A Decided Genius, part six
Mar. 26th, 2008 05:04 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
rabidsamfanLink to part one
"Amnesia?" And now it was to Holmes my heart went out. To have done so much and have it forgotten, and all those years of comradeship as well! I could scarce imagine such a blow.
He nodded curtly and drew the morocco case to his own side of the table, where he studied its contents blindly. "The fever, the knock on the head, the drug..." Again his expressive hands made as if to dismiss the matter. "At the time it was convenient, for it meant that I could pursue the case without distressing Watson by my absence. I had been unable to identify a suspect, but the pattern of the victims was clear enough. I located the last of the veterans living in Whitechapel and took his place -- made myself into bait for a trap. Hopkins and Lestrade helped me spring it, though it was three nights before the tiger came to the hunt."
"You caught the assassin? I saw nothing of a trial in the papers."
"Nor will you, for the man turned out to be quite mad. His name is Warburton, an Army officer whose nephew had followed him into service only to die with so many of his fellows. He blamed the survivors; sought them out looking for any hint of cowardice or vice, and then hounded the weakest of them into the river, or heart failure. He's in Bedlam now and I doubt he shall ever leave." Holmes propelled himself out of his chair again and began to walk the room. "I returned to Baker Street after several days to find that Sir Julian had convinced Watson that he must forgo the morphine again if he meant to recover his memories. 'Best to get the misery all over at once', he said, and Murray had agreed to it, for he knew he must inevitably return to his duties. But it was so soon... Too soon. The cure was very nearly worse than the disease."
"Did it work?" I asked, hoping to distract him from his increasing agitation.
"Yes," he spat, and then controlled himself sharply. "Yes," he said again, more calmly. "Yes. Thanks to Murray, yes. Although at the time..." He pressed his lips together and did not finish the thought. I could see the effort it cost him to take himself in hand once more. "A few evenings later Watson called for me, asking for his favorite air upon the violin. From then on his recovery has been slow, but steady. Although there are times when it seems that much of the past seven years are still lost to him, even now. Of the boat and the river he remembers nothing. Nothing at all."
I waited, silent, too appalled by the price that Holmes had paid for his decision to find words.
He steepled his hands again and rested his lips against them for a long moment, turning to the window and the fog once more. "As soon as it was certain that Watson would recover Murray departed, asking only for news to be sent him if there was need again. Stamford gratefully returned to his usual round, visiting only now and again to check on Watson's progress although he had come by nearly every day during the crisis. Sir Julian... Sir Julian called me aside and informed me that only a regular life could bring Watson back to his strength and prevent a relapse. That all the cravings Watson had learned to ignore had been reawakened, and would haunt him into falling if his friends did not stay on guard. That he did not believe that there was any chance that Watson would survive a third trip through hell." And now, at long last, his voice did crack. "All summer long I have refused any case which would take me out of Baker Street, taking only those few I could answer by correspondence alone. I have made every effort to keep regular hours, to amuse myself with my chemical researches and my books. The most exercise I've taken is to follow Watson once he began to venture out on his own."
"Do you not trust him?" I asked.
"With my life, yes. With morphine... no, not yet." He jerked himself away from the window and came over to tap on the phials in the Morocco case. "These both hold cocaine now. It is harmless enough, and it keeps away the melancholy. I've offered it to Watson, and got only a lecture in return. But it would ease his cravings."
"'A cat that has once sat on a hot stove won't sit upon a cold one either'." It is one of Mr. Forrester's favorite sayings, but it was new to Holmes for despite himself he almost laughed. Poor man, I think he has not been so close to tears since he was a small child, and had forgotten how strange that place between hope and fear can be. "What makes you sure that he has cravings?"
Holmes shrugged. "I saw it before, in '83. For some months after that shepherd's hut Watson would be occasionally overwhelmed with the old desire. The symptoms were obvious: a trembling in his hands, a restlessness in his legs, a running nose as if he had taken cold. I have known him to take to his bed to outwait the compulsion -- and I have known him to move like a man in a trance, seeking out drug and syringe, only to be rescued by a sudden noise or a great spasm of revulsion. He pawned his silver ring three weeks ago and then stood outside the apothecary shop for hours, unable to make up his mind to go in and make the purchase. It was only when the apothecary's assistant came out to put up the boards that Watson returned to the pawnbroker to redeem his pledge. Oh, yes, he has cravings." He turned away again and wrapped his arms around himself, holding tight against whatever compulsion it was he felt himself. "And that is why I have come to you. To make you understand why a week is much too long to wait if you truly want him. To make you understand why he will tell you no. To make you understand that it is all my fault." The last he said in a whisper, but I heard it clearly.
I got to my feet, calling upon whatever strength I could find. Holmes did not need hysterics from me. "I do not understand," I told him. "Why should he say me 'no'?"
"Is it not obvious?" Holmes said.
"Not to me." Although I had a glimmer, even as I said as much.
"He cannot keep you. He cannot keep any wife on his pension, not as he thinks one ought to be kept. He cannot afford to purchase a practice, and even if he could he cannot be a physician again and constantly in the presence of morphine, not now that I have awakened the demon once more. He has no other means of income, no investments that ill-luck have not diminished to a trickle. I thought the treasure would sweep away all obstacles for him, but the treasure is lost. And that is my fault too, for I could have tried harder to find a way to catch Jonathan Small and his companion before they ever got onto the river." Holmes took himself to the fire again, began to mend it with short, sharp movements although it did not need mending.
Suddenly I felt like laughing. Holmes' reputation for infallibility was shattered beyond repair, and I thanked God for it. "The treasure was the worst obstacle of all," I told my visitor joyfully. "John would never have said a word to me if that box had been full."
Holmes turned to stare at me, the poker in his hand. "Truly?" he asked.
I did laugh then, so complete was his surprise. "Yes, truly," I said. "If he will not accept help from you by taking half the fee on a case, how on earth could he possibly wish to take money that he has not earned from me?"
Holmes sank to the floor, still gaping. "But I arranged that he should bring you the treasure!" he confessed.
"And he brought it to me with the look of a man on his way to the gallows," I said fondly, remembering how stiff and awkward John had been until our happy discovery. I must have looked quite smug, for Holmes suddenly gave a great shout of laughter and relaxed, shaking his head at me.
"You really do love him?" he asked, as if it were a wonder to him.
"With all my heart," I said, settling to the floor beside him as I would with one of my charges in such a conversation. He could not escape to pace and fret himself and leave me there so easily.
"Even after all I've told you? You take more of a chance than most women would. Stamford once said to me that he'd never met a man who was dealt a worse hand than Watson and deserved it less." His eyes searched my face, still looking for some sign, I think, of fear or distrust in me. But he would find none.
"I think him very lucky," I said. "To have survived so many perils is remarkable indeed. And I am certain that he has been most fortunate in his friends."
continued
"Amnesia?" And now it was to Holmes my heart went out. To have done so much and have it forgotten, and all those years of comradeship as well! I could scarce imagine such a blow.
He nodded curtly and drew the morocco case to his own side of the table, where he studied its contents blindly. "The fever, the knock on the head, the drug..." Again his expressive hands made as if to dismiss the matter. "At the time it was convenient, for it meant that I could pursue the case without distressing Watson by my absence. I had been unable to identify a suspect, but the pattern of the victims was clear enough. I located the last of the veterans living in Whitechapel and took his place -- made myself into bait for a trap. Hopkins and Lestrade helped me spring it, though it was three nights before the tiger came to the hunt."
"You caught the assassin? I saw nothing of a trial in the papers."
"Nor will you, for the man turned out to be quite mad. His name is Warburton, an Army officer whose nephew had followed him into service only to die with so many of his fellows. He blamed the survivors; sought them out looking for any hint of cowardice or vice, and then hounded the weakest of them into the river, or heart failure. He's in Bedlam now and I doubt he shall ever leave." Holmes propelled himself out of his chair again and began to walk the room. "I returned to Baker Street after several days to find that Sir Julian had convinced Watson that he must forgo the morphine again if he meant to recover his memories. 'Best to get the misery all over at once', he said, and Murray had agreed to it, for he knew he must inevitably return to his duties. But it was so soon... Too soon. The cure was very nearly worse than the disease."
"Did it work?" I asked, hoping to distract him from his increasing agitation.
"Yes," he spat, and then controlled himself sharply. "Yes," he said again, more calmly. "Yes. Thanks to Murray, yes. Although at the time..." He pressed his lips together and did not finish the thought. I could see the effort it cost him to take himself in hand once more. "A few evenings later Watson called for me, asking for his favorite air upon the violin. From then on his recovery has been slow, but steady. Although there are times when it seems that much of the past seven years are still lost to him, even now. Of the boat and the river he remembers nothing. Nothing at all."
I waited, silent, too appalled by the price that Holmes had paid for his decision to find words.
He steepled his hands again and rested his lips against them for a long moment, turning to the window and the fog once more. "As soon as it was certain that Watson would recover Murray departed, asking only for news to be sent him if there was need again. Stamford gratefully returned to his usual round, visiting only now and again to check on Watson's progress although he had come by nearly every day during the crisis. Sir Julian... Sir Julian called me aside and informed me that only a regular life could bring Watson back to his strength and prevent a relapse. That all the cravings Watson had learned to ignore had been reawakened, and would haunt him into falling if his friends did not stay on guard. That he did not believe that there was any chance that Watson would survive a third trip through hell." And now, at long last, his voice did crack. "All summer long I have refused any case which would take me out of Baker Street, taking only those few I could answer by correspondence alone. I have made every effort to keep regular hours, to amuse myself with my chemical researches and my books. The most exercise I've taken is to follow Watson once he began to venture out on his own."
"Do you not trust him?" I asked.
"With my life, yes. With morphine... no, not yet." He jerked himself away from the window and came over to tap on the phials in the Morocco case. "These both hold cocaine now. It is harmless enough, and it keeps away the melancholy. I've offered it to Watson, and got only a lecture in return. But it would ease his cravings."
"'A cat that has once sat on a hot stove won't sit upon a cold one either'." It is one of Mr. Forrester's favorite sayings, but it was new to Holmes for despite himself he almost laughed. Poor man, I think he has not been so close to tears since he was a small child, and had forgotten how strange that place between hope and fear can be. "What makes you sure that he has cravings?"
Holmes shrugged. "I saw it before, in '83. For some months after that shepherd's hut Watson would be occasionally overwhelmed with the old desire. The symptoms were obvious: a trembling in his hands, a restlessness in his legs, a running nose as if he had taken cold. I have known him to take to his bed to outwait the compulsion -- and I have known him to move like a man in a trance, seeking out drug and syringe, only to be rescued by a sudden noise or a great spasm of revulsion. He pawned his silver ring three weeks ago and then stood outside the apothecary shop for hours, unable to make up his mind to go in and make the purchase. It was only when the apothecary's assistant came out to put up the boards that Watson returned to the pawnbroker to redeem his pledge. Oh, yes, he has cravings." He turned away again and wrapped his arms around himself, holding tight against whatever compulsion it was he felt himself. "And that is why I have come to you. To make you understand why a week is much too long to wait if you truly want him. To make you understand why he will tell you no. To make you understand that it is all my fault." The last he said in a whisper, but I heard it clearly.
I got to my feet, calling upon whatever strength I could find. Holmes did not need hysterics from me. "I do not understand," I told him. "Why should he say me 'no'?"
"Is it not obvious?" Holmes said.
"Not to me." Although I had a glimmer, even as I said as much.
"He cannot keep you. He cannot keep any wife on his pension, not as he thinks one ought to be kept. He cannot afford to purchase a practice, and even if he could he cannot be a physician again and constantly in the presence of morphine, not now that I have awakened the demon once more. He has no other means of income, no investments that ill-luck have not diminished to a trickle. I thought the treasure would sweep away all obstacles for him, but the treasure is lost. And that is my fault too, for I could have tried harder to find a way to catch Jonathan Small and his companion before they ever got onto the river." Holmes took himself to the fire again, began to mend it with short, sharp movements although it did not need mending.
Suddenly I felt like laughing. Holmes' reputation for infallibility was shattered beyond repair, and I thanked God for it. "The treasure was the worst obstacle of all," I told my visitor joyfully. "John would never have said a word to me if that box had been full."
Holmes turned to stare at me, the poker in his hand. "Truly?" he asked.
I did laugh then, so complete was his surprise. "Yes, truly," I said. "If he will not accept help from you by taking half the fee on a case, how on earth could he possibly wish to take money that he has not earned from me?"
Holmes sank to the floor, still gaping. "But I arranged that he should bring you the treasure!" he confessed.
"And he brought it to me with the look of a man on his way to the gallows," I said fondly, remembering how stiff and awkward John had been until our happy discovery. I must have looked quite smug, for Holmes suddenly gave a great shout of laughter and relaxed, shaking his head at me.
"You really do love him?" he asked, as if it were a wonder to him.
"With all my heart," I said, settling to the floor beside him as I would with one of my charges in such a conversation. He could not escape to pace and fret himself and leave me there so easily.
"Even after all I've told you? You take more of a chance than most women would. Stamford once said to me that he'd never met a man who was dealt a worse hand than Watson and deserved it less." His eyes searched my face, still looking for some sign, I think, of fear or distrust in me. But he would find none.
"I think him very lucky," I said. "To have survived so many perils is remarkable indeed. And I am certain that he has been most fortunate in his friends."
continued
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2008-03-26 02:36 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-03-27 01:50 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-03-27 02:22 am (UTC)You know, I have often wondered about Watson's "2nd wound". I have always been sure myself that he got that wound while on a case with Holmes, but there were his exact words that it was caused by a "jezail bullet", and that caused a problem. For how could he have been hit by such a bullet in London? But you have solved that problem quite nicely, and in a very believable way. Poor Watson, two trips through hell indeed. And obviously it has been hell for Holmes, too. I'm on to the next chapter!
(no subject)
Date: 2008-03-27 02:35 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-03-27 03:28 am (UTC)He really didn't understand women at all, did he?
(no subject)
Date: 2008-03-27 03:34 am (UTC)I think Mary Morstan must have been an astonishing woman on any number of grounds, not the least of which is her ready acceptance of Holmes dragging her husband off at odd times and hours. (And I love mfrankland's chronology, which lets her be the only woman in Watson's life.)
(no subject)
Date: 2008-05-20 06:44 am (UTC)Holmes's self-blame is also so very well done, how he thinks he's so utterly ruined Watson's chances, and Mary's comments about his infallibility, but plopping on the floor just got me. :)