A couple sets of drabbles
Five Things Watson Never Told Holmes:
1. The case was concluded. The treasure was gone; where it had disappeared to this time was anyone’s guess, but it would certainly now never pass into Miss Morstan’s possession. The last obstacle to my future happiness with her had been removed.
I wondered if Holmes would ever know that he had been the first.
My words were ordinary. I had wanted them to be eloquent, but nerves tangled my tongue. I asked, and she said yes.
I had never asked him; still, he must have known. His silence was my answer.
Now I would try for happiness without him.
2. It was I who wrote, as he said, so convincing an account of the death of Sherlock Holmes. My imagination had readily supplied the horrible images that I had missed, the sights and sounds of his long plunge into oblivion.
How, then, could I explain the frequency with which my mind hearkened back to the Neville St. Clair case? I seemed to hear, again and again, his wife explain the certainty she held that her husband yet lived. “Such a keen bond of sympathy.”
Holmes was not my husband, nor I his wife. Yet I swear, I felt him still.
3. The letter arrived a week after the publication of that little story I entitled “The Empty House”. I could not say what made me open it-it had not been, after all, addressed to me. Thus I can not explain exactly how I came to be standing in the middle of our sitting room, staring at the signature concluding the note that welcomed Holmes back to the land of the living.
I know only that my blood boiled to see that name.
By the time Holmes returned, the paper had long since been consumed by the fire.
“The woman”, indeed.
4. Of all the words to pass Holmes’s lips in regards to my writing, the only positive ones that I heard with any regularity were in praise of my powers of selection. In later years, this grew to include those salient details of our personal life that must, under no circumstances, be made public.
I could never bring myself to tell him, then, of the unedited accounts which I kept locked in a strongbox beneath my bed.
I have reason to believe, however, by evidence of some very curious stains upon the pages, that he has discovered them at last.
5. One of my favorite pastimes is watching Sherlock Holmes in one of those rare moments of agitation that are only produced when something goes contrary to his expectations. To see him hunt frantically throughout the sitting room for one of his misplaced files, his hair disheveled and his dressing gown whirling around him, is unspeakably arousing. It is to my keen delight that he has been forced to engage in such behavior increasingly often of late.
When he finds out I’ve been hiding his papers there will be hell to pay. I must, therefore, enjoy this while it lasts.
Five Fantasies Holmes Has:
1. “Please, Mr. Holmes, we can’t solve it without you.”
He is moments away from begging on his knees, and I confess I am tempted to postpone my capitulation in order to see it.
“Very well. But you must swear to pay very close attention to my methods, as next time I might not be in so acquiescent a mood.”
“It would be an honor, sir,” he assures me. “If you’d like to see the site now, we’ve left everything exactly as it was when we found it, and we’ve roped off the surrounding area.”
I sigh, pleased. “Excellent, Lestrade.”
2. “I say, Watson!”
“I’ve told you before, Holmes, I shall do whatever it takes to get you to take care of yourself. You need to eat, or you’ll suffer another collapse! That means no cases until you recover. Isn’t it better to simply forestall such an eventuality?”
I raised an eyebrow. “You don’t think this is rather . . . extreme?”
“No, I don’t. Not if it works.”
“My dear boy,” I murmured lowly as I took in the sight of his naked body acting as a serving platter for tonight’s dinner. “I assure you, it is working splendidly.”
3. “There can be no mistake,” Gregson said gravely. “Apparently there was a third brother, the product of one of their father’s youthful indiscretions. Hid away in Australia until recently, when he moved back to London and established himself as a member of the elite.”
“And the family characteristics? Are they as strong in him?”
“Without a doubt. We can prove nothing, but we suspect him of orchestrating at least four killings and as many as a dozen robberies.”
“Another Moriarty,” I said under my breath, rubbing my hands together. “It seems that London may finally be growing interesting again.”
4. “I’ve figured it out at last,” he says. “I only regret that it has taken me this long.”
For once, I can not follow his thoughts. “Watson?”
“I’ve often wondered why you let me tag along on your cases. Yes,” he says before I can speak, “I am your faithful Boswell. But what use is a biographer who is usually denied permission to publish?” His hand lifts to cup my cheek. “Now . . . I think I know why.”
He leans toward me, his eyes inviting.
It ends there, for I still do not know how to respond.
5. He enters the room, and my eyes speak for me. There is no need to look for the morocco case; he already knows my intentions. I will wait for him to leave, but no longer.
It has me in its power. He knows it.
In two long strides he crosses the room. He takes up the bottle and hurls it into the fire, followed by the syringe. It is lucky that I chose water instead of alcohol for my solution.
I can not break free alone, and I scorn his help.
Somehow, thank God, he still knows I want it.
1. The case was concluded. The treasure was gone; where it had disappeared to this time was anyone’s guess, but it would certainly now never pass into Miss Morstan’s possession. The last obstacle to my future happiness with her had been removed.
I wondered if Holmes would ever know that he had been the first.
My words were ordinary. I had wanted them to be eloquent, but nerves tangled my tongue. I asked, and she said yes.
I had never asked him; still, he must have known. His silence was my answer.
Now I would try for happiness without him.
2. It was I who wrote, as he said, so convincing an account of the death of Sherlock Holmes. My imagination had readily supplied the horrible images that I had missed, the sights and sounds of his long plunge into oblivion.
How, then, could I explain the frequency with which my mind hearkened back to the Neville St. Clair case? I seemed to hear, again and again, his wife explain the certainty she held that her husband yet lived. “Such a keen bond of sympathy.”
Holmes was not my husband, nor I his wife. Yet I swear, I felt him still.
3. The letter arrived a week after the publication of that little story I entitled “The Empty House”. I could not say what made me open it-it had not been, after all, addressed to me. Thus I can not explain exactly how I came to be standing in the middle of our sitting room, staring at the signature concluding the note that welcomed Holmes back to the land of the living.
I know only that my blood boiled to see that name.
By the time Holmes returned, the paper had long since been consumed by the fire.
“The woman”, indeed.
4. Of all the words to pass Holmes’s lips in regards to my writing, the only positive ones that I heard with any regularity were in praise of my powers of selection. In later years, this grew to include those salient details of our personal life that must, under no circumstances, be made public.
I could never bring myself to tell him, then, of the unedited accounts which I kept locked in a strongbox beneath my bed.
I have reason to believe, however, by evidence of some very curious stains upon the pages, that he has discovered them at last.
5. One of my favorite pastimes is watching Sherlock Holmes in one of those rare moments of agitation that are only produced when something goes contrary to his expectations. To see him hunt frantically throughout the sitting room for one of his misplaced files, his hair disheveled and his dressing gown whirling around him, is unspeakably arousing. It is to my keen delight that he has been forced to engage in such behavior increasingly often of late.
When he finds out I’ve been hiding his papers there will be hell to pay. I must, therefore, enjoy this while it lasts.
Five Fantasies Holmes Has:
1. “Please, Mr. Holmes, we can’t solve it without you.”
He is moments away from begging on his knees, and I confess I am tempted to postpone my capitulation in order to see it.
“Very well. But you must swear to pay very close attention to my methods, as next time I might not be in so acquiescent a mood.”
“It would be an honor, sir,” he assures me. “If you’d like to see the site now, we’ve left everything exactly as it was when we found it, and we’ve roped off the surrounding area.”
I sigh, pleased. “Excellent, Lestrade.”
2. “I say, Watson!”
“I’ve told you before, Holmes, I shall do whatever it takes to get you to take care of yourself. You need to eat, or you’ll suffer another collapse! That means no cases until you recover. Isn’t it better to simply forestall such an eventuality?”
I raised an eyebrow. “You don’t think this is rather . . . extreme?”
“No, I don’t. Not if it works.”
“My dear boy,” I murmured lowly as I took in the sight of his naked body acting as a serving platter for tonight’s dinner. “I assure you, it is working splendidly.”
3. “There can be no mistake,” Gregson said gravely. “Apparently there was a third brother, the product of one of their father’s youthful indiscretions. Hid away in Australia until recently, when he moved back to London and established himself as a member of the elite.”
“And the family characteristics? Are they as strong in him?”
“Without a doubt. We can prove nothing, but we suspect him of orchestrating at least four killings and as many as a dozen robberies.”
“Another Moriarty,” I said under my breath, rubbing my hands together. “It seems that London may finally be growing interesting again.”
4. “I’ve figured it out at last,” he says. “I only regret that it has taken me this long.”
For once, I can not follow his thoughts. “Watson?”
“I’ve often wondered why you let me tag along on your cases. Yes,” he says before I can speak, “I am your faithful Boswell. But what use is a biographer who is usually denied permission to publish?” His hand lifts to cup my cheek. “Now . . . I think I know why.”
He leans toward me, his eyes inviting.
It ends there, for I still do not know how to respond.
5. He enters the room, and my eyes speak for me. There is no need to look for the morocco case; he already knows my intentions. I will wait for him to leave, but no longer.
It has me in its power. He knows it.
In two long strides he crosses the room. He takes up the bottle and hurls it into the fire, followed by the syringe. It is lucky that I chose water instead of alcohol for my solution.
I can not break free alone, and I scorn his help.
Somehow, thank God, he still knows I want it.