RETURN TO BAKER STREET
Sitting on either side of the enchanting, familiar fire, it was easy to believe no time had passed since I had last seen my closest -- my only friend. The past three, lonely years certainly had elapsed in harsh reality. We shared this first quiet, eminently comfortable evening together in so long, yet there was an underlying tension in the air.
The once completely compatible/companionable silence now seemed a chasm of separation. I could not ignore the distance between us. This gulf was more than the memory of absent days on the calendar, more than the lingering trauma of danger, violence and death. Reaching out and filling the gap with a much-needed explanation from me could only heal this breech between us.
After Moran's capture we had walked part of the way to the Yard which dispelled some of my strain. I had been unbalanced and out of control when facing Moran, whom I blamed for my separation from, and current rift with Watson. The climax of a three-year trial of nerves was more difficult than anticipated. My control shattered when I saw the end of the chase. Poor Watson. He was stunned at my violence, my rejection of his cautionary touch. He ignored my unraveled temper with stoic silence -- a new barrier I dislike.
Before our breakfast Watson had insisted on starting notes on the 'amazing and remarkable events' of the last hours. I made an issue of condescending, yet in truth, was inwardly pleased at the familiarity of Watson at his desk scribbling his narratives. It evoked a homey reminiscence lending to the fantasy that there had never been an absence.
After several hours our conversation finally slowed to brief comments connecting the extended periods of muteness. The brandy glasses had been refilled several times and I noticed my companion was close to nodding to sleep. No surprise. It had been a traumatic and trying adventure for my stalwart friend.
My usually immune nature succumbed to the sentimentality and intimacy of the moment. I was loath to end this peaceful, calm interlude. I saw this as the precursor of a permanent return to our renewed partnership. I wished to linger in this timeless moment where there were no threats, no demands and no conflicts.
The more pragmatic portion of my nature recognized that soon this afternoon must come to an end. Our future was bright with the promise of an even stronger partnership in the coming years, yet there was a final price to pay for my truancy.
Differing experiences and emotions had taken a toll on us both, had created a separation between us which had never existed before. Unquestionably those years had been hardest on my friend. Undeniably I had been the cause of the worst of the harshest hurts inflicted upon him. It was my duty to ease those pains. Guilt, uncertainty, and my own fear of the emotional truth restrained my tongue every time I thought to bridge the unspoken distance which was an invisible wall between the past and the future, between Watson and myself.
My sudden resurrection had brought profound elation to my friend. We both had been charged by the energy of our reunion. Added to that was the excitement of the dangerous adventure as we stalked Moran. Throughout the day and night I had noticed, felt, his eyes upon me almost constantly, as if I was still part of his imagination. As if he was afraid to look away and find me vanished.
In the aftermath of our adventure I found myself exhibiting the same superstition and surveillance upon him. As I watched -- I could hardly restrain a constant study of the one person I had sorely missed -- his tired, subdued blue eyes were sober. As always, I had no trouble reading his thoughts through his features. He was slightly uncomfortable coming back here, unsure of his position in a home foreign and forbidding after my supposed death.
I would have been surprised at this sense of alienation if I had not seen him yesterday in the role of Doctor John Watson, General Practitioner and Police Surgeon. That doctor was a man disillusioned with life, worn out and defeated by the cruelties of a Fate, which had robbed him of the only people who had filled his life with meaning. Not to exaggerate my own status, but there was never a doubt that for ten years I had been Watson's closest friend. Just as Watson had been the only person in the world with whom I had any emotional commitment. He was my only friend, my indispensable companion.
When he married and moved away there was, at first, a tremor of change in our relationship. After I recovered from my brief, selfish reaction of jealousy at being robbed of my companion, I was pleased at my friend's happiness and came to cherish Mary Watson. I believe she was insightful enough to perceive my view of her had altered from competitor to ally. We shared common, albeit different, affections for the anchor, the stabilizing force, in our lives.
When first I had seen Watson again -- only yesterday? -- the weary doctor on the courthouse steps, then met him in the consulting room, I had been stunned by the change in my old friend. My supposed death, the death of Mary, had aged him. There were grief-lines in his face and a shadow -- a haunting hollowness -- in his eyes which left him empty of everything but the pain of mourning and sorrow. The man who had been my strength, my guardian, had been crushed during -- because of -- my 'death'.
Sobered, yet not humbled by this revelation, I still foolishly felt my miraculous resurrection would breathe life back into both of us. My appearance, Watson's certain elation, would erase, on both sides, the loneliness and pain of three long years.
My dramatic return was more effective than anticipated. When Watson fainted I was jarred back to reality. I felt the first inklings of how deeply Watson's grief had absorbed his waking moments.
'Plagued of sighing and grief.' Shakespeare labeled itI thought to briefly summarize my three years past and go on with life. Secretly this confession was a dread I had avoided. I had deliberately put off writing, put off my return to London because I did not know how I would approach Watson. When I did come back yesterday it was to Mycroft, Baker Street and even the courthouse first. I prolonged the inevitable meeting with the one person I longed to see -- the one person I dreaded to confront. Once face to face with my friend I avoided the explanation and offered every opportunity to slip out of a necessary obligation which would bring yet more pain to Watson. I hesitated out of cowardice as much as my desire to protect my friend from what, perhaps, was the cruelest blow of all.
The one person deserving an explanation, deserving the truth, was the man I had deceived for so long. I well knew I had repaid his loyalty and single-minded, honourable devotion with sly subterfuge.
' "How did you live?" ' he had wondered. There had been a hint of intuitive guardedness in his voice.
I glibly explained my escape from death at the Falls, my flight across Europe, and lastly, my secret liaison with Mycroft instead of him. I DID NOT mention Mycroft's blame in keeping my escape a secret. I had no wish to deepen the wound by petty details. The damage was done. The hurt in his face was enough. The betrayal in his voice, the wounded, condemningly quiet words: 'I would have thought I was at least as trustworthy as your brother,' were a twisted blade in my heart.
A chunk of coal fell against the grate and Watson's eyes blinked out of the lethargy. He was on the verge of sleep, he commented round a yawn.
"You seem troubled," I commented off-handedly.
The empty brandy glass in his hand was placed onto the hearth, and then he stretched and admitted he was only troubled the day must end. He started to leave. I leaped to my feet to physically block him, persuade him to stay.
Watson was ever so skillful at reading the emotions beneath my spare comments. Three years certainly had not robbed him of now hearing the plea in my voice, which I could not bring myself to say in words.
By unspoken agreement -- command -- I had indicated we were to pick up where we left off. I had hoped there would be no need of a formal invitation for Watson to return to Baker Street -- to his real home. He was as much a part of these old rooms as I.
His serious eyes bore into mine. I felt a momentary stab of fear that I could not avoid facing his most probing and searching questions. Watson would not accept life as it once was because life had changed too much. I had disrupted the trust between us and I would have to work to regain his complete faith.
'I need you here,' was what I wanted to say. Even to Watson I could not reveal emotions so deep as to be foreign even to myself.
He muttered of his neglected, meager practice. I countered, with abrupt impatience that I had been gone for three years and the practice could wait. My tone reflected the nervous irritation, which overrode my tact. I emphasized my plea by gripping his arm.
Even after the long separation I found my selfishness return automatically: Watson was my devoted friend, I could not tolerate outside commitments which frequently drew him away from our work.
Fatigue always brought out Watson's well-hidden acerbity. Almost instantly I saw the anger flare in his expression. The wrinkle lines round his eyes and mouth twitched as reference to my absence struck deep.
Hotly he reminded me that it had been my choice to be absent. He paused, his eyes reflecting some of that bleak regret I had seen when first we met in the consulting room.
Fear that I had driven him away made my hand suddenly without strength. I released his arm and stepped back. An impulsive confession was on my lips, ready to spill out in a rush. My inhibitions brought a halt to the catharsis. I held my breath waiting for Watson's reaction.
Watson's initially hostile expression held for several moments. Then the tension, the memory of grief faded from his eyes, replaced by a confused look of uncertainty.
He quietly spoke of his feelings of betrayal at my unconscionable treatment. Then an old familiar look of warm affection briefly washed across his face.
"Holmes --" he said with a crack in his voice. Somberly he indicated it was all in the past. He offered a reassuring pat on my arm and started to leave.
I again gripped his arm, forcing him to hold his ground. I knew my Watson and clearly saw he was gracefully leaving a trap-door for either of us to escape further soul-baring.
It was easier discussing his emotions than mine. Even easier was ignoring the poignant, earnest sensibilities charging between us. Afraid to reveal too much of my inner thoughts, I retreated with a humble confession on my lips.
I released his arm and turned to the mantle where I found solace -- distraction -- in my pipe. I fumbled for the briar, which rested next to Watson's ubiquitous flask. 'I trust you, more than I can voice, my dear Watson,' I inwardly sighed.
I had reached my limit and could go no further. Watson would have to close the gap as he always did. My great lesson in loneliness had not improved my deficiencies with social relations.
When he spoke his words came slowly, his voice deep, as was usual when his sensitivity and emotions surfaced. From the reflection in the mirror his life-worn face expressed such vulnerability I looked away. I wanted to match his strength -- draw from his tremendous fortitude -- retain the eye contact, but found I could not.
"I would have paid any price to see you alive." His voice faltered. He cleared his throat then continued, "You returned life to me with your reappearance." He released a long, heartfelt sigh. "We must put the past behind us. We've known enough loneliness."
Once more he responded to what I felt instead of what I said. I could not clear the knot in my throat to say anything. Words would have been insignificant. I blinked back the moisture in my eyes before turning back
Watson's astute perspicacity was unrecognized by the world. Certainly his insights were never truly appreciated even by me. His eyes now seemed misted. He cleared his throat and glanced away, as if he could read not just my feelings but my very thoughts -- an occasional talent I thought exclusive to myself.
My overpowering sense, as he glanced back at me with his honest, soul-deep eyes was that I had but to ask forgiveness for this greatest injury to our friendship and all would be forgiven. True friends forgive a great deal. I have found Watson is the greatest friend of all. For he also understood that I could not ask for such considerations, yet he still remained my friend.
Not for the first time I marveled at the inequality of our friendship. There seemed a never-ending well of support, understanding and inexhaustible patience from Watson. Attributes I often countered with moodiness, superiority and stubborn pride
The stronger, more enduring doctor lived in the shadow of the dramatic, aloof, erratic detective. It was he, however, who was the backbone of our partnership. He was the one who held the true strength. Someday I hoped to find a way to tell him I was well aware of the truth.
He stepped close and put his hands on my arms, as he had when he awoke from his faint in the consulting room. It was as if he was still testing to be assured I was real. He did not say so, but I knew he was recalling the suffering of the last three years.
He released his grip and turned toward the mantle where he leaned on his elbow.
"I am glad it is now over."
So eloquent was the suffering related in the fleeting yet bleak expression that I had to fight back a sympathetic reply. What Watson had endured in the three years was clearly conveyed in those briefly haunted eyes and the grim words. It was crushing to see my friend's endurance, his survival, had found a limit. I had pushed him over that edge as surely as I had pushed Moriarty over the more tangible rim of Reichenbach.
"I hope it is," I replied. More than ever I hoped he would read between the invisible lines of what I said, to understand what I meant.
He smoothed out his thick mustache with nervous fingers. "I am perhaps less long-suffering than you think. Your recklessness is something I may never forgive. You have a reprehensible, careless attitude about your own safety," he emphasized, wagging a finger at me
"I . . ." My voice faded.
"Never mind," he waved away. He glanced at me with a rueful expression. He seemed as eager as I to leave this disturbing territory of the raw past. "At any rate, the reason for all this is now gone. You are returned and that is what is important."
He smiled rather sadly, yet with a sincerity which negated the poignancy of the words. I tangibly felt the layers of remorse and bitterness surrounding my mind. If I did not confess now, come clean with my friend, then we would heal the breech between us with a visible scar. As before, Watson was changing the subject, leading us gracefully away from an encounter too intense for either of us. Now was the chance to confess and lay the blame on my brother, where it in part belonged. This was the time to admit to my own delays and hesitance because I could not face Watson, could not allow him to see my deepest fears, could not admit to leaning more heavily on cocaine than upon him.
His discerning eyes were probing into mine -- daring -- anxious about a final word on this volatile subject. I could not voice what I felt, nor could I acknowledge the importance of the tremendous sensibilities coursing between us. My guilt would remain submerged. Better for Watson to not completely forgive, better for me not to forgive myself, rather than expose more painful truths. An unworthy refuge for one who prided himself on the quest for justice
A morsel of penitence existed because I had not yet, but would, forgive Mycroft. His heartless insensitivity to Watson was reprehensible yet comprehensible. Against my express instructions to continually update him, Mycroft had chosen not only to keep Watson in the dark about my escape, but also to exclude Watson from Baker Street and all matters concerning me.
When asked how he explained away the lack of a memorial service, reading of a will, or the sealing of our rooms, Mycroft said he merely informed Watson that I had requested no such formalities! Incongruously he kept the lease of Baker Street. Watson should have seen through these shabby excuses, yet could be forgiven the oversight due to his obviously disturbed emotional state
Incensed by Mycroft's 'need to know' mentality and lack of compassion, I grudgingly accepted my sibling's excuses. Irritatingly he yet was unconvinced he had made a mistake. His aloof character and secluded nature prevented him from the slightest sensitivity to feelings. Guiltily I recognized I was as cold as my brother for avoiding a complete explanation to my friend.
I leaned on the mantle-ledge and lit my forgotten pipe. I nearly choked on the three-year-old, stale tobacco. I had yet to replace new shag into the toe of the slipper
"Here." My companion drew a silver cigarette case from his pocket. "This is yours."
I reached for the case, then paused, hesitant to take hold of the familiar object. It was the case Watson had given me upon our first Christmas in Baker Street. Upon one side were my initials, an inscription and date. I remembered it had been an expensive gift considering his limited pension salary. He had confessed that extra winnings on a horse race had provided the funds. The case had been left at Reichenbach to weight the farewell note I had left my friend. Obviously he had retained this, as well as the note, as keepsakes of that fateful day.
Not a sentimental man, I recognized the object had taken on a worth beyond price. To me it represented Watson's high regard and affection for me. On his side, no doubt, it was an item of much the same value.
I took the case and slipped it into my breast pocket. "Thank you," I quietly said with the appropriate solemnity of a sacred trust passed from one brother-knight to another. I patted the case -- a comfortable weight against my chest
In that symbolic trade I felt we had come full circle. It was time to move on. I had not the heart or courage to lay my emotions and sins before my friend.
"Now, you will stay in your room tonight," I insisted, returning to our original point of conflict.
Watson shook his head, his expression an uncomfortable blend of rueful regret. He recognized that given the decision, I chose to close this door. He had expected, perhaps hoped, I would seize the initiative. Relief and disappointment warred in his eyes. Clearly it was difficult for Watson to see so many rends in my armour. Remarkably, typically, he ignored the tarnished image.
"I cannot stay now. But --"
I ignored his hesitation, his doubt -- ignored MY doubts -- and forged on. "You WILL move back as soon as possible?" I demanded.
His smile was sincere. "Of course I shall if you wish me to."
"Of course I do, Watson. And we will move your things this week."
"Holmes --!"
"No arguments, Watson. There is no reason for delay."
My manner was, as usual, forceful and decisive. I wanted to leave no room for debate. I had spent too many lonely moments these past years to easily surrender any time with my friend. I would offer him no option.
"You will sell your practice?"
It was more of a statement than a question. Again, I wanted Watson to clearly read the urgency of my request between the lines of my statement. This time I could not command. The practice, the house, held memories, held a part of Watson's life, which I did not share. I felt, however, he was as anxious as I was to start again with our partnership
Indecision was clear on his face. "I can't just walk away, Holmes," he said after a moment. "It will take time. To find a buyer."
With an abrupt wave of my hand I declared, "I shall buy it then."
"No you will not!" he snapped indignantly.
Impatience almost overstepped my tact. Watson had a proud nature and would not accept my overt interference.
"Very well, then," I sighed with ill-surrendered resignation, "but we must not let it interfere with our investigations. A full partner does not have time for medical duties."
A long-suffering grin played at his mouth. "Aside from obligations to my patients, I must keep up the practice if I want to get a good price."
I dismissed his pragmatism with another impulsive wave accompanied by a snort of disapproval. "My selling price is my only source of income." Meaningfully he finished with a dry tone, "Particularly since you have forbidden any further stories in print."
I ignored the reference to a conversation from earlier in the evening. I had noted more published stories in my absence and placed a ban on future chronicles in magazines. He would continue to act as my biographer and chronicler, but only for my private records.
"Your income is from our partnership," I responded crisply.
In the first ten years of our partnership Watson had refused many proceeds of my salaries. Despite his continual support and meticulous records of our cases, he did not consider his contributions worthy of high payment. Now on the brink of this second chance, perhaps out of my guilt, I intended to change his mind.
"With our first case we shall split the fee evenly. Added to that, whatever sum you receive from your practice will certainly make up for your lack of income from magazine sales."
With that note of finality I hoped to put an end to any more discussion of trivialities of money and income. However, I saw Watson was not well pleased with the business proposition
"Half is hardly fair," he countered, uncertainty evident in his voice. "You do all the work --"
"Watson, Watson!" I cried in near despair. I placed my hands on his shoulders and chuckled with exasperation. "These are mere bagatelles! My dear Watson, the money is nothing." With the slightest reprisal I said, "You still have the fatal habit of stumbling over the inconsequential. What matters to me is only your speedy return to Baker Street. Your imminent place beside me at this hearth and wherever else future adventures may find us is the important issue."
For the first time in this rather trying conversation did my friend submit to a smile, which spread warmth across his face and even to his haunted-no-longer eyes. A smile quickly turned into a delightful laugh. He nodded in agreement.
"Very well. I shall make my return as quickly as I can get my things together. And I will put the practice on the market as soon as possible."
Within my own mind I was already composing the ads I would place -- with Watson's approval. I would, of course, wait until breakfast to inform Watson of the plans about to be set in motion. I did not want him to feel overwhelmed by my control of the situation.
"Now," he commented with a sigh and a glance at the clock, "I really must return to Kensington --"
"Watson --"
"To ask my neighbor to take surgery tonight," he finished with a smile.
"We shall send a messenger," I revised. I shouted down for Mrs. Hudson to bring up a celebratory dinner. "Hah! Wonderful, Watson. It will be just like old times."
He regarded me with a warm, familiar smile. "Yes, like old times."
For a moment I impressed every detail upon my mind, savoring the comforts of home, hearth and companionship which I had so sorely missed for so long.
Watson went downstairs to find the messenger. When I could no longer hear his familiar tread on the stairs I suddenly felt the aloneness, albeit temporary, of the room. In the last three years I had known enough loneliness to last the rest of my life. As comforting as Baker Street was, it was merely a cozy sitting room and adjoining trappings. The heart of the appeal to this home was the accepting companionship I found here.
With a burst of energy I dashed round the sofa and into the hall. I raced down the stairs in just a few flying leaps, certain I would catch Watson before he sent the messenger off. We would tell the accommodating neighbor to take the practice for the rest of the week. My partner would have better things to do with his time in the future.
SH
4 April 94