Work Text:
From the personal notebook of John H. Watson, MD
I moved my meagre possessions into Baker Street this evening and have declared to myself that this is a fresh start. Indeed, I have taken out my last fresh notebook intending to record the beginnings of this new start in life upon a clean page. I’ve comforted myself with grand thoughts of improving my conditions. I say conditions for I feel that there is no part of my life and self which is exempt from this campaign for improvement. I should like nothing more than to be able to stand with my head held high and my shoulders back (no matter how painful) and feel that I am healthy, financially solvent, and — what is the word I am searching for? The one which repeatedly comes to mind is “whole”, which is applicable, I suppose, for at the present I only see myself as broken.
I spent the last coin in my pocket on the tip for the cabdriver who carried my trunk upstairs. He hefted it up onto his shoulder and carried it up two flights (made easier due to my scant possessions, perhaps) as if it weighed no more than a cup of tea.
While she did not offer to assist me with my suitcases outright, I very much fear the landlady wanted to take them from me and carry them up herself as she watched me make two trips to carry each up individually.
Still, she is quite pleasant and the tea and fresh biscuits were excellent (and thankfully already paid for.) She brought me quite a few more biscuits than I suspect is regular and she made a remark about soon having some ‘meat upon my bones’. I should not begrudge her, for she means well and it is clear to anyone who sees me that I have been ill, but I do wish the state of my health was not dropped into conversation by strangers as if it were as commonplace a topic as the weather. I suppose that is my pride speaking.
After taking tea and wandering about our sitting room and peeking in at the lower bedchamber (which will belong to Stamford’s chap) I came upstairs to unpack and settle in. Of course, I offered to take the upper room so that this fellow would not feel the need to offer me the larger room and larger bed out of pity. I am looking upon the extra flight of stairs as part of a strength-building campaign, as no matter how tired and sore my leg is, I will be forced to navigate the steps if I wish to reach my bed.
And it is here, in my new bedchamber, where I have been brought low and reminded of the multitudinous ways in which my diminished capacity may snatch the wind from my sails. The most trivial of occurrence can bring to mind my impoverished financial condition and lingering infirmaries, making me despair at ever feeling myself whole and hale again. Although I acknowledge it is the merest of inconveniences, it is these small things which often seem the most damning of blows. I remind myself that the road up from perdition is rocky and that this too shall be overcome, but at the moment, it has caused my spirit to quite sink.
The problem is this: my new bedchamber has but one pillow upon the bed. I have cursed myself for not noticing earlier today when we viewed the rooms and for not having the foresight to steal a pillow from the hotel (there was quite room in my near-empty trunk). In fact, it is the thought of returning to my hotel, claiming to the hotel manager that I fear I have forgotten something and asking to see my old room in order to steal a pillow, which has made me feel the lowest.
I believe it is important to record my experiences and feelings if I am to heal and regain myself, but at this moment, I simply feel too sorry for myself to do so.
~~~~~
I sit here this morning in the comfortable sitting room, at the desk near the two broad windows, my spirits improved by warm sunlight and a hearty breakfast. My fellow lodger has begun to move in his belongings and, as I wish to appear occupied since I am able to offer little assistance with the fetching and toting, I have resolved to salvage this notebook for its intended purpose of recording my progress towards recovery in a meaningful way. And so, let me start over again and try to make my musings worth the cost of ink.
I have, upon occasion, wondered what should be considered my lowest point in life. I first thought I had reached it upon waking in hospital to find that my life had been despaired of for four months and that I was too weak to walk. Then, when I discovered that managing the simplest tasks of self-maintenance could not be performed without assistance — eating, dressing, bathing, even shaving — I felt I had reached the most hopeless place a man could be. But I focused on regaining some strength and turned my efforts to reclaiming my independence and soon ceased to think upon such maudlin ideas.
It next occurred to me that I had reached my lowest point one bleak night in my hotel room, some months after I returned to London. I stood drunkenly staring at the withered and bruised face reflected in the mirror. That I had made it back to the room seemed a gift of providence, but as I stood staring at the stranger in the mirror, I questioned the value of that gift.
I had just lost more money at cards than I currently possessed and had nearly had my head beaten in for my troubles. I already owed money to unsavoury men and I had now lost my welcome at yet another card table, my only source of camaraderie and the sole interruption in the monotony of my comfortless and meaningless life. But two days ago, I chanced upon an old acquaintance from Bart’s, and yesterday I entered into an agreement with a decent-seeming fellow to take up these rooms.
That war changes a man is an understatement. In my own experience, it is not just the great life-altering events, but the insidious accumulation of smaller changes which weigh upon one’s shoulders and reshapes life. I must use sleep as an example. Prior to the war, I gave little thought to sleep. I curled up in my bed and drifted off, waking with the sunlight, and never thinking twice about the mechanics of slumber. Sometimes I had amusing dreams. Sometimes a well-formed and warm body slept next to me.
While in Afghanistan, I had occasions to sleep sitting upright, while standing (with the aid of walls to lean against, although I have seen men sleep while standing fully upright), and, in a few instances, I slept whilst astride a horse. Sleep had suddenly become a rarity, and to sleep while laying upon a bed became a true luxury. I did not sleep deeply enough to dream, and what well-formed warm bodies I encountered were relegated to quick and furtive movements within the shadows. War has a way of making what would otherwise be insufficient seem a bounty of riches.
Since boyhood, I have never been able to fall asleep upon my back. My favorite position in which to fall asleep, curled upon my left side, was one of the many things I lost in the war. After the bullet tore through my shoulder, I have no doubt I fell asleep on my back while in hospital, but I do not count sleep induced by morphine as a natural repose. (The morphine, I later found, was not just for the pain but to keep the wards quiet at night by staving off the dreams.)
As my health returned, following the fever, I became aware of the innumerable limitations my wound imposed. Sleeping on the right side posed a challenge, as one’s left arm tends naturally to fall across the body, pulling the shoulder forward during sleep. I would awake in agony, my torn muscles and ligaments screaming for hours. My left arm would be all but immobile upon waking as I coaxed the stiff muscles to relax enough to allow my shoulder joint to return to the correct position. One of the nurses in Peshawar gave me an extra pillow (although Lord knows they were hard to come by) to clutch to my chest at night, which allowed me to elevate my left arm to a neutral position. It was a lesson in how very important these trifles can be.
Since returning to London, overindulgence in drink and my hotel bed’s extra pillow brought me some measure of peaceful sleep by warding off the dreams and keeping my shoulder comfortable. That extra pillow was a small comfort which I took for granted. Needing two pillows to sleep comfortably was one more change in an innumerable sea of them which made up my new life after the army. (Adeptly cutting a steak is another, although I’ve had little chance to practice this while living on a half-pay salary.)
My room here in Baker Street contains a single bed, narrow but comfortable, and a single pillow. In the excitement of viewing the rooms and securing such an agreeable situation at modest terms, I failed to notice the single pillow. I further neglected to note this triviality last evening, what with the bustle of moving my few belongings into my new rooms, and I am ashamed to admit I contemplated common theft as a solution.
I fell exhausted into bed last night, my leg aching from trips up the stairs and my shoulder throbbing from carrying suitcases and pulling my trunk across the room. My pride, of course, prompted me to offer to take the upper room yesterday, as I did not wish my fellow lodger to feel the need to offer me the lower room due to my obvious limp. My pride also prevented me from asking the new landlady for an extra pillow last evening. I so wished to be taken for healthy and hale (as my fellow lodger who is dashing about with cartons and crates appears to be) that it seemed a blow of defeat to have to voice my invalidity and request special provisions. I do not wish to be seen as a burden.
I will, of course, have to purchase an extra pillow, which for most men in London would not merit a second thought. But providing my half of the rent and settling my hotel bill had depleted my funds entirely, to say nothing of the strain of slow horses and bad card hands. As a matter of fact, I owe money to one or two men for gambling debts, and I have vowed to pay them off within the next two months. Then, I shall be well and truly done with my old ways.
I awoke this morning in Baker Street to wintry yellow light falling over my bed, distant sounds from the street drifting up to my window, and a searing ache in my shoulder. Gingerly I sat up, rubbing at the scar tissue and attempting to rotate the stiff joint. I dressed carefully, holding my left arm close and gritting my teeth against the ache. I slowly made my bed, my left arm’s range of motion increasing despite the pain as I pulled my covers tight. I glanced around my sunny room, trying not to feel like an impoverished cripple who is unable to manage for his basic needs.
I gave myself a stern speech in my dressing mirror, reminding my reflection that I was fortunate enough to find these rooms with a fellow lodger (although, at present, the man just placed a crate upon the table and cautioned me that the contents were somewhat volatile and that he hoped that the carriage ride’s jostling would not lead to any unfortunate combustions), and my situation must continue to improve. I will pull myself back up and, within a month or two, I will be better off in every way. I will go on walks in the spring and enjoy regular home-cooked meals. I will increase my health and my bank account in tandem. I faced myself in the mirror, stood up straight (wincing as I put my shoulders back) and told myself it was the first day of my improved circumstances before coming down to breakfast this morning.
And as I write this, it is almost time for lunch. My shoulder is cramped from sitting, and I am a bit nervous about being seated next to this man’s crate of chemicals, and so I will conclude this entry.
~~~~
My second day living at Baker Street began much like my first. I gave myself my marching orders for the day (write, rest, do not gamble) and took myself downstairs. Stamford’s chap was already seated at the breakfast table, glancing up from his open newspaper to bid me good morning. I helped myself to tea and toast and took one of the folded papers from his stack, at his encouragement. We shared a companionable breakfast, making some small comments about the headlines and weather. I took pains to keep my left arm still so that I would not embarrass myself by grimacing.
Mrs. Hudson (that is, the landlady) chatted with me companionably after breakfast when she came up to clear the table. Holmes (that is, the other lodger) had already dashed off for the day and I believe Mrs. Hudson was chatting me up in an effort to determine how I planned spend my days. As that remains to be seen, I fear I had little information to provide. I must say, she is a delightful cook, and not having to worry over the cost of my next meal is almost enough to make me forget that my store of tobacco is running quite low.
~~~~
These next few days have passed in much the same manner. Although I have failed to write here daily as promised, I have been reading, for my flatmate possesses several volumes I have not previously read. I have ventured out little with the cold, but I have enjoyed the cooking of Mrs. Hudson. My flatmate leaves each day after a quick breakfast to go about whatever it is that men with purpose do with their days. His hours seem regular and while he is a strange sort of chap, I don’t suppose we shall see each other very much apart from meals.
Meanwhile, I still struggle to find any comfort in sleep, going so far as to sleep in my dressing gown and attempting to tie my left arm to my side with the belt in order to immobilize it. Consequently, I have found that attempting to sleep with one’s arm tied to one’s side is worse than attempting to fall asleep upon one’s back. This exercise had the unfortunate consequence of working its way into my dreams (which I would still deem manageable most nights) and I dreamed of being captured and bound and woke myself fighting to get away. I next attempted to roll up my spare clothes to place as a support under my arm, but the heap fell apart in the night and I awoke with my shoulder pulled out of place and the fibers of my torn muscles burning in agony when I tried to move my arm.
My flatmate barely glances up when I make my descent each morning, but I have noted he is an unusually perceptive man and seems to take in every detail. Furthermore, he seems to have few qualms about voicing his observations, even those which decorum would normally prevent one from stating in polite society. Upon the fifth morning, I sat at breakfast, pouring myself tea with my right hand and leaving my left hand within my lap, my shoulder still pulled slightly forward, my stiff muscles protesting proper alignment. The fellow waited until I was sipping my tea to offer me (rather unnecessarily) the jam pot. I placed my tea in my saucer and reached out with my right hand to accept the jam and thank him, helping myself to toast.
“Your shoulder is worse in the morning, is it not?” he asked, not unkindly. “You seem to be in less pain later in the day, but in the mornings it appears to be at its worst.”
I am loathe to discuss my injuries with anyone, particularly someone who is still a relative stranger and who appears to take his own health and wellbeing for granted, slouching within his chair or lounging in contorted poses upon the settee, as blithely unaware of the ease of his movements as I had once been. I did not wish to make my aches a topic of breakfast conversation, but the man looked at me in earnest, as if genuinely curious.
“It is,” I said, smearing jam upon my toast with my good hand. “It tends to get out of alignment and stiffen up when I sleep. I need to remember to purchase an extra pillow so I can prop it up while I sleep.”
I do not know why I told him this, and as I chewed my toast, I thought that I ought to add ‘liar’ to my list of shortcomings, now that I was feigning an ill memory as my reason for neglecting to make the purchase instead of the two days until I can collect my pension. I imagine it was pride, once again, as I preferred for him to think me so preoccupied with the excitement of my daily activities that I had merely forgotten such a trivial matter as a pillow. He need not know I spent my days upon the settee reading his books.
“A pillow? Why, if that is all you need to help alleviate discomfort, then your problem can be solved at once. My bed has two and I can only sleep upon one at a time. Take my extra one — no, no, I’ll hear nothing against it, Watson, it is a spare pillow and not a precious family heirloom. Take the extra one up after breakfast and say no more.”
He flipped his newspaper back open and seemed to consider the matter concluded. I stared at my plate as I finished my tea, grateful and supremely embarrassed. He finished his breakfast and papers and disappeared into his room, returning with a jacket replacing his dressing gown, and tossing a white pillow onto the settee.
“There you are. I’m off. I expect I’ll be back for dinner. Ta,” he said, before he settled his hat and shut the door.
The ease with which he moves and speaks is unsettling. The ease with which he breezes about, deducing my ailments and effortlessly providing the solution is even more so. In fact, if I am honest, there is much unsettling about him. He is arresting in manner, appearance, and movement, although I cannot decide if it is due to how unlike his fellow man he seems or merely how unlike myself, for I seem to hold him up as mirror by which to view my own shortcomings.
I do not know what he does for business, if in fact he has any, or how he comes by his money. He surely cannot be well off, for he needed someone to take rooms with, but he seems the type of man who does not have gambling debts and can provide for his own care. Sitting before the fire sipping brandy in the evening, I find he is an interesting conversationalist, but aloof. Still, the way in which he inquired about my pain and immediately sought to ease it when he just as easily could have kept his damned extra pillow for himself has left me feeling something I cannot name.
~~~~
I promised myself I would record my experiences and feelings here and document my recovery, and so I suppose I must record this, despite feeling a bit of a fool.
Last night, as I sat before the fire smoking, Holmes inquired if I would be troubled if he played the violin. He said it helped him to think and, indeed, he seemed preoccupied by thought when he arrived home after dinner. I did not object and he inquired if I had any requests. I suggested Mendelssohn, which I have always enjoyed, and without hesitation or sheet music he began to play an opus, his back turned towards me to face out the window.
I have never been the recipient of a private concert, and while he played facing away from me, seemingly oblivious to my presence, I could not help but feel that he was playing for me rather than himself. To be transported within the confines of our sitting room was the most singular experience, and I felt quite touched as the notes wavered in the air and vibrated around me. When he was finished, he replaced his violin and gave a me a brief, tense smile over his shoulder before wishing me goodnight. I did not even have the opportunity to tell him how much I enjoyed the music before he had shut his door. I record this, because I believe it has some bearing on my emotional state last night.
I made my own way to bed and upon entering my room, I saw the extra pillow he had provided me that morning and which I had placed neatly against my own. I cannot express the sense of relief which seemed to unfurl within me when I saw it, knowing I should wake up tomorrow in less pain. I readied myself for sleep and upon laying down on my side, I pulled his pillow to my chest, embracing it with my left arm so that my shoulder was comfortable. There was an unmistakable whiff of his tobacco and something slightly herbal — pomade perhaps — which I could not help but notice.
Laying in this way, I have often begrudgingly recalled how prior to my injury and subsequent infirmary, I would fall asleep embracing some warm body close to my chest — a far more desirable companion than a lumpy pillow. But for the first time in quite a long time, I did not feel completely alone. Perhaps it was the violin concert or the comforting smell of another human, perhaps the memory of how he had bothered to ask after my well-being and take steps to ensure it. Perhaps it was merely the steady presence of another person for several days or the homey atmosphere created by our landlady’s cooking. Whether one of these things or some combination, I was suddenly filled with emotion.
There was someone in London who knew my face and would wonder (even if only because he did not want to be out half the rent) if I did not return home one day. There was someone for me to greet at breakfast and talk with by the fire. I would not go so far to call the man a friend, but the simple fact that he had seen my pain and acted kindly by offering me something of his own seemed to tear something lose within me.
I have neither kith nor kin in London. I have always made friends easily, but it seems that after stitching so many up and seeing so many who could never be put back together, I have closed off the part of myself which seeks out companionship. I suppose that is why the card tables are alluring — society and camaraderie without attachments. I will never know what happens to those men after they leave the tables.
Clutching the pillow to my chest and breathing in the smell of tobacco which was not my own, I felt myself more human than I had in ages. I felt cared for. I am not ashamed to record here that I wept for some time, with my face pressed upon this strange fellow’s pillow.
I awoke in less pain that I had in a week. As was his habit, my acquaintance hardly acknowledged me as I came down to breakfast, but I thought I glimpsed the faintest upward twitch of his mouth before he said, “Good morning, I trust you slept well.”
He never mentioned my shoulder and indeed, I do not believe he said another word to me before folding the paper and going to rummage within his crates, but I believe in that silence the walls we had each built around ourselves seemed to crack, just a little.
~~~~
I am more and more curious what this man does for a living, if in fact he works to earn his. He has not left the flat for three days, whereas he usually hurried off after breakfast and sometimes did not return until well past dinner. Today, I finally inquired if he was not to return to St. Bart’s and he looked up from unboxing and organizing his (rather ridiculously large) collection of scrapbooks and commonplace books as if he had quite forgotten I were in the room.
“Oh no,” he said, “I’m quite done with that little problem for now and shall wait for the next to present itself.” He then asked what I thought about consuming mummies as a medicinal treatment, referencing some newspaper article on the fad, and we fell to discussing medicine, taxidermy, the sport of singlestick, and any number of other topics while he arranged his scrapbooks.
I must say, the man’s idea of decorating is quite bizarre. He has placed a shoe upon the mantle in which he keeps tobacco. I would have voiced my disagreement with this, of course, but from the same crate he produced the slipper, he also produced a fine box of cigars and promptly offered me one. (This box of cigars he proceeded to store in the coal scuttle, no less.) They were quite good cigars, and, as my pension is not due until tomorrow and I have been at the crumbs and dusts of my own supply, I gratefully accepted the offering.
~~~~
Well, it has happened already. I barely lasted a fortnight before returning to the tables. But there seems perhaps to be a glimmer of hope. I get ahead of myself. Let me tell it from the beginning.
At first, I had thought my fellow lodger to be as friendless as myself, for he has had no visitors. Yesterday, however, I returned from the bank after collecting my pension and, as I approached the sitting room, I could hear voices from within. I paused near the top step, making out three voices. My fellow lodger’s voice, being high and strident, was easily discernible from the two deeper voices which seemed to argue and speak over each other. I could not make out what they were saying, but the two men seem displeased with whatever my acquaintance had stated. Not wishing to interrupt, I continued up to my room.
I tried to find something to occupy my time with, and for a while I amused myself by organizing the rather jumbled contents of my trunk, but that quickly became tedious. My shoulder ached from being out in the cold, and it was with some bitterness that I remembered the ease with which the cabdriver had hefted my trunk. I wanted my book (well, his book) which I had left within the sitting room and a cup of tea.
I paced around the little room feeling unrest bubbling up within me. Irrational as it is, I felt displaced from my own sitting room, supplanted by these visitors. It is not as if this Holmes and I are friends, and I certainly have no right to make any claim upon his time, but it irked me. I admit that my mental state has been rather delicate since my injury and subsequent return to London, and in that moment, I felt a sinking feeling within my heart. I was replaced and redundant within my own home.
I could not sit there like a castaway, waiting to have use again of my sitting room and this man’s company, and so I left. I was wrapping my scarf around me and settling my hat on my head before I realized I had already made up my mind as to where I would go. My chequebook was still within my pocket, and I had just received my weekly pension. Surely, I thought, there would be no harm in an hour of cards to pass the time. There would be men to talk to, perhaps a drink or two, and I had a fresh pouch of tobacco. I believe I had talked myself into this plan before I had even quit my bedchamber.
To be clear, I do not blame this fellow for my return to the tables. I admit it was my own shortcomings which sent me there and I shoulder that blame. And it was my own shortcomings which saw me quite richer at the end of an hour, and then substantially far poorer another hour after that. As I limped slowly home, mindful of the icy spots upon the pavement, I tried to limit my self-reproaches but felt quite quarrelsome with myself all the same. It would be nigh on impossible to pay back my debts if I continued to squander my wound pension at this rate. I could not flee from my rooms to the card table each time I felt lonely or agitated. By the time I returned to Baker Street, the cold and the cards had left me in quite a discomforted state.
I was just starting up the stairs to our rooms when the sitting room door opened and two men (looking grave and a bit put upon) exited, bidding my flatmate farewell. I bid them good afternoon as we passed on the steps and Holmes held open the sitting room door, face alight, saying I was just in time for tea. His mood seemed quite jovial compared to mine and I thought for a moment of heading to my room to sulk, but the thought of the fire and tea (and the extra flight of stairs) soon saw me inside.
“Watson, you look half frozen. Do sit by the fire and warm up. Hudson had just offered to bring up tea, but my company has had to dash off after coming to some realizations. Sit, sit.” He took my coat and hung it for me. I must say, it did elevate my mood to feel welcomed. My spirits continued to rise with the arrival of Mrs. Hudson, bearing a handsomely laid tea tray, which Holmes brought to a small table before the fire, joining me so that I could remain comfortable.
“I came by earlier,” I said, revived by the tea, “and heard you had company. Have your friends been here the whole time?”
Holmes looked perplexed for a moment before snorting derisively. “Hardly, on both counts. They are hardly friends, for they come by only when they want something, and stay only long enough to receive it. And then they’re back again before one knows it, finding they need something else. No, they have come and gone and you’ve caught the backs of them at last, I hope, for they should now have all they need to be self-sufficient.”
He said this lazily as if it bored him. Perhaps he was some kind of a moneylender, I thought. We enjoyed our tea for a while in silence. I looked up from the fire to see him staring with that far-away, dreamy look he sometimes gets, as if deep in thought. He roused himself as I sat my cup within its saucer.
“I say, Watson, I meant to tell you that while unpacking I discovered that the desk in my room has quite a masterful lock. I know something of locks, myself, and this one should prove to be stout — not that I think we are in danger of being burgled, mind you. Anyway, should you wish to avail yourself of it, by all means feel free. I have one or two little items which I should wish to protect and if you have any important papers, or a chequebook or whatnot which you wish to entrust to its keeping, I promise to retain the key upon my person and release your articles to you at your bidding.”
He poured himself another cup of tea and drew on his pipe. It seemed an offhand remark. He had been unpacking the day before, and he could have no way of knowing where I had been today, or of the defeat which I felt within myself at the present moment, or my fear of being unable to repay my debts. But by Jove, if it wasn’t a timely offering.
“Oh? Well, I do have my chequebook here,” I said, removing it from my pocket, “and, as I’ve done my banking for the week, it may be a good idea to keep it in a safe place, as you say. I have no doubt that it would be safe with Mrs. Hudson and the girl, but one shouldn’t tempt fate, I believe. If you’d be so good, I will let you know when I have need of it again.”
I believe I managed to feign nonchalance, but in reality, I wanted to throw the damn thing at him and fall upon his feet in thanks. I felt as if a great weight had lifted from my shoulder, and suddenly the prospect of being able to repay my creditors seemed again within reach. I could call upon the bank for funds should he be out (which would necessitate a walk upon my part, and which would provide the benefit of allowing me that much longer to weigh out if my expenditures were truly necessary.)
“Ah, well, if you find that you should wish it at your ready again, just say the word,” he said, with an airy wave of a hand. And then he sprang up, reaching for the violin as I lay back and absorbed the warmth of the fire and the music.
Once again, this man fortuitously provided a solution at precisely the time in which it was needed: lodging, comfort to my shoulder, and now the relief that my funds were only available to me within banking hours or through request that he release my chequebook.
I am a prideful man — prideful to a fault, at times. It does not come naturally to me to ask for assistance. But I am not so prideful as to refuse a gift of aid when provided by providence. I fell asleep that night, clutching his spare pillow and finding myself feeling grateful and lighter of heart than I’d been in ages.
~~~~
I have neglected this little notebook for various reasons, the chief among them being I have had nothing noteworthy to record. I have settled into a routine of sleeping tolerably well, taking a daily walk when the weather is fair, and enjoying my evening smoke with Holmes before the fire. I have paid off my gambling debts, thanks to my chequebook being one step further away from my reach. I believe my new routine, and I confess, my interest in my new acquaintance, have kept me from seeking out the companionship of the card tables. It is interest in the man and what he is about of which I write. For I have said there has been nothing noteworthy to record, and that has been true until today.
I’ve just had the most singular day. As it turns out, Holmes is a detective, of all things. And not with the police, but in such a uniquely independent role that the police actually come and consult him. And today, through a rather clumsy event which led me to find out of his profession and his abilities to deduce all manner of things through the most ordinary and trifling of details, he ended up inviting me to attend an investigation with him. A murder investigation! I have already decided to purchase a new notebook in which to record the incident, “The Scarlet Thread” or “A Study in Scarlet”— whichever it shall be known by. Regardless, I wish to recall here my feelings.
After viewing the body and the crime scene (in which Holmes amazed both the inspectors and myself with his astounding deductions of the killer based on observations seen only by him) I returned to Baker Street to rest, and he went off to a violin concert, as though we had spent the morning in a museum rather than looking upon a corpse. As I lay there upon the settee, realizing that sleep was not to come, I was aware of a thrumming, a buzzing, beneath my skin. My mind was awhirl with the events of the morning and while the excitement had worn me down, it had been worth it. Indeed, I can’t recall having had such an exciting day since the army. Once again to feel a brother in arms, a part of the action, included by Holmes and the police, right in the middle of things — Well, it has done me good. Strange to say that a grisly murder has served me well, but it’s made me feel alive. I feel that writing up the notes of the case could serve some use to Holmes or the police. Perhaps I could even record it as a story for publication?
When he finally returned home, Holmes thought that the events of the day had upset me and I let him think that they had. But in truth, I do not think it was the dead body or the circumstances. It was the unusual feeling of life flooding back into my limbs and heart. That I felt useful, that Holmes had desired my company, that I felt part of something larger than myself. I’d been plucked from the quiet little routine my life had become in Baker Street, the quiet routine I’d imposed upon myself in the name of healing. And I’ve discovered that what I need may not be quiet or solitude or rest. I’d felt invigorated beside Holmes, as he made his comments about the case to me, his eyes gazing steadily at me as if I were a trusted companion, his lips quirking up into a smile over lunch.
I hesitate to record this, lest this writing ever fall into the wrong hands, although I have no reason to believe anyone shall ever read these ramblings, but I was also unsettled this evening because of that smile and lunch. We had been discussing the concert he was to attend, talking about composers and performances, as murder was a decidedly unsuitable luncheon topic. I offered that it had been quite some time since I had attended a performance, but that I had always found them enjoyable. I added that I was always quite pleased when he chose to favor me with his own performances in Baker Street, and that I delighted in hearing him play. His smile was so different then, not the quick, tight thing he usually flashed. It was genuine and warm.
“Why Watson, I had no idea you were musical,” he said, still smiling at me. I am not naive, not by a long shot, and of course know that there are two meanings to such a phrase, especially for men such as myself (no matter how out of practice I may be). It had not occurred to me that he might share my nature, although I really had no cause to consider the question of his preference. I was suddenly unsure if he himself knew what insinuation “being musical” carried in regards to preferring one’s own sex and realized he had likely meant it in precisely the context of which we had been speaking. I had all of these thoughts within a moment, but my face must have displayed some conflicting emotion, for when I responded “Well, I would hardly put it that way,” his own face clouded and his smile fell away.
I worry now that I have given an answer without fully understanding the question. Surely, if he himself were such as I, he would find no cause to be attracted to me. That I am attracted to him is something I have resisted confronting within my own mind, for I do not need to complicate my fortunate living situation with silly, unrequited love interests. A man such as he could have his pick of any suitable gentlemen in London, and to think that he could find something attractive about a crippled half-pay solider, whose nerves are not steady enough to return to medical practice, and who must return home to nap after a few hours of excitement is nothing short of laughable. Surely he was only inquiring about my appreciation for concerts. Still, I fear that when I curl up around his pillow tonight I will be unable to keep from thinking about that smile and how his eyes dance in the firelight. I will train my focus instead on the mysterious visitor who called for the ring and eluded Holmes this evening.
~~~~
What a remarkable instance of happenstance! We have just returned from a case in the countryside and while digging through my trunk for an old photo of myself in uniform (which I promised to show Holmes) I found this long-forgotten notebook. Sitting down and reading these brief entries is like unearthing something from the past and reading the ramblings of a long-lost friend. The last entry appears more than two years prior, during that first case together and oh, how many cases have there been since? Too many to recall, but they are preserved within the notebooks upon my shelf.
This little notebook is different, for it was the last personal notebook I started. I remember that the feeling of cracking open the spine carried with it a sense of finality. It was the last unused notebook I owned, and at the time I could not imagine having enough disposable income to buy another —inexpensive quality though it may be. I remember thinking I would record my “new life” in it, chronicling how I grew stronger in body, mind, and habits, and how I would improve my perceived shortcomings. I remember Baker Street seeming like my last great hope. If I could not get a grasp upon myself and my life there, then it seemed there was little left to me.
I was so alone, writing to my last acquaintance: myself. Not even a friend then, just an acquaintance; a man I knew little of and cared for even less. I reread these entries with interest and sadness. I can heartily say that I make this new entry from a place of happiness, which I doubt the man who first took rooms at Baker Street could have dreamed possible. I have recovered my health, in all senses of the word. I write this entry to my past self, so adrift and alone, and to my future self who may someday revisit this from an altogether different place. May it only ever be a continually better place than I found myself before, as all my days with Holmes at Baker Street have been since.
During the adventure which I touched on above (which came to be known as “A Study in Scarlet”, of course), Holmes and I began a working partnership and a friendship. We have come to rely on each other, and I dare say he knows me better than anyone else. I would further dare to venture that, now, following this latest adventure, I believe I know him as well as he has ever allowed anyone to know him. After two years, our relationship has progressed to a level I never dared to hope. But I am getting ahead of myself yet again. Let me recount how a small thing, a pillow again, has brought about so significant a change.
We arrived by the evening train and found the little country inn had only one available room, which provided a double bed. Being an old campaigner, I assured Holmes I could sleep under any conditions and sharing a bed would be no hardship. We dropped our bags in the room and made haste to meet the local constabulary. The case proved to be substantially less complex than the wire had presented it as. In fact, after noticing the pattern of the dining room’s wallpaper and a trampled crocus which had been missed by the local police, the case was all but solved. The maiden aunt broke into tears and confessed everything when Holmes began to question her about a seemingly unrelated theft of some gardening equipment the previous spring. After answering questions from the police and providing his statement, we managed to obtain what passed for a scant dinner before making our way back to our room.
When I returned from the washroom down the hall, I found that Holmes had already changed into his nightshirt and dropped off to sleep. He had taken the left side of the bed, meaning that I would sleep facing him instead of the wall due to my inability to sleep upon my left side. There were only two pillows on the bed, but as it was quite late, I was not about to rouse the innkeeper. I told myself it would be one night and I would be back in my own bed this time tomorrow. I remember thinking that an extra blanket would not have been unwelcome, as the room had a slight draft, but I recall nothing else before I fell asleep.
The watery light of pre-dawn trickled into the room as I awoke to find my left arm resting comfortably upon the waist of Sherlock Holmes. I experienced a jolting sensation once my sleep-slowed mind processed that instead of a cool, downy pillow, my hand pressed against a warm chest with a swiftly beating heart. I snatched my hand away, but before I could retreat entirely, Holmes’ long cool fingers encircled my wrist gently and I heard his sleep-laden voice near my ear and felt it reverberate against my chest.
“Watson, do not move without first considering if you are comfortable, for I assure you it is no disconcertion to myself to be the means by which you achieve restful repose and elevate your arm. And as it is rather drafty, I have no reason to complain of your proximity as the additional warmth is not unwelcome. If you are uncomfortable, then of course return to your own pillow, but be a good fellow and do let me sleep a bit longer. It’s barely four o’clock, I believe.”
His speech concluded, he released his grasp on my wrist, presumably so that I could make my choice. Now fully awake, I realized my head did, in fact, lay upon his pillow. My arm remained draped stiffly over him, though my hand was now splayed on the mattress in front of him rather than over his chest. My shoulder did not hurt. However, had I been shot again, I doubt that I would have noticed any pain, so overcome was I with the feeling of waking with Holmes held against me. Although only his shoulder rested against my chest, where I had apparently dragged him to me in my sleep, the length of his body was tantalizingly close everywhere else beneath the blanket. I had no doubt he could feel my heart hammering against his shoulder blade.
“How did I… why am I on your pillow? Did I wake you last night?” I asked, leaving my arm and hand where they lay, exceedingly aware of the points where our bodies touched and where they did not yet.
Holmes made a noise between a sigh and a quiet groan. “There was a brief altercation in which you, while fully asleep, believed yourself entitled to my pillow. As I also believed myself to have some share in the proprietorship of the article, I attempted to retain said pillow and you apparently found my bony form some acceptable substitution and ceased to battle me,” his sleep-weary voice responded.
I lifted my arm, an apology upon my lips, when his quick fingers regained my wrist and prevented me again from withdrawing my hand.
“Watson, I apologize for failing to request an extra pillow for you and for thoughtlessly taking this side of the bed without inquiring which would be more favorable to you. If you are comfortable, I assure you that I am comfortable. Please don’t concern yourself and go back to sleep until the sun is truly up.”
I stared at the back of his head and he released my wrist once more. I lay there, completely failing to process any thoughts for what seemed like minutes. Finally, my mind supplied the fact that the extra pillow business at Baker Street had been two years ago and had not been mentioned since. Why he was apologizing for failing to remember it last night was beyond me. The fact that he remembered it at all was rather stunning.
I lay there, with my arm over him, feeling the rise and fall of his breath. My body was stunningly aware of his proximity, and my mind was catching up to the fact that he did not wish to change that proximity. My heart thudded as if it were trying to escape my ribcage. After some moments, I dared to speak.
“Holmes.”
I said his name as if it were an affirmation, as if it were a prayer. It wasn’t a question, and yet it contained one. It contained two years of partnership, of friendship, of trust, and companionship. It acknowledged his care for me, his awareness (even before mine at times) of my pain and physical restrictions. It thanked him for never making me feel that they were limitations, that I was less than, that I was incapable. It thanked him for making me feel seen, for the tenderness he tried to hide but which I glimpsed despite his aloof facade. It questioned if he wanted this, if he wanted more. It was only his name, merely one syllable, but I have no doubt he heard everything that it contained, for I heard the depth in his responding answer.
“Yes.”
He said it as if it were a benediction. It was resoluteness. It was strength and vulnerability. It was an affirmation to all that I had not said out loud but had meant. It was a request, a plea. It was a promise. It was the sound of walls crumbling. It was beautiful.
I raised my hand to his chest, my palm returning to the place over his heart, and pulled him closer. He placed his hand upon my own and his fingers slid effortlessly between mine. His heart pounded as mine did and as I lay there, feeling his beating against his chest and my own beating against his back, I had a fleeting notion we were one being with one beating heart. I brushed my nose up the back of his neck, nuzzling into his hairline, and I felt him shiver as my mustache grazed the sensitive skin.
Holmes can move as quick as lightening when he wishes, but I started at the speed in which he turned within my arms to face me. I blinked into his sleep-softened face, my arm still around his waist, but my fingers arrested in mid-air, hesitating. His piercing gaze searched my face and then he seemed to relax against me, his hand resting on my bad shoulder over the scar. My fingers relaxed against the small of his back.
“There are some things one should agree to face to face. Don’t you think?” he asked, gazing at me with those impossibly keen gray eyes.
“There are some things I never hoped to imagine,” I responded, “and I offer my full agreement.”
Holmes kissed me then. Deeply and masterfully. I don’t know why it surprised me, for I have never once seen him attempt anything in an amateurish fashion; he either does something masterfully or he does not do it. He kissed me as if the answer to some deep mystery lay within me and he was hellbent on finding it. He kissed me with his whole body and I felt my fingers tighten on his sinewy frame as he pulled me closer, his leg wrapping around mine and his fingers digging into the back of my thigh as he pulled me to him. He kissed me and swallowed the moan which broke from deep within me, and I tasted his answering moan against my tongue.
And then the only words spoken for a time were our names. Names were whispered as beseechment, as devotionals, as incantations. Names were breathed as blessings, as celebration, as supplication. Names were panted, bitten off, half swallowed, chanted. Moaned into pillows and gasped into shoulders. Never have I heard my name peeled raw of all flesh and muscle to expose the beating heart of it, pulsing with life. In my mouth, Holmes’ name became a primordial element, like oxygen itself, life sustaining and vital to my existence. His name filled my mouth until I had to swallow it down when words were not possible.
Later, as his head lay upon my good shoulder and his fingers meditatively traced the lines of the scar upon my injured one, I felt myself able to string together other words. I shifted beneath him and he gazed up at me with a smile. It was the smile I remembered from our lunch that day. One of affection, of hope, of promise.
“That day at lunch, during our first case — the Jefferson Hope murders — “
Holmes smirked, “I remember our first case, Watson. And the lunch. What about it?”
“When you asked if I was musical. Did you mean… Well, were you asking if I — “
His smirk turned into a twisted smile, “I meant exactly what I asked. But yes, I was ascertaining your reaction.”
“I didn’t know what you were asking — if you knew what you were asking. I guess I was too busy gauging the question to answer properly.”
“I found out what I wanted to know,” he said, his fingertips moving back to my scar and his gazing following.
“And what was that? That I was a sad and lonely man, too broken to know when my flatmate was testing me?”
He shot a disapproving, hard look at me before responding and I expected his answer to be disapproving and hard. Instead, it was pensive and impossibly tender.
“No, that you were a sad and lonely man who did not know that he was still whole. Or when his flatmate was flirting with him,” he said, placing a ghost of a kiss against my torn shoulder before laying his head upon my chest.
I trailed my fingers through his mess of hair until I felt his breath shift into that of sleep. And then, for the first time that I can recall, I fell comfortably asleep upon my back.