The Case of the Distracted Detective
by M

             It had been a week since the case involving the ancient bronze plate and since Holmes had first met the loathsome Professor Moriarty face-to-face.  It sickened me still to think of not being there, even though my presence was not wanted.  I confess that I am still resentful of Holmes’ deception, but I recognize (reluctantly) that his desire to protect me from such a violent circumstance speaks of his high emotions toward me.  But this tale is not about my own contradictory emotions.  It is a tale of the unfailingly accurate Sherlock Holmes, who once stated to me that the softer passions only succeed in muddling the reasoning mind.  And indeed they appear to do so.

~

            Returning late one evening from dinner, Holmes had lightly taken my elbow as we walked, and we talked of nothing in particular.  I could feel, however, in the slight tremble of my companion’s hand that he was in a state of nervous anxiety.  I noticed this only just before he pulled me through our front door, swung it closed, and gently pinned me against it.  I was so startled by his sudden burst of energy that I simply looked at him, mouth agape.  I could feel his body press lightly against mine and his hands holding my wrists loosely.  His breath was steady but more rapid than usual and his eyes bore such a look of passionate intent that I hardly recognized my overly-logical friend. 

            “Do not speak,” were the only words he said to me (I, of course, complied) as he released my wrists and wildly let his cane drop, then similarly shifted mine from my hand.  He then wildly threw off his top hat and then mine.  It all landed with a clatter against the wooden floor; he seemingly cared not if he woke our good landlady, Mrs. Hudson.  I smiled at his folly (a rare moment of injudiciousness).  He came to himself slightly, realizing that his zeal was beyond imprudence.  He pulled me quickly up the seventeen stairs to the sitting room and shut and locked the door.  I stood, watching him, utterly astounded by his unexpected behavior.

            The safer surroundings prompted him to act ever more fervently.  He ripped off my over over-coat, followed with even less care for his own.  They fell to the floor noiselessly.  His hands flew to my face and he held my cheeks as he kissed me passionately.  I felt my knees nearly give way as I returned his kiss in kind (fighting to be mindful of his nose, which had not yet fully healed).  His hands slid slowly down my neck and came to rest upon my shoulders.  I cannot honestly remember where my hands were placed until I reached around his back and suddenly pulled him close to me.  He broke off our kiss, startled by my curt display of affection.  I loosed my grip upon his back, reached up and slid his morning-jacket down over his shoulders; it too fell noiselessly to the floor.  My intent eyes never left his as I carefully and slowly undid his tie, collar, and first two shirt buttons.  I leaned in and kissed him slowly and tenderly on the side of his neck.  When I looked at him again, his eyelids were half-closed in pleasure, then he quickly kissed me upon the lips once more. 

            After several blissful moments, Holmes stepped back sharply, and spoke, “Watson, did you hear that?” 

            “I have been unable…” I said in a dreamy voice not fully understanding the implication of the question.  And then I heard someone’s soft tread upon the stair, a knock at the door.

            “Mr. Holmes?” Mrs. Hudson’s voice came quietly through the door.  “Dr. Watson?”  Quick as lightning, I threw our over-coats and Holmes’ jacket, tie, and collar wildly behind the settee in an effort to conceal the evidence of our recent behavior.  Holmes unlocked the door with such careful skill that it made not a sound.  He then opened it.

            “Mrs. Hudson,” he said as if he had just gotten up from reading some treatise on alkaloid chemicals.  “You’re up quite late, is anything the matter?” he asked in a concerned tone.

            “I heard some noise in the corridor, sir,” she said.  “I wanted to make sure all was well.  What with the criminal element now daring to enter the house, I have been keeping my ears and eyes open.”

            “My apologies,” Holmes said, “we were late in returning from our dinner, and I fear that I carelessly dropped our canes upon the floor.  That was undoubtedly the noise you heard.”

            “That would explain the disheveled state of the foyer, sir,” she said with her usual remonstrative tone.  I smiled.

            “Again, my most humble apologies,” he replied, exuding his most charming imitation of humility and diffidence.  Then he changed the subject, as was his usual tack in these frequent situations with Mrs. Hudson.  “Watson and I shall rise early tomorrow morning, might breakfast be ready by seven?  Good, good.  Good night, Mrs. Hudson.”  He nudged her out of the door hastily.

            Holmes turned slowly to face me, his features an interesting mix of shock, relief, and impishness.  “That,” he said, “was extraordinary ill-timing on the part of our good landlady.”

            I smiled and replied, “Never a truer word has been spoken.” 

~

            “So, Mr. Holmes,” Lestrade said over tea the following afternoon.  “The doll is worth a considerable fortune, not to mention its immense sentimental importance to the young lady.”  Lestrade smiled as he said ‘young lady’, for the girl in question was but seven years old. 

            Holmes let his hands, which were held at a peak in front of his face during Lestrade’s narrative, fall to the arms of his chair and his eyes opened to look at our guest incredulously. 

            “I know, I know,” Lestrade said, wearing a smile himself.  “But the family is adamant, I say adamant, about uncovering the whereabouts of this doll.”

            After quite a length of time in thought, Holmes finally spoke, his face a mask, “Very well, Lestrade, I shall take up this case of yours.  While the subject seems a trifle, shall we say, silly, there are several points of interest.” 

            “Excellent,” Lestrade said, rising to follow Holmes.  “Shall I come by early tomorrow morning to take you to the house?”

            “At nine, I should think,” he replied and ushered our guest to the door.  Turning to me he asked, “What do you make of it, Watson?”

            I smiled. “It does seem a most interesting case,” I said.  “And the doll is a most valuable item, despite its being a child’s play-toy.”

            “The presence of the new stable-hand is intriguing,” he said half-heartedly, no doubt already assessing the facts of this new case.

~

            “I should like to interview the staff now,” Holmes said to Lestrade as he finished surveying the child’s room.  “I’ll start with the new stable-hand, McMurphy.”

            Lestrade led us out to the stables, where Holmes and I sat on one side of a bench-table.  Soon the young man, no more than 17 years of age was escorted in by a constable.  He sat down opposite us.  Holmes looked at him, keen assessment written plainly across his face.  “Mr. McMurphy,” my friend said, “tell me, have you been back in England long?”

            “No, sir,” McMurphy replied. “I only arrived off the boat from South America a week or two back, sir.”

            “The mining life failed to satisfy you, did it?”

            “Aye, sir, must be the silver’s all dried up—or leastways my luck at findin’ it,”  McMurphy said with a sad chuckle. 

            After a few short minutes, Holmes concluded the interview and we commenced with several younger stable-boys.  Following this, we interviewed most of the house staff, including the governess, whom I noted held Holmes’ attention in the same way McMurphy had.  I guessed that these two may play some prominent and conspiratorial role in the abduction of the doll. 

            Just before luncheon, we bade good-day to Lestrade and returned to Baker Street.

            “Most unusual, Watson,” he said to me as we sat down to our cold sandwiches.  “Most unusual.”

            “You suspect that the governess and the stable lad might have something to do with this affair?” I asked, hoping to impress him with my observations.

            He looked at me and smiled, easily reading my boyish desire to have him think me successful in applying his methods.  “Quite correct, my good Watson,” he said, still smiling his charming smile.  “But the stable lad gave nothing away; either he is a very shrewd fellow or completely ignorant to the events inside the house.” 

            We sat in silence for the rest of our luncheon, but we shared several meaningful looks.  My mind wandered of its own accord to Holmes’ behavior of several evenings ago.  I looked at him across the table and confess that I am wholly under the power of this man when he looks upon me with passion.  His kisses, both gentle and ardent, produce in me such a degree of longing that I am barely able to keep my desire in control.  Thinking of physical intimacy with him induced an embarrassing consequence upon me; I shifted uncomfortably in my chair.  I looked down at my plate, knowing that if I was to regain myself I must not look over at him.  I fear that he had noticed my discomfiture, as he notices everything. 

            “Watson,” he said.  “I was just thinking, perhaps we might take a stroll this afternoon?  I worry that if you and I are to spend the day together, we must be in a public setting.”

            Still somewhat preoccupied with my personal musings and, thus, unsure of what he was on about, I asked, “Why is that, Holmes?”

            “Should any possibility of intimacy between us continue, I will not be able to devote any thought to this case,” he answered casually.  “My mind simply will not allow me to focus.” 

            “I too am affected,” I said with a tiny smile that I prayed did not give away my current physical state.  He raised one eyebrow subtly.

            “Indeed,” was all he said before he stood up and came over to where I was seated.  Placing one hand on the table and one hand on the back of my chair, he leaned over and kissed me.  Curse him for his keen powers of observation (and total lack of self-control, I might add). 

            Dash it, I thought and pulled him to his knees beside my chair, kissing him passionately. 

~

            For several days, Holmes worked on the case.  He would come and go as usual, but (with a furtive smile) he insisted that I not accompany him.  He gave no indication that this case possessed an overly-dangerous element, so I simply smiled and spent more time at my gentlemen’s club. 

            When not with him, I thought of Holmes regularly (perhaps constantly).  Like most healthy Englishman, my desire for physical intimacy was quite strong.  However, unlike most, my affection was for another man—and the great Sherlock Holmes, no less.  At first, I had not been sure whether I would truly be able to engage in the intimacies common between two men.  I was not scared of harm, mind you, for as a medical doctor I was well versed in how the body reacts.  I was simply unsure of what such experiences would be like with Sherlock Holmes; he is a unique man, and I have no doubt that intimacy with him would be similarly unique.  I smiled (somewhat wickedly) at the thought of it. 

            What would it feel like, having Holmes in my bed?  How would his bare skin feel beneath my fingertips?  Would he react to the sensation with goose-flesh or with a subtle tremble?  I secretly hoped for a subtle tremble.  Would he allow me to kiss him on the nape of his neck, as I slowly ran my fingers down the length of his back?  Would he wish to do the same to me? 

            “John,” a friend and fellow member of my club said heartily, breaking into my most-private thoughts.  “What are thinking about, old boy?  You have a most peculiar smile about your face.”  He spoke jovially and sat down beside me.  I relit my pipe, buying time to regain my public composure.

            “Peterson, how are you?” I said, “Oh, I was just thinking about my week-end plans.” 

            He grinned, more slyly than I should have been comfortable with, and said, “Judging by that smile, I’d guess you’ve some romantic engagement in the works.”  His good-natured joking was quite accurate. 

            “Perhaps,” I said, joking along with him.  “But as a gentleman, I must refrain from further expositions.”  He smiled in a conspiratorial way as I spoke.

            “Of course, of course,” he said.  We then chatted at some length about current social affairs, continental politics, and recent advances in the medical profession (like most men of the club, he was a fellow medical man).  His conversation was a most-welcome retreat from my mind’s incessant preoccupation with Holmes. 

            When I returned to Baker Street that evening, I found Holmes sitting in his chair obviously brooding (doubtless he would contend that it was simply a state of intense mental concentration).  I trod lightly over to him and surprised him out of his thoughts by leaning over and planting a small kiss upon his cheek.  “Good evening, my dear Holmes,” I said pleasantly.  “Have you eaten?”  I asked as I sat down and took up a discarded section of the evening edition of The Times. 

            “No,” he replied in a rather depressed tone.  I decided not to respond to his obvious black mood.  After a time, he spoke of his own accord.  “The case is over, Watson.”

            “What?!” I said in surprise as I ripped the paper from in front of my face and clapped eyes on him.  “Over?!” I asked incredulously.

            “Yes, Watson,” he replied curtly, still starring at the fire, blue smoke rising in thick clouds from his pipe.  “Over.”

            “Well, congratulations.  You’ve found the doll then?” I said, pleased at his concluding the case.  “Was the governess involved?” I asked eagerly.  He sat in silence for some few moments.

            “I have failed,” was all he said before laying aside his pipe forcefully and walking to his bed-chamber.  He closed the door rather more vigorously than was his usual method.  I looked after him in astonishment, utterly confused by the meaning of this interaction.  I sat in thought for a while, decided that no answers would be forthcoming this evening, and, thus, retired in a state of perplexity.

~

            Late the next morning Holmes had still not left his bed-chamber.  I was becoming increasingly more worried about him as the luncheon hour approached.  I decided that if he did not stir after tea-time, I would attempt to call upon him.  His words of last night—that the case had been solved, but that he had failed—still held no meaning for me.  I thrust the problem out of my mind as I tucked into my lunch.  I was just finishing a piece of candied fruit when Holmes burst from his bed-chamber.  He still wore his night-shift, which was hopelessly rumpled, and his hair was sticking up at all angles.  He was sporting a bit of stubble from more than a day of not shaving and his feet were bare.  I looked upon my fastidious friend with much surprise. 

            “Watson,” he spoke fiercely as he wildly pulled up a chair opposite me.  “I have been mulling the problem over in my mind, to no avail.  What is occurring is simply not within the realm of the logical,” he paused.  He looked down at his hands, which were clasped as he fought to control their nervous shaking.  “You must help me,” he said, his voice soft and full of uncertainty, “I am unable to carry on.”

            I waited a brief moment, dumbfounded at first by his pleading words and then at the tone in which they were uttered.  “Holmes,” I spoke in a calm and soothing voice.  “I will aid you in whatever way possible, but I am not sure to what problem you are referring.”

            He looked up at me, gave a small, odd smile, and said, “You, my good friend, are my problem.”

            “What on earth are going on about?” I asked incredulously.  “Surely I have done nothing to wrong you.”  I said these words with confidence, but at that moment I did not feel it.  I was frankly becoming quite frightened by what my imagination conjured:  Holmes no longer desired my intimacy—or my friendship.

            “No,” he spoke.  “No, you have not wronged me, Watson.  The problem is that you are too strong a distraction and that, as I have predicted on several prior occasions, love has indeed the power to befuddle a reasoning mind.”

            At that moment, several thoughts sprang forth.  First, that I was indeed his ruin—for without his cold intellect, was he Sherlock Holmes?  Second, that he had no choice but to demand my departure.  And third, that he had just confessed to the singular emotion he had long protested was impossible for him to feel.  Mind you, these thoughts welled up not in so orderly a fashion as I have described, but rather as water from a bursting dam. 

            I took several moments to steel myself for what I must do, for he had asked me to aid him and so I should.  Rising slowly, I braced my trembling hands, palms flat, upon the table and spoke as calmly as I could.  “I shall take myself away at once,” was all I managed to say before my voice threatened to betray my pain. 

            “Watson!” he cried, “you shall do nothing of the sort!”  He rushed to the door as I turned toward it, blocking my path. 

            “Damn it, Holmes!” I exclaimed with vehemence so that I would not begin weeping.  “Do not make this harder than it is!” 

            “You mustn’t.  I do not wish it.”  His words were clipped, devoid of his usual eloquence.  “You misunderstand, surely.  Please, you must not leave.  I could not bear it.”  He took a step forward, wrapped his arms around me lightly, and kissed me gently on the lips.  This man, what power he held over me.  I flung my arms around him and held him as if my life depended on it.  I was utterly dazed, but felt that if I held him firmly all would be well.  We embraced in this fashion for some minutes.

            Finally I realized that we must sit and talk about this most pressing concern.  “Holmes, you must tell me what has prompted you to act in such a peculiar manner,” I said resolutely.  “And what is the ultimate cause of so full a beard,” I teased as I ran my finger along his stubble-covered chin.  He smiled at my jest, relieved.  We sat down in our usual chairs by the fire. 

            “I am terribly sorry,” he began.  “You see, I have been turning the whole thing around in my brain since yesterday afternoon, and have not successfully arrived at a resolution.”  He smiled tentatively, nervously.

            “Why don’t you start by telling me what happened with the case,” I said reasonably, “as that seems to be the starting point of all this.”

            He gave me a rueful smile then began his narrative.  “Lestrade stopped by in the late afternoon, whilst you were no doubt being sociable at your gentlemen’s club.  He informed me, with his own good humor, that the little girl had found her doll.  It had been resting the whole time behind the head-board of her bed.  Yes, Watson, your look of shock mirrors the one which must have graced my own face yesterday.  So you see, my good fellow, I had not followed my methods in the least and dismissed out of hand so obvious and simple a solution as misplacement.  My search about the girl’s room was likewise guided by pre-conceived assumptions and completely unsupported theories.  I have, there is no denying it, failed my methods and failed this case.  I am only grateful that there were no violent or horrific consequences because of it. 

            “The recent illumination of our shared desire for one another’s intimate company has eclipsed all reason from my mind.  I have tried to banish it, but thoughts of you linger like a fog.  Not an unpleasant fog, quite the opposite in fact, but a fog nonetheless.  It is because I am so ill-equipped to balance such overwhelming thoughts, that I am forced to seek your assistance.  You possess an understanding of emotion that I simply do not.”  He paused in his narrative.  “I have never before experienced anything even akin to love, but I appear at present to be drowning woefully in its depths.” 

            I could not help but smile at his words; they were not the usual romantic utterances of a wooing lover, but they were as true and real as only Sherlock Holmes could be.  My heart might have jumped then-and-there from my chest to hear him tell me, in his albeit unique way, that he loved me.  “I love you as well, Sherlock Holmes,” I said plainly and earnestly.  He looked up at me.  I smiled at him and shook my head lightly.  “But you are not in such a bind as all that, my good man; many an ordinary and reasonable Englishman has succumbed to the tempest that is love, I assure you.  But I shall do all that is within my power to aid you in this your most beclouded hour,” I said trying to add much-needed levity by sounding a touch dramatic.  He returned my smile, knowing that I was correct.  His face brightened and his body relaxed. 

            With a quirky curl of his lips he said, “But I am not an ordinary Englishman.”  He paused.  “And neither are you.”

 
The Case of the Johannesburg Papers