1) Another set of Vices
"I object to rows because my nerves are shaken, and I get up at all sorts of ungodly hours, and I am extremely lazy. I have another sets of vices when I'm well, but those are the principal ones at present."
My mind had a habit, of late, of dwelling on my first meeting with Holmes. With effort I could remember all that was said between us all those years ago. I was in the position now of a reversal in my affairs that pivoted upon my married years with Mary, but began with my first encounter with the enigmatic Holmes, returned of late, from the dead.
I had fallen into an easy domesticity with Holmes. Returning to our warm rooms I would find him poring over some file or bloody scrap of evidence. In his own time he would pause and explain the matter of the day to me. I in turn would be expected to praise his work much as I had Mary's cooking, or other domestic accomplishments. I would ensure that he took some steps to protect his health, having lost him once already.
Death is any doctor's enemy, but I felt his victories more deeply than most. It was for that reason that I set aside my regular practice quite easily, and was quite settled in my role, of old.
This night Holmes was perfecting his appearance, which in context could only be seen as a disguise. Holmes tied a perfect Windsor knot and surveyed it dejectedly. He wore a new suit in a dashing shade of aged ivory, with a shirt of the palest pearly gray. The whole ensemble suggested an aesthete of superior taste and means. The silk cravat however, was scarlet. It lent him a rakish air and suggested to me a scene I had not frequented in many years.
Holmes' face and hair were undisguised but this outfit framed them in a radically different light. Holmes had just turned forty, eschewing any celebration with genuine horror rather than the coy protestations other men might make. But in this light and attire he seemed a handsome bon vivant, a young man.
Holmes grimaced with discomfort. "I have never resented appearing foolish, bizarre or hideous, but I must admit to resenting a case that requires me to augment what few visual charms I possess."
I couldn't help but smile at Holmes' discomfort. It seemed to me that the great detective was merely doing away with his habitual concealment. He usually favored somber and conventional attire, chosen subtly in my opinion, to detract from his sharp edged attractiveness. In his younger days this may have lent him extra seniority and thus authority. Later it was merely a comfortable blind.
"A case then, rather than an assignation," I ventured archly.
"Gregson has some murders he is mis-investigating. Affluent gentlemen, some disarray of dress, dumped in the river. Otherwise there is no pattern in their age, occupation or matrimonial state ... and then there is the curious fact that though they are dead there is not a mark on them..."
"...But?" I prompted co-operatively.
"A man who knows the river currents can easily determine at what place the bodies were originally dumped. That, with the detritus of their pockets and the odd rumor suggested they all contributed to the West End's more degenerate clientele - that is the key factor."
I felt myself become still and disapproving... "You can't be intending to play the stalking horse for a murderer?"
"Just so," said Holmes with snide satisfaction. "Not a scene I have much direct experience with, but they must see a fair number of debuts even by men in their later years."
"Putting aside that you are intending to face a vicious murderer alone, there must be some risk to your reputation in this charade."
Holmes shrugged. "Perhaps it will prevent my acquaintances with regaling me with the virtues of their spinster family members."
I hid my expression behind the sporting pages. I knew that Holmes would quickly discover that not only do many ladies have a strange fascination with homosexual gentlemen, but that male bachelors are much more forward suitors. This did not turn my mind from the inadvisability of his plans for long.
"I still think it is a reckless plan, but I will settle for knowing where you intend to go. So that I know where to search for the body if you don't return."
I continued to scan the local cricket scores with a detached air, none of my favorite teams seemed to be performing well. "Some idea of when you might return would also be a mercy."
Holmes eyes lacked any particular sympathy, but he was disposed to being co-operative.
"I will try the Bear first," he mused. "I don't think my man is a rent boy, but they may well have noticed him. If that avails naught I will try the better West End locations; the Lily rooms, Dominoes, Feldt's and maybe the Oak." Holmes looked at his selection of hats but found none of them satisfactory. "Don't expect me before dawn."
I stoked the fire in the coldness of Holmes' wake, sending up a vague prayer to the heavens for his safety. I wonder if the only reason Holmes could bear my company was the strange combination of caring without quarrelling that I had adopted in the convalescence of our first acquaintance shortly after my return from India. It may well have made me a satisfactory companion for such a difficult man, but it was hard on my heart in moments like these. I fear I could never survive losing Holmes again.
2) A Knotty Problem
"You must study him, then," Stamford said, as he bade me good-bye. "You'll find him a knotty problem though problem though. I'll wager he learns more about you than you do about him.
My relationship with Holmes prior to my marriage had been a peculiar combination of Gordian knot and Damoclean sword. It tangled in on itself on the basis of our mutual and ingrained misunderstandings. Though I admired them, I never really understood Holmes' methods; never believed the cold bloodedness that he evinced. Well, if it was feigned it was more or less consistently feigned for over a decade, which amounted to the same thing, but it was amazing the sustenance I gained from his fleeting concern after I had risked my life or saved his. At the same time Holmes seemed to have never noticed some fairly fundamental aspects of my character. That had been the sword, my fear that it would disgust him. I almost miss it now; it was the last refuge of my cowardice.
I came down to the sitting room as the sun breached the horizon, thinking of the mixed results of our long and mutual observations, and equally encompassing blindness'. I was relieved to find Holmes dozing on the sofa. He roused as I entered.
"It's a young man's game," Holmes commented dryly with a voice parched by too many cigarettes.
"Any luck?" I required mildly.
He looked at me sharply as if suspecting a second meaning. "I have a description of a likely suspect. I was right, the rent boys notice a man who targets the wealthy. Merely a matter of competition... but I'm not sure. This character doesn't seem to have much luck with the targets of his attention, it is all just circumstance," he mused.
Holmes pushed himself carefully to a sitting position, and groaned. "I should have given it up hours ago. Alcohol is never an aid to acute observation."
I knew Holmes rarely drank to excess, but no doubt he had been bought a few drinks. Even when one is soliciting only information, it is impolite to refuse.
"You have no idea," Holmes muttered. "What those people get up to."
He went to his bed, closing the door with a grateful finality. I smiled to reminisce on the wild nights I had spent in those clubs after Holmes had gone early to his bed. This finally confirmed that Holmes had never suspected. For such a case he would be mercenary in using my native knowledge, if he knew of it, and regardless he would never have said that. Holmes' attitude suggested that should he learn the truth it would be of the greatest disinterest to him, as it was. As, unfortunately it was.
I did not like to contemplate how far Holmes would go for his answers. His body was the merest convenience to him and his heart merely an inconvenience, but I really could believe that he... That was just the prompting of my own ignoble imagination, surely? But how much of what I thought I knew about him was merely a fancy? Hopefully it was less than the amount that he never even bothered to notice about me.
3) Interest in Him
"...My interest in him and my curiosity as to his aims in life gradually deepened and increased. His very person and appearance were such so as to strike the attention of the most casual observer."
I went about my business that day with a preoccupied air. I was acting as a locum for an old acquaintance. Yet another strange reversal in my life, as there had been a time when he did that duty for me. His practice was routine, but busy. It occupied my mind throughout the day and left my emotions disturbed and unaddressed.
They were revisited on finding Holmes preparing to hit the town again. He had a new overcoat in burgundy velvet, trimmed in satin tape. It was an attractive object but of dubious use against the cold.
"I dare say it would be prudent to wait for full dark before venturing out in this," Holmes muttered. He raised his arms, "Too extravagant?" he inquired sarcastically.
I had been invited, so I looked. The tailoring flattered Holmes' thin frame, transforming his leanness into lines of serpentine grace. The ivory suit complimented his pallor and the extravagant coat complimented both prettily. If the goal was to attract a man the outfit succeeded entirely, as did the man.
"No," Watson demurred. "I shouldn't think so. Assuming the gentleman is impressed by tasteful extravagance."
"Ah ha," Holmes proclaimed. "Exactly what I was going for. I have to impress a young gentleman within a fairly short time frame, if I am to have the information I need about my target. I thought, well, I must attract his attention and hold it. Tasteful extravagance." Holmes gave a delighted laugh. "Perfect."
"...And once you have it?"
"Given your reaction to my poor efforts with Agatha, I don't really think you want to hear my observations about the finer points of the seduction of men. Something that is, I assure you, a much easier task."
Holmes laughed again, more coldly, as he assumed his gloves and stepped into the outer darkness.
He was right. My unaugmented imagination was already more than I could wish.
How like Holmes to approach an expression of love as a tool of detection. How like me to care.
4) Some Definite End
"Surely no man would work so hard or attain such precise information unless he had some definite end in view."
My broken sleeping patterns collapsed into complete insomnia under the tumult of emotions. Key amongst them was fear for Holmes, but many morbid thoughts exploited the opportunity. The tension, however, sharpened my senses wonderfully. I heard the very slight sound of Holmes stumbling on the stair.
I found him at the basin in his room running a sponge over his face.
"I have extracted a promise of marriage from dear little Agatha without resorting to the kind of intimacy this investigation seems to require," he said petulantly. "For which I suppose I can only thank the natural reticence of the female race."
"You don't think you are taking this a bit far," Watson sighed.
"Well, I have my information; name, haunts and home address. It didn't cost me anything more than a little time. It is amazing," Holmes continued. "How easy it is to rearrange a man's ethical priorities with the merely physical."
I fancied I could hear some disgust in his voice that was not directed outward.
Holmes sat on the edge of his bed. It did not take a skilled observer to note his shirt, half-undone and missing a button, his general dishevelment. He lay back on the bed. He looked strained and tired, and was obviously drunk again.
"You know Watson," he said. "I begin to appreciate a young lady's position. I had to employ a few evasions I have seen in them, under close pursuit."
"Well at least it is over now," I said. It was my best consolation but soon dashed.
"What makes you say that?"
"You have his name and address."
"...But still no surety of his guilt. No, this is just to allow me closer look without giving myself away. Then I'll find some evidence that even Gregson could fumble a conviction from."
"You go too far Holmes, and risk too much."
I said it not expecting success, but not caring, either, to hide my concern.
"Risk what?" He replied scornfully. "I can more than look after myself."
I shrugged. Holmes was not by common standards stupid, but he had his moments.
There was a long silence as I leant against his doorway fighting my own knowledge that Holmes though logical, could never be reasoned with. Holmes raised himself up on his elbows.
"I appreciate your concern," he said with finality. "But what I do is my concern, and your prejudices are yours."
I withdrew in angry silence. By the time I made my room that mood was much undermined by the image of Holmes' damp face and tousled hair, the sliver of white skin on his chest. The thought of another man's hands on Holmes made my physically ill. The thought of him being touched even by the eyes of a callous murderer... I could hardly allow it.
5) Inconstant Companion
"...Perhaps you would not care for him as a constant companion."
In resolving to protect Holmes against his will, I knew I was likely to lose him, and maybe not before time. I was a fool to try and recapture the companionship of our youth. In those years I still harbored futile hopes, and had the long years to wait for their fruition. No more; Holmes was what he seemed, what he admitted to, and that was all. That might have been enough if I had never seen him give away, as nothing, what I knew I could never have. Maybe that lifted the scales from my eyes. It was as well that Mary had given me the strength to desert him once before because my actions were bound to precipitate another parting.
This was because there was nothing Holmes resented more than having an actor deviate from his script, even his closest friend. He had every reason to expect I would not meddle, not knowing that some factors in this case affected me more than he might expect. Whether I turned out to be right, or him, it would lead to the row that we had not had these many years. I was as hale as I would ever be and ready for it. Holmes was not going alone into the arms of a murderer, not if I could help it. After I had seen him safely through this night, I would hear some cutting words from him -- and for once I would not suffer them. I would tell him to go to hell and mean it.
I went first to Shaun Henry. He was proprietor of the Oak rooms. An older man than the one I remembered but still formidable in height and breadth. Though his build had suffered a little over the years, owing more to sinew now than muscle.
Few of my old friends still attended the bars, but they were canny men, survivors and discreet. They knew I never shared my secret and so it stayed safe from Holmes under any disguise. Tonight it would be me at the center of a small exclusive web, and Holmes who sent the shiver down its lines.
Shaun greeted me blearily but with real pleasure. "My God, the years!" He ushered me into his dim parlor and poured a breakfast scotch. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"
"I need a favor," I said grimly. "A rather large one, but it relates to the killer who has been targeting inverts and I think you'll have no trouble helping me out."
Shaun took his cue from my serious tone. He stayed quite still as I described Holmes and took him fully into my confidence. Dissembling has never been a real skill of mine and I did not practice it now.
Shaun shook his head. "You never told him."
I rubbed on hand over my face. "No, there didn't seem much point..."
Shaun considered for a while. "I've seen him as I said, and I must say he's a very natural queer."
"No doubt he made a study of it," I replied tiredly. "We may expect a monograph on the subject... I assure you Shaun he's wooed and won ladies to make a case, but I don't see him indulging in that in his leisure time either."
"Well, I'll put out the word. There enough of your old cohort left to cover all the current spots. So when he meets the bastard you'll know... You expect it to be over after this, don't you?"
I nodded.
"Why?" Shaun queried. "Because he'll know about you, will he care?"
"He won't care at all," I said sadly, and he understood. You couldn't tend bar in this town for two decades, and not learn a thing or two about broken hearts.
6) And Poisons Generally
"Belladonna, opium and poisons generally."
Our cab hung back from the darkened door of the dockside bar. Its window gilt named it 'Journey's End,' but the dirty glass and clientele suggested more fleeting associations. The driver had been paid well for his evening, in advance, and so he did not fret at our long vigil. I fingered my revolver grimly, waiting for Rafe to return.
Young Rafe was Shaun's chief bartender, and apparently as straight as a line.
'Saves a bit of grief around the bar,' Shaun had muttered obliquely. Shaun stuck to my side on this mission, and short of being as rude as Holmes I could not dissuade him from seeing it through. It seemed to me he had some ulterior motive, but I hadn't the time to ponder on it then.
Rafe emerged from the bar, his red hair unseasonably bright against that dingy scene. He had gone in pursuit of a story that there was a gentleman within making free with some very effective sarcastic barbs, a gentleman in a burgundy topcoat. From my point of view the sarcasm was the more distinguishing feature, but I couldn't fault Rafe's conclusion being drawn from the more prosaic clue.
"On his way out now," Rafe informed us, climbing aboard. "He just finished verbally dissecting some chap at the bar and seems to have tired of the sport."
Rafe's disapproval was clear in his tone.
On cue, Holmes emerged. He walked down the street with careful steadiness. Then matters progressed with a rapidity I could follow. Holmes staggered rather suddenly; he wedged his shoulder against the wall to keep from falling. He reached into his pocket... At the same time he was approached from behind by a large, bearded gentleman, and a carriage drew up. In a ragged instant all three were gone. I shouted for our driver to follow them.
We charged through streets that gaslight had not reached and I cannot tell the horror of it. I feared at any moment they would turn into some dark maze of closes and we would lose them. I hoped Holmes merely feigned his weakness, but I suspected otherwise. The chase stretched on for minutes, but despite their haste it was my impression that our quarry did not know they were pursued.
As the carriage halted our driver passed it and went a cautious distance before stopping. Through the rear window I saw the large man carry Holmes within one of the stone tenements, a limp bundle. Had I not already suspected the disabling effect of some drug, I might have thought him dead. I cocked my pistol and reached for the door. The accomplice in the carriage pulled away rapidly and even now was almost out of sight.
"We'll go first Doc.," Rafe said.
I made to ignore him but Shaun stopped me. "Before this is over you and Holmes might best be out of here unidentified. Do as I say."
I was sufficiently stunned by his vehemence to pause while he leapt ahead, and young Rafe after him. I held my revolver under the flap of my coat and followed. Our pause had allowed the door to swing shut, but Shaun broke through it with a surprisingly muffled thud. I only heard the scuffle that ensued, so rapidly did it progress. By the time I entered they had their man restrained, his face pressed against the carpet.
I had eyes only for Holmes. He lay sprawled half across a low sofa. Motionless but for his fingers which twitched convulsively, his pupils wide and unfocussed. I must have dropped my revolver then for it was not in my hands as I took Holmes' pulse and searched him for any dangerous injury.
Holmes' shirt was broken into rags, beneath it his body was a topography of white skin and red abrasions. A struggle then, but he was beyond resistance now. What disturbed me most was the expression on his face. Anger I might have expected but I was almost unmade by that frozen expression of simple fear.
My associates showed ingenuity, finding material to blindfold and bind the other man. Rafe searched his pockets and produced a vial of black powder. It contained opium and other elements. I considered taking it with me but in all honesty I was unlikely to be able to analyze it further, and it was important the police have it as evidence.
Shaun opened the sideboard, and closed it abruptly. "Rafe, fetch a bobby." He stooped and retrieved my pistol. "Our story is we heard this one in the Journey's End bragging about the attacks and followed him back... Watson?"
I could see flaws in his plan, but supposed that if it failed honesty would still serve.
"Shaun, if you have the slightest problem get hold of Inspector Gregson or even Lestrade, and tell them the whole thing."
I hesitated to desert them, and he saw it.
"We'll try it my way first, John. I assure you that much more is possible for one whose vices are secret, than if they are known, or even supposed." That last seemed to encompass Rafe, but it could equally apply to Holmes, as blithe as he was about it.
I could hardly convey the immense gratitude I felt, and merely nodded as I lifted my patient. Keyed up over the events of the evening, I carried Holmes effortlessly to the cab. Even in this extremity I could not help feeling satisfied that I had been correct and Holmes in error, but mostly I was grateful to have saved him.
The journey passed as a blur, strung together only by Holmes' ragged but persistent pulse and shallow breaths. This was not the conclusion I had foreseen. I fully expected to feel the sharp end of Holmes' scorn. Perhaps to look a perfect fool, and as so often before to have been wrong in my understanding of the unfolding events. Either way I had intended to finally vent my anger at Holmes' long misuse of me. Keeping me ever impotent and in the dark even about his own life and death. The joy of his return had eclipsed my anger, and the speed with which he occupied me in his cases. Now, ignoble or not, that resentment had returned, only to find itself faced with a helpless and pitiful target. All it served to do was mute the proper sense of sympathy I should have felt in such a moment.
So I carried Holmes up his seventeen damned stairs, through the sitting room and laid him on his bed. I stripped and cared for him as efficiently as a hospital nurse and with no greater outward sign of care. Pulling up the cover I saw the struggle for consciousness behind his eyes. Depending on the dose I supposed he might be quite aware of his surroundings, merely paralyzed.
Another man I might have comforted with a touch but not Holmes, he was a man of words.
"It's alright Holmes. There is nothing you can do until the drug is clear of your system so give in for once. Rest."
I dimmed the light.
In the sitting room my mind was full of pictures of Holmes helpless against his attacker. Failed by his own perspicacity and precautions. Somehow, even knowing him safe, it began to scare me then. Holmes was not a man to be at anyone's mercy. It was as if some element of his nature could forbid the circumstance; and I was intending to leave him at the very moment he had entirely and inarguably depended upon my presence.
My will wavered, waiting for what would eventuate when Holmes awoke.
7) Ignorance and Knowledge
"His ignorance was as remarkable as his knowledge."
I kept a careful vigil on Holmes lest the sedative component of the concoction he was subject to suppressed his respiration completely, requiring resuscitation. However, he rallied steadily and it was soon apparent that such a drastic situation would not eventuate. My nerves thus reassured, I fell asleep upon an armchair draw up to his bedside. I woke to an empty mattress, and felt an immediate and irrational panic.
The night had not yet begun to lighten to day, and I found Holmes looking out the Bow window in the sitting room. His thin fingers curled upon the sill like the feet of a bird. He turned to me with a peculiar listless brightness in his eyes and I thought I should not speak to him now. He was, no doubt, in some shock and still feeling the effects of the evil narcotic administered prior to it, but I could hardly ignore him when he spoke.
"Ah Watson, sweeping in on his white charger to rescue me." It was said with an all-encompassing bitterness that embraced both self-hatred and outward resentment. "...And I was a proper chivalric damsel, practically throwing myself at my persecutor bound hand and foot ... pitiful, unforgivable."
"You are not infallible Holmes," I offered as charitably as I could but it only served to irritate him further.
"Infallible, I am barely sentient! I am a Punchinello, puffed upon my position but oblivious to the situation in my own home! A vainglorious vaudeville clown!
My God it casts a new light upon things. What is my role now?"
He stood and turned to me with porcelain scorn, sustained by his own venom.
"Does my white knight expect he has won his prize?"
There was a depth of mocking coquetry in that phrase that I think no man but
Holmes could have achieved. Which does not excuse what I did next.
I struck him.
I laid him out on the floor as effortlessly as brushing aside a curtain, and I walked away. Down the steps, down the street, not even knowing where I went. I can think of no lower act for any Doctor, any friend no matter how abused, or any human being.
But it was hours before I regretted it.
(Coming soon, Part II: A Scandal in Bohemia)