My Dear Watson by L.A. Fields Page A

one of the flowers, and this is a fascinating thing to me, because I think I understand what he was trying to do. His discourse on flowers being proof of some benevolent and artistic creator ring rather false from his mouth; I’ve never heard of anyone so married to reason as Sherlock Holmes, and every reasonable man doubts the existence of God profoundly. I’ve never yet met one who was a regular at worship services, though they had all picked through the Bible and could at a second’s notice detail the parts with which they disagree.
    “Our highest assurance of the goodness of Providence seems to me to rest in the flowers,” he said, supposedly deducing that religion is correct because flowers are beautiful. No, Holmes was not having a moment of spiritual conversion. He was putting on a bit of a show for Watson, trying to prove his sensitive side at a most insensitive moment. Watson was left rather more annoyed, much like his friend Phelps and the man’s fiancé, that Holmes seemed so uninvolved in the matter at hand. Watson was used to it, but he was a little embarrassed before his old friend. Phelps’s face seemed to plead towards him—didn’t Watson put his own reputation behind Holmes with the stories he wrote? Was this scatter-brained oddity who stood at their window really the unmatched detective that Watson promised?
    Holmes and Watson left after hearing the story of the missing treaty, since nothing more could be done there. On the train home, Holmes once again attempted to show Watson what a well-rounded, sympathetic person he was, and again he seemed to do it with two left feet. Holmes commented on how nice it was to travel this way, high above London, and to see the surrounding houses. Watson was perplexed since, on looking out the window, all that could be seen was a sordid mass of city and the boarding schools erupting from the sea of roof slates, but that is what Holmes claimed to enjoy: “Lighthouses, my boy! Beacons of the future! Capsules, with hundreds of bright little seeds in each, out of which will spring the wiser, better England of the future.”
    In the same breath Holmes’s mind returned to the case, and apparently he is a bit like talking to a madman in the rapid way his thoughts revolve, but I don’t begrudge him the sentiment this time. I was a teacher before the war, and I plan to be again. I value the potential of bright young children as much as anyone.
    Holmes was obviously trying hard to prove himself, and I’ll rest my case on how badly he was bruised when he imagined Watson was going to return home without him.
    “Today must be a day of inquiries,” Holmes said happily, looking forward to it all.
    “My practice…” Watson began.
    “Oh if you find your own cases more interesting than mine—” Holmes snapped at him, but Watson put a hand on his knee.
    “I was going to say that my practice could get on very well for a day or two. Without me, Holmes,” he clarified. That last bit is a line you will not find in the official record. I think it’s perfectly obvious why not.
    “Excellent!” Holmes said. “Then we’ll look into this matter together.”
    Holmes released Watson to his wife that night only to collect him back again the next morning. As they returned to Woking on the train, Holmes began moving the key players in the mystery like they were large chess pieces. For his ends he needed to send Watson and poor ill Phelps back to London to stay the night at Baker Street. He did it with an impish grin.
    Watson went where he was bidden. Besides, he genuinely wished to catch up with his old chum Phelps, but the poor man could talk of nothing but the case. And Holmes. Questions about Holmes and his methods, Holmes and his tactics; what has he said, what does he know, what does he think?
    “You know him well, Watson. He is such an inscrutable fellow, that I never know what to make of him.”
    No answer would satisfy Phelps, and eventually he murdered Watson’s good