The Progress of Sherlock Holmes

James

Eyes fly open. Feet on the stairs: not Mrs. Hudson’s. Male. (Danger? An enemy?) Brain fuzzy for a moment, as if interrupted mid-conversation, mid-deduction, ultimately distracted; caught in the act, asleep. An odd dream. (Fire? Great expanse of snow, something about a handgun and a piece of plaster, brick?) Gone now. Shoes on the stairs, one step at a time. Cautious in the dark. Trying to be quiet. A man, in rubber-soled shoes. A limp.

John. (Deduced in less than three seconds; I have memorized the cadence of his gait, complicated as it is with the variations of his psychosomatic disability. Regardless, I can recognize John by the sound of his feet as he walks, even up stairs, even while half asleep, at each stage in the progress of his limp.)

It’s some time after two o’clock in the morning. Closer to three. (Why is he limping? It’s only been three days since our last exposure to danger (a case, a fleeing suspect, a knife). Three days is not enough time for the limp to return naturally.) No moon tonight. Only the rough yellow glow of the sodium lights outside to see by. Sit up, feet on the cold floor boards. Rise. No time to pull on a dressing gown. (Is John hurt?) Burst of adrenaline.

Hand on the doorknob as the door opens. I feel the cold air in my lungs like I’ve been holding my breath. (Have I?) John. Shoulders hunched, limp pronounced, but not as bad as it comes to be. No cane. He’s been stumbling through the city, making it worse. He is startled to see me there; he barely can, in this light. Startled look, his eyes blinking rapidly (sign of agitation, strong emotion, distress). His face turned sallow in the faint sodium glow.

He is not clutching a wound, or nursing a broken nose or facial fractures, or staunching blood from a bullet wound or knife slash or puncture, or splinting a broken rib with his hands, or spitting out teeth and blood, or otherwise displaying signs of recent violence. Not hurt. Blinking rapidly; face slightly damp around the eyes. Hurt in another way. Complicated. Mary. (Did he discover her secret?) My heart is beating far too fast.

“I woke you.” Not question, of course. John lived with me long enough to recognize the bleariness of me when I’m only just awake. Pyjama bottoms. t-shirt (his). No dressing gown. Bare feet. “I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to...I...”

He wants to come in (obviously). I pull open the door and make way for him; he limps inside.

The limp. Curious. Did the discovery of Mary’s infidelity bring it on (fast)? Emotional danger, emotional wounds; these things cause a spike in adrenaline too (or can do). Risk of emotional damage doesn’t trigger the same kind of vitality and confidence in John that physical danger does. Emotions and their effects: not a subject on which I will ever feel confident enough to compose a monograph. Cigarette ash: yes. The impact of intense emotional states on the human body, on human motivation: no. Too varied. To many variables. Unpredictable. Personal. (Interesting challenge, however. Total confidence is dull.)

“All right?” My voice is scratchy with sleep. I can hear my own concern in my voice; unguarded (half-asleep). A kind of an echo chamber, hearing one’s own feelings like that; hall of mirrors amplifying it, underscoring it, twisting it into shapes. The pain on his face is obvious. I feel helpless. I dislike seeing him in pain. Feels like a hot and pulsing weight resting on my chest, holding back my breath.

He looks at me. His eyes are bloodshot and damp. He looks haunted. I put my fingers on his shoulder, my palm on his chest. He smiles.

“All right.” He puts his hand over mine. “I’ve never seen you look so...worried.” His smile looks strange against the pain in his eyes. “Trying out that caring lark, are you?”

“It’s nearly three o’clock in the morning.” Immediately defensive. Flash of hot embarrassment. “I thought you might be hurt.” Glance down at his leg. “You’re...” About to say, you’re limping, but think better of it. The verbal dancing that goes on when you’re trying not to cause more pain. A strange act, but strangely necessary. John.