Free My Dear Watson by L.A. Fields Page A

little case, involving only the barest amount of footwork, a pure intellectual puzzle. The missing bride was found reunited with her original husband, and the Lord St. Simon had to excuse himself from the friendly dinner Holmes had prepared for all involved. He went home to sooth his wounded pride, rather uncharitably Watson thought. Watson’s sympathy was with the love of these young Americans that endured death, distance, and years of separation.
    “Ah! Watson,” Holmes said. “Perhaps you would not be very gracious either, if, after all the trouble of wooing and wedding, you found yourself deprived in an instant of wife and of fortune. I think that we may judge Lord St. Simon very mercifully, and thank our stars that we are never likely to find ourselves in the same position.”
    I have it from Watson that he gave Holmes the most withering look he could conjure, because of course Holmes meant to imply that Watson may well be in that position very soon, the sod. Holmes only grinned spritely back at him and picked up his violin.
    Holmes was right in one aspect of his teasing; if you don’t invest yourself in anyone, you won’t get hurt. Not that he was able to take his own good advice, because he never truly let go of Watson.
    Ah well; as a man with many similar qualities to Holmes once said: “The only thing to do with good advice us pass it on. It is never any use to oneself.”
     

1888: The Valley of Fear
    The landscape at Baker Street slowly began to change as acceptance of Watson’s pending wedding settled over the two men. It was really happening, but it wasn’t the end of the world, nor was it the end of their friendship. They both started remembering who they were before they fell into each other’s laps, and who they wanted to be. Watson had always liked the idea of marriage and a medical practice, and Holmes rather fancied himself the type to never settle down. How had they gotten so far from themselves? Silly to have made such a scene of separating when it was only the natural thing.
    In fact, on the surface their relationship hardly changed at all. Holmes returned to his old snipe of a self, and Watson continued to endure his abuse, comforted in knowing that soon he would be moving on. He even managed to come back at Holmes with his own insults; they were nearly equal to those of Holmes, for once. They were at last on equal footing.
    “I am inclined to think—” Watson began one day, and Holmes cut him off saying, “I should do so.”
    “Really, Holmes, you are a little trying at times,” Watson scolded.
    Holmes was consumed in a cipher message he had just received about Professor Moriarty and did not respond. For that snub, Watson got him back. He said of the Professor, “The famous scientific criminal, as famous among crooks as—”
    “My blushes, Watson!” Holmes exclaimed, thinking he was about to be complimented.
    “I was about to say, as he is unknown to the public,” Watson smiled.
    Holmes laughed, a good sport since he was in a relatively good mood. Watson let Holmes tweak him all morning, walking him through the deductive steps to decode the cipher message. He had a wife in his future, and the prospect of practicing medicine again, and what did Holmes have? The new page Billy, who was growing into attractive young manhood before their eyes, and on this occasion Inspector MacDonald; lustrous eyes, precise manner, and a humble admiration of Holmes. Watson went so far as to call him affectionate towards Holmes, and the feeling appears to be mutual if they did indeed smile and wink at each other the way Watson described: “Holmes was not prone to friendship”—to be sure he was not —“but he was tolerant of the big Scotchman, and smiled at the sight of him.”
    Holmes and MacDonald even teased one another with the lightness of flirtation that Watson once knew. After seven years living together, even the most innocent jabs between him and Holmes drew blood—they simple knew each