Leaving

By Telanu ([email protected])

Rated PG

 

A Holmes/Watson vignette, taking place a short while before "The

Final Problem."

 

Summary: Holmes and Mary have it out, Victorian style, and our hero

realizes something painful.

 

Archive: Sure, but leave my name and email on it, please.

 

***

 

"The good thing about grief is that you get sick of it."

Carolyn Hux

 

 

I am not sure why I agreed to come here tonight.  Of course, it would

have been rude to refuse - this is, after all, the third invitation

to dinner Watson has issued me - but social niceties have rarely

concerned me.  I was certainly not eager to acquaint myself with the

security and disgustingly conventional bliss of my friend's wedded

life, so why did I, at last, capitulate?

 

Sitting in the drawing room afterward, drawing quietly on a cigar, I

can only conclude that it was the look in his eyes that impelled me

here, to where I least want to be.  It was an offended look - worse,

a suspicious one; *why* would I, his dear friend who had stood beside

him through danger and even his wedding, not dine at his house? 

Watson, though not the most astute of mortals, is nevertheless

capable of coming up with the right questions on occasion.  And for

someone like me, who seeks forever to hide, questions are dangerous,

even if they never lead to answers.  Far better to allay suspicions

before they can seriously take root.  One dreadful evening is not too

great a sacrifice.

 

I tell myself this and yet, as I look at Mrs. Watson seated so calmly

across from me, I cannot quite believe it.  If being with her around

Watson is difficult, being alone with her promises to be

insupportable.  I had not lied when I told Watson I thought her an

admirable woman; so I did at the time; so, I suppose, I do now.  But

I am quite capable of hating admirable people.  I have never been one

of them, after all.

 

"I am sure John will be back shortly," she says after a moment of

uncomfortable silence, obviously fishing for conversation.  Yet

another reason I loathe social evenings: the impetus to talk, talk,

talk, even when there is so obviously nothing that can be said.  Her

husband, my friend, has left us for a few moments to chide his clumsy

maid over some unimportant matter, leaving two adversaries to face

each other on a most uncertain field. 

 

...Adversaries.  I suppose that is how I think of Mary Watson and

myself.  But would she agree with me?  And can one truly be an

adversary, if one is already defeated?  I confess that the semantics

of the English language are well beyond my grasp tonight.

 

"No doubt," I reply in my most languid tone, taking another draw on

the cigar.  "Ever the dutiful one, your husband."  (Why did I say

that?  I determined not to punish myself.  Am I...)

 

The smile she gives me has knives in it.  If we are indeed enemies,

she is a formidable one, I think.  "Oh, he has his unconventional

moments, Mr. Holmes, as well you know," she says lightly.  "How many

proper British husbands, do you think, leave their homes and

practices to go gallivanting across the country with a consulting

detective at a moment's notice?"  Her laugh is natural and pleasant

enough, if one does not know what is behind it.

 

I give her a smile of my own.  I have been told it is charming - by

her husband's stories, actually.  "Not enough, Mrs. Watson, not

nearly enough.  I am convinced that it is only by such irrational

action that the members of my sex will be able to withstand the

charms of yours.  How else can the proper British husband throw off

such a pleasant yoke?"  On the surface it is an apposite *bon mot,*

even a gallantry.   Only the greatest of adventures could draw Watson

away from such a charming woman and a charming life! 

 

 

And beneath: only *I* can draw Watson away.  She hears it as well as

I do, and her cheeks flush just a bit.  It could easily be excused as

the warmth of the fire. 

 

"It was through such irrational actions, Mr. Holmes, that you helped

me so much," she replies, widening her eyes with every evidence of

sincerity.  "It was through them that you brought John to me.  I do

not believe either of us will ever be able to repay you for that. 

His assistance to you on these...little matters seems such a small

price."

 

A hit, a palpable hit.  I am wounded by that one, and she knows it

too.  I pretend I do not see the gleam of triumph in her eyes,

pretend that I do not wish I had never laid eyes on her, pretend that

those "little matters" do not make up my entire life.  "You must know

you owe me nothing.  To see dear old Watson content is worth any

small effort I may have exerted on your behalf.  Indeed, I confess

that one of my chief pleasures after a case is in explaining the

minutiae to him; in seeing his delighted understanding of what seemed

previously inexplicable."

 

"He has often referred to you as his teacher..."

 

A *teacher*? Is that truly how he -  "And of course," I continue

doggedly, as if she had said nothing, "the time I occasionally spend

with him, off and on, is most enjoyable.  A delightful man, John

Watson.  Yes, thoroughly good company."  I even smile a bit smugly,

for effect.

 

Ah, how will you deal with that, my beauty?  I see her eyes go wide

again, but with shock, the flush on her cheeks dying into pallor.  I

feel a moment of insane triumph that my little insinuation, though

patently untrue, has repaid her in some small way for the pain of

betrayal I suffer every day. 

 

Then her eyes narrow ever so slightly, and I know she has called my

bluff.  I am, however, still lamentably unprepared for her next

words. 

 

"I am so glad of it," she says demurely, looking at me through

lowered lashes, a snake about to strike.  "I tell you, Mr. Holmes,

from what John says of you  I...may I be frank?  I worry for you. 

Such a dangerous life - and a lonely one!  Always having to be on

guard; always having to be so terribly *clever* about

everything...no, I am certain I cannot imagine doing it myself.  Of

course, I am most fortunate that I do not have to."  She laughs a

little while I blink, attempting to figure where she is leading me

with all these words.  No place I want to go, I am sure, but there is

no help for it.  Where the devil is Watson?

 

"No, I am most happy here with my own small, uneventful existence,

with my own dear man," she continues.  "Though frankly - I still

*may* be frank, mayn't I, Mr. Holmes? - frankly, I do hope

you...start taking better care of yourself.  I tell you freely I

shudder from some of the stories John tells me of your exploits!  The

one with that snake and the bell-pull - oh!  How I was frightened! 

And..." her voice lowers a little, "what he mentions in the stories

about your...habits." 

 

I can feel my arm twitch at that, the small puncture wounds in the

crook of my elbow suddenly throbbing unceremoniously to life.  Of

course she knows about my "habits."  Watson puts it all in *The

Strand* so that the whole world may learn of the dangers of cocaine,

of the depths to which it has sunk a brilliant mind. Why shouldn't

she know?  What harm can it do me, except that this beautiful,

dangerous creature is sitting there, completely unassailable, and I

am here with my every weakness suddenly exposed?

 

"He worries so much about that, Mr. Holmes.  You know what a soft

heart he has.  Why, sometimes he even takes in patients *pro deo.*  I

venture to say that there is no excess in the human condition that

cannot move our dear John to the sweetest pity."  She looks

sorrowfully at me.

 

*Pity.* I hear that ugly word, and all that it implies, and briefly

consider strangling her where she sits.  A most impractical solution,

of course, and one hardly likely to endear me to Watson in its

execution.  And in any case she would still have won a clear and

complete victory.

 

Though how could I have imagined it otherwise?  I knew from the start

how this conversation must go, should we ever have it.  I can sit

here armed with all the genius and cynicism and innuendo I like, and

at the end of the day she is still his wife.  His *wife,* whom I

myself so carelessly delivered right into his arms.  I can feel my

teeth starting to clench, and instantly relax my jaw into what I hope

is an insolent smile; but I really have nothing to say. 

 

"Halloa, what's this?  Sorry it took so long.  Having a pleasant

chat?"

 

That voice is - was - often my solace; now it only shreds my

nerves.  Watson enters the room, an apologetic smile on his face.  I

find it interesting that he looks at me before his wife, but that is

the smallest matter.  He is waiting for some kind of reaction, though

he can hardly know what I am currently suffering, what his wife has

disclosed.  I almost - *almost* - make the amateur's error of

smiling to cover my confusion.  But smiles come to me with difficulty

even at the best of times, and any such I managed to produce now

would look so ghastly even Watson could see through it in a trice.  I

relax instead, and raise one sardonic eyebrow.  "I trust the poor

girl is suitably chastised?"

 

 

Completely at his ease, Watson shakes his head ruefully, before

moving to sit down on the divan next to his blushing bride. "I really

don't know what we're going to do with that child."

 

He is obviously pleased as punch: his two favourite people in the

world are sitting here with him, amicable as anything after a very

nice dinner, speaking - what are *we* going to do about that child? -

almost as if we are all one household, instead of different warring

factions.  If I were not so suddenly miserable the idea would tickle

me immensely, especially as I can see it irritates his wife.  "I

shall find someone else, John," she says in a conciliatory way,

effectively shunting me out once again.   

 

"Well, there's no hurry, I suppose," he says with a smile, taking a

brandy from the tray.  "My! A superb meal, Mary, once again. Holmes

maintains I've put on - what was it, seven and a half pounds? - since

our marriage, and I confess I can well believe him."

 

"I would say by this time it has risen to eight," I murmur,

concentrating almost fiercely on the smoke curling into the air from

my cigar.  Really, this is intolerable.  Am I truly expected to sit

here smoking, drinking and making small talk while my body digests

and my brain shudders itself to a near-halt?  I find it most

irritating, I find it most - I find myself quite, quite absurd.

 

Making sure that my gaze is hooded and impenetrable, I glance

from Watson to his wife, and back again. 

He is happy, undeniably so.  Blissful, in fact. 

He loves his dear girl.  And pities me.

I know she said it to hurt me; but I also know it to be true.  Self-

deception is occasionally a habit of mine, and a far more dangerous

one than cocaine, but I flatter myself that I can see truth when it

is right under my nose.  I interest John Watson; he likes me; we are

friends.  But I am something he cannot understand, something not from

his comfortable world, and the closest he will ever want to get is by

accompanying me on our "little matters" and observing me from the

outside, as a scientist might observe a new species of animal.  A

comparison he would loyally and heroically protest, but that would

not make it false.  What does he make of my strange, lonely nature? 

Attributes it, as far as I can tell from his writings, to some defect

of mine, to some decision he thinks I have made to re-create myself

as a human brain without a heart.  Useful to society, in my way, and

undoubtedly fascinating, but - so terribly sad. A caution to all

other souls.

 

How could I have allowed myself to care for this man?  A good man,

but not an extraordinary one; at any rate, apparently not good

enough.  At the very least, a little too inclined to *pity.*  But I

did allow it.  And it is far too late to stop now.  Sometime when I

was - inconceivably! - not paying attention, he made himself

essential.  My cases are not now complete unless he is part of them,

or at least hears about them later, as if only his acknowledgement

makes them - me? -  real.  I find myself getting bored in the sitting-

room of Baker Street, when before I could be alone in the most

perfect contentment for hours.  There is no one to listen to my

violin.  There is no one to lecture me about cocaine.  There is no

one to care if I...

 

Oh my God, I am going mad.

 

"Holmes?  Are you all right?"  His voice radiates concern, as his

little woman tries not to smile at me, and I try not to think now

about what that concern really means.  Instead I glance again at my

cigar and think for the first time in my life about giving up

smoking.  It really cannot be good for me; in fact, it seems I cannot

now take a breath without an aching pain in my lungs. 

 

"I'm terribly sorry, old fellow," I say as lightly as I can manage,

rising slowly to my feet and feeling very, very old.  "I can't think

what's come over me, but I'm dead on my feet.  I can only attribute

it to the odd sensation of a completely full stomach."

 

He laughs at that, as I knew he would, and his wife contributes a

delicate chuckle.  "True enough.  An ear mite couldn't live on what

you eat, Holmes."  Yes, I *am* odd, am I not, Watson?  "Would you

like to lie down for a moment?"

 

With you?  What would you say if I asked *that,* old friend?  "My

dear boy, I wouldn't dream of imposing.  No, no, I'm quite well.  I

think I shall just thank you for the lovely evening," which was less

lovely than my last dental appointment, "and call a cab to toddle me

on home." 

 

Despite my reassurances, or perhaps because of them, he is all

concern, leading me to the doorway with a solicitous hand on my

elbow, a hand that later helps me with my coat, waving the

unfortunate maid away.  Through it all he makes murmuring noises that

I eventually manage to identify as words, about having to do this

again sometime, how splendid it was to see me again, he'll have to

stop by Baker Street more often.

 

I am strangling with the need for escape.  Not just from this house. 

From this intolerable Thing, this - this *life* with him as a

supporting actor.  I do not, let me make assurances, contemplate

anything so absurd and defeatist as suicide; I had far rather, I

think, go out in service to my country, or at least to my own

principles.  As I bundle into the cab and rap  on the ceiling to the

driver, the sharp syllables of my cane suggest a name to me.  Mor. 

Ri. Art...

 

Of course.  What else?  Moriarty - *morte.*  Ever since I first ran

afoul of the professor, those two words have formed an association in

my mind.  Now I begin to see why.  Bless the old devil, he shall be

more helpful to me than he knows.

 

I have most of my nets around him, unknown to any but me; it will be

a simple matter to loose one or two so that the man himself may

escape.  And then, who could possibly pursue him but the eminent

Sherlock Holmes?  Or be pursued by him, perhaps.  It would be

interesting, at last, to be the hunted one.  To have someone...seek

me.  For whatever reason.

 

It is certain that Moriarty, at least, will have no pity on me.

 

That, anyway, is Option One.  Option Two is to simply leave this

cursed place and make a new life somewhere else, where I shall never

see Paddington Street again.  In my black frame of mind I do admit

that this is less appealing, but as I seem fated to be a survivor I

must take it into account.  There are too many variables in this

equation, but often they sort themselves out.  I shall simply take

action, and then await events.

 

A distressingly muddled business I am hurling myself into, but at the

core of it is a hard certainty:  I cannot do this any longer.  Not

without him, not with her, not as myself.  I am tired of it all,

tired of going through each day as if I have a constant burn or

bruise that does not heal.  I am *tired* of having a broken heart.

 

Watson really has been a ruinous thing.  It would have been kind of

Fate to have given me some warning that day in St. Bart's, but then I

suppose Fate has dealt with me reasonably enough concerning other

matters.

 

The carriage rattles on into the night, and I continue to make my

plans.  They are a welcome distraction. 

 

One way or another, I must get out of here.

 

Fin.

 

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