Fic for spacemutineer: The Man With the Cloven Heart

[methylviolet10b]

Title: The Man with the Cloven Heart
Recipient: spacemutineer
Author: tinzelda
Rating: G
Characters: Holmes, Watson
Summary: The events of The Man with the Twisted Lip from Holmes’s point of view.

The Man with the Cloven Heart

Holmes longed for Watson. From the moment Mrs. St. Clair entered the sitting room, Holmes saw that this was precisely the sort of scenario where Watson would be most useful. The hysterics of a woman distraught over her missing husband, though all too likely to push Holmes to frustration and cold impatience, would have brought out Watson’s native chivalry and kindness. He would have been able to simultaneously offer comfort to the grieving wife and gently extract any information of value, translating her emotion into useful data.

The lady, however, surprised Holmes. Her eyes were red-rimmed from tears or lack of sleep, and Holmes could see the lace trim of her handkerchief peeking out of her sleeve, but there it remained throughout their interview. Mrs. St. Clair was a woman of rare intelligence, and she communicated her unusual story with admirable self-control.

Holmes decided at once that the only way to discover what had happened to Neville St. Clair was to witness for himself the goings-on in the house where he disappeared. Devising an appropriate disguise was a matter of a quick rummage through the drawers of his dressing table for a few props, adjustment of his posture, and a rather liberal application of dirt to his hands and face.

The ground floor of the building where Mrs. St. Clair had last seen her husband was an opium den, a dark and smoky cave of a room filled with berths on which addicts lay in various states of intoxication. It was a sad sample of the population—young and old, well-dressed and clad in rags—but all of them repugnant, whether sprawled insensate, gibbering to themselves, or frozen with glassy-eyed stares.

Holmes accepted a pipe from the manager and settled himself on a low stool by the fire. He was careful to draw the smoke only into his mouth without inhaling, for he must stay alert, but the air of the place was saturated with the fumes of the drug. That, with the warmth of the fire, made him sleepy, so when he opened his eyes and saw Watson at the foot of the stairs, he thought at first he must be dreaming.

He blinked rapidly, but Watson did not disappear in the smoky air. Holmes watched carefully, fully expecting to see on Watson’s face a hint of his own feeling of aversion to the lolling creatures in the berths, perhaps mixed with Watson’s intrinsic empathy and his stern disapproval for such dangerous indulgence.

Watson’s expression, however, was unreadable. There was, perhaps, a measure of disgust, but there was something else. Was it yearning? Was it possible that Watson envied those poor souls their escape into oblivion? Surely not—surely the comforts of matrimony had not soured so quickly. Holmes could not credit the thought, but there was something in those pathetic figures that captured Watson’s attention and would not let him look away, something that fascinated him as much as it repulsed him.

Watson stood by the room’s only lamp, brightly lit but surrounded by dank shadow. Holmes completely forgot himself and was on the verge of rising and crossing the room to shake Watson out of the fugue that had seized him when the manager returned and offered Watson a pipe.

Holmes watched as Watson found his friend and roused him with a combination of exasperated scolding and gentle, competent doctoring that Holmes found uncomfortably familiar. The jealousy that stabbed through Holmes’ chest was ridiculous, but seeing Watson devote such tender care to a relative stranger somehow lessened the importance of his past kindnesses to Holmes. It made it seem that Watson was affectionate and devoted not because Holmes was deserving of any particular attention but only because Watson himself possessed exceptional generosity of spirit.

Holmes should have let Watson pass without drawing his attention. He had performed his errand of mercy, and now he belonged back in his cheerful sitting room with his charming wife. But Holmes’ hand moved of its own accord, plucking at the hem of Watson’s coat as he passed.

“Walk past me, and then look back at me,” Holmes whispered.

When Watson turned, Holmes lifted his head, squared his shoulders, and straightened his spine. Watson’s reaction was gratifying: astonishment and then undisguised pleasure.

“Holmes! What on earth are you doing in this den?”

“As low as you can,” Holmes whispered. “I have excellent ears. If you would have the great kindness to get rid of that sottish friend of yours I should be exceedingly glad to have a little talk with you.”

Within minutes Watson had sent the man away in a cab, and Holmes shuffled out to meet him.

“I suppose, Watson,” Holmes said, “that you imagine that I have added opium-smoking to cocaine injections, and all the other little weaknesses on which you have favoured me with your medical views.”

Watson had been attempting to hide his smile, but at Holmes’ words it broke out in full force. Holmes was pleased to see that Watson readily understood that he had not been in the Bar of Gold to partake himself.

“I was certainly surprised to find you there,” Watson said.

“But not more so than I to find you there.”

“I came to find a friend.”

“And I to find an enemy,” Holmes began.

Watson’s smiling face had clouded over when he was reminded of the errand that had brought him the neighborhood but brightened again when Holmes described his own reasons—Watson was nothing if not obligingly curious.

When the dog-cart appeared in the gloom, Holmes told himself to send Watson home, but that puzzling expression came over Watson’s face once again as he watched Holmes climb up and take the reins, something between hungry and wistful. A flash of insight struck: Watson did not envy the opium addicts one jot, but there was a part of him that longed for another kind of escape from his day-to-day responsibilities. Patients with their petty complaints instead of a mysterious disappearance? Poor Watson—surely he must be bored to tears.

Holmes found he could not resist temptation. “You’ll come with me, won’t you?” With a boyish grin, Watson swung up into his place beside Holmes, and they were off.

The ride to the Cedars thereby became a pleasure. Rather than a seemingly interminable ride, the end of which only meant relating to Mrs. St. Clair his disappointment and lack of material progress, Holmes had Watson’s company. It was always fascinating to watch Watson as he learned the details of a case, and this one seemed particularly suited to engage his interest: the romance and drama of Neville St. Clair’s sudden disappearance, his wife’s determination and strength as the search continued, and the unfortunate Hugh Boone, with his orange hair, disfigured face, and singular gift for repartee—the evidence against him was circumstantial at best.

When they arrived at the Cedars, Mrs. St. Clair greeted them warmly. As they conversed, Holmes was gratified to see that Watson had retained all he had learned about Holmes’ methods. His questions were precise, his conclusions sound. As always, repetition of the minutiae for Watson’s benefit also began to tease out the solution in Holmes’ mind. By the time they retired to the room Mrs. St. Clair had arranged for their use, Holmes could sense the answer—just out of his reach, but it was there.

Holmes pulled off his jacket and waistcoat, donned his dressing gown, then gathered cushions into an impromptu throne of sorts so that he might await in comfort the transformation of vague notions into a concrete explanation. He glanced at Watson, surprised to feel his lips curving into a smile—it was surprisingly easy to be in Watson’s company again—but Watson was just turning away to prepare for bed.

As Watson pulled off his waistcoat and shirt, Holmes noted that his movements were a bit awkward; their long ride from London through the damp must have stiffened his bad shoulder. Holmes was reminded of their earlier conversation regarding how weakness in one limb is often compensated for by exceptional strength in the others. Indeed, Holmes had seen many wounded veterans whose bodies became angled or misshapen to compensate for their injuries. Here was Watson, however, the scarring over his scapula clear proof of trauma, but with a frame still symmetrical and sound, a testament to his health and innate strength. He had not allowed his past injuries to become permanent weaknesses.

Watson pulled his nightgown down over his head, removed his trousers, and crawled into the bed with a sigh. He turned to wish Holmes goodnight, his eyes already drooping sleepily, and once again his face took on that wistful look. Holmes ought to have been accustomed to Watson’s transparent expressions, for the man did not have a dishonest bone in his body, but Watson’s eyes fixed on his face made Holmes all too conscious of having drawn him away from his hearth.

“Watson!”

Watson jolted upright in his bed and stared at Holmes, wide-eyed.

“Do you realize that we neglected to send word to your wife that you would be accompanying me?”

Watson grimaced, but immediately thereafter reassured Holmes. “She is a doctor’s wife, Holmes. She’s used to me leaving the house at all hours. Besides, she would likely worry all the more if she knew that I were with you.” Watson was attempting levity, but when it fell flat, he grew serious once more. “I’m no better than Isa with his opium, or Neville St. Clair. If he is indeed alive, why did he wait so long to send his wife that letter?”

Holmes answered in a cautious, quiet voice. “Surely your oversight is not as serious an infraction as all that.”

Watson did not respond. He only sighed, and rolled over to face the wall. By the time Holmes had packed his pipe, Watson was breathing the slow, even breaths of deep sleep.

If Holmes had been gobsmacked to discover that throughout their years of comfortable, Bohemian bachelorhood Watson had been harbouring fantasies of an altogether sort of domestic bliss, he at least took comfort—and he grudgingly admitted that it was a despicable, petty sort of thing—in imagining Mrs. Watson’s surprise were she to ever understand how her husband savoured his adventures with Holmes.

She had never seen the way Watson’s brow furrowed as he puzzled through a case, or the way his eyes danced with excitement when he discovered something without Holmes’ assistance. He was her steady, reliable husband, and Holmes doubted that man bore much resemblance to his own incarnation of Dr. Watson.

It was rather horrifying to imagine the secrets the average couple kept from one another. What had Neville St. Clair been hiding from his wife? What had led him to that disreputable house and possibly cost him his life? Watson’s friend left his family to lose himself in the haze of opium. Even a man like Watson, honest to a fault, could unconsciously hide part of himself from the woman he had married. A man could be like two different people, one to his wife and family at home, another in his business, in society, or with his intimate friends. Holmes knew he himself allowed Watson to see a very different face than he was willing to show the rest of the world—and suddenly Holmes had the answer.

Holmes was tempted to tell Watson all the very moment he opened his eyes, which would have allowed him to enjoy Watson’s questions all throughout the ride back to London, but in the end, Holmes’ indulged his fondness for theatrics. He told Watson nothing, instead leading him into Hugh Boone’s cell and producing the bath-sponge which he used to clear away the grime and actor’s tricks and reveal Neville St. Clair’s nervously defiant face. Watson’s amazement and amusement was everything Holmes could have hoped for.

Once St. Clair had explained himself and been released, Holmes managed to coax Watson back to Baker Street for breakfast. Mrs. Hudson set down the last of the serving dishes and said for the hundredth time how lovely it was to have Watson at home again, and they set to their meal with healthy appetites.

“How on earth did you come by the answer, Holmes?”

“It occurred to me that some men show very different faces to the various people in their lives, keeping much of themselves hidden. You helped me there.”

Watson’s fork fell onto Mrs. Hudson’s china with an alarming clatter. “Me? But I—Holmes, what do you—?”

“I only thought of the surprising coincidence of meeting you in such an unlikely place—your friend’s duplicity.”

Watson had gone still, but he was no coward. He raised his head and looked at Holmes. That maddening expression was back, still wistful but now somewhat mournful as well. Then he nodded slowly. Holmes did not want Watson to be unhappy, of course, but felt a desperate joy that he had not imagined this hidden side of Watson. There was a part of him that still desired adventure and intrigue, though he had chosen respectability, and Holmes was satisfied.