Precious. An Epilogue of "His Last Bow".
Sep. 7th, 2009 05:26 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
mainecoon76Author’s Note: This is my personal conclusion to the Sherlock Holmes series, as I was dissatisfied with the ending we got in canon. It is meant to fit in directly after His Last Bow, not to contradict anything ACD wrote (I hope I managed), and to still explain everything from a slashy point of view (which is easier than from a non-slashy one, IMHO).
Disclaimer: I own nothing. The booths in the restaurant are borrowed from Cress’s "Prelude", since they are so convenient. Everything else belongs to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, or whoever represents him today.
Thanks to: Harriet for beta services! Some parts did sound a little strange before you laid your hands on it.
Rating and warnings: PG, I think. And slash, so don’t read it if the idea disturbs you.
Precious
An epilogue of "His Last Bow"
It is a curious thing that the most important insights we are granted in life often come so late that we do not expect them anymore, and change our lives when we had already settled with them as best as we could. One of the most life-changing decisions I ever made, or should I say it imposed itself upon me, occurred when I was sixty-two years of age and had come to accept the fact that my chances in life had passed and I had failed to make use of them.
If I write these events down now, it is not to amuse my readers of the Strand as they are of an entirely too personal, and even confident, nature. Still, it is for my personal remembrance that I record them, as well as my dear friend’s, and one day I might give this to my children, so that they might understand their father’s decisions better than they do now. If I do that, my angels, I hope that I shall find grace before your eyes.
So now I shall put down my personal account of the events that have been recorded under the title "His Last Bow". But I have to start a little earlier.
My relationship with Mr. Sherlock Holmes, as any reader of my humble recollections will know, was a curious one. I have repeatedly stated that we were intimate friends. Especially during the time that followed his remarkable return after the Reichenbach incident, I was under the strong impression that the affections between us transcended the usual bonds of friendship. I still suffered from the loss of my wife then; and I had lost him too, and regained him, and was thus acutely aware of my feelings for him, friendly and otherwise. Again and again I felt that he returned them as much as his controlled nature would allow it. They were good times, these first years after 1894; we were invincible together, and I honestly thought that he could help me to move on and get over the death of my beloved.
But it was not meant to last. The first sign of change, I suppose, was a subtle feeling of stagnation. I had been willing to declare my life as his, no matter what social or legal risks we might be taking; but he never made a move, and never appeared to take notice of my attempts to invite him. It seemed too great a risk to me to approach him myself, given his proud and aloof nature. So, while healthy relationships develop over time, we were stuck in a dead end. And then, to make matters worse, there was the every-day routine that worked against us. As the years went by, I felt more and more like he was losing interest in my actual person, and included me in his life merely because of his comfortable routine. I had, as I have stated elsewhere, become one of his habits.
It takes a humbler man than me to live like this. I cannot tell exactly when I gave up on him; but when I met somebody new, somebody who incited me to move on with my life, I did so. I even thought that it might save our friendship to cut that symbiotic bond between us that might well be strangling him. But I was mistaken in that. He withdrew even further from me, and, even though he still included me in his cases from time to time, I realized that I was quickly losing touch with him. Then he retired and moved to his little bee-keeping farm in Sussex, and I was not even sure that my occasional weekend visits were welcome. Thus they became more and more rare, until there came a time when even my infrequent telegrams were left without an answer. In the earlier days I would have worried; now it only confirmed to me that he had chosen a life as a hermit and did not wish me to intrude into his self-imposed seclusion.
It was the slow death of a friendship that was, in many ways, more agonizing than the bereavement I had felt after the Reichenbach tragedy. On more than one occasion I made up my mind to board the next train and visit him in Sussex; each time I discarded the idea. It seemed of little use to force a contact, maybe sit in front of the fire for an hour or two with a pipe and a bottle of claret, if things would go back to their old state afterwards. I felt that our time had passed, and we had neglected to make use of our possibilities. And Holmes, with his cold and logical mind, had undoubtedly come to that conclusion long before I had.
I regret to say that my married life was not a happy one. I had married Charlotte with the best of intentions; she had been warm, and sympathetic, and attractive, and had reminded me of Mary in more than one way. Yet, as I was bound to find out in a process of painful realization, it is not a healthy thing to choose new lovers for the likeness of lost ones. I found, with growing intensity as the years passed, that she was not like Mary, and that, try as I might, I could not love her as I had loved my first wife. She noticed it, of course. We fought to keep up a loving relationship for years, for our daughters‘ sake if for nothing else, but we failed miserably. By the time I am referring to I knew that she had taken a lover, and since I could not really blame her, I had decided to turn a blind eye on it. It had been my mistake to marry her in the first place, after all.
My practice, in any case, was demanding, and I had settled with the "dull routine of existence", as my former best friend had termed it, between my work, family life, occasional social events and evenings at my club. And then, as the years went by, the world began to darken. There were rumours of war, vague at first, but persistent, that eventually even found their way into the every-day press, where it was announced that His Highness the King was "highly concerned". At this news I contacted my old acquaintance General Hayter, whom I knew from my active military service, to let him know that I would be at his disposal should the army be in need of additional doctors in the city’s military hospitals. It was all I could do to serve my country, if my private life was more or less a failure.
Such was the state of affairs when, on the second of August in 1914, I received the following telegram while my family was seated around the breakfast table:
I must confess that, after the first joyful shock, I experienced a sharp stab of hurt and confusion at the thought that he had excluded me from his life for so long, and thought of me only now when he needed my practical assistance. Still, my desire to see him once again quickly overpowered any other feelings on my part, and I already felt the thrill of adventure at his call like an old hound who hears the view-halloa. Thus it came that I was standing at the appointed place at 8:30 p.m. on a warm summer evening, waiting for the man who had meant so much to me in another life.
He had not changed much, I mused, when he strode up the deserted road and greeted me with a few warm words and a handshake. He was even thinner and keener than I remembered him, his hair had turned entirely to grey, and he was sporting a most unsuitable goatee, which he later promised to get rid of at the first available opportunity, but apart from these trifles he was still very much the man I had known. I myself, I thought ruefully as his piercing gaze surveyed me, was not exactly the slender and good-looking young man I had been in the earlier days of our acquaintance. But he gazed at me fondly, and I felt that he was every bit as glad about our meeting as I was.
He informed me of the situation in a few words while we drove along the lonely coast road, tense with anticipation and with the familiar light shining in his eyes which always indicated that his plans were drawing to a close. My own heart was filled with elation, and despite the imminent danger I felt a wild happiness course through my body. This was how it had been, and how it was supposed to be. I felt more alive than I had for many years.
Of course, as any reader of the official story would know, my role in this case consisted mainly of waiting and providing a back-up. I was to investigate should he stay away for more than half an hour, but it took merely fifteen minutes until he appeared in the doorway again. The proceedings of the case, including our conversation over Von Bork‘s excellent Tokay, have been recorded elsewhere; but there was one moment, one short, throw-away comment of my friend, that changed everything. It happened when we were standing at the edge of the water, with the salty taste of fresh sea air on our lips and the crashing of the waves and the cries of the seagulls in our ears; our prisoner was tucked up safely on the back seat of my car, and we allowed ourselves a few minutes of idle talk and reminiscence. We recalled a few other cases that had been similar to the present one, thought fondly of our old bachelor establishment in Baker Street, Mrs. Hudson’s cooking, and the life between comfort and adventure that we had led for so many years. I suppose that we were both equally affected by our musings and, perhaps, the romance of our surroundings, for my companion suddenly shrugged and buried his hands in his pockets.
"Of course, I decided to end all this after you had left me," he observed in a neutral voice. "It did not make sense to go on without you. Not that I blame you, old fellow," he gave me a short smile, "but it was easier to leave it all behind."
"You retired because I left Baker Street?" I asked, bewildered. I had not known this; in fact, it had been the last thing I would have supposed.
"Let us not speak of it, my friend," he said "There have been many years to mend it. I am all right, I assure you, there is no need to worry."
Something in his attitude forbade any insistence on the subject, and we stood together in silence until he spoke again, changing the subject to the matter at hand and the significance it would have for things to come. There is no need for me to record again his remarkable speech about the "east wind", which proved only too true. I must confess that it unsettled me, for, although I had felt myself for a while that European politics were heading for a disaster, it seemed far more inevitable when it was he who stated it. But, serious though the matter was, my thoughts turned far from east winds and politics on our quiet drive back to London. Holmes sat beside me in silence, and our prisoner seemed furiously determined not to utter another word to us as I drove down the narrow lane in the last rays of the setting sun. I was grateful for the privacy, for my mind was in a turmoil. It was beginning to dawn on me that it had been a huge misunderstanding which had led to the end of our intimacy. His words made it obvious that he had suffered badly when I had broken off our comfortable arrangement, and that he had taken it personally. And I had not missed the exact meaning of his statement. He had not said that I had left Baker Street. He had said that I had left him.
And then I realized, acutely and with a sense of thrill as well as dread, that I had the power to change my life, now, on this very evening. I felt that I was now once again where I belonged, and that I could make the decision to stay, or depart tonight and give it up forever. I could for once take the chance that was offered to me, or we could all go back to the wretched existence we had led before this: me, Holmes, Charlotte, and even the girls who suffered from their parents‘ loveless marriage.
Life was too precious for that.
There had to be a way out. I had no wish to harm my wife; she was a young woman married to a man who was much too old for her, and who had already loved twice so intensely that he could not bring himself to love again. She knew this, and she had already given her affections to another man. I would talk to her. Together we would find a solution that would not mean disgrace and ruin for one of us.
But first I had to find out if Holmes was willing to admit me into his life again. That, of course, meant that we would have to talk openly for once. There would have to be no more suppositions and interpretations and misplaced considerations. I would have to gather all my courage to tell him what had been on my mind for so many years, and ask him for honesty in return. It was the only chance we had.
We made our calls at the Yard and the bank without interruptions, and then quite naturally drifted towards our favourite restaurant at the Strand to give a toast to the successful conclusion of the case; and also, I think, because we were both not inclined to part company again so quickly. It is a cosy little place that is well suited for private talk, as the tables are placed in small booths, so that any conversation is not easily overheard. We had made use of this convenience many times when we had wished to discuss the more confident details of our cases over dinner. It suited my purposes particularly well now, for by the time we had reached our destination, I was determined. I had stood back far too long, always doubting myself, always bending to what I believed to be his wishes, only to find that I had not understood them at all. But I was going to set it right that day.
I did not confront him at once with my subversive ideas when we had settled at a small table in a corner and ordered a bottle of the finest Bordeaux. Holmes was in a brighter mood than I had seen him in a long time, even discounting the time when I had not seen him at all, and for a while I allowed myself simply to enjoy his presence. Almost at once we had fallen again into our old easy companionship, and the well-known atmosphere of the place that had hardly changed within the ten years of our absence contributed to my new-found feeling of being again where I belonged. My friend had discoursed for a while on his adventures in America and, after I had politely evaded his equally polite questions about my current private and professional life, started to rhapsodize about his quiet country life in Sussex.
"Ah, I have missed it, Watson," he stated with a dramatic sigh. "My old hives will all be empty by now, but I shall lose no time in acquiring new ones. You see", he continued in his finest lecturing voice, "it is a fascinating study for the trained observer to reconstruct the habits of these little creatures that, while the individual insect seems to be a rather simple organism, raise to a highly complex form of communication when you consider the hive as a collective."
I know nothing about bees. In fact, I could not care less about them. I must confess that I have since made two attempts to read Holmes‘ "opus magnum", abandoned both after less than twenty pages, and am now loath to try again. Still, I thought when he lectured me that evening, and I watched him as I always do, I would endure as many bees as he fancied if I could only be at his side again.
But if I really wished to achieve this, I would have to change the topic.
"Holmes", I interjected when he had just finished a particularly long-winded train of thought and paused to take a sip of his wine, "would you please tell me again why it was that you left London?"
He was obviously taken aback; I thought that I could detect a series of emotions on his face, first surprise, then puzzlement, slight anger, and curiosity. Then he leaned back in his chair and considered my question. "I have already told you that, Watson," he remarked at last. "It is not so easy to maintain old habits when one's partner leaves. Not that I had any right to consider you as such," he added a little quicker than necessary, "but you were the one person with whom I shared my life, and I suppose I had become rather too dependent on your presence."
He paused, and I could see that he was observing me critically to judge my reaction. My first sensation, I must confess, was surprise about his frankness; but then, he must have inferred from my insistence on the topic that it was of some importance to me, so he had chosen to speak openly and await my explanation. He had not said much more than I had already gathered from his previous statement, but he had made clear that I had not misunderstood its significance. So far this conversation was going exactly as I had planned.
"Then why did you make no attempt to convince me to stay?" I inquired. "I had no notion that you held my presence in such a high regard. In fact, I felt as if I was quite dispensable to you at the time."
Holmes looked at me strangely. "My dear friend, you know that I have never been an overly affectionate fellow," he said, choosing his words carefully. "I may also have made the serious mistake of taking your presence for granted at times. I owe you many apologies for that. But you have certainly never, in all those years we have spent together, been dispensable to me."
I felt a warm glow in the insides at this confession, even if it was marred by a slight bitterness from the knowledge that it came a decade too late. Still, I could not bring myself to regret the fact in earnest, for it would mean regretting that I had children, and no lover in the world would bring me to that.
"You did not try to stop me," I argued. "Has it never occurred to you that I would have stayed with you if you had asked me?"
There was a short pause as he regarded me with a thoughtful and slightly worried expression. I was vaguely aware of the clatter of dishes and soft conversations in the background. Then my friend traced the rim of his wine glass with his index finger. It seemed a very deliberate gesture.
"No," he stated at last, flatly. "Would you?"
"It is very likely," I admitted. "But you never said a word against it. In fact, I remember that you even congratulated me on the occasion."
Holmes‘ eyes had not left my face as I spoke. He was wearing a look of intense concentration. "I decided that I would not place myself between you and your happiness, as this was clearly what you chose," he said slowly. "It would have been selfish not to withdraw my attentions."
"You might have made yourself a little clearer, after all. I had come to the conclusion that you did not really care one way or the other."
He looked at me with a furrowed brow. "But my dear fellow," he protested, and I looked around involuntarily to make sure we were not being overheard, "I was as devoted to you as I could possibly have been had you been a woman, and I the best of husbands! Surely you must have known that."
"I am sorry, Holmes," I returned. "I never possessed your faculties for observation and deduction."
We stared at each other for a moment over the flickering table candles. Then I buried my face in my hands. I heard my friend light a cigarette, and we were both silent, each lost in his own thoughts.
It was now becoming apparent to me just how deeply we had misunderstood each other. I had desperately wished for more affection from him, but had never dared to ask for it. He had seen me as his life partner, like one sees a husband or wife, but had never deemed it necessary to tell me so. I had relied on his empathy, he on my observational skills to suffice. There was certainly an element of irony in this.
When I had followed my thoughts so far I looked up. Holmes was not looking at me, but staring absent-mindedly over my shoulder, his cigarette still smoking in his hand. "So you acted out of self-sacrifice and pride," I ventured. "I should have guessed."
He gave me a short smile that did not reach his eyes, but refrained from lecturing me on the value of guesswork. I steeled myself for the following moments.
"Holmes," I stated with all the sincerity I could muster, "I love you. I love you as truly as ever a man has loved, and I have done so for a very long time. If you say the word, we can take what is left of our lives and make a new start."
He did not answer at once, but looked at me pensively, and I could see that he was considering my request. At last his clear grey eyes softened, and this time, his smile was genuine. "You would come to Sussex with me?" he asked gently.
"Yes," I replied with some emotion. "There is nothing I would rather do."
"That is more than I could have wished for," said he, and when he averted his eyes I could see that he was deeply moved. But he collected himself quickly, and the moment passed. "But Watson, you are a married man, are you not?"
"I am," I admitted, "and a fine family life I am leading. My wife has an understanding with one of my younger colleagues, and it hurts nothing but my pride, as I have long since ceased to desire her in any way. Our daughters are about to lose all respect for us if we carry on like that. The older one in particular, for I think she knows about her mother’s affair. She’s a bright girl, Mary." I allowed myself a moment of fatherly pride before I continued. "Charlotte is a sensible woman. I am sure she enjoys the situation no more than I do. We will talk about this."
Holmes had followed my little outburst with a thoughtful expression. "I am certain that you will handle the situation admirably," he acknowledged. "I must confess that I never anticipated anything like this upon my return to England. I am not sure that I deserve it. I shall, however, take it down as one more example for the wisdom of providence."
Both of us fell silent for a while, as was our habit when each needed room to think. Although matters with my family were not yet resolved, I felt as if a huge weight had been taken from my shoulders. But as I looked at my friend, I noticed that he looked tense and distracted. He was smoking his cigarette in a manner that seemed almost nervous to me, and his keen grey eyes looked worried.
"Holmes," I asked with growing apprehension, "whatever is the matter?"
"You are employing your observational skills at the most inconvenient moment," he returned with a short smile. "Yes, there is something I had not yet considered, and I suppose that I must now."
He paused, clearly reluctant to explain himself, but I knew better than to interrupt him and waited as patiently as I could while he collected his thoughts. At last he looked me in the eyes with an unfathomable expression.
"Physical intimacy," he stated shortly, turning his cigarette stub between his long fingers. "I have very little experience on the subject. I really cannot tell if I can..." He broke off, leaned back in his chair and waved his cigarette end in the air in a dismissive fashion.
"Enjoy it?" I asked with surprise. I had not considered the topic, at least not since we had been much younger and on much better terms. My current efforts were mainly intended to get him back the way I had had him before. In any case, the idea of two elderly gentlemen engaging in illegal activities seemed somewhat pathetic. Yet, as I allowed myself to dwell on the thought, it still sent shivers down my spine.
"We can try, with your permission," I said softly. "We can go very slowly. I promise I will not impose anything on you which makes you uncomfortable."
He looked at me for a moment, then I saw his old ironic smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "I know you will not," he said drily. "Very well. I shall place myself in your hands."
And then the last piece of the puzzle fell into place. He had never approached me in that way not because I did not appeal to him, but because he felt uncomfortable about the concept of physical closeness in general. To this distant and independent man, the voluntary loss of control and complete trust in another person must seem unfamiliar, maybe even frightening. That he was willing to try it now, for my sake, was the clearest indication of his deep regard that I could wish for.
It was late that evening when I stopped at Claridge’s Hotel, where Holmes intended to spend another night before returning to his Sussex home. We had not talked much during the short journey, and neither of us felt the need for a lengthy goodbye now. It was strange for me to part from him in the knowledge that I would see him again soon, and when I would, the relations between us would be entirely changed. My friend seemed to entertain similar thoughts, for when I had stopped the car he put a tentative hand on my thigh and gave me a smile that, had I not known him better, I would almost have described as shy.
"I will take an early train tomorrow," he said. "I shall be very glad to be in my old home again. It has been two years since I last set foot in it."
"It will take some time for me to clear things up," I remarked. "Maybe a week or two. But I will join you as soon as I can. I shall have to sell my practice, of course, but it should be possible to arrange that from afar."
"Then there will be some time for me to make the house presentable. After all, it has not been inhabited for a long time."
He had not removed his hand from my thigh, and it felt very strange, sending a tingling sensation through my whole body. It was not as if he had not touched me before, but this was different; it had never been so awkward and, at the same time, deliberate, and the sensation was amplified by the knowledge that we were both intensely aware of its meaning.
I covered his hand with my own and gave it a short squeeze before he swung his long legs out of the carriage and ascended the steps towards the building.
Of course, I knew that my troubles were not yet over. I would have to lead a discussion with my wife at the next opportunity, which could turn out very ugly if I did not take care. We still had the power to hurt each other, legally and otherwise; and, even disregarding the fact that I still felt sympathetic toward her, it would break my heart to hurt and estrange our children in the process. I hoped with all my heart that she would willingly and amiably allow me to step aside and proceed to live her life at the side of the man she had chosen in my place.
For Holmes and me, it would probably take some time to rebuild our friendship, to get used again to each other’s old quirks and those we had newly acquired, and to adjust to the changed nature of our relations. Whether or not we would ever enjoy a rewarding physical relationship was impossible to tell. But, I mused as I watched his thin form disappear behind the hotel doors and started the car again, at least we would not lead false lives any longer. I was going to spend the rest of my life with the man I loved, and who I knew loved me, even if he might never say the words. We understood that now, and we would not fail again. And that would be enough for us.
Disclaimer: I own nothing. The booths in the restaurant are borrowed from Cress’s "Prelude", since they are so convenient. Everything else belongs to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, or whoever represents him today.
Thanks to: Harriet for beta services! Some parts did sound a little strange before you laid your hands on it.
Rating and warnings: PG, I think. And slash, so don’t read it if the idea disturbs you.
Precious
An epilogue of "His Last Bow"
It is a curious thing that the most important insights we are granted in life often come so late that we do not expect them anymore, and change our lives when we had already settled with them as best as we could. One of the most life-changing decisions I ever made, or should I say it imposed itself upon me, occurred when I was sixty-two years of age and had come to accept the fact that my chances in life had passed and I had failed to make use of them.
If I write these events down now, it is not to amuse my readers of the Strand as they are of an entirely too personal, and even confident, nature. Still, it is for my personal remembrance that I record them, as well as my dear friend’s, and one day I might give this to my children, so that they might understand their father’s decisions better than they do now. If I do that, my angels, I hope that I shall find grace before your eyes.
So now I shall put down my personal account of the events that have been recorded under the title "His Last Bow". But I have to start a little earlier.
My relationship with Mr. Sherlock Holmes, as any reader of my humble recollections will know, was a curious one. I have repeatedly stated that we were intimate friends. Especially during the time that followed his remarkable return after the Reichenbach incident, I was under the strong impression that the affections between us transcended the usual bonds of friendship. I still suffered from the loss of my wife then; and I had lost him too, and regained him, and was thus acutely aware of my feelings for him, friendly and otherwise. Again and again I felt that he returned them as much as his controlled nature would allow it. They were good times, these first years after 1894; we were invincible together, and I honestly thought that he could help me to move on and get over the death of my beloved.
But it was not meant to last. The first sign of change, I suppose, was a subtle feeling of stagnation. I had been willing to declare my life as his, no matter what social or legal risks we might be taking; but he never made a move, and never appeared to take notice of my attempts to invite him. It seemed too great a risk to me to approach him myself, given his proud and aloof nature. So, while healthy relationships develop over time, we were stuck in a dead end. And then, to make matters worse, there was the every-day routine that worked against us. As the years went by, I felt more and more like he was losing interest in my actual person, and included me in his life merely because of his comfortable routine. I had, as I have stated elsewhere, become one of his habits.
It takes a humbler man than me to live like this. I cannot tell exactly when I gave up on him; but when I met somebody new, somebody who incited me to move on with my life, I did so. I even thought that it might save our friendship to cut that symbiotic bond between us that might well be strangling him. But I was mistaken in that. He withdrew even further from me, and, even though he still included me in his cases from time to time, I realized that I was quickly losing touch with him. Then he retired and moved to his little bee-keeping farm in Sussex, and I was not even sure that my occasional weekend visits were welcome. Thus they became more and more rare, until there came a time when even my infrequent telegrams were left without an answer. In the earlier days I would have worried; now it only confirmed to me that he had chosen a life as a hermit and did not wish me to intrude into his self-imposed seclusion.
It was the slow death of a friendship that was, in many ways, more agonizing than the bereavement I had felt after the Reichenbach tragedy. On more than one occasion I made up my mind to board the next train and visit him in Sussex; each time I discarded the idea. It seemed of little use to force a contact, maybe sit in front of the fire for an hour or two with a pipe and a bottle of claret, if things would go back to their old state afterwards. I felt that our time had passed, and we had neglected to make use of our possibilities. And Holmes, with his cold and logical mind, had undoubtedly come to that conclusion long before I had.
I regret to say that my married life was not a happy one. I had married Charlotte with the best of intentions; she had been warm, and sympathetic, and attractive, and had reminded me of Mary in more than one way. Yet, as I was bound to find out in a process of painful realization, it is not a healthy thing to choose new lovers for the likeness of lost ones. I found, with growing intensity as the years passed, that she was not like Mary, and that, try as I might, I could not love her as I had loved my first wife. She noticed it, of course. We fought to keep up a loving relationship for years, for our daughters‘ sake if for nothing else, but we failed miserably. By the time I am referring to I knew that she had taken a lover, and since I could not really blame her, I had decided to turn a blind eye on it. It had been my mistake to marry her in the first place, after all.
My practice, in any case, was demanding, and I had settled with the "dull routine of existence", as my former best friend had termed it, between my work, family life, occasional social events and evenings at my club. And then, as the years went by, the world began to darken. There were rumours of war, vague at first, but persistent, that eventually even found their way into the every-day press, where it was announced that His Highness the King was "highly concerned". At this news I contacted my old acquaintance General Hayter, whom I knew from my active military service, to let him know that I would be at his disposal should the army be in need of additional doctors in the city’s military hospitals. It was all I could do to serve my country, if my private life was more or less a failure.
Such was the state of affairs when, on the second of August in 1914, I received the following telegram while my family was seated around the breakfast table:
"Was absent for two years in case of great international significance. Your assistance would be invaluable for successful conclusion. Could you meet me at the High Lighthouse, Harwich, 8:30 pm tonight? Bring a car and a gun. Answer to: Altamont, Claridge’s Hotel, London. SH"
I must confess that, after the first joyful shock, I experienced a sharp stab of hurt and confusion at the thought that he had excluded me from his life for so long, and thought of me only now when he needed my practical assistance. Still, my desire to see him once again quickly overpowered any other feelings on my part, and I already felt the thrill of adventure at his call like an old hound who hears the view-halloa. Thus it came that I was standing at the appointed place at 8:30 p.m. on a warm summer evening, waiting for the man who had meant so much to me in another life.
He had not changed much, I mused, when he strode up the deserted road and greeted me with a few warm words and a handshake. He was even thinner and keener than I remembered him, his hair had turned entirely to grey, and he was sporting a most unsuitable goatee, which he later promised to get rid of at the first available opportunity, but apart from these trifles he was still very much the man I had known. I myself, I thought ruefully as his piercing gaze surveyed me, was not exactly the slender and good-looking young man I had been in the earlier days of our acquaintance. But he gazed at me fondly, and I felt that he was every bit as glad about our meeting as I was.
He informed me of the situation in a few words while we drove along the lonely coast road, tense with anticipation and with the familiar light shining in his eyes which always indicated that his plans were drawing to a close. My own heart was filled with elation, and despite the imminent danger I felt a wild happiness course through my body. This was how it had been, and how it was supposed to be. I felt more alive than I had for many years.
Of course, as any reader of the official story would know, my role in this case consisted mainly of waiting and providing a back-up. I was to investigate should he stay away for more than half an hour, but it took merely fifteen minutes until he appeared in the doorway again. The proceedings of the case, including our conversation over Von Bork‘s excellent Tokay, have been recorded elsewhere; but there was one moment, one short, throw-away comment of my friend, that changed everything. It happened when we were standing at the edge of the water, with the salty taste of fresh sea air on our lips and the crashing of the waves and the cries of the seagulls in our ears; our prisoner was tucked up safely on the back seat of my car, and we allowed ourselves a few minutes of idle talk and reminiscence. We recalled a few other cases that had been similar to the present one, thought fondly of our old bachelor establishment in Baker Street, Mrs. Hudson’s cooking, and the life between comfort and adventure that we had led for so many years. I suppose that we were both equally affected by our musings and, perhaps, the romance of our surroundings, for my companion suddenly shrugged and buried his hands in his pockets.
"Of course, I decided to end all this after you had left me," he observed in a neutral voice. "It did not make sense to go on without you. Not that I blame you, old fellow," he gave me a short smile, "but it was easier to leave it all behind."
"You retired because I left Baker Street?" I asked, bewildered. I had not known this; in fact, it had been the last thing I would have supposed.
"Let us not speak of it, my friend," he said "There have been many years to mend it. I am all right, I assure you, there is no need to worry."
Something in his attitude forbade any insistence on the subject, and we stood together in silence until he spoke again, changing the subject to the matter at hand and the significance it would have for things to come. There is no need for me to record again his remarkable speech about the "east wind", which proved only too true. I must confess that it unsettled me, for, although I had felt myself for a while that European politics were heading for a disaster, it seemed far more inevitable when it was he who stated it. But, serious though the matter was, my thoughts turned far from east winds and politics on our quiet drive back to London. Holmes sat beside me in silence, and our prisoner seemed furiously determined not to utter another word to us as I drove down the narrow lane in the last rays of the setting sun. I was grateful for the privacy, for my mind was in a turmoil. It was beginning to dawn on me that it had been a huge misunderstanding which had led to the end of our intimacy. His words made it obvious that he had suffered badly when I had broken off our comfortable arrangement, and that he had taken it personally. And I had not missed the exact meaning of his statement. He had not said that I had left Baker Street. He had said that I had left him.
And then I realized, acutely and with a sense of thrill as well as dread, that I had the power to change my life, now, on this very evening. I felt that I was now once again where I belonged, and that I could make the decision to stay, or depart tonight and give it up forever. I could for once take the chance that was offered to me, or we could all go back to the wretched existence we had led before this: me, Holmes, Charlotte, and even the girls who suffered from their parents‘ loveless marriage.
Life was too precious for that.
There had to be a way out. I had no wish to harm my wife; she was a young woman married to a man who was much too old for her, and who had already loved twice so intensely that he could not bring himself to love again. She knew this, and she had already given her affections to another man. I would talk to her. Together we would find a solution that would not mean disgrace and ruin for one of us.
But first I had to find out if Holmes was willing to admit me into his life again. That, of course, meant that we would have to talk openly for once. There would have to be no more suppositions and interpretations and misplaced considerations. I would have to gather all my courage to tell him what had been on my mind for so many years, and ask him for honesty in return. It was the only chance we had.
We made our calls at the Yard and the bank without interruptions, and then quite naturally drifted towards our favourite restaurant at the Strand to give a toast to the successful conclusion of the case; and also, I think, because we were both not inclined to part company again so quickly. It is a cosy little place that is well suited for private talk, as the tables are placed in small booths, so that any conversation is not easily overheard. We had made use of this convenience many times when we had wished to discuss the more confident details of our cases over dinner. It suited my purposes particularly well now, for by the time we had reached our destination, I was determined. I had stood back far too long, always doubting myself, always bending to what I believed to be his wishes, only to find that I had not understood them at all. But I was going to set it right that day.
I did not confront him at once with my subversive ideas when we had settled at a small table in a corner and ordered a bottle of the finest Bordeaux. Holmes was in a brighter mood than I had seen him in a long time, even discounting the time when I had not seen him at all, and for a while I allowed myself simply to enjoy his presence. Almost at once we had fallen again into our old easy companionship, and the well-known atmosphere of the place that had hardly changed within the ten years of our absence contributed to my new-found feeling of being again where I belonged. My friend had discoursed for a while on his adventures in America and, after I had politely evaded his equally polite questions about my current private and professional life, started to rhapsodize about his quiet country life in Sussex.
"Ah, I have missed it, Watson," he stated with a dramatic sigh. "My old hives will all be empty by now, but I shall lose no time in acquiring new ones. You see", he continued in his finest lecturing voice, "it is a fascinating study for the trained observer to reconstruct the habits of these little creatures that, while the individual insect seems to be a rather simple organism, raise to a highly complex form of communication when you consider the hive as a collective."
I know nothing about bees. In fact, I could not care less about them. I must confess that I have since made two attempts to read Holmes‘ "opus magnum", abandoned both after less than twenty pages, and am now loath to try again. Still, I thought when he lectured me that evening, and I watched him as I always do, I would endure as many bees as he fancied if I could only be at his side again.
But if I really wished to achieve this, I would have to change the topic.
"Holmes", I interjected when he had just finished a particularly long-winded train of thought and paused to take a sip of his wine, "would you please tell me again why it was that you left London?"
He was obviously taken aback; I thought that I could detect a series of emotions on his face, first surprise, then puzzlement, slight anger, and curiosity. Then he leaned back in his chair and considered my question. "I have already told you that, Watson," he remarked at last. "It is not so easy to maintain old habits when one's partner leaves. Not that I had any right to consider you as such," he added a little quicker than necessary, "but you were the one person with whom I shared my life, and I suppose I had become rather too dependent on your presence."
He paused, and I could see that he was observing me critically to judge my reaction. My first sensation, I must confess, was surprise about his frankness; but then, he must have inferred from my insistence on the topic that it was of some importance to me, so he had chosen to speak openly and await my explanation. He had not said much more than I had already gathered from his previous statement, but he had made clear that I had not misunderstood its significance. So far this conversation was going exactly as I had planned.
"Then why did you make no attempt to convince me to stay?" I inquired. "I had no notion that you held my presence in such a high regard. In fact, I felt as if I was quite dispensable to you at the time."
Holmes looked at me strangely. "My dear friend, you know that I have never been an overly affectionate fellow," he said, choosing his words carefully. "I may also have made the serious mistake of taking your presence for granted at times. I owe you many apologies for that. But you have certainly never, in all those years we have spent together, been dispensable to me."
I felt a warm glow in the insides at this confession, even if it was marred by a slight bitterness from the knowledge that it came a decade too late. Still, I could not bring myself to regret the fact in earnest, for it would mean regretting that I had children, and no lover in the world would bring me to that.
"You did not try to stop me," I argued. "Has it never occurred to you that I would have stayed with you if you had asked me?"
There was a short pause as he regarded me with a thoughtful and slightly worried expression. I was vaguely aware of the clatter of dishes and soft conversations in the background. Then my friend traced the rim of his wine glass with his index finger. It seemed a very deliberate gesture.
"No," he stated at last, flatly. "Would you?"
"It is very likely," I admitted. "But you never said a word against it. In fact, I remember that you even congratulated me on the occasion."
Holmes‘ eyes had not left my face as I spoke. He was wearing a look of intense concentration. "I decided that I would not place myself between you and your happiness, as this was clearly what you chose," he said slowly. "It would have been selfish not to withdraw my attentions."
"You might have made yourself a little clearer, after all. I had come to the conclusion that you did not really care one way or the other."
He looked at me with a furrowed brow. "But my dear fellow," he protested, and I looked around involuntarily to make sure we were not being overheard, "I was as devoted to you as I could possibly have been had you been a woman, and I the best of husbands! Surely you must have known that."
"I am sorry, Holmes," I returned. "I never possessed your faculties for observation and deduction."
We stared at each other for a moment over the flickering table candles. Then I buried my face in my hands. I heard my friend light a cigarette, and we were both silent, each lost in his own thoughts.
It was now becoming apparent to me just how deeply we had misunderstood each other. I had desperately wished for more affection from him, but had never dared to ask for it. He had seen me as his life partner, like one sees a husband or wife, but had never deemed it necessary to tell me so. I had relied on his empathy, he on my observational skills to suffice. There was certainly an element of irony in this.
When I had followed my thoughts so far I looked up. Holmes was not looking at me, but staring absent-mindedly over my shoulder, his cigarette still smoking in his hand. "So you acted out of self-sacrifice and pride," I ventured. "I should have guessed."
He gave me a short smile that did not reach his eyes, but refrained from lecturing me on the value of guesswork. I steeled myself for the following moments.
"Holmes," I stated with all the sincerity I could muster, "I love you. I love you as truly as ever a man has loved, and I have done so for a very long time. If you say the word, we can take what is left of our lives and make a new start."
He did not answer at once, but looked at me pensively, and I could see that he was considering my request. At last his clear grey eyes softened, and this time, his smile was genuine. "You would come to Sussex with me?" he asked gently.
"Yes," I replied with some emotion. "There is nothing I would rather do."
"That is more than I could have wished for," said he, and when he averted his eyes I could see that he was deeply moved. But he collected himself quickly, and the moment passed. "But Watson, you are a married man, are you not?"
"I am," I admitted, "and a fine family life I am leading. My wife has an understanding with one of my younger colleagues, and it hurts nothing but my pride, as I have long since ceased to desire her in any way. Our daughters are about to lose all respect for us if we carry on like that. The older one in particular, for I think she knows about her mother’s affair. She’s a bright girl, Mary." I allowed myself a moment of fatherly pride before I continued. "Charlotte is a sensible woman. I am sure she enjoys the situation no more than I do. We will talk about this."
Holmes had followed my little outburst with a thoughtful expression. "I am certain that you will handle the situation admirably," he acknowledged. "I must confess that I never anticipated anything like this upon my return to England. I am not sure that I deserve it. I shall, however, take it down as one more example for the wisdom of providence."
Both of us fell silent for a while, as was our habit when each needed room to think. Although matters with my family were not yet resolved, I felt as if a huge weight had been taken from my shoulders. But as I looked at my friend, I noticed that he looked tense and distracted. He was smoking his cigarette in a manner that seemed almost nervous to me, and his keen grey eyes looked worried.
"Holmes," I asked with growing apprehension, "whatever is the matter?"
"You are employing your observational skills at the most inconvenient moment," he returned with a short smile. "Yes, there is something I had not yet considered, and I suppose that I must now."
He paused, clearly reluctant to explain himself, but I knew better than to interrupt him and waited as patiently as I could while he collected his thoughts. At last he looked me in the eyes with an unfathomable expression.
"Physical intimacy," he stated shortly, turning his cigarette stub between his long fingers. "I have very little experience on the subject. I really cannot tell if I can..." He broke off, leaned back in his chair and waved his cigarette end in the air in a dismissive fashion.
"Enjoy it?" I asked with surprise. I had not considered the topic, at least not since we had been much younger and on much better terms. My current efforts were mainly intended to get him back the way I had had him before. In any case, the idea of two elderly gentlemen engaging in illegal activities seemed somewhat pathetic. Yet, as I allowed myself to dwell on the thought, it still sent shivers down my spine.
"We can try, with your permission," I said softly. "We can go very slowly. I promise I will not impose anything on you which makes you uncomfortable."
He looked at me for a moment, then I saw his old ironic smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "I know you will not," he said drily. "Very well. I shall place myself in your hands."
And then the last piece of the puzzle fell into place. He had never approached me in that way not because I did not appeal to him, but because he felt uncomfortable about the concept of physical closeness in general. To this distant and independent man, the voluntary loss of control and complete trust in another person must seem unfamiliar, maybe even frightening. That he was willing to try it now, for my sake, was the clearest indication of his deep regard that I could wish for.
It was late that evening when I stopped at Claridge’s Hotel, where Holmes intended to spend another night before returning to his Sussex home. We had not talked much during the short journey, and neither of us felt the need for a lengthy goodbye now. It was strange for me to part from him in the knowledge that I would see him again soon, and when I would, the relations between us would be entirely changed. My friend seemed to entertain similar thoughts, for when I had stopped the car he put a tentative hand on my thigh and gave me a smile that, had I not known him better, I would almost have described as shy.
"I will take an early train tomorrow," he said. "I shall be very glad to be in my old home again. It has been two years since I last set foot in it."
"It will take some time for me to clear things up," I remarked. "Maybe a week or two. But I will join you as soon as I can. I shall have to sell my practice, of course, but it should be possible to arrange that from afar."
"Then there will be some time for me to make the house presentable. After all, it has not been inhabited for a long time."
He had not removed his hand from my thigh, and it felt very strange, sending a tingling sensation through my whole body. It was not as if he had not touched me before, but this was different; it had never been so awkward and, at the same time, deliberate, and the sensation was amplified by the knowledge that we were both intensely aware of its meaning.
I covered his hand with my own and gave it a short squeeze before he swung his long legs out of the carriage and ascended the steps towards the building.
Of course, I knew that my troubles were not yet over. I would have to lead a discussion with my wife at the next opportunity, which could turn out very ugly if I did not take care. We still had the power to hurt each other, legally and otherwise; and, even disregarding the fact that I still felt sympathetic toward her, it would break my heart to hurt and estrange our children in the process. I hoped with all my heart that she would willingly and amiably allow me to step aside and proceed to live her life at the side of the man she had chosen in my place.
For Holmes and me, it would probably take some time to rebuild our friendship, to get used again to each other’s old quirks and those we had newly acquired, and to adjust to the changed nature of our relations. Whether or not we would ever enjoy a rewarding physical relationship was impossible to tell. But, I mused as I watched his thin form disappear behind the hotel doors and started the car again, at least we would not lead false lives any longer. I was going to spend the rest of my life with the man I loved, and who I knew loved me, even if he might never say the words. We understood that now, and we would not fail again. And that would be enough for us.
