To Return From Death Chapter Four - "Watson"
Watson
I set myself down on the cold stone steps, where a crowd has gathered outside of the court. I hardly notice the chill in the air; I have been in colder climates than this in the last three years. Never the less, I am still trembling slightly as I wait for my companion to step outside.
Watson does not even see me when he does emerge. He seems to be in a hurry to return to his home, for his eyes are on the cab that he has hailed and as a result he almost tramples me as he descends the steps upon which I sit. He notices me when he knocks a bundle of books from my hand and quickly apologises and returns them to me. It takes all of my powers to retain my delight at seeing him and to instead strike him with the weak yet furious blow of an old man insulted.
Kindly gentleman that my Boswell is, he gives no indication that he is angered or otherwise upset by my behaviour. He simply gives one final, hasty apology and takes to the cab. I hear him give his address and then I follow him there. Now for the difficult part.
The housemaid is utterly useless! Mrs. Hudson would never put up with her and would have had her removed from her team of servants in a trice. She has a quiet, dozy sort of voice, a sleepy-looking face and a countenance that suggests that she has no intention of paying attention to her work. I tell her that I would like to see Doctor Watson without delay and am left waiting on the doorstep! Not the best treatment for a frail and elderly man, is it? I step inside, with a hand at my heart and a faltering step, and close the door. If Watson is being watched, nobody will think it odd if my friend allows me to stay for it will appear that I am just another patient. Once inside I hastily follow the sound of voices.
Watson is annoyed. I can hear him telling the wretched maid that the times in which his practice is open are clearly displayed outside. He wishes to send me away! We shall soon see about that - I have come too far and waited too long to be told to make an appointment and return later. What to do? I could collapse upon the floor and am weary enough to do so quite easily, but that would cause my Boswell unnecessary concern and I have hurt him quite enough. No. I shall not trick my friend into welcoming me back. He shall react as he sees fit.
I enter Watson's consulting room in a flurry of anxiety and quickly take to the chair before his desk, at which he is sitting. I tell him that I felt some remorse, having treated him so poorly, and decided to follow him home when I heard him give his address. If I had hoped to give him an indication regarding my true identity I would be disappointed, but the poor fellow has believed me to be dead and gone for the last three years.
After telling my friend that I would part with some of my books if he wanted any (for a small price; my character is a shrewd old fellow) by way of an apology, I point out to the chap that his bookshelf is rather untidy, for there are more gaps than books upon it, and take the opportunity to hastily stand to my full height and unmask myself. As he begins to turn back I smile. I cannot resist commanding his full attention.
"Watson, would you mind if I smoke a cigarette in your consulting room?"
He does indeed completely turn to face me in one sharp movement. Then he stiffens and stares back at me in amazement. I feel tears of unease prick my eyes; if he is going to send me away with a flea in my ear, it will come now. But Watson simply continues to stare. He does not look as frightened as Mrs. Hudson did, he simply looks baffled, but I felt so much better after embracing my housekeeper that it might help us both and set us on the right footing if I give my biographer the same treatment. Somewhat timidly, I smile and open my arms to my old friend in a silent invitation for him to come to me. Perhaps that only adds to his shock, for he chooses that moment to sag and drop to the floor in a faint.
As I watch my old friend fall as if time has slowed to a crawl, I know a moment of panic. It is not in Watson's habit to faint and I fear for him terribly as I begin to see just how much anguish and strain my supposed death has caused the dear fellow. With trembling hands I quickly unfasten his shirtsleeves to check his pulse before returning him to his chair. This done, I then loosen his tie to unfasten his collar before checking him for fever and dosing him with brandy from my flask.
I apologise quietly as my Boswell revives. I should have realised that my sudden return from the watery grave that he took me to be in would have given him a terrible shock. I should have realised that a man like my Watson, with his tender and kind heart, would not have ceased to grieve the moment that he was away from the dreadful place in which he left me any more than I had ceased to miss him in these last three years.
Still I remain nervous. Had I fainted as a result of such a horrible trick, I would be angry with the man responsible. I expect my friend of old to fly into a fit of temper at any moment and to throw me out, for it would be no more than I deserve. I keep my tone quiet, still feeling closer to tears than I ever remember being.
Suddenly Watson's face lights up with a delighted smile and relief floods me. I am forgiven! It is more than I deserve, which makes the sensation of relief all the more delicious.
Slowly I calm myself as my friend of old urges me to sit down and tell all, which I do. I tell too much, all at once too overcome with relief to weigh my words with necessary care. Why did I have to mention Mycroft's help? Even as the words are leaving my lips I realise my mistake and almost choke on something that is midway between a nervous laugh and a sob.
As is my Boswell's wont, he reacts not with resentment but with empathy and a sympathetic nod. Of course I needed money in order to live! However, he is hurt. I can see that in his stance and his expressive face.
"I would like to think that I am as trustworthy as your brother,"
These words he utters when my treacherous tongue adds insult to injury by saying that I often took up my pen to write to him, which is the truth, but that I always thought better of it because he might have allowed his emotion to betray me, which is not even half the truth. Yes, he may have wrote back to me and given away my position, but his reply would not have found me anyway because I would have been gone from there already! No. My pride simply forbids me from admitting that I was just too cowardly to tell him that I was alive, regretful and missing him, as doing so would have meant bearing my very soul to him and handing him my heart to treat well or ill. Oh, how I deserve for him to treat me ill! Why does he still not hate me?
"Of course you are!" I assure him with no small amount of frustrated vehemence. Then I smile. Here is a way to undo some of the shameful hurt that I have inflicted upon him so needlessly with my confounded thoughtless pride. "But you have a kinder heart."
I suddenly realise that I am indeed exhausted. Just talking to Watson is becoming too much, despite the fact that I have wanted little else for three long years. I sit myself upon his couch, which is made of leather (so that its surface can easily be kept clean) and is ready and waiting for a patient, complete with woolen rug and pillow. I ask if the fellow would mind if I make use of this makeshift bed for a few hours, all thought of food pushed from my mind as the more pressing need for sleep displaces it. And again my pride takes charge of my easily lead tongue. I tell him that the crossing was rough, that I was filled with anticipation in regard to my old enemy Moran, to say nothing of seeing London again... and then, as if as an afterthought, I gesture toward my Boswell and add that I was also looking forward to seeing him again. Why? Why can I not just tell him that he was missed?
All the same, the fellow seems to know what it is that I really wish to say. He smiles. He then urges me to make use of his bedroom, but I could never do that. I am in need of a bath, for one thing, and I might be harbouring bedbugs or other unwelcome guests. I have been in some rather unpleasant places of late. Besides, I want to know that Watson is close at hand - I want to awake and see him near, for I might well be disorientated and fearful when I do wake. With a grateful sigh I lie back, pulling the rug over me in a somewhat haphazard manner as I do so, and slip almost immediately into slumber.
I set myself down on the cold stone steps, where a crowd has gathered outside of the court. I hardly notice the chill in the air; I have been in colder climates than this in the last three years. Never the less, I am still trembling slightly as I wait for my companion to step outside.
Watson does not even see me when he does emerge. He seems to be in a hurry to return to his home, for his eyes are on the cab that he has hailed and as a result he almost tramples me as he descends the steps upon which I sit. He notices me when he knocks a bundle of books from my hand and quickly apologises and returns them to me. It takes all of my powers to retain my delight at seeing him and to instead strike him with the weak yet furious blow of an old man insulted.
Kindly gentleman that my Boswell is, he gives no indication that he is angered or otherwise upset by my behaviour. He simply gives one final, hasty apology and takes to the cab. I hear him give his address and then I follow him there. Now for the difficult part.
The housemaid is utterly useless! Mrs. Hudson would never put up with her and would have had her removed from her team of servants in a trice. She has a quiet, dozy sort of voice, a sleepy-looking face and a countenance that suggests that she has no intention of paying attention to her work. I tell her that I would like to see Doctor Watson without delay and am left waiting on the doorstep! Not the best treatment for a frail and elderly man, is it? I step inside, with a hand at my heart and a faltering step, and close the door. If Watson is being watched, nobody will think it odd if my friend allows me to stay for it will appear that I am just another patient. Once inside I hastily follow the sound of voices.
Watson is annoyed. I can hear him telling the wretched maid that the times in which his practice is open are clearly displayed outside. He wishes to send me away! We shall soon see about that - I have come too far and waited too long to be told to make an appointment and return later. What to do? I could collapse upon the floor and am weary enough to do so quite easily, but that would cause my Boswell unnecessary concern and I have hurt him quite enough. No. I shall not trick my friend into welcoming me back. He shall react as he sees fit.
I enter Watson's consulting room in a flurry of anxiety and quickly take to the chair before his desk, at which he is sitting. I tell him that I felt some remorse, having treated him so poorly, and decided to follow him home when I heard him give his address. If I had hoped to give him an indication regarding my true identity I would be disappointed, but the poor fellow has believed me to be dead and gone for the last three years.
After telling my friend that I would part with some of my books if he wanted any (for a small price; my character is a shrewd old fellow) by way of an apology, I point out to the chap that his bookshelf is rather untidy, for there are more gaps than books upon it, and take the opportunity to hastily stand to my full height and unmask myself. As he begins to turn back I smile. I cannot resist commanding his full attention.
"Watson, would you mind if I smoke a cigarette in your consulting room?"
He does indeed completely turn to face me in one sharp movement. Then he stiffens and stares back at me in amazement. I feel tears of unease prick my eyes; if he is going to send me away with a flea in my ear, it will come now. But Watson simply continues to stare. He does not look as frightened as Mrs. Hudson did, he simply looks baffled, but I felt so much better after embracing my housekeeper that it might help us both and set us on the right footing if I give my biographer the same treatment. Somewhat timidly, I smile and open my arms to my old friend in a silent invitation for him to come to me. Perhaps that only adds to his shock, for he chooses that moment to sag and drop to the floor in a faint.
As I watch my old friend fall as if time has slowed to a crawl, I know a moment of panic. It is not in Watson's habit to faint and I fear for him terribly as I begin to see just how much anguish and strain my supposed death has caused the dear fellow. With trembling hands I quickly unfasten his shirtsleeves to check his pulse before returning him to his chair. This done, I then loosen his tie to unfasten his collar before checking him for fever and dosing him with brandy from my flask.
I apologise quietly as my Boswell revives. I should have realised that my sudden return from the watery grave that he took me to be in would have given him a terrible shock. I should have realised that a man like my Watson, with his tender and kind heart, would not have ceased to grieve the moment that he was away from the dreadful place in which he left me any more than I had ceased to miss him in these last three years.
Still I remain nervous. Had I fainted as a result of such a horrible trick, I would be angry with the man responsible. I expect my friend of old to fly into a fit of temper at any moment and to throw me out, for it would be no more than I deserve. I keep my tone quiet, still feeling closer to tears than I ever remember being.
Suddenly Watson's face lights up with a delighted smile and relief floods me. I am forgiven! It is more than I deserve, which makes the sensation of relief all the more delicious.
Slowly I calm myself as my friend of old urges me to sit down and tell all, which I do. I tell too much, all at once too overcome with relief to weigh my words with necessary care. Why did I have to mention Mycroft's help? Even as the words are leaving my lips I realise my mistake and almost choke on something that is midway between a nervous laugh and a sob.
As is my Boswell's wont, he reacts not with resentment but with empathy and a sympathetic nod. Of course I needed money in order to live! However, he is hurt. I can see that in his stance and his expressive face.
"I would like to think that I am as trustworthy as your brother,"
These words he utters when my treacherous tongue adds insult to injury by saying that I often took up my pen to write to him, which is the truth, but that I always thought better of it because he might have allowed his emotion to betray me, which is not even half the truth. Yes, he may have wrote back to me and given away my position, but his reply would not have found me anyway because I would have been gone from there already! No. My pride simply forbids me from admitting that I was just too cowardly to tell him that I was alive, regretful and missing him, as doing so would have meant bearing my very soul to him and handing him my heart to treat well or ill. Oh, how I deserve for him to treat me ill! Why does he still not hate me?
"Of course you are!" I assure him with no small amount of frustrated vehemence. Then I smile. Here is a way to undo some of the shameful hurt that I have inflicted upon him so needlessly with my confounded thoughtless pride. "But you have a kinder heart."
I suddenly realise that I am indeed exhausted. Just talking to Watson is becoming too much, despite the fact that I have wanted little else for three long years. I sit myself upon his couch, which is made of leather (so that its surface can easily be kept clean) and is ready and waiting for a patient, complete with woolen rug and pillow. I ask if the fellow would mind if I make use of this makeshift bed for a few hours, all thought of food pushed from my mind as the more pressing need for sleep displaces it. And again my pride takes charge of my easily lead tongue. I tell him that the crossing was rough, that I was filled with anticipation in regard to my old enemy Moran, to say nothing of seeing London again... and then, as if as an afterthought, I gesture toward my Boswell and add that I was also looking forward to seeing him again. Why? Why can I not just tell him that he was missed?
All the same, the fellow seems to know what it is that I really wish to say. He smiles. He then urges me to make use of his bedroom, but I could never do that. I am in need of a bath, for one thing, and I might be harbouring bedbugs or other unwelcome guests. I have been in some rather unpleasant places of late. Besides, I want to know that Watson is close at hand - I want to awake and see him near, for I might well be disorientated and fearful when I do wake. With a grateful sigh I lie back, pulling the rug over me in a somewhat haphazard manner as I do so, and slip almost immediately into slumber.