Holmes stood back and surveyed his work with a private smile. His smile was private only partially because of the quiet and solitude in the flat. It was also private because of the secret and subtle nature of his handicraft. Indeed, Watson’s room, to the uninformed, looked as neat and undisturbed as it always did. Holmes had covered his tracks, he thought, quite perfectly. John would notice nothing out of place, until Holmes decided it was time.
Holmes’s smile faltered out of existence, but his eyes were still gleaming with amusement as he imagined his friend’s surprise later on in the evening. He was certain that Watson had never had any suspicion of how rich Sherlock’s sense of humour was. Most people, of course, assumed that the only people who were humourous were those who laughed out loud, or who were constantly telling funny stories"who were “witty.” But his was an exquisitely subtle mind. He was among the best equipped to appreciate the ironies that abounded in human behaviour. He noticed myriad details that the common man failed to recognize. In short, though Holmes had a sharper wit than most, he considered exercising his mind only for the amusement of others to be a waste. Discrepancies of mind and behaviour, of intent and result, were filed away as curiosities or insights that would likely be of use one day. Of course, the petty vagaries of language"disparities of meaning and sound"were beneath his interest unless they had bearing on a case.
Only when manipulating others, persuading them to co-operate, did Holmes employ his sense of popular humour. In private, though, he was fond of using sarcasm or irony on his bosom companion, his Boswell"and in time, Watson had grown more sensitive to this: one of the achievements that gave Holmes the most quiet satisfaction in recent years.
Yes, Sherlock did care about Watson: cared quite deeply, really. He was indignant whenever readers and reviewers called his friend a dullard; he was, as ordinary people went, an intelligent man, and he had grown gradually more observant and insightful during the years they had spent together. His remarks were, indeed, frequently helpful, and when Holmes asked Watson for his analysis of the situation at hand"though Watson had usually missed some crucial points through inattention"his conjectures helped Holmes to get an idea of how a layperson would think of the crime, and how the sharper members of the general public would interpret the clues that were easily spotted. If Watson missed some bit of evidence, it was fairly certain that just about anybody else would also pass it by as well, and so Holmes would not have to worry much about others interfering with his own investigation, as their ignorance of key points would lead them in the wrong direction.
In addition, Watson had spent more time in the world, among its creatures, than Holmes had, particularly in the sense that Holmes was both more often in solitude as opposed to out of doors, and in that he was so often withdrawn from the world, absorbed in his thoughts"virtually existing in his own mental world. He was less used to being among regular people, interacting with them. Watson was more sensitive to moods and social patterns, and saw human relationships from the inside, as opposed to Holmes, who saw them from a safe distance, as if from a promontory"he could see the larger patterns, but missed the details he would have noticed if he were closer and more familiar with them. These were the strengths of subtle perception that Watson excelled in; and in numerous cases, Holmes had found his reflections invaluable.
More than this, Holmes was well aware of the loyal friendship that Watson always had maintained for him. He was endlessly generous in his friendly love, and tolerated all his atypical behavior"his moods and abstractions"with dogged determination to give Holmes all support, no matter how inscrutable he found his friend, for he could intuit that a mind so uncommon naturally rendered the man a distinct and unique social creature, and despite these irregularities (here Holmes chuckled a bit to himself), Holmes was nevertheless worthy of his friendship, and though Holmes was sparing in his expressions of affection, Watson still was aware that the affection existed, and let trust carry him through the long periods when depression and ennui robbed Holmes of every cheerful thought.
Holmes was sure enough of Watson’s support to feel little need to secure it with constant expressions of gratitude or reciprocity. Watson would never give up on him"probably, not even if Holmes made a deliberate and explicit effort to alienate him, would Watson’s stalwart determination to remain by his side be entirely deterred. His patience would endure in hopes of Holmes’s having a change of heart. In fact, Holmes mused, one could think of Watson as Holmes’s steadfast pet. In a sense, at least.
While he was less demonstrative of his affection for Watson, Holmes did trust his friend as he had never trusted any other. He expressed this by allowing Watson to enter his private life and thoughts as nobody ever had done, even his own elder brother.
Without needing to turn his head, Holmes turned his eyes to the clock by Watson’s bed. He had cut it a little close, he figured, but he was done for now, and Watson had not arrived early. The doctor was, in fact, due immediately; barring last-minute cases at his clinic, he would arrive … Holmes watched the clock’s second hand … now. As Holmes silently swung Watson’s door closed, he heard with a fleeting smile of satisfaction the sound of the front door opening, and the distinctive one-two stomp as Watson knocked the weather’s detritus off his shoes onto the front mat. Holmes stole back to his own room, where his bed clothes were already thrown open in anticipation of this moment. Tossing his dressing gown onto the chair and stepping out of his slippers, Holmes slid silently into bed. He dipped his hand into the washbasin on the side table and dabbed the warm water onto his face and forehead. Then he lay back on the pillows and feigned sleep, waiting for Watson to step upstairs and check on him. Behind his closed eyelids, Holmes’s eyeballs were alert and active. Having prepared everything already, he resisted the urge to review his plans. He calmed his nerves, slowed his breathing, and anticipated his friend’s reactions"for there would, if things went smoothly, be a series of them.
The wait was taking longer than Holmes had expected. With some impatience, Holmes tried to sharpen his sense of hearing, casting his ears around the house for signs of movement. He finally discerned some activity downstairs"sounds of forks clanking against china, the sound of liquid being poured into a glass. Behind his closed lids, Holmes glared. Having a bit of a tuck-in? Holmes asked John mentally. He grumbled to himself for a number of minutes, still hurt that Watson would think of himself when his friend Sherlock was so ill. His grumbling sounded of anger, but it represented self-pity more accurately. In his imagination, for the moment, Holmes forgot that he was only pretending to be sick; he had thrown himself into the role, much as Mr Gillette was said to do upon the boards at the Globe.
Holmes was reminded suddenly of an incident from his childhood. Sherlock was the baby of the family, only 14 to his brother’s 23. In the heat of early July, Sherlock was celebrating his own birthday, but not at home, as he had in previous years. The family was instead at Cambridge to attend Mycroft’s graduation ceremony. Their mother was crying, emotional woman that she was, as Father shook his elder son’s hand. Graduating with honours today, with degrees in chemistry, biology, and the classics. Unprecedented. And now Mycroft would be off with his commission to serve in Her Majesty’s army in the Boer War. Though young Sherlock considered himself above petty jealousy, on one level at least, he still felt, childishly, a sense of injury, a craving for attention, a sense of pain that his handsome elder brother would steal his own glory on this of all days.
He was conscious that his mind was not inferior to his brother’s. He could read both Hebrew and Aramaic better, in fact, and he had clearly a sixth sense about botany, an intuition that had resulted in successful grafts and gorgeous bouquets that had so pleased Mother. Bitterly, sitting in the back of the hansom cab as his brother rode proudly in front, Sherlock brooded to himself. I’ll be better educated than Mycroft someday, he thought, and before I reach his age. And I won’t need mentors or a fancy set of diplomae to prove it, either. Surprising himself out of his reverie, Sherlock realized that that day had influenced the course of his life: his feverish quest to self-educate himself, his rejection of a job in the military despite his handiness with guns and swords, and his abiding, though usually sublimated, resentment of his brother, who was again prospering in a job for Her Majesty the Queen.
Did he hate Mycroft? Motionless, Sherlock mentally shook his head, no. But he had never gotten over that jealousy. Tall, handsome, popular, dapper"Mycroft stood in the sun, while Sherlock had always seemed to hang in the shadows. Mycroft’s time in the army had only enhanced his effulgence. He met important people, had beautiful girl friends, laughed and learned how to be charming in front of guests"both fellow guests, and eventually, his own. Sherlock convinced himself long ago that he neither wanted nor needed any of this glamour, when at heart, he felt as if he would never be able to attain any of these. Even their hair colours went along with their personalities. Mycroft, a sunny red; Sherlock, a somber black. Mycroft, a ruddy, healthy complexion; Sherlock, pallid and rather sickly looking, like one of that Irishman Stoker’s vampires.
So Sherlock had grown to manhood, gradually becoming more self-isolated and introspective, never given to smiling or idle conversation. Mycroft had never moved back home again, but their parents, sympathetic and supportive as they always were, would not leave off with their solicitous questions, intrusive ones as Sherlock deemed them. Having only their experience with Mycroft as a guide, they thought Sherlock a strange adolescent. No friends, always closed in his study (in truth, as a small but personally glorious victory, Sherlock had managed to convince his parents to let him use Mycroft’s larger room as a study), good at fencing and other required sports at school but never enjoying being a member of any team. They got slowly used to loving Sherlock from a distance; eventually, when Sherlock asked to be allowed to move out, they allowed it with a sense of pity and generosity, stipulating that he would have to become self-supporting within five year, or else move back. Though never gregarious, Sherlock was nothing if not resourceful, and he readily agreed, assured that he would be able to find a way when the time came.
His parents thought him merely self-absorbed and desirous of privacy, but they never suspected the other side of this wish for independence. Sherlock had suffered his own humiliations and losses in personal relations"some public, but the larger part in the secrecy of his own mind"and in short was low on self-confidence when it came to interacting with people. He was very good, though, at feigning it, but usually felt relieved when visitors left his apartment, and often a bit shaky, too. He had, in time, managed to set himself up as a consulting detective here at Baker Street after attracting the attention of Scotland Yard, and his self-sustenance had become more ample with the success of Watson’s chronicles. The consultant was now fairly well known to those who were interested in the furtherance, or the prevention of, crime. Like his friend the doctor, he also did well off of referrals.
And where was Watson now? The sounds below had ceased, but he could now hear footsteps ascending to the first floor. Automatically, Holmes categorized the sounds: one older woman; one man with a slight limp: the familiar tread of Watson’s shoes. They were walking with some deliberation, as if carrying something heavy or liable to spill, or else they were trying to walk stealthily. If it were something heavy in their grip, there was one item per person, for the steps were not synchronized. As he thought of birthdays, the thought struck him that Watson was Sherlock’s sole tether that linked him to the common ground of humankind; that if Watson were to break that connection, Sherlock would be separated forever from society, floating away to live independently and isolated, a hermit in a hot-air balloon that became its own shuttered microcosm. Living in his private mind all the time, he mused, he would be bored to death, or else go mad.
And here was Watson, with the aid of Mrs Hudson, going up to enjoy dinner in his own quarters. He could imagine he felt a knife sawing away at that tether already. As the footsteps reached Holmes’s doorstep"Watson’s room was farther on down the hallway"Holmes held his breath, his eyes closed firmly but without stress, listening intently. He was already trying to rationalize the situation to cheer himself up, by telling himself that Watson only had this one special day to treat himself like this, on the anniversary of his natal day, and that he would surely wish to dine with him to-morrow. This, even as he already had started to mourn the only close friendship of his life"a death knell, likely, for his own life. In such a situation, his previous, fleeting irritation that the timing of his surprise might be ruined if Watson failed to come to Sherlock’s room first, seemed insignificant now.
Sherlock only had a moment to puzzle once again at himself"on one hand, he was supremely confident of Watson’s loyalty, while on the other, he was ready to assume that Watson had rejected him without a moment’s notice"before his door was swung wide open, startling him, and the gentle voice of Dr John Watson called his name softly into the darkness, as if sent from Heaven to rescue him from his own self-pity. Sherlock was strangely moved by this; without reliable Watson at his side, Holmes often thought, he really would not be able to face his visitors any longer"his responsibilities"his own self-hatred.
And, with a vastly improved mood, in about half an hour’s time, he felt nearly giddy with relief: fulfilled and appreciated again. “Ah,” announced Holmes, “your presence has quite dispersed the miasma of my nightmares, my friend, and I am feeling much...much better. But your cause celebretoday takes precedence over my own,” Holmes considered fleetingly that the formality of his diction was typical of his old habit of distancing himself from others, operating again even now at this ill-suited moment" “we must enjoy this evening in a more suitable fashion. Let us away!”
Dressing quickly"and reflecting how odd it was that he felt no self-consciousness in front of Watson"Holmes prepared for a night out with his bosom friend. He had, as a backup plan, already made reservations for them both at Sardi’s and then at the Opera, both in private areas, so as to minimize the likelihood of meeting others and needing to engage in frivolous banalities. Before leaving, Holmes prepared an envelope and wrote Mrs Hudson’s name on it. Inside the envelope there were two items. First, a note"
My dear Mrs Hudson,
I am so grateful for your efforts tonight on my behalf, on the occasion of my sickness. You and Dr Watson have quite revived me, and I am sincerely grateful.
I fear that I have sadly made a rather grievous mess in Dr Watson’s room tonight, the results of a slightly disastrous set of birthday plans that went awry. I am most dreadfully sorry for this, and I am doubly so at the necessity of requesting that you assist me in restoring his room to its customary pristine shape. Tonight, please.
I expect that there will be no real damage to his property or to your own"curtains, furniture, so on and so forth"but the work may be distasteful, and I am aware of the lateness of the hour. I really have to beg your forgiveness for this, and to oblige myself still further, I need to adjure you not to mention the change, or the reason for it, to Dr Watson. If he asks"which, truthfully, I doubt will happen since I have every confidence in your ability to reverse all damage"I shall undertake to answer all his questions myself.
In hopes that this little present will go some small way to my attestation of my gratitude and my personal obligation to you, I shall remove myself and my friend the doctor from the premises until at least eleven of the clock.
I will explain later.
Your most humbly"
Sherlock Holmes
Inside the envelope, Mrs Hudson also found a £20 note.
She did an exemplary cleaning job.
Holmes never did explain, though.
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