The Clueless Watson

The Clueless Watson - Part Four: Unravelling

Holmes

Several days pass. I wait patiently for something to develop, and finally, upon the evening of the third day after our conversation, Watson grabs his hat and coat, announcing his intention to go out. He does not specify where he is going, but I know. Watson is a creature of habit, and this is not the time for his regular outings to his club, or to the pub to meet old acquaintances. This only leaves one conclusion.

After he has gone, I spend a moment in a silent battle with myself, my curiosity, my respect for Watson's privacy, and my need to have clarity. Of course, the outcome was decided almost beforehand, and so I, too, don my outer garments and leave, whistling for a cab.

When I arrive at Mr. Raman's residence, Watson has already gone into the house, as evidenced by the fresh wheel marks upon the curb and the familiar print of Watson's boots upon the doorsteps.

I hesitate. It has always been my policy to seek the facts, and in this instance, there would surely be no better way of achieving this than by getting the three of us into one room and talk. However, I should be a fool to deny my intuition, which is shouting at me that, before I embark upon such a course, I should first have a clear understanding of the situation. I know Watson's side of things. What I do not know is Mr. Raman's side.

I spend long hours in motionless vigil huddled in a convenient entrance, awaiting enlightenment or at least some sort of development that will answer my questions. Finally, Watson leaves. Deep in thought, my friend begins to walk away, back to Baker Street if I am not mistaken. Should I follow him to make sure that he does not meet with any mischief in his distracted state, or should I use this opportunity to talk to Mr. Raman?

I am still weighing possibilities when, to my surprise, the door opens once more, and the object of much of my thoughts exits.

He certainly is an imposing specimen. Tall, broad-shouldered, with a powerful frame and erect posture, he briefly scans the street with his dark eyes and moves to follow Watson.

Needless to say that I am not far behind. For a while, we thus move through London's streets; Watson, oblivious, in front, followed by his mysterious acquaintance, and myself in both their wake. Mr. Raman makes no effort to catch up with Watson, but neither does he take particular care not to be noticed. He is, to all intents and purposes, merely following.

This is pointless. The three of us may happily march in single file all night without me getting any closer to a resolution to this mystery. I quicken my pace, walk up to Watson's friend, and tap his shoulder.

He halts, but does not turn around.

I step back, half expecting to be attacked. After all, this is not the Strand, and a fellow tapping another's shoulder in these environs are usually interested in something other than the time of day.

"Good evening, Mr. Holmes."

He says this calmly, and still without turning. I admit that I am quite taken aback. Should this not be my line? Normally, I am the one who knows. Furthermore, I am not used to being noticed when I follow someone, let alone being identified by a perfect stranger. However, this begs the question how this Mr. Raman should be able to do so. Clearly, he knows a good deal about me. "Why are you following this man?" I demand, refusing to be caught flat-footed.

He turns and looks at me with serenity. "I am following this man in order to make sure that he arrives home safely. But as you are so efficient in following others, you might as well take my place." He pauses, and adds with a strange smile, "If you are up to it."

There is a wealth of innuendo in his tone, but I ignore it. I am not about to become side-tracked. "What is your business with him?"

"My business with him is something we can talk over a cup of tea. But not here."

I have no objection to a cup of tea if it will get me to the bottom of this. "Now," I agree by way of accepting his invitation.

"No." His voice, in spite of his refusal, is calm and soft. "And I hope he has got home safely by now."

"Your concern is touching. However, he can look after himself. It is you I am concerned about."

"I know." He smiles. "It may or may not reassure you that he came to me because of you."

"Indeed." I am more confused than ever, and I resolve to remedy this soonest. "Maybe we should discuss this right now after all. It appears that there are some facts about this business that I am missing."

"There certainly are. But I will say no more unless you accompany me back to my home."

I nod. "That is all I should ask for. Lead on."

He inclines his head and takes the lead.

I follow him into his small flat. There is hardly any furniture, not more than I expect would be in a bedouin tent. I look around, noting the immaculate cleanliness of the place and the fact that he has but a single servant, who looks as old as the hills. Raman declines his servant's offer to help with an imperious gesture, prompting the venerable one to sigh and withdraw wordlessly.

"Pray start at the beginning," I ask him as soon as we are alone.

"Allow me to serve you some tea first," he returns implacably. "This might take a while."

I refrain from grinding my teeth. It is obvious that Raman will come to the point in his own good time. "Very well, then."

Raman busies himself sedately, clearly unwilling to hurry on my account, and finally serves the tea with high ceremony while I tap my fingers impatiently. I cannot fault the fellow; even though I have never been so far to the East, I do know that the serving of tea is an indispensable part of Eastern hospitality, and either refusing the offer or asking him to hurry would be an unpardonable insult.

Finally Raman sits down and pours. To satisfy protocol, I take a sip of the heavily sweetened brew and gesture for him to begin.

"Before I tell you anything, Mr. Holmes, you must answer me a question. Why is it that you are so ardently interested in what becomes of John Watson?"

"Obviously you don't read the newspaper. He is my biographer, my friend, and my partner. His welfare is of the utmost concern to me."

"I am pleased to hear that. I can assure you that I feel quite the same."

I rather doubt that. If nothing else, Watson can only be one man's biographer. But I have already established that I am missing something in this whole business. Time to remedy that. "The whole story, please."

"You are a very persistent man, Mr. Holmes."

I incline my head. "It has been of service to me occasionally."

"And yet I do not know why you should command me. If you want to hear the whole story, you should ask your friend and not me. The only thing I can tell you is my opinion."

That much is evident. Most people's facts are a neutral observer's opinions. "I should be pleased to hear that," I tell him, refraining from giving voice to my rising impatience.

Raman sips his tea and puts down his cup before folding his hands and looking at me searchingly. "Never before have I faced you, Mr. Holmes, but now that I see you, I can understand the things John has told me about you."

I gesture impatiently. It is Raman and his relationship with Watson in which I am interested, not Raman's opinion of me. "It is not my wish to command you. However I must ask you to tell me your business with him."

"I am his friend."

"Is that all?" It cannot be. Watson has many friends. Raman is the only one he visits clandestinely.

Raman laughs softly and takes another sip of tea. "Hmm. What is he to you?"

I raise my eyebrows. "I told you."

"Pari pari, Mr. Holmes. What do you think of our mutual friend John Watson? What are you to him?"

He is fishing. I have employed the same tactics when I was merely guessing and needed the suspect to confirm my guesses. No, my dear Raman, I shall not make it so simple for you. "If he has told you things about me then you should know that."

"I want to hear it from you."

"Then we are at an impasse, for it is not my habit to divulge information of this kind to perfect strangers."

"I understand." He inclines his head and pours more tea. I expect him to declare that this meeting is over, but he surprises me. "When I came to know John Watson back in Afghanistan, he was my world. And when he returned to England, I sold my falcon to follow him. Now you."

He is sincere, and therefore, this statement must have cost him something. Very well, pari pari. "There are three persons on this earth for whom I would willingly commit murder. Watson is one of them."

"I believe this is true," he says after a pause. "And I am very glad for him. However, there are some things you have never done for him. And done they must be. And even though you have the keen eye of a falcon, and the spirit of a true hunter, sometimes you are blind, Mr. Holmes."

Now I do grind my teeth. "Then, pray, divulge to me your wisdom."

"I will do nothing of the kind, Mr. Holmes, because the wise man does not spill his wisdom but instead gives the other a chance to learn by himself. But I will give you my advice, if you want to accept it."

"I am listening."

"Do you remember the first time you set eyes on John?"

"I do." I refrain from mentioning that I have perfect recall.

"Good. Recall the moment. Not here, not now. Do this when you are on your own and listen into yourself. Also, what is the first time you meet in the morning?"

"That varies. Why?"

"Choose a quiet moment and look at him, and listen into yourself."

I wish I knew where he was leading me. "I can recall hundreds of such moments with perfect clarity. What is it I am supposed to notice?"

"Feelings, Mr. Holmes."

"Feelings." This would explain why I cannot follow him. How am I supposed to draw any conclusions from something as unquantifiable as that?

"What is it you like most about him? Answer quickly."

"There is not any one thing. Watson is an accumulation of admirable traits that he, in his humility, chooses to underplay frequently, which is, in itself, an admirable trait."

"I agree. Is that all, Mr. Holmes?"

"By no means." I could fill a small pamphlet describing the things I admire about my friend, were I so inclined.

"Do you like his smell?"

Once again, I am amazed by the turn the conversation has taken. "What a strange question! It is hardly his most significant characteristic."

"Why not?"

"A man's smell does not define him," I explain irritably. It should be obvious! "It only defines his cleanliness and choice of toilet water."

"But it does, Mr. Holmes. You have no idea. I come from a tribe of nomads. We rarely wash. And yet, we do not all smell alike. The smell of a man can decide everything, friend or foe. Antagonist or lover."

"I will admit that it may make an enemy easier to track," I reply, sarcastically. "But my sympathies are not decided by my nose." The mere thought is absurd. How could one possibly arrive at a reasonable decision in that way?

Raman's expression remains calm. "Then you are a fool, or merely ignorant of it."

"On the contrary. Whatever decision my nose may make is duly noted but overridden by my mind."

"So, if you leave your precious mind aside, what remains?"

"Instinct," I reply unwillingly. "However, instinct can be fooled."

"Now I repeat my question: Do you like John's smell? You do not need to answer. I should advise you, though, that you give it a try."

I think I am beginning to understand. He wants to know if my decision to call Watson my friend is a purely intellectual decision. He wants to know if I liked his smell when we first met, and he wants to tell me that I based my decision to share diggings with him solely upon that. "And what if the answer is no?" I enquire casually.

"Then I am the fool, and very happy."

So, Mr. Raman likes my Watson's smell. I feel my jaw set. "And if it is yes?"

"Then you will see."

And now we are back to being deliberately vague. I sigh in annoyance. "You are more stubborn than the Irish forger I was once obliged to force to a confession. What is it I shall see?"

"I cannot tell you in advance, for this is something you have to experience all for yourself."

"Speculate, then."

He laughs. "No. I am sorry. But I will give you further advice. Have another tea."

I possess my soul in what patience I have left and meekly drink my tea. Besides, the man is beginning to intrigue me. It is an arrogant fool who dismisses advice outright simply because he does not understand the reasoning behind it.

Finally, Raman is ready to come to the point. "When you are sitting together by the fireplace, I should advise you to watch him. First watch his hands. Then his throat. And then his eyes. Can you follow me, Mr. Holmes?"

"Fortunately, we are not having this conversation in Arabic," I say sarcastically. "I might have some difficulty then."

He laughs again. "Would you prefer that?"

"Indeed, no."

"Very well. You will then listen to yourself and perceive and remember everything that comes up. Without exception, Mr. Holmes. This is vital." He takes another sip of tea.

I mull over his strange way of putting it and the emphasis. "Everything, including dinner?" I finally enquire.

He is not amused. "If you like."

"I confess I do not see the value of this exercise." After all, watching Watson is one of my favourite pastimes, and never has anything 'come up' while I did so. Hmmm. There's a connotation. I wonder if that is what Raman is driving at?

"This I believe. Are you ready for one last, as you call it, exercise?"

Guardedly, I reply, "Since we are only speaking in the hypothetical, at least so far, I don't suppose it can do any harm."

"The next time you hand something to John, make sure that your fingers touch."

And if I ever needed something spelled out to me, he has now done so. I look at him, fighting to keep my expression blank. "It is a very, shall we say, disturbing direction in which you are taking me."

"Is it now, dear Sir? Pray tell me, what else did you expect?"

"I expected nothing except to learn the truth. But you have given me much to think about. Thank you for the tea and for your advice."

He nods solemnly. "You are very welcome, Mr. Holmes, friend of John Watson, friend and partner. I wish you a safe journey home."

*

Watson

I get up early the following morning, even though I was back home quite late last night, as I had, in spite of my fabulous intentions, spent the better part of the evening with my Arabian friend. The birds are twittering happily in the light blue sky, the morning air is crisp and fresh and invites me to an early walk, which I intend to do on my own, as I suspect that my dear housemate might not rise and shine before noon. He was away when I arrived at night, and I suspected him on someone's trail (to my disgruntlement on his own), which must have led him astray for the better part of the night.

Still dressed in my dressing gown, and lazily stretching my limbs while yawning heartily, I enter the living room in order to take a cup of tea before my usual morning routine. Just upon stepping around the chaise, reaching for my early morning cuppa, I freeze in mid-yawn. There is my good friend, sitting in his favourite chair, his legs crossed, and he is not only wide awake, but watching me with most intense scrutiny. By the look of it, he did not change for the night, but remained sitting there for God alone knows how long, and the ashes of at least six pipes are scattered around him on various yesterday's newspapers. I close my mouth and cock my head questioningly, but all he does in response to this is close his eyes, as if trying to solve an urgent problem.

Slightly irritated by this behaviour, which is quite unusual even for a chap as bohemian as Holmes, at least at such early an hour, I mumble a gruff hello and reach for the cup, pour some tea (thanking the inventor of tea-cosies), then close my eyes in order to welcome the first waves of warmth that fill my sleepy stomach. When I finally look up again, my eyes meet his through the haze, and I realize that he is scrutinizing me once more. As there is no use in reprimanding Holmes for his strange behaviour, I clear my throat noisily and force a smile. "Tea, Holmes?" I inquire, reaching for the other cup.

"Yes," he replies. "Tea, of course." At this, he smiles as if rejoicing in some kind of private joke, and reaching out he stretches his slender fingers in the direction of the table. I shake my head, chuckling softly about the ease with which Holmes uses to delegate simple tasks like getting up and filling his own cup to the one trustful friend who would always hasten to do them for him: me. He waits patiently, watching me so intently that I can literally feel his eyes in the back of my neck. When I hand him the cup, his hand accidentally touches mine, and as if on cue, he closes his eyes again, whereas I can but shake my head at these alien ways of his, and finally resume my morning routine.

After a little refreshment, I choose a lengthy path that leads me away from the docks and in the direction of Hyde Park, where I stride along the paths for more than one hour, before finally returning to our lodgings. I decide to make a little detour via the tobacco shop in order to prevent Holmes from buying the worst shag just for the sake of saving a penny or two, then take the morning paper up on my way in, and whistling a little tune that had crossed my mind while walking, I once again enter our living room.

The fast walking has indeed cleared my mind, and heightened my spirits considerably, as well as my body tonus, to such a degree that I have to dab away a couple of beads from my forehead after taking off my hat. I find Holmes seated in his chair, just like I had left him one-and-a-half hours ago, but now his hands are folded and his eyes are closed in deep meditation. Just when I sit down to read the newspaper, also with the intention to hide behind the piles of paper as to not disturb and not be bothered, either, Holmes' voice rings out so suddenly that I give a start.

"The Hellespont," he declares. "Do you remember where on earth Shakespeare used this place?"

Slightly annoyed, I tear myself away from a most interesting article on new methods of hospital disinfections, put down the newspaper and glare at my good friend. "I do not."

"Then do me the favour and hand me 'As You Like It'," he says, lifting his right arm and pointing behind him.

I could, of course, retort that I am seated quite happily in my chair and that the collected Shakespeare is much easier within his reach than within mine. In contrast to this plain fact, I merely give a grunt, put aside the newspaper and get up from my cosy seat in order to almost bend over Holmes and reach across until I eventually drop the desired volume into his lap. While doing so, however, I take no pains in hiding my ennui, and I even enjoy shoving him slightly aside, just to prove that he could have done this himself easily, and will have to face a peeved friend now. In spite of taking the hint, though, he merely chuckles, and after browsing the pages for only a couple of minutes, he throws the book behind his shoulder with a satisfied sigh.

Once more, I look up from my reading, this time in order to reprimand Holmes with a disapproving glance as a comment on his disrespect for the literal world in general, let alone the noble profession of bookbinders, and the opus of Shakespeare in particular. To my surprise (and no little satisfaction), I see him blush: a rare sight indeed, and all I need to feel a wave of triumph, which is unsurprisingly closely followed by a pang of guilt, because I do not actually rejoice in ruffling my good friend's composure.

Recalling the past night, I feel that a tinge of heat reaches my countenance, too, and I quickly avert my eyes lest he can read too much in them. This is the last thing I wish to happen: that he, Holmes, can detect what I deny myself, and turns away from me. But if truth be told, I cannot stand this suspense for much longer. At least, I have to ask him why he is watching me so intently. Thus, I take my courage and look over the newspaper to talk to him. "Holmes," I inquire, aiming to sound as casually as possible. "What exactly are you up to?"

My good friend answers my glance with a mischievous smile. "I am going to smoke another pipe," he says. "Why?"

I hear a sigh escape my lips. It is an annoying treat of his to answer my questions by asking back. But this time I have to know, and my temper is not improving either. "What is this?" I thus enquire. "A kind of charade?"

In contrast to my expectations, Holmes remains completely calm and at the same time utterly earnest. "No. Not a charade, Watson. A gathering of information. My conclusions are almost complete."

"About Shakespeare."

"Not particularly, no."

Now I feel distinctly annoyed. Whatever it may be, it seems that once more my friend is in the know, whereas I am still utterly clueless. With an impatient gesture, I shove aside the newspaper, as the desire to read it has long left me, anyway. "What is it then," I say. "Speak up, man, or I may lose my patience." I immediately feel the heat rush back into my cheeks, and to my utter dismay I grow aware that I behave in a quite uncivilized manner already, even though I had not intended to raise my voice. But to be frank: I do feel utterly discomposed.

Holmes' reaction is prompt, and probably an adequate retribution for my hot-temperedness. He raises an amused eyebrow. "Watson, Watson. You really are a bear before dinner." If ever, his voice is literally dripping with innuendo now.

"What?" is all I can utter. I cannot be more puzzled. "What?" I repeat, lacking not only the words, but also the appropriate thoughts behind them.

Holmes slightly bends towards me, which I know as the signal to finally enlighten me: the grand finale. "It all hinges upon one thing," he accordingly says. "I know where you were yesterday. I know whom you saw. I know why. And I know that this thing has intimately to do with the two of us."

Feeling that my world is a-tumble, I wish the earth would swallow me whole. He knows. He knows! "You don't... you can't..." I stutter, completely out of my depth.

"Oh my dear fellow, you look positively ghastly," rings out Holmes' entirely inadequately amused voice. "Do breathe deeply. In fact: I do and I can."

All that is left to me is to remain sitting there, staring at him, my mouth opening and closing on its own account, so that I, even though I highly remind myself of a carp outside the pond, can only go on stuttering, while the blade will fall any moment now. "I was... I am..." I slump. "You know."

"Almost everything," Holmes repeats. "As I said. You have seen your friend Mr. Raman, and after you left I talked to him. He has told me everything."

"You were? He has? My dear mother of God." With a shaking hand, I take out my handkerchief in order to mop my brow once more.

"There only remains one thing upon which I am not yet quite clear," Holmes continues.

I try to compose myself, yet I do not dare utter another word, lest it be as incoherent as the past ones.

Holmes leans back again, takes a deep breath and then says, "Given the choice: whom would you prefer? Your friend Raman - or me?"

Had I just recovered somewhat from the first shock, I feel now that the room is starting to spin. I cannot even tell whether I feel hot or cold, and maybe it is in fact both: the coldness filling my intestines, whereas an unpleasant heat is rising behind my eyes. "Prefer?" I say weakly. "My dear Holmes... He means very much to me..."

"I see."

The way he says these two words hauls me back upon firm ground. Maybe he is not bluffing after all, and at least he too seems to be tentative about certain details. But he also seems to be rather excited. "He cannot have told you everything," I thus say.

"He told me he sold his falcon to follow you," says Holmes. "That is all I need to know. And I can completely sympathize with his motivation."

I find I am rapidly and astoundingly composed now. "You do not earnestly expect me to decide between the two of you," I state.

"Not at the moment," he replies. "But the question may arise eventually."

The question may arise eventually. I mull the words over in my mind, while my thoughts remain in a turmoil. Holmes and Hassan as rivals is a concept I would never have conceived, nor would the circumstance be apposite. It is certainly true that they both share some minor traits, but the general aspect of each is so unlike that of the other that it takes me several minutes until I am able to form the suitable words. It especially takes me by surprise that Holmes would even consider such a thing as rivalry. Finally I say, "It is not a matter of time, actually. It is rather a matter of preferences..." With this, I intend to hint at the special circumstances under which I met each of them. I do not know how else to put it, even though I doubt that my good friend will grasp the meaning of those words.

"Then the decision is already made for you," Holmes retorts.

"You think I could decide?" I try again. "I did nothing of the sort. But I know what I... wish."

"And what is that?"

Well then. If he forces me to make up my mind, I know which direction to choose. In fact, now that he holds the knife at my throat, I know that my mind was made up in times of yore. However, I do not know how on earth I can tell him how I feel. I do not have an answer apart from looking at him with what I regard as my most favourable smile and say, "Oh Holmes."

Holmes is not the man who can be fooled by smiles. "What does that mean?" He says sternly. "Pray be precise, Watson. I cannot deal with this."

I should have known that there is no chance of smiling my way out of this. Consequently, I force myself to be as blunt as I dare. "Yes, you were right: I was with Hassan last night - again. But the reason for that was quite different from what you suspected." I can feel the tears forming in my eyes now. "He... gave me his advice, as a friend, one of the closest I have - and his blessings."

"Indeed."

I chance to look at my dear friend, and to my concern he seems to be utterly touched, and in turn presently is the one who lacks the appropriate words. I use the moment of silence in order to blow my nose.

"Well, that's all right then," Holmes finally says. "This answers my question. Thank you, Watson."

In contrast to my utter ignorance of the days and hours past, I know that both of us are far from clueless any more. Any ensuing kind of pretence would be as foolish as any more loss of precious time - time we could have used together, while none of us had a clue. I merely look at my friend for another moment, but then I finally take the liberty of making the concluding decision. "Well now," I say. "There is a question I would like to ask you. However, this I should rather do when we are completely unmolested." Instead of going on, I get up and lock the door, then turn around to face my expectant friend, Holmes, friend and partner.

To be continued...