That Infernal Play

[capt_facepalm]

Author: Capt_Facepalm
Rating: PG
Characters: Sherlock Holmes, Doctor John H. Watson
Summary:  Egad! A friendship fic!
Warnings: Quite fluffy; some mature themes; no slash
Word Count: ~1450
Author's Notes:  

• Written in response to bligyn's unfortunate and traumatic experience of this play.
• I am messing with publishing timelines, so please bear with me. For the purpose of this fiction, let us suppose that Watson did not publish “The Final Problem” or any of his post-hiatus works at the time that this play, “Sherlock’s Last Case”, was being performed. Therefore, the play was based on works up to and including Charles Augustus Milverton.
• Thanks again to med_cat  for the beta!

.oOOo.

Thursday November 9, 1905

The exits of the small, West End theatre bustled with the commotion of exiting attendees. If one bothered to pay attention, their chatter was about how cold the wind was, and not about the play which they had endured for the last two hours.

The billboard proclaimed “Sherlock’s Last Case” in distinctly garish print, a gruesome illustration of a skull in a deerstalker cap, and a cast list of easily forgettable persons.

John Watson was glad to be standing again. He found the theatre seating was uncomfortable and made his back ache. He wondered exactly when he had become so old. His companion too, was showing signs of age. Sherlock Holmes still moved with the same feline grace as always, although his pace had evened out and was less frenetic than in earlier times. Grey hair dared to frost the temples of his slightly receding hairline. Watson’s own shaggy mane, kept trimmed in the military fashion as always, had both thinned slightly, and faded substantially, with the passing years.

“Certainly a limited run, eh, Holmes?” prompted Watson with a rueful smile, referring to the billboard, as they exited the theatre. Receiving no response, he turned to his companion. Besides some slight level of annoyance, Sherlock Holmes’ expression was unreadable.

Available cabs were eagerly hailed by those not wanting to brave the cold night air. The two gentlemen were in no hurry though, having previously decided to take late supper at a local establishment following the performance.

Seated in the restaurant which catered to the late night eating habits of the West End theatre crowd, Watson regarded his friend, more intently this time. Something was clearly occupying the detective’s thoughts; perhaps some niggling detail in an ongoing case. Watson let it pass. He had many years’ experience with his friend’s variable moods. Conversation was out, then, he concluded as he quietly ate his supper. Holmes toyed distractedly with his greens, but consumed little.

As Watson raised his coffee to his lips, the look Holmes gave him caused him to pause.

“What is it, Holmes?  You’ve been unusually quiet this evening. I thought you would have at least some uncharitable thing to say about this evening’s entertainment.”

Holmes replied with a growl and a dismissive gesture. Anthropologists could take years deciphering such primitive forms of communication, but for Watson, familiarity provided ready translation.

“Surely you’re not upset by that silly play,” he queried, “It was meaningless codswallop!”

“Where there’s smoke, there’s often fire, Watson,” he paused, looking around the nearly deserted restaurant. “The playwright practically accuses me of treating you most shabbily… ”

“Yes, well, his only sources were my own poor interpretations of your cases: a farce compounding another farce! He has made overmuch of my self-deprecating narrations. I cannot believe you would take this seriously,” the doctor laughed.

“But I am taking it seriously,” Holmes replied with consideration. “Perhaps not the depiction of me as a womanising misogynist, nor the asinine plot where you kidnap me and stuff me in a dank cellar because of years of ridicule at your expense, nor even the portrayal of you as a bumbling lackey, but the underlying themes are very suggestive… ”

 “What underlying themes? There were scarcely any 'overlying themes'! This goes beyond belief, Holmes. That play was a worthless piece of drivel. It was shallow and empty. You are looking for unwarranted depths,” Watson continued with incredulity. “I cannot believe we are even discussing it!”

Holmes sat back in his seat; his mind was set, his expression closed and inscrutable. After a pause, Watson leaned in and spoke with a quiet but determined voice.

“Contrary to what was implied in the play, I have never been resentful of your gifts: they frighten me as much as they astound me. Although sometimes I wish I was not such a 'dullard', I have seen how far your need for mental stimulus has driven you. It is not something to be envied; at least, not by me.

“Furthermore, I ever never considered myself to be anyone’s lackey; especially not yours. We’ve known each other for nearly twenty-five years; almost half my life. Please do not insult me. If I felt ill-used at any time, I would have let you know in no uncertain terms. But you already know all of this, so, please tell me, what is this really about?”

Holmes half-heartedly stabbed his pastry for a few moments, and then once again met his friend’s gaze.

“In the play… my actions… drive you to suicide,” Holmes responded hesitantly. “Tell me, truthfully, that you have never contemplated self-harm.”

There it was: the real issue at last. John Watson nodded to himself, contemplating his hands before facing Holmes again. He sighed before he spoke.

“There have been times when my life was filled with emptiness and despair, but I am no longer that broken toy soldier who washed ashore in London, twenty-five years ago,  The war and the situation of my discharge… I was directionless, adrift, and alone. A little reckless, surely, but not suicidal. Injuries and illness robbed me of my vigor, and my livelihood. But I adjusted; perhaps, sometimes, not as graciously as I could have… ” he admitted.

Holmes snorted, calling to mind some memorable instance or other, but there was no mirth in his expression when he next spoke.

“Those were difficult times for you, and indeed I had some unease back then, but they are not the times which concern me," he paused, unsure how to, or even if he should continue. Resolve surfaced and he proceded.

"It is The Falls, Watson. I deceived and deserted you. There was no guarantee that Moriarty’s syndicate would leave you alone once you returned to London. It was a desperate gamble. And whilst I selfishly indulged my own interests, you lost Mary… I still see the pain in your eyes when you reflect on those times.”

“Yes. Her loss at that time was…” Watson’s words failed him briefly, but he rallied. “The loneliness was devastating. I thought it would never end.  In my darkest moments I did question the futility of my life.”

“And…?”

“And what? Observe, Holmes! I am still here!"

“How does one endure, Watson?”

“I’m not sure,” he replied, simply, “One just does."

“In the time since we first met, I managed to find new meaning for my life, build a successful medical practice, and turn my writing hobby into a lucrative venture. Through my association with you, I met many of the people I consider my closest friends. Including Mary, God rest her soul. Although I lost her too soon, I do not regret a single moment of the time we shared.

“Your return was a miracle. I still marvel at it, all these years later. When you begged my forgiveness, I gave it, unconditionally and without reserve.  I sincerely hope I have never given you cause to doubt me in this.”

“No, Watson. Of course not.”

A few moments passed and neither man spoke.

 “Sherlock Holmes, if this is how you react to third-rate theatrical satire, you realise I cannot let you anywhere near the opera,” Watson chided, rising to his feet.

“What about concerts?” asked Holmes, retrieving his coat.

“Nothing stronger than Mozart, for now!” said Watson, leaving some coins on the table.

Once outdoors, the cold autumn wind cut through them. Winter would come early this year, Watson predicted as he tightly gripped his coat collar. There were no cabs to be found, so they resumed their usual practice of walking until they encountered one.

“Are you going to do something about that play?  Your hack of a publicist should be doing more to protect your copyright.”

“Doyle’s all right, Holmes. He does his best. Besides, did you not see the billboard? The play has been cancelled. Tomorrow will be the last performance.”

“Good thing, too! The acting was universally dreadful.”

“Except for the actress playing Mrs. Hudson; I thought her portrayal was excellent.”

“My dear fellow, you have always had an eye for the ladies,” accused Holmes with a smile.

“If you are truly worried about your public image, I could publish some more of your cases. You know, the ones that we investigated once you returned, and some others which had to wait for time to pass. Doyle tells me the demand is high. They will surely become so popular that nobody will ever mention that infernal play again.”

“Publish whatever you like, Doctor; they are your cases too. Please do not forget that. Which one will you concentrate on first?”

“I have a few in mind, but I will probably start with the one about the hound on the moor.” 

.oOOo.

Footnotes:

“The Hound of the Baskervilles” was actually published in serial form in the Strand Magazine from August 1901 to April 1902, but for the sake of this story, let's pretend it was published a few years later. Thanks!

The author apologises to the actual playwright of “Sherlock’s Last Case”, and hopes they have found success in some other field.

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