(no subject)
'You know my methods, Watson' is a phrase Holmes is rather fond of using when he wants his friend to make some clever deductions of his own. Watson does know his methods -- and I daresay you know them, too. Can you deduce how the detective spent his week?
It rains for five days straight, the thin, grey rain particular to winters in London, and I feel no need to go out. Rusted joints aren't the easiest things to manage, you know. Are you disappointed? Do you think now you won’t see your theories tested? As if you would've followed him out into that mess; even Watson frequently prefers to stay home and indulge in the company of the day-old news. But you see, you're really not missing much. It's perfectly possible to know what the man was about without ever leaving his sitting room. One needn't even watch him.
There's a sort of rhythm to his work: the way he has of shutting doors, mounting stairs, slotting keys, pocketing change. Shh, listen now. I’ll show you what I mean.
It's morning. That faint chime, there, high as silver, clear as summer? That's a spoon finding the edge of a porcelain tea cup. Silverware means he's in no hurry; he's feeling confident. He knows his direction today and he's pretty sure he's going to find something. 'Waiting' sounds much different - the grating slide of fork against knife. Impatience. Leisure time left to fiddle with utensils and scraaaape food around the abused surface of his plate without actually eating it. 'Anxiety' sounds like nothing - no breakfast at all - and 'excitement' is only a little different; the faint rustle of a napkin wrapped around a cooling roll, lost in the woolen whisper of a settling pocket.
Yesterday, the whisper; today, the chime. Can you guess what tomorrow will be?
Let me give you a hint. When he leaves the room today, there's no warble of mahogany on wood; he lifted his coat gently from the stand, rather than yanking it free. The door clicks and does not rattle. His steps are evenly spaced on the stairs. His departure was not proceeded by the shush of a shutting desk drawer or the metallic snap of a gun barrel locked into place. Watson keeps time all afternoon by methodically rustling newspapers and snoring softly while he dozes in his chair. He’s had few cases of his own this week to help him pass the hours. He writes when he's agitated and wanting distraction - the scritch and scribble of graphite on paper - but he does not write today.
The evening's stanza is a little different. Dinner comes and dinner goes - one does not reappear to eat it, the other won't partake without the company of the first. The clock echoes 'home by seven' in the ponderous chimes of 'twelve'. Watson isn’t writing, but then there’s this: the slow, heavy sound of his footsteps wearing tracks in the floor. It's easy to pick out his stride from another's. One strong tap, one faint one. The third is slightly heavier than the first and will stay that way - 'limp' in Morse code. You can't really see it when you watch him, for he hides it well, but winter's cruel and sound is hard to modify. Dum-da, dum-da, dum-da - uneven steps exactly regulated to the ticking of that mantle clock.
Now comes the long anticipated sound of footfalls in the outer hall. Faster; shorter. The thud of this morning has become a harsh, rigid tap. The door to the sitting room is forced open before the catch has time to slide all the way back, and it grinds audibly in protest. There's the heavy woolen whisper of a coat being thrown roughly aside, with no regard at all for the stand waiting patiently in the corner.
You'll notice that Watson's footsteps have ceased. Holmes', too, though that's only because he's thrown himself into his customary armchair (the slight moan of the springs was audible even beneath his slight weight.) There's the thra-um, thra-um of Holmes' fingers drumming impatiently on one armrest, and - ah, yes - the snap and shiss of a match igniting. The fingers pause for a moment, there's the hollow chink of the clay bowl brushing against the table, and then the cadence is resumed to the smell of sulfur and smoke.
Another rustle of set-upon furniture; Watson's perched himself on the armrest of the settee. He never fully sits during moments like these, the soldier's training kicking in - ready for action at a moment's notice. But he doesn't like to stand, because there's something off about that when Holmes is so willfully slumped in his chair.
I said we needn’t look at them, but I know your voyeuristic curiosity - shall we sneak a little peek? It's dark in the sitting room save for the fire, which throws its fitful, flickering light in subtle caresses along Holmes' night-chilled features. Compared to the lonely solitude outside, this quiet is companionable; the fire has been burning a while now, the room is warm and close and occupied by someone who's spent the night waiting up for a reason. And yet, there is worry. The floorboards remember the pacing and occasionally creak with the echo of a still-lingering fear. There is light, yes, but charcoal-colored shadows hide under the mismatched furniture and inch their way along the walls. The logs pop and crack in the heat, the clock is wound and marching, and occasionally the wind quietly rattles the window pane - but the men do not speak.
I flick an ear in their direction, but you wouldn't be able to understand the conversation they have. Shall I translate for you?
First, the inquisition. It's audible in the creak of the settee as Watson shifts his weight, trying to pin down Holmes' restless gaze long enough to study it. There's success in the sound of stillness again - no creaking furniture, no drumming fingers. It's temporary. Into the profound quiet comes the grinding click of Holmes' teeth along the stem of his pipe - of course things didn't go as planned, does it look like things went as planned? - and the quiet, weary exhalation of previously held breath (of course it doesn't, no need to be so defensive) Watson will lose his grasp on Holmes' attention as the detective looks away, impatient with easy acquiescence, but he gets it back; there's the shift in furniture again, accompanied by one tap; a half-step on the floor, but only that. Their chosen perches are situated close together. The cessation of the teeth-wood grind means Watson has lightly touched fire-warm fingers to Holmes' wrist, and the touch means are you hurt? It would seem like a stupid question, except that it's Holmes, who sometimes forgets to mend his tears in the wake of mental failure. Another sigh, this one equally resigned but coming from the other: No.
The soft whisper of fabric means Watson has dropped his arm back to his side - a gesture of resignation. I should've gone with you.
Holmes huffs a little, almost laughter but not quite. You couldn't have salvaged this one. There's the flexible scrape of heavy paper across the side table as he plants two fingers on Alice and drags her closer. I'm missing something. I read something wrong.
The paper rustles as the volume exchanges hands, the new holder flipping through the pages too fast to actually see their contents. I don't understand what you hope to find in this. It's nothing; it's fiction.
Holmes' chair creaks again as he leans his weight forward, and there's the soft clap of the book shutting, too slowly to be closed by the man currently in possession of it. Leave it. This is my puzzle. I don't expect you to understand. The soft shush of fingers trying to find purchase on the cover, but failing - sliding back instead without catching a hold. Holmes reached for the book, but Watson didn't let go.
I want to help you. Explain this to me.
Another grab; this time harder, this time successful. The chair whines as Holmes leans back again. No.
The third and final sigh, the crick of furniture released; the dum-da-dum tread of someone leaving the room, Morse code for 'defeat.' The door seems to let something else out along with the doctor before it closes again.
This all happens rather quickly, much faster than the time it takes to explain. It's a conversation they haven't-had many times before.
Have you guessed it yet? Tomorrow morning there won't be any breakfast. Tonight there won't be any sleep. All true music enthusiasts know that the crescendo comes just before the fall, and the detective's song has been gathering in strength and volume all week. Even now, as I doze by the fireside and listen to him, I hear it coming ... the second act, the darker number. It's a solo to start, performed by a master with an instrument very slight and slender. Beautiful. Deadly. Chaotic. My favorite tune.
The clock begins to slow, tocks bleeding into ticks. At two, it stops. He doesn't notice this.
But he will.
_____________________________________
Next Chapter >>
It rains for five days straight, the thin, grey rain particular to winters in London, and I feel no need to go out. Rusted joints aren't the easiest things to manage, you know. Are you disappointed? Do you think now you won’t see your theories tested? As if you would've followed him out into that mess; even Watson frequently prefers to stay home and indulge in the company of the day-old news. But you see, you're really not missing much. It's perfectly possible to know what the man was about without ever leaving his sitting room. One needn't even watch him.
There's a sort of rhythm to his work: the way he has of shutting doors, mounting stairs, slotting keys, pocketing change. Shh, listen now. I’ll show you what I mean.
It's morning. That faint chime, there, high as silver, clear as summer? That's a spoon finding the edge of a porcelain tea cup. Silverware means he's in no hurry; he's feeling confident. He knows his direction today and he's pretty sure he's going to find something. 'Waiting' sounds much different - the grating slide of fork against knife. Impatience. Leisure time left to fiddle with utensils and scraaaape food around the abused surface of his plate without actually eating it. 'Anxiety' sounds like nothing - no breakfast at all - and 'excitement' is only a little different; the faint rustle of a napkin wrapped around a cooling roll, lost in the woolen whisper of a settling pocket.
Yesterday, the whisper; today, the chime. Can you guess what tomorrow will be?
Let me give you a hint. When he leaves the room today, there's no warble of mahogany on wood; he lifted his coat gently from the stand, rather than yanking it free. The door clicks and does not rattle. His steps are evenly spaced on the stairs. His departure was not proceeded by the shush of a shutting desk drawer or the metallic snap of a gun barrel locked into place. Watson keeps time all afternoon by methodically rustling newspapers and snoring softly while he dozes in his chair. He’s had few cases of his own this week to help him pass the hours. He writes when he's agitated and wanting distraction - the scritch and scribble of graphite on paper - but he does not write today.
The evening's stanza is a little different. Dinner comes and dinner goes - one does not reappear to eat it, the other won't partake without the company of the first. The clock echoes 'home by seven' in the ponderous chimes of 'twelve'. Watson isn’t writing, but then there’s this: the slow, heavy sound of his footsteps wearing tracks in the floor. It's easy to pick out his stride from another's. One strong tap, one faint one. The third is slightly heavier than the first and will stay that way - 'limp' in Morse code. You can't really see it when you watch him, for he hides it well, but winter's cruel and sound is hard to modify. Dum-da, dum-da, dum-da - uneven steps exactly regulated to the ticking of that mantle clock.
Now comes the long anticipated sound of footfalls in the outer hall. Faster; shorter. The thud of this morning has become a harsh, rigid tap. The door to the sitting room is forced open before the catch has time to slide all the way back, and it grinds audibly in protest. There's the heavy woolen whisper of a coat being thrown roughly aside, with no regard at all for the stand waiting patiently in the corner.
You'll notice that Watson's footsteps have ceased. Holmes', too, though that's only because he's thrown himself into his customary armchair (the slight moan of the springs was audible even beneath his slight weight.) There's the thra-um, thra-um of Holmes' fingers drumming impatiently on one armrest, and - ah, yes - the snap and shiss of a match igniting. The fingers pause for a moment, there's the hollow chink of the clay bowl brushing against the table, and then the cadence is resumed to the smell of sulfur and smoke.
Another rustle of set-upon furniture; Watson's perched himself on the armrest of the settee. He never fully sits during moments like these, the soldier's training kicking in - ready for action at a moment's notice. But he doesn't like to stand, because there's something off about that when Holmes is so willfully slumped in his chair.
I said we needn’t look at them, but I know your voyeuristic curiosity - shall we sneak a little peek? It's dark in the sitting room save for the fire, which throws its fitful, flickering light in subtle caresses along Holmes' night-chilled features. Compared to the lonely solitude outside, this quiet is companionable; the fire has been burning a while now, the room is warm and close and occupied by someone who's spent the night waiting up for a reason. And yet, there is worry. The floorboards remember the pacing and occasionally creak with the echo of a still-lingering fear. There is light, yes, but charcoal-colored shadows hide under the mismatched furniture and inch their way along the walls. The logs pop and crack in the heat, the clock is wound and marching, and occasionally the wind quietly rattles the window pane - but the men do not speak.
I flick an ear in their direction, but you wouldn't be able to understand the conversation they have. Shall I translate for you?
First, the inquisition. It's audible in the creak of the settee as Watson shifts his weight, trying to pin down Holmes' restless gaze long enough to study it. There's success in the sound of stillness again - no creaking furniture, no drumming fingers. It's temporary. Into the profound quiet comes the grinding click of Holmes' teeth along the stem of his pipe - of course things didn't go as planned, does it look like things went as planned? - and the quiet, weary exhalation of previously held breath (of course it doesn't, no need to be so defensive) Watson will lose his grasp on Holmes' attention as the detective looks away, impatient with easy acquiescence, but he gets it back; there's the shift in furniture again, accompanied by one tap; a half-step on the floor, but only that. Their chosen perches are situated close together. The cessation of the teeth-wood grind means Watson has lightly touched fire-warm fingers to Holmes' wrist, and the touch means are you hurt? It would seem like a stupid question, except that it's Holmes, who sometimes forgets to mend his tears in the wake of mental failure. Another sigh, this one equally resigned but coming from the other: No.
The soft whisper of fabric means Watson has dropped his arm back to his side - a gesture of resignation. I should've gone with you.
Holmes huffs a little, almost laughter but not quite. You couldn't have salvaged this one. There's the flexible scrape of heavy paper across the side table as he plants two fingers on Alice and drags her closer. I'm missing something. I read something wrong.
The paper rustles as the volume exchanges hands, the new holder flipping through the pages too fast to actually see their contents. I don't understand what you hope to find in this. It's nothing; it's fiction.
Holmes' chair creaks again as he leans his weight forward, and there's the soft clap of the book shutting, too slowly to be closed by the man currently in possession of it. Leave it. This is my puzzle. I don't expect you to understand. The soft shush of fingers trying to find purchase on the cover, but failing - sliding back instead without catching a hold. Holmes reached for the book, but Watson didn't let go.
I want to help you. Explain this to me.
Another grab; this time harder, this time successful. The chair whines as Holmes leans back again. No.
The third and final sigh, the crick of furniture released; the dum-da-dum tread of someone leaving the room, Morse code for 'defeat.' The door seems to let something else out along with the doctor before it closes again.
This all happens rather quickly, much faster than the time it takes to explain. It's a conversation they haven't-had many times before.
Have you guessed it yet? Tomorrow morning there won't be any breakfast. Tonight there won't be any sleep. All true music enthusiasts know that the crescendo comes just before the fall, and the detective's song has been gathering in strength and volume all week. Even now, as I doze by the fireside and listen to him, I hear it coming ... the second act, the darker number. It's a solo to start, performed by a master with an instrument very slight and slender. Beautiful. Deadly. Chaotic. My favorite tune.
The clock begins to slow, tocks bleeding into ticks. At two, it stops. He doesn't notice this.
But he will.
_____________________________________
Next Chapter >>