Providence

Chapter Two

by inkbaubles

Notes

“No interference upon our part could have saved the man from his fate, but, as the woman poured bullet after bullet into Milverton's shrinking body I was about to spring out, when I felt Holmes's cold, strong grasp upon my wrist. I understood the whole argument of that firm, restraining grip - that it was no affair of ours, that justice had overtaken a villain, that we had our own duties and our own objects, which were not to be lost sight of.”

At least, that’s what I had written when I recounted the tale of the Charles Augustus Milverton affair. In reality, in fact, I had been overcome with terror when the woman began to fire upon Milverton, regardless of the fact that I thought him a heartless blackguard. The reason I was about to spring out was because I had thought – for whatever reason – to run from the room which we had been trapped in, as I could not convince myself to sit and watch this murder quietly any longer, however arguably justifiable it was. Watching the blood pour from Milverton’s wounds reminded me too much of the bullets slicing through my fellow soldiers in Maiwand, and my often futile attempts to stem the flow of blood as they lay dying much as Milverton had been in this moment. If it hadn’t been for Holmes’ seemingly witch-like ability to read my mind at that very moment, I fear I would have done just that; I would have sprung from our hiding place and possible terrified the woman into shooting me. Or worse yet, into shooting Holmes. It shames me now to look back on that moment, thinking on how my cowardice could have endangered the both of us. What would I have done after I attempted to escape? If the woman had fired upon us, what could have possibly been my defense? And worse yet, what could have been Holmes’ defense? That last thought truly penetrated to me to the core. If Holmes had not grasped my wrist in that moment, if he had not stopped me from acting on my irrational impulse, it is possible that one or the other of us could be dead.

I kept trying to force myself to address the graveness of this possibility, in the hopes that I could curb my mind’s urges to flee from danger in the future, but I find that my mind refuses to bend to my will. Instead of allowing me to force my thinking in the direction of improving my reactions, it remains locked upon the remembrances of Holmes’ eyes as he gleaned my intentions in that moment; it remains touched by his move to protect me from the certain danger that permeated the room; but, most of all, it remains fixed on my memory of his cool, delicate fingers upon my wrist.

These were the things running through my mind after we had breakfasted and taken to smoking our morning pipe on the day after the remarkable experience which I have recorded; it was during my reverie when Mr. Lestrade, of Scotland Yard, very solemn and impressive, was ushered into our modest sitting-room. Lestrade regaled us with his own over-embellished tale of Charles Augustus Milverton’s grisly murder, as well as his description of the suspected perpetrators of the crime.

I was admittedly quite nervous for a few moments, but luckily Holmes caught my eye and was able to assuage my concerns by steering Lestrade’s line of thinking away from catching the criminals.

Instead, he diverted Lestrade’s attentions to the more amenable line of thinking that Milverton almost deserved what had happened to him; after all, hadn’t Scotland Yard been trying to stop this man for quite some time?

Lestrade departed after Holmes expressed his disinterest in the case, leaving us to ourselves once again in the sitting room.

Holmes had not said one word to me about the tragedy which we had witnessed, but I observed all the morning that he was in his most thoughtful mood, and he gave me the impression, from his vacant eyes and his abstracted manner, of a man who is striving to recall something to his memory.

I watched this display of seeming puzzlement for quite some time, as we spent the whole day going about our own business amidst our shared rooms. It was past nightfall when my own workings could no longer serve to occupy me, and my attempts to banish my curiosity toward Holmes could hold off wondering no more.

“Holmes, whatever is the matter? You seem to be deeply vexed by something.”

“Hmm?” he responded, “Oh, yes Watson,” he made a lithe gesture with his hand, “but it is no matter of great importance.”

“My good man,” I intoned, “surely it has to be something of consequence if it is enough to make you appear so distracted.” I gave him what I hoped was one of my coaxing smiles, in an effort to draw some sort of response out of him, as he was making me ever more increasingly curious.

His quick-silver flash of a smile was the only response I received; a response that I knew was to be taken as his way of dismissing the conversation altogether. And while I longed to question him further, I soon decided to retire to my rooms for the night - perhaps he would be more amenable to this conversation in the morning.

With that thought in my mind, I made my way up the stairs to my bedroom, thinking on the possible reasons for Holmes’ increasingly detached nature since the culmination of the Charles Augustus Milverton affair. While speculating on his dark mood, I grew more and more concerned with the notion that I had possibly offended him into this state of mind; however, I could not recall anything I had done, either advertent or inadvertent, that could have caused any harm.

I sighed to myself as I made my way into my room and dressed for sleep; Holmes had always confounded me when it came to the understanding of his moods – he was not a man taken to the typical emotions of the heart. I could not recall how many nights I lay awake when he was in one of his foul states, trying to figure out a way to rouse him back to his typical sarcastic joviality, for I had always adored Holmes’ mannerisms and joking jibes when he was at his best. His quick wit and unique sense of humor grabbed my attention from the moment I met the man. Which made me feel all the worse when he was in a black mood, as it drove my base desire to see him happy often toward longing to do things for him (or, heaven help me, to him) that I’d hoped would bring him some measure of happiness.  By Jove, I knew verily well that most of the acts I dreamed of committing with him would make me more than beyond happy. Alas, as I had once written, Holmes was more often than not a cold, calculating machine; a “brain without a heart.” And, as much as I dearly hoped, I doubted to the strongest degree that he would ever reciprocate my desires.

Having expended as much effort as I was willing to devote to these thought processes, I found myself once again, in bed alone; fantasizing about Holmes in ways that would land me in the gaol if anyone were to ever glean my darkest desires. I rolled over in an attempt to find some sort of respite from the familiar loneliness that crept over me when I entertained these thoughts, and closed my eyes to the darkness – willing myself to fall asleep and wake up to find Holmes in a more inviting mood. Thankfully, I quickly drifted off, thoughts of Holmes’ hand on my wrist in Milverton’s study slowly passing through my mind as I dropped out of consciousness and into Morpheus’ sweet embrace.

I awoke sometime later to a strange sound downstairs in the sitting room; I could only describe it as a soft thump. I sat up in my bed in curiosity and listened for a moment longer - trying to discern any sounds of movement that might penetrate empty silence of 221B Baker Street in the last hours of the night. I heard not one noise to suggest anything amiss; however I was exceedingly curious of the origin of this sound that had been loud enough to bring me to full wakefulness. I swung my feet out of my warm bed and made my way downstairs to the sitting room; to this day, I am glad beyond expression that the soft thump I heard had been enough to rouse me, for my entrance into the sitting room granted me witness to the most chilling scene: Holmes’ slumped form upon the carpet, his arms outstretched beneath his favorite chair, as he lay curled upon his side in a state of complete unconsciousness.

To be continued...