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Part Five: Jonathan Daniels
At some point—just as
the maid was ushering me up to 221B, actually—it occurred to me that things
might be a bit awkward between myself and John Watson. I even began to worry
that I'd made too much of Holmes' illness. Perhaps he would recover on his own.
But Kitty had been just as concerned as I was, I reminded myself. And she knew a
thing or two about cocaine.
Watson's face paled as soon as he saw me. He
must have guessed that I wasn't paying a social call. He waited just long enough
for the maid to shut the door behind her before taking a step toward
me.
"What's happened?” he demanded.
"It's Holmes. He's...he's
unwell. He injected himself with cocaine—"
But Watson was already
collecting his coat, hat and bag.
"I have a cab waiting for us," I
continued.
He spared me a brusque nod and headed for the door. I followed
him outside, back towards the hansom. Then I took my seat next to him without
saying a word.
~
The ride back to my rooms was even worse than I
anticipated. For the first few minutes, Watson stared straight ahead, refusing
to spare me even a glance. I might as well have squeezed in with the driver up
in the back—he'd have been happier with my company.
But at length the
good doctor forced himself to speak. “Is Holmes in the habit of taking cocaine
in your quarters?" he asked.
My eyebrows shot up at that accusation. Did
he think I was operating an opium den? "No! I didn't know he took the stuff
until today. I don't bother with drugs or chemicals of any sort if I can help
it."
Watson finally turned his head toward me. He stared at me for a long
moment, apparently evaluating the truth of my statement. "I see," he said at
last. "I should have realized that, of course. Holmes says you scarcely even
take tobacco."
I sighed and looked away. "Is this a regular habit of
his?"
He shook his head, relaxing a bit as he managed to ignore the
jostling of the hansom. "No. Holmes—Holmes can go for months without resorting
to the needle. However, he grows bored when there's no challenging case at
hand."
I gave him a sharp look. "You think he's bored of me?"
I
shouldn't have said that—I knew that as soon as the words left my mouth. Watson
was doing his utmost to ignore my affair with Holmes, but I had gone and thrown
it in his face. Not well done of me, was it?
But I couldn't help myself.
I was still fascinated by Holmes and I expected to remain so. Everything about
the man captivated me. His passion for justice, his keen and cutting
observations, his talent and skill in his profession, the way he could converse
at length on obscure topics—even if he didn't know a damn thing about more
conventional ones.
And then there were those piercing grey eyes of
his...
No, I would never grow tired of Holmes. But I had to face the
possibility that I was only a temporary amusement; something to pass the time
between cases. Perhaps that's not what Holmes intended—perhaps he'd thought that
I could keep him intrigued indefinitely. I was from such a radically different
world than his own, after all...and such oddities fascinated him.
And
yet, after a mere five weeks, he was bored enough to turn to cocaine.
I
sank back into my seat and sighed again. Watson hadn't bothered to answer me, I
noticed. At a guess, he was politely pretending that he hadn't heard—because, of
course, he couldn't possibly converse on such a subject. It wasn't in
him.
I shook myself. This wasn't the time for self-pity—there were more
important things to worry about. I could figure out where I stood with Holmes
later.
“No mere human can keep Holmes' interest,” Watson said suddenly.
He spoke so quietly that I almost missed the words, even though we were sitting
side by side.
I turned my head toward him with a questioning
look.
“You mustn't take it personally,” the doctor continued, keeping his
voice low and looking acutely uncomfortable. “And you mustn't think that he
doesn't hold you in regard."
He paused and took a deep breath. "I don't believe that Holmes is trifling
with you, Daniels—but only a challenging case can save him from the ennui that
drives him to the needle. There was nothing you could have done to prevent this.
Nor should you take it as a sign that Holmes has grown weary of
you.”
Somehow I managed a nod, surprised but grateful for this unexpected
reassurance. Watson must know Holmes better than anyone. I could trust his
words.
I would just have to hope that his insights regarding Holmes
sprang purely from brotherly affection.
Part
Six
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