Fic for fictionforlife: Love the Sinner, H/W, PG

[spacemutineer.livejournal.com]

Title: Love the Sinner
Recipient: fictionforlife
Author: [redacted]
Rating: PG
Characters: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, OCs
Warnings: None
Summary: We all know that Watson was an unreliable narrator. Here, he tells us the real story of his early association with Sherlock Holmes as a character from Holmes's past presents him with a case. A continuation of sorts from my story [redacted], but it's not necessary to have read that one first.
Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes and John Watson are in the public domain. I wish they were mine, but alas, they are not.

I find that there is some obscure source of satisfaction to me in committing to paper the true facts of my early association with Mr Sherlock Holmes, as I did with the story of our first meeting, even though the events are of so sensational a nature that they may never be seen by any eyes other than mine.

Accordingly, I shall continue the process by setting down the real account of the events that began the story chronicled in public under what Holmes referred to as the "sensational title" of 'A Study in Scarlet'.

When Stamford had told me of a fellow who wished to share lodgings and I agreed to meet him, he had never thought to mention the man's name. You can imagine my shock when I observed that the man was indeed familiar to me.

I took a step backward in shock. It was Sherlock Holmes, to the life. I had thought never to see him again, yet here he was, coming toward me with outstretched hand.

"Ah. You have been in Afghanistan, I perceive," he greeted me, "Mr – no, Doctor John Watson, now, I see."

I stared foolishly at him, before taking the proffered hand. To all outward appearances, he was almost unchanged. He had filled out – a little – and he had grown taller, for I had to look up to meet his eyes now. But there was the same sensuous mouth – that mouth! – the same smoke-grey eyes, the same glossy black hair… I became aware that I was still holding his hand and Stamford was looking at us in confusion.

"I see you two have met after all?" he enquired.

"Yes, yes, years ago," Holmes replied, dropping my hand to drag me towards his experiment on the table. "But look here: I've discovered a re-agent that is precipitated only by haemoglobin and nothing else!" he cried, all enthusiasm.

My mind wandered as he prattled on about the importance of his discovery. On a closer look, he had indeed changed. There was a wariness about his eyes now that had been entirely absent in the reckless, laughing boy who had so impetuously kissed me "For luck, John Watson" all those years ago and there was a tightness about that sensuous mouth. But still, life had not used him nearly so hardly, to outward appearances at least, as it had me.

It was absurd, I reflected, to dwell upon events that happened during a brief acquaintance more than ten years previously, when Holmes was just a boy and I was still a student at University and my body was still whole. Now, I was a wounded veteran with a limp, a stiff shoulder, and nerves shot to pieces. I had seen too many horrors to ever be the same man again, while Holmes was still the same devilishly attractive, effortlessly elegant… with a mental shake, I recalled myself to the present, before my companions could notice my reverie.

Besides, I had promised myself as I was recovering in the hospital that I would put any such unnatural longings behind me. What had seemed merely a passing fancy to a schoolboy and natural enough to a soldier in wartime when a passage at arms with a comrade could offer comfort and the solace of forgetfulness when the spectre of violent, bloody death was always hovering nigh, seemed less easy to forgive back in buttoned-up England with its laws and rules of society.

I caught the flash of Holmes's eyes and a small smile that told me he had already read my thoughts and I flushed uncomfortably. "I'm sure it's useful'" I said at random, "but is it of real practical value?"

"Of course, man!" he cried, and he was off again. Eventually we brought the topic back around to the rooms he wanted to share and after a brief catalogue of our mutual vices and virtues (somewhat edited for Stamford's benefit) we struck up a deal.

In those early days of our rooming together, it was easy enough to forget that strange interlude that had passed between us. My health was still so uncertain and my spirits so low that I forbore to question my fellow-lodger about his habits or his profession and he never volunteered any reminiscences about his past. For my part, I had no wish to relive my army days, or my life before the war for that matter, so our conversations largely revolved around the mundane events of everyday life. He never showed any signs of wanting to refer to the past and I was content to follow his lead.

We made an odd pair, Holmes and I. I was at least regular in my habits. His, however, varied widely. On some days, he would throw himself on the settee and scarcely move, except to scrape away on his violin – which appeared, even to my untutored eye, to be a very fine one. At other times, he would apologetically ask me to leave the sitting-room, so he could entertain his clients, for whatever purpose they came to call upon him.

I soon learned that he loved any excuse to disguise himself. I grew quite accustomed to seeing him enter and leave at all hours of the day, dressed in all sorts of queer costumes. Eventually, I did no more than glance up as an old seaman, a dashing steamship captain, or a hunched-over beggar strode through the sitting-room. However, I will own to being rather startled the first time a rouged and perfumed streetwalker flounced through the door.

At first, I would leave promptly when he announced that a client was due, but gradually, I began to linger, at least long enough to view the callers. I told myself that I was simply fascinated by the variety of people who came around. Slowly, however, I began to realize that I was becoming fascinated by Holmes himself. I even took to making lists of his abilities and areas of expertise. Alone in my bed at night, I wondered if he ever thought of the past, or if he had resolved, like me, to put it all behind him.

His clientele varied widely. Sometimes well-dressed men and women would come by, but many were of the working class. Once a girl with a maid's uniform under her overcoat came and left in tears a few minutes later. A tall, good-looking, flaxen-haired man came several times to consult him about what seemed to be police cases. I watched covertly, but Holmes never seemed to show any interest beyond the strictly professional in any of them – men or women. As nearly as I could tell, he treated all alike with the same effortless, albeit detached, courtesy.

Gradually, however, we grew more familiar with each other, until at last he began to confide in me the details of his strange occupation. I soon found that he loved an audience; I think that perhaps he had never before had anyone in whom he could safely confide. "I am the world's only consulting detective" he declared grandly and at my lifted eyebrow, he explained exactly what that might entail. I found it difficult to believe him, but it did explain the odd assortment of visitors as well as the costumes he sometimes wore.

He already had some small fame, even in those early days, mostly brought about by word of mouth from clients whose problems he had solved. In those days, he took any and all cases that were brought before him. The bulk of them were trivial, running largely to missing cats and silver teaspoons. It was for that reason that the appearance of a stiff, heavy envelope, obviously expensive, bordered in black upon the breakfast-tray was an object of intense curiosity to me as I waited for Holmes to put in an appearance.

Eventually, he stumbled in, fumbling upon the mantelpiece for his matches, before lighting a cigarette and drawing upon it gratefully, before seating himself at the table and drinking the tea which I passed him. Suddenly, his eye lit upon the envelope and he pounced on it. "Hulloa! What's this?" he exclaimed, turning it over in his elegant hands. "Best quality paper, black border precisely a quarter inch wide, addressed in a woman's writing."

"Surely, the handwriting is masculine, Holmes," I said, observing the strong, slanted lines.

"No, it's a woman's hand, but a woman of decided character. Wishing to consult me on the death of her husband, perhaps, although it is not recent, as is shown by the thinness of the black border, denoting only half-mourning, his death was not a recent one. Well, well, let us see."

Slitting open the envelope with the butter knife, he glanced quickly at the contents and frowned. "Good Lord," he exclaimed, scanning down the page. His face went very red, then pale, as he continued to stare at the letter before passing it over to me. "Well, Watson," he said, "what d'you make of this?"

I read over the contents, which were as follows: Lady Percy Chelmsford requests the favour of an interview with Mr Sherlock Holmes at 11 this morning. She sincerely hopes that he will be at home to receive her at the appointed hour on a matter of the gravest importance.

"This sounds like a very delicate matter. Shall I go? The lady will arrive in a few minutes."

"I would be obliged if you would stay, old man. Do you recall the charming Laetitia, my almost-fiancée, whom you met that day at the races some 10 years or so ago?" On an instant, my mind flew back to the day when I had squired her around after Holmes had rushed off, trying to discover the whereabouts of the missing jockey of his father's horse.

"Yes, Watson," he said with a sardonic smile as he divined my thoughts. "That is the very lady. She married Sir Percy Chelmsford a few months after your momentous meeting and had, I believe, one son, before Sir Percy's untimely death last year."

My mind was working furiously, wondering at once if I had discovered the reason the missive had taken him so aback. Perhaps he had not been so indifferent to her as he had seemed that day. Perhaps he had some feeling for her still… perhaps she had jilted him to marry Lord Percy and he still carried a torch for her. Perhaps his father had broken it off, or perhaps her family had concluded that Sir Percy was an altogether better match for her than the younger son of a country squire… Whatever the reason, she was obviously of importance to him still. I had gotten that far in my thoughts when the scrape of a carriage wheel on the kerb heralded the imminent arrival of the lady herself.

Holmes had managed to compose himself by the time Mrs Hudson showed the lady in. I would scarcely have recognized the elegant creature who entered the room dressed in a fashionable walking-out costume of dove-grey half mourning, until she lifted her veil. There was the same lovely face, older, to be sure, the same blonde hair and blue eyes, the same delicate complexion, although there was a hardness about her expression that told me her life of late had not been an easy one.

"Sherlock," she began hastily, holding out her hand to him, "I have come to consult with you on a matter of the gravest import. You must help me – you simply must. I am at my wit's end!" She swayed forward and I, fearing that she was about to swoon, leapt up and supported her as the tottered on her feet. She recovered herself in an instant and dabbed at her eyes with a black-bordered handkerchief, which she drew from a small reticule.

Holmes's initial apprehension was immediately replaced by concern."Tell me how I can help you, Laetitia," he asked gently.

"It's my son – my son has vanished! Oh, you must help me find him!" As she poured out her story, it transpired that her only son – a boy of seven – had vanished almost out from under his tutor's nose. They had journeyed down to the family seat at Chelmsford together so that the lad could be in the fresh country air for a week or two. The tutor – a man named Peter Oldham "a most suitable companion, very high minded" - claimed that he had seen the child settled in bed but in the morning, he had vanished. The house and grounds had been searched, but the boy could not be found.

"Mr. Oldham seems to think that the boy has simply run away and that he will return of his own accord, but I know my Arthur – he would never do such a thing. You must help me." She wrung her hands in an agony of feeling.

I gently guided her to a chair, into which she sank gratefully. Sinking down next to her, Holmes took both her hands in his and began to question her, in his most soothing manner, eliciting further details about the boy's disappearance and the tutor's report.

When he was satisfied that he had learned all she knew, he stated with decision, "I will go down to Chelmsford, Laetitia. I wish to hear Mr. Olham's account at first hand and to look over the scene myself. I know you say a search has been conducted, but something of significance may well have been overlooked."

So focussed were they on his line of questioning that my presence seemed to be forgotten. Feeling somewhat awkward, as if I should have left after all, I stood as if to depart. Seeming to remember my presence at last, Holmes said, "Laetitia, you may remember my colleague, Doctor Watson." She gave me a brief smile, then turned her attention back to Holmes as he attempted to persuade her to wait for word from him.

"It is my son who is missing, Sherlock. I will not stand idly by and wait for word. I must set off for Chelmsford at once."

"And we will follow you shortly, Laetitia. Watson, what do you say – will you accompany me? I may have need of a steady companion." I readily assented to his proposal, while Laetitia, giving me a curious look, departed, seemingly content with his assurance that we would follow speedily.

"I mean to look up this tutor fellow before we go down to Chelmsford, Watson and I can do it more readily here than buried in the country. It simply won't do. His story is full of holes. There is something more here than just a runaway boy. Just give me an hour or so and we will be off," he said, hastily donning his coat and fairly flying down the steps. Gone was the languid manner of the morning and in its place was a keenness that reminded me of a bloodhound on the scent - a change I would come to know well in later years, but at this time it was new to me and I wondered at the swiftness of his transformation

When he returned, we were barely in time to catch the next train for Chelmsford. Scarcely a word would he say on the journey down and when I attempted to ascertain his idea of what might have happened, he put me off, saying decidedly, "It is a capitol mistake to theorise in advance of one's data, Watson. I must have more facts before I can attempt to form any opinion of the matter."

When we arrived at Chelmsford house, an imposing neo-Tudor edifice, built in the most exuberant style of the last century, Holmes eyed the house with distaste. "The ground is too hard to take footprints," he murmured as much to himself as to me. "What a pity."

Nevertheless, he wished to be shown at once to the lawn outside the boy's room, where he crawled about the grass as relentlessly as any Red Indian on the trail. It was the first time I had had the opportunity to watch Holmes in full cry and I found it as mysterious as it was fascinating, although I found the view from my position above and behind him to be rather distracting. Eventually he worked his way to the far edge of the grounds, where a small gap in the hedge gave onto a dusty lane. Here, he gave a little cry of satisfaction and abruptly turned about and announced that he wished to speak to Mr. Oldham at once.

Back at the house we were shown in by the butler and Holmes lost no time in informing the man that he wished to interview Mr Oldham immediately. He proved to be a tall, thin man with wispy blonde hair and a diffident manner, probably in his mid thirties, I judged; the very picture of a schoolmaster.

I had had the forethought to bring a notebook with me, so I sat down and took it out. I noticed that Holmes gave me an approving look as he began to question Mr Oldham. The tutor's story was substantially as Laetitia had related it, but his nervous, hesitating manner soon made me begin to doubt its truthfulness. With an air of impatience, Holmes interrupted him; "And pray tell, how far in advance did you and your precious brother-in-law hatch this little plot to kidnap the child, or was it a spur of the moment decision?"

At that masterful statement, the man crumbled in an instant. "Oh, please, Mr Holmes I only did it to win Lady Chelmsford's regard. I never intended it to go so far."

"You did this for Laetitia?" asked Holmes, with an air of disbelief.

"I know she means nothing to you Mr Holmes. I know you spurned her maiden affections when you were both young, but she is the very breath of life to me! I thought I could conceal the boy and play the hero by returning him unharmed after a short time," the hapless tutor continued. "You may not believe me, but I would do anything for her, I am so far beneath her notice, I only wanted her to admire me a little."

Holmes was still looking at the man in amazement. He shot me a look, beneath raised brows, gave a wave of his elegant hand, and managed to so far recover himself as to demand, "Tell me everything, if the lad is recovered unharmed, it may not go too hard with you."

As the man continued his story, it transpired that he had conceived the mad scheme of hiding the boy for a day or two, then producing him to earn Lady Chelmsford's gratitude. Under the pretext of playing castaways, he had lured the boy away in the night, then lodged him with his late sister's husband, who was waiting in the lane with a pony and trap.

The plan had begun to go wrong, however, when Mr Oldham had tried to retrieve the boy, The brother-in-law refused to give the boy up without a substantial payment.  Otherwise, he threatened to expose the whole sordid scheme and cast himself in the role of an innocent bystander ignorant of the plot, who had merely been asked to mind the child for a day or two, throwing all the blame on the unfortunate tutor.

"When I discovered that the husband of Mr Oldham's deceased sister had a long string of petty convictions and that he had recently come to live in nearby Chelmsford village, I began at once to construct a chain of hypotheses which have proven to be true. Now, Watson, can I trouble you inform Lady Chelmsford that her son will be home again shortly? Mr Oldham and I have an errand to run. I fancy the man will give up the boy without argument once he sees that his little game has been discovered." With that he departed, the unhappy Mr Oldham in tow, calling for the groom to fetch the trap.

Within the space of a couple of hours, they were back with that lad between them. After the boy had been greeted effusively by his mother, I insisted on accompanying him upstairs to examine him, after which I prescribed a hot bath and supper in bed. I was on my way to the library to report on his well-being when I was nearly bowled over by Mr Oldham exiting the room at high speed.

He had left the door ajar in his haste. I paused outside for a moment and glimpsed Homes and Laetitia in conversation. They were standing very close and my heart sank. I was sure they were planning to resume their former association. The boy was now safe, she was a wealthy, eligible widow and a quite beautiful one at that.

As I watched, Holmes shook his head and raised his hand as if to touch her blonde hair, so close to him, but then let it fall back to his side. Then, as he half turned away, he saw me before I could step back.

"Come in, Watson," he said. "Don't stand there skulking outside the door. Lady Chelmsford and I were just finishing our conversation and you and I will be leaving soon."

As I entered the room, she was still steadily regarding Holmes. "I see," she said, her words dropping like icicles. "So that is the way of it. Papa said long ago that you were unworthy of my hand and I refused to believe him. Now I see that he was correct."

She stepped forward, laying her hand on his arm and continued. "But Sherlock, such things can be cured. It is, I believe, an illness. Will you not try – for my sake, if not your own? I offer you an honourable love. Indeed, you should repulse me, but does not Holy Writ tell us we should hate the sin, but love the sinner?

Holmes shook his head, saying only, "I cannot, Laetitia. I cannot care for you in the way that you wish."

She stepped back from him and dashed away angry tears from her eyes, but she said only "Goodby, Mr Holmes." and swept from the room, closing the door behind her with rather more force than was necessary, leaving Homes and myself to look at each other helplessly.

We drove to the station and boarded the train in silence. Holmes could erect a formidable wall of reserve around himself when he wished to do so and I was too busy mulling over the scene to which I had been witness for speech.

Once in our compartment, he sat smoking and looking out the window until, with a jerk, we were moving. Only then did he begin to speak. "This 'love' business, Watson. What good does it do anyone? What is it beyond mere animal passion? Mr Oldham is in love with a woman who will never consider him worthy of her notice, while Laetitia has spent years of her life yearning for a man who never existed save in her own imagination. While I – I thought once I had found affection, but then I realized that I was only a temporary amusement. Since then, I have sought to erase the very idea of it from my life. What is the point of it at all?"

"You mean to say you never cared for the girl, even when you were younger?"

He looked hard at me, then suddenly he laughed. "Oh, I see. You have constructed in your mind a romantic and I may add, wholly fictitious scenario, casting Laetitia and myself as star-crossed lovers; separated by parental cruelty, or the winds of fate, or whatever other dreadful circumstance a man with your poetic turn of mind could devise. I must assure you that it is simply not true. Remember, you should never theorise in advance of your data."

"There was never any real sympathy of mind between Laetitia and myself, whatever she has convinced herself of at this date. She was kind to a small boy who had lost his mother and we were great friends when we were children. But when she had grown a bit older, she commenced to simper and giggle and flirt. She drove me quite mad by professing to have not another thought in her head beyond the color of her next day's hair ribands. I knew then that I had lost my companion and had no further interest in the proper young lady she had become."

"Even if I had been the sort of man she wished for, I could never have married Laetitia and led the life my father had mapped out for me. I should have gone mad within a month with nothing more to occupy me than whether the scenting conditions were right for opening meet at Dunstan's Wood, or whether the swedes should go in this week or wait for the next."

"Can you just see me dandling her children on my knee?"

"Her children?" I interjected, "I should think..."

"Please don't," he interrupted. "I cannot say it. I cannot imagine myself saying even my children or even worse, ours!"

"You make it sound as though you have no use for women at all, Holmes."

"Aesthetically, perhaps," he replied, with a huff, having talked himself into a somewhat better humour. "I can appreciate the artistic – the smooth marble curves of the Venus de Milo, or a lovely voice, or a curl of chestnut hair…"

"I meant practically, Holmes."

"None. The fair sex I will leave to you, Watson," he said with a sneer, taking out another cigarette. "At least," he amended, "not in personal relation to myself. Once Laetitia had ceased to be my friend and companion, she lost all appeal for me."

"But, Holmes, have you never…" I blushed, my voice trailing off.

"Put the matter to a practical test, you mean?" He smirked then, raising an eyebrow at my confusion. "I have, when I was very young and I must say, I found it tedious in the extreme."

"When you and I met all those years ago, we were hardly more than schoolboys. I was far too interested – much like Laetitia, I suppose – in honing my newly acquired skills on those individuals in whom I was interested, to waste them on the likes of her."

"Since then," he continued sententiously, "I have come to realize that the animal passions are a waste of time that could be better spent in intellectual pursuit and have endeavoured to cut them out of my life altogether. Don't laugh, Watson. I am quite serious."

"You can't mean to have put that side of your nature away from you altogether," I said, with the weight of all my two years' seniority over him. "You talk as though you were some doddering ancient, with a lifetime's experience behind you, instead of five-and twenty."

"Six and twenty, if you please!" he replied, stung, then laughed at the manner in which he had been baited. "All right" he said, suddenly sober, "but you will own that I am no longer that reckless, heedless boy you knew when we first met. And I do consider indulging in that sort of thing – love – if you will," he said, curling his lip, "to be a capital waste of one's resources in life. That is the lesson I believe we should take away from this adventure."

He flung himself back in the seat adopting an attitude that I found so unself-consciously alluring that I smiled to myself at his action, so at odds with his words.

His voice trailed off as I reached a decision and moved deliberately draw the blind on the door. His eyes widened as I sat down beside him.

"Here endeth the lesson." I said, and reached out to him.

For once, I had rendered Sherlock Holmes speechless.

Comments

[gardnerhill.livejournal.com]

Favorite scene in the Basil Rathbone/Nigel Bruce Adventures of Sherlock Holmes perfectly encapsulates this dynamic: the fly at the end. Holmes tries his violin-plucking to test his theory of harmonic resonance to drive the fly away - and Watson just folds his newspaper in half and swats it.

[fictionforlife.livejournal.com]

I'm sorry did anyone say Basil Rathbone

The fact that Holmes looked at Watson with awe and admiration in that scene just cracked me up :)