My Dear Watson by L.A. Fields Read Free Book Online Page A

gushing pity like a ruptured organ. He opened his mouth, probably to espouse some words of comfort, but before he could speak, the Inspector returned saying Holmes was acting strangely.
    “I don’t think you need to alarm yourself,” Watson said wearily. “I have usually found that there was method in his madness.”
    Sadly Watson spent the whole rest of the day wondering what method was behind this torturous treatment. For the whole day snooping around the scene of a murdered coachman, Holmes pointedly only spoke to Watson indirectly through the Colonel, intentionally ignoring him. And then later, in the interest of drawing the murderers into a trap, Holmes had no problem abusing Watson’s gullibility (which he would do on several more occasions, most famously at his greatly exaggerated death) so as to gain a piece of evidence. Holmes pretended to faint with no thought as to how much it would worry Watson, and it did bother him quite a bit, despite what Holmes had done the night before. And then Holmes went so far as to purposely knock over a table and blame it on Watson, knowing that his partner would take his cue, regardless of how terribly he was being treated.
    And after the murderers Cunningham threw Holmes to the ground and choked him half to unconsciousness, Holmes still had the cool nerve to only address Colonel Hayter (who was along for the ride with the Inspector and Watson) when he sent the two retired army men off alone once more. Holmes wrapped up the case with local law enforcement, and he didn’t require them any further.
    Returning to the Colonel’s house, Hayter and Watson couldn’t help but smile over Holmes’s antics; his wretchedness is principally in that it’s impossible to hate him, no matter how many just reasons he presents, because he remains so remarkable. Shaking their heads over Holmes’s theatricality, the two men became warm friends once more; after all, they now had one more thing in common.
    Holmes returned later with a minor player in the case, a little old man he used as a buffer against any raw conversation that might break out within the triangle he’d created. He certainly entertained this elderly gentleman with all his clever deductions, and Hayter and Watson played along in good sport, oohing and ahhing at all the appropriate moments, having somewhat forgiven Holmes, and each other, and even themselves in the intervening time when Holmes was absent.
    At the end of recounting his success, Holmes was in the pink of health again. Perhaps it was only his ego that had been fatigued during such a long case away from his adoring public? He declared, to Watson at last, that in the morning they would return to Baker Street. The Colonel saw them off the next day, and with only the slightest hesitation said that both men were welcome back whenever it pleased them to come.
    It is always a waste of one’s precious time to wait for an apology from Sherlock Holmes. His pride will not allow a true confession of regret. But someone like Watson might be rewarded for his long suffering. On the trip back into London, the subject of Colonel Hayter was entirely left behind, his significance less and less as the dwellings moved closer and closer together. By the time Holmes and Watson were sitting in a hansom cab from the train station, they were healed. The largest proof of that came to Watson when Holmes discreetly slipped his arm into Watson’s as they sat, and wound them tightly in the most intimate embrace he could dare to engage in publically. It was Holmes’s way of reassuring him that he felt better now.
    Watson was content with this small token of affection, ready to let this whole sojourn to the country be forgotten. Holmes had gotten whatever bile he had towards Watson out of his system, and arriving home, it was back to their customary spots. The only irregularity was when Holmes, with studied casualty, closed up his syringe case and shut it in his desk. I suppose even he could