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holmestice2013-12-17 09:03 pm
holmesticemods) wrote in holmestice2013-12-17 09:03 pm
Fic for rabidsamfan: Tea in the Sahara (Part 1)
Title: Tea in the Sahara
Recipient:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
rabidsamfan
Author:fleetwood_mouse, with thanks to eyeofmazikeen for feedback and help.
Characters/Pairings: Mary Morstan/John Watson, Mary Morstan/John Watson/Sherlock Holmes
Warnings: Mary Morstan sees more than she is given credit for, and she has been watching for a long time. This is the story of how she gets John Watson to stop waiting and take what he wants: Sherlock Holmes.
Word count: 13,500
Note: Meant to be Ritchie but may read closer to ACD.
I have never considered myself to be of great intelligence, and indeed my perception of my own cleverness has suffered greatly in the years of my association with my husband's friend Mr Sherlock Holmes. Often, simply watching his remarkable mind at work is enough to make me realise that in comparison, I may very well be called a fool; there have also been other occasions where he has taken it upon himself to remind me. Sometimes he is speaking out of spite and other times it is the truth, but in any case, I'd have needed to be much more of a fool not to observe the thing between him and my husband. This is not to imply that I ever suspected my John of infidelity – you would be hard pressed, I think, to find a more loyal or honorable man, and I have long recognized this and counted myself lucky to call him husband. Quite to the contrary, this is the story of how I endeavors to convince him to do so – to throw caution and respectability to the wind, to give in to the feelings he had long denied himself and take what he wanted.
It was not easy to do so. For all his virtues, he is a stubborn man (a trait exacerbated, I fear, by his long acquaintance with the most obstinate human being I have ever had the chance to encounter) and he maintains still a soldier's pride and asceticism in all areas of his life. That is not to mention the laws of our land, which the French view as so puritanical so as to not be out of place in the colonies, and the whispers one hears of those who run up against them, the unlucky few whose natures drive them to such acts that and and whose luck is such that they are discovered. John had more than enough reason, if he was indeed aware of these tendencies, to quash them down, to bury them so deeply that he might never think of them at all. There was so very much he stood to lose, and to think, he must have reasoned, was to betray himself – John knowing better than anyone how much knowledge might be gleaned from the smallest shadow across his face or over-long lingering of hands or eyes. I am at a loss to imagine how he might have ever had a moment's true rest, sharing his rooms with a man who regularly recited his daily histories just from the mud on his trousers and the creases in his cuffs.
Of course I had read of Holmes' extraordinary powers before we ever had the chance to meet – in fact, before I even met John. Before our first meeting, John had warned me – jaw set and nerves high in his temples - of the impression his friend might make, of the things he might say or do. I had laughed, wanting to art him at ease, and told him that I could imagine, that I knew already, having read his books. This did very little to assuage his worries, however, and I very soon saw why. It is one thing to imagine, from one's own limited and banal experience, what a genius might deduce from the little details that escape the average eye, but it is quite another to experience such a thing first hand. Unpracticed as I was, I found that I had been quite unable to imagine the true depth of his perception, and I still remember now the cold, sinking shock that shot through my veins when I began to see how truly naked I was before him, my every secret laid out in stark relief for his cruel grey eyes. His skills were not the parlour trick I had imagined – they were a science, an art, a discipline that he wielded like a weapon. Cut to the bone and utterly blank with shock and rage, I had thrown my drink in his face – it is a wonder I did not throw more – and stormed out with John on my heels, leaving Holmes to a soggy and solitary meal.
To have the memory of my poor fiancé and his sorry fate dredged up – and moreover, to have the same tragedy skewed to support the theory that I was some heartless, fortune-chasing temptress - I am sure that most other respectable women would have reacted in much the same way I did, and many certainly would have demanded afterwards that their husband cease his association with such a coarse and unpleasant man. But later on, I found myself regretting my impetuous actions. Justified as I might have been, my reaction was in no way dignified, nothing at all like the charming lady wife I hoped to one day become. In reality, it was closer to the behavior of my charges - childish and impulsive, makeshift weapons snatched up in the heat of some sniping slight. I knew I owed better to John, and, however much I might begrudge it, to the man he called his best friend.
There was another reason I was eventually able to forgive him, and this too was gleaned from my years as a governess. Holmes' childish aggression had urged me into fray, but that same puerile instinct to lash out was something I came to recognize, however gradually. It was a simple enough motivation for a man as complex and ascetic as he claimed to be: envy and fear. He was the same as one child stepping between another and a favorite toy, an object loved and valued beyond rationality, something to be protected and kept and preserved. He was as transparent as a schoolchild beginning to fear that a much loved friend had come to favor another. Holmes might have denied to himself that such a day would ever come and in that moment come scrambling to face the fact that he might not be able to maintain his monopoly, that even his great mind might struggle to compete with the promise of a wife and family.
Even in my anger, my heart couldn't help but soften at the thought. It was easy enough to imagine what loneliness this eccentric man must have known, and now, after many long years of closeness, I have no doubt as to how absolutely alone Holmes is without his Watson. I had only the smallest inkling then but it was sufficient to understand that I must set about forgiving him and learning to live, to tolerate his presence at the very least, for I did not wish to force such a separation on John either.
Of course, neither his unexpected presence on our honeymoon nor his decision to throw me off of a moving train (in the interest of my own safety, of course) did much to ease this process. Nor did I warm to him during the subsequent days which I had planned to pass pleasantly with my new husband, but instead had to spend in the company of Holmes' older brother, a man whose presence still leaves me somewhat ill at ease. It was a slow and spiraling process, punctuated by long and sudden absences and dramatic returns, bruised and battered and covered in river mud or blood or worse.
In time, though, I gradually began to warm to Holmes. Given our antagonistic history, it was guaranteed to be a slow process but I was determined to succeed, determined to forge a happy life for myself and my new husband. Holmes, however, seemed equally determined to thwart my efforts. He must have, I think, sensed that he only had find the limit of my tolerance, push me until I forced John to choose between us, and all would be put to rights and I would surely be the loser in his imagined competition. He must have been confident that John would remain his friend, regardless of how egregious his antisocial behaviour might be, and so if he could only manage to drive me to my wit’s end, then he might once again enjoy his friend’s full attention.
At the time, I imagined the poor, modern-day King Solomon who might have been called upon to judge our case. His famous verdict might have needed rewording, but I was certain that any judge would have found me in the right – I, who was willing to share John out of my love for him, must surely be more worthy of his affections than my opponent, a selfish man who strove to keep John all for himself. And so, knowing myself to be on the right path, I resolved to be patient, to remain calm, to handle Holmes’ antics as I would the tantrums of a child, saying nothing and paying him no mind.
In spite of this, Holmes continued, seemingly astounded by the lengths to which he could push me without eliciting a single threat. I did what I could to ignore it, studying from John’s long years of patience. I also began to re-read John’s stories, and through the lens of his affection, I strove to see Holmes as John must have, to accept him as a force of nature, as an uncontrollable and sometimes infuriating being who was entirely his own. It was no easy feat, but in time, I began to see his manic energy, his single-minded dedication, and to marvel at the workings of his incomparable mind. And slowly, between the lines on the pages and in the interstices of his interactions with my husband, I came to know Holmes as a human being – not as the cold and alien mind that the rest of the world envisioned, but as a man of flesh and blood. I could finally see his obvious desire that justice be done, as much as he claimed to reveal any such sentiment. I observed the unconventional way that he cared for the people close to him, how he treated a select few as, if not his equals, deeply valued companions and even essential presences in his life. I read again and again the adventure of the Three Garridebs, dog-earing the page where John had fallen, tracing the words with my fingers until I knew them by rote. It sent a sick thrill through me to imagine the danger which my husband had faced, and for the first time, I thanked God that he was fortunate enough to have found such a devoted friend.
And slowly, slowly, I began to see Holmes’ regard for me grow in return. When I remained calm in the face of his treatment, he ascribed it to a clear and rational mind. He remarked more than once about my common sense and even my intelligence, deeming it uncommon for a woman (a comment at which I bristled, though all the while I understood that the clumsy wording masked a more flattering sentiment). There were even a few times when he called upon his Watson at home and found him out, but instead of retreating with muttered epithets as he might once have done, he consulted me instead – accepting my offer of tea, sitting in our parlour as comfortably as if it were his own rooms, and alternatingly berating my blindness and praising my “woman’s intuition” (and raving about different varieties of soil and tobacco and all manner of other things). I knew then the pleasure that John must have felt in Holmes’ company, in pursuing justice; the addictive joy of his praise and the strength of the desire to strive for more. It was in this way that gradually, we stopped seeing each other as rivals for John’s affection and became friends in our way, coming to respect and trust each other.
John, of course, was thrilled at the way that we had managed to bring balance to his world. He confided to me once how extraordinarily lucky he considered himself, how he had never before dared to believe that he might find a wife who would allow him to continue on with his adventurous life, or who would even tolerate Holmes, much less befriend him. But Holmes was a dear friend to him, he told me, and he loved me all the more for seeing that and for all that I had done for him. I do not know if he ever said such a thing to Holmes, but my heart positively swelled at his happiness.
Perhaps, however, Holmes did not need to be told. Even without his extraordinary powers of perception, I was witness to dozens of moments that clearly showed how deeply valued each other. I could speak of the ease with which they navigated each other’s moods, comfort born of long companionship, reading the other’s thoughts as easily as an old sailor does the sea. Or I could speak of Holmes’ “death,” of the heavy darkness that settled upon John, of the way he dragged through his days like a man twice his age, of the way his hands and voice trembled when he finally showed me that strange little device he’d found in his desk. He had fought to keep his voice level as he told me he did not dare to hope, but I know he must have known it, must have felt it in his soul because I saw the light burst back into his days. I saw it in his step and in his eyes and in the suddenly steadying balance of his finances and level of liquor in our cabinet. They had always depended upon each other, and though neither one was ready to admit it, I saw enough to know that John was not the same man without Holmes.
One of the moments that I remember most clearly took place a few years after Holmes’ return, in the last days of summer. I was just returning from my errands, day’s shopping in hand, and as the door closed behind me, I heard their voices from the parlour. They did not seem to be aware that anyone else was at home, so absorbed were they in their conversation – and I thought that it might be an interesting game to see if I could not surprise them. Leaving my bags behind, I made my way quietly through the entryway and corridor to where the parlour door stood open. The voices fell silent and I assumed I must have given myself away, but when I stepped to one side of the door and peeked inside, I saw something that stopped me in my tracks entirely.
Holmes was seated on the sofa and John knelt before him on the cushions, legs folded between Holmes’ thighs, leaning over him, faces close enough to kiss. Holmes sat perfectly still; not stirring, not blinking, and – I would have sworn – not even breathing, but I could see his breath stirring John’s sandy hair. Their faces inches apart, Holmes was staring into John’s blue eyes with a boldness that I, his wife, would have been hard pressed to summon.
My heart jumped in my chest. I drew back then, terrified that they would hear me, but it did not appear that they did. I resolved that I must stay hidden, that I must not clue them in to my presence, not if I were to see how this scene played out.
John’s right hand rested delicately on Holmes’ cheek, and his left hand – the one closer to me – sat comfortably upon Holmes’ shoulder. He raised it slowly, carefully, and in the afternoon light, I caught the silvery glint of metal in its movement.
“Hold still now, just like that.” John’s voice was barely a whisper.
Holmes remained perfectly still, and I too froze my breathing in unconscious mimicry, suddenly fearful of breaking the silence, shattering the stillness of this moment.
John angled his head, tilted his chin – a shift so familiar I felt my heart lurch in my chest. Yet the feeling coming over me was not disgust or even jealousy, but the certain joy of anticipation, a breathless sort of hope, a quickening of my pulse and a prickling heat below the collar of my dress.
“Almost,” murmured John (and my mind echoed him: yes, almost, almost!). “Just – I’ve almost got it, Holmes, patience.”
“No need to rush, my dear boy. I can sit like this all day, I assure you.” Holmes had the fantastic talent of sounding at once bitingly sarcastic and utterly sincere. But true to his words, he moved not a muscle. The glint of silver drew my attention again and I realised that what John held in his left hand was a pair of tweezers, with which he was trying to remove something from the tender skin directly beneath Holmes’ eye.
“Good man,” said John absently, reassuring Holmes as he might one of his child patients. He made another small maneuver with deft fingers and cursed loudly. My cheeks flushed at his rough words, and to be honest, I thrilled a little to imagine what else John might do if he thought I was not watching.
“Steady, doctor,” admonished Holmes, voice as unaffected as ever.
John hissed through his teeth. “I’m sorry, it’s just – how do you…?”
“How do I what?” Holmes stared back at him owlishly.
John rearranged his limbs, readying the tweezers for another pass. “Well, Holmes, it’s just that most men would have blinked.”
“Ah,” said Holmes, and was silent for a moment. When he spoke again, his voice was so low and tight that I had to strain to hear. “I am absolutely certain, Watson, that you will never hurt me.”
I heard John draw in a sharp breath, and saw the tweezers dangling in his fingers as if forgotten. My heart was pounding so hard that they must have been able to hear it, but they were frozen in place. Neither of them seemed to be breathing. Holmes’ face was inches from John’s, his dark gaze intent, and it sent a chill through me to imagine what it must be like to be the object of that tremendous attention. And then, he moved, breaking the stillness. I saw John’s eyes track the progress of an elegant hand, palm upraised, reaching to touch his tanned cheek, and–
A knock upon the front door, thunderous in the pregnant stillness of the parlour, and suddenly two pairs of eyes were on me, standing to the side of the doorway, one hand pressed eagerly to the wall and the other clasped to the brooch about my neck.
I am sure I did not imagine the brief flash of shock across Holmes’ face, or John’s expression of unguarded guilt, which lasted considerably longer. The both of them coloured as prettily as maids while I stood dumbly watching.
“Well, hallo!” I exclaimed, trying to control the answering blush in my own cheeks. “I wonder who that must be – they can only have been a moment behind me.” My voice rang sharp and high with falsity, but I would have bet a year’s income against Holmes pointing out how suspicious my behavior was.
“A case, likely,” said he, having somewhat recovered himself already. John still sat motionless and silent, cheeks draining to white. “And evidently one that cannot wait, if they’ve managed to beat the telegram here from Baker Street.” He rose from the sofa, dusting himself off imperiously. “Come, Watson,” he said. “Let us go and see what it is they want.”
“But Holmes, your eye!” said John, rising to follow him nonetheless.
Holmes waved one hand dismissively. “It will be fine – I believe that you managed to extract most of the gravel already, and this client is a man of little patience.”
It turned out that he was right on that score, and so they both were soon out the door, Holmes scoffing at the myopia of a household that kept neither pancake makeup nor bootblack at hand for a quick disguise. Once the door swung shut behind them and I found myself alone, the silence of the empty house felt immense and oppressive, though it could not compare to the electric weight of the silence I had felt in the parlour only minutes earlier. I tried to distract myself by beginning to prepare the evening meal, soon found I was quite unable to shake away thoughts of what I had seen. The kitchen seemed so unbearably hot, no matter how I fanned myself, and I had no guarantee that John would even return in time to enjoy dinner with me. And so eventually I set the preparations aside, resolving to have a simple meal on my own when hunger struck, and gave up cooking to retire to the bedroom where I might spend the rest of the fevered afternoon in my own company, imagining what I might have seen had the bell not rung.
Even before that day, I had always known that they cared for each other deeply – as I said earlier, I would have been a fool not to see that – and to some extent I had suspected that something deeper lay beneath the surface of their intimate friendship. What I saw that day did not exactly serve as proof, but it certainly changed the way I viewed their relationship, and as I watched them, keeping that interrupted moment always in mind, it became easier and easier to find further signs of a deep attraction that went always unspoken, unacknowledged.
I had seen the blackness of John’s suffering when he believed Holmes to be dead, and I could feel the desperate affection that drove him to Holmes’ side at all hours and in all manner of circumstance, that painted new lines in his beloved face and left him sighing like the heroine of a romance novel when he thought himself unobserved. I know he would never dare on his own to speak the words, much less step forward and close the last bit of distance between them (as so many observed, they often acted the part of a long-married couple just as well as John and myself), and so I gathered my wits about me and I schemed and I planned and I plotted.
Part of the reason that I did this was my desire to be a good wife to John. But even a non-observant reader is sure to have noticed that my motives were not entirely altruistic, that the idea held a decided appeal for me. In any case, I strived to create circumstances in which, if the ha’penny romance novels were to be believed, John and Holmes might find themselves overwhelmed by passion and give in to those baser instincts that I knew that they must secretly harbour. Initially, I was afraid of being discovered – surely after a few of my failed schemes, they would begin to question the strangely specific circumstances in which they continuously found themselves. But plan after plan began and ended with neither man the wiser, and I had cause to wonder whether the lack of questioning was due to the many peculiarities that Holmes’ cases presented, or if they might not be enjoying it.
The machinations of my mind in those days must have rivalled those of the most hardened criminals of London. I contrived for John and Holmes to fall into rivers and ponds together; for public houses to be full up, “excepting one bed, gentlemen;” and I sent them on stakeouts with one long blanket to wrap around their shoulders, so that they might huddle together for warmth. I arranged once for them to have the Turkish baths entirely to themselves and for their clothes to be lost in the changing rooms, but even these efforts were fruitless.
There was one instance when I was visiting family in the country where a “thankful client” sent a package to Baker Street containing lavish gifts of oysters, fine chocolates, wine, and all manner of delights intended to induce romance. But when I returned from my trip, it did not appear that the scheme had been successful, though I did find my husband somewhat more jumpy and guilty than one might expect of an entirely innocent man, a fact that encouraged me greatly. So when the opportunity next presented itself, I seized it and redoubled my efforts – on top of the gifts, I sent the boy Wiggins with a novel procured from a most disreputable bookseller (and if questioned, a few coins extra in the loyal boy’s pocket were sufficient to keep him quiet on any involvement Mrs Watson might have had in the matter).
Now, I have already alluded to the swooning heroines and pounding hearts and hackneyed clichés that populated such literature but this work was of a decidedly different bent, and produced rather more locally – right there in our own London, in fact, by an fan of John’s tales. This anonymous author fancied to see much the same things as I did in the flowery descriptions of Holmes’ elegant hands and brilliant mind. In fact, further investigation revealed that the increasingly famous devotion between the two had already inspired many such writings, full of varied and imaginative suggestions as to how the great Sherlock Holmes and his doctor companion might pass the time between cases, complete with many holistic remedies they might employ to stave off the black moods that famously plagued Holmes. One such tale which I shall not soon forget had my husband eloquently suggest that, “Without a problem to occupy your mind, Holmes, perhaps you might find something to occupy your mouth.”
These pamphlets, so far as I could ascertain, were of different authors and varied wildly in their length and quality. While I found a great many of them to be effective in producing a decided heat below the collar (no longer feeling such surprise at my own unconventional proclivities), most of the authors had a habit of taking rather many liberties with the subject matter that they treated. I did not need my husband’s expert knowledge of physiology to see that many of the acts described so plainly were in actuality quite impossible (or at least Herculean) demands to make of the male anatomy. (And as to the pamphlet’s vivid descriptions of those particular organs, the less said the better). But nonetheless, I hoped that despite the obvious factual inaccuracies, their passions, aided by strong drink and stimulating fare, would push them over the edge of their propriety.
Despite these hopes, I was not surprised when upon my return I saw that this plan too had been a failure. That was to be expected, after all – even if John had been able to stomach the stories’ unique foibles and the way that they must have irked his years of medical experience, one could hardly imagine that Holmes, who demanded rigorous scientific accuracy even from my husband’s romantic retellings of their adventures, could do the same.
Ultimately, I understand that it was foolish to imagine that the sheer force of my will might be sufficient to force the hands of Fate. There was a period in which I became discouraged and ceased to make any such efforts at all, but eventually, I did succeed, and when I finally did, it was the result of a series of events over which I had exerted very little control whatsoever.
My cousin Catherine had once brought her little daughter to us with a persistent and nasty croup that John had fortunately been able to cure. As they were family, John naturally refused to take any payment for his work, despite the repeated protests of Catherine and her husband, until finally they became so frustrated with his stubbornness that they very nearly forced us to make use of their little country cottage for a holiday. It was with great reluctance that John agreed at last – pressured, I think, by my retellings of my very fond childhood memories.
And thinking back about the cottage, I could see very well how lovely it was, how picturesque, how isolated – how very conducive to romance. I suggested very casually that we might take a longer holiday, and that John might extend an invitation to Holmes to join us for a day or two. It would do him a great deal of good to take in some country air, rather than being shut up with his experiments. And besides, I told him, it only need be for a day or two; Holmes could hardly be convinced to leave the city for very long, and there would certainly be enough time for John and I to spend alone together in whatever manner we thought most pleasant.
Uttered with a blushing smile and a downward-cast face, this proved sufficient motivation for him to accept – coupled, I am sure, with John’s altruistic desire to see his friend take some much-needed rest -- and I called on Catherine to thank her and take her up on her kind offer. We began to make plans for our departure and John engaged an old colleague to take patients in his absence, but as readers of John’s stories might imagine, actually convincing Holmes to accompany us was quite another matter. He refused outright, saying the city needed him, and would not hear any talk of the benefits of country air or regular relaxation. John had all but given up on the intractable man by the point that I decided to see what I might do. I went to visit Marie Hudson.
It was not often that she and I took tea together, but when we did, there was no shortage of topics for lively conversation. Over a few hours of pleasant chatter, I happened to remark that Mr Holmes had been looking unusually gaunt recently, even for him, and lamented what a pity it was that he had been unable to accept our invitation. Wouldn’t it be a lovely coincidence, I posited, if circumstances required that he suddenly to change his plans, so that he might accompany his friend after all?
Mrs Hudson agreed sympathetically and fell silent, but as she leaned back to sip her wine, a small smile crossed her face – as she dreamed, no doubt, of a few peaceful days without gunshots or toxic fumes or clients and street Arabs knocking her up at all hours. I knew that I had found an ally. She tipped me a conspiratorial wink and topped off my glass.
“What do you think of the duck, Mary?” she asked me. “It’s my own recipe.”
She served me another portion of her fine cooking and we passed the rest of the evening quite pleasantly, without another word on the subject of Holmes or our holiday. And dependably, when the morning of our departure dawned, John awoke to a telegram from Baker Street, enquiring whether there might still be space for Holmes after all, as a botched experiment had left his rooms quite uninhabitable for the next few nights. My husband’s happy surprise was evident on his face, but I only smiled mildly and remarked that it was a fortuitous chance indeed.
When we met Holmes at the train station two hours later, he was loading his hastily packed valise into the luggage compartment of our car, colour high on his cheeks and still sputtering his rage. “Damnable woman, keeping the lamp oils in with the my supplies!” he muttered. “For all the…”
Again, I smiled and said nothing in particular, settling back to read my book. John laughed and made great sport of Holmes’ scorched eyebrows and, before he might wound Holmes’ pride, offered up his latest manuscript for a diversion.
The scenery on our journey was quite lovely and the natural surroundings of the cabin just as picturesque as I had remembered, but what was especially refreshing was to see the setting of my childhood games through John’s eyes. He held me by the hand and commented on the trees and architecture, asking after landmarks, childhood friends, and the local cuisine. I answered as best I could, all while observing the way that Holmes’ displeasure bristled with each subsequent enquiry. At first it seemed curious that he might react this way, but the more I considered the matter, the better I understood it.
I, for one, knew for certain that no matter how much John might delight in the occasional country holiday, he ultimately did not wish to leave London. Holmes, on the other hand, did not seem to have anticipated that John might wish to marry – he might very well suspect that there lay in John Watson’s breast other desires of which he knew nothing. And it was not just the matter of marriage itself – since we had wed, Holmes had seen his comrade in arms pull back, at times to pay greater attention to his practice, his wife, and to all the minutiae of domestic life than to his friend’s cases. With Holmes’ fervor for his work, such thoughts must be utterly alien.
I had married John accepting, however reluctantly, that he was wed to his friend just as much as to me, and in time, I had come to enjoy the life the three of us had, secure in my knowledge of his loyalty. Holmes, by contrast, must feel he had been forced to give John up not knowing to what fate he might choose to go. If seeing John gush to me about this country town inspired in him some fear, that was only natural. The thought made me pity him, though he surely would have loathed to know it. I did what I could to drag him into our conversation, but in his hurt he remained aloof.
We passed the remainder of the afternoon quite pleasantly with some sightseeing and finished at a pub that looked shabby on the outside, but Holmes’ intuition proved correct and we were surprised with a sumptuous meal. Once back at the cottage, Holmes retired early, pleading exhaustion from the rich food and the exertions of the day. I was disappointed to see him turn in before I had a chance to put any of my half-formed plans to work. Indeed, I would be lying to say that I did not consider simply following him. But of course I could not imagine how I might suggest such an idea to John without making him defensive and frightening him off the concept altogether. Better to wait, I decided, not to show my hand too early but to plant seeds where I could and encourage the opportunity to present itself naturally.
It was not long before I entreated John that we might retire as well, and when we were settled into the big bed in our nightclothes, I took him in my arms. In his embrace, I did my best to exploit my wifely knowledge of him to its very best advantage, employing all my wits in the aim of producing a noise, some small sign of our pleasure that our fellow lodger might take for an invitation. John, for his part, fought with every ounce of his stoicism and will, and remained almost entirely silent, none of the passion on his beautifully expressive face finding voice.
Even so, my mind would not rest and so I bid him lie back that I might sit astride his thighs. From that position, I could watch him gazing up at me, eyes glossy and soft with affection and sensation – and I could still remain free to imagine that behind me , any second now, I might hear that creak of the heavy oak door beginning to open…
This thought spurred me to move my hips faster and faster still – John stifled a gasp into the crook of my neck – and with that image in mind, I at last reached my crisis and trembled there on the edge, overcome and fairly sobbing my own pleasure, and John followed me soon thereafter.
If the noises I made struck John as strange or out of character, he did not say. When I collapsed against his chest, he simply wrapped his strong arms around me and I felt his breathing grow deeper and deeper. I laid my head on his good soldier and succumbed to a fitful, dreamless sleep.
I believe that John blushed to meet his friend over our breakfast the next morning, but in Holmes expression I could read nothing out of the ordinary. I knew he would not have needed the keen senses that John describes in his stories in order to have heard us, and I could not help but wonder what he might have made of my display. There were a few moments where I could have sworn that his eyes lingered on me longer than usual – appraising and searching – but this could just as easily have been my imagination. In any case, I did my best not to blush – though to do so would have been a more direct indication of my interest, I could not risk Holmes imagining that my interest was for him and him alone. Instead of a blushing maid, I must be a brazen temptress, smiling boldly and tempting him into our marriage bed.
Over the last crumbs of our toast, we decided our plans for the day. I had discovered, to my great delight, that Dorothy, one of my childhood playmates was still living in the area and so I had made plans to call on her and return in the evening. John expressed his desire to take the air and with some needling, managed to convince Holmes to accompany him on a hike. He was sure that the outing would keep them occupied for most of the day, and we would reunite in the evening. As I packed them a simple lunch to carry, I noticed that the basket was a great deal heavier than I had imagined – when I opened it, I saw that Holmes has anticipated John’s suggestion of outdoor enjoyments and had stashed away a few chemistry journals to keep himself amused.
As they went out the door, I handed the basket over to him with a knowing smile and, over John’s head, he dropped me a sly wink that, if I suspected he knew what I was planning, would have painted me red to the roots of my hair. I bid them goodbye as normally as possible and, once they were gone, took a few minutes to rest upon the large sofa in the sitting room and collect my thoughts.
It was wonderful to see my friend again after so long – such reunions are always a joy – and we had many years worth of stories to share, despite the very different paths our lives had taken. I fawned over her two fair-haired children – Caroline, a bright-eyed girl of six whose bold and direct questions made me chuckle, and George, a shy boy of four, still clinging to his mother’s skirts and sucking one wrinkled pink thumb. Observing this happy family and their easy affection, I could not help but smile. Even the seemingly endless demands they made for their mother’s time and attention thrilled me in some small way – she smiled wryly at me over their curly heads as if to apologise, but I could see clearly how much they revered, loved, and needed her. Sipping my tea, I wondered if this was what the future might hold for me, and if so, if this was what I truly desired. How would I fare in such a sweet and placid existence, accustomed as I had become to the romance of adventure and its sudden, inexorable call?
Unfortunately, I did not have as long as I would have liked to sit and ponder. Our visit was cut short when Dorothy suddenly took ill. Her complexion was pale to begin with, but over the course of our conversation, the colour drained from her face further, and I recalled that she had shown little appetite for our luncheon. Soon enough, she was wincing, rubbing at her temples, and lettings her statements trail off as if her thoughts were being interrupted. I began to grow concerned, but was promptly reassured by her daughter that all would be well.
“Mother’s having one of her headaches,” Caroline told me with the distinct, matter-of-fact manner peculiar to children who suddenly find themselves more knowledgeable than an adult. “She can go back to bed for the afternoon, but there’s nothing else for it.”
Dorothy shushed her little girl, but I noticed that her teeth were still gritted.
“Are you truly all right?” I asked, laying a hand upon her shoulder. “John is a doctor, you know – it would be no trouble at all for him to come by and see to you this evening.”
She refused this offer of help, assuring me that it was as her daughter said – as long as she could rest before it got much worse, a few hours of quiet and darkness should restore her health. Caroline nodded along sagely at this, and I could see that Dorothy clearly did need to rest, so I quickly bid her good day and left her to her rest.
I made Caroline promise to send word to us if her mother did not appear to be fully herself when she awoke. She agreed and saw me to the door with stately manners and, as I retreated down the path, I heard the sound of her footsteps pounding up the stairs and her voice calling for her governess to begin her lessons.
“And give me proper sums this time! Yesterday’s were too simple!”
So it was that I found myself back at our cottage much earlier than I had anticipated, with the rest of the afternoon to spend as I liked. I found an adventure novel on the bookshelf and carried it with me to the lake and enjoy the sunshine. It was quite an engrossing story, and as I breathed in the sweet country air and let my ears fill with birdsong and the lapping of the lake waters, I soon found myself quite lost in its romantic words, drifting calmly between my world and the one in its pages.
It could not have been more than an hour’s reading when I heard a cry that drew me to my feet and back to our reality. I raised my head, startled into alertness, to see Holmes and my husband staggering towards me from the underbrush, both with faces so grey that at first I could not have said which of them was hurt.
Though it was John, of course it was – my husband with his old injuries and his lion’s heart – he was the one on whom the hammer would fall while Holmes skittered oblivious out of its path, or let John push him to safety at his own expense. Holmes was the one using him for a shield and a Sherpa, stepping behind him one moment and the next skipping into danger for flitting about the continent on some grand adventure and leaving his friend here to grieve him for dead. I cursed Holmes in moments like this – it was so easy to blame him, to forget that John too was rushing headlong into danger and direct all my anger at Holmes. Today, though, was the first time that I had seen the immediate aftermath, though, seen the fear and guilt in Holmes’ eyes rather than just the blood on my husband’s shirts, seen the careful way he watched their footing as he supported John, lest they slip again. I saw the hard line of his mouth, the dark stains of sweat on his fine clothes and – despite his obvious exhaustion and fear – the steadiness of his right arm around John’s shoulders, his left crossing his own torso to bolster against John’s ribs.
My novel lay on the ground at my feet. My pulse was loud in my ears.
“What happened?” I called, trying and failing to control the pitch of my voice. “Are you…?”
Holmes made to speak but John cut him off. “I’m fine, Mary, really.” His breath came short from slack lips, and beads of sweat stood out on his forehead. “Truly – it’s not like it looks. It was just a bad tumble.” His voice was steady, if forced, and despite the many signs of pain I could see writ on his face and form, I believed that he was telling me the truth. Pain, there might be in no small amount, I was sure, but if he had the energy to make more than a token protest, even after his journey back; if he felt strong enough to try to shake of Holmes’ arms (as he was trying to at that moment) in order prove to me that nothing was wrong, then I knew that I could relax.
Nonetheless, I moved forward to take his other arm. “I’m sure it’s nothing,” I agreed, “but there’s no harm in being too careful. Let us sit you down.”
“Sit me down?” he protested. “I say, I could have walked more easily on my own, without worrying about tripping over Holmes’ feet.”
Even saying this, he did not resist my touch, letting me settle my arm beneath his shoulders, where it slotted against the sinew of Holmes’. John saw the wisdom of our efforts and allowed us, protesting all the while that it was nothing more than cramps, to carry him the rest of the way to the house and deposit him upon the wide sofa.
Settled more or less comfortably, he began to show signs of improvement almost immediately. I sent Holmes to fetch whatever manner of spirits the kitchen might have to offer, and knelt before John to get the measure of his injury, prodding the muscle experimentally through the fabric of his trousers.
“It was only a cramp, nothing serious,” he told me. He hissed through his teeth as my fingers found a particularly tender spot. “I swear to you, Mary – I happened to have taken a tumble a few minutes before, and so when I fell again, Holmes refused to listen to reason. I’d have been better off if he would have just let me rest there.”
I was inclined to agree– the colour had already returned to his lips, and he was able to roll his ankle without the appearance of pain. The fall must have aggravated his old injury and the walk back had probably done him more harm than good, but still, I was glad to have him here, where we could be sure that all was well.
“That may be so,” I told him, fingers kneading the tense muscle above his knee. “But I think we ought to be grateful – he won’t take risks when it comes to you. You should count yourself lucky to have such a friend.”
John gave an exasperated laugh. “That is a charitable interpretation if I ever heard one.” He winced as I found a knot and dug in. “More likely that he simply doubts my ability to make such a judgment for myself.”
“Really, Watson,” came a voice from the door, cutting me off before I could speak.
Holmes placed a bottle of brandy and three snifters* on the table and began to pour. “Though I must admit, hearing you so readily embrace such nonsense does very little for my faith in your deductive abilities.” His voice was carefully level.
John sighed. “Holmes, I –”
“Drink.” Holmes handed him a glass and John obeyed, taking first a careful sip and then a long draught, hissing as the spirit burned in his throat. It was then that the idea began to trickle half formed through my mind – the briefest flash of a picture, the suggestion of a scene.
“Holmes,” I said, speaking before I could second-guess myself. “It looks like John will be fine, but I believe my hands are too weak for this work. You might be able to do more good for the muscle, if…” I did not go so far as to suggest it outright, and I could not meet his eyes for fear of what he might read on my face, but before John could protest, Holmes answered:
“Of course.”
Recipient:
rabidsamfanAuthor:
fleetwood_mouse, with thanks to eyeofmazikeen for feedback and help.Characters/Pairings: Mary Morstan/John Watson, Mary Morstan/John Watson/Sherlock Holmes
Warnings: Mary Morstan sees more than she is given credit for, and she has been watching for a long time. This is the story of how she gets John Watson to stop waiting and take what he wants: Sherlock Holmes.
Word count: 13,500
Note: Meant to be Ritchie but may read closer to ACD.
I have never considered myself to be of great intelligence, and indeed my perception of my own cleverness has suffered greatly in the years of my association with my husband's friend Mr Sherlock Holmes. Often, simply watching his remarkable mind at work is enough to make me realise that in comparison, I may very well be called a fool; there have also been other occasions where he has taken it upon himself to remind me. Sometimes he is speaking out of spite and other times it is the truth, but in any case, I'd have needed to be much more of a fool not to observe the thing between him and my husband. This is not to imply that I ever suspected my John of infidelity – you would be hard pressed, I think, to find a more loyal or honorable man, and I have long recognized this and counted myself lucky to call him husband. Quite to the contrary, this is the story of how I endeavors to convince him to do so – to throw caution and respectability to the wind, to give in to the feelings he had long denied himself and take what he wanted.
It was not easy to do so. For all his virtues, he is a stubborn man (a trait exacerbated, I fear, by his long acquaintance with the most obstinate human being I have ever had the chance to encounter) and he maintains still a soldier's pride and asceticism in all areas of his life. That is not to mention the laws of our land, which the French view as so puritanical so as to not be out of place in the colonies, and the whispers one hears of those who run up against them, the unlucky few whose natures drive them to such acts that and and whose luck is such that they are discovered. John had more than enough reason, if he was indeed aware of these tendencies, to quash them down, to bury them so deeply that he might never think of them at all. There was so very much he stood to lose, and to think, he must have reasoned, was to betray himself – John knowing better than anyone how much knowledge might be gleaned from the smallest shadow across his face or over-long lingering of hands or eyes. I am at a loss to imagine how he might have ever had a moment's true rest, sharing his rooms with a man who regularly recited his daily histories just from the mud on his trousers and the creases in his cuffs.
Of course I had read of Holmes' extraordinary powers before we ever had the chance to meet – in fact, before I even met John. Before our first meeting, John had warned me – jaw set and nerves high in his temples - of the impression his friend might make, of the things he might say or do. I had laughed, wanting to art him at ease, and told him that I could imagine, that I knew already, having read his books. This did very little to assuage his worries, however, and I very soon saw why. It is one thing to imagine, from one's own limited and banal experience, what a genius might deduce from the little details that escape the average eye, but it is quite another to experience such a thing first hand. Unpracticed as I was, I found that I had been quite unable to imagine the true depth of his perception, and I still remember now the cold, sinking shock that shot through my veins when I began to see how truly naked I was before him, my every secret laid out in stark relief for his cruel grey eyes. His skills were not the parlour trick I had imagined – they were a science, an art, a discipline that he wielded like a weapon. Cut to the bone and utterly blank with shock and rage, I had thrown my drink in his face – it is a wonder I did not throw more – and stormed out with John on my heels, leaving Holmes to a soggy and solitary meal.
To have the memory of my poor fiancé and his sorry fate dredged up – and moreover, to have the same tragedy skewed to support the theory that I was some heartless, fortune-chasing temptress - I am sure that most other respectable women would have reacted in much the same way I did, and many certainly would have demanded afterwards that their husband cease his association with such a coarse and unpleasant man. But later on, I found myself regretting my impetuous actions. Justified as I might have been, my reaction was in no way dignified, nothing at all like the charming lady wife I hoped to one day become. In reality, it was closer to the behavior of my charges - childish and impulsive, makeshift weapons snatched up in the heat of some sniping slight. I knew I owed better to John, and, however much I might begrudge it, to the man he called his best friend.
There was another reason I was eventually able to forgive him, and this too was gleaned from my years as a governess. Holmes' childish aggression had urged me into fray, but that same puerile instinct to lash out was something I came to recognize, however gradually. It was a simple enough motivation for a man as complex and ascetic as he claimed to be: envy and fear. He was the same as one child stepping between another and a favorite toy, an object loved and valued beyond rationality, something to be protected and kept and preserved. He was as transparent as a schoolchild beginning to fear that a much loved friend had come to favor another. Holmes might have denied to himself that such a day would ever come and in that moment come scrambling to face the fact that he might not be able to maintain his monopoly, that even his great mind might struggle to compete with the promise of a wife and family.
Even in my anger, my heart couldn't help but soften at the thought. It was easy enough to imagine what loneliness this eccentric man must have known, and now, after many long years of closeness, I have no doubt as to how absolutely alone Holmes is without his Watson. I had only the smallest inkling then but it was sufficient to understand that I must set about forgiving him and learning to live, to tolerate his presence at the very least, for I did not wish to force such a separation on John either.
Of course, neither his unexpected presence on our honeymoon nor his decision to throw me off of a moving train (in the interest of my own safety, of course) did much to ease this process. Nor did I warm to him during the subsequent days which I had planned to pass pleasantly with my new husband, but instead had to spend in the company of Holmes' older brother, a man whose presence still leaves me somewhat ill at ease. It was a slow and spiraling process, punctuated by long and sudden absences and dramatic returns, bruised and battered and covered in river mud or blood or worse.
In time, though, I gradually began to warm to Holmes. Given our antagonistic history, it was guaranteed to be a slow process but I was determined to succeed, determined to forge a happy life for myself and my new husband. Holmes, however, seemed equally determined to thwart my efforts. He must have, I think, sensed that he only had find the limit of my tolerance, push me until I forced John to choose between us, and all would be put to rights and I would surely be the loser in his imagined competition. He must have been confident that John would remain his friend, regardless of how egregious his antisocial behaviour might be, and so if he could only manage to drive me to my wit’s end, then he might once again enjoy his friend’s full attention.
At the time, I imagined the poor, modern-day King Solomon who might have been called upon to judge our case. His famous verdict might have needed rewording, but I was certain that any judge would have found me in the right – I, who was willing to share John out of my love for him, must surely be more worthy of his affections than my opponent, a selfish man who strove to keep John all for himself. And so, knowing myself to be on the right path, I resolved to be patient, to remain calm, to handle Holmes’ antics as I would the tantrums of a child, saying nothing and paying him no mind.
In spite of this, Holmes continued, seemingly astounded by the lengths to which he could push me without eliciting a single threat. I did what I could to ignore it, studying from John’s long years of patience. I also began to re-read John’s stories, and through the lens of his affection, I strove to see Holmes as John must have, to accept him as a force of nature, as an uncontrollable and sometimes infuriating being who was entirely his own. It was no easy feat, but in time, I began to see his manic energy, his single-minded dedication, and to marvel at the workings of his incomparable mind. And slowly, between the lines on the pages and in the interstices of his interactions with my husband, I came to know Holmes as a human being – not as the cold and alien mind that the rest of the world envisioned, but as a man of flesh and blood. I could finally see his obvious desire that justice be done, as much as he claimed to reveal any such sentiment. I observed the unconventional way that he cared for the people close to him, how he treated a select few as, if not his equals, deeply valued companions and even essential presences in his life. I read again and again the adventure of the Three Garridebs, dog-earing the page where John had fallen, tracing the words with my fingers until I knew them by rote. It sent a sick thrill through me to imagine the danger which my husband had faced, and for the first time, I thanked God that he was fortunate enough to have found such a devoted friend.
And slowly, slowly, I began to see Holmes’ regard for me grow in return. When I remained calm in the face of his treatment, he ascribed it to a clear and rational mind. He remarked more than once about my common sense and even my intelligence, deeming it uncommon for a woman (a comment at which I bristled, though all the while I understood that the clumsy wording masked a more flattering sentiment). There were even a few times when he called upon his Watson at home and found him out, but instead of retreating with muttered epithets as he might once have done, he consulted me instead – accepting my offer of tea, sitting in our parlour as comfortably as if it were his own rooms, and alternatingly berating my blindness and praising my “woman’s intuition” (and raving about different varieties of soil and tobacco and all manner of other things). I knew then the pleasure that John must have felt in Holmes’ company, in pursuing justice; the addictive joy of his praise and the strength of the desire to strive for more. It was in this way that gradually, we stopped seeing each other as rivals for John’s affection and became friends in our way, coming to respect and trust each other.
John, of course, was thrilled at the way that we had managed to bring balance to his world. He confided to me once how extraordinarily lucky he considered himself, how he had never before dared to believe that he might find a wife who would allow him to continue on with his adventurous life, or who would even tolerate Holmes, much less befriend him. But Holmes was a dear friend to him, he told me, and he loved me all the more for seeing that and for all that I had done for him. I do not know if he ever said such a thing to Holmes, but my heart positively swelled at his happiness.
Perhaps, however, Holmes did not need to be told. Even without his extraordinary powers of perception, I was witness to dozens of moments that clearly showed how deeply valued each other. I could speak of the ease with which they navigated each other’s moods, comfort born of long companionship, reading the other’s thoughts as easily as an old sailor does the sea. Or I could speak of Holmes’ “death,” of the heavy darkness that settled upon John, of the way he dragged through his days like a man twice his age, of the way his hands and voice trembled when he finally showed me that strange little device he’d found in his desk. He had fought to keep his voice level as he told me he did not dare to hope, but I know he must have known it, must have felt it in his soul because I saw the light burst back into his days. I saw it in his step and in his eyes and in the suddenly steadying balance of his finances and level of liquor in our cabinet. They had always depended upon each other, and though neither one was ready to admit it, I saw enough to know that John was not the same man without Holmes.
One of the moments that I remember most clearly took place a few years after Holmes’ return, in the last days of summer. I was just returning from my errands, day’s shopping in hand, and as the door closed behind me, I heard their voices from the parlour. They did not seem to be aware that anyone else was at home, so absorbed were they in their conversation – and I thought that it might be an interesting game to see if I could not surprise them. Leaving my bags behind, I made my way quietly through the entryway and corridor to where the parlour door stood open. The voices fell silent and I assumed I must have given myself away, but when I stepped to one side of the door and peeked inside, I saw something that stopped me in my tracks entirely.
Holmes was seated on the sofa and John knelt before him on the cushions, legs folded between Holmes’ thighs, leaning over him, faces close enough to kiss. Holmes sat perfectly still; not stirring, not blinking, and – I would have sworn – not even breathing, but I could see his breath stirring John’s sandy hair. Their faces inches apart, Holmes was staring into John’s blue eyes with a boldness that I, his wife, would have been hard pressed to summon.
My heart jumped in my chest. I drew back then, terrified that they would hear me, but it did not appear that they did. I resolved that I must stay hidden, that I must not clue them in to my presence, not if I were to see how this scene played out.
John’s right hand rested delicately on Holmes’ cheek, and his left hand – the one closer to me – sat comfortably upon Holmes’ shoulder. He raised it slowly, carefully, and in the afternoon light, I caught the silvery glint of metal in its movement.
“Hold still now, just like that.” John’s voice was barely a whisper.
Holmes remained perfectly still, and I too froze my breathing in unconscious mimicry, suddenly fearful of breaking the silence, shattering the stillness of this moment.
John angled his head, tilted his chin – a shift so familiar I felt my heart lurch in my chest. Yet the feeling coming over me was not disgust or even jealousy, but the certain joy of anticipation, a breathless sort of hope, a quickening of my pulse and a prickling heat below the collar of my dress.
“Almost,” murmured John (and my mind echoed him: yes, almost, almost!). “Just – I’ve almost got it, Holmes, patience.”
“No need to rush, my dear boy. I can sit like this all day, I assure you.” Holmes had the fantastic talent of sounding at once bitingly sarcastic and utterly sincere. But true to his words, he moved not a muscle. The glint of silver drew my attention again and I realised that what John held in his left hand was a pair of tweezers, with which he was trying to remove something from the tender skin directly beneath Holmes’ eye.
“Good man,” said John absently, reassuring Holmes as he might one of his child patients. He made another small maneuver with deft fingers and cursed loudly. My cheeks flushed at his rough words, and to be honest, I thrilled a little to imagine what else John might do if he thought I was not watching.
“Steady, doctor,” admonished Holmes, voice as unaffected as ever.
John hissed through his teeth. “I’m sorry, it’s just – how do you…?”
“How do I what?” Holmes stared back at him owlishly.
John rearranged his limbs, readying the tweezers for another pass. “Well, Holmes, it’s just that most men would have blinked.”
“Ah,” said Holmes, and was silent for a moment. When he spoke again, his voice was so low and tight that I had to strain to hear. “I am absolutely certain, Watson, that you will never hurt me.”
I heard John draw in a sharp breath, and saw the tweezers dangling in his fingers as if forgotten. My heart was pounding so hard that they must have been able to hear it, but they were frozen in place. Neither of them seemed to be breathing. Holmes’ face was inches from John’s, his dark gaze intent, and it sent a chill through me to imagine what it must be like to be the object of that tremendous attention. And then, he moved, breaking the stillness. I saw John’s eyes track the progress of an elegant hand, palm upraised, reaching to touch his tanned cheek, and–
A knock upon the front door, thunderous in the pregnant stillness of the parlour, and suddenly two pairs of eyes were on me, standing to the side of the doorway, one hand pressed eagerly to the wall and the other clasped to the brooch about my neck.
I am sure I did not imagine the brief flash of shock across Holmes’ face, or John’s expression of unguarded guilt, which lasted considerably longer. The both of them coloured as prettily as maids while I stood dumbly watching.
“Well, hallo!” I exclaimed, trying to control the answering blush in my own cheeks. “I wonder who that must be – they can only have been a moment behind me.” My voice rang sharp and high with falsity, but I would have bet a year’s income against Holmes pointing out how suspicious my behavior was.
“A case, likely,” said he, having somewhat recovered himself already. John still sat motionless and silent, cheeks draining to white. “And evidently one that cannot wait, if they’ve managed to beat the telegram here from Baker Street.” He rose from the sofa, dusting himself off imperiously. “Come, Watson,” he said. “Let us go and see what it is they want.”
“But Holmes, your eye!” said John, rising to follow him nonetheless.
Holmes waved one hand dismissively. “It will be fine – I believe that you managed to extract most of the gravel already, and this client is a man of little patience.”
It turned out that he was right on that score, and so they both were soon out the door, Holmes scoffing at the myopia of a household that kept neither pancake makeup nor bootblack at hand for a quick disguise. Once the door swung shut behind them and I found myself alone, the silence of the empty house felt immense and oppressive, though it could not compare to the electric weight of the silence I had felt in the parlour only minutes earlier. I tried to distract myself by beginning to prepare the evening meal, soon found I was quite unable to shake away thoughts of what I had seen. The kitchen seemed so unbearably hot, no matter how I fanned myself, and I had no guarantee that John would even return in time to enjoy dinner with me. And so eventually I set the preparations aside, resolving to have a simple meal on my own when hunger struck, and gave up cooking to retire to the bedroom where I might spend the rest of the fevered afternoon in my own company, imagining what I might have seen had the bell not rung.
Even before that day, I had always known that they cared for each other deeply – as I said earlier, I would have been a fool not to see that – and to some extent I had suspected that something deeper lay beneath the surface of their intimate friendship. What I saw that day did not exactly serve as proof, but it certainly changed the way I viewed their relationship, and as I watched them, keeping that interrupted moment always in mind, it became easier and easier to find further signs of a deep attraction that went always unspoken, unacknowledged.
I had seen the blackness of John’s suffering when he believed Holmes to be dead, and I could feel the desperate affection that drove him to Holmes’ side at all hours and in all manner of circumstance, that painted new lines in his beloved face and left him sighing like the heroine of a romance novel when he thought himself unobserved. I know he would never dare on his own to speak the words, much less step forward and close the last bit of distance between them (as so many observed, they often acted the part of a long-married couple just as well as John and myself), and so I gathered my wits about me and I schemed and I planned and I plotted.
Part of the reason that I did this was my desire to be a good wife to John. But even a non-observant reader is sure to have noticed that my motives were not entirely altruistic, that the idea held a decided appeal for me. In any case, I strived to create circumstances in which, if the ha’penny romance novels were to be believed, John and Holmes might find themselves overwhelmed by passion and give in to those baser instincts that I knew that they must secretly harbour. Initially, I was afraid of being discovered – surely after a few of my failed schemes, they would begin to question the strangely specific circumstances in which they continuously found themselves. But plan after plan began and ended with neither man the wiser, and I had cause to wonder whether the lack of questioning was due to the many peculiarities that Holmes’ cases presented, or if they might not be enjoying it.
The machinations of my mind in those days must have rivalled those of the most hardened criminals of London. I contrived for John and Holmes to fall into rivers and ponds together; for public houses to be full up, “excepting one bed, gentlemen;” and I sent them on stakeouts with one long blanket to wrap around their shoulders, so that they might huddle together for warmth. I arranged once for them to have the Turkish baths entirely to themselves and for their clothes to be lost in the changing rooms, but even these efforts were fruitless.
There was one instance when I was visiting family in the country where a “thankful client” sent a package to Baker Street containing lavish gifts of oysters, fine chocolates, wine, and all manner of delights intended to induce romance. But when I returned from my trip, it did not appear that the scheme had been successful, though I did find my husband somewhat more jumpy and guilty than one might expect of an entirely innocent man, a fact that encouraged me greatly. So when the opportunity next presented itself, I seized it and redoubled my efforts – on top of the gifts, I sent the boy Wiggins with a novel procured from a most disreputable bookseller (and if questioned, a few coins extra in the loyal boy’s pocket were sufficient to keep him quiet on any involvement Mrs Watson might have had in the matter).
Now, I have already alluded to the swooning heroines and pounding hearts and hackneyed clichés that populated such literature but this work was of a decidedly different bent, and produced rather more locally – right there in our own London, in fact, by an fan of John’s tales. This anonymous author fancied to see much the same things as I did in the flowery descriptions of Holmes’ elegant hands and brilliant mind. In fact, further investigation revealed that the increasingly famous devotion between the two had already inspired many such writings, full of varied and imaginative suggestions as to how the great Sherlock Holmes and his doctor companion might pass the time between cases, complete with many holistic remedies they might employ to stave off the black moods that famously plagued Holmes. One such tale which I shall not soon forget had my husband eloquently suggest that, “Without a problem to occupy your mind, Holmes, perhaps you might find something to occupy your mouth.”
These pamphlets, so far as I could ascertain, were of different authors and varied wildly in their length and quality. While I found a great many of them to be effective in producing a decided heat below the collar (no longer feeling such surprise at my own unconventional proclivities), most of the authors had a habit of taking rather many liberties with the subject matter that they treated. I did not need my husband’s expert knowledge of physiology to see that many of the acts described so plainly were in actuality quite impossible (or at least Herculean) demands to make of the male anatomy. (And as to the pamphlet’s vivid descriptions of those particular organs, the less said the better). But nonetheless, I hoped that despite the obvious factual inaccuracies, their passions, aided by strong drink and stimulating fare, would push them over the edge of their propriety.
Despite these hopes, I was not surprised when upon my return I saw that this plan too had been a failure. That was to be expected, after all – even if John had been able to stomach the stories’ unique foibles and the way that they must have irked his years of medical experience, one could hardly imagine that Holmes, who demanded rigorous scientific accuracy even from my husband’s romantic retellings of their adventures, could do the same.
Ultimately, I understand that it was foolish to imagine that the sheer force of my will might be sufficient to force the hands of Fate. There was a period in which I became discouraged and ceased to make any such efforts at all, but eventually, I did succeed, and when I finally did, it was the result of a series of events over which I had exerted very little control whatsoever.
My cousin Catherine had once brought her little daughter to us with a persistent and nasty croup that John had fortunately been able to cure. As they were family, John naturally refused to take any payment for his work, despite the repeated protests of Catherine and her husband, until finally they became so frustrated with his stubbornness that they very nearly forced us to make use of their little country cottage for a holiday. It was with great reluctance that John agreed at last – pressured, I think, by my retellings of my very fond childhood memories.
And thinking back about the cottage, I could see very well how lovely it was, how picturesque, how isolated – how very conducive to romance. I suggested very casually that we might take a longer holiday, and that John might extend an invitation to Holmes to join us for a day or two. It would do him a great deal of good to take in some country air, rather than being shut up with his experiments. And besides, I told him, it only need be for a day or two; Holmes could hardly be convinced to leave the city for very long, and there would certainly be enough time for John and I to spend alone together in whatever manner we thought most pleasant.
Uttered with a blushing smile and a downward-cast face, this proved sufficient motivation for him to accept – coupled, I am sure, with John’s altruistic desire to see his friend take some much-needed rest -- and I called on Catherine to thank her and take her up on her kind offer. We began to make plans for our departure and John engaged an old colleague to take patients in his absence, but as readers of John’s stories might imagine, actually convincing Holmes to accompany us was quite another matter. He refused outright, saying the city needed him, and would not hear any talk of the benefits of country air or regular relaxation. John had all but given up on the intractable man by the point that I decided to see what I might do. I went to visit Marie Hudson.
It was not often that she and I took tea together, but when we did, there was no shortage of topics for lively conversation. Over a few hours of pleasant chatter, I happened to remark that Mr Holmes had been looking unusually gaunt recently, even for him, and lamented what a pity it was that he had been unable to accept our invitation. Wouldn’t it be a lovely coincidence, I posited, if circumstances required that he suddenly to change his plans, so that he might accompany his friend after all?
Mrs Hudson agreed sympathetically and fell silent, but as she leaned back to sip her wine, a small smile crossed her face – as she dreamed, no doubt, of a few peaceful days without gunshots or toxic fumes or clients and street Arabs knocking her up at all hours. I knew that I had found an ally. She tipped me a conspiratorial wink and topped off my glass.
“What do you think of the duck, Mary?” she asked me. “It’s my own recipe.”
She served me another portion of her fine cooking and we passed the rest of the evening quite pleasantly, without another word on the subject of Holmes or our holiday. And dependably, when the morning of our departure dawned, John awoke to a telegram from Baker Street, enquiring whether there might still be space for Holmes after all, as a botched experiment had left his rooms quite uninhabitable for the next few nights. My husband’s happy surprise was evident on his face, but I only smiled mildly and remarked that it was a fortuitous chance indeed.
When we met Holmes at the train station two hours later, he was loading his hastily packed valise into the luggage compartment of our car, colour high on his cheeks and still sputtering his rage. “Damnable woman, keeping the lamp oils in with the my supplies!” he muttered. “For all the…”
Again, I smiled and said nothing in particular, settling back to read my book. John laughed and made great sport of Holmes’ scorched eyebrows and, before he might wound Holmes’ pride, offered up his latest manuscript for a diversion.
The scenery on our journey was quite lovely and the natural surroundings of the cabin just as picturesque as I had remembered, but what was especially refreshing was to see the setting of my childhood games through John’s eyes. He held me by the hand and commented on the trees and architecture, asking after landmarks, childhood friends, and the local cuisine. I answered as best I could, all while observing the way that Holmes’ displeasure bristled with each subsequent enquiry. At first it seemed curious that he might react this way, but the more I considered the matter, the better I understood it.
I, for one, knew for certain that no matter how much John might delight in the occasional country holiday, he ultimately did not wish to leave London. Holmes, on the other hand, did not seem to have anticipated that John might wish to marry – he might very well suspect that there lay in John Watson’s breast other desires of which he knew nothing. And it was not just the matter of marriage itself – since we had wed, Holmes had seen his comrade in arms pull back, at times to pay greater attention to his practice, his wife, and to all the minutiae of domestic life than to his friend’s cases. With Holmes’ fervor for his work, such thoughts must be utterly alien.
I had married John accepting, however reluctantly, that he was wed to his friend just as much as to me, and in time, I had come to enjoy the life the three of us had, secure in my knowledge of his loyalty. Holmes, by contrast, must feel he had been forced to give John up not knowing to what fate he might choose to go. If seeing John gush to me about this country town inspired in him some fear, that was only natural. The thought made me pity him, though he surely would have loathed to know it. I did what I could to drag him into our conversation, but in his hurt he remained aloof.
We passed the remainder of the afternoon quite pleasantly with some sightseeing and finished at a pub that looked shabby on the outside, but Holmes’ intuition proved correct and we were surprised with a sumptuous meal. Once back at the cottage, Holmes retired early, pleading exhaustion from the rich food and the exertions of the day. I was disappointed to see him turn in before I had a chance to put any of my half-formed plans to work. Indeed, I would be lying to say that I did not consider simply following him. But of course I could not imagine how I might suggest such an idea to John without making him defensive and frightening him off the concept altogether. Better to wait, I decided, not to show my hand too early but to plant seeds where I could and encourage the opportunity to present itself naturally.
It was not long before I entreated John that we might retire as well, and when we were settled into the big bed in our nightclothes, I took him in my arms. In his embrace, I did my best to exploit my wifely knowledge of him to its very best advantage, employing all my wits in the aim of producing a noise, some small sign of our pleasure that our fellow lodger might take for an invitation. John, for his part, fought with every ounce of his stoicism and will, and remained almost entirely silent, none of the passion on his beautifully expressive face finding voice.
Even so, my mind would not rest and so I bid him lie back that I might sit astride his thighs. From that position, I could watch him gazing up at me, eyes glossy and soft with affection and sensation – and I could still remain free to imagine that behind me , any second now, I might hear that creak of the heavy oak door beginning to open…
This thought spurred me to move my hips faster and faster still – John stifled a gasp into the crook of my neck – and with that image in mind, I at last reached my crisis and trembled there on the edge, overcome and fairly sobbing my own pleasure, and John followed me soon thereafter.
If the noises I made struck John as strange or out of character, he did not say. When I collapsed against his chest, he simply wrapped his strong arms around me and I felt his breathing grow deeper and deeper. I laid my head on his good soldier and succumbed to a fitful, dreamless sleep.
I believe that John blushed to meet his friend over our breakfast the next morning, but in Holmes expression I could read nothing out of the ordinary. I knew he would not have needed the keen senses that John describes in his stories in order to have heard us, and I could not help but wonder what he might have made of my display. There were a few moments where I could have sworn that his eyes lingered on me longer than usual – appraising and searching – but this could just as easily have been my imagination. In any case, I did my best not to blush – though to do so would have been a more direct indication of my interest, I could not risk Holmes imagining that my interest was for him and him alone. Instead of a blushing maid, I must be a brazen temptress, smiling boldly and tempting him into our marriage bed.
Over the last crumbs of our toast, we decided our plans for the day. I had discovered, to my great delight, that Dorothy, one of my childhood playmates was still living in the area and so I had made plans to call on her and return in the evening. John expressed his desire to take the air and with some needling, managed to convince Holmes to accompany him on a hike. He was sure that the outing would keep them occupied for most of the day, and we would reunite in the evening. As I packed them a simple lunch to carry, I noticed that the basket was a great deal heavier than I had imagined – when I opened it, I saw that Holmes has anticipated John’s suggestion of outdoor enjoyments and had stashed away a few chemistry journals to keep himself amused.
As they went out the door, I handed the basket over to him with a knowing smile and, over John’s head, he dropped me a sly wink that, if I suspected he knew what I was planning, would have painted me red to the roots of my hair. I bid them goodbye as normally as possible and, once they were gone, took a few minutes to rest upon the large sofa in the sitting room and collect my thoughts.
It was wonderful to see my friend again after so long – such reunions are always a joy – and we had many years worth of stories to share, despite the very different paths our lives had taken. I fawned over her two fair-haired children – Caroline, a bright-eyed girl of six whose bold and direct questions made me chuckle, and George, a shy boy of four, still clinging to his mother’s skirts and sucking one wrinkled pink thumb. Observing this happy family and their easy affection, I could not help but smile. Even the seemingly endless demands they made for their mother’s time and attention thrilled me in some small way – she smiled wryly at me over their curly heads as if to apologise, but I could see clearly how much they revered, loved, and needed her. Sipping my tea, I wondered if this was what the future might hold for me, and if so, if this was what I truly desired. How would I fare in such a sweet and placid existence, accustomed as I had become to the romance of adventure and its sudden, inexorable call?
Unfortunately, I did not have as long as I would have liked to sit and ponder. Our visit was cut short when Dorothy suddenly took ill. Her complexion was pale to begin with, but over the course of our conversation, the colour drained from her face further, and I recalled that she had shown little appetite for our luncheon. Soon enough, she was wincing, rubbing at her temples, and lettings her statements trail off as if her thoughts were being interrupted. I began to grow concerned, but was promptly reassured by her daughter that all would be well.
“Mother’s having one of her headaches,” Caroline told me with the distinct, matter-of-fact manner peculiar to children who suddenly find themselves more knowledgeable than an adult. “She can go back to bed for the afternoon, but there’s nothing else for it.”
Dorothy shushed her little girl, but I noticed that her teeth were still gritted.
“Are you truly all right?” I asked, laying a hand upon her shoulder. “John is a doctor, you know – it would be no trouble at all for him to come by and see to you this evening.”
She refused this offer of help, assuring me that it was as her daughter said – as long as she could rest before it got much worse, a few hours of quiet and darkness should restore her health. Caroline nodded along sagely at this, and I could see that Dorothy clearly did need to rest, so I quickly bid her good day and left her to her rest.
I made Caroline promise to send word to us if her mother did not appear to be fully herself when she awoke. She agreed and saw me to the door with stately manners and, as I retreated down the path, I heard the sound of her footsteps pounding up the stairs and her voice calling for her governess to begin her lessons.
“And give me proper sums this time! Yesterday’s were too simple!”
So it was that I found myself back at our cottage much earlier than I had anticipated, with the rest of the afternoon to spend as I liked. I found an adventure novel on the bookshelf and carried it with me to the lake and enjoy the sunshine. It was quite an engrossing story, and as I breathed in the sweet country air and let my ears fill with birdsong and the lapping of the lake waters, I soon found myself quite lost in its romantic words, drifting calmly between my world and the one in its pages.
It could not have been more than an hour’s reading when I heard a cry that drew me to my feet and back to our reality. I raised my head, startled into alertness, to see Holmes and my husband staggering towards me from the underbrush, both with faces so grey that at first I could not have said which of them was hurt.
Though it was John, of course it was – my husband with his old injuries and his lion’s heart – he was the one on whom the hammer would fall while Holmes skittered oblivious out of its path, or let John push him to safety at his own expense. Holmes was the one using him for a shield and a Sherpa, stepping behind him one moment and the next skipping into danger for flitting about the continent on some grand adventure and leaving his friend here to grieve him for dead. I cursed Holmes in moments like this – it was so easy to blame him, to forget that John too was rushing headlong into danger and direct all my anger at Holmes. Today, though, was the first time that I had seen the immediate aftermath, though, seen the fear and guilt in Holmes’ eyes rather than just the blood on my husband’s shirts, seen the careful way he watched their footing as he supported John, lest they slip again. I saw the hard line of his mouth, the dark stains of sweat on his fine clothes and – despite his obvious exhaustion and fear – the steadiness of his right arm around John’s shoulders, his left crossing his own torso to bolster against John’s ribs.
My novel lay on the ground at my feet. My pulse was loud in my ears.
“What happened?” I called, trying and failing to control the pitch of my voice. “Are you…?”
Holmes made to speak but John cut him off. “I’m fine, Mary, really.” His breath came short from slack lips, and beads of sweat stood out on his forehead. “Truly – it’s not like it looks. It was just a bad tumble.” His voice was steady, if forced, and despite the many signs of pain I could see writ on his face and form, I believed that he was telling me the truth. Pain, there might be in no small amount, I was sure, but if he had the energy to make more than a token protest, even after his journey back; if he felt strong enough to try to shake of Holmes’ arms (as he was trying to at that moment) in order prove to me that nothing was wrong, then I knew that I could relax.
Nonetheless, I moved forward to take his other arm. “I’m sure it’s nothing,” I agreed, “but there’s no harm in being too careful. Let us sit you down.”
“Sit me down?” he protested. “I say, I could have walked more easily on my own, without worrying about tripping over Holmes’ feet.”
Even saying this, he did not resist my touch, letting me settle my arm beneath his shoulders, where it slotted against the sinew of Holmes’. John saw the wisdom of our efforts and allowed us, protesting all the while that it was nothing more than cramps, to carry him the rest of the way to the house and deposit him upon the wide sofa.
Settled more or less comfortably, he began to show signs of improvement almost immediately. I sent Holmes to fetch whatever manner of spirits the kitchen might have to offer, and knelt before John to get the measure of his injury, prodding the muscle experimentally through the fabric of his trousers.
“It was only a cramp, nothing serious,” he told me. He hissed through his teeth as my fingers found a particularly tender spot. “I swear to you, Mary – I happened to have taken a tumble a few minutes before, and so when I fell again, Holmes refused to listen to reason. I’d have been better off if he would have just let me rest there.”
I was inclined to agree– the colour had already returned to his lips, and he was able to roll his ankle without the appearance of pain. The fall must have aggravated his old injury and the walk back had probably done him more harm than good, but still, I was glad to have him here, where we could be sure that all was well.
“That may be so,” I told him, fingers kneading the tense muscle above his knee. “But I think we ought to be grateful – he won’t take risks when it comes to you. You should count yourself lucky to have such a friend.”
John gave an exasperated laugh. “That is a charitable interpretation if I ever heard one.” He winced as I found a knot and dug in. “More likely that he simply doubts my ability to make such a judgment for myself.”
“Really, Watson,” came a voice from the door, cutting me off before I could speak.
Holmes placed a bottle of brandy and three snifters* on the table and began to pour. “Though I must admit, hearing you so readily embrace such nonsense does very little for my faith in your deductive abilities.” His voice was carefully level.
John sighed. “Holmes, I –”
“Drink.” Holmes handed him a glass and John obeyed, taking first a careful sip and then a long draught, hissing as the spirit burned in his throat. It was then that the idea began to trickle half formed through my mind – the briefest flash of a picture, the suggestion of a scene.
“Holmes,” I said, speaking before I could second-guess myself. “It looks like John will be fine, but I believe my hands are too weak for this work. You might be able to do more good for the muscle, if…” I did not go so far as to suggest it outright, and I could not meet his eyes for fear of what he might read on my face, but before John could protest, Holmes answered:
“Of course.”