(no subject)
March 7th, 1896
The walk softened my hardness towards him, as I knew it would. My reaction was unfair. I know my friend means no maliciousness or indelicacy by the things he says, and is a slave himself to the whims of his restless and feverish mind. Were he prey to the same emotions and sympathies that so often ensnare me, he would be a man of Inspector Lestrade's cut and character: a hound of Scotland Yard. That is not the path for him. I mean no disrespect for the good constables and detectives who work under the name of that illustrious office, but I cannot help but shudder at the thought of my friend chained to their bureaucracy, muzzled by their protocol. He has a way of working that is unique to him, and so he must pursue the directions that lend themselves best to his methods. I, who have so often delighted in the observation of his work, would be a hypocrite now to judge him.
And yet, I wish that he'd pursue the case - if not in the interests of the missing child, then at least for his own sake. As of late, even his violin gives him no joy. He has forgone his peculiar experiments for his old perch on the sofa in the study and the younger, more dangerous vice at his disposal. Yesterday he worked like a madman, possessed with a supernatural, frenzied energy almost demonic in nature; even without the lethargy that followed, I’d know the source of his unusual stamina.
Well, it is not my business to judge him, even in this. Still, I fervently hope that some interesting case will find its way to our door, and soon. Without gainful employment, my quick and clever housemate becomes a brooding specter of himself: thinner, paler, more withdrawn, haunting the study rather than occupying it. How he scoffs at my attempts to divert him! We played chess two days ago, but I must confess I was poor sport. He won three games in quick succession and, without the presentation of a worthy challenge, soon lost interest. "My dear Watson, you are ever the soldier but never, I fear, the general," he sighed, and then he slipped away from me again.
Occasionally, when I myself am feeling particularly morose, I cannot help but wonder if there will ever come a time when nothing will be remarkable enough to catch his interest. It is ever the hazard of the intrepid explorer. Once each path has been walked, every stone overturned, what then? When all the mysteries in his world are solved and all the peculiarities of crime explained, what will become of the great Sherlock Holmes?
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