Harry: Chapter Twenty-three

What's Gone And What's Past Help

by Liederlady

Notes

Holmes turned an expression of mixed impatience and suspicion upon me as I took his hand.

“Please, may we go out to the sitting-room and talk?” I asked. Holmes disengaged his hand from mine and turned the latch. But I continued.

“There is the remote possibility I may actually say something neither insulting nor foolish.”

His hand froze as the door swung open. He glanced over at me and the grey eyes seemed to bore through me before blinking. After an interminable moment, Holmes replied.

“Don’t you think you are being excessively optimistic?”

A lopsided smirk broke out on the pale lips that made me blow out the breath I’d been holding.

“I fear you’ll find it a prime failing of mine,” I said, as Holmes gestured me through the door into the corridor.

A few moments later, we settled ourselves on the settee; Holmes with a glass of water, me with a tumbler of whiskey. I required a bracer and hoped it would ease the discomfort in my ribs.

His grey eyes watched me take a sip and I saw curiosity light them. For a moment, I was uncertain how to begin. There was so much I wished to know, but the boy inspired considerable diffidence within me. I found myself fidgeting under his scrutiny.

“What do you want to know?” he finally asked, calmly taking a sip of water. I felt even more flustered that my own curiosity had been so evident so as to prompt his question.

“I-- ah, well, why was someone trying to make you talk?”

The words came out in a rush.

Holmes sighed—a resigned sound. It was as though he believed I would not let the matter lie. Was it possible he did not know I would accede to his desire for privacy?

“If you would not mind sharing the details, of course,” I quickly offered.

His gaze darted back toward me and a small smile curved the pale lips.

“I share the trait of curiosity with you, Watson. However, I fear you outstrip me when it comes to polite behavior. A prime failing of mine as it were,” he said, with a lilt of amusement.

“Nevertheless, I shall satisfy your curiosity. When I mentioned I was threatened if I did not talk, you were understandably confused. Previously, I told you that someone wanted to ensure my silence by discrediting me with the-- punishment which was perpetrated upon me.” Holmes said.

I could not help shaking my head at his understated description of his mistreatment.

“It was punishment, Doctor,” he said. “Punishment for a violated trust.”

“You would not violate a trust,” I said confidently.

He smiled slightly and cocked his head at me.

“And what makes you say that? You do not know me.”

“I know that you are an honorable man,” I said, looking directly into the twinkling grey gaze, which dipped momentarily in acknowledgement of my statement.

“Hopefully, you will not learn any time soon that you may be in error,” Holmes said. Again, I suspected he was taunting me.

“Do you wish another?” he asked. It was only then that I realized I had drained my whiskey. “Has it soothed the pain in your side?”

“How in the worl--?”

He clucked at me. “Remember, Watson, you promised not to say foolish things,” he admonished, flashing me a dazzle smile and snatching up my tumbler. He continued talking as he went to replenish my glass.

“For the moment, we will assume your confidence in my honorable nature is correct. But I assure you I did betray a loyalty—at least loyalty that the alternate party believed that I would have little choice than to uphold,” Holmes said.

“Alternate party? Who?”

“The man responsible for the death of the Thatcher children,” Holmes said somberly as he handed me my whiskey glass. I gazed up at him in utter confusion.

“Why would such a man believe you could possibly be loyal to someone who advocated murder?”

“Because he thought I was enamored of him,” Holmes said matter-of-factly. His gaze raked over me for a reaction and I’m ashamed to say I provided one by spilling whiskey down my front.

“He is typically not a man prone to errors of judgment. One of the many gifts that earned my admiration, I must say,” Holmes said, his voice and expression seemingly nostalgic.

“Did you-- I mean, were you--” I mumbled.

My stuttering broke Holmes’ reverie and he spared me a lingering glance.

“I do not believe in love, Watson. Desire, yes. Lust, of course. But love is something that is beyond both my ken and inclinations,” Holmes said with a harsh edge that nearly sounded like a warning.

I quickly took another sip of whiskey and managed not to make a mess of it.

“But this man must have thought differently,” I said, not quite understanding why I was pressing the point.

“As I mentioned, he was not normally fallible,” Holmes muttered, sounding rather surprised himself that we were continuing this line of conversation, “but I suppose his numerous other youthful conquests clouded his logic.”

I was not certain whether I heard derision or jealousy in Holmes’s voice.

“He must possess an abundance of charm. Or perhaps he’s physically appealing?” I asked. The words spilled from me before I could stop them. Why in the world should I care what assets a murderer could possess that would attract young men, young men like Sherlock Holmes?

Holmes barked out a laugh that told me both assumptions were false.

“What then?” I pressed.

Holmes turned an interested gaze toward me.

“What indeed?” he asked. He seemed to be pondering the question himself. “Intellect. Knowledge. Cunning. The man knows how to live well. Many would be drawn to his wealth.”

“Not you,” I said.

Holmes blinked at me before acknowledging, “No. However, I found his ability to manipulate events and people to his serve own advantage quite intriguing. I learned much from him. Knowing how to leverage the weakness of another to a specific purpose can be a useful skill.”

I did not like the sound of that.

“You wouldn’t do such a thing,” I whispered.

“Wouldn’t I?” Holmes said, his voice dropping to a much lower register. “Haven’t I?”

I abruptly stood to fetch another drink then realized I was beginning to feel the effects.

“So, have you heard enough, Watson?” Holmes asked in a humorous tone.

“You still haven’t told me what this-- this murderer wanted to extract from you,” I said, snapping out the last part. I had reached the mantel and set the whiskey tumbler there a trace too hard.

“Why are you upset?” Holmes asked.

I turned away from the settee before answering, “I’m not upset.”

“As you wish,” he said disinterestedly. “I’ve made no secret that I’ve had relations with other men, but as the subject disturbs you, I shall endeavor to couch my tale in less explicit language.”

“I never imagined you’d been with the likes of--” I dared not finish that train of thought for fear where it would lead. I whirled on Holmes, suddenly acknowledging that I knew virtually nothing of him, nothing of his past, nothing of his habits beyond his inverted preferences.

If he could admire the ability to manipulate another’s weakness, perhaps I had credited him with too much virtue.

“If this paragon you admire lives so well and possesses such wealth, why would he want those innocent children murdered? For their inheritance?”

Something flitted across Holmes’s face, some emotion that I was unable to categorize before he composed his expression into neutrality.

“Pauline wanted the money and the pr-- my consort-- granted it to her as a reward for her sacrifices,” Holmes said calmly.

“Sacrifices? What sacrifices?” I realized that my voice was raised, but I could not control it. The thought of Holmes intimately engaged with such a man was obscene. The images my mind conjured made me physically ill.

“That is not important for you to know. You wanted to know why I was punished. I am attempting to explain that. But if you’re not man enough to accep--”

I stormed over to him, bent over, grasped him by the arms and shook him.

“You could not desire such a--. You could NOT be so perverse as to wish to be--”

Even as I shook him, I knew Holmes could easily throw me off. Yet he allowed me the liberty, gazing up at me with those pale grey eyes. I suddenly stopped.

“Sit down, Watson,” he said. It was a kind command.

I sat down hard on the low table behind me and stared at him.

The expression with which he regarded me was incongruous. He surely should have been either outraged or embarrassed. Instead, he appeared grateful.

“You do have a frightful temper, don’t you?”

I looked away from him. “There’s nothing amusing about any of this,” I snapped.

“I am aware of that,” Holmes said calmly. “I was warned against the gentleman in question. I failed to heed the warning. Unfortunately, others paid the price for my stupidity.”

His voice was, once more, matter-of-fact, but his eyes held a wealth of sadness.

“You weren’t responsible for--”

“I did not understand how much this man despised Professor Thatcher,” Holmes said. He leaned forward, his steepled fingers nearly touching my knees, and stared down at the toes of my brogans.

“Although I was unaware of the considerable history between them, I should have recognized the danger. I have encountered cunning men in the past, but the skill of this individual is unparalleled.”

“Danger? To the children? How could anyone have conceived what would happen to them?”

Holmes glanced up at my face and I saw his had grown far more pale than its normal color.

“I knew Pauline married Professor Thatcher for reasons other than love,” he said. “I should have told him as much.”

“How could you have known such a thing?” I asked.

“I knew,” was his only answer. “But I feared losing his regard and so I remained silent.”

“Holmes.” I did not know what else to say.

“After the children-- After Pauline’s arrest, my relations with her confederate--” At this Holmes glanced up to gauge my reaction. I endeavored to control my expression, prompting him to continue. “Progressed to the point that I became more familiar with his business dealings. They were extensive and, shall I say, eclectic. As I exhibited a skill for strategy, he entrusted me with unusual access to certain records. It was almost as though he wanted me to learn of his connection with Professor Thatcher. And with Pauline.

“Once I gleaned his complicity in the matter, I refused him further access to my person. He assured me that his attentions had been for my benefit, not his own and that further congress was unnecessary. However, he also said I had learned enough of his practices to understand the danger of opposing him.”

“He threatened you?” I asked.

Holmes smiled oddly. There was no wryness in it.

“It was no threat,” Holmes said. “Only a bully threatens. He was ruthless. I knew it and admired him for it.”

Holmes must have noted my scowl for he caught my gaze with his own.

“You may not like to acknowledge it, Watson, but ruthlessness has historically proven a vital trait among successful men. Alexander, Attila, Napoleon, others.”

“But Holm--”

He interrupted my reply, continuing on with his revelations.

“The halt in our physical affair meant I could no longer be trusted. But he had been cunning there as well. He had limited my access. I had never seen the true breadth of his organization and so could not assemble proof that would be sufficient for a court of justice. Now I know how foolish I was to think I could obtain it. But I had to try. So I enlisted the aid of a trusted underling who had unrestricted access to the records.”

“This underling, was he not loyal?”

“He was most loyal. A virtual acolyte. However, he was not immune to persuasion.” Holmes’s steepled fingers opened and entwined. “I can be most persuasive when a person is in possession of key facts.”

Holmes did not need to elaborate. I felt my innards twist into a knot as I imagined his method of persuasion.

“He yielded only enough to ruin a branch of the organization. A rather less vital branch, I might add. Regardless, my opponent could not permit such a calculated strike against his power. He knew I was responsible. No one else would dare defy him.”

“So he--”

“He had me punished,” Holmes said simply. “His equivalent of a schoolboy caning, really. The actual damage I had wrought was inconsequential. The true danger lay only in my arrogant defiance. That and not knowing the identity of his Judas.”

“That was what he wanted you to reveal,” I murmured.

Holmes nodded.

“But you did not.”

It was a declaration, not a question.

Holmes shook his head. “It would have meant the man’s life.”

I reached out to grasp Holmes’s forearm.

“He will never know the debt he owes you,” I said.

Holmes blinked as he gazed up at me and shook his head once more.

“He was one of those instructed to administer the punishment, Watson.”

“What?” I exclaimed.

“I told you my opponent was cunning. Among his enforcers, he included those men from his ranks who were most likely to have been the betrayer. That way, even if I refused to talk, the Judas would appreciate the consequences of further disloyalty.”

“Surely the man didn’t participate in your-- he wouldn’t have--”

“He followed orders, Watson. To do otherwise would have given him away,” Holmes said. He suddenly sounded quite weary. Then he abruptly stood and moved toward the window to watch the rain.

I followed and stood next to him, not knowing what to say.

“No wonder you were so wary of trusting me when you were brought to hospital,” I murmured after several moments of silence.

Holmes leaned against the window frame and inclined his gaze toward me.

“It was one of the few times I have found my instincts to be in error.”

I turned toward him and was graced by the lopsided smirk. I answered it with a smile. Holmes continued gazing at me and I suddenly realized what it cost him to share so much. And I had behaved foolishly after all, becoming enraged when I thought of him with--. I shook off the disgusting thoughts that threatened to creep back into my mind.

It was as Holmes had said earlier. There were some things it was better not to know. Not to think about. Particularly, if they were past altering.

I could not change the events of his past. But I could attempt to alter those of his future. And of the present. I could offer the honest friendship that had been taken from him when he lost Professor Thatcher and the children. I could prove to him that trust was not one-sided.

“Holmes,” I said.

He was still gazing at me.

“Mmm?”

“If you still wish to know about the lady with red hair, I shall be happy to tell you.”

His smirk reformed itself into a kindly smile.

“You already told me much about her, Watson,” he said. “By continuing to wear her memento for at least several years, by refusing to discuss her, by becoming angry at me for proposing the possibility of her being your paramour.”

I inhaled my anger sharply and Holmes chuckled.

“You see. The subject still upsets you.”

“No, it is just-- a gentleman does not discuss a lady in such terms,” I said.

“You would doubtless prefer that I behave like a gentleman,” Holmes said, chuckling again.

“Please, Holmes. I shall tell you about her, but do not tease or act the provocateur, I beg of you,” I said in an exasperated tone.

He schooled his expression into seriousness and gestured with his fingers in the shape of a cross over his heart.

“Your odd sense of humor can be quite infuriating at times. Has anyone told you that before?” I asked then turned back to the settee and plopped down upon it.

Holmes followed me and sat quite close, saying, “Most people think me entirely humorless, Watson.”

I shook my head and grunted my disagreement.

“I trust you will not become violent again.” It was clear he was refusing my request about the teasing.

“If you don’t stop, I may require another drink,” I said in exasperation.

“Shall I get it for you?” he replied and began to rise.

I reached for his arm and pulled him back down to the settee.

“Now do you wish to hear or not?” I asked.

He smiled at me. It seemed a fond expression, but that could have been wishful thinking.

“I am all attention,” he replied and settled himself next to me.

During the course of my narrative about Lizzie, Holmes stunned me with knowledge he managed to deduce about her.

He knew she was the daughter of a peer and that we had known each other most of our lives. He also knew that we had been in love. Actually, he said I had been in love with her, but that some event other than her privileged birth had come between us.

Even after he had explained how he knew all these things, I was still amazed. Most shocking was Holmes’s admission that over the past few weeks, he had investigated my academic background in an effort to track me. That had led to his discovery of the Duke’s patronage during my first year at the University of London, as well as my refusal of further financial assistance, which led to the necessity of my engagement in manual labor to earn further tuition.

“That was evidence of some breach between you and the family,” Holmes stated matter-of-factly. “If the broken locket and sample of hair were insufficient bricks for my deduction that the lady, rather than the Duke, was responsible for the estrangement, the creature’s subsequent marriage to a second cousin provided a more solid foundation.”

I was uncertain whether to be flattered or indignant over Holmes’s interest. I could not imagine engaging in a similar breach of propriety; however, I held my tongue.

What Holmes did not know, and what I did not share, was that Lizzie had not thrown me over. I would never reveal Lizzie’s shame ... Lizzie’s and my own.

Had I not gone away to London, perhaps things would have been different. We were closer than brother and sister—perilously closer. Four years my junior and convinced of my devotion, Lizzie shyly welcomed my increasingly licentious attentions. Meanwhile, I found her naïve eagerness nearly impossible to resist.

Decency, as well as her minority, warranted greater self-control. I barely managed.

Had I been stronger and less proud, I could have had Lizzie for my own. Her father doted on me, had faith in both my abilities and commitment to his beloved daughter. When he offered me scholarship assistance, I accepted it as a means to earn the right to eventually ask for Lizzie’s hand. By leaving her when I did, I hoped we both would gain maturity and restraint, which would lead to even greater—and sanctioned—ardor.

I was confident enough of my Lizzie’s virtue that she would wait for me to make my way in the world and secure a commendable future for us both.

But she was so very young. And after months of my careless silence, Lizzie grew lonely and yearned for the illicit intimacy we had shared. She faltered with a man only slightly less scrupulous than I.

Had I been more of a man, I could have spared Lizzie, might have forgiven her the crushing pain which the physical betrayal of our love caused me. But I could not forgive her desperate, and ultimately unsuccessful, effort at seduction and deception.

I am suddenly reminded of her stricken expression as the ugliness spewed from me. Only now can I recognize that Lizzie, from her first bawling breath, had been cruelly denied a mother’s counsel and love. Only now can I acknowledge my own wanton complicity in her eventual corruption. Only now can I lament her anguished apology, the sweetness I knew that filled her soul, the longing that never wavered within her shimmering green eyes.

Only now do I understand that on that terrible evening on the moor upon which Lizzie and I had run and grown and loved, I eschewed honor and forgiveness. Rather than rush to her father and beg Lizzie’s hand, I steadfastly held to my so-called lofty principles. During my tirade, I ripped the locket from my watch chain—the precious memento she had sent to London with me—and crushed it into the mud beneath my heel.

In the end Lizzie was forced, all alone, to admit her shame to her father. Shattered, the worthy Duke hastily arranged his only offspring’s marriage to the sire of his first grandchild—the profligate cousin who refused to accept his obligation until he received an overly generous dowry settlement and an undeservedly grand estate.

I yielded my scholarship. I yielded my honor. But I refused to yield my vaunted pride. And, because of that, forever lost to both Lizzie and me were any hopes for happiness.

“Watson?” Holmes said softly, his fingers cool upon my bare wrist.

“I failed her,” I groaned, gazing up at him.

Holmes’ brows knitted and his fingers loosened but did not withdraw.

“Judging from the precipitate nature of her marriage and the child born not six months afterward, it appears the failure rested solely with her,” Holmes replied, a very hard edge to his voice.

I jerked my arm from his grasp, stood and shouted at him, “You’ve no right to judge anyone! You don’t know anything about her. You’ve no right to snoop and ...”

Holmes stood as well, his eyes round.

“It was my fault,” I continued, my voice breaking. I realized Holmes might misconstrue my meaning, but I could not explain further without besmirching Lizzie’s virtue more than I and her blackguard cousin had already done.

Holmes reached out a hand to my shoulder and squeezed.

“Forgive me, Watson. You are correct. I should not have indulged my curiosity if it meant prying into a man’s private affairs,” he said quite sincerely.

I nodded agreement.

“I did warn you that you were far more polite than I,” Holmes said quietly.

I shot Holmes a sharp look and nearly corrected him. But what use was it? Instead, I walked to the window to put some space between us.

“The rain has stopped,” I said sullenly.

I sensed Holmes’s presence behind me, looking over my shoulder. I breathed deeply, wincing as the pain in my side rivaled that in my heart.

“Perhaps a walk along the beach after supper will be in order?” Holmes ventured.

I nodded acquiescence, hoping the rain-cleansed air might improve my dark outlook.

Notes:

What’s Gone and What’s Past Help: “What’s gone and what’s past help should be past grief,” from The Winter’s Tale, Act III, Scene 2. Spoken in apology by Paulina after her harsh condemnation of a suddenly contrite King Leontes, whose insane jealousy wreaked tragedy and despair upon not only his kingdom, but his own family. Both Holmes and Watson obviously suffer for past behavior that wrought tragedy or anguish upon people for whom they cared.

Chapter Twenty-four: He's Mad That Trusts In The Tameness Of A Wolf