Chapter Text
A snowless yet chilly December surrounded 221B Baker street. Again, the cold had reduced the criminal activity in the streets, much to the continued annoyance of Sherlock Holmes. Holmes had recently been successful in unravelling the last lingering threads of a military scandal that, due to its sensitive nature, shall never be fully explored in these pages until certain cabinet ministers and members of the nobility are deceased. It had been a complex case, involving the governments of multiple countries, taxing Holmes as I had rarely seen before. Myself and Miss Clark, as she had become a friend of the house last winter, had contributed little to the case, but were overjoyed at the success. Our main role in the affair had been to ensure that Holmes was not using himself too freely. As he had a tendency not to eat or rest when hot on the trail, it took all of our combined powers to ensure Holmes’ health. At long last, once Clark had threatened to meddle with Holmes’ chemical experiments and I threatened with a Doctor’s medical ban from work if he continued in such a manner, he relented and would allow himself at the very least a brief rest and a sandwich once a day. It was not much, but Clark and I saw it as a major victory in ensuring Holmes did not destroy himself through his work.
Our secondary task, and an infinitely more difficult one, was to attempt to lighten the black mood that Holmes frequently fell into after the completion of a case. I had managed to encourage Homles to abandon the use of cocaine to stave off his dark reaction and boredom, leaving a completely sober Holmes to lounge listlessly and feverishly on the sofa or in bed for days at a time. Clark had gone so far as to suggest we plant false crimes to have him solve, possibly bringing Wiggins in to assist if it would break the spell. However, we both reached the same conclusion that Holmes would easily see through our deception and quite likely be disappointed by our errors in creating such a scheme. Clark decided to use a different tactic. She began to write her own mystery stories, using myself as a sounding board in the same fashion that Holmes consulted us. Our discussion was easily, and intentionally, overheard by Holmes in the next room, as evidenced by the occasional snorts of derision made when the somewhat bumbling character of the police in her tale made yet another erroneous assumption. At length, Holmes would call out a suggestion or question as to where the wits of the characters had departed to. More often than not, Clark would have an answer ready that would provoke at least another question from Holmes. On occasion Clark would gesture frantically to me and I would have to fill the space while she consulted her notes to provide a response that would hopefully not seem ridiculous to Holmes.
After a few days of this, Holmes would emerge from his rooms, still in his mouse coloured dressing gown, to hear more of her story and discuss it with us. I found that Clark is a competent writer, though not brilliant, and her story engaging. Holmes had stated to me, in private, that the stories were prettily done and of potential. He would then discuss the stories with me as if they were cases, bringing a small spark of energy into his face. Eventually he roused though to suggest that I model my works after hers to reduce the romance in my renditions of Holmes’ cases! Rather disgruntled, I suggested that perhaps she should be the one to document his works, but Holmes waved my words away. “There is nothing she could bring to the tales that you could not, my dear Watson,” he said.
“But there is something she could leave out,” I retorted. “As you so despise the romance and my writing style and prefer hers.”
“Come now, Watson,” said Holmes kindly. “You realize she is basing her writing style entirely upon you?”
This I had not considered. It was not until the following day that, as I listened to Clark reading the next instalment of her story, that I realized it was true. Seeing my face, Holmes remarked to Clark that I had detected the similarity. Clark laughingly replied that she knew the only way Holmes would be interested in the works was if they carried the ‘Watson touch’, as she called it. While I privately felt there may be truth to this, Holmes and I encouraged her to write in her own style. Her writings have changed slightly since, as when she writes she says she frequently hears the stories narrated into her ear as if I or Holmes was dictating to her. I suggested that perhaps Holmes was there in spirit, hovering over her shoulder and whispering to reduce the fantasy of her story.
Clark had been there to hear that remark, and laughingly assured us that what romance and fantasy she had in her imagination was being used in another work that we would never be shown, much to the relief of Holmes, I imagine. Holmes was likely disappointed that Clarke would consider writing a romance, but was willing to let this pass as a trait of a feminine nature. I was surprised to see Clark let the remark pass with another laugh, as she usually balks at the idea of her femininity determining her actions and despises gender roles. In private, Clark confided to me that there was no romance novel, but that having Holmes believe there was one could prove to be a helpful distraction. I take that to mean she would give the impression that she had completed and hidden the work, letting such comments drop that Holmes would be loathe to let such drivel see the light of day, and let Holmes use his talents in attempting to locate it.
I was still attempting to talk her our of such a scheme when Holmes disappeared.