Fic: The Willow-Thorpe Spectre
Title: The Willow-Thorpe Spectre
Fandom: Canon
Word Count: 2,870
Rating: PG
Pairing: Holmes/Watson
Summary: During the investigation of a case wherein Holmes is taxing himself to exhaustion (again), the poor, neglected doctor begins to wonder whether his affections are returned. That is, until Holmes does something quite unexpected.
A/N: This is fluff of the highest order. You may require an insulin injection after reading... but I am wholly unrepentant :)
Not long after the depth of my relations with Sherlock Holmes took on a more intimate turn, we found ourselves occupying the east wing of Willow-Thorpe Manor, each sequestered to his own separate bedchamber, as per the dictates of proper decorum. Well nigh on a month into the investigation of Lord Barmere’s vexing conundrum (which I have drawn up in my notes under the title of ‘The Startling Incident of the Willow-Thorpe Spectre’) there continued to remain no foreseeable finale.
Normally, I embrace these prolonged cases that offer my friend ample opportunity to implement his mental powers to their fullest extent, but if this particular case did not reach its conclusion soon, I wondered if we should all go mad from the strain. For the Manor house was a lonely one, so far as I could tell from my amblings upon the grounds we were isolated from not only the village, but it seemed, from all human life save for our eccentric client and his small household. It was not an atmosphere conducive to lightening one’s spirits; indeed, the very grounds were situated atop a rolling hill that overlooked an abandoned graveyard bordering the Manor, and the view from my window was either swirling fog or tombstones. Nor was it helpful that our employer swore it was a spectre from that very graveyard what had spirited away his most unfortunate wife, a disquiet entity that family legend proclaimed would not rest in its grave until its missing jewels were recovered and placed back in its coffin. Of course, Holmes had viewed this as pure rot, but then again, he was not the one whose bedroom window gave an unhindered view of the burial grounds. Some nights, I swore I could see that unhallowed place straight through the drapes!
From early on, I abhorred the very atmosphere seemingly siphoning out any traces of mirth from one’s soul. And the draughts brought about by the decrepit state of the ancient Manor and the coming of winter made our stay practically intolerable.
To compile more tinder on the proverbial conflagration, Holmes’ initial theories regarding the culprit responsible for making away with priceless family heirlooms -- and Lady Barmere herself -- were proven to be erroneous. His investigation was fast becoming one of his most spectacular blunders. With each passing day, his approach to the case became so increasingly outlandish that I wondered if this was all guesswork on his part, and found myself in the position of having to make one excuse after the next to our client to justify Holmes’ maddening behaviour.
It was Holmes’ habit to never take me into his bed when on a trying case, as he could not allow bodily pleasures to interfere with the workings of his great mind. This I respected, and had gone without carnal gratification for much longer stretches in the past. I may enjoy a good romp in the hay, but I am not so ruled by my desires that I cannot go without ignoring them when necessary. It was not so much the absent lovemaking tearing at my heart as it was the simple fact I missed my friend. He was so distant of late, that I'd never felt so detached from him while in such close proximity to the man. Our paths hardly crossed anymore. Though it may have simply been my imagination playing foul tricks, it seemed to me Holmes had taken to outright avoiding my company. When he did see fit to acknowledge my presence, it was merely to confer with me, clinically, as I would with a bothersome patient I wished to be rid of. Otherwise, I saw almost nothing of him, except for those glimpses I stole at quarter past midnight, as he paced the cold stone corridors of the Manor house in his dressing gown, hands shoved in his pockets, head down, pipe blowing clouds of blue-grey smoke in his wake.
It was that same pungent shag which woke me one stormy night.
The tempest raged outside, wind shrieking like some cackling lunatic, rain pounding so relentlessly against the walls that it was an easy thing to imagine the very pit had opened up and all the devils of Hell were seeking entrance. I’d have closed my eyes and ears to this horrible thought and forced myself back to slumber had the fire not nearly died out. On so inhospitable a night, with those blasted draughts there were not bedclothes enough to seal out, I was frozen to my bones and my old wounds ached like they had not in many a year.
I stoked the fire and had every intention of making a hasty retreat back into bed when I caught a glimpse of Holmes through the gap in the doorframe, still making his rounds up and down, back and forth through the hall. This was too chill a night to be wandering the corridors in nothing but a flimsy nightshirt, and my Doctor’s instincts rallied me to action no matter how angry I knew he’d be at the intrusion into his train of thought.
With a single candle in hand and dressing gown hastily wrapped around my shivering frame, I braved it to the door and crept into the hallway. I was distressed to see my friend was smoking more furiously than ever, his feet bare on the uncarpeted stone floor.
Holmes was so entangled in his ruminations that my approach went unnoticed until my hand was at his shoulder. With a start he turned around, those keen eyes slicing through me like rapiers. I was in for a terrible time of it, likely would not hear the end of this anytime soon, but if I succeeded in keeping him from falling into a fit of brain fever -- which was exactly where he was headed at this rate -- then so be it.
“My dear fellow, please, call it a night!” I whispered, for the east wing was also used as the servants quarters, and the merest sound reverberated off the uncarpeted halls. Another reason why we were forced to remain celibate during our stay in this charming country abode.
“As simple a thing as it is for you to while away your time here in repose,” he spat at me with a venom I’d never have given him credit for, “sleep is a luxury I can scarce afford at present.”
Ignoring his mercurial temper, I persisted. “It is an outrageous sentiment, I am sure, but I belong to a rank of medicos who purport sleep is a necessity. We also fancy that detectives who carry on in the dead of night in their bare feet will find not suspects but rather, a stay in hospital. For that matter, what ever would possess you to go for a midnight stroll without your slippers?”
“One does find the cold to be invigorating.”
“You mean you’re willfully subjecting yourself to great physical discomfort, even pain, just to remain awake -- when, I might add, you have not slept in days?”
I have not lived for so long with Sherlock Holmes to be unaware that when he feigns deafness it generally signifies that I’ve hit upon a subject he would rather not broach.
“I see.” I answered the consenting silence. “I thought you cared for me, but it appears I was mistaken.”
“What are you going on about? Really, Watson perhaps it is you who needs to lie down,” said he with an air of impatience.
“I’m not the one who seems intent on digging his own grave! If you don’t allow yourself enough food and rest, do you honestly suppose your mind will ever be clear enough to work through this case?”
“These physical trivialities of which you speak are wholly irrelevant to the problem. I cannot think! My brain is bogged down in a doldrums. For Heaven’s sake man, I seem to be loosing my wits and all you can concern yourself with is how much I ate for dinner!”
Holmes was back to pacing now, his pace frantic, his voice reaching hysterical levels. “Jove, Watson, none of it is clear to me! Why can’t I piece together this commonplace little crime -- a mere kidnapping, and I am making worse errors than even Scotland Yard!” he shouted quite fervently.
“Shhhhhh! You’ll rouse the entire household,” said I, clasping my free hand over his mouth. I was alarmed at how his flesh was so icy and clammy to the touch. “Come warm up by the fire before you catch your death of pneumonia!”
Lacing my fingers in his, I made to lead him back to my room, when his temper flared with a vengeance.
“I shall do no such thing,” said he, shrugging off my hold and reminding me more of a petulant, disobedient child than a grown man of superior intellect. “A cold is far too detrimental to my plans for me to be so imprudent as to catch one. Now, doctor, I do insist you leave me to solve this in the way I see fit! If you are so averse to my methods, “he practically snarled, “you might as well catch the early train back to London.”
With that, he stormed off down the shadowy corridor, leaving me to wonder if it was this godforsaken case that had his nerves in tatters, or was it simply that he was weary of my inferior company, that he truly wished me gone. I was never quite convinced of my place in his life, whether I was an unbreakable habit to him or a convenience, but surely nothing more profound. Perhaps, it would be for the best if I did take my leave come the break of dawn.
***
As it can be imagined, I returned to bed uneasy in my mind, and spent a restless night thrashing with the clothes, which seemed alternately stifling and far too inadequate to keep out the chill that permeated the ancient stone walls. Exhausted, I’d drift off in those rare intervals when the storm quieted, only to be startled awake by nightmares whose images I could only grasp at, but left me sweating and heaving for air. With the prospect of sleep proving to be so impossible, I was debating whether a good book might not be the antidote to my misery when I distinctly heard the creaking of the antiquated door-knob.
Not entirely unaffected by the sombre mood permeating the Manor, I admit my first thought was that the Willow-Thorpe spectre was paying me an ill-fated visit. Although by nature, I am not one who gives credence to such flights of fancy, and dismissed the notion almost as soon as it crossed my mind. Being far more grounded in reality, my hand was already curling around the loaded revolver under my pillow when a pool of grey light spilled into the room to reveal the familiar silhouette of my friend. I was unnerved to see he had no candle in hand, for all appearances having made the walk to my chamber in perfect darkness.
“Holmes,” I cried out just a notch too stridently in my excitement. “Is it the case? Have you made any progress?”
Utterly ignoring me, he continued on his path towards my bed, so near now I could make out the whites of eyes open wide as with one who has suffered a great shock. Calling out his name once more, it became clear that Holmes neither heard nor saw me. My suspicions were confirmed when he settled into my bed. I ran my open hand before his eyes and the pupils showed not even the faintest of reactions.
He was sleepwalking, then.
I’d an alienist acquaintance at my club who purported the ailment stemmed from innumerable causes, though the one he staunchly swore the worst culprit to be was sleep deprivation. I could but assume Holmes had unintentionally dozed off in his debilitating fatigue, and the results of this repression of his basic needs was before me. I knew not whether to be vexed with him for pushing his body to such impossible limits -- or pleased that his innermost thoughts guided him to seek me out.
“Oh, Holmes,” I sighed heavily. “I do wish you would take better care of yourself. Come here.” I wrapped my arms around him, letting out another exasperated sigh when I felt the evidence of his most recent bout of weight loss poking my fingers. Of his own volition, Holmes turned on his side and clung to me, his knees drawn up like a vulnerable child. It was deucedly endearing, and I found myself chuckling softly as I kissed his forehead, his lips, chastely.
“Watson…”
“I have you, my dear fellow.”
“Watson… please,” he repeated in a gravelly, sleep laden voice whilst shifting in even closer, fisting the sleeve of my pyjamas. Shamelessly taking advantage of this rare and very welcomed affectionate mood, I slipped my arm behind his neck and gingerly pressed his head onto my shoulder.
“Watson,” His words were barely audible, yet I knew I could not be imagining it as I distinctly felt his hot breath grazing the back of me ear. “I love you…”
It is only then that Holmes settled into my embrace to enjoy the first peaceful nights rest in more years than I can count. As for myself, I do not believe my smile has reached to the depths of my soul since the day my friend returned from the dead, nor can I say its traces have ever completely left my countenance.
***
My diagnosis of sleepwalking was proven the next morning -- rather, early afternoon -- when Holmes awoke beside me, the lines of worry erased from beneath his eyes, a genuine calm energy radiating throughout his rejuvenated body. Chuckling at his puzzled expression, I kissed the tip of that aquiline nose and quietly related to him the account of this night time adventure, of course omitting his slips of the tongue in the process. Holmes is a peculiar fellow, who would have me believe he is devoid of all human emotion rather than confess how he suffocates under the weight of the emotional depth within him, how he is abashed at the slightest expression of his heart.
As was expected, he chided me for the inexcusable way I allowed him to waste precious time which might have otherwise been spent in thought by not waking him, yet his remonstrances did not contain their usual sting. He was, if I dare say as much, almost cheerful; or at least as near to it as I’ve ever seen.
“Holmes,” I inquired after my friend had stealthily peered out my slightly ajar door, scanning the hallways for the presence of any who might spy him leaving my chamber in his nightclothes. “You are in particularly high spirits. Admit it. A good night’s sleep has done wonders for your health.”
“Bah!” he brushed me off with a slight wave of his hand. “I am only glad that come tonight, we shall be situated in our comfortable -- warm -- rooms in Baker Street once more.”
“But how can we return home and leave the case as it is? Whatever shall we say to Lord Barmere?”
“That we have solved it.”
“Solved it? I’m afraid I don’t understand. Pray, elucidate further, my dear fellow.”
Holmes heaved out a long-suffering sigh. “I have been a blind fool, but the missing pieces which were eluding me made themselves clear when I awoke. They should have come sooner had you roused me from my wasteful slumbering. Nevertheless, the evidence is strongly suggestive of the fact neither jewels nor Lady were purloined. Rather, it was Lady Barmere herself who made away with the invaluable gems a fortnight before her disappearance -- recall those small, narrow footprints barely visible in the crypt of this supposed spectre. That was her, stashing them away for further use, and to instill in the household a remembrance of the legend. It was a simple matter to arrange for a confederate -- a lover, no doubt -- to steal her away in the dead of night, and with the legend fresh in everyone’s mind… Well, there you have it. A petty problem hardly worth our time.”
“And this sudden revelation was entirely unrelated to a good rest, I suppose.”
“Watson, please refrain from being absurd.”
***
As Holmes had said, it was indeed a petty little problem which shall never see the light of day, for while not lacking features of interest, discretion prevents me from revealing both the solution (for it happened that Lady Barmere was justified in deserting a husband who used her cruelly) and precisely how my friend came to solve it. So many years have passed that Holmes has cast it out of his mind entirely, unaware of the significance ‘The Startling Incident of the Willow-Thorpe Spectre’ will forever hold for me. He has never again voiced those sublime words that set my heart alight whenever my thoughts turn to that case, and I do not expect he ever will. But I think I love him all the better for how he showed me without even meaning to, the place I hold in his heart.
Fandom: Canon
Word Count: 2,870
Rating: PG
Pairing: Holmes/Watson
Summary: During the investigation of a case wherein Holmes is taxing himself to exhaustion (again), the poor, neglected doctor begins to wonder whether his affections are returned. That is, until Holmes does something quite unexpected.
A/N: This is fluff of the highest order. You may require an insulin injection after reading... but I am wholly unrepentant :)
Not long after the depth of my relations with Sherlock Holmes took on a more intimate turn, we found ourselves occupying the east wing of Willow-Thorpe Manor, each sequestered to his own separate bedchamber, as per the dictates of proper decorum. Well nigh on a month into the investigation of Lord Barmere’s vexing conundrum (which I have drawn up in my notes under the title of ‘The Startling Incident of the Willow-Thorpe Spectre’) there continued to remain no foreseeable finale.
Normally, I embrace these prolonged cases that offer my friend ample opportunity to implement his mental powers to their fullest extent, but if this particular case did not reach its conclusion soon, I wondered if we should all go mad from the strain. For the Manor house was a lonely one, so far as I could tell from my amblings upon the grounds we were isolated from not only the village, but it seemed, from all human life save for our eccentric client and his small household. It was not an atmosphere conducive to lightening one’s spirits; indeed, the very grounds were situated atop a rolling hill that overlooked an abandoned graveyard bordering the Manor, and the view from my window was either swirling fog or tombstones. Nor was it helpful that our employer swore it was a spectre from that very graveyard what had spirited away his most unfortunate wife, a disquiet entity that family legend proclaimed would not rest in its grave until its missing jewels were recovered and placed back in its coffin. Of course, Holmes had viewed this as pure rot, but then again, he was not the one whose bedroom window gave an unhindered view of the burial grounds. Some nights, I swore I could see that unhallowed place straight through the drapes!
From early on, I abhorred the very atmosphere seemingly siphoning out any traces of mirth from one’s soul. And the draughts brought about by the decrepit state of the ancient Manor and the coming of winter made our stay practically intolerable.
To compile more tinder on the proverbial conflagration, Holmes’ initial theories regarding the culprit responsible for making away with priceless family heirlooms -- and Lady Barmere herself -- were proven to be erroneous. His investigation was fast becoming one of his most spectacular blunders. With each passing day, his approach to the case became so increasingly outlandish that I wondered if this was all guesswork on his part, and found myself in the position of having to make one excuse after the next to our client to justify Holmes’ maddening behaviour.
It was Holmes’ habit to never take me into his bed when on a trying case, as he could not allow bodily pleasures to interfere with the workings of his great mind. This I respected, and had gone without carnal gratification for much longer stretches in the past. I may enjoy a good romp in the hay, but I am not so ruled by my desires that I cannot go without ignoring them when necessary. It was not so much the absent lovemaking tearing at my heart as it was the simple fact I missed my friend. He was so distant of late, that I'd never felt so detached from him while in such close proximity to the man. Our paths hardly crossed anymore. Though it may have simply been my imagination playing foul tricks, it seemed to me Holmes had taken to outright avoiding my company. When he did see fit to acknowledge my presence, it was merely to confer with me, clinically, as I would with a bothersome patient I wished to be rid of. Otherwise, I saw almost nothing of him, except for those glimpses I stole at quarter past midnight, as he paced the cold stone corridors of the Manor house in his dressing gown, hands shoved in his pockets, head down, pipe blowing clouds of blue-grey smoke in his wake.
It was that same pungent shag which woke me one stormy night.
The tempest raged outside, wind shrieking like some cackling lunatic, rain pounding so relentlessly against the walls that it was an easy thing to imagine the very pit had opened up and all the devils of Hell were seeking entrance. I’d have closed my eyes and ears to this horrible thought and forced myself back to slumber had the fire not nearly died out. On so inhospitable a night, with those blasted draughts there were not bedclothes enough to seal out, I was frozen to my bones and my old wounds ached like they had not in many a year.
I stoked the fire and had every intention of making a hasty retreat back into bed when I caught a glimpse of Holmes through the gap in the doorframe, still making his rounds up and down, back and forth through the hall. This was too chill a night to be wandering the corridors in nothing but a flimsy nightshirt, and my Doctor’s instincts rallied me to action no matter how angry I knew he’d be at the intrusion into his train of thought.
With a single candle in hand and dressing gown hastily wrapped around my shivering frame, I braved it to the door and crept into the hallway. I was distressed to see my friend was smoking more furiously than ever, his feet bare on the uncarpeted stone floor.
Holmes was so entangled in his ruminations that my approach went unnoticed until my hand was at his shoulder. With a start he turned around, those keen eyes slicing through me like rapiers. I was in for a terrible time of it, likely would not hear the end of this anytime soon, but if I succeeded in keeping him from falling into a fit of brain fever -- which was exactly where he was headed at this rate -- then so be it.
“My dear fellow, please, call it a night!” I whispered, for the east wing was also used as the servants quarters, and the merest sound reverberated off the uncarpeted halls. Another reason why we were forced to remain celibate during our stay in this charming country abode.
“As simple a thing as it is for you to while away your time here in repose,” he spat at me with a venom I’d never have given him credit for, “sleep is a luxury I can scarce afford at present.”
Ignoring his mercurial temper, I persisted. “It is an outrageous sentiment, I am sure, but I belong to a rank of medicos who purport sleep is a necessity. We also fancy that detectives who carry on in the dead of night in their bare feet will find not suspects but rather, a stay in hospital. For that matter, what ever would possess you to go for a midnight stroll without your slippers?”
“One does find the cold to be invigorating.”
“You mean you’re willfully subjecting yourself to great physical discomfort, even pain, just to remain awake -- when, I might add, you have not slept in days?”
I have not lived for so long with Sherlock Holmes to be unaware that when he feigns deafness it generally signifies that I’ve hit upon a subject he would rather not broach.
“I see.” I answered the consenting silence. “I thought you cared for me, but it appears I was mistaken.”
“What are you going on about? Really, Watson perhaps it is you who needs to lie down,” said he with an air of impatience.
“I’m not the one who seems intent on digging his own grave! If you don’t allow yourself enough food and rest, do you honestly suppose your mind will ever be clear enough to work through this case?”
“These physical trivialities of which you speak are wholly irrelevant to the problem. I cannot think! My brain is bogged down in a doldrums. For Heaven’s sake man, I seem to be loosing my wits and all you can concern yourself with is how much I ate for dinner!”
Holmes was back to pacing now, his pace frantic, his voice reaching hysterical levels. “Jove, Watson, none of it is clear to me! Why can’t I piece together this commonplace little crime -- a mere kidnapping, and I am making worse errors than even Scotland Yard!” he shouted quite fervently.
“Shhhhhh! You’ll rouse the entire household,” said I, clasping my free hand over his mouth. I was alarmed at how his flesh was so icy and clammy to the touch. “Come warm up by the fire before you catch your death of pneumonia!”
Lacing my fingers in his, I made to lead him back to my room, when his temper flared with a vengeance.
“I shall do no such thing,” said he, shrugging off my hold and reminding me more of a petulant, disobedient child than a grown man of superior intellect. “A cold is far too detrimental to my plans for me to be so imprudent as to catch one. Now, doctor, I do insist you leave me to solve this in the way I see fit! If you are so averse to my methods, “he practically snarled, “you might as well catch the early train back to London.”
With that, he stormed off down the shadowy corridor, leaving me to wonder if it was this godforsaken case that had his nerves in tatters, or was it simply that he was weary of my inferior company, that he truly wished me gone. I was never quite convinced of my place in his life, whether I was an unbreakable habit to him or a convenience, but surely nothing more profound. Perhaps, it would be for the best if I did take my leave come the break of dawn.
***
As it can be imagined, I returned to bed uneasy in my mind, and spent a restless night thrashing with the clothes, which seemed alternately stifling and far too inadequate to keep out the chill that permeated the ancient stone walls. Exhausted, I’d drift off in those rare intervals when the storm quieted, only to be startled awake by nightmares whose images I could only grasp at, but left me sweating and heaving for air. With the prospect of sleep proving to be so impossible, I was debating whether a good book might not be the antidote to my misery when I distinctly heard the creaking of the antiquated door-knob.
Not entirely unaffected by the sombre mood permeating the Manor, I admit my first thought was that the Willow-Thorpe spectre was paying me an ill-fated visit. Although by nature, I am not one who gives credence to such flights of fancy, and dismissed the notion almost as soon as it crossed my mind. Being far more grounded in reality, my hand was already curling around the loaded revolver under my pillow when a pool of grey light spilled into the room to reveal the familiar silhouette of my friend. I was unnerved to see he had no candle in hand, for all appearances having made the walk to my chamber in perfect darkness.
“Holmes,” I cried out just a notch too stridently in my excitement. “Is it the case? Have you made any progress?”
Utterly ignoring me, he continued on his path towards my bed, so near now I could make out the whites of eyes open wide as with one who has suffered a great shock. Calling out his name once more, it became clear that Holmes neither heard nor saw me. My suspicions were confirmed when he settled into my bed. I ran my open hand before his eyes and the pupils showed not even the faintest of reactions.
He was sleepwalking, then.
I’d an alienist acquaintance at my club who purported the ailment stemmed from innumerable causes, though the one he staunchly swore the worst culprit to be was sleep deprivation. I could but assume Holmes had unintentionally dozed off in his debilitating fatigue, and the results of this repression of his basic needs was before me. I knew not whether to be vexed with him for pushing his body to such impossible limits -- or pleased that his innermost thoughts guided him to seek me out.
“Oh, Holmes,” I sighed heavily. “I do wish you would take better care of yourself. Come here.” I wrapped my arms around him, letting out another exasperated sigh when I felt the evidence of his most recent bout of weight loss poking my fingers. Of his own volition, Holmes turned on his side and clung to me, his knees drawn up like a vulnerable child. It was deucedly endearing, and I found myself chuckling softly as I kissed his forehead, his lips, chastely.
“Watson…”
“I have you, my dear fellow.”
“Watson… please,” he repeated in a gravelly, sleep laden voice whilst shifting in even closer, fisting the sleeve of my pyjamas. Shamelessly taking advantage of this rare and very welcomed affectionate mood, I slipped my arm behind his neck and gingerly pressed his head onto my shoulder.
“Watson,” His words were barely audible, yet I knew I could not be imagining it as I distinctly felt his hot breath grazing the back of me ear. “I love you…”
It is only then that Holmes settled into my embrace to enjoy the first peaceful nights rest in more years than I can count. As for myself, I do not believe my smile has reached to the depths of my soul since the day my friend returned from the dead, nor can I say its traces have ever completely left my countenance.
***
My diagnosis of sleepwalking was proven the next morning -- rather, early afternoon -- when Holmes awoke beside me, the lines of worry erased from beneath his eyes, a genuine calm energy radiating throughout his rejuvenated body. Chuckling at his puzzled expression, I kissed the tip of that aquiline nose and quietly related to him the account of this night time adventure, of course omitting his slips of the tongue in the process. Holmes is a peculiar fellow, who would have me believe he is devoid of all human emotion rather than confess how he suffocates under the weight of the emotional depth within him, how he is abashed at the slightest expression of his heart.
As was expected, he chided me for the inexcusable way I allowed him to waste precious time which might have otherwise been spent in thought by not waking him, yet his remonstrances did not contain their usual sting. He was, if I dare say as much, almost cheerful; or at least as near to it as I’ve ever seen.
“Holmes,” I inquired after my friend had stealthily peered out my slightly ajar door, scanning the hallways for the presence of any who might spy him leaving my chamber in his nightclothes. “You are in particularly high spirits. Admit it. A good night’s sleep has done wonders for your health.”
“Bah!” he brushed me off with a slight wave of his hand. “I am only glad that come tonight, we shall be situated in our comfortable -- warm -- rooms in Baker Street once more.”
“But how can we return home and leave the case as it is? Whatever shall we say to Lord Barmere?”
“That we have solved it.”
“Solved it? I’m afraid I don’t understand. Pray, elucidate further, my dear fellow.”
Holmes heaved out a long-suffering sigh. “I have been a blind fool, but the missing pieces which were eluding me made themselves clear when I awoke. They should have come sooner had you roused me from my wasteful slumbering. Nevertheless, the evidence is strongly suggestive of the fact neither jewels nor Lady were purloined. Rather, it was Lady Barmere herself who made away with the invaluable gems a fortnight before her disappearance -- recall those small, narrow footprints barely visible in the crypt of this supposed spectre. That was her, stashing them away for further use, and to instill in the household a remembrance of the legend. It was a simple matter to arrange for a confederate -- a lover, no doubt -- to steal her away in the dead of night, and with the legend fresh in everyone’s mind… Well, there you have it. A petty problem hardly worth our time.”
“And this sudden revelation was entirely unrelated to a good rest, I suppose.”
“Watson, please refrain from being absurd.”
***
As Holmes had said, it was indeed a petty little problem which shall never see the light of day, for while not lacking features of interest, discretion prevents me from revealing both the solution (for it happened that Lady Barmere was justified in deserting a husband who used her cruelly) and precisely how my friend came to solve it. So many years have passed that Holmes has cast it out of his mind entirely, unaware of the significance ‘The Startling Incident of the Willow-Thorpe Spectre’ will forever hold for me. He has never again voiced those sublime words that set my heart alight whenever my thoughts turn to that case, and I do not expect he ever will. But I think I love him all the better for how he showed me without even meaning to, the place I hold in his heart.