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One week later.
"And still no trace of her," Watson muses quietly to himself. It's little more than an exhalation, almost lost beneath the dead-leaf rustle of the newspaper as he folds it and lays it aside (tragedy neatly typed and contained and regulated to ‘fire-starter.’) Holmes hears it, though, as there's no other sound in the room save that of the clock. The detective's restless eyes flicker towards his friend for only a second - there on the tick, gone on the tock - but the words appear to have awoken him from his meditative stupor. He toys with his pipe a moment, as though finally aware that it isn't lit and hasn't been for the past half hour.
"Can they talk of nothing else?" Holmes wonders vaguely. There's no irritation in the words. He's not inclined to spare even that.
The doctor throws him a glance that would be disapproving, if only Holmes would acknowledge it. "He's a children's author," Watson finally points out, settling for resignation. "It's caused quite the sensation."
Holmes doesn't respond, arms spilling listlessly over the sides of his chair as his eyes lose focus again. Watson knows the signs, as he knows it's useless to try and forestall the mood they herald. But he's an optimist and so he tries anyway. "Lestrade has been assigned to the case," he offers, smiling a little with attempted humor. "Seems the poor man is quite at his wit's end." He pauses for the bantering volley he's served up so well, but it doesn't come -- so with a disappointed frown he finishes half-heartedly, "It's a sure bet that he will approach you about the matter, sooner or later."
"I expected him yesterday," Holmes sighs, "which means he'll probably come tomorrow."
There's a tailor-made remark there about not living up to expectations, but the detective's mood is extracting a toll from both of them and neither reaches for it. "And will you assist him?" Watson asks instead, studying his friend carefully. It's an argument they almost-had yesterday.
"Certainly not. There's no stimulus nor enlightenment to be found in dredging rivers for the bodies of dead children."
Those last two words cut the doctor, not because of what they are, but because of what they aren't in Holmes' clinical, bored tone. Holmes affects not to see this, because it is not something he wishes to observe; but he has the grace not to imitate surprise when Watson abruptly pushes himself to his feet.
"I think I'll go for a walk," he announces tonelessly. He isn't expecting an answer and he doesn't get one, though he can't quite resist shutting the door harder than necessary on his way out.
Inspector Lestrade is climbing out of a cab as Watson steps down into the street. "Is -?" he begins when he recognizes the doctor, a hand outstretched in nervous inquiry.
"Yes. He's in his study," Watson replies shortly, biting back the but don't bother with some little effort. He hurries on, then, wanting to distance himself from the pending scene. I can't blame him; it's bound to be horribly boring.
Lestrade is perhaps the only Londoner I've met who manages to be late and early at the same time, and that's an admirable thing. He looks pale and drawn, more anxious and irritable than usual. Obviously, the case is weighing heavily on his mind. His presence at 221b Baker Street has enough regularity and routine in its makeup that he doesn't bother with the bell, simply pushes the door open and disappears into the foreshadows of frustrated disappointment.
Watson shoves his hands deep into his coat pockets and presses forward.
It's not terribly late, but it is terribly cold. The dregs of a recent snowstorm collect in muddied, grey heaps around the angles of forlorn-looking buildings and in the crevices of rutted streets. His agitated breathing, first from anger, later from exertion, smokes out before him in a hazy cloud - as white as the snow isn't. His leg knows the season, and gives him pain; it is a source of endless frustration for him. One of many.
The doctor arrives at the park almost without realizing it, for his feet have a way of guiding him when his mind is working through other things. He comes here often - occasionally in the company of the detective, but more frequently on his own. He finds solace in this place. What kind and why is anyone's guess. It's doubtful if even he knows. But there's the routine, of course. With these men, there is always a routine. He'll pick out the gnarled tree he likes in that copse over there and lean against it. The tree is old, and he isn't, yet the knots in its twisted branches resemble the braids of scar tissue in his hands: decorations and mementos of the many different wars he’s fought in his lifetime. These hands are older than he is. I wonder what he'll do the day they outgrow him. They’re present now, though, throbbing a little with the cold but still precise and fluid as they sift with nervous energy through the contents of his pockets. This is part of the routine, too.
One by one, Watson withdraws the items and looks over them carefully, as though he can't remember ever having seen them before - as though one day he put on a coat that wasn't his and found himself suddenly in possession of the detritus that marked someone else's life. He collects this wayward dander in the palm of one hand while the other dives for more, fingers cradled and cupped to protect his loot from the curious wind. Tailor receipts, restaurant bills, the stubs of train tickets. Everyday things, most of them bearing at least one notation in his own precise handwriting. (Well, he could hardly chase after ne'er-do-wells with his notebook tucked under one arm, could he?)
Occasionally he'll pause longer than usual over an item, because occasionally what he finds really wasn't left there by him.
Sherlock Holmes rarely puts things in his own pockets. Coats, jackets, pants - often empty of all but lint and shadow and sometimes his long, restless fingers. And yet, not everything bears throwing away. Luckily, the detective is a resourceful man. There's always somewhere else to safely deposit such things.
Watson turns these items over carefully between his sun-worn fingers, looking at them as though they were the leaves of some strange, exotic plant. He thinks he saves them in case they're wanted later. I think he saves them in case they’re clues to a puzzle only he desires to solve.
A curious amount of import is placed on such wayward, physical things. Is identity hidden in the curves and spirals of half-seen fingerprints? Are hearts visible in the loops and curves of handwriting? Perhaps, instead of white-sheeted specters, our ghosts lie in the scattered dregs we leave behind: papers and clothes and pieces of jewelry collecting in the dusty, grey corners of forlorn-looking rooms. In the worn crevices of rutted streets.
A legacy of comings and goings and useless nothings that are somehow dear, pressed between the pages of scrapbooks no one looks at, recorded in all the Dear Diaries no one ever reads.
Sherlock Holmes does not keep a diary. He has never so much as sat for a photograph, and he stridently eludes the press' best efforts to memorialize him in their type and their black-and-white stills. But he has something better: a curator, a dramatist. A partner who presses his forgotten ticket stubs between his fingers as though they were exotic leaves.
It's like trying to lay bare a mystery that has not yet occurred. Like looking at the ghost of someone still breathing.
Now do you understand what kind of story this is going to be?
______________________________________________
Next Chapter >>
"And still no trace of her," Watson muses quietly to himself. It's little more than an exhalation, almost lost beneath the dead-leaf rustle of the newspaper as he folds it and lays it aside (tragedy neatly typed and contained and regulated to ‘fire-starter.’) Holmes hears it, though, as there's no other sound in the room save that of the clock. The detective's restless eyes flicker towards his friend for only a second - there on the tick, gone on the tock - but the words appear to have awoken him from his meditative stupor. He toys with his pipe a moment, as though finally aware that it isn't lit and hasn't been for the past half hour.
"Can they talk of nothing else?" Holmes wonders vaguely. There's no irritation in the words. He's not inclined to spare even that.
The doctor throws him a glance that would be disapproving, if only Holmes would acknowledge it. "He's a children's author," Watson finally points out, settling for resignation. "It's caused quite the sensation."
Holmes doesn't respond, arms spilling listlessly over the sides of his chair as his eyes lose focus again. Watson knows the signs, as he knows it's useless to try and forestall the mood they herald. But he's an optimist and so he tries anyway. "Lestrade has been assigned to the case," he offers, smiling a little with attempted humor. "Seems the poor man is quite at his wit's end." He pauses for the bantering volley he's served up so well, but it doesn't come -- so with a disappointed frown he finishes half-heartedly, "It's a sure bet that he will approach you about the matter, sooner or later."
"I expected him yesterday," Holmes sighs, "which means he'll probably come tomorrow."
There's a tailor-made remark there about not living up to expectations, but the detective's mood is extracting a toll from both of them and neither reaches for it. "And will you assist him?" Watson asks instead, studying his friend carefully. It's an argument they almost-had yesterday.
"Certainly not. There's no stimulus nor enlightenment to be found in dredging rivers for the bodies of dead children."
Those last two words cut the doctor, not because of what they are, but because of what they aren't in Holmes' clinical, bored tone. Holmes affects not to see this, because it is not something he wishes to observe; but he has the grace not to imitate surprise when Watson abruptly pushes himself to his feet.
"I think I'll go for a walk," he announces tonelessly. He isn't expecting an answer and he doesn't get one, though he can't quite resist shutting the door harder than necessary on his way out.
Inspector Lestrade is climbing out of a cab as Watson steps down into the street. "Is -?" he begins when he recognizes the doctor, a hand outstretched in nervous inquiry.
"Yes. He's in his study," Watson replies shortly, biting back the but don't bother with some little effort. He hurries on, then, wanting to distance himself from the pending scene. I can't blame him; it's bound to be horribly boring.
Lestrade is perhaps the only Londoner I've met who manages to be late and early at the same time, and that's an admirable thing. He looks pale and drawn, more anxious and irritable than usual. Obviously, the case is weighing heavily on his mind. His presence at 221b Baker Street has enough regularity and routine in its makeup that he doesn't bother with the bell, simply pushes the door open and disappears into the foreshadows of frustrated disappointment.
Watson shoves his hands deep into his coat pockets and presses forward.
It's not terribly late, but it is terribly cold. The dregs of a recent snowstorm collect in muddied, grey heaps around the angles of forlorn-looking buildings and in the crevices of rutted streets. His agitated breathing, first from anger, later from exertion, smokes out before him in a hazy cloud - as white as the snow isn't. His leg knows the season, and gives him pain; it is a source of endless frustration for him. One of many.
The doctor arrives at the park almost without realizing it, for his feet have a way of guiding him when his mind is working through other things. He comes here often - occasionally in the company of the detective, but more frequently on his own. He finds solace in this place. What kind and why is anyone's guess. It's doubtful if even he knows. But there's the routine, of course. With these men, there is always a routine. He'll pick out the gnarled tree he likes in that copse over there and lean against it. The tree is old, and he isn't, yet the knots in its twisted branches resemble the braids of scar tissue in his hands: decorations and mementos of the many different wars he’s fought in his lifetime. These hands are older than he is. I wonder what he'll do the day they outgrow him. They’re present now, though, throbbing a little with the cold but still precise and fluid as they sift with nervous energy through the contents of his pockets. This is part of the routine, too.
One by one, Watson withdraws the items and looks over them carefully, as though he can't remember ever having seen them before - as though one day he put on a coat that wasn't his and found himself suddenly in possession of the detritus that marked someone else's life. He collects this wayward dander in the palm of one hand while the other dives for more, fingers cradled and cupped to protect his loot from the curious wind. Tailor receipts, restaurant bills, the stubs of train tickets. Everyday things, most of them bearing at least one notation in his own precise handwriting. (Well, he could hardly chase after ne'er-do-wells with his notebook tucked under one arm, could he?)
Occasionally he'll pause longer than usual over an item, because occasionally what he finds really wasn't left there by him.
Sherlock Holmes rarely puts things in his own pockets. Coats, jackets, pants - often empty of all but lint and shadow and sometimes his long, restless fingers. And yet, not everything bears throwing away. Luckily, the detective is a resourceful man. There's always somewhere else to safely deposit such things.
Watson turns these items over carefully between his sun-worn fingers, looking at them as though they were the leaves of some strange, exotic plant. He thinks he saves them in case they're wanted later. I think he saves them in case they’re clues to a puzzle only he desires to solve.
A curious amount of import is placed on such wayward, physical things. Is identity hidden in the curves and spirals of half-seen fingerprints? Are hearts visible in the loops and curves of handwriting? Perhaps, instead of white-sheeted specters, our ghosts lie in the scattered dregs we leave behind: papers and clothes and pieces of jewelry collecting in the dusty, grey corners of forlorn-looking rooms. In the worn crevices of rutted streets.
A legacy of comings and goings and useless nothings that are somehow dear, pressed between the pages of scrapbooks no one looks at, recorded in all the Dear Diaries no one ever reads.
Sherlock Holmes does not keep a diary. He has never so much as sat for a photograph, and he stridently eludes the press' best efforts to memorialize him in their type and their black-and-white stills. But he has something better: a curator, a dramatist. A partner who presses his forgotten ticket stubs between his fingers as though they were exotic leaves.
It's like trying to lay bare a mystery that has not yet occurred. Like looking at the ghost of someone still breathing.
Now do you understand what kind of story this is going to be?
______________________________________________
Next Chapter >>