something to do. All morning and into late afternoon Holmes sat in his chair.

"Really Holmes, you can't just sit there all day," Watson finally mentioned.

"Well, what do you expect me to do?" answered a bit sourly. "You have forbad me from working on any cases while my hands heal, and I can't very well work on my chemical experiments…"

Not that I mind, Watson inwardly thought.

"…And I can't play my violin either."

Amen to that! It was nice being able to breathe in their flat without getting a lungful of smelly or acidic fumes, but the absence of that instrument was one thing he definitely did not miss. The peace of silence was golden with no screeching notes to rub on his nerves. "Well, why don't you do some reading then?" Watson suggested.

"Don't feel like it." Holmes returned to chewing on the stem of his pipe that had quit smoking an hour ago while glumly staring into the embers of the fireplace.

Watson just shrugged and went to do something else.

This continued the rest of the day and into the next. No matter how kindly Watson offered or insisted, Holmes refused to let the doctor help in any way. By now the shirt and trousers had become shamefully wrinkled, and the dark circles under the glassy brown eyes told sleep was still elusive. The wavy blond hair could have been compared to a rat's nest and a shadow now covered the usually clean-shaven chin. And it was clear the detective was nearly bored out of his mind.

The only thing that wasn't as difficult a problem was drinking. Holmes would carefully pick the glass up with both hands while trying to hold back the flinches as the bandages pressed into the still healing burns. Watson had to admit he was doing pretty fair, only having dropped and broke one glass so far.

But he was becoming more and more annoyed with this petty foolishness. And when the third day was nearly over and another dinner sat on the table (which again consisted of ham), Watson finally reached a point where enough was enough.

He was nearly done with his own meal (having hoped Holmes would come of his own will) before turning to where the figure sat in its usual sulking place. "Holmes, why don't you come over and have something to eat? We have a lovely dinner here."

"Not hungry," the armchair replied.

There was a long pause.

"Holmes."

The stern way it was said made the name's owner look.

Watson pointed to the other chair at the table. "Sit."

Grudgingly, Holmes got up and went to the specified spot where he sat down, stiffly pulled into himself. Watson took a breath before he began, trying to be gentle.

"Now look Holmes, I can understand how this might be … difficult shall we say. But you can't just keep going like this. It's not healthy. I mean look at you, you're completely a mess."

Holmes snuck a glance down at himself. He did have to agree with the doctor there. And as a person who always kept well groomed, it was quite uncomfortable.

"And you can't keep going without eating. Why it's been nearly three days and I'm sure you're starving. It's not good to go that long without some kind of nourishment. I mean there's hardly anything of you to begin with! You don't want to make it worse."

A corner of the frowning mouth pulled back slightly at the poke about his physique.

"Now," Watson tried to say cheerily, filling a fork with ham from a plate he had already made in advance. "How about we just put all aside and have some dinner, shall we?" He held it out.

The brown eyes stared. The doctor saw the muscles in the long jaw tightened stubbornly.

Watson huffed. "Now see here Holmes! I'm nearly fed up with this childishness. Now are you going to eat or not?"

"I said I'm not hungry."

"Holmes, I'm only trying to–"

"Really Watson, I'm not hungry." As if to purposely contradict, a long loud growl sounded from the detective's stomach. The fork clanged to the plate.

"THAT'S IT!"

It was so unexpected the detective started slightly.

Watson slowly stood to his feet, squinting threateningly down his nose at the detective. "I hate to do this, Holmes; but if you don't get over this stubborn nonsense you leave me no choice."

Holmes's face first showed surprise, then a touch of dread, and finally a nervous skepticism. He squirmed under the hard stare. "To do what?"

The doctor's voice came slow and decisive as both fists leaned hard on the table. "If you don't open your mouth … I'm going to go put on my hat and coat, and then I will go downstairs, and I will hail a cab, then I shall go directly to Scotland Yard and personally bring Inspector Lestrade back here with me, and then we'll see what kind of luck he can have with you. If you won't eat for me, maybe you will for him."

During the speech, the look of skepticism had melted to one of abject horror. "Watson! You wouldn't!"

"Don't try me."

A hard staring contest took place over the next thirty seconds.

Holmes broke into an uneasy laugh. "Really, Watson. This is ridiculous. I know you, you would never…" It faded a bit indecisively.

The doctor's back straightened. "Very well then." Without looking back, Watson strode to the coat rack and lifted his frock and bowler from the hook. He put them on with back turned, but all the while feeling the eyes trained intently upon him.

As he twisted the knob, he heard the quick faint scrap of chair legs on the floor; Holmes had jumped to his feet. Watson walked out and closed the door after him, pausing for a second. From inside came the sound of rapid steps approaching. They stopped but the door remained closed and Watson immediately started down the hall stairway. Holmes had come close and no doubt had an ear pressed to the door, listening for descending footsteps. Watson made sure he had good loud ones to hear as he twitched a smile. Holmes was still believing it was a bluff; which only made the doctor all the more determined it wouldn't be. He could just imagine how Lestrade would never let the detective live this down and all the poking and prodding Holmes would be forced to endure for years to come if he were to return with the good inspector.

As Watson's shoes stepped off the last stair step, he began to wonder if stubbornness was more resolute than he had anticipated. There wasn't a sound from above. But if that's the way it was going to be; he wasn't going to back down from his threat.

His hand closed on the door knob.

"WATSOOON!" suddenly bawled from upstairs.

A victorious grin lifted the edges of the doctor's moustache. As he started back up he heard the door to the flat quickly close as the occupant darted back inside, not wanting to meet his friend all that soon. Watson reentered the room to find Holmes standing in the middle of the room; frowning but this time with an air of pitiful resignation in his countenance. Silently, but with a twinkle in his eye, Watson removed his hat and coat, hung them up, and sat back down at the table.

"Are you finally ready to grow up?" he asked flatly, taking up the fork again.

Holmes slowly moved toward his chair as though working against protesting muscles and stiffly sat down. "Fine," he muttered.

Finally! Watson cried out inside, but didn't let the full extent of his victory show. Instead, he put out the fork with the ham still on the tines, but Holmes only stared at it.

"Well?" Watson pushed, wondering if a there could still be a stubborn thread of will clinging fast. If so he was fully prepared to perform the entire spectacle over again, and he knew Holmes was well aware of that.

"One condition."

"Yes?"

The brown eyes looked imploringly at him. "Please promise you won't tell Lestrade."

Watson couldn't help the small snigger that escaped. "I won't."

"You promise?"

"I promise."

"Solemn word?"

"On my solemn word."

Holmes squinted. "You sure?"

Watson frowned impatiently. "Holmes, if I say I promise not to, then rest assured I won't. Why won't you believe me?"

"I'm just remembering the promise to never hide my violin again," came back a bit snarky.

"That was a long time ago."

"You hid it again last month – for the third time. And you'd promised the last time before that!"

Watson cleared his throat. "Okay, well maybe I did. But this is different; this is professional work and you know a doctor's oath to never discuss the circumstances his patient's cases to anyone. Believe me, Holmes, I promise and give you my word that this shall forever be our secret."

That seemed to satisfy as there was a heavy sigh of relief.

"And once you're done eating, I'll help you freshen up. With a new shirt, your hair combed, and a shave; you'll feel much more like yourself again."

With what could be called close to indignant surrender, Holmes closed his eyes and opened his mouth and Watson filled it with a forkful of now slightly cold ham.

The surrender may have been bitter, but after three days – NOTHING tasted as delicious as that cold ham!

Hope you liked it! Feel free to leave a review!

Until next time fellow detectives!