Literary Criticism
Title: Literary Criticism
Author: Katead
Rating: PG
Fandom: Canon (or possibly anti-canon)
Characters and Pairings: Holmes/ Watson
Summary: Watson is less than pleased with Holmes' attempt to help him with his writer's block
Warnings: None other than shocking lack of plot, though if you haven't read BLAN (and maybe MAZA) it wont make much sense at all.
Word Count: Roughly 3000
Disclaimer: Ok I admit it I'm not ACD, knew I should've grown that moustache :(
Notes: This started as an attempt at humour and ended up more fluffy than a cloud soaked in fabric softener, but frankly I'm just elated to have written something that took less than…. 4 months (or a week in this case, whoopee). Unbeta'd so I have no one to blame for any grammatical or factual slip-ups.
“For God’s sake Holmes!” I let loose as soon as I had slammed the front door, something that, I regret to say, felt absurdly satisfying
“Really Watson, such language and you’re hardly in the door.” That I could hear the smirk in his voice made it even worse. My temper, already frayed to breaking point ceased paying any attention to my rational mind (which was rather coming around to the point of view of my temper itself) and I marched into his study.
“Language be damned!”
“Do I take it that your trip to London was not a success?” The same smirk was brazenly present and, to make matters worse, he had not even glanced up from what he was doing, which apparently was pinning a line of various dead bees to a sheet of card, and labelling them accordingly.
“You knew I was travelling to town today to meet with my publisher, did you not?”
“What an absurd question, of course I knew. To discuss your latest story for The Strand.”
“Precisely.”
“Am I to understand that he didn't like it? Really Watson, the way you take perfectly good case histories and complicate them with so much twaddle, you can hardly be surprised. I have often -”
“The story will be published but not in this issue, because, I am reliably informed, that my latest instalment already arrived. Postmarked from our local office and in my own handwriting. It has already been published!”
“My dear Watson how very unusual. Perhaps you had ought to consult a specialist.”
I was not to be put off.
“My publisher was delighted, apparently, by a twist in the narrative style, and very much enjoyed my experiment of writing from the perspective of Mr Sherlock Holmes!" I brandished the latest copy of The Strand at him; much creased from having to bear the brunt of my anger on the journey.
He did, at last, put aside his work and turn around, something that would have placated me a little had he not been practically vibrating with pent up laughter.
“It is not funny Holmes! You have played a most unfair trick on me.”
“Oh come now Watson, it is a little funny.”
“How could you le me make the trip, all the while knowing I was to be disappointed?”
“Disappointed? My dear Watson, I have boosted your income at minimal effort to yourself and created a talking point amongst both your public and your publisher. Besides which, you have often hinted at my harbouring something like disapproval of your work and now that has been publicly withdrawn. I knew you would be surprised, of course.”
“Surprised! Holmes I was humiliated.”
“My dear fellow, you are not making sense. Let me put this away and we shall discuss it properly. In the meantime I suggest that you procure a cup of tea and make yourself comfortable in the hopes that it will soothe your temper.”
There is only one thing to do when Holmes is in such a puckish mood and that is to try not to throttle him, whilst going along with his suggestion. It is deeply frustrating but, unfortunately, the only way to learn what it is he is up to.
“Now,” He began, once I was settled in my armchair to await my explanation, a cup of tea at my elbow to humour him. “perhaps you are feeling calm enough to discuss the matter rationally and explain to me why it is that you are so upset.”
“Why I’m -” The urge the throttle him reared up again with renewed vigour. “Holmes, are you serious?”
“I am quite serious. So far I see no reasonable explanation for the state of your temper. In the matter of your grievances, you have so far stated nothing more than the fact that I allowed you to make the journey into London knowing that it would be in vain. You had no appointments today, professional or otherwise, save the one in question, which, incidentally, I know you were dreading. You have been tearing your hair out all week over that ridiculous story that we both know is far below even your usual standard.” I tried to concentrate on breathing deeply and telling myself that I would miss him later if I succumbed and killed him now. “In fact, I know that you were going to town with the express intention of telling Mr Doyle that you would not meet the prearranged deadline and to discuss the finer points of the thing with him, in the hopes that you might then have some idea of what to do with it.” His pause at this point said quite plainly that he knew exactly what to do with it, but knew better than to risk his neck by giving voice to the suggestion - he does have some common sense after all.
“Besides which, I know that such a trivial thing as a wasted trip to town would never have you in such a mood under ordinary circumstances, there is far too much to interest you in London and you have been craving a rest. What’s more I’ve put you at far greater inconvenience over the years without evoking such a response.”
“Don’t remind me.” I growled through gritted teeth.
“You have told me that you are humiliated but I see no reason why you should be, so there I am at a loss.”
I determinedly ignored the look that he gave me as he got up to fetch the cup of tea, which I had grudgingly supplied for him. It said (in a voice that would have been more at home in a schoolroom) that I was being irrational and that he was finding it extremely trying. Luckily for us both I am immune to his looks by now and have trained myself not to be niggled by them.
“Well, shall I start with the fact that me being ignorant of my own work makes me look a fool; or perhaps that by completing and publishing a story in my handwriting before I can do the same you have made me look and feel an utter failure; or even that by writing my stories as well as starring in them you have effaced my role in our partnership? Or shall I perhaps turn to the substance of the story for my justification?” I flipped open the much abused magazine. “The opening line being: ‘The ideas of my friend Watson, though limited are extremely pertinacious’ No doubt you meant that as a compliment and I have vastly misunderstood?”
During the course of my tirade he at least had the decency to dispose of the smirk and steadily adopt an expression of regret, though whether it was at what he had done or at being shouted at I couldn’t say.
“My dear Watson, you have misunderstood me.” He began. Looking quite pained, in fact, which rather pleased me, I am sorry to say. “I did not write those lines about you, nor did I write them from my own perspective. The Holmes whom you have created in your stories is a ‘cold reasoning machine.’ you cannot really see me like that? And the Watson about whom you write is an idiot; he is a pale imitation of yourself. If I am to write from the perspective of that man, I cannot imagine that he would shrink from criticising your namesake. Besides which, you have been most unfair and picked for your argument a single line, whilst ignoring those that contradict your theory. You will not have to look very far to find them.”
“Watson has some remarkable characteristics of his own’” I read. “Though I can’t see why you should write that if you believe he’s an idiot.”
“No, there I was writing about you.”
I couldn’t help but feel that this was all terribly convenient for Holmes, being able to dictate to whom his opinions applied and change his mind from line to line, and yet I couldn’t help feeling just a little mollified.
“You assume that the only reason I wanted to write one of your stories was to annoy you, but I assure you that is far from the truth. I expected some amusement certainly,” The return of the smirk reminded me of just how angry with him I intended to be. “but it was not my aim. My true reasons were the ones I gave you when you charged in and were given in all seriousness, though you did not think so. You have been looking tired recently, and are frustrated by this latest story as well as agitated by the thought of missing your deadline, I had hoped to ease the strain a little, and knew it would never pass in alien handwriting without a letter of explanation from you. Rather than forge the letter, which would be bound to receive a reply, I forged the story. I had hoped also to right some of the wrongs that you have done yourself in your earlier works, with the idea that this might boost your confidence in your abilities somewhat, although that seems that has backfired on me rather spectacularly. I am sorry to have caused you pain.”
Holmes finds himself at fault so rarely that an apology from him is no common occurrence, as I have had cause to mention. On top of so surprising and welcome an explanation I almost forgave him then and there, indeed I was pondering how I was going to apologise myself for getting things so backwards, when it occurred to me that I had another reason to be angry at him.
“No, no, hang on Holmes, that is all very well, but I have read it and I feel that an explanation or two is in order.”
“How do you mean?”
“Well for a start after all your years of criticising my work for being more fiction than fact for you to -"
"It is not supposed to be by me!"
"- For you to write an unadulterated work of fiction and pass it off as fact."
He suddenly assumed a cold and detached demeanour that told me I had touched a nerve somewhere. "I did occasionally receive clients when you were at work, you know. I found most of the time I could soldier on and go about my business without you."
"I know that you made it up, if only because you are feigning injury at some nonexistent slight incurred by my words. You would certainly have told me if that case had come to your notice. Which rather begs the question of why you would make up such a thing?"
"I imagined it sufficient to mystify and excite the average reader."
"You know I am talking about the homosexual theme. What on Earth would induce you to write such a thing?"
"You disapprove?" He had lit his pipe and for all the world looked slightly bored with the conversation, I was sure that his mind was back on his research for his book. I wanted to shake him until he realised why I was angry.
"When you put yourself and me in the firing line? As you said, who will think it is actually written by you? It is quite the ingenious parody of my own style, though I imagine that most people will not see the jibe and believe it to be the real thing."
"I have already told you that there was no jibe or malice intended, it will not win you sympathy by insisting on it." I attained some satisfaction from seeing him nettled. Although I was aware that it was only because he was becoming irritated by the continuation of the subject, it at least showed me that he was engaged in the discussion. He would very likely not let it go now until one of us won our argument. "As to putting either of us 'in the firing line' as you so dramatically term it, what harm is there in it? You understand the meaning of it because you know me and because of your own experience, most will not see it, those who do will be in the same boat as yourself and raise no objection."
"Your theory is all very well except that there are plenty who will know, from experience, what you mean and will not approve, may be disgusted and outraged. What about them?"
"The work is available for all to see, there is nothing explicitly mentioned about the relationship between these two young men. Should anybody raise an objection to the perceived meaning of it they must first convince others that it is all not in their own minds, they cannot do so without labelling themselves what they wish to denounce. There is no harm in it whatsoever Watson."
"In a male romance?!"
"I thought you liked romance? I could hardly write a story in your series without one." He drawled.
"If you'd read my own work as much as you'd scoffed over it you'd have noticed that I adhere to the more conventional sort as a literary ploy." I tried to match his tone for cold indifference, I am certain I failed miserably.
"Well when it came to writing in a determined young woman with beautiful flashing eyes I found myself cringing at the very idea, and so decided to stick to what I know. I only had a week after all and I do have deadlines for my own book."
"Do not act as if you were doing me a favour!" I shook my finger at him and only just succeeded in keeping the smile off my face at his endearing idea of romantic storytelling.
"Very well then, I accept that you are not happy with me and I shall refrain from such action in future. Is there any other point to which you would like to object or can we set the matter aside now?"
Knowing I should not be allowed to raise the issue again, I flicked through the story. In a calmer light I had to acknowledge he had written some very nice things, he had even lied outright in pretending to have been brought round to my point of view on the subject of storytelling.
"Yes, wait a minute, why have you written me out of it?"
"I thought you desired people to believe you were married, I wanted to lend weight to your assertion."
"I shall ignore that. If you will remember I wrote my own romance surrounding "The Sign of Four" I was not supposed to be married in-" I broke off to consult the magazine. "1903. People will think I'm lying."
Holmes' own sense of self-preservation apparently decided that its annually-summoned influence was required, and he contented himself with raising his eyebrows at me in retort.
"Tell me why you wished to keep me out of it and I will let the matter drop once and for all."
"I don't think that you should worry about any chronological mishaps taking credence away from your earlier work, on the contrary I can only imagine that they will lend a sense of authenticity to this one. Be that as it may," He continued in answer to my look. "I found that I could not write him. Your alter ego. I don't have the patience for him, and unlike your literary Holmes, I have no desire to insult you. Are you quite satisfied?"
His explanation had been so unexpectedly sweet that I had almost forgotten my anger, although not my reasons for it, which I still felt were entirely genuine. I decided to walk off my residual annoyance in the garden. There really was nothing I could do about it now, after all the thing was already published.
I sighed as the aftermath of our argument washed over me, leaving me feeling more tired than satisfied.
"I suppose I did say I'd drop it."
I had one thought before I left him to his pipe, however. "By the way, I thought you might be interested to hear that we solved the problem of the other story at the meeting today."
"Oh yes?" He murmured absently, his eyes following the coils of smoke that drifted up from his mouth.
"Yes, Doyle was so impressed by your addition that he thinks further changes in narrative style might add a new depth. He was especially keen on the idea of more tales from your point of view."
Holmes' temper is easily a match for my own when roused and so I slipped out of the French windows onto our lawn, just in case, as he snapped to attention at this news.
Chuckling to myself I paused to reflect that I did feel much calmer than I had been in weeks. Whilst not exactly feeling that I had been too hard on Holmes, I did feel sorry that he would in all likelihood have occasion to regret his meddling, presuming Doyle was serious about me writing more stories from his perspective. Knowing that it had not been done out of cruelty but that he had really acted with the kindest of intentions, although not the most carefully thought out ones, had been something of a boost all of its own. It is rare that Holmes goes out of his way to show affection for me, especially in so public a manner and he was doubtless feeling considerably more hurt than he'd let on.
As I stood pondering what to do for the best in the lovely evening light, with the gentle hum of bees and the delicate smell of roses surrounding me, I remembered something that had caught my eye on the train. I still had the magazine clutched in my hand so set about finding it again. It took me some little time to find it - I had been too angry at the time to pay it proper attention but after few minutes I saw it, near the end, right at the conclusion of the 'case'. My heart swelled as I looked at the line in question. There was nothing to be done but return to the sitting room in the hope that my sheepish expression would guard me against his reaction.
I found Holmes in his study, once again working at his dead bees. I had no doubt that he had heard me approach and so rapped my knuckles against the open door, hoping that he would recognise it for the peaceful advance it was.
"Yes?" He had not looked up but it was an acknowledgement and I wouldn't quibble.
"Do you really miss me when I'm not around to help you?"
He did look up at that, and in answer I held up the offending article, folded back to expose the page in question. Though I knew he couldn't see it from where I was standing, I almost felt I needed to provide proof to show both of us that I wasn't mad.
His answer was unexpectedly prompt and softly spoken.
"If I said so I cannot deny it." He replied, and bent his head back to his bees.
Author: Katead
Rating: PG
Fandom: Canon (or possibly anti-canon)
Characters and Pairings: Holmes/ Watson
Summary: Watson is less than pleased with Holmes' attempt to help him with his writer's block
Warnings: None other than shocking lack of plot, though if you haven't read BLAN (and maybe MAZA) it wont make much sense at all.
Word Count: Roughly 3000
Disclaimer: Ok I admit it I'm not ACD, knew I should've grown that moustache :(
Notes: This started as an attempt at humour and ended up more fluffy than a cloud soaked in fabric softener, but frankly I'm just elated to have written something that took less than…. 4 months (or a week in this case, whoopee). Unbeta'd so I have no one to blame for any grammatical or factual slip-ups.
“For God’s sake Holmes!” I let loose as soon as I had slammed the front door, something that, I regret to say, felt absurdly satisfying
“Really Watson, such language and you’re hardly in the door.” That I could hear the smirk in his voice made it even worse. My temper, already frayed to breaking point ceased paying any attention to my rational mind (which was rather coming around to the point of view of my temper itself) and I marched into his study.
“Language be damned!”
“Do I take it that your trip to London was not a success?” The same smirk was brazenly present and, to make matters worse, he had not even glanced up from what he was doing, which apparently was pinning a line of various dead bees to a sheet of card, and labelling them accordingly.
“You knew I was travelling to town today to meet with my publisher, did you not?”
“What an absurd question, of course I knew. To discuss your latest story for The Strand.”
“Precisely.”
“Am I to understand that he didn't like it? Really Watson, the way you take perfectly good case histories and complicate them with so much twaddle, you can hardly be surprised. I have often -”
“The story will be published but not in this issue, because, I am reliably informed, that my latest instalment already arrived. Postmarked from our local office and in my own handwriting. It has already been published!”
“My dear Watson how very unusual. Perhaps you had ought to consult a specialist.”
I was not to be put off.
“My publisher was delighted, apparently, by a twist in the narrative style, and very much enjoyed my experiment of writing from the perspective of Mr Sherlock Holmes!" I brandished the latest copy of The Strand at him; much creased from having to bear the brunt of my anger on the journey.
He did, at last, put aside his work and turn around, something that would have placated me a little had he not been practically vibrating with pent up laughter.
“It is not funny Holmes! You have played a most unfair trick on me.”
“Oh come now Watson, it is a little funny.”
“How could you le me make the trip, all the while knowing I was to be disappointed?”
“Disappointed? My dear Watson, I have boosted your income at minimal effort to yourself and created a talking point amongst both your public and your publisher. Besides which, you have often hinted at my harbouring something like disapproval of your work and now that has been publicly withdrawn. I knew you would be surprised, of course.”
“Surprised! Holmes I was humiliated.”
“My dear fellow, you are not making sense. Let me put this away and we shall discuss it properly. In the meantime I suggest that you procure a cup of tea and make yourself comfortable in the hopes that it will soothe your temper.”
There is only one thing to do when Holmes is in such a puckish mood and that is to try not to throttle him, whilst going along with his suggestion. It is deeply frustrating but, unfortunately, the only way to learn what it is he is up to.
“Now,” He began, once I was settled in my armchair to await my explanation, a cup of tea at my elbow to humour him. “perhaps you are feeling calm enough to discuss the matter rationally and explain to me why it is that you are so upset.”
“Why I’m -” The urge the throttle him reared up again with renewed vigour. “Holmes, are you serious?”
“I am quite serious. So far I see no reasonable explanation for the state of your temper. In the matter of your grievances, you have so far stated nothing more than the fact that I allowed you to make the journey into London knowing that it would be in vain. You had no appointments today, professional or otherwise, save the one in question, which, incidentally, I know you were dreading. You have been tearing your hair out all week over that ridiculous story that we both know is far below even your usual standard.” I tried to concentrate on breathing deeply and telling myself that I would miss him later if I succumbed and killed him now. “In fact, I know that you were going to town with the express intention of telling Mr Doyle that you would not meet the prearranged deadline and to discuss the finer points of the thing with him, in the hopes that you might then have some idea of what to do with it.” His pause at this point said quite plainly that he knew exactly what to do with it, but knew better than to risk his neck by giving voice to the suggestion - he does have some common sense after all.
“Besides which, I know that such a trivial thing as a wasted trip to town would never have you in such a mood under ordinary circumstances, there is far too much to interest you in London and you have been craving a rest. What’s more I’ve put you at far greater inconvenience over the years without evoking such a response.”
“Don’t remind me.” I growled through gritted teeth.
“You have told me that you are humiliated but I see no reason why you should be, so there I am at a loss.”
I determinedly ignored the look that he gave me as he got up to fetch the cup of tea, which I had grudgingly supplied for him. It said (in a voice that would have been more at home in a schoolroom) that I was being irrational and that he was finding it extremely trying. Luckily for us both I am immune to his looks by now and have trained myself not to be niggled by them.
“Well, shall I start with the fact that me being ignorant of my own work makes me look a fool; or perhaps that by completing and publishing a story in my handwriting before I can do the same you have made me look and feel an utter failure; or even that by writing my stories as well as starring in them you have effaced my role in our partnership? Or shall I perhaps turn to the substance of the story for my justification?” I flipped open the much abused magazine. “The opening line being: ‘The ideas of my friend Watson, though limited are extremely pertinacious’ No doubt you meant that as a compliment and I have vastly misunderstood?”
During the course of my tirade he at least had the decency to dispose of the smirk and steadily adopt an expression of regret, though whether it was at what he had done or at being shouted at I couldn’t say.
“My dear Watson, you have misunderstood me.” He began. Looking quite pained, in fact, which rather pleased me, I am sorry to say. “I did not write those lines about you, nor did I write them from my own perspective. The Holmes whom you have created in your stories is a ‘cold reasoning machine.’ you cannot really see me like that? And the Watson about whom you write is an idiot; he is a pale imitation of yourself. If I am to write from the perspective of that man, I cannot imagine that he would shrink from criticising your namesake. Besides which, you have been most unfair and picked for your argument a single line, whilst ignoring those that contradict your theory. You will not have to look very far to find them.”
“Watson has some remarkable characteristics of his own’” I read. “Though I can’t see why you should write that if you believe he’s an idiot.”
“No, there I was writing about you.”
I couldn’t help but feel that this was all terribly convenient for Holmes, being able to dictate to whom his opinions applied and change his mind from line to line, and yet I couldn’t help feeling just a little mollified.
“You assume that the only reason I wanted to write one of your stories was to annoy you, but I assure you that is far from the truth. I expected some amusement certainly,” The return of the smirk reminded me of just how angry with him I intended to be. “but it was not my aim. My true reasons were the ones I gave you when you charged in and were given in all seriousness, though you did not think so. You have been looking tired recently, and are frustrated by this latest story as well as agitated by the thought of missing your deadline, I had hoped to ease the strain a little, and knew it would never pass in alien handwriting without a letter of explanation from you. Rather than forge the letter, which would be bound to receive a reply, I forged the story. I had hoped also to right some of the wrongs that you have done yourself in your earlier works, with the idea that this might boost your confidence in your abilities somewhat, although that seems that has backfired on me rather spectacularly. I am sorry to have caused you pain.”
Holmes finds himself at fault so rarely that an apology from him is no common occurrence, as I have had cause to mention. On top of so surprising and welcome an explanation I almost forgave him then and there, indeed I was pondering how I was going to apologise myself for getting things so backwards, when it occurred to me that I had another reason to be angry at him.
“No, no, hang on Holmes, that is all very well, but I have read it and I feel that an explanation or two is in order.”
“How do you mean?”
“Well for a start after all your years of criticising my work for being more fiction than fact for you to -"
"It is not supposed to be by me!"
"- For you to write an unadulterated work of fiction and pass it off as fact."
He suddenly assumed a cold and detached demeanour that told me I had touched a nerve somewhere. "I did occasionally receive clients when you were at work, you know. I found most of the time I could soldier on and go about my business without you."
"I know that you made it up, if only because you are feigning injury at some nonexistent slight incurred by my words. You would certainly have told me if that case had come to your notice. Which rather begs the question of why you would make up such a thing?"
"I imagined it sufficient to mystify and excite the average reader."
"You know I am talking about the homosexual theme. What on Earth would induce you to write such a thing?"
"You disapprove?" He had lit his pipe and for all the world looked slightly bored with the conversation, I was sure that his mind was back on his research for his book. I wanted to shake him until he realised why I was angry.
"When you put yourself and me in the firing line? As you said, who will think it is actually written by you? It is quite the ingenious parody of my own style, though I imagine that most people will not see the jibe and believe it to be the real thing."
"I have already told you that there was no jibe or malice intended, it will not win you sympathy by insisting on it." I attained some satisfaction from seeing him nettled. Although I was aware that it was only because he was becoming irritated by the continuation of the subject, it at least showed me that he was engaged in the discussion. He would very likely not let it go now until one of us won our argument. "As to putting either of us 'in the firing line' as you so dramatically term it, what harm is there in it? You understand the meaning of it because you know me and because of your own experience, most will not see it, those who do will be in the same boat as yourself and raise no objection."
"Your theory is all very well except that there are plenty who will know, from experience, what you mean and will not approve, may be disgusted and outraged. What about them?"
"The work is available for all to see, there is nothing explicitly mentioned about the relationship between these two young men. Should anybody raise an objection to the perceived meaning of it they must first convince others that it is all not in their own minds, they cannot do so without labelling themselves what they wish to denounce. There is no harm in it whatsoever Watson."
"In a male romance?!"
"I thought you liked romance? I could hardly write a story in your series without one." He drawled.
"If you'd read my own work as much as you'd scoffed over it you'd have noticed that I adhere to the more conventional sort as a literary ploy." I tried to match his tone for cold indifference, I am certain I failed miserably.
"Well when it came to writing in a determined young woman with beautiful flashing eyes I found myself cringing at the very idea, and so decided to stick to what I know. I only had a week after all and I do have deadlines for my own book."
"Do not act as if you were doing me a favour!" I shook my finger at him and only just succeeded in keeping the smile off my face at his endearing idea of romantic storytelling.
"Very well then, I accept that you are not happy with me and I shall refrain from such action in future. Is there any other point to which you would like to object or can we set the matter aside now?"
Knowing I should not be allowed to raise the issue again, I flicked through the story. In a calmer light I had to acknowledge he had written some very nice things, he had even lied outright in pretending to have been brought round to my point of view on the subject of storytelling.
"Yes, wait a minute, why have you written me out of it?"
"I thought you desired people to believe you were married, I wanted to lend weight to your assertion."
"I shall ignore that. If you will remember I wrote my own romance surrounding "The Sign of Four" I was not supposed to be married in-" I broke off to consult the magazine. "1903. People will think I'm lying."
Holmes' own sense of self-preservation apparently decided that its annually-summoned influence was required, and he contented himself with raising his eyebrows at me in retort.
"Tell me why you wished to keep me out of it and I will let the matter drop once and for all."
"I don't think that you should worry about any chronological mishaps taking credence away from your earlier work, on the contrary I can only imagine that they will lend a sense of authenticity to this one. Be that as it may," He continued in answer to my look. "I found that I could not write him. Your alter ego. I don't have the patience for him, and unlike your literary Holmes, I have no desire to insult you. Are you quite satisfied?"
His explanation had been so unexpectedly sweet that I had almost forgotten my anger, although not my reasons for it, which I still felt were entirely genuine. I decided to walk off my residual annoyance in the garden. There really was nothing I could do about it now, after all the thing was already published.
I sighed as the aftermath of our argument washed over me, leaving me feeling more tired than satisfied.
"I suppose I did say I'd drop it."
I had one thought before I left him to his pipe, however. "By the way, I thought you might be interested to hear that we solved the problem of the other story at the meeting today."
"Oh yes?" He murmured absently, his eyes following the coils of smoke that drifted up from his mouth.
"Yes, Doyle was so impressed by your addition that he thinks further changes in narrative style might add a new depth. He was especially keen on the idea of more tales from your point of view."
Holmes' temper is easily a match for my own when roused and so I slipped out of the French windows onto our lawn, just in case, as he snapped to attention at this news.
Chuckling to myself I paused to reflect that I did feel much calmer than I had been in weeks. Whilst not exactly feeling that I had been too hard on Holmes, I did feel sorry that he would in all likelihood have occasion to regret his meddling, presuming Doyle was serious about me writing more stories from his perspective. Knowing that it had not been done out of cruelty but that he had really acted with the kindest of intentions, although not the most carefully thought out ones, had been something of a boost all of its own. It is rare that Holmes goes out of his way to show affection for me, especially in so public a manner and he was doubtless feeling considerably more hurt than he'd let on.
As I stood pondering what to do for the best in the lovely evening light, with the gentle hum of bees and the delicate smell of roses surrounding me, I remembered something that had caught my eye on the train. I still had the magazine clutched in my hand so set about finding it again. It took me some little time to find it - I had been too angry at the time to pay it proper attention but after few minutes I saw it, near the end, right at the conclusion of the 'case'. My heart swelled as I looked at the line in question. There was nothing to be done but return to the sitting room in the hope that my sheepish expression would guard me against his reaction.
I found Holmes in his study, once again working at his dead bees. I had no doubt that he had heard me approach and so rapped my knuckles against the open door, hoping that he would recognise it for the peaceful advance it was.
"Yes?" He had not looked up but it was an acknowledgement and I wouldn't quibble.
"Do you really miss me when I'm not around to help you?"
He did look up at that, and in answer I held up the offending article, folded back to expose the page in question. Though I knew he couldn't see it from where I was standing, I almost felt I needed to provide proof to show both of us that I wasn't mad.
His answer was unexpectedly prompt and softly spoken.
"If I said so I cannot deny it." He replied, and bent his head back to his bees.