Fic: Ochi Chornye (Dark Eyes), part two
See: Part One for headers and details.
Watson awoke to the sound of the violin playing, a light melody he recognized as one of the parts that caught his attention the night before.
Holmes was right, the egotistical bastard, he probably would have been better than the third chair.
Once dressed, he found himself with his ear pressed to the door, listening carefully to every note, unwilling to interrupt. Another half hour passed until Holmes ended the piece, the soft snick of the violin case shutting, proving he was done for the morning, and seeming to be the cue for the household to move again.
The sitting room door opened and the room was filled with the clattering of dishes as Mrs. Hudson entered, late with breakfast. Watson got the feeling she had been waiting outside the door as well, unwilling to interrupt as Watson was.
“Good morning, Mr. Holmes.”
“Ah, Nanny and what is it today, cyanide, arsenic, or worse, sugar?”
“Well, I thought I’d try a little oil from the lamps today for flavoring. You’ll love it. And, I burnt the toast, just for you.”
“Is there jam at least?”
“Not enough to cover burnt toast, you can be certain.”
“Why do you hate me, Nanny?”
Watson chose that moment to enter, glancing between the combatants. Mrs. Hudson, with her back to Holmes had a wide grin on her face, and Holmes had even allowed himself a small smile.
“Doctor!” Mrs. Hudson said. “Are you feeling any better?”
“Much, thank you.”
“I’m glad to hear it. Will you need anything else, gentlemen?”
With a glance at the table, Watson assured her that they would be fine.
“Oh, Nanny,” Holmes spoke up. “We have work today, so the Doctor and I will most likely be out for lunch, probably supper too.”
“Ah. I shan’t cook the Christmas goose tonight then.” She glanced quickly at Watson, and said in a low tone, “Make certain he eats something, will you Doctor? He’s liable to forget.”
“I’m not hungry!” Came the sing-song from behind them.
“I’ll see what I can do.” Watson rolled his eyes. “Thank you Mrs. Hudson.”
“Yes, thank you Nanny.”
“You don’t need to be sarcastic about it.”
“She really did burn the toast, you know.”
“… Pass the jam.”
***
Hours later, somewhere past midnight and nowhere near morning, Holmes and Watson made their way back to Baker Street, and though his mood was somber, Watson couldn’t help but be in awe of Sherlock Holmes. Though it seemed commonplace once all the pieces had been explained to him, the case had been a complete mystery to Watson until Holmes had captured the murderer. He had seen clues in the smallest of places, the merest twitches in a face telling of a lie, all falling together to create a thread of narrative that no one else saw.
“I feel sorry for him.” Watson said eventually.
“Who?” Holmes asked.
“Mr. Maudsley.”
“Why feel sorry for a murderer? If you must feel sorry for a person involved in a case, the sympathies usually settle upon the victim.”
“Yes, I do feel for Mr. Kerfoot as well. After all, he did absolutely nothing to warrant being shot at. Yet, I feel sorry for Mr. Maudsley; because he has to live with the fact that he shot the wrong man.”
“He won’t have to live with it for very long, he’ll hang shortly.”
“Still…”
“If Mr. Maudsley had any sense in the first place, he would have hired someone to find out if his wife was cheating on him, versus simply running out and shooting a likely suspect. The fact that he shot an innocent man simply shows the futility of acting without full data.”
“What will happen to Mr. Vasher?”
“No doubt as soon as Mrs. Maudsley becomes a widow, he’ll marry her.”
“If I were her, I’d keep a close eye on him. A man, who has shown a taste for married women, might be once again tempted.”
Holmes made a noncommittal grunt.
“Even Lestrade commented on the uselessness of it all. Don’t you feel anything for them?”
“My job is to solve those cases that come across my path, not to feel sorry for those involved.”
Watson held his tongue, no matter how desperate he was to accuse Holmes of being a heartless automaton; he knew that some part of Holmes felt. If the crime had been put to music, he would have understood better.
Holmes seemed to sense Watson’s surrender of the topic, and perhaps unwilling to invoke an argument himself, he changed threads. “However, now you are one of the privileged few who have an insight to how our Scotland Yard works.”
“There was a lot of standing around and watching you work.”
“Scotland Yard is full of conventional Investigators who have yet to learn to look at a crime scene without destroying half of the clues, and if I’m on a scene, I much prefer them to stay out of my way. They have learned that after a few cases. Lestrade, and another one, Gregson, who I don’t think you’ve met yet, are the smartest of the bunch… Which, isn’t really saying much when you think about it.”
Watson caught himself mid laugh, and was treated to a raised eyebrow and a quirking of Holmes’ lips. He hadn’t intended to laugh when Holmes was insulting someone, but it had slipped, and he wondered slightly as they approached their front door, when the quips had become amusing.
“I am,” Holmes said, seeming to read Watson’s mind. “Imminently more amusing when the barbs are not directed towards you. Or after the tenth drink, whichever comes first.” He paused a moment to unlock the door. “Usually, it’s the drink.” He shot Watson a sly smile, and he could do nothing but laugh in return.
They went up the stars in silence, taking care not to awaken the household, “for who knew what Nanny would poison the tea with in the morning,” Holmes had whispered. Watson felt as though a recalcitrant child, practically sneaking into his own home, and thought that he could get used to the feeling.
Watson called out to Holmes before entering his room. “I just wanted to thank you for allowing me to follow you on the whole investigation. It has been the liveliest few days I’ve had in some time.”
Holmes brightened. “You’re welcome.” There was a pause as Holmes opened the door without looking, not taking his eyes off of Watson, and this time, Watson knew he was being dissected by that gaze. “By-the-by, I enjoyed working with a competent surgeon for once.”
He disappeared into his room; leaving Watson staring after him, mouth gaping slightly until he remembered himself.
Ice cream, adventures and complements, in a Holmesian sort of way; he would be saddened tomorrow when he woke up and the world was back to normal.
***
Unable to sleep, Watson sat in bed, hands moving across envelopes full of letters as the sky showed signs of lightening. There was no need to open them, for he had read them all often enough to commit them to memory. He called to mind the passages, letting their beauty sooth away the ugliness he had seen that day.
That was the only reason he heard the shattering of glass from the sitting room.
He crept silently, he hoped, to the door and cracked it just enough to catch a glimpse of Holmes bent over his table, a shattered beaker amongst the chemicals.
“I have of late,” he whispered, just loud enough for Watson to hear. “But wherefore, I know not… lost… all my mirth…” There was a short burst of laughter, tired and worn, as one hand crept up to rub at his eyes.
He was bleeding slightly.
“And here we have the futility of life.” He went on, reaching into a drawer and withdrawing a Moroccan case. “What do we exist for, but to help our fellow man? This case could have, should have, been prevented. ”
He moved to the window, taking the small case with him, and stared out into the breaking dawn. “This, goodly frame, the earth, seems to me a sterile promontory; this most excellent canopy, the air, look you, this brave o’er hanging firmament, this majestical roof, fretted with golden fire…“ He opened the case and took out a syringe, rolling it across his finger. “Why, it appears… no other thing to me than a foul and pestilent, congregation of vapors. What a piece of work is man!”
He fell silent, gaze caught on the needle, before slowly allowing his forehead to rest against the glass of the window. He laughed again, slightly broken this time.
“Man delights not me.”
Watson withdrew.
***
The sun was almost fully up, and the sounds of morning on the streets of London were beginning to creep through the walls, and Watson lay in bed, watching the early shadows dance across his ceiling. While he wasn’t normally a man for introspection, he found it difficult to quiet his thoughts, and so let them loose to take him where they will.
Thus, he thought about Lestrade, and how every five minutes he seemed ready to reach over and slap Holmes upside the head for being rude, or annoying, or just a general arse as Holmes was wont to do with apparently everyone.
And here Watson thought he was just special, being able to see the nastier side of Holmes.
Yet, for all his annoyance, there lingered a large bit of respect in Lestrade, granted it was very, very… it was so hidden twelve men with shovels would take weeks to find it. When Holmes laid out his evidence, point by point, and Lestrade, catching on and following the wild train of thought, saw the crime as Holmes did, Watson caught it. There was a slight widening of the eyes, a ghost of a smile, and Lestrade hung on every word as though a student to a beloved teacher. Lestrade respected Holmes’ abilities, and if the offer of a drink after was any indication, he actually liked the abrasive detective.
He thought of Mrs. Hudson, and how sometimes her eyes darkened when they looked at Holmes, the lines around her mouth becoming deeper, and lips pressing together as though not to let something escape. Before he had believed it to be her disapproval, yet it happened only when Holmes hadn’t left the settee in far too long, or the tuneless pickings of the violin hadn’t ceased for hours, or the wildness in his eyes caused him to lose sight of the room, and curl into a corner, begging them to please just be silent for a while, he’d be alright soon. In his mind now, it became the face of helplessness, the desire to speak and the inability to say anything that would change hands clutching over ears to hands reaching for diner.
He thought of Holmes, imperious, rude, and uncaring of civilities, giving commands to a group of children who looked at him adoringly, and worked hard not only for the money, but to receive Holmes’ smile and quiet “well done, lads”. He thought of how no less than three times in the busy store, or a crowded street, Holmes’ eyes glazed, and Lestrade gently prodded him into focusing on one object, whispering to Watson how there was occasionally too much information Holmes took in and he would become overwhelmed if not forced to narrow his attention. He pictured the slouched figure standing before the window as the rising sun lit his anguished face, syringe trapped in one hand, and quoting Hamlet for the frailty of humanity into the city he was trying so hard to save. A wounded musician’s soul, torn at the thought of a murder he could have prevented.
He pondered masks people wore to protect themselves from pain, and how it was far easier to push a stranger away than to ever risk a friend walking away on their own.
He acknowledged self-blindness, and how others had managed to see in Holmes what he wouldn’t let himself.
He thought of letters, and wondered if an unknown face behind pretty words was worth more than attempting to save a brilliant genius from destroying himself. Was there enough strength in a broken ex-army surgeon to tether the ephemeral soul behind the exterior, and would it be worth it? He wondered if it was even possible. He thought about who would be destroyed first- Holmes or him, and he wondered if it even mattered, or if he even cared.
And when he quit his room and discovered Holmes curled on the settee wrapped in a tattered blanket and staring at the open Moroccan case containing the syringe and drugs, while an untouched lunch grew cold on the table; he wondered, as he pushed Holmes to lie down and knelt by his side, fingers wrapped around a fragile wrist and counting pulses, if there was a choice anymore.
“I do feel for them,” He whispered to Watson. “I just can’t-”
“I know.”
***
My Dear Friend,
“If a man does not make new acquaintances as he advances through life, he will soon find himself left alone. A man, sir, should keep his friendship in a constant repair.” I believe it is time for me to repair that rift which I so caused in our friendship several months ago by not meeting with you when we agreed to.
If you are amenable, I should like to meet you tonight. We shall go to the same place, so as to erase our previous disaster from our minds, and begin anew with fresh pages. I shall ensure that my legs carry me beyond the door, and you shall ensure that your roommate stays home.
On the subject of, it seems to me that your roommate is the most horrific person to live with. Perhaps, if all goes well tonight, we two should share rooms, with far more congeniality than you receive from him. I have found a most comfortable set of rooms that I believe you shall enjoy as well as I do.
Tonight, Dear Friend; tonight shall see us both happier people than we began the day, and I should think, satisfied in our new lots in life.
Always yours,
Dear Friend
***
Watson made his slow trek back to Baker Street, the letter tucked safely in his pocket. A few months ago, he would have jumped at the chance, his bags would be packed within the hour of his return, and he would have to regrets as he left Holmes, and his insanity, behind.
Now though…
Now, it was hard to imagine waking up and not hearing, his favorite pieces for the violin serenading him, or at least the clatter of a tea tray accompanied by Mrs. Hudson and Holmes bantering. He could give up the silent days, where he would wake in cold fear and run out; praying Holmes was at least slightly lucid when he got there.
He was also beginning to understand that with a man like Sherlock Holmes, you could not have the high times without the low, even if some months had been more bad than good.
It was becoming difficult for him not to recall a time before he started to receive smiles across the breakfast table, with questions on if he was free, and if he would like to join Holmes on a case today, at his convenience, of course. A time before Holmes would run suddenly into the rooms, or quickly throwing on his jacket after leaping up from a throne of pillows and thick pipe smoke, shouting at Watson to grab his revolver and follow, they would catch the criminal tonight.
The time before Watson became involved in the enticing world of crimes and detectives, villains and heroes, was almost a distant memory to him now. Granted, Holmes still drove him crazy half a dozen times a day, but it was something he was becoming used to, and unfortunately for his sanity, rather fond of.
Yet, to give fair arguments to his Dear Friend, the man was most assuredly well spoken. They had similar tastes in many subjects, yet disagreed enough on others that he felt they would never run out of things to discuss. His friend would never smoke them out of the rooms, or blow up bits of it, and once or twice, themselves, with a strange chemical experiment. He would never begin a violin concert at three in the morning, or even scrape upon the instrument carelessly.
Holmes still insisted it helped his thinking process, Watson still insisted he took particular delight in driving the rest of the house insane with it.
His dear friend would not involve him in an occupation that could possibly be their end one day.
He wondered if he would be bored with an ordinary life.
He wondered if he would drive himself out of his mind over-thinking everything.
So he stopped a few houses down, gazing up at the familiar window, one distant part of him unsure whether to be worried or not that no smoke emanated from it. It would be hard to leave, but there was certainly no harm in meeting the man face to face at last, and he could certainly leave the decision until then.
Before he moved, a hansom pulled up as a rather large man exited the house. Curious and hopeful, as Holmes hadn’t had a case in a week and Watson was afraid he would soon descend into a mood, Watson watched the man ride away, and headed inside.
Upstairs, Holmes was at his chemistry table, intent upon some notes, but he looked up eagerly when Watson entered.
“Watson, I’m glad you’ve returned. What are you doing tonight?”
“Actually, I am to meet with a friend for dinner.”
“Ah.”
“Did the gentleman who just left bring you a case?”
“The… oh. No, he was… He was looking for you, actually.”
“Me?”
“Yes, he said he was your new roommate.”
Watson could feel his face heating up, and Holmes wore a puzzled confused expression that was oddly endearing. “Nothing is decided yet, Holmes.”
“I didn’t know you were thinking of leaving.”
“I’m not… Listen, it’s complicated. I’m not certain myself yet.”
“Mr. Popkin seemed fairly sure.”
“Mr. Pop…kin?”
“That is his name, isn’t it?”
“Oh yes, Popkin. He was the one that just left?”
“Indeed.” Holmes perched on his chair, an odd grin playing about his mouth. “At least your doctor sensibilities won’t be as alarmed by him. I’m quite certain you’ll never have to cajole him to eat.”
“Unlike you.”
“Unlike me. It will be a nice change for you.”
“Nothing is-“
“Decided, you mentioned. Well, his mind at least is made up. He seems a very pushy sort of man, very used to getting his way.”
“That at least, I know how to deal with.”
“Are you implying something, Watson?”
“Wouldn’t dream of it. Ah, didn’t he impress you as rather witty? He has a fine mind.”
“I’m sure, but he seemed rather dull and boorish to me, but then, it’s hard to judge a man when he’s depressed and out of a job.”
“Out of a job? He didn’t mention that.”
“He must be one of those sensitive sorts, who don’t wish to worry the new roommate about finances before they’ve moved in.”
“I should think that would be a very important piece of information to give a new roommate.”
“You didn’t know what my job was when we moved in together.”
“Ah… Yes, I think I was psychologically disturbed at the time.”
“… And you’re not now?”
“Shut up.”
“At any rate, he believes the two of you can make it on your pension, though you might have a third or fourth roommate until he can find a job.”
“Third or fourth-“
“You’ll like them, I’m sure. Mr. Popkin assured me he was on intimate terms with all of them.”
“Intimate… How intimate?”
“I thought you would already know. Really Watson, that’s not the sort of thing one asks a man.”
“Yes, of course not, but I had thought-“
“I’m certain the three, or four, of you will get along famously. You do have a habit of that. Besides, I should think in such close quarters, you’ll get to know them fairly quickly.”
“I never believed… He seemed much more considerate, in his letters. Not the sort of person to make several people live in a small space. And to suggest we move in together just as he’s lost his job…”
“Well, I’m sure it doesn’t help that he is being evicted from his old lodgings and needs to find new ones quickly.”
“Evicted! Why?”
“I didn’t ask.”
“Well, what do you deduce?”
“Obviously, he cannot afford the rent.”
“Obviously.”
“Or, his landlady is tired of him bringing home young rent boys”
“What?”
Holmes was twitching in his seat, mouth threatening to erupt into a large grin, and Watson finally threw his hands up in exasperation. “Enough! What is going on?”
That caused Holmes to burst into laughter. “’Dear friend,’” he gasped out “’My heart beats faster every time I approach the Post Office, for I know that when I open box 237, there you will be. I wonder as I take you out of your envelope, what wondrous conversations we shall have today.’”
Watson paled as Holmes seemed to get himself under control. “Did… Did he show you that?”
“No, even worse; ‘I need a friend. Not just a friendly piece of paper, though in the past you have filled in rather well.’”
“Dear Friend… You?”
“Me.”
There was silence for a moment, and then a pillow flew across the room, smacking Holmes in the face, who almost fell to the floor with laughter.
“What the deuce is wrong with you? You had me believing I was friends with a large, penny-less, philanderer!”
“The look on your face!” Holmes cried out amongst giggles.
Watson beat him with the pillow again. “I’ll have you know I was considering staying before two minutes ago, now I’m really thinking of leaving.”
“Watson! Calm down!”
“Who was the man I saw leaving, whose character you have abusing?”
“That was my brother.”
“Your brother?”
“Yes, you must admit that he played a rather nice part, don’t you agree?”
“I didn’t know you have a brother.”
“I think there is still much we don’t know of each other.”
“How long have you known? No, you knew it was me at the restaurant that night. Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Would you have been willing to accept the fact that the person you’ve been writing to, the person who you’ve felt closest to since returning to London, was in fact, the person you hated as well? I needed time to change your opinion of me.”
“Now I don’t know which is the real you.”
“The letters are real, and these last few months have been fairly normal… Normal for me.”
“Explain one thing.”
“Anything you wish.”
“Why were you so awful to me when I first moved in?”
Holmes started to turn red, and avoided his eyes. “I have a running bet with an… acquaintance of mine, for when I can drive a new roommate off. If my roommate is gone before she’s bored with her new husband, I win.”
“What do you win?”
“I thought we were going to work on you not gambling?”
“Ah… right.”
“Besides, it doesn’t matter now. She left him last week.”
“Then, you still had plenty of time to drive me off. What changed?”
“You were the one who wrote those letters, and I was not leading you on when I told you I looked forward to them. I enjoyed the exchange, and then we worked that first case together.”
“We do make a rather good team.”
“Exactly. I can rely on you, Watson.”
He had to laugh, dragging a hand over his eyes. “You know, a part of me had hoped it was you. I don’t want to leave.”
Holmes smiled. “Please forgive the deception, dear boy, but I knew of no other way to turn your opinion of me.”
Watson could do nothing but laugh, moving to cup Holmes’ face in between his hands. “Dear friend, ‘twice or thrice had I loved thee, before I knew thy face or name’, and now, I would like to know it all. Don’t ever change.”
THE END
***
End notes, A.K.A. annoying historical facts I researched for this sucker you probably don’t care about:
Florian Hermann Hommage-Valse, Opus 21, is the melody of the song we know as “Ochi Chornye” (or "Ochi Chornya", "Ochie Chornie", “Otchi Tchorniya). You know, the tune in the cigarette box in the original movie? I unfortunately could actually use Ochi Chornye in the fic, since it wasn’t published until 1884, and even then wasn’t really known until 1897. However, what resources I found lead me to think the melody would have been known, and it was written as a duet for piano and violin. In 1884 it was set to a poem called “Dark Eyes” (In English) and became the Ochi Chornye we know today. Or at least, what was mentioned in the movie.
In use of the Post Office Box: I have gathered that they did exist, and it is entirely possible for Victorians to use them. (I found that letter boxes were invented in 1815, and wall boxes at home came into use around 1849.) Also around this time, letters were being delivered around four times a day. Thus, if your timing was good and the mail was fast, you could receive a letter for breakfast, send a reply before lunch, get the reply for that one around tea time, and send out a final letter before supper. How’s that for service?
Ice cream: There was a penny-lick (a scoop of ice cream in a shell bought for a penny) ice cream stand outside of Charing Cross Station established in 1851. However, during the mid-Victorian era, large quantities of ice were imported from Norway and the U.S., making ice cream a more available (and less expensive) treat. The U.S. had a national distribution started in the 1870’s, but until refrigeration units became popular and standard in most homes, not a lot of people could hold ice cream themselves unless they made it. Ice cream stands were more popular in the U.S. and didn’t come into the U.K. until, as mentioned, more ice was imported.
The (slightly abridged) “What a piece of work is man” soliloquy, is from Hamlet, Act II, scene ii, lines 306-322(-ish, depending on your version). It is honestly my absolute favorite piece from Hamlet.
“When a man is tired of London…” Boswell’s Life of Dr. Johnson, Vol. II, pg 131.
“All men are liable to error…” John Lock, Essay on Human Understanding, Book IV, Chapter 20, section 17.
“If a man does not make new acquaintances…” Boswell’s Life of Dr. Johnson, Vol. I, pg 182.
“Twice or thrice I loved thee…” John Donne, Air and Angels, stanza I
Watson awoke to the sound of the violin playing, a light melody he recognized as one of the parts that caught his attention the night before.
Holmes was right, the egotistical bastard, he probably would have been better than the third chair.
Once dressed, he found himself with his ear pressed to the door, listening carefully to every note, unwilling to interrupt. Another half hour passed until Holmes ended the piece, the soft snick of the violin case shutting, proving he was done for the morning, and seeming to be the cue for the household to move again.
The sitting room door opened and the room was filled with the clattering of dishes as Mrs. Hudson entered, late with breakfast. Watson got the feeling she had been waiting outside the door as well, unwilling to interrupt as Watson was.
“Good morning, Mr. Holmes.”
“Ah, Nanny and what is it today, cyanide, arsenic, or worse, sugar?”
“Well, I thought I’d try a little oil from the lamps today for flavoring. You’ll love it. And, I burnt the toast, just for you.”
“Is there jam at least?”
“Not enough to cover burnt toast, you can be certain.”
“Why do you hate me, Nanny?”
Watson chose that moment to enter, glancing between the combatants. Mrs. Hudson, with her back to Holmes had a wide grin on her face, and Holmes had even allowed himself a small smile.
“Doctor!” Mrs. Hudson said. “Are you feeling any better?”
“Much, thank you.”
“I’m glad to hear it. Will you need anything else, gentlemen?”
With a glance at the table, Watson assured her that they would be fine.
“Oh, Nanny,” Holmes spoke up. “We have work today, so the Doctor and I will most likely be out for lunch, probably supper too.”
“Ah. I shan’t cook the Christmas goose tonight then.” She glanced quickly at Watson, and said in a low tone, “Make certain he eats something, will you Doctor? He’s liable to forget.”
“I’m not hungry!” Came the sing-song from behind them.
“I’ll see what I can do.” Watson rolled his eyes. “Thank you Mrs. Hudson.”
“Yes, thank you Nanny.”
“You don’t need to be sarcastic about it.”
“She really did burn the toast, you know.”
“… Pass the jam.”
***
Hours later, somewhere past midnight and nowhere near morning, Holmes and Watson made their way back to Baker Street, and though his mood was somber, Watson couldn’t help but be in awe of Sherlock Holmes. Though it seemed commonplace once all the pieces had been explained to him, the case had been a complete mystery to Watson until Holmes had captured the murderer. He had seen clues in the smallest of places, the merest twitches in a face telling of a lie, all falling together to create a thread of narrative that no one else saw.
“I feel sorry for him.” Watson said eventually.
“Who?” Holmes asked.
“Mr. Maudsley.”
“Why feel sorry for a murderer? If you must feel sorry for a person involved in a case, the sympathies usually settle upon the victim.”
“Yes, I do feel for Mr. Kerfoot as well. After all, he did absolutely nothing to warrant being shot at. Yet, I feel sorry for Mr. Maudsley; because he has to live with the fact that he shot the wrong man.”
“He won’t have to live with it for very long, he’ll hang shortly.”
“Still…”
“If Mr. Maudsley had any sense in the first place, he would have hired someone to find out if his wife was cheating on him, versus simply running out and shooting a likely suspect. The fact that he shot an innocent man simply shows the futility of acting without full data.”
“What will happen to Mr. Vasher?”
“No doubt as soon as Mrs. Maudsley becomes a widow, he’ll marry her.”
“If I were her, I’d keep a close eye on him. A man, who has shown a taste for married women, might be once again tempted.”
Holmes made a noncommittal grunt.
“Even Lestrade commented on the uselessness of it all. Don’t you feel anything for them?”
“My job is to solve those cases that come across my path, not to feel sorry for those involved.”
Watson held his tongue, no matter how desperate he was to accuse Holmes of being a heartless automaton; he knew that some part of Holmes felt. If the crime had been put to music, he would have understood better.
Holmes seemed to sense Watson’s surrender of the topic, and perhaps unwilling to invoke an argument himself, he changed threads. “However, now you are one of the privileged few who have an insight to how our Scotland Yard works.”
“There was a lot of standing around and watching you work.”
“Scotland Yard is full of conventional Investigators who have yet to learn to look at a crime scene without destroying half of the clues, and if I’m on a scene, I much prefer them to stay out of my way. They have learned that after a few cases. Lestrade, and another one, Gregson, who I don’t think you’ve met yet, are the smartest of the bunch… Which, isn’t really saying much when you think about it.”
Watson caught himself mid laugh, and was treated to a raised eyebrow and a quirking of Holmes’ lips. He hadn’t intended to laugh when Holmes was insulting someone, but it had slipped, and he wondered slightly as they approached their front door, when the quips had become amusing.
“I am,” Holmes said, seeming to read Watson’s mind. “Imminently more amusing when the barbs are not directed towards you. Or after the tenth drink, whichever comes first.” He paused a moment to unlock the door. “Usually, it’s the drink.” He shot Watson a sly smile, and he could do nothing but laugh in return.
They went up the stars in silence, taking care not to awaken the household, “for who knew what Nanny would poison the tea with in the morning,” Holmes had whispered. Watson felt as though a recalcitrant child, practically sneaking into his own home, and thought that he could get used to the feeling.
Watson called out to Holmes before entering his room. “I just wanted to thank you for allowing me to follow you on the whole investigation. It has been the liveliest few days I’ve had in some time.”
Holmes brightened. “You’re welcome.” There was a pause as Holmes opened the door without looking, not taking his eyes off of Watson, and this time, Watson knew he was being dissected by that gaze. “By-the-by, I enjoyed working with a competent surgeon for once.”
He disappeared into his room; leaving Watson staring after him, mouth gaping slightly until he remembered himself.
Ice cream, adventures and complements, in a Holmesian sort of way; he would be saddened tomorrow when he woke up and the world was back to normal.
***
Unable to sleep, Watson sat in bed, hands moving across envelopes full of letters as the sky showed signs of lightening. There was no need to open them, for he had read them all often enough to commit them to memory. He called to mind the passages, letting their beauty sooth away the ugliness he had seen that day.
That was the only reason he heard the shattering of glass from the sitting room.
He crept silently, he hoped, to the door and cracked it just enough to catch a glimpse of Holmes bent over his table, a shattered beaker amongst the chemicals.
“I have of late,” he whispered, just loud enough for Watson to hear. “But wherefore, I know not… lost… all my mirth…” There was a short burst of laughter, tired and worn, as one hand crept up to rub at his eyes.
He was bleeding slightly.
“And here we have the futility of life.” He went on, reaching into a drawer and withdrawing a Moroccan case. “What do we exist for, but to help our fellow man? This case could have, should have, been prevented. ”
He moved to the window, taking the small case with him, and stared out into the breaking dawn. “This, goodly frame, the earth, seems to me a sterile promontory; this most excellent canopy, the air, look you, this brave o’er hanging firmament, this majestical roof, fretted with golden fire…“ He opened the case and took out a syringe, rolling it across his finger. “Why, it appears… no other thing to me than a foul and pestilent, congregation of vapors. What a piece of work is man!”
He fell silent, gaze caught on the needle, before slowly allowing his forehead to rest against the glass of the window. He laughed again, slightly broken this time.
“Man delights not me.”
Watson withdrew.
***
The sun was almost fully up, and the sounds of morning on the streets of London were beginning to creep through the walls, and Watson lay in bed, watching the early shadows dance across his ceiling. While he wasn’t normally a man for introspection, he found it difficult to quiet his thoughts, and so let them loose to take him where they will.
Thus, he thought about Lestrade, and how every five minutes he seemed ready to reach over and slap Holmes upside the head for being rude, or annoying, or just a general arse as Holmes was wont to do with apparently everyone.
And here Watson thought he was just special, being able to see the nastier side of Holmes.
Yet, for all his annoyance, there lingered a large bit of respect in Lestrade, granted it was very, very… it was so hidden twelve men with shovels would take weeks to find it. When Holmes laid out his evidence, point by point, and Lestrade, catching on and following the wild train of thought, saw the crime as Holmes did, Watson caught it. There was a slight widening of the eyes, a ghost of a smile, and Lestrade hung on every word as though a student to a beloved teacher. Lestrade respected Holmes’ abilities, and if the offer of a drink after was any indication, he actually liked the abrasive detective.
He thought of Mrs. Hudson, and how sometimes her eyes darkened when they looked at Holmes, the lines around her mouth becoming deeper, and lips pressing together as though not to let something escape. Before he had believed it to be her disapproval, yet it happened only when Holmes hadn’t left the settee in far too long, or the tuneless pickings of the violin hadn’t ceased for hours, or the wildness in his eyes caused him to lose sight of the room, and curl into a corner, begging them to please just be silent for a while, he’d be alright soon. In his mind now, it became the face of helplessness, the desire to speak and the inability to say anything that would change hands clutching over ears to hands reaching for diner.
He thought of Holmes, imperious, rude, and uncaring of civilities, giving commands to a group of children who looked at him adoringly, and worked hard not only for the money, but to receive Holmes’ smile and quiet “well done, lads”. He thought of how no less than three times in the busy store, or a crowded street, Holmes’ eyes glazed, and Lestrade gently prodded him into focusing on one object, whispering to Watson how there was occasionally too much information Holmes took in and he would become overwhelmed if not forced to narrow his attention. He pictured the slouched figure standing before the window as the rising sun lit his anguished face, syringe trapped in one hand, and quoting Hamlet for the frailty of humanity into the city he was trying so hard to save. A wounded musician’s soul, torn at the thought of a murder he could have prevented.
He pondered masks people wore to protect themselves from pain, and how it was far easier to push a stranger away than to ever risk a friend walking away on their own.
He acknowledged self-blindness, and how others had managed to see in Holmes what he wouldn’t let himself.
He thought of letters, and wondered if an unknown face behind pretty words was worth more than attempting to save a brilliant genius from destroying himself. Was there enough strength in a broken ex-army surgeon to tether the ephemeral soul behind the exterior, and would it be worth it? He wondered if it was even possible. He thought about who would be destroyed first- Holmes or him, and he wondered if it even mattered, or if he even cared.
And when he quit his room and discovered Holmes curled on the settee wrapped in a tattered blanket and staring at the open Moroccan case containing the syringe and drugs, while an untouched lunch grew cold on the table; he wondered, as he pushed Holmes to lie down and knelt by his side, fingers wrapped around a fragile wrist and counting pulses, if there was a choice anymore.
“I do feel for them,” He whispered to Watson. “I just can’t-”
“I know.”
***
My Dear Friend,
“If a man does not make new acquaintances as he advances through life, he will soon find himself left alone. A man, sir, should keep his friendship in a constant repair.” I believe it is time for me to repair that rift which I so caused in our friendship several months ago by not meeting with you when we agreed to.
If you are amenable, I should like to meet you tonight. We shall go to the same place, so as to erase our previous disaster from our minds, and begin anew with fresh pages. I shall ensure that my legs carry me beyond the door, and you shall ensure that your roommate stays home.
On the subject of, it seems to me that your roommate is the most horrific person to live with. Perhaps, if all goes well tonight, we two should share rooms, with far more congeniality than you receive from him. I have found a most comfortable set of rooms that I believe you shall enjoy as well as I do.
Tonight, Dear Friend; tonight shall see us both happier people than we began the day, and I should think, satisfied in our new lots in life.
Always yours,
Dear Friend
***
Watson made his slow trek back to Baker Street, the letter tucked safely in his pocket. A few months ago, he would have jumped at the chance, his bags would be packed within the hour of his return, and he would have to regrets as he left Holmes, and his insanity, behind.
Now though…
Now, it was hard to imagine waking up and not hearing, his favorite pieces for the violin serenading him, or at least the clatter of a tea tray accompanied by Mrs. Hudson and Holmes bantering. He could give up the silent days, where he would wake in cold fear and run out; praying Holmes was at least slightly lucid when he got there.
He was also beginning to understand that with a man like Sherlock Holmes, you could not have the high times without the low, even if some months had been more bad than good.
It was becoming difficult for him not to recall a time before he started to receive smiles across the breakfast table, with questions on if he was free, and if he would like to join Holmes on a case today, at his convenience, of course. A time before Holmes would run suddenly into the rooms, or quickly throwing on his jacket after leaping up from a throne of pillows and thick pipe smoke, shouting at Watson to grab his revolver and follow, they would catch the criminal tonight.
The time before Watson became involved in the enticing world of crimes and detectives, villains and heroes, was almost a distant memory to him now. Granted, Holmes still drove him crazy half a dozen times a day, but it was something he was becoming used to, and unfortunately for his sanity, rather fond of.
Yet, to give fair arguments to his Dear Friend, the man was most assuredly well spoken. They had similar tastes in many subjects, yet disagreed enough on others that he felt they would never run out of things to discuss. His friend would never smoke them out of the rooms, or blow up bits of it, and once or twice, themselves, with a strange chemical experiment. He would never begin a violin concert at three in the morning, or even scrape upon the instrument carelessly.
Holmes still insisted it helped his thinking process, Watson still insisted he took particular delight in driving the rest of the house insane with it.
His dear friend would not involve him in an occupation that could possibly be their end one day.
He wondered if he would be bored with an ordinary life.
He wondered if he would drive himself out of his mind over-thinking everything.
So he stopped a few houses down, gazing up at the familiar window, one distant part of him unsure whether to be worried or not that no smoke emanated from it. It would be hard to leave, but there was certainly no harm in meeting the man face to face at last, and he could certainly leave the decision until then.
Before he moved, a hansom pulled up as a rather large man exited the house. Curious and hopeful, as Holmes hadn’t had a case in a week and Watson was afraid he would soon descend into a mood, Watson watched the man ride away, and headed inside.
Upstairs, Holmes was at his chemistry table, intent upon some notes, but he looked up eagerly when Watson entered.
“Watson, I’m glad you’ve returned. What are you doing tonight?”
“Actually, I am to meet with a friend for dinner.”
“Ah.”
“Did the gentleman who just left bring you a case?”
“The… oh. No, he was… He was looking for you, actually.”
“Me?”
“Yes, he said he was your new roommate.”
Watson could feel his face heating up, and Holmes wore a puzzled confused expression that was oddly endearing. “Nothing is decided yet, Holmes.”
“I didn’t know you were thinking of leaving.”
“I’m not… Listen, it’s complicated. I’m not certain myself yet.”
“Mr. Popkin seemed fairly sure.”
“Mr. Pop…kin?”
“That is his name, isn’t it?”
“Oh yes, Popkin. He was the one that just left?”
“Indeed.” Holmes perched on his chair, an odd grin playing about his mouth. “At least your doctor sensibilities won’t be as alarmed by him. I’m quite certain you’ll never have to cajole him to eat.”
“Unlike you.”
“Unlike me. It will be a nice change for you.”
“Nothing is-“
“Decided, you mentioned. Well, his mind at least is made up. He seems a very pushy sort of man, very used to getting his way.”
“That at least, I know how to deal with.”
“Are you implying something, Watson?”
“Wouldn’t dream of it. Ah, didn’t he impress you as rather witty? He has a fine mind.”
“I’m sure, but he seemed rather dull and boorish to me, but then, it’s hard to judge a man when he’s depressed and out of a job.”
“Out of a job? He didn’t mention that.”
“He must be one of those sensitive sorts, who don’t wish to worry the new roommate about finances before they’ve moved in.”
“I should think that would be a very important piece of information to give a new roommate.”
“You didn’t know what my job was when we moved in together.”
“Ah… Yes, I think I was psychologically disturbed at the time.”
“… And you’re not now?”
“Shut up.”
“At any rate, he believes the two of you can make it on your pension, though you might have a third or fourth roommate until he can find a job.”
“Third or fourth-“
“You’ll like them, I’m sure. Mr. Popkin assured me he was on intimate terms with all of them.”
“Intimate… How intimate?”
“I thought you would already know. Really Watson, that’s not the sort of thing one asks a man.”
“Yes, of course not, but I had thought-“
“I’m certain the three, or four, of you will get along famously. You do have a habit of that. Besides, I should think in such close quarters, you’ll get to know them fairly quickly.”
“I never believed… He seemed much more considerate, in his letters. Not the sort of person to make several people live in a small space. And to suggest we move in together just as he’s lost his job…”
“Well, I’m sure it doesn’t help that he is being evicted from his old lodgings and needs to find new ones quickly.”
“Evicted! Why?”
“I didn’t ask.”
“Well, what do you deduce?”
“Obviously, he cannot afford the rent.”
“Obviously.”
“Or, his landlady is tired of him bringing home young rent boys”
“What?”
Holmes was twitching in his seat, mouth threatening to erupt into a large grin, and Watson finally threw his hands up in exasperation. “Enough! What is going on?”
That caused Holmes to burst into laughter. “’Dear friend,’” he gasped out “’My heart beats faster every time I approach the Post Office, for I know that when I open box 237, there you will be. I wonder as I take you out of your envelope, what wondrous conversations we shall have today.’”
Watson paled as Holmes seemed to get himself under control. “Did… Did he show you that?”
“No, even worse; ‘I need a friend. Not just a friendly piece of paper, though in the past you have filled in rather well.’”
“Dear Friend… You?”
“Me.”
There was silence for a moment, and then a pillow flew across the room, smacking Holmes in the face, who almost fell to the floor with laughter.
“What the deuce is wrong with you? You had me believing I was friends with a large, penny-less, philanderer!”
“The look on your face!” Holmes cried out amongst giggles.
Watson beat him with the pillow again. “I’ll have you know I was considering staying before two minutes ago, now I’m really thinking of leaving.”
“Watson! Calm down!”
“Who was the man I saw leaving, whose character you have abusing?”
“That was my brother.”
“Your brother?”
“Yes, you must admit that he played a rather nice part, don’t you agree?”
“I didn’t know you have a brother.”
“I think there is still much we don’t know of each other.”
“How long have you known? No, you knew it was me at the restaurant that night. Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Would you have been willing to accept the fact that the person you’ve been writing to, the person who you’ve felt closest to since returning to London, was in fact, the person you hated as well? I needed time to change your opinion of me.”
“Now I don’t know which is the real you.”
“The letters are real, and these last few months have been fairly normal… Normal for me.”
“Explain one thing.”
“Anything you wish.”
“Why were you so awful to me when I first moved in?”
Holmes started to turn red, and avoided his eyes. “I have a running bet with an… acquaintance of mine, for when I can drive a new roommate off. If my roommate is gone before she’s bored with her new husband, I win.”
“What do you win?”
“I thought we were going to work on you not gambling?”
“Ah… right.”
“Besides, it doesn’t matter now. She left him last week.”
“Then, you still had plenty of time to drive me off. What changed?”
“You were the one who wrote those letters, and I was not leading you on when I told you I looked forward to them. I enjoyed the exchange, and then we worked that first case together.”
“We do make a rather good team.”
“Exactly. I can rely on you, Watson.”
He had to laugh, dragging a hand over his eyes. “You know, a part of me had hoped it was you. I don’t want to leave.”
Holmes smiled. “Please forgive the deception, dear boy, but I knew of no other way to turn your opinion of me.”
Watson could do nothing but laugh, moving to cup Holmes’ face in between his hands. “Dear friend, ‘twice or thrice had I loved thee, before I knew thy face or name’, and now, I would like to know it all. Don’t ever change.”
THE END
***
End notes, A.K.A. annoying historical facts I researched for this sucker you probably don’t care about:
Florian Hermann Hommage-Valse, Opus 21, is the melody of the song we know as “Ochi Chornye” (or "Ochi Chornya", "Ochie Chornie", “Otchi Tchorniya). You know, the tune in the cigarette box in the original movie? I unfortunately could actually use Ochi Chornye in the fic, since it wasn’t published until 1884, and even then wasn’t really known until 1897. However, what resources I found lead me to think the melody would have been known, and it was written as a duet for piano and violin. In 1884 it was set to a poem called “Dark Eyes” (In English) and became the Ochi Chornye we know today. Or at least, what was mentioned in the movie.
In use of the Post Office Box: I have gathered that they did exist, and it is entirely possible for Victorians to use them. (I found that letter boxes were invented in 1815, and wall boxes at home came into use around 1849.) Also around this time, letters were being delivered around four times a day. Thus, if your timing was good and the mail was fast, you could receive a letter for breakfast, send a reply before lunch, get the reply for that one around tea time, and send out a final letter before supper. How’s that for service?
Ice cream: There was a penny-lick (a scoop of ice cream in a shell bought for a penny) ice cream stand outside of Charing Cross Station established in 1851. However, during the mid-Victorian era, large quantities of ice were imported from Norway and the U.S., making ice cream a more available (and less expensive) treat. The U.S. had a national distribution started in the 1870’s, but until refrigeration units became popular and standard in most homes, not a lot of people could hold ice cream themselves unless they made it. Ice cream stands were more popular in the U.S. and didn’t come into the U.K. until, as mentioned, more ice was imported.
The (slightly abridged) “What a piece of work is man” soliloquy, is from Hamlet, Act II, scene ii, lines 306-322(-ish, depending on your version). It is honestly my absolute favorite piece from Hamlet.
“When a man is tired of London…” Boswell’s Life of Dr. Johnson, Vol. II, pg 131.
“All men are liable to error…” John Lock, Essay on Human Understanding, Book IV, Chapter 20, section 17.
“If a man does not make new acquaintances…” Boswell’s Life of Dr. Johnson, Vol. I, pg 182.
“Twice or thrice I loved thee…” John Donne, Air and Angels, stanza I