Prelude to a Partnership

by Miss Roylott

  Observing such secretiveness on his part, I hoped that Holmes had merely stashed all his intimate objects in his bedroom. Better that he was obsessively private than positively inhuman. I could find no portraits of family or friends in box after box, no memorabilia of his school and university life, no sentimental trinkets such as I thought all people possessed. To be fair, Holmes did have a few objects of leisure, such as his blackened pipes and his violin, but these told me little except that he was fond of tobacco and music.

  Suddenly to my delight, I found two objects clearly possessed of great character and whimsy: a Persian slipper that was filled with tobacco, and a charming little morocco case.[7] I had picked up the latter and started to open it, when Holmes's voice startled me.

  "Don't!" he shouted. "Put that down, right now, Watson!"

  I did so, chastened by his sharp look of anger. "I—I'm sorry. I forgot myself."

  "I know," he spoke more calmly. "Please understand that some of my things are private, and that you may not touch everything you come across."

  "Yes, Holmes."

  "Now would you please set that box down by my bedroom door, and move on to another box of books?"

  I did as he asked, feeling like a child that had been scolded. It was ridiculous, really, as he was years younger than I, but he had a masterful manner that he exercised effortlessly on all people. I glanced toward him occasionally as we continued unpacking in silence. His expression had softened considerably, but he looked apprehensive, no doubt wondering whether he had forgotten to set aside any other box with sensitive contents.

  Fortunately, we finished with the sitting-room boxes without further incident, and then Holmes withdrew to his bedroom, taking the box I had left by the door inside with him.

  I did not see him again until supper. Like me, he had washed and changed after his hard labour that day, but his dressing-gown made him look particularly elegant somehow. His wet hair was very sleek, and his cologne was pleasant and subtle.

  Sherlock Holmes is not, strictly speaking, handsome. Even the first time that we met, I knew that his face was a bit too angular for my tastes, his nose too beaky, and his figure too gaunt; he is not the type of man that normally attracts me at all. Yet there is an irresistible dynamism in his character, a sheer force of personality that renders him striking and magnetic in the proper circumstances. Being locked in battle with him, while at the same time suffering from frustrated lust, had made me throw myself at him before.

  Tonight at dinner, Holmes seemed refined and charming, rather than prim and aloof. Like an actor so well-versed in his craft that he kept a dramatic air even off the stage, Holmes conversed in a lively manner, asking me if I liked my room well enough, and if I enjoyed Mrs. Hudson's cooking.

  "Yes, Holmes. It is all very comfortable."

  "Excellent. You see, you need not have stayed at such an extravagant hotel to enjoy the comforts of life."

  "No indeed." Actually, I had led a rather comfortless, meaningless existence at the hotel, for I had felt alone and adrift.

  He saw my expression. "You ought to have come to Bart's sooner, looked for old friends to keep you company."

  I shrugged. "Would I have found you there, a month ago?"

  "Yes, if you had come to the laboratory on the right day. Someone doubtless would have pointed me out to you as the eccentric student who beat the subjects in the dissecting-room, in order to ascertain the effects of bruising after death. They still talk of that."

  I nodded. "Stamford mentioned it."

  "Ah. No doubt you were horrified."

  "Not as much as I was when I saw you."

  He smiled good-naturedly. "I am glad you overcame your horror."

  "You are not a medical student?" I pressed, seeing an opportunity.

  "No," he said, "I shall not be following you into that noble profession." He deftly turned the question back to me. "I suppose that being an army surgeon made practising medicine more difficult than is customary? How did you fare in Afghanistan?"

  I told him briefly of my life in the army, with as many omissions as I could spare, but Holmes prolonged the digression by asking me various questions about warfare and sanitary conditions. I do not think he was really interested in such details, but he probed me repeatedly to keep the conversation firmly steered away from his own profession. He won the battle.

  After dinner, Holmes lit his pipe and sank into his armchair to read the evening Times. Realising my forgetfulness, I was about to send the page-boy out to fetch me a copy too, but Holmes gave me the front pages of his newspaper quite graciously. Evidently, he only wanted to read the agony columns, poring over them with keen interest.

  I tried to draw Holmes into conversation again by reading out the major headlines to him, but he showed little interest. "Politics, Watson! What do I want to hear about the latest doings of Parliament for?" I suppose it was an understandable, if strong, disgust with the wrangles of government.

  Only when I read the heading about an unexplained murder committed in the East End did his ears perk up, and then I remembered his acute fascination with criminal cases. Holmes asked me to read the story to him, and I did so, watching his reaction to each detail. He listened intently at first, but when I had got only two-thirds of the way through the story, Holmes suddenly declared, "Ah, like the case of Archer of Chicago!"

  He did not explain his outburst, so I started to continue, but Holmes cut me off irritably. "No, no! Stop reading!"

  "But don't you want to know the rest of it?"

  "I know the rest. Why should I sit through any more of that inane reporter's sensationalism and idiotic theories? You may read the rest to yourself if you wish, but I don't care to hear anymore." He then went back to his perusal of the agony columns.

  How utterly confounding he was! As I silently read to the end, it more than annoyed me that I had no idea who this Archer of Chicago was and what relationship he might have to this current murder in London.

  Disregarding how cross he had left me, Holmes rose finally from his chair and bade me good-night before withdrawing to his bedroom.

  I do not think he even noticed that I did not wish him good-night in return.

  I found that Holmes had already breakfasted and gone out by the time I rose this morning. He had informed Mrs. Hudson that he would not be home until dinner this evening, so I expect that he is at his work, wherever that might be. I read the morning newspaper by myself and tried not to feel lonely and listless.

  I would have ventured outside for a walk, had not the weather been so foul and caused me to ache in my joints, especially my injured shoulder. I stayed in my armchair and passed the time thinking miserably of Murray.[8] Why could he not be here now, massaging me with his hands, soothing me with his words, and tempting me with his kisses, as he had done so frequently in Afghanistan? I wondered if I had betrayed the nature of our relationship when Holmes had asked me about army life last night. I had been guarded in my comments, but who knew how Sherlock Holmes obtained his mystifying knowledge about anything? Perhaps he could read in my eyes or feel in my posture how much I ached to be touched again.

  I know I should not dwell on Murray, now that he has been out of my life so long. In fact, I should probably be taking this opportunity to cleanse myself of my sins and adopt a radically different scheme of life. This is a chance to redeem myself, and I would be wilfully perverse to reject it, I know. Yet I cannot help remembering how gruelling it is to attempt being what I am not and how easy it is to just give in to my nature, first with Holmes, then with Murray. With my usual laziness, I concluded in the end that I may be a weak, vile, disgusting creature, but at least I am honest with myself.

  After lunch I tried to read a novel, but fell asleep in my chair and remained there until I woke with a start and found Sherlock Holmes leaning over me with a smile. "I hate to disturb you, Doctor, but I think you will want to go wash up before dinner."

  When I returned from my bedroom, dinner had already been served, s
o I took my seat at the table. I noticed that Holmes smelled vaguely of chemicals, and he said that he had been at Bart's laboratory all day, which surprised me, as I thought that his impending laboratory in the corner of our sitting-room was intended to make such trips unnecessary.

  "Were you not going to get a table for—?"

  "Yes, yes, but listen to what I did today."

  He began to tell me in detail about his chemical researches, with the same zeal and fascination as before, but I admit that I followed very little of it. He evidently liked to hear himself talk, so I let him, while my mind drifted elsewhere. Afghanistan. Murray. My shoulder began aching again, and I absently reached to rub it, only to find Holmes's hand already there. I glanced up at him; he looked disconcerted and pulled his hand away, rising from his chair and going over to the hearth.

  "There is a chemist's down the block, should you need some pills or salve for it," he said, staring into the fire.

  "Thank you."

  Holmes stood silently with one hand upon the mantle. I think he had wanted me suddenly, just as I had wanted him in that booth at the Holborn. Desire sometimes creeps up on you that way, as I learned many times whenever I met some attractive man who had done nothing whatsoever to encourage me, but had sparked my passion all the same.

  Finally Holmes took up his violin from its case and began to play it slowly, deliberately. Strained, melancholy notes, expressing tension and turbulence. There was no recognisable melody in it, but it had a rhythm and momentum that carried it on through impressive heights of dexterity and passion. It surprised me that such a scientific man should be artistic as well.

  He played on into the evening, throwing in bits of brighter compositions as the mood struck him. The music was almost organic, growing and evolving over time.

  Since he showed no further interest in eating, I rang the bell for the maid, and her interruption to take away our trays finally caught Holmes's attention. He drifted back from whatever reverie he was in and opened his eyes, glimpsing me. He smiled wryly, as if to say that all was well again and he had realised how silly he had been.

  I left him still scraping away rapturously and retired to my bedroom.

  We have lived under one roof for a fortnight now. At first Sherlock Holmes seemed to be a quiet, studious man, early to bed and early to rise. Sometimes he spent his day at the laboratory, or else the dissecting-rooms. Sometimes he walked all over London and afterwards described to me his wandering route by identifying the origin of each mud splash on his trousers. I did not know why it interested him so; perhaps he thought of it as an experiment like his chemical researches, another way to distinguish blood stains from mud stains of various sorts? Anyhow, I tolerated this eccentricity as harmless and amusing.

  Yet in the last week Holmes has become incredibly bored and shiftless, lying upon the sofa for days as if he were dead tired of the entire world. I know that he told me he was prone to getting "in the dumps" as he called it, but seeing him lie there vacantly is akin to seeing a brilliant genius enfeebled by old age, or my own brother[9] drunk into a stupor. I do not know how much longer I can leave Holmes alone, as he requested. Does he not have work to go to? What about his mysterious profession? What about getting that table and setting up that laboratory in the corner, like he wanted? I am recovering from my wound and fever, yet I am far more active mentally and physically than Holmes is at this point. At least I read. At least I eat.

  Holmes is up! I did not even have to drag him off the sofa or force-feed him. All he wanted was a visitor, apparently. Mrs. Hudson announced, "Mr. Lestrade," and Holmes miraculously recovered, sitting up and asking curtly that I leave the room.

  "What?"

  "I'm sorry. Please retire to your bedroom for a bit, Watson, while I have an interview with Lestrade. It's important."

  "Very well."

  I can hear their muffled talking now, and I wonder who this Lestrade could be. Is he Holmes's lover? Has he been away? Has there been a breakup? Is this a return, a reunion?

  Holmes came to fetch me after half an hour. "Thank you, Watson. Join me for lunch?"

  I followed him back to the sitting-room, surprised at the quickness of the interview. "A friend of yours?" I prodded.

  "Lestrade? Well, of sorts."

  We took our seats and dined together for the first time in days. I was hardly surprised by his ravenous appetite.

  "Holmes, don't you still need that table for your laboratory?"

  "Oh yes, I must get one today. No use in delaying."

  "Indeed. I would help you, but I am seeing Stamford today."

  "Stamford, hmm?" He was more absorbed by his meal at the moment.

  "I should not be too long, though, and will be back to help you move any furniture to the storage room."

  "Very kind, but will your shoulder withstand it? Don't trouble yourself, Doctor. I can have the servants assist me."

  And we talked on like that, merrily, as if Holmes had not been practically comatose an hour ago. I determined to see Stamford and find out all he knew about Holmes's depressions, and whether he had ever heard of this chap Lestrade.

  I found Stamford easily enough at Bart's but could get no new information out of him. He did however offer me a position, if I felt strong enough to work, but I told him I was not yet ready.

  "Oh well. How is it, living with Holmes? Do you get along all right?"

  "Yes, fine."

  "You haven't solved it, have you?"

  "His depression? No, that's why I am asking you—"

  "No! The mystery! The mystery of Holmes! Where does his secret knowledge come from, and what shall he use it for, good or evil?" He was having far too much fun, and I began to remember why Stamford had never been a particular crony of mine in the old days.

  I bade him good day and went home to Baker Street.

  Sherlock Holmes had already returned with his table and was setting up his laboratory in a frenzy of activity. Nothing could match his energy when the working fit struck him.

  "Holmes, careful! Let me help you with that."

  He smiled and hummed a tune cheerfully. "How was Stamford?"

  "Obnoxious as ever!"

  He chuckled at me. "You look almost as furious as you were when you shoved me against the wall and ravished me."

  "Holmes!" I glanced about anxiously to reassure myself that we were entirely alone. Neither of us had alluded to our dirty episode in the closet since that lunch at the Holborn.

  "Very well, I won't embarrass you, Doctor."

  In light of his giddy, reckless behaviour, I made sure to watch Holmes carefully for the rest of the day and saw that he had a proper dinner too. He talked the strangest rubbish about the solar system and brains being like crowded attics, so that I am not sure whether I ought to take him to an alienist[10] to have him sorted out. After dinner, he returned to his laboratory and worked with his chemicals long into the night.

  Chapter 4

  The Book of Life

  Visitor after visitor these days! It was a uniformed railway porter this time. I never imagined that Sherlock Holmes had so many acquaintances—men and women, young and old, of every class and origin. Still, Lestrade remains the most frequent visitor, calling on Holmes three or four times a week. I had the chance to glimpse sight of him, and he does not seem very attractive to me—a sallow, rat-faced, dark-eyed fellow. One would think that Holmes could do better than that. Who are the other visitors? Promiscuous affairs? But none of them, including Lestrade, is ever invited back into Holmes's bedroom, and I never hear any sounds beyond the muffled noises of conversation. Who are they?

  Holmes apologised again as he let me out, then poured me a drink at the gasogene. "Thank you for your patience. I have to use this room as a place of business, and these people are my clients."

  Clients. I weighed the word in my mind. A blackmailer did not have "clients"; he had victims. Still, perhaps the term was Holmes's way of hiding his disreputable profession. I cannot firmly decide on Holmes bein
g the blackmailer of all those people, or else the lover of them.

  "Watson," he sat down opposite me. "I have been meaning to ask you a question."

  "Yes?" I sipped my drink. I liked that he sometimes called me Watson, instead of Doctor.

  "What did you mean by 'I keep a bull-pup'? You said that when I asked you for your vices."

  "Bull-pup? Oh, I meant I have a volatile temper. Sorry."

  "Ah! I tried to deduce the meaning myself but it proved rather too obscure for me. You obviously did not keep a dog, not even in secret. There's never a dog hair on you."

  "You ought to have asked me sooner." It was quite absurd that he should be confounded by such a minor point, when he had known everything else about me readily enough.

  He chuckled and leaned back in his chair, eyeing me over his drink. "Another thing I wanted to ask you, Watson—do you, do you have any visitors that you intend to bring to Baker Street? You have observed my clients' comings and goings, and have kindly accommodated me by getting out of the way. Should you have any company of your own, I would of course get out of your way as well."

  I realised uncomfortably that Holmes was asking me about my current love life, my possible "company" in my bedroom. It embarrassed me greatly to know that he would be aware whenever I had a lover with me.

  "I shall not bring anyone here!" I snapped.

  "Why not?" he replied. "If you meet at a hotel, it costs money, and there are records of who has stayed with whom. You might be identified afterward, even if you used aliases. If you meet here instead, my discretion is at your disposal, since I already know that you are partial to men. I can assist by making sure that Mrs. Hudson and her servants are not nearby."

  "Holmes! I don't want to talk about it. It's none of your business what I do."

  "I only wished to help."