The Watches of the Night

by Darcy Lindbergh

  The terrible business of Pondicherry Lodge was, at once, the best and the worst case I could have imagined.

  It was clear that Holmes could not do without a case a moment longer. He had been indulging in his cocaine for weeks, and no argument could be had to stop him; he had turned melancholy and despondent. Looking back on that period, years later, I would wonder whether it was my own despair that prompted his, but at the time, I foolishly thought Holmes too wrapped up in his drugs and dramatics to notice my troubles.

  But then there was Miss Mary Morstan.

  Miss Morstan was a fair, wide-eyed creature, with the sort of grace only bad luck can grant a person, yet still with an inordinate amount of hope. Whether I was merely drawn to her out of the juxtaposition to Holmes, or whether because she herself was drawn to me, I could not say. The facts remained: we were drawn to one another, and though the case turned out to be a dark and wicked affair, I would not soon forget standing in the gardens of Pondicherry Lodge, holding her hand, turning toward each other for protection and comfort.

  Her hand was a soft, warm thing – so very unlike Holmes', which were, I recalled, always so scarred and battered.

  'Miss Mary Morstan,' Holmes drawled, interrupting our comfortable silence with a disdainful tone. 'A singular woman, to have caught your eye.'

  I looked up from my papers. I wanted to defend myself against the implication that I had been in some way ensnared, but in truth I had been, these last weeks, so I flushed instead of denying it. Miss Morstan had been charming, kind, gentle: everything any reasonable man hoped a wife might be.

  The subject of which was fast becoming something of a pressing interest. I felt it was only a matter of time before Holmes determined that there had been a change in the nature of my devotion to him, if he hadn't already. The appearance of Mary Morstan as soon as I had decided to start looking earnestly for a wife seemed like an act of providence, and I thought – I hoped – that I could love her. I at least intended to try my hand at it.

  'You liked her as well,' I said, in a poor attempt at deflection.

  'I did,' he agreed. 'She was an ideal client. But I suspect you intend to make more of her than that.'

  'I intend nothing,' I lied, but I immediately felt guilty for it. I tried to shrug it away. 'It's hard to say what fate will bring.'

  As my association with Miss Morstan began growing deeper, so did my association with Holmes begin to grow fragile.

  At first I put this down as a natural consequence of spending many of my evenings elsewhere, but I soon came to realise that even when I was at home, Holmes seemed withdrawn, unlikely to ask for assistance or an opinion. The invitations to this or that lecture or opera dwindled rapidly, and he was as like as not to be out until long after I had already gone to bed.

  Good, I told myself. If this does end the way I hope, we will have to get used to spending time apart.

  I did not get used to it.

  As pleasurable as I found Mary's company, it wasn't a substitute for the companionship of such a friend. I found myself opening more and more conversations, which Holmes responded to haltingly; I found myself making excuses to Mary, simply to end up at home, dithering over my dinner and waiting for Holmes to come back.

  Finally, about three months after Mary's case had been resolved, I found an opportunity. 'I say, Holmes,' I said one afternoon while we puttered around the flat together. 'My muscles have gone quite tight. What do you say we go and spend an evening at the bathhouse?'

  To my surprise, he agreed, and we were off together. He had a fondness for the Turkish bath; he was fastidious about his hygiene, of course, and I had often said before that, as a method of relaxation, the baths were far more conducive to his health than was his cocaine.

  We were quiet as we made our way and eventually found ourselves a pair of sofas in a secluded corner of the drying-room. We settled back, draped in our towels, and drifted.

  'You've been busy lately,' I remarked eventually. 'Anything good?'

  'No busier than you,' Holmes hummed, but there was no bite in it. 'I've had a client, actually, with an interesting problem regarding an inheritance.'

  'You solved it, I presume?'

  He had, and there was a little smile around his mouth as he recounted the facts to me, and for a while I could forget that there was anything amiss between us – that I had ever thought anything unsuitable toward my friend; that I had dinner reservations the next evening with Miss Morstan; that I had begun making the plans for a small, intimate wedding, a new home for a new couple, a livelihood in a medical practice.

  I could forget that I had begun to plan a life separated from him, as it eventually had to be.

  Chapter Six

  The body left on Carlton Rodgers' dining room floor had been reduced, through some villain's rage and fury, to no more than shreds. I did what examination I could as quickly as possible and immediately turned away from it, trying to overwrite the sudden memory of Afghanistan washing through my mind with the thought of where I was supposed to have been that evening: at dinner with Miss Morstan, where there might have been wine and flirtations at the table instead of a body under it.

  'Watson – Watson. Pay attention. Is there or isn't there blood on that rug?'

  I started, Holmes' voice dragging me back to the murderous present, and looked down to see a few pale red drops strewn across the carpets. 'Ah, yes. Yes, there is. My apologies, Holmes, I was distracted.'

  Holmes huffed, exasperated. 'This is intolerable,' he said. 'If you cannot focus, you should have gone with Miss Morstan and saved me the trouble.'

  I stared, taken aback. 'Holmes,' I began, but he waved his hand.

  'I won't need you here, Watson. You might as well go and salvage your dinner plans.'

  My stomach curdled with embarrassment: I had been dismissed. I watched as he promptly forgot me, ignoring me as he laid out on the floor with his magnifying glass, examining the drops of blood.

  I waited hours for an opportune moment, but it was no good. Holmes hadn't looked up from his experiment even once since I arrived home; I had to interrupt him.

  'Holmes,' I began. 'I must tell you something.'

  'No,' he cut in, his tone surprisingly cold and distant. 'I already know what you're going to say, and I don't particularly need to hear it. I cannot congratulate you anyway. It's perfectly fearful.'

  I gaped. I had not expected Holmes to rejoice, it's true, but neither had I expected him to begrudge me the news. 'It's perfectly expected,' I said. 'Falling in love, getting married. You must have known I would someday.'

  Holmes grimaced. 'Of course not. You have never done what was expected of you, Watson.'

  'It's natural,' I argued, now a little offended.

  'It's weakness,' he threw back, and I recoiled from the sudden severity of his features. 'It clouds the judgement. One cannot see clearly where one allows oneself to become biased.'

  The ache I felt at the prospect of leaving Baker Street sharpened under his derision, and I reminded myself sternly that this was precisely why I had to go, why I had to marry: I could no longer see Holmes clearly, and my heart would break if I did not first ruin myself with all my bias.

  Married life suited me, as I expected. The joy of sharing a home with a wife – with whom I could be at ease, with whom I did not have to hide my desires – was unparalleled, and I was as satisfied as could be. Mary was free with her affection and laughter, kind and quiet in the evening hours, efficient and productive in her days. She read, played music, kissed as sweetly as an apricot in spring, gasped my name in awe and astonishment – there was nothing lacking in her.

  And if I occasionally sat by the fire and let my thoughts drift to Sherlock Holmes, to the rooms I'd left behind and the adventures I'd had to put away these last months, it was only the nostalgia of an aging man embarking on the next era of his life.

  Holmes had not been there, the day I left. He'd gone to investigate a problem of his brot
her's the evening before, and, I assumed, stayed overnight in Pall Mall. I reminded myself of that often, actually, whenever I questioned myself as to why I'd left Baker Street. I'd waited, that last night; I'd stayed up, hoping to share one last glass of brandy, one last pipe, watching the hours slowly tick away.

  I'd waited all night, but he had not come back.

  Though my marriage and my practice kept me busy, I quickly picked up writing as a habit as well. Soon I was writing more consistently than I had ever written at Baker Street; productivity suited me, and I found that the quiet evening hours were quite suited to putting down a narrative now that there were no experimentations or exclamations to distract me.

  It was only natural to put down the case that had brought Mary and I together. I gathered up my notes and put pen to paper, occasionally going to find her and ask her about this or that detail, whether she remembered what was said, or what she recalled of Thaddeus Sholto's exotic parlour. The exercise brought us closer together, I felt; she delighted in being the subject of such a story. Holmes, in the same position, had only ever scoffed and sneered. He could not endure the romance of it; Mary, for obvious reasons, could.

  There were a few letters between Holmes and I, of course, but the distance between us grew, as new marriages are wont to do to old friendships. It was with a pang of remorse that I realised I now spent more time with my fictional Holmes than with the original; I resolved soon to visit the original counterpart of flesh and bone.

  It was weeks before I allowed myself, however, and now, with not a little guilt, the familiar black door of 221B Baker Street rose out of the misty evening before me like a beacon. I had tried, with all the strength of necessity and good judgement, not to even dream of it, but I missed Holmes terribly and convinced myself a single visit from one friend to another would do no harm.

  But Mrs Hudson did not smile when she answered the door. 'Oh, dear me,' she said instead. 'Only – he's not in, Doctor Watson. He'll be sorry to have missed you, but he told me not to expect him until late.'

  'Oh,' I said, overcome with awkwardness. Somehow it hadn't occurred to me that he might not be there, and suddenly I felt like a fool. Had I expected him to wait for me, to hold himself in stasis until I returned? Of course not. I stepped back toward the door. 'I should have – do tell him I called.'

  Mrs Hudson promised she would, and I rushed away, losing myself in the thinning foot-traffic of the evening. I was not expected home for hours yet. I was not expected anywhere at all, actually, and I wandered London until I hardly knew where I was, or where I ought to be.

  The wire that arrived just after the next day's suppertime said, without preamble: Your assistance and medical bag required. - S.H. The number for Inspector Lestrade's office at Scotland Yard followed.

  Worry warred with delight. I was thrilled to be called upon again, and yet the requirement of my medical bag spoke to my darkest fears – that Sherlock Holmes had gone into dire danger without me, and paid the price for my absence with injury and pain. My imagination ran wild with terrible possibilities, and I rushed to Lestrade's office, bursting through the door – only to find Holmes, upright and tidy, nursing a cigarette, and the Inspector himself, scowling and filthy, nursing a swollen purple finger.

  'If you'll attend to Lestrade,' Holmes said, smiling in lieu of a hello, 'I should like your opinion on our case, Watson.'

  Relief washed through me. 'You're not hurt?'

  Holmes' smile turned soft, almost fondly apologetic. 'Not I, it's Lestrade that's had the unfortunate run in with a murderer. Now we are tasked with finding the culprit. Are you in?'

  Some small, traitorous part of me was actually disappointed it was not Holmes who required my medical attention. I stomped it down, horrified. 'I am your man,' I said, and as Holmes began explaining the case, I knelt next to Lestrade and opened my bag.

  'You could stay, if you liked,' Holmes said after the case concluded. 'Whenever Mrs Watson is away.'

  He was, by all appearances, intent on his chemical tests, but his back was unnaturally straight, his hands slow and deliberate: he was uncertain.

  'Stay here?' I repeated, surprised. My pleasure at the unexpected invitation must have been obvious, though; I had made it more than clear that I had missed Baker Street in the months since my marriage. 'You wouldn't mind?'

  Holmes shrugged, carefully nonchalant, though I could hear a smile curling around his voice. 'There's no reason for you to be alone when there is a room here. Especially as it's still fitted out with a comfortable bed, and the flat with a familiar companion.'

  'Convenient,' I said, trying not to laugh.

  'I thought so,' he smirked, but a moment later he said, more seriously, 'Mrs Hudson would be pleased to have you home, I think. Despite her tenant's occasional clients, she does lead a surprisingly solitary life.'

  At this, my smile faded. 'Mrs Hudson is always welcome to dinner with Mrs Watson and I,' I said gently, not wanting to break the spell of his concealed confession.

  Holmes' back straightened further. 'Perhaps,' he said vaguely. 'Still. The upstairs room is always available, Watson. A weekend visit would never be a burden.'

  I soon took the invitation to heart, arriving at Baker Street, outfitted to stay for the weekend as Mary went to visit her friend Mrs Cecil Forrester. I was pleasantly surprised to find a fire in the hearth and Holmes still awake on the sofa. 'Hullo,' I called, taking off my coat. 'Is there a case on?'

  'Oh,' Holmes said, after a too-long pause. 'Watson, it's you.'

  A chill washed over me upon hearing his voice, thick as it was. 'Holmes, are you all right?'

  'Oh, yes,' he answered, and giggled unexpectedly. 'I am seven-percent of all right.'

  My heart sank. When I rounded the sofa, the evidence abandoned on the floor was unmistakable: the glass bottle, the accompanying syringe. Deceptively medicinal. Terribly neat.

  'Oh, Holmes.' I gathered the accoutrements up. 'Cocaine, was it?'

  'Just the usual dosage,' Holmes agreed.

  'I wish you wouldn't.' I put one hand to his forehead and took his pulse with the other – he was warm, his pulse quick, but neither dangerously so. My hands lingered anyway, pushing back his hair, counting his heartbeats.

  Holmes' mouth was a horrible, twisted line. 'I know you do,' he said quietly, but he made no promises. We both knew he would not be able to keep them if he did.

  'Come on,' I said. 'Let's get you to bed.'

  Chapter Seven

  'He's not well,' I confided in Mary when I returned home the following weekend. 'I shall have to go round more often, if you aren't too bothered by it.'

  'Not at all,' Mary said, with a sympathetic smile. Not for the first time, I counted myself very lucky to have as a wife someone that had known Holmes as a mercurial detective before knowing him as my friend. 'You do think he'll be all right?'

  'It's gotten worse,' I admitted, 'swinging back and forth wildly between activity and apathy, taking cases without rest and then drugging himself into oblivion. But he's made it through these periods before. I've no cause to think he won't again.'

  But I was worried. He refused outright to be roused, and I somehow felt that I had lost my right to manhandle him around the flat, to force him to the breakfast table or out for a brief walk. It was a strange, helpless feeling, being closer to him than I'd been in months and yet too far away to make a difference.

  'Then he will,' Mary said, 'if only because you believe it of him.'

  I kissed her then, and let myself be comforted, but I knew the truth: if it even could be his cure, it would have to be a mighty strong belief.

  What relief there was for me, when next I saw Holmes! – he was not only tidy and upright, but energetic, with a gleam in his eye. Once again he turned that eye upon me, so reminiscent of our first night at Baker Street, deducing an incorrigible servant girl as well as a walk through the wet country, and I laughed in pleasure, no longer afraid of his deductions.

&
nbsp; There was a case on, which I had suspected, and I had no sooner inspected the letter that had begun it, than we were receiving the King of Bohemia himself.

  'I hadn't realised that you were in the habit of receiving royalty,' I remarked, as soon as he'd gone.

  Holmes laughed. 'I confess, not usually in these rooms,' he said, 'though perhaps once or twice by post. What do you think of the problem then?'

  'Rather a foolhardy indiscretion for a man in such a position.'

  'Indeed, but it's also a foolhardy indiscretion for the lady. Her revenge would come at quite the cost to herself.'

  'She must think the cost is worth paying.'

  'Or perhaps we simply haven't the full truth yet. Will you come tomorrow?'

  'Holmes,' I vowed, easily, 'I wouldn't dream of missing it.'

  'Good,' he said. 'Then we will get to the bottom of all the scandals in Bohemia.'

  I could hardly concentrate on the words beneath my pen, even as Holmes began reciting his deductions about the King of Bohemia with a flourish. The very idea of it, a photograph of Irene Adler, hidden away somewhere in our rooms, made me feel unreasonably hot and irritated. That he would ask for it, and then squirrel it away, less a keepsake than a secret –

  'If you were thinking any harder,' Holmes said suddenly, 'I imagine they would hear it all the way down in Parliament. It bothers you.'

  My pen blotted as I started in surprise. 'What bothers me?'

  Holmes raised a sceptical eyebrow in my direction. 'The photograph I kept of Mrs Norton.'

  'You're perfectly entitled to keep what you choose,' I said, a bit more defensively than I'd have liked.

  'I am,' Holmes agreed, 'yet it bothers you. I don't understand.'