The Curious Case of Dr. Watson
by Lyrical Soul

Chapter Eight

After two pipes' worth of intense contemplation, I am still no closer to solving this mystery than I was this morning. Although there is no actual evidence – other than Mrs. Langstrom's word – that Watson committed such atrocious acts, the conspiracy exists. For what purpose? Revenge? If this is the case, why exact revenge on Watson, of all people? Are there things in his past, some heinous misdeed that has now come back to haunt him? Could it be related to an old patient, or someone from his army days, bent on revenge? Perhaps a case of mine that made the criminal look worse when presented in The Strand? Certainly, there are those of the criminal mind who would take revenge, but the men of that ilk are more likely to murder than simply ruin a reputation.

With a sigh of frustration, I toss my pipe aside, go over to my bookshelf and take down my index. I peruse through the pages, but Mr. Phelps-Binghampton isn't listed, but his uncle, Lord Langstrom died under sealed circumstances three years ago. I ponder what the 'sealed circumstances' might be, but it could run the gamut from accidental death to suicide. That it is sealed means he had a high-ranking individual in court records to keep his reputation intact. I place a marker on his entry for further investigation, and continue on. There is no major entry for Penelope Langstrom, other than a brief mention in the gossip columns when Watson began calling on her, and Adelaide Beauchamp is listed as being the only daughter of Sir Charles Beauchamp, who was lost at sea five years ago. Suggestive, perhaps, but I do not believe she is guilty of anything other than her poor judgment in choosing a fiancé.
 

I snap the index closed, toss it aside, and begin a slow pacing in front of the fire. There is some small detail, a bit of information that is missing, that prevents me from coming to a satisfactory conclusion to this matter. Too many questions remain unanswered, which I am certain is the cause of my feeling of unrest, and inability to see this matter to a satisfactory end. There is little doubt that this scheme was hatched by Mr. Phelps, but I do not know why Miss Beauchamp and Mrs. Langstrom have thrown their lot in with his. That they believe such a flimsy plan could work makes me despair that I'll ever find another as worthy as Professor Moriarty. Indeed, the criminal mind has most assuredly taken a downturn.

At this point, there are two things that I am sure of: Watson is innocent, and Lestrade is the biggest fool that ever walked the earth. Why such a man as highly-trained as Lestrade (for his profession, that is) is so unfailingly bull-headed in his acceptance of my methods escapes me. As many evenings as he has spent here with Watson and I, discussing topics that range from the trivial to the sublime, how is it possible he could think Watson capable of heinous acts? I understand his first duty is to Scotland Yard, but I take it as a personal affront that he should be so ready to accept half-truths without a thorough investigation. Perhaps a refusal to assist him when he is most baffled will make him more open-minded to my methods, and at the same time, avenge Watson's honour.   

And speaking of Watson... It occurs to me that I have not seen him since he closed himself in his room earlier. While not entirely out of character, it is unusual for him not to come down for food or drink. Watson is a creature of habit, and I have not known anything to keep from having a meal at the appointed time.    

"Mrs. Hudson!"

"I'm here," she huffs, bustling in the door, dinner tray in hand. "There's no need to shout so, Mr. Holmes."

I move over to the window and stare down at the men and women bustling about in the approaching dusk. Quite disturbing that I have not kept track of the time. "I do apologize, Mrs. Hudson."

"Now then, will you be eating dinner, or send me away as the good doctor has done?"

I whirl to face her. "Watson has refused to eat? That is highly unusual. What did he say?"

"He said, 'I do not wish to eat anything, Mrs. Hudson'. Of course, this was after I had given him the telegrams. Or rather, shoved them under his door, as he insisted."

"Telegrams? Do you know from whom they were sent?"

"I am not in the habit of reading things that do not belong to me," she sniffs. "After all these years, Mr. Holmes-"

"My good lady, I meant no such thing." I favour her with a brief view of my most charming smile, and relieve her of the burden of the tray. "It is merely an attempt to find out the cause of his distress."

"I can imagine he is in a great deal of distress, if the strange tale I heard at the butcher's this morning has reached his ears," she says with a rueful shake of her head. "That Mrs. Claypool should have her mouth washed with soap for spreading such things."

"Ah, Mrs. Hudson… you honour Watson with your staunch faith in him."

She blushes and waves a dismissive hand at me. "I'm not one for gossip, and I know perfectly well that Dr. Watson is not a blackguard. And I also know that you would not consider him your friend if he were."

"Surely you understand how a man such as Watson – a gentleman through and through – would be hurt by these lies?"

"Of course." She folds her arms across her chest and looks at me unflinchingly. "I know you will take care of clearing Dr. Watson's good name in due time, but what are you going to do about the state he's in at present?"

Caught off guard by the bluntness of her question, I frown slightly. "Well…" I tip my head toward the tray in my hands. "Perhaps I shall set about convincing him to eat this sumptuous meal you have gone to great lengths to prepare."

"Then I won't worry about the meal going to waste, Mr. Holmes, since you have such a way with him." She smiles and pats my arm. "You know, I never thought the two of you would get on so well when you first took up rooms here. Given your… high-spiritedness, and his frayed nerves, I gave you two a month before he ran off in horror. Shows what I know. He seems to be the only one able to penetrate the cloak of reserve in which you've wrapped yourself. Oh, listen to me, talking out of turn. I do hope he eats something." And on that strange note, she whisks out of the room.

I ponder her statement as I walk the steps to his room. While it is true that I feel an abnormal fondness for Watson, is it really so evident to others? It seems odd to consider, but until today, I would never have considered the possibility that I would feel so protective toward Watson, and would fight to the death to defend his honour. Though, surely it is he who has a way with me, as he is the only one who has been able to withstand my moods, my periods of melancholy, and will follow where I lead without many questions. His unwavering faith and patience should make him a candidate for sainthood. But that Mrs. Hudson should think I have a way with him? I do not see myself in such a capacity, though I can be rather imperious, thus making it impossible for him to go against me. Surely that is what she meant. Our good landlady is an astute woman, but perhaps she is seeing things through a more romanticised view than actual fact.  

At his bedroom door, I call out softly, "Watson?", and give a light tap on the door. I hear a faint squeak of his bedsprings, but he doesn't respond. I turn the knob, only to find the door locked. I tap again. "Watson?"

"What is it, Holmes?"

"Open the door."

"I am rather indisposed at the moment." His voice is a low, painful whisper that sounds as though he's coming down with a cold of some sort.

Or perhaps he's been weeping? No, it cannot be. I press my ear closer to the door. I hear a faint sniffling. Dear me. "Watson, please open the door."

"Can you come back later?"

"I'm afraid not. It's rather urgent that I speak with you."

"Holmes...."

"Shall I fetch my lock picks, then?"

There are a few seconds of him swearing under his breath, then the thud of his stocking feet on the floor. Seconds later, the lock turns, and I hear him walk away from the door, and again, the creak of the bedsprings.

I turn the knob and ease the door open. The room is dim and cold, and Watson is sitting in the middle of his bed, amidst a mound of crumpled telegrams. "Watson?" I come inside and close the door behind me, locking it. "Watson?"

He does not look in my direction. "Yes?"

"Mrs. Hudson says you refused dinner. She is beside herself with worry that you will waste away."

"Convey my sincerest apologies. Holmes... I do not wish to..." He clears his throat, covering the tide of emotion that I detect in his voice. "I cannot speak with you now. Please, dear friend, I beg you to understand."

I set the tray on the small bedside table, and edge closer to the bed. "I do understand your reticence, Watson, and under normal circumstances, I would not press you so. But your voice... it sounds as though you've been weeping." He does not respond, so I press further. "Your sadness... it disturbs me greatly."

Finally, he turns to face me. His eyes are dull and red-rimmed, and there are tracks of dried tears along his face. "My apologies."

My breath catches at the utter despair I see in his eyes. I have never, in all the years I've known him, seen him in such a state. "Oh, dear fellow..." I am surprised at the emotion in my own voice. Perhaps Mrs. Hudson was right after all. "What has happened?"

"Surely your great powers of deduction haven't failed you, Holmes! 'Witness the tracks of moisture on his cheeks, Watson, and hear the hoarseness in his throat, as it is a sure sign that he has been weeping'," he says in an uncanny imitation of myself. "Don't trouble yourself. There is nothing you can do."

"Nothing?" I reach forward and take up one of the crumpled sheets of paper. Flattening it out, I scan it quickly. "Your editor is ending your contract?" I grab another one. "The Strand will run Mrs. Beeton's Book of… has the world gone mad?"

"I'm sure the public will be better off without my fanciful scribblings to distract them from logic and deduction." His tone sounds rather bitter. "Perhaps you should contact Jones and tell him to publish your monogram on the science of butter melting."

He sounds as though he's on the verge of hysteria again. "Oh, Watson, you know I don't mean those things that I say about your writings," I return, in what I hope is a soothing tone.

"Of course you do." He flicks a hand at another of the crumpled telegrams. "And my medical license is at stake." Another paper gets tossed to the floor. "Also, there is a growing list of my patients who have no desire to be treated by a deviant and blackguard." His fists clench, and his eyes fill with moisture. He blinks rapidly, and takes a deep breath. "I am... I apologize for subjecting you to my unmanly display of emotion. Please go, Holmes."

"Watson, I do not think you unmanly for expressing your pain." I look at him, and realize I have never felt helpless until this moment. "I only wish to be of assistance."

"You cannot help me in this."

"Why do you not think so?"

"My... emotionalism, for lack of a better word, is well outside the scope of your expertise. There is nothing logical about it. I appreciate that you are trying, Holmes, but you are well out of your depth in this."

"I will not deny that I am out of my depth, but for your sake, I can surely try."

"The motto of the firm." He gives a dry chuckle. "I will be fine."

"I beg to differ. You are hurting, Watson. This causes me great distress, and wrecks havoc with my concentration. I must remedy this problem immediately."

"Then leave me be, and do your best to solve this case. That is the best remedy for what ails me. Anything else, I can take care of on my own."

"It is my duty as your friend to aid you in this also."

He shakes his head. "As my friend, the best aid would be for you to leave me in peace."

"No." I sit gingerly on the edge of his bed, and rest a hand on his foot. The flesh under my hand is cool to the touch. "You are cold. Where are your slippers?"

"Holmes…" He jerks his foot back, and shifts away from me. "Don't."

"This will not do, Watson. Not at all." I regret not bringing my pipe with me, for this clearly calls for tobacco. "You are evidently not in peace, so I will stay and assist you. Perhaps we can come up with a solution to this situation."

"Deduction and analysis will be useless here, Holmes," he sighs. "You cannot simply apply your methods to stop me from feeling pain and being disillusioned."

"Well, that is most certainly bad, but it is not so complicated as you make it out to be. You require comfort, and I shall provide you with said comfort. It is that simple, Watson." I frown as a thought occurs to me. "Or is your reticence due to the fact that you do not wish it to be me providing the comfort? Though the notion perplexes me, I understand, and will summon Mrs. Hudson-"

"Heaven forbid! As if I would allow her to see me in such a condition."

"Then I will stay and comfort you." Having said that, I move further onto the bed and await his command.

"I am grateful that you would deign to do so, Holmes, but I fear it is a bad idea."

"I am not deigning, Watson," I sigh. "One would think I was raised by jackals, the way you make me out to be. My mother bestowed affection on me at regular intervals, I assure you."

"Forgive me," he whispers, then clears his throat. "I know you're trying, but, really, Holmes. I am not comfortable with all this."

"You think I will consider you a lesser man because you cry? That is by far the silliest thing I've ever heard you say, Watson."

"I said no such thing, you did." He looks at me, and shakes his head. "But, no. It hasn't to do with that. It is...  just that you should not. For both our sakes."

I jerk my head up and look at him. His eyes avoid mine, and there is the hint of a blush on his cheeks. Highly suggestive, but of what? "Indeed? And why is that?"

To my surprise, he lets out a sob, and buries his head in his hands. 

It seems he is right; I have no idea how to deal with him in this emotional state.

 
Chapter Nine