Though the victim's study was
small, it was not uncomfortable,
and
the room boasted a window through which I could glimpse the pines on
the far edge of the lawn. Fortunately for me, the papers
which Holmes
had asked me to peruse were financial in nature, and thus negotiable to
a doctor equally as well as a criminal expert. I had been
some two
hours over them, Holmes sniffing about I knew not where, when I began
work on the final box. A gentle knock at the door interrupted
me,
however, and I looked up to see Lestrade approaching the desk where I
laboured over figures, a pensive expression on his
curious, rodent-like
face. Without preamble, he sat down in the chair opposite me
and
folded his hands in his lap.
"You're being a little hard on him, aren't you, Doctor?"
It
was in all likelihood the last question I would ever have expected to
emerge from the lips of Inspector Lestrade, and in tribute to the
enormity of the event, I dropped what I was doing to stare at him in
blank unease.
"I haven't the slightest notion of what you mean," I replied.
He
merely shrugged equitably. "I may well have the
wrong end of the
stick, Dr. Watson, and I'll be the first to admit it if it's
true. If
I am barging in where I don't belong, you have only to say
so. I
assure you I meant no offense."
"None taken," I replied, but the inspector had not finished.
"The
fact remains, it seems clear enough that you and Mr. Holmes have been
at odds since his...unexpected reappearance. Perhaps I am
mistaken."
As
he stared at me, I realized uncomfortably that neither was I capable of
lying to Lestrade, nor was I inclined to. Without a thought
of
steering such a volatile conversation in another direction, I rested my
chin in my hand exhaustedly.
"You are not wrong."
"Would it trouble you if I asked a personal question, Doctor?"
"That would greatly depend on what it is."
He
chuckled at this and shook his head. "No, no, Dr.
Watson. I mean to
ask whether you are angry at Mr. Holmes for the obvious reason, or for
some other reason."
I could think of nothing inherently unsafe
about this query. "It is the obvious reason, if by the
obvious reason
you mean that he pretended to be dead for three years."
The
little inspector nodded sagely, as if many people pretend to
be dead
for lengthy periods of time. "It was hardest on you, of
course," he
said quietly. "We all of us were grieved, do not mistake me,
but you
worked more closely together than Mr. Holmes ever worked with anyone at
the Yard. A terrible blow, I always said, but for you--It
must have
been monstrous, Doctor. I do not think even Mr. Holmes'
brother was as
deeply affected. To have lived for three years imagining him
dead
would naturally bring about--"
"I did not imagine him dead for three years," I said in a hoarse
undertone, and then let my hand slide up over my eyes.
"No?"
Lestrade asked. He regarded me with frank sympathy which now
mingled
with curiosity. "I am afraid I don't know what you mean by
that, Dr.
Watson. Of course, we all hoped he was alive--"
"I knew he was
alive," I said, expecting my eyes to blur as they did every time I
thought of it. To my relief, there was only a long-dead tone
to my
voice. "I thought him dead for two weeks, until the memorial
service
here in London. Afterwards, I knew. I knew it all
along."
Lestrade was now staring at me in appalled shock. "He told
you? He sent you a letter, or--"
"His
brother." I could not identify the voice which spoke, for it
was not
my own. It sounded like the voice of a ghost. "His
brother told me.
After the service."
"Dear God in heaven," Lestrade whispered. "So all the time he
meant us to think him dead, you knew him to be...."
"Yes, I did."
"Dr. Watson, I am afraid that is one of the worst things I have ever
heard."
"It is certainly one of the worst things I have ever experienced."
His eyes narrowed at me. "Does Mr. Holmes know that you were
aware his death was a sham?"
"No, indeed," I replied with bitter mock enthusiasm. "He is
convinced that his plans were enacted superbly, as ever."
"Small wonder you have not gone back to Baker Street."
When
I shot him a horrified glance, the inspector had the decency to look
down at his boots, brushing a speck of ash off one of them, returning
it to its former high polish. Then he scrutinized the other
as if to
reassure himself it was equally spotless. When he gazed back
at me
again, I had recovered much of my composure.
"Lestrade," I said slowly, "I must ask you what you mean by--"
"No,"
the diminutive official said firmly, "you mustn't. I am, as
you are
well aware, a Scotland Yard Detective Inspector. You may also
have
realized by now that I joined the Force in an effort to do some good in
the world. It remains my goal to this day. In that
light, therefore,
I assure you that you must not ask me what I
mean by that."
It
was this statement, and not the recounting of my own bitter struggle,
which brought a sheen of moisture to my eyes. I took a deep
breath
immediately and managed to bring myself back to the brink of normalcy.
"It can hardly matter now," I began, but Lestrade interrupted me at
once.
"You must ask him about Moran."
"I beg your pardon?" I asked, already dazed.
"Dr.
Watson," he said softly, all the eager, grasping qualities having
somehow drained from his face, "you are, I have always thought, an
admirable gentleman in every way. Mr. Holmes is halfway to a
lunatic
and will no doubt end his life in an asylum. I have little
notion of
how you tolerate him, and no notion at all why I tolerate
him. Be that
as it may," he continued calmly, "you and I are both reasonably clever
men, even if we do not know when a man works as a costermonger or to
what degree salt water affects false teeth. There must be some
reason we grant him our company. If you can recall such a
reason, if
you have any desire to, you must ask him about Colonel Moran."
"Why should
you know such a thing?" I demanded ungratefully.
"Why should you be
privy to what he keeps from me, and if you are, why should I stoop to
ask him about it?"
Lestrade rose and crossed to the door, his normally impatient features
still infused with an inexplicable kindness.
"I
know because, as you will recall, I arrested the Colonel. If
you
manage to learn of the matter, you will do so from the other side of
the fence, if you will. The information is not mine
to dispose, but it
is worth knowing, I assure you. In fact, I must
insist that, however
it may distress you, if you value anything about the madman
currently
running roughshod over my evidence, you will ask him about Colonel
Moran," he finished. Lestrade then gently shut the door
behind him.
I
agreed to share a cab back to Westminster with Holmes that
evening.
That such an action went against everything I had
once promised myself
appeared to matter less and less. As some sort of initial
rite, we
shared our findings, hesitantly at first, as if we had forgotten how to
do it. The conversation, after a disgracefully brief five
minutes,
blossomed into a hearty and full-blown discourse.
"...and despite all of this," I finished perplexedly, "I can find no
such valuable deeds amongst his belongings."
"That,
my dear Watson, is peculiar in the most deeply gratifying sense," he
replied. "You are certain that they were not present?"
"Not
only were they not present, but as I have said before, it is shocking
they were not accounted for, as many significant payments had
been made
over to this Mr. Cornelius fellow."
"Large sums, each and all, you said?"
I
nodded. "It is a wonder no one seems to know who this man is,
for it
is quite astonishing that a retired builder should make over so many
hefty figures to a stranger. Perhaps he was being
blackmailed," I
added as a quick flash of inspiration struck.
"Perhaps," Holmes conceded. "And yet, perhaps there are fewer
players in this game than we imagine."
I
would have questioned him further about this odd pronouncement, but
realized to my dismay that we had already drawn up to the very door of
221 Baker Street. Holmes promptly descended the cab, then
extended a
hand to help me out of it. It was a vaguely risky
gesture, though not
an overt one.
"I had better be getting back to my practice," I said, knowing as I
did so it was futile.
"Come in and finish relating Mr. Oldacre's financial data, and you will
be a free man," he said easily.
"I am not kissing you again, and neither am I going to indulge in any
other of your whims," I pointed out.
He
smiled, though it was meant for my benefit and not because he wished to
do so. "I have not asked you to. I am not such a
hedonist, after
all. What care I the number of months--nay,
years--are you going to
get out of that cab, or would you prefer I lose the use of my right
hand?" he finished impatiently.
There was nothing for it, I
thought glumly. I took his hand and before I knew it
I stood in the
darkened sitting room, pitch-black due to the lack of
necessity for
fire in the month of August, at a complete loss over what to do with
the slightly sunburned, ferociously energetic man before me.
I
regarded him as if I had never seen him before, realizing that I had
not truly allowed myself to look at him since his dramatic
return. He
was thinner even than was usual, and several hairs in his temples had
faded to a shimmering grey in his absence. After turning up
the
gas, he talked only of the case, although I
must own I scarcely took in
a single word he said. As he spoke, he busied himself sifting
through
correspondence, though he never opened a single letter, and then
settled himself enthusiastically in his armchair, throwing
me his
cigarette case as he lit one of his own.
"Well?" he exhaled at length. "What do you think of it?"
"Holmes," I replied, making my voice as even as was possible,
"I am meant to ask you about Colonel Moran."
He
did not react in any instantly telling fashion. I had not
expected him
to. But he did draw slowly upon his cigarette, stating, "I
have not
the vaguest idea how you came to make that remark, which will no doubt
be deeply gratifying to you."
"Lestrade told me."
"Lestrade?"
he exclaimed. "Oh, I see it," he said an instant later, his
panicked
brow clearing. "Of course he did. I ought to have
anticipated as
much...." Holmes stopped abruptly, then glared at me without
intending
to, as he often had before. "Has Lestrade expressed an
interest in our
former regard?"
It was a mark of the man's appreciation for the
ironic that he posed the question in such a manner. "Not
precisely," I
replied with care, "although I would be remiss in implying he is
unaware of it."
"Bloody hell," he muttered, the first time I had ever known him to
employ the phrase.
"I am equally obliged to tell you that Lestrade betrayed no interest in
the affair whatsoever."
"If he did not," Holmes replied dryly, "it is the first lucky event to
have befallen me in over three years time."
"Holmes,"
I said, swallowing hard, "if it helps in any way, I am willing to tell
you something of which you are unaware before you embark upon an
explication of the Colonel."
My erstwhile friend's eyes narrowed
at me in stately suspicion, but he soon made an effort to clear himself
of all expression. "I cannot think what you could possibly
have to
tell me which could justify my speaking at any length about the
manifestly despicable Colonel Moran."
"I knew you were alive," I
said. I said it before I could think twice about it, before
the myriad
reasons for not saying it could fly across my mind like so many geese.
Holmes
made no reply. It seemed he could not, for many
seconds. Finally he
requested, "My dear Watson, for God's sake, please tell me that is not
true."
The words flew out of my mouth far faster than they had
for Lestrade. Small wonder, for Lestrade had never been
as close to me
as I liked to imagine Holmes had. "We had a memorial
service here, in
London. No doubt you heard of it. There were
countless Yard men in
attendance, former clients of yours, relatives of former clients, those
who had read of you in my accounts, in the papers. There were
so many
that the ceremony was held in a public square. We didn't need
to worry
about the actual burial, for there was no--" I stopped myself before I
lost the thread of my narrative. Holmes' face was
gratifyingly drained
of blood. "Many people spoke. They spoke of your
courage, and your
love of justice. They asked me to say a few words--they said
it would
only be right, but I did not find myself up to the
task." I drew a
deep breath. "At length, the crowds dispersed.
There was a memorial
stone, Holmes, entirely buried under the flowers.
Rich and poor alike
brought them--bouquets of white orchids and tuppence violets
all
mingled together. Perhaps you didn't realize that.
It was quite
deluged by them all.
"I was one of the last ones there. When
you brother approached me, he was very sympathetic. I felt
for him
deeply, knowing you had no other kin. When he kindly
inquired how I
felt, I thought it the most natural thing in the world.
"'I will
not speak of how I feel,' I said, for there we stood in an
open
square. 'But the one thing I know for certain is that I will
never
write again.'
"He looked shocked at my words. Too shocked for a
grieving brother. He asked me to say again what I had just
sworn, and
when I did so, he shook his head slowly. He asked me to give
you a
proper send-off, implored me to do you justice in one final,
spectacular problem. Your
brother said you would have wanted me to
write, for all your jests and epigrams at my
expense. He even said it
was one of the things you loved about me--that I could capture you so
fluidly. At last I apologized and told him that my pen had
died with
you."
Holmes stared back at me as if I were slowly twisting a
knife into his chest, but what I had started, I reasoned, I had best
finish.
"He admitted it. I believe he saw that there was
nothing else to do. He told me you were alive, and he said it
was an
integral part of the plan to bring you back that I write an account of
your death."
My friend winced as I had never seen him do before,
and like a flash of lightning I experienced the old, familiar,
urgent desire to keep him from pain. I ignored it
and went on with my
story.
"I could not do it," I said flatly. "Knowing you were
alive, that any moment you may come back to me, to write of your
death? It was inhuman, Holmes. I wrote of your
forgiveness in the
matter of the identical geese. I wrote of your heroism at
Stoke Moran,
your defiant Bohemianism in the Lord St. Simon affair, even of your
earlier cases, the ones I was not privy to directly. I wrote
of your
cleverness, and your nobility, and every second I was writing them I
thought madly that one of those phrases, if I could craft it
well
enough, would bring you back to me."
"But none of them did," he
finished for me. I was beginning to wish desperately that I
could
stop. I had seen Sherlock Holmes seconds after one of his
clients had
been killed, and moments after he'd received a telegram regarding the
death of his father. I had never seen him look as he did now.
"At
length, I considered your brother's request. I knew you must
be in
danger, after all, and I had no desire to ruin your
schemes. But I
could not, simply could not think you capable of such--it was as if,
once I wrote of your death, I would at once find myself diminished to a
pawn in one of your games. I could not make such a thing come
true. I
am a very poor actor, I know, but I am a good writer, Holmes.
I could
have done it without the deception. I did
do it without the
deception. I could not think you would inflict those two
hellish weeks
on me. To say nothing of three years...and every time I left
my
practice, I found myself the object of condolences, often from perfect
strangers. They were kindly meant, but they only
reinforced...." I
stopped lamely, arresting a narrative which had begun chronologically
and ended a ramble of convoluted distress. "I ought to have
told you
before the Camden House matter, but by then I--"
"Despised me," he said. He nodded slowly.
"I am sorry, Holmes, but--"
"What
have you to be sorry about? You are in the majority, though
your
conviction is not of the first water. You cannot despise me
half as
much as I despise myself."
"That was not my intent," I said humbly.
"Of
course it was not. You are everything that is sympathetic in
this
broken world. Watson," he added almost inaudibly, drawing
both
his long legs up to his chest, "do please
leave me. Do not think me
angry, but I fear cannot prolong this interview."
I wished more than anything at that moment to see his face, but he had
rested his high forehead on his knees. "What of Moran?"
"It will not excuse me. Do not imagine it
will. I
ought to have thrown myself over the edge before I allowed this to
happen."
"Do not say that," I cried.
"Why
on earth not? Now, if you would only go home to bed,
my dear fellow,
my already staggering gratitude for your kindness will double."
"I do not wish to leave you like this," I said helplessly. I
was more than a little shocked to find that it was true.
"Watson,
please," he said. Tilting his head a little, I could barely
make out
the edge of his left eye. "You have many things to forgive me
for
already, but while you are at it, forgive me for saying I would give
half my fortune for you to be somewhere else just now. I do
not
deserve your mercy, but please get out."
"Holmes, I cannot simply--"
"As you are a gentlemen," came the muffled voice. "Get out."
I
numbly collected my hat and stick and opened the sitting room
door. I
thought of looking back at him, but I knew that if I did so, I could
never obey his request. My feet made no sound as I walked
down the
carpeted stairs to the front door. Indeed, from the time I
left his
rooms to the time I arrived at my nearly renovated offices,
ironwork pried out to be collected by street
scavengers, all the
teeming world was silence in my ears.
When I
awoke the next morning--I say awoke out of convention, but as I did not
sleep, perhaps it would be better to say I arose--I knew what had to be
done. Two men other than Sherlock Holmes knew more of Colonel
Moran
than I did. Mycroft Holmes, I had no doubt, would take a
bullet
through his wide head before he revealed a fact his younger brother had
deemed a secret, now that he was alive once more. Lestrade,
on the
other hand, had already proven himself vulnerable upon the side of
altruism. It was the inspector, slight of stature and
superior of
demeanor, to whom I would apply.
I dressed hastily and descended
the stairs, narrowly avoiding a collision with the three workmen who
were, under the supervision of Mrs. Garrison, replacing my old,
battered desk with one which looked under the wrappings to be finest
mahogany. I had not the time to spare them more than a
glance, but
when I reached my doorstep, I nearly trod upon a
bundle of flowers. It
took me a mere instant to realize that they were white orchids
cut
quite close, then encircled entirely with a riotous profusion
of
twopenny violets. I hurried back into the house.
"Will you put these in water, Mrs. Garrison, at once?" I asked
my long-suffering housekeeper.
"Of course, Doctor," she said gaily. "What
a delightfully unusual design. Is it a new style?"
I very much fear that she received no reply, but Mrs. Garrison was
never overly attentive to my words, in any event.
"Make
for Whitehall, my good man," I called up to the driver when I had
procured a cab. I thus rode directly toward
Scotland Yard in the
bright glare of the summer morning. Lestrade considered his
Lower
Norwood case closed. If he was not in his offices, they would
at least
have some idea of where he was.
"I am really not
at liberty to discuss it with you, Doctor," the good inspector said
with exaggerated long-suffering in the cool dim of his Scotland Yard
office. His desk was, as ever, meticulously neat,
every paper
carefully filed and each lead pencil lying in a row. "Did you
approach
Mr. Holmes?"
"There I made a tactical error," I admitted grimly. "I told
him of my secret before I elicited his."
"No,
you are right there," Lestrade mused, running a finger over his sharp
chin. "It is best to have leverage when dealing with that
fellow."
I very nearly laughed aloud at this but diverted my mirth into a sudden
wracking cough. "Precisely, Inspector."
"How did he take it?"
Thinking
back upon the night before, I considered drawing a veil over the truth,
and then realized that I was far more likely to get what I wanted if I
did not. "He looked as if I had broken him in half."
"Oh," said the inspector. "That is...well, a raving Bedlamite
he may well be, but...I am sorry to hear that, Doctor."
I
smiled back at him tentatively. Lestrade, I thought, was an
ally of
Holmes an an ally of myself. He had done a clever job of
disguising
the fact under perpetual pompous annoyance, but his allegiance
was
growing ever more obvious. I decided to be obvious in return.
"He
threw me out of his rooms in a fit of self-loathing. I asked
him once
more about Moran, but he insisted it could in no way affect my
judgement of him. You, however, feel differently.
What is it that I
need to know?"
Lestrade drummed the tips of his fingers
together, looking for all the world like Sherlock Holmes when he is
considering the better of two evils. Finally he said, "I am
doing this
with your positive assurance that Mr. Holmes will not cast us both off
like two old boots when he learns of it."
"I promise you he will not. I will see to it."
"Are you certain?"
"I am certain, I swear to you."
Lestrade
sighed and rearranged the pencils on his desk so that they formed the
same rigid formation on the opposite angle. "I have certain
facts,
Doctor, but they lead into the realm of theory. I am not fond
of
unfounded theory, but I will tell you the facts, and see if you draw
the same conclusion from them."
I accepted his proposal and begged him to continue.
"Colonel
Moran was most distraught when he was arrested.
He insisted, for lack
of a better word, that he was most affected by having
been bested by
two godless sodomites."
My jaw dropped open in sheer terror at this admission, but Lestrade
quickly held up a hand.
"Slander
by those who have been taken into custody is a well-documented
phenomenon. There was nothing in it, and we have made no
reports of
his revolting accusations. You, Doctor, are after all a
grieving
widower. But it made me wonder certain things," he mused, his
shrewd
brown eyes on his desk. "It made me wonder where Colonel
Moran could
have heard such sordid rumours. It made me wonder, after he
escaped
our best-laid nets, what Professor Moriarty intended to do for revenge
other than to kill Mr. Holmes. It made me wonder why Mr.
Holmes would
have pretended to be dead for all that time when Moran knew full well
he was alive. And it made me notice, Dr. Watson, that Moran
only let
his guard down enough to be caught for a hanging offense after you had
written Mr. Holmes was dead."
I was by now two steps ahead of
the dear little inspector, and the old constriction in my breast
tightened violently as I realized what I had mistaken for egotistical
machinations.
"If he was dead to you, he was clearly dead to all
of England, let alone London," Lestrade continued. "So much
is clear.
You are an open person, if I may say so, Doctor, and no one would
expect you to write such a thing unless you thought it was
true. You
fooled me, and my cap is off to you for it. But let us
suppose
Sherlock Holmes knew nothing of your talent for fiction," he
added. He
had picked up a pencil and was beating its end softly against his
desk. "You realize, of course, that this is all theory, and
theory is
as good as rubbish to the methodical man, but never mind that
now.
Remembering that Mr. Holmes admits to a conversation with the Professor
before they fought, let us suppose that the Professor referred to
certain habits of yours and Mr. Holmes--gambling, let us say," he added
hastily as my colour rose. "And let us say that it was
Moran's task to
expose those habits when Mr. Holmes returned to London. What
if Mr.
Holmes, in order to keep his love of gambling--or, better still, your
love of gambling--a secret, decided in a split second not to return."
Lestrade
stopped in some confusion. I have no notion of what my face
must have
looked like at that moment, but I recall my cheeks were damp and that I
did not care. "Go on," I whispered. "Please,
continue with
your...theory."
"Well," the fastidious fellow faltered, "if he
could not return then, he must have wanted to
return...eventually. But
perhaps he had to be cautious, because if this rumour of gambling were
made public, it would have ruined you, Dr. Watson, as well as
himself.
It is interesting that Moran only let his guard down enough to commit a
hanging crime after you published the account of Mr. Holmes'
death. It
is as if, after you acknowledged the fact, Moran thought Mr. Holmes had
fled England forever. That's when he shot Ronald
Adair. And I assure
you," he added emphatically, "Mr. Holmes has the thing sewn
up. He
will be hung, make no mistake. And we none of us are much
inclined to
heed insults flung by such...scum. Dr. Watson, are you quite
all
right?" he finished in some distress.
"I am," I said. For a
single moment, I loved everything about Inspector Lestrade, from his
polished boots to to his supercilious eyebrows. "I have been
terribly
faithless, and remarkably blind, that is all. Lestrade, I do
not know
how I can ever thank you for having delved into the realm of theory."
"You
needn't thank me," Lestrade said hastily. "And you needn't
tell Mr.
Holmes, either. Or Gregson. For God's sake, don't
tell Gregson," he
added with a tiny roll of his eyes.
"I won't," I promised,
standing and shaking his hand solemnly. "You have my
word. But I fear
that Holmes will work the thing out on his own."
"Will he?"
Lestrade replied apprehensively. "Of course he
will. In any event,
I--oh, to hell with it all. He has tormented me with theories long
enough. I may as well get a little of my own back.
He is a fair
enough fellow, and even he will admit it's only just. Good
morning to
you, then, Doctor. And best of luck." Lestrade then
turned are
replaced the displaced pencil back into its accustomed formation.
Standing
outside the headquarters of Scotland Yard, I momentarily considered
hailing a cab and making straight for Baker Street. When I
had
admonished myself to be calm and think it through, I saw that such was
not the most likely road to success, as I had dealt with Sherlock
Holmes in the midst of his black humours before. With my goal
in clear
view and prudence in my designs, I made for the nearest telegraph
office before returning home.
"Mrs. Garrison," I said, as the
impossibly large team of men finished installing elaborately wrought
iron railings upon my doorstep, "please take the rest of the afternoon
off, and Sally as well."
"Oh, Dr. Watson," she exclaimed, her fat hand flying to her
breast. "How generous! But--"
"I
cannot brook any delay, Mrs. Garrison, for I have a client who greatly
desires to maintain his privacy in the throes of a monstrously
compromising ailment."
Mrs. Garrison, though foolish, was
kind-hearted, which was the reason I tolerated her. "Of
course,
Doctor," she said firmly. "At once. The poor
soul. Shall I get rid
of all these workmen and tell them to return first thing tomorrow?"
"Mrs. Garrison, I would be most grateful if you would do exactly that,"
I replied.
The
admirable matron nodded as if she had been ordered to command
a
battalion. "Right, Doctor. I will see to it that no
one is left to
interrupt you within these ten minutes."
"Thank you, my dear lady," I replied. I hastened to my office
and shut the door.
Swiftly
enough, the sounds of work being carried out faded. Rather
later came
the stringent instructions to the maid to behave
herself, not to speak
to men without a chaperon, and to return by nine. Moments
after this I
heard Mrs. Garrison shut the front door soundly behind her and I
emerged from my office to pace the length of my recently refurbished
entryway. I had not long to wait. Within another
thirty minutes,
Sherlock Holmes flew through the door without knocking and came to a
confused halt upon my new rug, which he had obviously chosen with great
care.
"You sent me a telegram," he said.
"Yes," I acknowledged.
He
recovered his composure at once, or at least he pretended to do
so.
"This little yellow scrap of paper reads, if my eyesight does not fail
me, 'I need you most urgently; there is no time to be lost; meet me at
once in my offices.' The matter sounds pressing if not
dangerous, does
it not?"
"Yes, it does," I assented, attempting to betray
nothing of what I felt. I gave it up as a bad job then and
there, for
I was not, nor could I ever be, Sherlock Holmes.
"Watson," he
said breathlessly, "if you do not explain yourself at once, I shall
draw my own conclusions, and I very much fear that they will prove
unwelcome."
"Draw away," I said happily. I felt a new man, and yet more
like myself than I had been in three years time.
"You must be a trifle more explicit," he said with touching urgency.
"You
may reach any conclusion you like," I obliged him. "I know
everything,
and Lestrade is wholly right. He has always been right about
you, and
I never had the sense to see it. You are a
lunatic." I was by this
time so moved that an occasional tear betrayed itself, but there was
such a smile on my face that I dismissed them as a
fluke. "You are a
lunatic for ever having made such an absurdly self-sacrificing gesture,
and three times a lunatic for having thought it would not matter to--"
I
fear I did not get any further, for suddenly there were very strong,
wiry arms encircling me and a raven-haired head resting on my shoulder,
sending tiny jolts of pain through my ancient scar. After a
long
moment, he lifted his head and then kissed the old wound through my
frock coat.
"I did not think I would ever see it again." He
let go of me and then stepped back some three feet for a better vantage
point of my features. "I do not deserve it, you
know. You must be
aware of the fact already, but still, I reiterate--"
"We neither
of us deserve it," I returned as gently as I could. "I ought
to have
trusted your definition of the word 'only,' and you ought to have
afforded my literary skills slightly higher praise."
He laughed
at this assessment, a laugh I had not heard properly since 1891, and
drew me into his arms again. "It was a mad scheme, I admit
it. I
could think of no other way. I ought to have, but my
intellect failed
me entirely."
"No," I corrected him, "it did not. You could
think of no other way which delegated the danger solely upon your own
shoulders. The grief on mine, the danger on yours.
Be advised," I
finished, taking his face in my hands, "that I prefer a mixture of both
danger and grief to either factor when isolated."
"Understood," he said softly. "You will decide such affairs
henceforth, for I wash my hands of them."
"Do
you?" I asked, for I had become aware that he was slowly, as if I would
not notice, unbuttoning my shirtfront. "Does that mean you
wish us to
work once more in tandem?"
"If you will allow it," he replied,
making an effort to look into my eyes while his own kept darting down
to my exposed collarbone.
"I will certainly allow it, but I am
suddenly at a loss as to where I should live. My offices have
recently
become far more habitable thanks to an anonymous benefactor."
"Dear
me," he said sympathetically, throwing my cravat upon the
ground.
"Surely you can bring yourself to part with them? They will
fetch you
a far higher price now, after all."
"Holmes!" I exclaimed indignantly. "Is that what you intended
all along?"
"No,
no," he protested, letting go of me once more as if prolonged exposure
to his touch might harm or in some way offend me. "Nothing of
the
kind. You were concerned about it, however, and I was moved
to relieve
your anxiety. Still," he added impishly, "you can now command
a tidy
sum for the place."
He had never appeared so clever, so fearful,
and so courageous all at once, and when he approached me once more I
pushed him away just so that I could look at him properly, the way I
had used to.
"Holmes," I said falteringly, "I never stopped--"
"No,"
he said at once. He placed two thin fingers over my lips and
shook his
head. "I know you did not. You don't have to tell
me. Please, don't
tell me."
He laughed once more, though his grey eyes were infinitely
serious.
"Of course I knew you had not stopped. Why do you think I
sent you so many telegrams?"
It
is now a matter of public record that I returned to live with Sherlock
Holmes, and that he located a buyer for my newly extravagant medical
practice and then funded the purchase with his own money, a fact I was
only made aware of in 1901. This newly revealed secret, I
will admit,
led to a brief but heated argument between us. I was angry
for a
period of five minutes, and then concluded for the hundredth time that
I ought not to set myself against Holmes once his mind is made up, and
left it at that. There are secrets, after all, and then there
are
secrets. Lestrade, for his part, was mistaken about John
Hector
McFarlane, as Holmes and I proved beyond a shadow of a doubt the
afternoon following my telegram. This did not make the
slightest
difference to us. The inspector had been right about
enough far more
important things to endear him to me--and, I may add without fear of
perjuring myself, Holmes--for the remainder of our
acquaintance. I
will not say that we did not often enough find ourselves at cross
purposes. But there are some favours, like some crimes, which
run
deeper than life or death. His was one of them. My
forgiveness of
Sherlock Holmes, I can say without unwarranted pride, was
another. And
his of me was a last, infinitely blessed, third.