Library
A/N: there was a prompt by KCS (the quote below). As I’m not in for fluff- or angst-writing, this is the most I could produce…
A friend is someone who reaches for your hand, but touches your heart.
- Kathleen Grove
It was with mixed feelings that I breakfasted on that memorable morning half a week before my marriage. Holmes was nowhere to be seen; he embarked upon another investigation the day before, one that “didn’t require dragging me from setting everything in order for my impending nuptials”. I almost wished he didn’t leave me behind; the feast itself was a responsibility of my fair bride and her employer, Mrs. Forrester. I was in charge of a trillion of trifles, some of them never confusing me before. I was constantly checking and rechecking numerous lists of things done, not-yet-done, and never-to-be-done, to the point of dreaming about Holmes presenting Mary with a set of test tubes as a more fashionable substitute to china. To her credit, she never agreed. I, however, found his insistence deucedly taxing and told him so in no uncertain terms.
It was then that he looked at me oddly, poured me a brandy and asked what day it was. When I couldn’t answer him (it only slowly dawning on me that this Holmes was real, having come back without me noticing, and one to never willingly part with his precious equipment), he let out a disheartened sigh.
“Sit. Compose yourself, old man, before you order chlorine instead of claret. By the way, I’m afraid I need a break. All this commotion gets on my nerves.”
I stood speechless. Was he abandoning me to my fate? He took the Bradshaw from the shelf, leafed through the pages, threw it on my desk, smiled briefly, grabbed a hat and sprinted to the door.
He was.
I recovered my voice.
“Holmes! You aren’t going to miss my wedding altogether, are you?”
“Not a chance.” He waved me off impatiently with his headwear. “I forgot about a matter that requires my immediate attention. Is it ten o’clock, Thursday?”
“Ten thirty. Bring the rings!”
But he was already gone, leaving me the only consolation of knowing that on this occasion I was - had to be - more resilient than the most stubborn man in London.
So I sat at the table, alone, to answer Mrs. Hudson’s countless questions, half of which I hadn’t ever thought to exist in English language. In a fit of childish petulance I didn’t peruse the post, plentiful though it was. It would serve Holmes right if he missed something interesting just because he took a vacation in the middle of Armageddon. I knew I could not follow him, but it still felt hollow and unworthy of a friend.
Monday (for Monday it was) flew past, followed by a Tuesday and a Wednesday. A particularly trying Wednesday, I might add, and no signs of my errant best man. I knew better than doubt him, however, had I time for an idle thought; it appeared that my earlier reference to the Doomsday was an apt, if not a welcome one.
As I could have predicted, Wednesday seemed interminable. About five in the evening I left for a constitutional, to clean my head. Evening shadows stretched behind trees, the sun glowed motherly upon children playing in the street. I regretted not taking a book when I left that morning; nothing soothed my nerves better than a few pages of a sea novel and a plate of crumpets, the likes of which a street vendor was selling nearby. I hadn’t written a word in days, hadn’t turned a page in weeks... Granted, my collection had never been what I wished for, ever since I left Edinburgh. Now, what had been collected by generations of Watsons, went to the auction to cover Henry’s debts.
I have always been an avid reader, ever since father taught me the letters. Ah, does one remember one’s first primers; a lifetime ago, when Henry was a universally loved little imp, and I his loyal partner-in-crime (crime being an upturned jar or a lost hankie), we boasted our literacy. Not every boy in the town knew how to read; we had an advantage, and we used it. Our pirate plans decorated fences, walls, and pretty much every unmoving feature of the neighborhood. One only had to keep track of new messages.
I sighed. Even in those halcyon days, our main problem was lack of communication.
However, I couldn’t dawdle if I wanted to keep pace with the unstoppable train of preparations and to be in time for the actual event the next day. I turned back to Baker Street, still a bit offended by Holmes’s betrayal. I had to shop for a new suit alone, and the clerk’s comments did nothing to alleviate my sartorial misgivings.
When I reached our lodgings, I could immediately see he was back. There was light in the sitting room; a violin complained to the world of some unspeakable sorrow. I hastened my steps, when the door opened, and out came my beautiful Mary.
“John!” She kissed me. “How good of you to finally come!”
I smiled, tiredness forgotten.
“What brings you here? Are you leaving already? Did Holmes do anything?..”
“Oh, Mr. Holmes was quite polite”. She seemed distracted. “And yes, I must away; otherwise, Mrs. Forrester would come to rescue me from your den.”
“Pity. She such an attractive lady.”
“Until tomorrow, then.”
We said goodbye (I couldn’t believe it to be the last evening to address her as Miss Morstan). I then caught her a cab and went home.
Holmes seemed jovial, despite the mournful violin improvisation. He didn’t offer any specifics about his newest adventure - indeed, his face darkened when I mentioned it, and he grumbled something about boring paperwork and lack of trust. I didn’t press for details.
Dinner was awkward. We opted for silence, there being too many things to say. I was mentally going through my morning schedule when he abruptly stood up, wished me a good night and disappeared in his room. I sat for a while, alone again, worrying about future and somehow disappointed with myself.
Thankfully, my mood improved the next day. Holmes was chipper after “a restful night”, thus confirming my suspicions of his not taking care of himself in the previous days. How many times will he forego food and sleep in favor of running after some wrong-doer? Conscience gnawed its way through my breast; I had to willingly ignore its hungry cries.
Thus, Mary was highly amused by my stubborn expression as she glided down the aisle.
Formalities finished, we dined in a restaurant (I didn’t invite many guests, but I couldn’t stop Mrs. Forrester; as a result, we and Holmes were surrounded by a sea of ladies whose weddings, if any, must have taken place a good quarter of a century before) and parted our ways. I slumped with relief.
“Home.” Said Mary, and I agreed.
I was a bit surprised, however, to find some unknown packages in the hallway. I turned to my wife (my wife!) to apologize as a fresh husband is expected to for any and all troubles on the way to eternal bliss, but she stopped me halfway.
“It is my fault, I’m afraid. Or, shall I say, mine and your dear friend’s.”
“How so? Oh, anyway, it is of no consequence. We shall unpack them tomorrow.”
“Open the topmost one, then.”
I tore the string, and my heart surged from the murky depths where it had resided all week as I slowly took out “The Travels of Lemuel Gulliver”, the very copy I received for my eleventh Christmas. Behind it, my father’s books were neatly stacked in two rows. It looked like the whole library.
I opened Swift’s fanciful Odyssey. There was an inscription in Holmes’s hand, one that made Mary snort and me blink back a tear of gratitude.
He wished me to always come back home, no matter how many shipwrecks it might cost me.