(no subject)
1.
Surprising no one, least of all himself, it’s a case that takes him away from London. To be fair, he doesn’t think it’s going to take him very long-one, maybe two weeks at most. That’s why he doesn’t say goodbye to anyone. That’s why, at the airport, there’s no one reaching for his hand or crying or whatever it is people do when other people go away for a very long time. He gets on the plane, swallows something for his nerves (because of the height and too much thinking), and settles in for the long journey to America. He wonders if the case across the pond will be worth it.
It’s not worth it. America is loose and disgusting, reminding him of a sweaty gym sock. It doesn’t fit him well at all. He feels supremely out of place even in the city. He solves the case in record time, a bit nauseated, a bit homesick.
“Mr. Holmes, you are a legend,” says his employer.
“I should hope not,” he replies. “Legends tend to be told after the subject is dead.”
His employer laughs and hands over the check. It’s a flimsy piece of paper: printed in Morocco, perfumed with a dab of jasmine oil. Expensive. A long time ago, he didn’t accept payment like this. Money was nothing compared to the satisfaction of a good mystery. Now he can’t be so picky.
“I may have more work for you.”
“Is that so?” He deduced as much when he shook the man’s hand.
“Now, I’m not saying you’d be beholden to me, but I could use someone with your expertise for as long as you’re willing to give it.”
It’s nice to be appreciated. He can’t remember the last time anyone gave him a compliment, much less joined him on a case. Must have been years ago.
He hears himself saying, “All right.”
2.
He stays in America.
It’s a week before anyone texts him. (I’m on a case. SH) It’s a month before anyone calls him. (“I’ll be home soon, John.”) It’s two months before anyone stops asking when he’s coming home, then stops asking him anything at all.
The city still gets on his nerves, but he doesn’t loathe it. The sights and smells are different, yet unique. The people, too. Like pollution, they weave through the streets and befoul the air in their own charming way.
3.
His employer is almost thirty years younger than he is. His name is Tom. An independent businessman. He’s clever enough to have his own company, but not clever enough to stay away from the drugs. Maybe the drugs are necessary in his line of work. Maybe they’re more alike than he wants to believe. Either way, he’s uncomfortably reminded of “Basil” whenever he’s around Tom. Especially with the flirting.
“I’m old enough to be your father,” he says warily.
Tom just smiles.
4.
“I’ve been a fan of yours since I was a kid,” Tom says.
“I’m not a role model.”
“I know that. I liked to imagine taking John Watson’s place-being your assistant, your biographer. I’m not much of a writer, though. I wouldn’t be able to capture you in words.”
“That’s...” One of the more romantic things he’s heard in recent memory. He stares.
Tom leans in.
There’s a lump in his throat. It hurts. “Old enough to be your father,” he repeats.
The first kiss isn’t anything special: light, dry, and flavorless, like cigarette paper.
The second one is much better.
5.
He doesn’t know if this will work-too many variables. Not knowing is annoying, as it always is.
Unable to predict the future, he simply waits for it.
Surprising no one, least of all himself, it’s a case that takes him away from London. To be fair, he doesn’t think it’s going to take him very long-one, maybe two weeks at most. That’s why he doesn’t say goodbye to anyone. That’s why, at the airport, there’s no one reaching for his hand or crying or whatever it is people do when other people go away for a very long time. He gets on the plane, swallows something for his nerves (because of the height and too much thinking), and settles in for the long journey to America. He wonders if the case across the pond will be worth it.
It’s not worth it. America is loose and disgusting, reminding him of a sweaty gym sock. It doesn’t fit him well at all. He feels supremely out of place even in the city. He solves the case in record time, a bit nauseated, a bit homesick.
“Mr. Holmes, you are a legend,” says his employer.
“I should hope not,” he replies. “Legends tend to be told after the subject is dead.”
His employer laughs and hands over the check. It’s a flimsy piece of paper: printed in Morocco, perfumed with a dab of jasmine oil. Expensive. A long time ago, he didn’t accept payment like this. Money was nothing compared to the satisfaction of a good mystery. Now he can’t be so picky.
“I may have more work for you.”
“Is that so?” He deduced as much when he shook the man’s hand.
“Now, I’m not saying you’d be beholden to me, but I could use someone with your expertise for as long as you’re willing to give it.”
It’s nice to be appreciated. He can’t remember the last time anyone gave him a compliment, much less joined him on a case. Must have been years ago.
He hears himself saying, “All right.”
2.
He stays in America.
It’s a week before anyone texts him. (I’m on a case. SH) It’s a month before anyone calls him. (“I’ll be home soon, John.”) It’s two months before anyone stops asking when he’s coming home, then stops asking him anything at all.
The city still gets on his nerves, but he doesn’t loathe it. The sights and smells are different, yet unique. The people, too. Like pollution, they weave through the streets and befoul the air in their own charming way.
3.
His employer is almost thirty years younger than he is. His name is Tom. An independent businessman. He’s clever enough to have his own company, but not clever enough to stay away from the drugs. Maybe the drugs are necessary in his line of work. Maybe they’re more alike than he wants to believe. Either way, he’s uncomfortably reminded of “Basil” whenever he’s around Tom. Especially with the flirting.
“I’m old enough to be your father,” he says warily.
Tom just smiles.
4.
“I’ve been a fan of yours since I was a kid,” Tom says.
“I’m not a role model.”
“I know that. I liked to imagine taking John Watson’s place-being your assistant, your biographer. I’m not much of a writer, though. I wouldn’t be able to capture you in words.”
“That’s...” One of the more romantic things he’s heard in recent memory. He stares.
Tom leans in.
There’s a lump in his throat. It hurts. “Old enough to be your father,” he repeats.
The first kiss isn’t anything special: light, dry, and flavorless, like cigarette paper.
The second one is much better.
5.
He doesn’t know if this will work-too many variables. Not knowing is annoying, as it always is.
Unable to predict the future, he simply waits for it.