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Part Four: Jonathan Daniels
I walked home from dinner
instead of hailing a cab. I had a snug set of rooms in Covent Garden which,
fortunately, is not quite the notorious red-light district it was a century ago.
But it still attracts actors and opera singers and courtesans, not to mention
the poor flower girls. All in all, the sort of people I've come to feel at home
with.
I paused at that and spared a raw smile for my home back in
Brooklyn. My sisters are as mad about me as ever. I'm still their little
brother—hence all the tokens of their affection that Holmes observed in my
dressing room. They were all upset by the rift between our parents and myself,
but none of them cut me off. It'd be awkward for them if I showed up on any of
their doorsteps...but I don't think they'd turn me away.
But my
parents—well, if they were going to have just one son, they should have had a
son like Dr. John Watson: intelligent, kind and, as I suspected, painfully
respectable. He'd have followed my father's wishes. He'd have married a nice
girl from our community, become a pillar of the synagogue and everyone's friend
and confidant. He would have studied Shakespeare (a pursuit my father found
acceptable, if somewhat incomprehensible to a man of his limited English)
without falling in love with some actor and running off to the stage.
I
started walking again. Watson knows, of course. He's not naïve enough to believe
that Holmes and I are merely friends. He doesn't approve, and he's probably
having nightmares about Holmes being hauled off to prison, but he'll accept me
for Holmes' sake.
I frowned at that. Why had Holmes wanted me to meet him
in the first place? I honestly think that he needed Watson's approval—or at
least understanding. Well, I shouldn't be surprised. It had become clear, in the
past week, that Dr. Watson looms large in my lover's life.
Perhaps Watson
was the only true family he had. No, Holmes did have a brother. I knew that
because I had pestered him about his background. His parents were deceased, but
his older brother was alive and well and living here in London. But while there
was no quarrel between the two, they didn't go out of their way to visit each
other.
So I was back to where I started: Watson was the closest thing
Holmes had to real family. Well, I could understand that, couldn't I? After all,
I had a makeshift family of my own in my fellow actors and
actresses.
~
“Perfect,” Holmes said, regarding himself in my
mirror with a critical eye. “You're quite right—vaseline works wonders when it
comes to feigning a fever. I do believe I could fool even Watson, if I didn't
allow him to come close enough to feel my forehead.”
I grinned at him as
I dabbed his face with a handkerchief. It was a month after that dinner with the
good doctor, and things were looking quite promising between Holmes and me. And
I noticed that he was becoming more and more at ease in my
rooms.
“Vaseline has so many uses...” I teased.
He laughed and
pulled me into his arms. “We should commence an in-depth study immediately,” he
recommended.
I kissed him soundly, but then broke apart from him. “Alas,
we'll have to postpone our experiments. I'm due to perform in an
hour.”
He sighed, but managed a nod. “Very well. Why I don't I wait here
for you?”
I was surprised by that, but flattered. Holmes is a finicky
fellow—he either can't get enough of me, or he has no use for me for days on
end. I can stand the time apart, but I like it better when he's insatiable for
my company.
“Please do,” I said, “and make yourself at home. Feel free to
prowl through my books if you get bored.”
“Oh, I shall keep myself
entertained,” Holmes promised me. “Now off with you—I want to practice this
fevered look.”
I smiled at that and took my leave of him, hoping that the
hours would pass quickly.
~
I picked up a bouquet of roses from
one of the flower girls on my way back. Holmes might not appreciate the gesture,
but I would make it all the same. I took the steps two at a time when I reached
my building and all but bounded into my rooms.
“Holmes?” I called
out.
There was no response. I was just wondering if he had gone out when
I heard him call back from the bedroom.
“John?” he said.
I
stiffened at that. He called me Daniels. And if he were going to call me by my
first name, he would have said 'Jonathan' rather than 'John.' Apparently I was
not the one on his mind. But somehow I managed to swallow my anger and convince
myself, yet again, that Watson was like a brother to him. Then I tromped toward
the bedroom—but I froze at threshold.
Holmes was ill. Seriously ill. His
face was pale and drenched in sweat, his eyes—I can't begin to describe how
frightening it was to see such a vacant expression in them. Those grey eyes
should be sharp and penetrating, not hollow and listless.
I rushed over
to him. God help the man if this was an act, a way of practicing with the
vaseline...
But this was no act. He was drugged. Had he taken an excess
of laudanum? He hadn't mentioned any pain or injuries. But then I saw the needle
and the bottle on the small table near my bed. Cocaine. I knew plenty of actors
who favored that seven percent solution.
I also knew that even in the
midst of a cocaine-clouded dream, no one should look like this. Something was
wrong. Holmes had taken too much of the stuff, or he'd been taking it too long.
I shook myself. I never dreamed that he'd be the sort to turn to these wretched
chemicals. What on earth had induced him to plunge a needle into his arm? Would
I find him in an opium den next?
I felt his face—it was cold as ice. I
swallowed hard and searched for his pulse. I'm no expert, but it seemed weak to
me.
“Holmes,” I said, shaking him gently. “Holmes, wake up!”
His
eyes tried to focus on me. “Daniels? Where's Watson?”
“I'll fetch him,” I
promised. “You need a doctor.”
He grabbed hold of me with surprising
strength. “No! I don't wish Watson to see me like this...”
God damn him.
Is that why he wanted to stay in my rooms? To indulge his habit without his
beloved Watson being any the wiser?
“If you're in the habit of sticking a
needle in your arm, I imagine he's seen you worse,” I retorted. But then I felt
my face soften—I couldn't stand to see Holmes so distressed. God help me, but I
was already half in love with this brilliant idiot.
“I'll get Kitty to
look after you,” I continued as he finally released me. He didn't have the
strength to maintain that grip.
“The courtesan downstairs?” he asked, his
voice no more than a whisper.
I nodded. “She's discreet. And she's at
liberty—her man's away in the country with his family.” I paused to lean down
and kiss him. “Just stay put. I'll be back with Watson soon.”
Part
Five
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