being here.”
“Oh,” I say to him. “No apology necessary! She gets just as flustered when the milk man arrives.”
Watson snorts as he seats himself at the table, and Holmes covers the twist in his face by offering to pull out my chair. I accept, cautiously, afraid he might yank it from beneath me like a schoolboy, but I am not to be so humiliated today. In fact, once everyone starts to eat, I think for a moment that dinner will be a silent affair. That is until I ask Watson to pass me the salt.
“I’ve noticed, Mrs. Watson, that you refer to your husband by his surname,” Holmes observes. “It is very strange.”
“You refer to my husband by his surname as well,” I return.
“Ah, yes, but I am not his wife.”
“Hmmm!” I hum brightly at him, and once again his face goes sour. I’m sure he heard every subtle facet of that noise, my implication that I know his nature, that I imagine he would be Watson’s wife if he could, my lording over him the fact that I have that official status in Watson’s life, that I have won. It is a hit against him, a palpable hit.
Alas, however: I am playing against a master, and I can admit when I’ve been clearly outdone.
“You are such a unique person,” Holmes says poisonously. “What a shame that history will most likely never remember your name.”
And just as he could hear all of my insults, I can hear all of his. We speak the same language.
He means to remind me that it is already clear that Sherlock Holmes is a name which will live forever, and not only can I never hope to catch up to him in personal achievement, his is the name that will be always associated with Watson’s as well. Only my grave will connect me with my husband. Who would ever care to remember the wife, the woman behind the man, especially if she is already the second woman?
Holmes goes vigorously back to his food after delivering this blow. Not exactly Queensberry rules he’s fighting with, are they? But he has less to be proud of than he would lead one to believe. He never did fight fair.
1888: The Naval Treaty
A noble man would have let his friend’s marriage stand, but once Holmes had roused himself to fetch Watson once, they fell back into old habits immediately. Not a month after the incident with the Stockbroker’s Clerk, Watson receives an excuse to drop by Baker Street, a letter from an old school friend pleading for help. He couldn’t get to Holmes fast enough, but once he arrived he was content to merely sit in the man’s presence while Holmes finished an experiment.
It was only a “commonplace murder” that Holmes was solving, and he dashed off a note to that effect before giving Watson his full and unfettered attention. He read the letter from Percy Phelps and they took the first train out to Woking, Holmes tweaking Watson affectionately all the way.
“So this is an old friend of yours, Watson? A close friend?”
“Oh, yes, at one time we were extremely close,” said Watson, not realizing he was being teased.
“As close as I am with my friends?” Holmes asked rakishly.
“Why Holmes, I was under the impression that you have very few friends! Oh, wait,” he said, finally noting Holmes’s face. “I see your meaning now. No Holmes, we were not friends of that sort.”
“Really? He seems very warm towards you in his letter.”
“Well, he is a desperate man.”
Holmes burst out in hearty laughter, and even Watson could not help but let a smile escape. It was a delightful day.
Arriving at the Phelps home and hearing of his friend’s troubles however, Watson let his mood dampen in sympathy. He just cannot remain cheerful when confronted with someone else’s suffering. Holmes, as ever, kept his emotions out of the case, out of the world where the rest of us bleed on one another. The mystery of the stolen treaty resided in one area of his mind while in another, he noticed roses growing outside of the window.
Holmes unlatched the window and plucked
“Oh,” I say to him. “No apology necessary! She gets just as flustered when the milk man arrives.”
Watson snorts as he seats himself at the table, and Holmes covers the twist in his face by offering to pull out my chair. I accept, cautiously, afraid he might yank it from beneath me like a schoolboy, but I am not to be so humiliated today. In fact, once everyone starts to eat, I think for a moment that dinner will be a silent affair. That is until I ask Watson to pass me the salt.
“I’ve noticed, Mrs. Watson, that you refer to your husband by his surname,” Holmes observes. “It is very strange.”
“You refer to my husband by his surname as well,” I return.
“Ah, yes, but I am not his wife.”
“Hmmm!” I hum brightly at him, and once again his face goes sour. I’m sure he heard every subtle facet of that noise, my implication that I know his nature, that I imagine he would be Watson’s wife if he could, my lording over him the fact that I have that official status in Watson’s life, that I have won. It is a hit against him, a palpable hit.
Alas, however: I am playing against a master, and I can admit when I’ve been clearly outdone.
“You are such a unique person,” Holmes says poisonously. “What a shame that history will most likely never remember your name.”
And just as he could hear all of my insults, I can hear all of his. We speak the same language.
He means to remind me that it is already clear that Sherlock Holmes is a name which will live forever, and not only can I never hope to catch up to him in personal achievement, his is the name that will be always associated with Watson’s as well. Only my grave will connect me with my husband. Who would ever care to remember the wife, the woman behind the man, especially if she is already the second woman?
Holmes goes vigorously back to his food after delivering this blow. Not exactly Queensberry rules he’s fighting with, are they? But he has less to be proud of than he would lead one to believe. He never did fight fair.
1888: The Naval Treaty
A noble man would have let his friend’s marriage stand, but once Holmes had roused himself to fetch Watson once, they fell back into old habits immediately. Not a month after the incident with the Stockbroker’s Clerk, Watson receives an excuse to drop by Baker Street, a letter from an old school friend pleading for help. He couldn’t get to Holmes fast enough, but once he arrived he was content to merely sit in the man’s presence while Holmes finished an experiment.
It was only a “commonplace murder” that Holmes was solving, and he dashed off a note to that effect before giving Watson his full and unfettered attention. He read the letter from Percy Phelps and they took the first train out to Woking, Holmes tweaking Watson affectionately all the way.
“So this is an old friend of yours, Watson? A close friend?”
“Oh, yes, at one time we were extremely close,” said Watson, not realizing he was being teased.
“As close as I am with my friends?” Holmes asked rakishly.
“Why Holmes, I was under the impression that you have very few friends! Oh, wait,” he said, finally noting Holmes’s face. “I see your meaning now. No Holmes, we were not friends of that sort.”
“Really? He seems very warm towards you in his letter.”
“Well, he is a desperate man.”
Holmes burst out in hearty laughter, and even Watson could not help but let a smile escape. It was a delightful day.
Arriving at the Phelps home and hearing of his friend’s troubles however, Watson let his mood dampen in sympathy. He just cannot remain cheerful when confronted with someone else’s suffering. Holmes, as ever, kept his emotions out of the case, out of the world where the rest of us bleed on one another. The mystery of the stolen treaty resided in one area of his mind while in another, he noticed roses growing outside of the window.
Holmes unlatched the window and plucked
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