The Adventure of the Lost Seaman (Part I)
Summary: My take on the “Friesland” case. Shortly after Holmes’ return from the Hiatus, the Baker Street duo is engaged by a client with an unwelcome connection to the detective’s own past. Adventure with a little romance on the side, canon-based.
Pairing: H/W
Word count: Around 12 000.
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
Rating and warnings: PG-13 and slash. Don’t read it if you don’t like slash.
Bipolar disorder and suicide are also mentioned. They are not the focus of the story, nor is this a death story, however I thought I should mention it.
Thanks to: mrs_sweetpeach for spending a lot of time on betaing and discussion! The whole thing sounds much better now (and the discussion was fun).
The Adventure of the Lost Seaman
Ever since I published the record of Sherlock Holmes’ and my adventure concerning the Norwood Builder, I have been urged by my readers and publishers to give an account also of the affair of the Dutch steamship “Friesland”, due to the “tantalizing hints” I am supposed to have given in the former account. I am afraid that I shall never be able to fulfill those wishes. While it would be easy for me omit the nature of Holmes’ and my relationship at that point, the case had a close connection to my friend’s most intimate affairs, and it would be impossible to record it without violating his privacy. Thus, I am committing this only to my private journal, so that I shall not forget the details of this remarkable case among the hundreds of others my friend and I have experienced.
I shall begin my tale at a time when only three weeks had passed since my friend had so miraculously returned from the dead. I still held my Kensington practice at the time, although I had already decided to put it up for sale. On most days I accepted the inconvenience of rising early in the morning to reach it in time for my consulting hours, so that I could spend the night at Baker Street. Apart from the fact that Holmes and I were usually up until very late in the evening, it also gave me a sense of comfort to do so. During the first nights after his return I had often woken up alone in my Kensington flat, with nothing at hand to prove to me the reality of the recent events, and desperately wondering if my mind had been playing tricks on me.
And I felt that I was not the only one troubled by such thoughts. Sometimes, when I was sleeping in my old bedroom at Baker Street, I would be awoken in the middle of the night by a soft rap on the door, and in the flickering candle light I would see his tall, lean figure, bare-footed and in his nightshirt, come over to my bed and slide under the covers beside me. He would just hold me in his arms during those nights, and from the way he did it I knew that he, too, was chasing his demons away.
Then there was the matter of our recently established physical intimacy. I shall not record here how we came to discover it, as that would distract from the story at hand and is, at any rate, an interesting tale in itself; suffice it to say that it was not born from a moment of spontaneous passion, but had been on both of our minds for some time before we entrusted it to each other on the night of his return. Nor was it only a means for the release of carnal urges, but an expression of feelings we had, equally, both known to exist, but only dared to confess when we had been reunited after such a painful separation. Three weeks after his return we were enjoying our new-found relationship to the fullest degree, although, as in any freshly established love affair, the happiness and wonder of it all was still mixed with some measure of insecurity and slight fear as to what the future might hold for us. Still, I was experienced enough in such matters to know that this was quite normal, and no cause for concern.
It was at this time that the Friesland case was brought to our notice. Holmes and I had spent a pleasant dinner in our sitting-room and were now engaged in some idle talk over a cigarette or two when Mrs. Hudson entered our room with a telegram. I started when I saw the signature, but before I could react, Holmes had snatched it from my view, dismissed our good landlady with a few short words, and then, very deliberately, pushed the document into the fire.
There was a short pause when he sat down again and picked up his cigarette, clearly indicating that we should ignore the incident altogether. I knew it was highly unwise not to do so. However, while I usually respect my friend’s wishes, I also have a strong sense of morality, and I found that I could not remain silent under these circumstances.
“Don’t you think,” I ventured carefully, “that you should at least find out what he wants?”
My friend’s grey eyes flashed as he stared at me in a mixture of surprise and anger. “What do you know of it?” he snapped.
Holmes does not usually snap at me. He is far too controlled to do so. I knew then that it was a distinct sign of danger, and that I would do well to hold my tongue if I cared to avoid major domestic trouble.
“Rather a lot,” I said, instead. “He was introduced to me on the day of your... your memorial. And he visited me once, a few days later.”
The look on my friend’s face did not bode well. “What did he want?” he demanded.
“To talk,” I said softly. “To know what you had been like. To thank me for... having been your friend. I knew you wouldn’t have wanted it,” I continued before he could interrupt me, “but we thought you were dead, Holmes, and he is still your father. I could not turn down an old man who was mourning his son."
There was a long pause as he turned away from me and stood before the fire. I could see that he was troubled and angry, and it pained me as well, but I was still sure that I had done the right thing.
“He should have mourned long ago,” Holmes said at last, coldly
“He said he did,” I replied quietly. “He said he had never stopped.”
My friend said nothing as he continued to stare into the fire. At last he turned away and strode over to his chemistry table, where he began to bustle about without a further word. I understood that the evening was beyond repair, and stood up to get my hat and coat. “I suppose I’ll see you tomorrow, then,” I remarked as I prepared myself to leave. He looked up shortly and gave me a non-committing shrug before he immersed himself into his work again and ignored me altogether.
To my great relief his mood had improved considerably when I joined him again at Baker Street on the following late afternoon, although his manner conveyed clearly that he refused to discuss anything which had transpired the evening before. His wish was not granted, and I was deeply thankful that he could put no blame on me this time.
We had been in the process of discussing whether we should attend a concert in the evening when we heard footsteps on the stairs and Mrs. Hudson’s voice in the hallway. Moments later she entered our room, closely followed by a huge, portly gentleman with white hair and keen grey eyes.
He was the last person I had expected to see in our quarters, and the very last person, I could tell, whom my friend had wished to see at all. Our landlady withdrew with a few words of courtesy, and Mr. Mycroft Sherringford Holmes remained standing at the door, apparently well aware that he was not welcome.
My friend stared at him. It was one of the very rare occasions that I have seen Sherlock Holmes speechless.
His father smiled politely. “I can see, Sherlock,” he said in a deep voice that reminded me of Holmes’ brother Mycroft, “that you have either not received or refused to read my telegram. I wrote to you yesterday to announce my visit.” He gave a little nod in my direction, and I nodded in return.
“What can I do for you?” Holmes inquired in a voice which made very clear that he did not wish to do anything at all.
“I need your help,” the old man stated, “and I thought that, even if you are not going to speak to me if I come to you as your father, maybe you will if I come to you as a client.”
“You have a case?” my friend demanded matter-of-factly.
“Yes, I have. Scotland Yard is already handling it, but I know you can do better.”
I could see Holmes hesitating. He clearly wished to be free of his father’s presence as soon as possible, but it was not his habit to turn down clients before at least hearing them out, and besides, he knew as well as I that both his spirits and his bank account would profit from a new case. At last he gave a short nod and gestured towards an armchair. “Very well. Speak of it.”
The older man settled his big frame into the chair with some difficulty and remained for a moment lost in thought. Then he looked up with a very serious expression. “Sherlock, do you remember my friend Captain Morrison?”
“Yes,” Holmes answered, proceeding to light his pipe. When he made no effort to continue, his father turned to me. “He is an old family friend,” he explained. “I have known him for forty years. He is currently assigned to the steamship ‘Friesland’, which travels under the Dutch flag but has some English personal due to its regular route between Rotterdam and London. It will be his last assignment; he means to retire by the end of the year. Those, at least, were his plans when I last spoke to him four weeks ago.”
“And now something has happened to change them?”
“He has disappeared,” the older Holmes sighed. “Two days ago. Halfway across the channel. He just did not appear to his duties one morning, and - well, of course it is noticed at once if the captain is missing, and the crew turned the whole ship upside down, but they found no trace of him.”
“No rough sea that night, I suppose?”
“No. Hardly any wind at all. And there were guards too, of course, to watch over the ship and report any unusual incidents. They saw nothing.”
Holmes leaned back in his chair. I could tell by the look in his eyes that his interest had been sparked.
“Did the Captain suffer personal problems of some kind? Financial, martial or anything of the sort?”
“None that I am aware of. He is a widower, and he never spoke of financial difficulties. But there is more. Two of the crewmen disappeared with him. Neither of them has been found so far.”
“Where is the ship now?”
“Lying in the docks, guarded by the police. The whole crew is under custody. The matter has been kept out of the papers, I understand, but of course people are beginning to talk.”
“What about the life-boats? Were any of them missing or tampered with?”
“Not to my knowledge,” the older man replied, slightly surprised.
My friend sat in silence, obviously deep in thought. Then he stood abruptly and emptied his half-smoked pipe at the grate. “Very well,” he said. “I shall look into the case. You will, of course, be informed of any progress. Good evening.”
His father accepted the dismissal with a dignified smile and heaved himself out of the armchair he had occupied. “I had hoped you would. Good evening. To you too, Dr. Watson.” He shook my hand warmly as I led him to the door and bade him farewell with considerably more emphasis than my companion had done.
We did not attend the concert that night. Holmes spent the evening smoking and brooding, occasionally jumping from his chair to look something up in one of the large volumes on his shelves. He hardly spoke another word, and I contented myself with a novel I had found mildly interesting the day before, and went to bed early.
I had not been sure if I should expect it, but he did join me again later that night, and from the way his hands slid over my body and under my nightshirt as soon as he had settled beside me I could tell that, this time, his intentions were not as innocent as they usually were.
I was not sure how I felt about it.
I should perhaps state here that, somewhat surprisingly, I had no problems with the fact that my new lover was a man. I had known for a long time that my sensual interest lay not in women alone, and the years in Holmes’ acquaintance had taught me that justice is not always what the law dictates. Neither had I any religious qualms, for to this day I refuse to believe that He of whom is said is love will unleash the fury of hell on two lovers just because He does not approve of their gender*.
Besides, I was not sure if I would ever find pleasure in the arms of a woman again after Mary’s death. Holmes was so different, so utterly incomparable, and I had already loved him so intensely for his own sake, that I could be intimate with him without constantly being reminded of the one I had lost forever. I loved his strong, sensitive hands, his powerful touch, his lean and muscular body, his particular taste and smell, and the look on his face when he for once allowed himself to abandon all control. I also loved the fact that, while I remained always conscious of the breach between his own extraordinary mind and the rest of the world, including myself, it was only I whom he allowed close enough to reach across it and touch him, physically and mentally. And then there was that new, intoxicating knowledge I could hardly bring myself to believe - that he was alive, he was back, and he was mine.
So it was not for those reasons that I remained uneasy when he wanted me that night, although I surrendered to him as I always would. From his tense and almost desperate attitude I could not tell if he genuinely desired me, or if he was using my body and his passion merely as he had used other stimulants in the past. I preferred this way of clearing his mind to the alternative, but that did not mean I had to like it.
He had already left my bed when I awoke the next morning, and I found him sitting at the breakfast table, still thoughtful but not in a particularly ill mood. I busied myself with the papers and we took our meal in silence, somewhat hurried on my part as it was usual when I had to get to my practice early. “I wonder, Watson,” Holmes remarked when I got up and prepared myself to go, “if your patients could spare you for the afternoon? I have one or two errands to run this morning, but I should very much like to inspect that mysterious ship for myself today.”
I told him I would arrange it, and did so as soon as I reached my Kensington residence. I was still fortunate enough to have a helpful colleague who was willing to fill in for me now and then, and I was only too eager to join my friend in the hunt once again.
The “Friesland” turned out to be an elderly cargo ship of moderate size, the red paint peeling in some places but otherwise apparently in good shape. Inspector Lestrade, alerted by Holmes’ telegram, was awaiting us as we climbed out of our hansom. I was delighted to see that he was in charge of the case. I may have made a few rather ungracious remarks about him in connection with the Norwood affair, about which we had a bit of a dispute, but he had offered me his friendship in my hour of need and I cherished him in his own way, self-important and slightly pompous though he could be. Now he greeted Holmes and me in his usual straightforward manner. He could see as well as I that my friend was positively bursting with nervous energy, which indicated that his errands had probably been successful and he could already see more in the case than either of us, and we both knew better that to press him for details.
Instead, the Inspector gave us a short overview of the ship and then showed us the missing crewmen’s bedsteads, which Holmes examined in his usual meticulous manner. More interesting, however, proved an inspection of the Captain’s cabin, in which the police had uncovered the residual traces of what had been a massive blood stain on the floor.
The room was small, though not without luxury compared to the plain accommodations in the crewmen’s dormitory. The walls were panelled with dark wood and decorated with several maps and nautical drawings. A narrow, neatly made bunk was located on the right side of the room, and a writing desk was attached to the wall opposing the door. On the left-hand side I could see a huge carved trunk and the doors of a wall cupboard. A rug on the floor had been pushed aside to reveal the treacherous stain. The quarter seemed comfortable enough, but the atmosphere had a strange stuffy quality which made me feel faintly sick.
“Obviously a violent crime has taken place”, Lestrade told us, “but there is no indication as to the details and no apparent clue to the perpetrator. The crew consists of 52 men, including the three who have gone missing. All have been questioned. Nobody appears to have seen anything out of the ordinary, and there is no indication of a motive for anyone to... dispose of one or more of the missing men.”
“I take it that nothing has been removed yet?”
“Nothing, Mr. Holmes,” Lestrade confirmed. “At least not since the ship has been put under custody. We cannot be sure about before, of course.”
“And what can you say of the missing crewmembers?”
“Well, there was the Captain, as you have heard yourself - Joseph Morrison, aged sixty-four, a seaman for over forty years. Widowed, two sons, both around thirty years old. Survived the Queen Mary catastrophe in 1871 during his time as First Officer on that ship. Captain of the Friesland since 1885. Has an excellent reputation. His crewmembers describe him as authoritative, dependable, even-tempered, and intelligent. They said it was good working under him.
Then there was Ruben Faas, aged forty-nine, first assignment on the Friesland, has apparently been working on various Dutch vessels before. Amiable, hard-working fellow, well liked among his coworkers. The same is said about the other crewman, Paul van Bijert, aged twenty-eight, member of the crew since 1892. They were assigned to the same shift. We know little about them as yet since they are of Dutch nationality, but we have already inquired at the local authorities. We should receive an answer not later than tomorrow.”
“This is of great interest. You will inform me when you receive the information?”
“Obviously, Mr. Holmes,” Lestrade confirmed, sounding a little weary.
Holmes leaned against the Captain’s desk, staring at the opposite wall with that faraway look in his grey eyes that I knew to be a sign of deepest concentration. Then he turned around abruptly.
“What do you make of this?” he asked, indicating a crumbled sheet of paper that had apparently been placed on the table with some other personal items in the course of the investigation. Lestrade shrugged.
“Nothing yet, Mr. Holmes, but we suppose that it may have a bearing on the case. Sounds suspicious enough, doesn’t it? It was found in one of his uniform jackets. We are trying to ascertain who the sender is, but we have had no luck yet.”
Holmes handed the document to me. It read:
Meet at Poseidon, May 3rd, 8:30 pm. Must discuss Guy Fawkes. WH
“Guy Fawkes?” I repeated in alarm.
“That is highly suggestive,” my friend stated pensively. “Well, well. I should like to take a look around, if you don’t mind, Lestrade?”
The Inspector shrugged, and Holmes proceeded to survey the room systematically, running his nimble fingers along the rough planks on the floor, peering into trunk, cupboard and desk, probing the walls in several places and removing the bedclothes. His attention was particularly drawn to the wall panelling beside the cupboard, which he examined very thoroughly with his magnifying glass. Finally he turned to us with a very serious expression.
“Observe these faint scratches on the wood,” he explained. “Someone has recently tampered with these planks, most likely to remove them. I think we will find a secret closet behind them, probably intended as a hiding place for valuable items and important documents in case of a pirate attack. But,” he added grimly, ”I don’t like to imagine what it contains now.”
As usual my friend’s assumptions were correct. The planks in question were easily removed, revealing a heavy iron door with a solid looking lock. Holmes, who had come prepared for the eventuality, made short work of it with a few tools he had brought along, and the door swung open.
I am not a man who is easily shocked, but I confess that I shrunk away instinctively from the gruesome sight that presented itself to us, and the horrific odour that engulfed us as soon as the door was opened.
Crouched into the small cabinet was the body of a young man in nautical attire. The poor wretch had probably been handsome in life, but now his features were contorted and his blond hair was stained with blood. His throat was cut, as far as I could see, almost from ear to ear.
After a short silence, Holmes leaned forward and looked intently at the wound. Then he addressed the Inspector.
“I fear that we have just found one of the missing men, Lestrade,” he said gravely. “Paul van Bijert, judging from his age.”
Lestrade stared at the body. “Mr. Holmes - surely you don’t think that the Captain...”
“He did not commit the murder, no,” Holmes remarked. “But he must have known of it.”
“How can you be sure?”
“You can see that the victim was a strong young man,” my friend explained. “He would surely have put up a formidable fight when attacked. Yet there are no signs of a struggle - neither in this room nor on his person. The only explanation is that he was attacked from behind, and the attack happened so swiftly that he had no chance to fight back.”
“And?”
“As you can see from the wound, the knife was drawn from the right side of his throat toward the left. That indicates that the killer, standing behind his victim, held it in his left hand. The Captain is right-handed, as you can see from the arrangement of writing supplies on his desk. But he would most likely be the only one to know about the secret closet.”
“So, while he did not commit the murder, he helped covering it up?”
“So it seems.”
“And then he vanished also.”
“Precisely. I cannot tell yet whether the third missing man is the murderer, or just another unfortunate who happened to cross his path. But I think it highly likely that there are other hiding-places like this one on the ship. I would like to take a look at the ship’s blueprints, if that is possible.”
“By all means. They are in the wheel house. I’ve seen them myself, of course. But Mr. Holmes,” the Inspector added reluctantly, as if he did not look forward to the prospect of another lecture but needed the information, “how did you know that the body would be in this room? It has been searched before.”
“I thought it unlikely that a blood stain of this size could be caused by a minor injury. But if someone had tried to remove a body, or a severely injured man, from this room, surely someone would have noticed. Besides, did you not notice the smell? It was very faint before we opened that door, but easily identified if one knew what to expect. But now, I think, we should direct our attention to the question of the perpetrator’s whereabouts.”
Holmes and I spend the rest of the afternoon carefully studying the steamer’s blueprints, which my friend carefully compared in the hope of finding inconsistencies that might help him to locate secrets rooms. He took a few notes and even drew one or two sketches in his notebook, and then insisted on reviewing various sites which seemed of interest to him, such as the lifeboats, the bridge and some of the storerooms. I could not avoid the strange sensation that overcame me when we walked across the creaking planks of the abandoned ship. I had been at sea often enough, and never had I experienced such a large vessel totally abandoned, with a thousand trifles indicating that it had been in use shortly before, and there had not been time to clean it up - unmade beds, cutlery that had not been put away, papers littering the desk of the wheel house. Holmes, however, was as concentrated and businesslike as usual.
“I think that is all we can learn for the moment,” he announced finally. “I need to study these plans further and await the answer to a few telegrams I’ve sent. Inspector, you are positive that the ship has been thoroughly searched?”
“Oh yes. More than once, by the crew and the police.”
“And no one has left the ship since it arrived at the harbour, except your officers and the crew when they were taken into custody?”
“No one. It doesn’t look like there is anyone left on board.”
“That is very curious,” Holmes stated thoughtfully. “However, I think you would be well advised to double the guards.”
“You think the murderer is still hiding here?” Lestrade asked with ill-disguised skepticism.
Holmes did not answer at once, but looked as if he was lost deep in thought. “I think it likely,” he said at last. “However, I need to question some of the crewmen, if you would be good enough to let me have a look at the official statements?”
Holmes returned from Scotland Yard no earlier that eleven p.m., having spent all evening reading reports and questioning subjects. He was in a taciturn mood and, after pouring himself a brandy, made himself comfortable in his armchair without volunteering information. I knew he would most likely appreciate being left alone with his thoughts, but I had not waited up for him until this hour just to be dismissed upon his arrival.
“Was your trip to the Yard informative?” I interrupted his contemplations.
“To some degree,” he admitted reluctantly.
“Judging from your behaviour, you do already have a theory to explain this obscure affair.”
“You are scintillating, Watson,” he said sarcastically, and I might have cringed at his tone had I not known that he was merely irritated about my insistence, for which I was not sorry. “And this affair is not obscure at all. In fact, the main outline is quite obvious to anyone who has kept up with the Dutch news, and has the sense to understand that note in the Captain’s pocket.”
“The Dutch news? So that is what you investigated yesterday morning.”
“Among other things, yes. The press reports have been all over the Netherlands, it seems. Two weeks ago a notorious robbery gang was captured red-handed in a suburb of Rotterdam. They had plagued the area for over five years, stealing money and jewelry of tremendous worth and committing two murders in the process. Now three of the four criminals are in custody. The forth, when apprehended, shot two policemen in cold blood and escaped.”
“And?”
“The man’s name has been given by his accomplices as Willem van Houten. Does that suggest anything to you, Watson?”
“The note!” I exclaimed. “It was signed WH.”
“Excellent, my dear.”
“But why would an escaped criminal want to discuss Guy Fawkes with a respectable English captain? Surely you don’t see some kind of murderous conspiracy behind this?”
“Hardly that, Watson, but still I fear the answer to your question will greatly displease my esteemed client. However, the more pressing question is where the man is hiding, and how to apprehend him without injury to himself or any others. He is highly dangerous.”
“And you think he is on the ship?”
“What could he have wanted from the Captain, except for a safe passage? Yes, Watson, I think he is still there. None of the other crewmen comes into consideration. But to my regret, I was not able to get a clue to his hiding place.”
“And he has disposed of the other men? Maybe because they threatened to expose him?”
“I am not sure about the details,” he said impatiently, and I realized he would most likely endure no more questioning. “All I know is that there is a murderer on the loose, who may or may not have company. But there is nothing I can do about it today. I need some time to think.”
I nodded and, growing tired indeed, decided to take myself to bed. I had nearly reached the door when a thought occurred to me. Much against my better judgment, I turned and asked:
“What are you going to tell your... client? You promised to keep him informed of the proceedings.”
“Nothing. The case is not concluded.”
“But...”
“Watson,” Holmes interrupted me, and his black brows were drawn together in anger, “you seem to be working under the misapprehension that I am interested in or obliged to some sort of social contact with this man. I assure you that this is not the case.”
“You mean that you see this merely as an ordinary business relationship?” I inquired with more heat that I had intended.
“Precisely,” he replied coldly. I felt from his attitude that I had once again crossed my boundaries, but did not care for the fact at that point. “It doesn’t matter to me. I do not require any family relations. I am friendly enough with Mycroft, and I have no desire whatsoever to exchange courtesies with and feel obligations towards a man with whom I have not spoken in twenty-four years. I do not expect you to understand.”
“You cannot, indeed,” I replied, trying and failing to conceal the instinctive anger that had risen in my chest. “I am sure you have an excellent reason. But I would give everything I own - everything, Holmes - if that would mean I could talk to my father once again. Just once. Or my mother, or my brother, or my wife, for that matter. But I cannot, because they are all dead and gone, and I have no family left. So excuse me if I fail to understand why you would so persistently deny yours, whatever happened all those years ago. It has been such a long time.”
There was a pause as he regarded me with a strange look, obviously taken aback my angry outburst. “You have me,” he stated then, as if pointing out the obvious.
“Weren’t you the man who just told me that he has no need for family relations?” I retorted. “Do whatever you like, Holmes, just don’t expect me to understand. I’ll be in my room if you need me.”
I resisted the urge to slam the door behind me as I exited the sitting room, a distant part of my brain wondering why I should get so worked up over the matter. Perhaps it was really no more than what I had told him; that I had lost so much, and he held only contempt for what had been preserved to him, a thing for which I would have thanked the Lord on my knees.
I had a difficult time falling asleep that evening. Some time I spent engaging in a silent, one-sided conversation with Mary - a strange habit I had developed shortly after her death which, delusional as may seem, usually helped to clear my brain - , then I let my mind wander to the visitor I had received so shortly after losing my dearest friend. I had expected him, as he had inquired before if I should mind his visit, but I had not expected him to be so open to me. Still, and not only in my capacity as a doctor, I know that it is sometimes easier to confide in a stranger, and that it may relieve the mind just as the affections as a friend can.
He had come under the pretext of discussing some minor details of my friend’s will, which could just as well have been done by Holmes’ brother Mycroft, who had been declared the main beneficiary anyway. Yet, while we had settled those trifles and exchanged a few courtesies over some tea, I had felt that something was weighing on his mind. I was confirmed when, after a long and uncomfortable silence, he had sighed and looked into my eyes.
“I am glad to meet you at last, Dr. Watson,” he had said. “It’s not so easy, even when one becomes... estranged... to one’s own son, to stop worrying about his well-being. Especially when he has such a dangerous profession as Sherlock had. It meant a lot to me to know that he had found such a good friend to be at his side.”
“I could not protect him,” I had objected, feeling a sharp stab of pain once again. “I tried to, but I failed.”
“You could not protect him from his mortal enemies, no,” the old man had agreed. “He was a reckless man. He knew that he was taking the risk. But there were other things. I don’t know if he even knew that he was facing them.”
I had not been sure whether I should ask, and Holmes’ father had just sat in his chair, staring at his hands that had been fiddling with his tea-cup, just as unsure if he should talk.
At last he had told me.
He had told me of his modest estate in Sussex where he had lived a happy life with his family, and the few servants they had been able to afford. He had told me about his beloved wife, a black-haired beauty with a hot temper who had been half French, and their two young sons. And how, sometime after the birth of the second child, everything had begun to fall apart.
“She was always a spirited woman,” he had told me, and I could see the grief on his face. “I loved her for it. She felt everything stronger that other people did - joy, but pain, too. She had dark moods, but they never lasted long. Not when I met her.
I realized that there was something amiss after Sherlock was born. It changed gradually, I think, but her moods became more pronounced as the years went by. She would be downright careless when she was in high spirits, talkative and full of ideas she could never set into practice. And then she would fall into a black mood for days on end. I always thought we could manage. But then Mycroft turned seventeen and went away.
I never thought it would have such an effect on her. Her moods swings became... frightening, for the lack of a better word. She would be downright hysterical at times. She would do foolish and dangerous things and refuse to explain herself. And then she would lock herself up in her room for days, not even coming out to eat.
I didn’t know how to handle it. I must confess that I was at my wit’s end, so I suppose I didn’t give her the support she needed. I distanced myself and thought I would have to live with the fact that she was a little mad. And then one day...”
He had paused for a moment, and I had experienced an odd kind of premonition.
“She killed herself,” he had stated simply. “Sherlock found her. He was only thirteen. He blamed me, and never forgave me. He moved out as soon as he was legally able to, and refused to speak a word to me ever since. And the worst thing was that he was so much like her in every sense. I always worried...”
At that point he had drawn a deep breath and looked at me again. “You could not protect him from that evil professor, Doctor, and nobody is going to blame you for it. But maybe you protected him from the demons that killed his mother. Who knows what would have happened to him if he had not had you by his side.”
I still recalled the strange mixture of shock and understanding I had experienced that day as I lay alone in my bed in Baker Street three years later. I mused whether my friend was truly able to hold a grudge for so long, whether he was truly unable to forgive what sounded to me like tragedy and human failure, or whether there was some part of the story his father had not told me. Whatever it was, I could not force him to change his mind.
Continue..
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* 1. John 4, 16: “God is love, and he that dwelleth in love dwelleth in God, and God in him”. I realize that this is probably a modern view, but I couldn’t resist as I often get the impression that many people view slash and Christianity as incompatible. I disagree. It’s one of my pet peeves, actually, so please, bear with me. :)
Pairing: H/W
Word count: Around 12 000.
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
Rating and warnings: PG-13 and slash. Don’t read it if you don’t like slash.
Bipolar disorder and suicide are also mentioned. They are not the focus of the story, nor is this a death story, however I thought I should mention it.
Thanks to: mrs_sweetpeach for spending a lot of time on betaing and discussion! The whole thing sounds much better now (and the discussion was fun).
The Adventure of the Lost Seaman
Ever since I published the record of Sherlock Holmes’ and my adventure concerning the Norwood Builder, I have been urged by my readers and publishers to give an account also of the affair of the Dutch steamship “Friesland”, due to the “tantalizing hints” I am supposed to have given in the former account. I am afraid that I shall never be able to fulfill those wishes. While it would be easy for me omit the nature of Holmes’ and my relationship at that point, the case had a close connection to my friend’s most intimate affairs, and it would be impossible to record it without violating his privacy. Thus, I am committing this only to my private journal, so that I shall not forget the details of this remarkable case among the hundreds of others my friend and I have experienced.
I shall begin my tale at a time when only three weeks had passed since my friend had so miraculously returned from the dead. I still held my Kensington practice at the time, although I had already decided to put it up for sale. On most days I accepted the inconvenience of rising early in the morning to reach it in time for my consulting hours, so that I could spend the night at Baker Street. Apart from the fact that Holmes and I were usually up until very late in the evening, it also gave me a sense of comfort to do so. During the first nights after his return I had often woken up alone in my Kensington flat, with nothing at hand to prove to me the reality of the recent events, and desperately wondering if my mind had been playing tricks on me.
And I felt that I was not the only one troubled by such thoughts. Sometimes, when I was sleeping in my old bedroom at Baker Street, I would be awoken in the middle of the night by a soft rap on the door, and in the flickering candle light I would see his tall, lean figure, bare-footed and in his nightshirt, come over to my bed and slide under the covers beside me. He would just hold me in his arms during those nights, and from the way he did it I knew that he, too, was chasing his demons away.
Then there was the matter of our recently established physical intimacy. I shall not record here how we came to discover it, as that would distract from the story at hand and is, at any rate, an interesting tale in itself; suffice it to say that it was not born from a moment of spontaneous passion, but had been on both of our minds for some time before we entrusted it to each other on the night of his return. Nor was it only a means for the release of carnal urges, but an expression of feelings we had, equally, both known to exist, but only dared to confess when we had been reunited after such a painful separation. Three weeks after his return we were enjoying our new-found relationship to the fullest degree, although, as in any freshly established love affair, the happiness and wonder of it all was still mixed with some measure of insecurity and slight fear as to what the future might hold for us. Still, I was experienced enough in such matters to know that this was quite normal, and no cause for concern.
It was at this time that the Friesland case was brought to our notice. Holmes and I had spent a pleasant dinner in our sitting-room and were now engaged in some idle talk over a cigarette or two when Mrs. Hudson entered our room with a telegram. I started when I saw the signature, but before I could react, Holmes had snatched it from my view, dismissed our good landlady with a few short words, and then, very deliberately, pushed the document into the fire.
There was a short pause when he sat down again and picked up his cigarette, clearly indicating that we should ignore the incident altogether. I knew it was highly unwise not to do so. However, while I usually respect my friend’s wishes, I also have a strong sense of morality, and I found that I could not remain silent under these circumstances.
“Don’t you think,” I ventured carefully, “that you should at least find out what he wants?”
My friend’s grey eyes flashed as he stared at me in a mixture of surprise and anger. “What do you know of it?” he snapped.
Holmes does not usually snap at me. He is far too controlled to do so. I knew then that it was a distinct sign of danger, and that I would do well to hold my tongue if I cared to avoid major domestic trouble.
“Rather a lot,” I said, instead. “He was introduced to me on the day of your... your memorial. And he visited me once, a few days later.”
The look on my friend’s face did not bode well. “What did he want?” he demanded.
“To talk,” I said softly. “To know what you had been like. To thank me for... having been your friend. I knew you wouldn’t have wanted it,” I continued before he could interrupt me, “but we thought you were dead, Holmes, and he is still your father. I could not turn down an old man who was mourning his son."
There was a long pause as he turned away from me and stood before the fire. I could see that he was troubled and angry, and it pained me as well, but I was still sure that I had done the right thing.
“He should have mourned long ago,” Holmes said at last, coldly
“He said he did,” I replied quietly. “He said he had never stopped.”
My friend said nothing as he continued to stare into the fire. At last he turned away and strode over to his chemistry table, where he began to bustle about without a further word. I understood that the evening was beyond repair, and stood up to get my hat and coat. “I suppose I’ll see you tomorrow, then,” I remarked as I prepared myself to leave. He looked up shortly and gave me a non-committing shrug before he immersed himself into his work again and ignored me altogether.
To my great relief his mood had improved considerably when I joined him again at Baker Street on the following late afternoon, although his manner conveyed clearly that he refused to discuss anything which had transpired the evening before. His wish was not granted, and I was deeply thankful that he could put no blame on me this time.
We had been in the process of discussing whether we should attend a concert in the evening when we heard footsteps on the stairs and Mrs. Hudson’s voice in the hallway. Moments later she entered our room, closely followed by a huge, portly gentleman with white hair and keen grey eyes.
He was the last person I had expected to see in our quarters, and the very last person, I could tell, whom my friend had wished to see at all. Our landlady withdrew with a few words of courtesy, and Mr. Mycroft Sherringford Holmes remained standing at the door, apparently well aware that he was not welcome.
My friend stared at him. It was one of the very rare occasions that I have seen Sherlock Holmes speechless.
His father smiled politely. “I can see, Sherlock,” he said in a deep voice that reminded me of Holmes’ brother Mycroft, “that you have either not received or refused to read my telegram. I wrote to you yesterday to announce my visit.” He gave a little nod in my direction, and I nodded in return.
“What can I do for you?” Holmes inquired in a voice which made very clear that he did not wish to do anything at all.
“I need your help,” the old man stated, “and I thought that, even if you are not going to speak to me if I come to you as your father, maybe you will if I come to you as a client.”
“You have a case?” my friend demanded matter-of-factly.
“Yes, I have. Scotland Yard is already handling it, but I know you can do better.”
I could see Holmes hesitating. He clearly wished to be free of his father’s presence as soon as possible, but it was not his habit to turn down clients before at least hearing them out, and besides, he knew as well as I that both his spirits and his bank account would profit from a new case. At last he gave a short nod and gestured towards an armchair. “Very well. Speak of it.”
The older man settled his big frame into the chair with some difficulty and remained for a moment lost in thought. Then he looked up with a very serious expression. “Sherlock, do you remember my friend Captain Morrison?”
“Yes,” Holmes answered, proceeding to light his pipe. When he made no effort to continue, his father turned to me. “He is an old family friend,” he explained. “I have known him for forty years. He is currently assigned to the steamship ‘Friesland’, which travels under the Dutch flag but has some English personal due to its regular route between Rotterdam and London. It will be his last assignment; he means to retire by the end of the year. Those, at least, were his plans when I last spoke to him four weeks ago.”
“And now something has happened to change them?”
“He has disappeared,” the older Holmes sighed. “Two days ago. Halfway across the channel. He just did not appear to his duties one morning, and - well, of course it is noticed at once if the captain is missing, and the crew turned the whole ship upside down, but they found no trace of him.”
“No rough sea that night, I suppose?”
“No. Hardly any wind at all. And there were guards too, of course, to watch over the ship and report any unusual incidents. They saw nothing.”
Holmes leaned back in his chair. I could tell by the look in his eyes that his interest had been sparked.
“Did the Captain suffer personal problems of some kind? Financial, martial or anything of the sort?”
“None that I am aware of. He is a widower, and he never spoke of financial difficulties. But there is more. Two of the crewmen disappeared with him. Neither of them has been found so far.”
“Where is the ship now?”
“Lying in the docks, guarded by the police. The whole crew is under custody. The matter has been kept out of the papers, I understand, but of course people are beginning to talk.”
“What about the life-boats? Were any of them missing or tampered with?”
“Not to my knowledge,” the older man replied, slightly surprised.
My friend sat in silence, obviously deep in thought. Then he stood abruptly and emptied his half-smoked pipe at the grate. “Very well,” he said. “I shall look into the case. You will, of course, be informed of any progress. Good evening.”
His father accepted the dismissal with a dignified smile and heaved himself out of the armchair he had occupied. “I had hoped you would. Good evening. To you too, Dr. Watson.” He shook my hand warmly as I led him to the door and bade him farewell with considerably more emphasis than my companion had done.
We did not attend the concert that night. Holmes spent the evening smoking and brooding, occasionally jumping from his chair to look something up in one of the large volumes on his shelves. He hardly spoke another word, and I contented myself with a novel I had found mildly interesting the day before, and went to bed early.
I had not been sure if I should expect it, but he did join me again later that night, and from the way his hands slid over my body and under my nightshirt as soon as he had settled beside me I could tell that, this time, his intentions were not as innocent as they usually were.
I was not sure how I felt about it.
I should perhaps state here that, somewhat surprisingly, I had no problems with the fact that my new lover was a man. I had known for a long time that my sensual interest lay not in women alone, and the years in Holmes’ acquaintance had taught me that justice is not always what the law dictates. Neither had I any religious qualms, for to this day I refuse to believe that He of whom is said is love will unleash the fury of hell on two lovers just because He does not approve of their gender*.
Besides, I was not sure if I would ever find pleasure in the arms of a woman again after Mary’s death. Holmes was so different, so utterly incomparable, and I had already loved him so intensely for his own sake, that I could be intimate with him without constantly being reminded of the one I had lost forever. I loved his strong, sensitive hands, his powerful touch, his lean and muscular body, his particular taste and smell, and the look on his face when he for once allowed himself to abandon all control. I also loved the fact that, while I remained always conscious of the breach between his own extraordinary mind and the rest of the world, including myself, it was only I whom he allowed close enough to reach across it and touch him, physically and mentally. And then there was that new, intoxicating knowledge I could hardly bring myself to believe - that he was alive, he was back, and he was mine.
So it was not for those reasons that I remained uneasy when he wanted me that night, although I surrendered to him as I always would. From his tense and almost desperate attitude I could not tell if he genuinely desired me, or if he was using my body and his passion merely as he had used other stimulants in the past. I preferred this way of clearing his mind to the alternative, but that did not mean I had to like it.
He had already left my bed when I awoke the next morning, and I found him sitting at the breakfast table, still thoughtful but not in a particularly ill mood. I busied myself with the papers and we took our meal in silence, somewhat hurried on my part as it was usual when I had to get to my practice early. “I wonder, Watson,” Holmes remarked when I got up and prepared myself to go, “if your patients could spare you for the afternoon? I have one or two errands to run this morning, but I should very much like to inspect that mysterious ship for myself today.”
I told him I would arrange it, and did so as soon as I reached my Kensington residence. I was still fortunate enough to have a helpful colleague who was willing to fill in for me now and then, and I was only too eager to join my friend in the hunt once again.
The “Friesland” turned out to be an elderly cargo ship of moderate size, the red paint peeling in some places but otherwise apparently in good shape. Inspector Lestrade, alerted by Holmes’ telegram, was awaiting us as we climbed out of our hansom. I was delighted to see that he was in charge of the case. I may have made a few rather ungracious remarks about him in connection with the Norwood affair, about which we had a bit of a dispute, but he had offered me his friendship in my hour of need and I cherished him in his own way, self-important and slightly pompous though he could be. Now he greeted Holmes and me in his usual straightforward manner. He could see as well as I that my friend was positively bursting with nervous energy, which indicated that his errands had probably been successful and he could already see more in the case than either of us, and we both knew better that to press him for details.
Instead, the Inspector gave us a short overview of the ship and then showed us the missing crewmen’s bedsteads, which Holmes examined in his usual meticulous manner. More interesting, however, proved an inspection of the Captain’s cabin, in which the police had uncovered the residual traces of what had been a massive blood stain on the floor.
The room was small, though not without luxury compared to the plain accommodations in the crewmen’s dormitory. The walls were panelled with dark wood and decorated with several maps and nautical drawings. A narrow, neatly made bunk was located on the right side of the room, and a writing desk was attached to the wall opposing the door. On the left-hand side I could see a huge carved trunk and the doors of a wall cupboard. A rug on the floor had been pushed aside to reveal the treacherous stain. The quarter seemed comfortable enough, but the atmosphere had a strange stuffy quality which made me feel faintly sick.
“Obviously a violent crime has taken place”, Lestrade told us, “but there is no indication as to the details and no apparent clue to the perpetrator. The crew consists of 52 men, including the three who have gone missing. All have been questioned. Nobody appears to have seen anything out of the ordinary, and there is no indication of a motive for anyone to... dispose of one or more of the missing men.”
“I take it that nothing has been removed yet?”
“Nothing, Mr. Holmes,” Lestrade confirmed. “At least not since the ship has been put under custody. We cannot be sure about before, of course.”
“And what can you say of the missing crewmembers?”
“Well, there was the Captain, as you have heard yourself - Joseph Morrison, aged sixty-four, a seaman for over forty years. Widowed, two sons, both around thirty years old. Survived the Queen Mary catastrophe in 1871 during his time as First Officer on that ship. Captain of the Friesland since 1885. Has an excellent reputation. His crewmembers describe him as authoritative, dependable, even-tempered, and intelligent. They said it was good working under him.
Then there was Ruben Faas, aged forty-nine, first assignment on the Friesland, has apparently been working on various Dutch vessels before. Amiable, hard-working fellow, well liked among his coworkers. The same is said about the other crewman, Paul van Bijert, aged twenty-eight, member of the crew since 1892. They were assigned to the same shift. We know little about them as yet since they are of Dutch nationality, but we have already inquired at the local authorities. We should receive an answer not later than tomorrow.”
“This is of great interest. You will inform me when you receive the information?”
“Obviously, Mr. Holmes,” Lestrade confirmed, sounding a little weary.
Holmes leaned against the Captain’s desk, staring at the opposite wall with that faraway look in his grey eyes that I knew to be a sign of deepest concentration. Then he turned around abruptly.
“What do you make of this?” he asked, indicating a crumbled sheet of paper that had apparently been placed on the table with some other personal items in the course of the investigation. Lestrade shrugged.
“Nothing yet, Mr. Holmes, but we suppose that it may have a bearing on the case. Sounds suspicious enough, doesn’t it? It was found in one of his uniform jackets. We are trying to ascertain who the sender is, but we have had no luck yet.”
Holmes handed the document to me. It read:
Meet at Poseidon, May 3rd, 8:30 pm. Must discuss Guy Fawkes. WH
“Guy Fawkes?” I repeated in alarm.
“That is highly suggestive,” my friend stated pensively. “Well, well. I should like to take a look around, if you don’t mind, Lestrade?”
The Inspector shrugged, and Holmes proceeded to survey the room systematically, running his nimble fingers along the rough planks on the floor, peering into trunk, cupboard and desk, probing the walls in several places and removing the bedclothes. His attention was particularly drawn to the wall panelling beside the cupboard, which he examined very thoroughly with his magnifying glass. Finally he turned to us with a very serious expression.
“Observe these faint scratches on the wood,” he explained. “Someone has recently tampered with these planks, most likely to remove them. I think we will find a secret closet behind them, probably intended as a hiding place for valuable items and important documents in case of a pirate attack. But,” he added grimly, ”I don’t like to imagine what it contains now.”
As usual my friend’s assumptions were correct. The planks in question were easily removed, revealing a heavy iron door with a solid looking lock. Holmes, who had come prepared for the eventuality, made short work of it with a few tools he had brought along, and the door swung open.
I am not a man who is easily shocked, but I confess that I shrunk away instinctively from the gruesome sight that presented itself to us, and the horrific odour that engulfed us as soon as the door was opened.
Crouched into the small cabinet was the body of a young man in nautical attire. The poor wretch had probably been handsome in life, but now his features were contorted and his blond hair was stained with blood. His throat was cut, as far as I could see, almost from ear to ear.
After a short silence, Holmes leaned forward and looked intently at the wound. Then he addressed the Inspector.
“I fear that we have just found one of the missing men, Lestrade,” he said gravely. “Paul van Bijert, judging from his age.”
Lestrade stared at the body. “Mr. Holmes - surely you don’t think that the Captain...”
“He did not commit the murder, no,” Holmes remarked. “But he must have known of it.”
“How can you be sure?”
“You can see that the victim was a strong young man,” my friend explained. “He would surely have put up a formidable fight when attacked. Yet there are no signs of a struggle - neither in this room nor on his person. The only explanation is that he was attacked from behind, and the attack happened so swiftly that he had no chance to fight back.”
“And?”
“As you can see from the wound, the knife was drawn from the right side of his throat toward the left. That indicates that the killer, standing behind his victim, held it in his left hand. The Captain is right-handed, as you can see from the arrangement of writing supplies on his desk. But he would most likely be the only one to know about the secret closet.”
“So, while he did not commit the murder, he helped covering it up?”
“So it seems.”
“And then he vanished also.”
“Precisely. I cannot tell yet whether the third missing man is the murderer, or just another unfortunate who happened to cross his path. But I think it highly likely that there are other hiding-places like this one on the ship. I would like to take a look at the ship’s blueprints, if that is possible.”
“By all means. They are in the wheel house. I’ve seen them myself, of course. But Mr. Holmes,” the Inspector added reluctantly, as if he did not look forward to the prospect of another lecture but needed the information, “how did you know that the body would be in this room? It has been searched before.”
“I thought it unlikely that a blood stain of this size could be caused by a minor injury. But if someone had tried to remove a body, or a severely injured man, from this room, surely someone would have noticed. Besides, did you not notice the smell? It was very faint before we opened that door, but easily identified if one knew what to expect. But now, I think, we should direct our attention to the question of the perpetrator’s whereabouts.”
Holmes and I spend the rest of the afternoon carefully studying the steamer’s blueprints, which my friend carefully compared in the hope of finding inconsistencies that might help him to locate secrets rooms. He took a few notes and even drew one or two sketches in his notebook, and then insisted on reviewing various sites which seemed of interest to him, such as the lifeboats, the bridge and some of the storerooms. I could not avoid the strange sensation that overcame me when we walked across the creaking planks of the abandoned ship. I had been at sea often enough, and never had I experienced such a large vessel totally abandoned, with a thousand trifles indicating that it had been in use shortly before, and there had not been time to clean it up - unmade beds, cutlery that had not been put away, papers littering the desk of the wheel house. Holmes, however, was as concentrated and businesslike as usual.
“I think that is all we can learn for the moment,” he announced finally. “I need to study these plans further and await the answer to a few telegrams I’ve sent. Inspector, you are positive that the ship has been thoroughly searched?”
“Oh yes. More than once, by the crew and the police.”
“And no one has left the ship since it arrived at the harbour, except your officers and the crew when they were taken into custody?”
“No one. It doesn’t look like there is anyone left on board.”
“That is very curious,” Holmes stated thoughtfully. “However, I think you would be well advised to double the guards.”
“You think the murderer is still hiding here?” Lestrade asked with ill-disguised skepticism.
Holmes did not answer at once, but looked as if he was lost deep in thought. “I think it likely,” he said at last. “However, I need to question some of the crewmen, if you would be good enough to let me have a look at the official statements?”
Holmes returned from Scotland Yard no earlier that eleven p.m., having spent all evening reading reports and questioning subjects. He was in a taciturn mood and, after pouring himself a brandy, made himself comfortable in his armchair without volunteering information. I knew he would most likely appreciate being left alone with his thoughts, but I had not waited up for him until this hour just to be dismissed upon his arrival.
“Was your trip to the Yard informative?” I interrupted his contemplations.
“To some degree,” he admitted reluctantly.
“Judging from your behaviour, you do already have a theory to explain this obscure affair.”
“You are scintillating, Watson,” he said sarcastically, and I might have cringed at his tone had I not known that he was merely irritated about my insistence, for which I was not sorry. “And this affair is not obscure at all. In fact, the main outline is quite obvious to anyone who has kept up with the Dutch news, and has the sense to understand that note in the Captain’s pocket.”
“The Dutch news? So that is what you investigated yesterday morning.”
“Among other things, yes. The press reports have been all over the Netherlands, it seems. Two weeks ago a notorious robbery gang was captured red-handed in a suburb of Rotterdam. They had plagued the area for over five years, stealing money and jewelry of tremendous worth and committing two murders in the process. Now three of the four criminals are in custody. The forth, when apprehended, shot two policemen in cold blood and escaped.”
“And?”
“The man’s name has been given by his accomplices as Willem van Houten. Does that suggest anything to you, Watson?”
“The note!” I exclaimed. “It was signed WH.”
“Excellent, my dear.”
“But why would an escaped criminal want to discuss Guy Fawkes with a respectable English captain? Surely you don’t see some kind of murderous conspiracy behind this?”
“Hardly that, Watson, but still I fear the answer to your question will greatly displease my esteemed client. However, the more pressing question is where the man is hiding, and how to apprehend him without injury to himself or any others. He is highly dangerous.”
“And you think he is on the ship?”
“What could he have wanted from the Captain, except for a safe passage? Yes, Watson, I think he is still there. None of the other crewmen comes into consideration. But to my regret, I was not able to get a clue to his hiding place.”
“And he has disposed of the other men? Maybe because they threatened to expose him?”
“I am not sure about the details,” he said impatiently, and I realized he would most likely endure no more questioning. “All I know is that there is a murderer on the loose, who may or may not have company. But there is nothing I can do about it today. I need some time to think.”
I nodded and, growing tired indeed, decided to take myself to bed. I had nearly reached the door when a thought occurred to me. Much against my better judgment, I turned and asked:
“What are you going to tell your... client? You promised to keep him informed of the proceedings.”
“Nothing. The case is not concluded.”
“But...”
“Watson,” Holmes interrupted me, and his black brows were drawn together in anger, “you seem to be working under the misapprehension that I am interested in or obliged to some sort of social contact with this man. I assure you that this is not the case.”
“You mean that you see this merely as an ordinary business relationship?” I inquired with more heat that I had intended.
“Precisely,” he replied coldly. I felt from his attitude that I had once again crossed my boundaries, but did not care for the fact at that point. “It doesn’t matter to me. I do not require any family relations. I am friendly enough with Mycroft, and I have no desire whatsoever to exchange courtesies with and feel obligations towards a man with whom I have not spoken in twenty-four years. I do not expect you to understand.”
“You cannot, indeed,” I replied, trying and failing to conceal the instinctive anger that had risen in my chest. “I am sure you have an excellent reason. But I would give everything I own - everything, Holmes - if that would mean I could talk to my father once again. Just once. Or my mother, or my brother, or my wife, for that matter. But I cannot, because they are all dead and gone, and I have no family left. So excuse me if I fail to understand why you would so persistently deny yours, whatever happened all those years ago. It has been such a long time.”
There was a pause as he regarded me with a strange look, obviously taken aback my angry outburst. “You have me,” he stated then, as if pointing out the obvious.
“Weren’t you the man who just told me that he has no need for family relations?” I retorted. “Do whatever you like, Holmes, just don’t expect me to understand. I’ll be in my room if you need me.”
I resisted the urge to slam the door behind me as I exited the sitting room, a distant part of my brain wondering why I should get so worked up over the matter. Perhaps it was really no more than what I had told him; that I had lost so much, and he held only contempt for what had been preserved to him, a thing for which I would have thanked the Lord on my knees.
I had a difficult time falling asleep that evening. Some time I spent engaging in a silent, one-sided conversation with Mary - a strange habit I had developed shortly after her death which, delusional as may seem, usually helped to clear my brain - , then I let my mind wander to the visitor I had received so shortly after losing my dearest friend. I had expected him, as he had inquired before if I should mind his visit, but I had not expected him to be so open to me. Still, and not only in my capacity as a doctor, I know that it is sometimes easier to confide in a stranger, and that it may relieve the mind just as the affections as a friend can.
He had come under the pretext of discussing some minor details of my friend’s will, which could just as well have been done by Holmes’ brother Mycroft, who had been declared the main beneficiary anyway. Yet, while we had settled those trifles and exchanged a few courtesies over some tea, I had felt that something was weighing on his mind. I was confirmed when, after a long and uncomfortable silence, he had sighed and looked into my eyes.
“I am glad to meet you at last, Dr. Watson,” he had said. “It’s not so easy, even when one becomes... estranged... to one’s own son, to stop worrying about his well-being. Especially when he has such a dangerous profession as Sherlock had. It meant a lot to me to know that he had found such a good friend to be at his side.”
“I could not protect him,” I had objected, feeling a sharp stab of pain once again. “I tried to, but I failed.”
“You could not protect him from his mortal enemies, no,” the old man had agreed. “He was a reckless man. He knew that he was taking the risk. But there were other things. I don’t know if he even knew that he was facing them.”
I had not been sure whether I should ask, and Holmes’ father had just sat in his chair, staring at his hands that had been fiddling with his tea-cup, just as unsure if he should talk.
At last he had told me.
He had told me of his modest estate in Sussex where he had lived a happy life with his family, and the few servants they had been able to afford. He had told me about his beloved wife, a black-haired beauty with a hot temper who had been half French, and their two young sons. And how, sometime after the birth of the second child, everything had begun to fall apart.
“She was always a spirited woman,” he had told me, and I could see the grief on his face. “I loved her for it. She felt everything stronger that other people did - joy, but pain, too. She had dark moods, but they never lasted long. Not when I met her.
I realized that there was something amiss after Sherlock was born. It changed gradually, I think, but her moods became more pronounced as the years went by. She would be downright careless when she was in high spirits, talkative and full of ideas she could never set into practice. And then she would fall into a black mood for days on end. I always thought we could manage. But then Mycroft turned seventeen and went away.
I never thought it would have such an effect on her. Her moods swings became... frightening, for the lack of a better word. She would be downright hysterical at times. She would do foolish and dangerous things and refuse to explain herself. And then she would lock herself up in her room for days, not even coming out to eat.
I didn’t know how to handle it. I must confess that I was at my wit’s end, so I suppose I didn’t give her the support she needed. I distanced myself and thought I would have to live with the fact that she was a little mad. And then one day...”
He had paused for a moment, and I had experienced an odd kind of premonition.
“She killed herself,” he had stated simply. “Sherlock found her. He was only thirteen. He blamed me, and never forgave me. He moved out as soon as he was legally able to, and refused to speak a word to me ever since. And the worst thing was that he was so much like her in every sense. I always worried...”
At that point he had drawn a deep breath and looked at me again. “You could not protect him from that evil professor, Doctor, and nobody is going to blame you for it. But maybe you protected him from the demons that killed his mother. Who knows what would have happened to him if he had not had you by his side.”
I still recalled the strange mixture of shock and understanding I had experienced that day as I lay alone in my bed in Baker Street three years later. I mused whether my friend was truly able to hold a grudge for so long, whether he was truly unable to forgive what sounded to me like tragedy and human failure, or whether there was some part of the story his father had not told me. Whatever it was, I could not force him to change his mind.
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* 1. John 4, 16: “God is love, and he that dwelleth in love dwelleth in God, and God in him”. I realize that this is probably a modern view, but I couldn’t resist as I often get the impression that many people view slash and Christianity as incompatible. I disagree. It’s one of my pet peeves, actually, so please, bear with me. :)