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You have in front of you an account of my great friendship and partnership with the finest gentleman I have ever known. I must apologise if it is a little rough around the edges. It is my first literary endeavour, and although I have some cause to believe I am predisposed to be good at this sort of thing, I might be mistaken.
Perhaps I should start with myself. Who am I, this apologetic narrator who comes before you and asks for a moment of your time?
The text imprinted onto my left shoe proclaims me to be a “Dapper Gentleman Gnome (Blue).” I am a novelty garden ornament, produced from a cheap terracotta mixture and painted with a durable but slightly gaudy UV resistant paint. By rights, I should have arrived at the garden centre with a cohort of my fellow Dapper Gentleman Gnomes and been sold off to adorn a modest front lawn somewhere.
My life took a very different trajectory. It began when I was packaged inadequately at the factory. I don’t blame the young worker; he was anxious to leave for his lunch and he neglected to secure me in place. When the van swerved suddenly to avoid a pothole, I toppled over and my shoulder struck the inside of my packing crate.
I remember the queasy feeling of sitting up, the rumbling vibrations of the road still rattling through me, and realising that my upper arm had sustained a significant chip. There was a pale divot where the earthenware was laid bare, and cracks along my shoulder which would be liable to grow larger if exposed to rain or frost.
The golden vision of myself as the pride of some household’s ornamental garden display was snuffed out. On arrival at the garden centre I was placed in a ‘Bargain Bin’. There was a slim chance that I might be sold for a pittance, but I knew I was most likely to face an ignominious end by being disposed of in a few months. A sad, short and unfulfilled life.
I wallowed in despair for several weeks, but eventually I had a desire to attend to my wound. I knew that I would never be able to entirely repair it cosmetically, but I could seal the cracks and ensure that everything was stable. This was how I began to research clays and slips and paints. After repairing my own injury, I helped the other ornaments with the skills I had learned. I am proud to say that after my ministrations, several Bargain Bin denizens found homes who may not have otherwise done so.
One morning my friend from the same factory as myself, Gnome With Watering Can (Red), called upon me early. He was tugging his beard and clutching his watering can tightly to his chest.
“I say, Blue, there’s a fellow over in the Garden Decor department who wants to see you. He’s one of those limited edition, finished-by-hand types. He wanted to come himself, but I insisted that this place isn’t for the likes of him, and I said I’d fetch you.”
“Has he been hurt?” I said, reaching for the bag where I kept all of my emergency supplies (epoxy, acrylic paint, varnish).
“I don't think so. He just says he wants to ask you some questions. You will be careful, won’t you?”
“Look here, Red,” I said, giving him a hard stare, “Is there something you’re not telling me about this fellow? What is there to be careful about?”
“Oh, nothing! At least, it’s probably nothing. There are certain rumours about him. He’s a scientific sort, and he’s developed a reputation for being a bit cold, aloof. I could imagine him seeing a gnome like you who has already sustained a bit of damage and using you in some experiment. He clearly has a — passion for knowledge.”
“Well, nothing wrong with that,” I shrugged. Red remained unconvinced, but saw his way to helping me over to the Garden Decor department. A weakness in one arm makes scrambling around in a world meant for much larger beings than myself a challenge, and so a patient friend and a sturdy cane are often necessary.
We found the stranger pacing around in front of some large flower pots, considering some scrapes in the ceramic dust on the floor.
How do I begin to describe Sherlock Gnomes? He is of very different construction to myself. I was made in a mould, leaving me soft and indistinct. He was sculpted by hand from the finest quality clay and fired. His features were not made to be beautiful (few gnomes are) but they were certainly captivating — sharp and precise. While my paintwork was slapdashed by a machine, his was carefully applied by an artisan who wished his eyes to crackle with intelligence and his cheeks to flush with emotion. He wore a deerstalker hat and Inverness cape, both painted to have a complex weave pattern, and he carried a small burlap sack. Upon seeing us approach, he shifted his attention away from the dust and strode over to us.
“Mr Gnomes, this is the friend I told you about,” Red said, turning to me. “Blue, this is Mr Sherlock Gnomes. I’ll be just around the corner on my usual shelf, if you need me.”
I bid my overly-cautious friend good day and then shook Gnomes’ outstretched hand. It was so extraordinarily detailed.
“Good morning, Doctor! I appreciate you coming to see me,” he said. “I was perfectly willing to come to you, but your friend there was most insistent that I shouldn’t.”
“Good morning, sir. But I’m not a doctor,” I explained, “I am a Dapper Gentleman.”
“By design, perhaps,” he shrugged, “But when a person makes a study and practice in healing others, surely ‘doctor’ is the correct term? It is on that basis that I wish to consult you.”
I cast a diagnostic eye over him, but I couldn’t spot so much as a hairline crack. He shook his head.
“I am perfectly well. It is about this. What do you make of it?”
He rummaged in the sack and passed to me a severed arm. I had a momentary flush of horror (and I have particular reason to be sensitive in that area!) before the intrigue of the specialist seized me, and I forgot how ghoulish the situation might appear to an outside observer. I turned the arm this way and that, studying it closely.
“It is terracotta. Very fine, very old. Nineteenth century, probably, one of the early German gnomes. Although the gnome this came from wasn’t exposed to the elements often, there is very little weathering.”
“Quite, quite!” Gnomes nodded, “I have made a special study of clays, and that was also my opinion. The arm is old, but the break is fresh. What do you make of this?”
He indicated a small patch on the arm which I had overlooked, where I could see that there had been a repair. A fairly recent one, too, using a modern epoxy putty which was entirely out of place.
“How long would it take for such a putty to dry, Doctor?” Gnomes asked. The word ‘doctor’ had settled somewhere inside my cold, hollow shell and seemed to be making it feel a little warmer.
“To be completely solid? Forty-eight hours, I should say.”
“I see! That is most interesting.”
He hummed contentedly and stroked his beard.
“Thank you. You have been very helpful, Doctor.”
He replaced the arm into the sack and turned to leave. Sometimes I think about the wretched future I might have had if I had let him go; a future where I returned to the Bargain Bin alone, and thought no more about him. Fortunately, like a bee is drawn to nectar, I was drawn to him. I followed.
“Excuse me, Mr Gnomes,” I asked, trotting alongside as he strode onwards, “But what is this all about?”
“It’s part of a case I’m working on,” he explained, slowing his pace slightly to account for my shorter stride.
“A case?”
“I am a detective.”
He glanced down at my arm, no doubt noting what a mess it was. I had made neat work of sealing the exposed clay, but the web of filled cracks radiating from the point of impact were still visible across my upper torso. I felt that those discerning eyes were reading my entire pitiful life story, dissecting the inadequacy of my construction. I suddenly felt terribly ashamed, and came to a halt. He stopped too, and cocked his head to one side. It still seemed as though he was trying to puzzle something out.
“You could come with me, I suppose, if you feel you have nothing better to do. Things are reaching their climax, and you might find it of interest.”
“I would slow you down.”
“Nonsense!” he said with a waft of one of his long, thin hands. “Your presence would be quite welcome.”
It was a fantastic adventure which I will tell the particulars of elsewhere, as the complex story concerns far more than just myself. It involved a hidden pearl and a lady in distress, a frantic chase, a fight in which I was forced to use my cane to defend myself and Gnomes from a certain shattering. By the evening, I had watched in awe as Gnomes set wrongs to right, averted disaster and united a separated couple, all in such a way that he would never receive any thanks or praise from the public.
Every time we met someone during the course of the day he introduced me always as “my friend,” and “the doctor”. In those roles I no longer felt it mattered that I was a cheap, damaged ornament. What did the inadequacies of my materials matter when I was friend to such a dignified, intelligent, and courageous gnome?
When the business was finished, we strode down a path towards the Garden Decor department, arm in arm. Gnomes was absentmindedly humming to himself. It was dusk and all of the lights had come on, dappling the ground in a paintbox of colours. When we came to a particular sculptural bird bath, I realised that we were at a juncture where I must turn right to go back to the Bargain Bin, while he must turn left back to the Garden Decor Department. Begrudgingly, I let go of his arm.
“Thank you for today, Gnomes,” I said. “I think it was the most thrilling day of my life. I shall treasure it.”
“You cannot mean to go back to that place?” Gnomes said, catching my arm again and gripping it tightly. “You must know what happens to those who stay there too long.”
“What else can I do? I can’t join the other Dapper Gentleman Gnomes. They’re good fellows, they'd welcome me, but everyone knows that a damaged item can put off buyers. I wouldn’t want to jeopardise their chances of being sold.”
“Pah! Being sold? Letting some humans decide where you live, what you do, is that really what you want?”
I had never considered another option, and so I was stunned into silence. Gnomes gave a slight cough, and the paint of his delicately blushed cheeks seemed slightly pinker than usual.
“I keep a small apartment in a few old tea chests around the back of one of the garden sheds. You would be welcome to stay with me, until you find somewhere else. I’m afraid I am probably a terror to live with. I keep strange hours, and I’m not always very sociable. But you will be safe there.”
Finding myself suddenly quite anxious to live a longer life, I agreed. I explained my own foibles which were bound to make me a disagreeable lodger: my occasional slowness in getting around, my nerves concerning heights and falling, my general laziness.
Holmes’ little hideaway was sequestered away from the prying eyes of humans and contained every comfort. The floors were fully carpeted in quality offcuts. It was furnished with novelty garden furniture which fit us perfectly, and he had somehow managed to run in an electricity supply which could be used to illuminate a string of cheery fairy lights. I thought it strange at the time that even though he seemed an otherwise solitary fellow, he had clearly planned for a houseguest. There was a spare bedroom which soon became mine, and two armchairs where we could sit in the evenings. We had such wonderful times, talking, reading or simply enjoying a peaceful silence.
I began to join Gnomes on many of his cases. Although I did not possess his aptitude for observation and deduction, I liked to think that my medical expertise was of use to him, and I began to keep comprehensive notes to build his files. The idea of finding new lodgings faded — it was no longer his home, but ours.
In those early months I felt that I came to know Gnomes better than anyone else, yet he was still something of an enigma to me. He fluctuated between periods of energy and enthusiasm, and low moods which would see him retreat into silence for days at a time. He told me that this was simply how he was, and that he would soon be right if left alone. I still hoped that my presence brought him some reassurance, and that he would speak to me if there was any possibility that doing so would ease his discomfort.
There was one memorable occasion when he let me see more of his heart. He marched home very early one morning from a mysterious excursion with a small paint tin under his arm, and presented it to me like a knight presenting the spoils of war to his liege lord.
“A perfect match, don’t you think?”
I took it from him and examined the label. It was blue. Glancing between the tin and the sleeve of my jacket, I realised that it was a very particular, familiar shade of blue.
“Wherever did you get it?” I said in awed reverence. I knew that the garden centre sold paint, of course, but for painting fences and sheds, not ornaments. It certainly didn’t sell any of this quality, shade and texture.
“I have my methods,” he smiled. “Although I am quite fond of your unique appearance, I can tell it bothers you, and so I wished to find a solution. Will you allow me to apply it? I may not have your steady hands, but I shall do my best.”
“Of course!” I said, slightly overwhelmed. “Thank you! Where would you like me?”
I ended up lying on our dining table with all the lights we had concentrated on me. Gnomes sat by my side with a very fine brush and daubed away. He blended all of those filled cracks, and carefully painted over the filled chip which I always worried was the first thing anyone ever noticed about me.
There was something about that situation, perhaps my vulnerability in turning myself over to his care, which seemed to bring his own vulnerability to the surface. He had been working in silence for a long time, when he suddenly announced, “Did you know, Doctor, I have a severe defect.”
“Surely not, Gnomes. Your construction is flawless.” I said, resisting the urge to sit up and look at him. This would have spoiled all his work, and so I had to lie back and keep staring up at the wooden boards of the ceiling.
“Nevertheless,” his voice continued, “Since the moment of my creation, I have felt something is missing. I am part of a limited edition set, you know. For a time I wondered if that was the problem. I tracked them all down, my fellow British Icons. There was a Robin Hood and a Shakespeare, a King Arthur and a Queen Elizabeth I. I’m afraid that none of them served to fill the deficit. I am incomplete, but I do not know why.”
Confound him for revealing all of this when I could not reach out a hand in comfort, or look into his eyes. I felt so useless.
“I’m so terribly sorry to hear that, Gnomes. I wish I could help.”
“You do,” he said wistfully, placing a hand on my chest for a moment. “Somehow, you do.”
I will never be as good as new, but on that day Gnomes brought me as close to that state as I will ever be. The cracks are still there, sealed and concealed, and I still find it prudent to walk with a cane and not drive myself too hard especially in bad weather, but I no longer feel like damaged goods.
He had healed my deepest hurt, and so I decided that I wanted to do the same for him. It was unfortunate that his own ‘defect’ was less tangible than my own.
I felt that a useful place to start would be to research the person in whose image Gnomes is made. It was incredible to think that he had not done this himself, but apparently he considered the matter irrelevant to his work and therefore not worth his time.
One day when Gnomes was off on some task of his own, I decided to begin my investigation. There is a small section of the garden centre which sells gifts and novelties, including a few works of ‘classic literature’. It was here that I found a slim volume called ‘The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes’. I ‘borrowed’ it and took it back to our home, hoping that somewhere in its pages I would find a clue about what was causing my friend to feel a strange void in his life.
It was obvious instantly, of course.
When Gnomes found me a few hours later, I must have seemed very subdued. He swept in ready to tell me all about his latest case and the triumphs of the day, but one look at my face sobered him immediately.
“My dear chap,” he said, “What is the matter?”
I handed him the book with the page open at one of the illustrations — that would be enough. I saw his eyes flicker back and forth across the page as he took in the significance of what he was holding, and what it meant for him. For us.
“You know what this indicates, don’t you?” he said. Those delicately painted eyes were brighter than I had ever seen them. I felt slightly sick.
“You should have been created with a counterpart. This fellow, Dr Watson. I'm sorry, Gnomes, it was cruel for the humans to make you without him.”
“Don’t you think he looks rather familiar, though? Watson?”
He inclined his head slightly to one side and tapped the illustration of the smartly dressed fellow with his cane and his moustache, walking arm-in-arm with the springfooted detective.
I knew that I could do something in that moment which would make him, the one I cared for more than anyone else, incredibly happy. Something which may even heal his greatest pain. He was waiting patiently for me to proclaim that I was indeed his Watson.
I had learned and grown enough during my time with him that I could not do it.
“I need to get some air. Give me a few hours to myself, won’t you?” I said.
He looked utterly bereft as I slunk past him and out of our rooms, his great mind untethered with confusion. We have a small ladder propped up outside which can be used to access the top of the tea chests — our roof. It was a quiet, secluded spot, perfect for contemplating one’s future in solitude. It was dusk when I scrambled up there and sat with my legs dangling over the edge. By the time Gnomes sought me out, the sun had gone down and I could see the stars and a bright moon above the crown of treetops which circle the garden centre.
“Doctor,” he said cautiously, his voice very small and more hesitant than I had ever heard it. “May we talk now? I don’t wish to intrude, but I am concerned that I have hurt you somehow.”
I patted the area next to me, and he sat down close enough that our knees could touch. We were quiet for a while watching the stars, until I found the words I needed to say.
“I care deeply for you, Gnomes. I want to be your friend very much, but I don’t want to play a role for you. If there is one thing you have taught me, it’s that I need to be who I am, not who I was made to be. I am not the man in that book, any more than I am a Dapper Gentleman. You see?”
Gnomes nodded, his lips pressed tightly together. He was trying very hard to hide his profound disappointment, but I know him too well. I held his beautiful, masterpiece hand in my large, ill-formed one.
“Do you feel you are nothing more than what you were made to be? A novelty copy of Sherlock Holmes?”
“Certainly not! I have my own mind, my own intellect,” he scoffed.
“Well then, so do I. I want to be very sure that our friendship is not due to my appearance and role as a ‘doctor’ being similar to this man from a book. That you aren’t just trying to fill a hole you have with a superficially similar material, paint over the cracks with a sub-standard paint. That is liable to make things worse over time, not better.”
I was surprised to see his face light up with the same triumph he exhibits when he has solved a case and all is well once again.
“My dear fellow,” he said, giving my hand a squeeze, “My dear, dear fellow. Everything is perfectly alright, then. You are kind and loyal and brave. You are compassionate and stalwart. You do not seem to merely overlook my odd qualities, but embrace them. I enjoy your company. Such qualities cannot be put into someone at their creation. They must be grown over time, and shown through times of hardship. Those are the aspects of you which led to our friendship, not your profession or your moustache!”
He looked down at our joined hands, and then followed the line of my arm with his eyes until he was looking at the area he had so carefully painted for me. His eyes met mine.
“You have my friendship, no matter who you choose to be. I assume that sentiment is reciprocated? If I gave up being a brilliant detective tomorrow, you would not leave me?”
“Of course not!”
“Then I would be honoured if we could discover who we are together.”
We sat contentedly for a while, hand in hand, looking up at the vault of stars above us. I knew that staying out in the cold on a damp night would make my arm ache slightly the next day, but before we headed back inside to our warm and well-lit parlour, there was one more item of business.
“I would like a name,” I noted, “And Watson is rather a good name. I don’t see why a human fellow should have a monopoly on it. And I enjoy accompanying you on cases and documenting them. I always have. So there is something appropriate about it.”
“If you're sure?”
“I'm sure.”
Gnomes looked at me with affection, and addressed me.
“Watson.”
I smiled.
“Gnomes.”