My Dear Watson (20 page)

Watson had never felt more alone. Everything he had experienced, everything he’d done, it was as if none of it could possibly matter. What was the use of paying attention, of keeping any sort of record, if Holmes was not around to criticize it? If Watson would not be contributing to his public figure? On the journey back to England he had decided to give up his writings, to relegate himself to being a doctor and a husband, no longer a scribe. He only told the story of Holmes’s demise when the public started to get the wrong impression of it. It was one last story to gild the monument he had built. After that he thought he would set down his pen forever.

This was a wretched time in Watson’s life, entirely on par with the time just after he’d come home from Afghanistan to find himself friendless, homeless, poor, and alone. Holmes was gone and Mary…well, Mary was not the comfort he needed her to be.

She did her best to disguise the relief she felt at knowing Sherlock Holmes would never darken her door again, but Watson could perceive
that
at least, since she was no better at lying than he was. What he failed to notice, and it was the end of his marriage in more ways than one, was how thin and pale Mary had become. She carried herself gingerly, she flinched at every move she made, and she watched Watson with sunken eyes—waiting, vainly, for him to notice. Or care.

The day she finally could not wait any longer, Mary went next door for her diagnosis. It was a uterine tumor; a happy woman might have thought the growth and symptoms were a baby, but Mary was not so young as to jump immediately to the idea of pregnancy, and she knew that she did not glow so much as burn. She wanted Watson to forget about Sherlock Holmes long enough to worry about her health, but he never did. She finally had the news that she was dying from Watson’s colleague, and when she told Watson, he wondered why she had kept it from him.

“Why?” Mary asked him loudly. “You really cannot think why?”

Watson could not—Moriarty’s brother had just started publishing memories of the professor, painting him better than he deserved, and tarnishing Sherlock Holmes in the process. Watson was all wrapped up in the man, even though he had been presumed dead for more than a year, and he could hardly muster any grief at hearing about Mary’s condition. It was another painful loss, but so what? It was only salt on an already open wound.

Mary died with a clergyman at her bedside, but Watson stayed downstairs as word of her death spread through the neighborhood and mourners gathered in the house. He looked grieved, but those who were close to Mary at the end of her life had to wonder who he was grieving for; was he sad for her unlived life, for his empty one, or was he still, as ever, missing Sherlock Holmes?

A few ladies who had been friendly with his wife abandoned Watson as their physician after her death. The man next door was less inclined to help out his neighbor by taking on patients. Not that this mattered much to Watson—where did he need to go if Holmes was not around to summon him away to some thrilling adventure? Watson found his whole life barely filled the rooms of his home, as if he had died at some point too, unnoticed, and now spent his time in a very roomy coffin. He relocated to a smaller practice in Kensington. He kept his profile low.

Though he thought the memories of Holmes would be too painful to ever revisit, Watson could not help but relive them all. He compiled every note he had on their cases, together and apart, and he even brought himself to start setting down the narrative of the circumstances surrounding Henry Baskerville’s troubles, lingering quite a bit over his memory of the time, thinking back with a kind of bitter joy at what he thought had been their last reunion. Should he have stayed with Holmes in the first place? Should he have returned to Holmes then? Would it possibly hurt any less now if he had done either? These unanswerable questions plagued him every day.

It was not hard to idealize the dead, especially since Watson had gotten into the habit of idealizing Holmes when he was still alive, but when he looked back, he honestly could not see what should have been done differently. He remembered how difficult Holmes had been, how miserable they had made each other at times, but he still wished it had somehow been otherwise. The ache of his impotence was just as bad as his grief.

He thought about speaking to Mycroft, but didn’t. He thought about bringing flowers to Mrs. Hudson, but couldn’t. He thought about taking some time to visit Colonel Hayter again, but this interaction he was unable to avoid, because Colonel Hayter came to him.

He was not the only man to stop by and wish Watson condolences. Watson lost track of how many inspectors, how many clients, how many street arabs had stopped by after the demise of Holmes. It seemed that no matter how long dead the man was, people remembered him…because of Watson.

The Colonel did not send word ahead announcing himself, probably because he had heard the rumors about Watson becoming reclusive and unsocial. He merely knocked on Watson’s door, his face sad but smiling. Watson let him right in; an old friend, and also an old friend who knew Holmes uniquely, and who understood what Watson had lost.

“Not feeling too terribly today I hope, Watson,” the Colonel said gently.

“I’ve been worse,” Watson told him, stepping aside to allow him in. His house was a shambles of case notes and cigarette ashes. In truth, Watson left it a little messy because it made it look as if Holmes resided there.

“I have heard as much. Tongues are wagging about you, but most of them not unkindly. You’ve suffered quite a few losses, my good man. I am sorry.”

Watson nodded and cleared a spot for the Colonel to sit down. Watson poured them drinks, and quite unlike women or even civilian men, they sat in a military silence.

At last Watson said, “He was the greatest man I ever knew.” He was thankful for the way his mustache helped disguise his trembling bottom lip.

Hayter grasped Watson’s knee. “He was remarkable. I can’t even imagine… To have known him, as well as you knew him…” the Colonel tried to speak carefully, but he ran out of words for what he wanted to say. Hayter was trying to convey the sort of sympathy most people gave to Watson on behalf of Mary. He alone of Watson’s friends knew the true nature of the love he had shared with Holmes, for he had shared in it himself, hadn’t he? But he was still hesitant to speak of it.

“To mourn him…the way you do…but to have to do it in secret…” Hayter stammered off, shaking his head. Watson covered the hand on his knee with his own, very much appreciative that someone, even if it was only one man, knew just how he suffered.

Hayter and Watson gazed at each other, and Hayter began to lean forward slowly, almost imperceptibly, in case Watson should be offended by what he wanted to do. But Colonel Hayter had always been rather fond of Watson, and though it was Holmes he connected with on the occasion of their visit to his country house, it had not been Holmes he was hoping for. Holmes was amusing for a time, enthusiastic, perfect for a brief encounter, but it was Watson whom people fell in love with, present company included.

Hayter bent his head and kissed Watson on his cheek, the way someone might kiss a recently widowed aunt. But when Watson inclined towards him, Hayter kissed Watson on his lips, slowly.

Holmes was the only man he had ever kissed until that moment. A thousand things assaulted his mind: it was so unlike the kiss of a woman that it couldn’t help but recall every kiss with Holmes, but the beard brushing his face just as quickly proved it was not Holmes, and yet these lips had also kissed Holmes. Was it a betrayal? Was it an abomination? Or was it merely the closest comfort he would ever be able to find?

Watson did not make love with Hayter; he couldn’t bring himself to go any further than being petted and soothed. They used their mouths, but not their words. Any more than that would have felt unfaithful to him, and to this day, Holmes is still the only man Watson has ever had any conversation with. He remains, for Watson, the one and only Him.

Life was settling down and becoming gray for Watson. He still had dreams where he imagined Holmes alive—somehow magically, mercifully alive—but they were becoming less frequent. It was three years before his dreams would come true.

1919: Walk

I surmise pretty rapidly where my husband has disappeared to, leaving me with a tray of softening cake slices, each one falling to gelatinous pieces. I spot him and Holmes through the window, walking arm-in-arm across our field. The neighbors are far enough away from us in the country that they wouldn’t see more than two human figures, unless of course they had binoculars for bird-watching, as I do.

They’ve walked out towards the horse fence that lines the perimeter of the next property, hands stretched out to brush the tall grass. Sherlock Holmes throws his head back in laughter, and a sickening self-consciousness rolls through my body, wondering if Watson is telling tales about me. I’m sure in the next moment that I’m being silly; why would they leave just to talk about me? Probably neither one of them even thinks about me when they are alone together. I don’t know which thought makes me feel worse.

I keep the binoculars pressed to my face hard enough to leave little marks. Holmes will know what I have been up to, but to hell with him and what he knows! I have a right to see this if I want to.

Holmes snatches a weed bloom from the grass with his skeletal fingers and hands it to Watson like a suitor. It’s just a little scraggly bunch of yellow flowers that pop up every spring, spreading further and further each year. Watson smiles at the gesture and tosses it over his shoulder for luck. Watson and I do that on our walks. That makes Holmes laugh too. When did he get so damn merry? I was under the impression that laughter in him was rare.

For a moment they grow still, and Holmes touches Watson’s face, tracing the lines coming from his eyes, smile lines made by a lifetime of mostly happiness. He has a couple of stress lines between his eyes from all the horrible things Holmes has done to him over the years, but still he lets Holmes stroke his cheek and pat his chest and kiss him on the lips.

I tear the binoculars away from my eyes and fling them away from me. One of the scopes lands in a piece of cake. I turn to stare at it, trying to obliterate what I have just seen and replace it with something else. I’ve imagined them together, pictured it in my head as Watson told me his stories, but it’s very different than witnessing it myself. Having never met Holmes, it was easy to talk about him in regards to Watson; it was just like speaking of Mary, like imagining his relationship with someone long dead. But now this man is in my house, in my time, and somehow I just never thought he would be.

Staring at the slaughtered dessert, I don’t notice Maurice standing in the doorway until he clears his throat. I haven’t said much to him about all this, but he knows it anyway. No one ever keeps secrets from their servants; all you can hope is that they’re loyal to you.

“And what have you been doing?” Maurice asks with sympathy.

“Bird watching,” I say stiffly.

“What have we got today, then?” he asks, moving to look out the window himself. “Ah, a cock and a swallow.”

“Oh, shut it, Maurice!” I tell him, but I can’t help but laugh. It’s best to keep light about these things, since there is bung all I can do about them. I hand Maurice the demolished cake on its saucer so it won’t be seen and ask him to bring another in replacement. I have to fetch back our guest and finishing hosting him. It’s the only way to have him out of here.

1894: The Empty House

Watson had taken to reading about crime and horror incessantly in his bereavement, wallowing in his memories of Holmes. It filled him with sorrow every time he came across a case, like the murder of the Honorable Ronald Adair, that Holmes would have liked and which could not be solved without him. But he kept at his research with the compulsion of an addict. He couldn’t stop thinking of Holmes anyway, even if he kept his nose out of the papers. Outside of his control, he kept having dreams of Holmes. Sweet, awful dreams…

Watson even tried to solve a few cases on his own, with absolutely no success. It became a bit of a habit for him in the three years that Holmes was thought to be dead to examine scenes of crime and collect the details from the papers as though Holmes might ask him for a summary at any moment. That is why he walked past Ronald Adair’s rooms and, upon hearing someone more out of touch with crime-solving than even himself spout his theories on the street, Watson backed away in disgust and misery, wishing Holmes were around to put such a fool in his place. He backed away so quickly that he trod over an old man who cursed him roundly and took off around the corner.

Watson went to his house in an absolute fog of Sherlock Holmes, and sat in his study wistfully for only a moment before that same old man was let in to apologize for his rude outburst. How many times had Holmes pulled this trick, disguising himself and sneaking up on Watson, just to have the pleasure of that look of childish wonder on his face? If he’d done it once he’d done a dozen times, but at no time was Watson more unprepared for it than this.

Watson fainted at the sight of him. It wouldn’t have taken half the power of that shock to tip him off his feet. He’d been horribly depressed for months, off his food most of the time, deriving very little joy from life. Holmes could have kicked himself, I’m sure, for revealing himself like such a prat. Watson came around to the sensation of Holmes tugging at his collar and the taste of brandy with just a hint of Holmes’s mouth where it had pulled from the flask before him. It was a feeling of such bliss he nearly feared to open his eyes. He was sure he was only dreaming.

But as his vision cleared and Holmes remained solid flesh before him, the truth began to dawn bright and happy in his heart. Holmes smiled at him and bit his lip, looking amazingly sheepish.

“My dear Watson,” he said kindly. “I owe you a thousand apologies. I had no idea that you would be so affected.” In truth, Holmes was quietly delighted by Watson’s reaction; so Watson
had
missed him, terribly it seemed. And Watson was beside himself to find Holmes returned.