Work Text:
June --, 1891
Dearest,
I know this delay must have been hateful to you, but I really could not have written earlier. I dare hope that your joy will be all the greater as you read, at last, these long-anticipated words: I am free. It will be two or three days, I believe, before I can truly settle things here. But Friday morning, come what may, I shall take the 10:23am from Victoria Station, arriving at 3:41pm. Will you meet me at the station? Is it indiscreet? I could take a cab, and that would be more prudent. But oh, how I hate prudence! How you loathe it too! And how well--you dare not deny it--a little rashness becomes me! Can you deprive yourself of that heart-quickening first glimpse of me in my traveling costume, stepping bravely down from the train? I thought not. So I will, I must, see you at Walsall station on Monday, at 3:41pm precisely!
Ah, dearest, you would forgive all the giddiness of this letter--and much more besides--if you could have been in this house with me for these last few sorrowful weeks. I have had to give up the Club entirely. Of course your removal to Walsall has diminished its attractions; but still, the work would have been a comfort. I am wildly envious of Smith, who has penetrated deep into the heart of Westaway's, and there found evidence of the most shocking malpractice. The very minutes of the meeting at which she made her report fairly scorch the paper they are typed upon. I will bring them with me; we can read them together, sitting by your fire, my golden head leaning upon your shoulder. Just before his collapse, my poor John introduced me to his editor at The Strand, and we look forward to exposing them in print in next month's number. We have, alas, been obliged to give away the by-line; but the truth will out, and that is the main thing.
You must not think, however, that the ladies of our Society have deserted me during this time of trial. They have been extremely solicitous, and more than kind. No other Society in England is better equipped to apprehend how great a loss Mr. Sherlock Holmes's death to this city and to humankind. Whatever rubbish he may have talked with my husband, we know that the friendless single lady never had an abler champion or a braver defender than Mr. Sherlock Holmes. Soon after John returned from Switzerland, Stoner and Harrison called to present us with a framed testimonial to Mr. Holmes's memory, signed by all the members of the Society, bordered with black crape and beautifully lettered by Sutherland. (Poor Sutherland. Mr. Holmes was, it has been painful to admit, entirely correct in his assessment of Sutherland's intelligence. But nobody can match her for shorthand or typing speed, and she is far the best secretary our Society can ever hope to have.) John was immensely moved by their gift, and installed it above the mantelpiece in his study. Another copy now hangs in the meeting-room at the Club.
But except for yourself, of course, our ladies have no idea of how matters truly stand between myself and John. Those who had the wit to gossip about us seem to assume that it was all a schoolgirl 'crush,' and that since your departure I have come to my senses and returned to my husband's side. They do not understand--as you, dearest, so beautifully understood--that I simply could not leave John to sustain this blow all by himself. Sorely as I have missed you, I am very glad that I was here with him when the crisis came. In the heat of action or at a moment of danger, there is no one steadier or stronger than my poor John; but between us, dearest, since his return from Afghanistan John has never really been quite well. He bore up bravely for the first two weeks. I knew there would be a reaction; but I never anticipated this.
The crash was dreadful, and quite sudden. One evening, after Lestrade had called to pay his condolences, John and I had a perfectly amicable dinner, during which nothing of consequence was discussed. Afterward, he withdrew to his study as usual. I happened to pass by the doorway on my way to give some directions to Margaret, and I saw him ensconced in his favorite chair, drawn up to his writing-desk. Upon the desk were his port and his cigars, and two other objects that caught my eye. One was his gold pocketwatch. That, again, was quite as usual. John always has the watch before him when he takes his port in his study. It once belonged to his brother Henry. John winds it every evening, and polishes it once a week. I believe, however, that the watch is a kind of memento mori for John. Henry was a dipsomaniac, hurried by overindulgence to an early grave. John told me that early in their Baker Street days, Mr. Holmes purchased a tantalus and began keeping the spirits under lock and key. "At first I thought it was a matter of economy," he said. "I now see it as an act of friendship." I am grateful to Mr. Holmes for that as for so much else, for John's habits at home have always been extremely regular. At any rate, when John works in his study after supper, the watch is always there on the desk next to the decanter.
It was the other object that piqued my curiosity. This was a flat silver cigarette box, with a pattern of vines and flowers engraved upon the lid. Unlike the watch, it had not been cleaned; the lid was streaked and discolored with spots of what I thought were tarnish. As I tried to remember if I had seen this object before, John unlocked a drawer in his desk, and drew out a folded square of paper. It too was discolored with dark stains. Remembering that I no longer had any right to John's confidences, I hurried past the doorway and found Martha in the kitchen.
I was finishing my directions to her when I heard John cry out. I feared the worst. I knew that John kept his revolver under lock and key in a different part of the house. All the same, that cry was like the scream of a mortally wounded animal. Martha went white and half-fainted into a chair. I dashed to the study, braced for blood--brains--rope--anything. To my inexpressible relief, I saw that John was still seated in his chair, with the port and cigars and watch and cigarette case lined up before him. He had the paper in his hands. He unfolded it, studied the writing inside, turned it round, studied the spattered exterior, folded it again, looked at the folded square from all sides, unfolded it, turned it round again--all with the frantic concentration of a madman.
"John?" I said. "John, are you hurt? Speak to me!"
He turned toward me. His eyes were wide, and unnaturally bright. His hands trembled.
"Mary," he said, gasping like a drowning man. "Mary. Thank God. Come here. Please come here and look at this."
With misgivings, for I feared that by humoring him I might worsen his fit, I yielded to his entreaty. He laid the paper out on the desk. I recognized the writing, immediately, as that of Mr. Sherlock Holmes. John smoothed the paper out--or tried to; his hands trembled so that they only rumpled it more--and motioned toward it.
"You are, in every way, a better detective than I am," John said. "I will abide by your verdict. The paper is German; I could pretend to have deduced that but in fact I was with him when he bought it. This surface--the writing surface--you see these discolorations," he said, pointing with his shaking forefinger at some faint rusty blots in the upper left quadrant. "I thought--no--let me not prejudice your judgment. These stains can be seen on both sides of the paper. But which...on which side does the stain originate? The writing surface, or the obverse?"
He stepped back. He played nervously with his mustache as I turned the paper backward and forwards, studying the rusty stains and ignoring, with all my power, the words traced by the ink.
"They originate on the obverse," I finally said.
He took in a hissing, anxious breath. He folded his arms, one hand gripping each of his shoulders, as if he were bracing himself for a shattering impact.
"Are you sure?" he said.
"Look, John." I gestured at the most prominent blots in each quarter. "These blots on the right mirror those on the left, and superimposed upon that is a pattern of blots in the upper left quadrant which reappear, rotated, in each of the other three quadrants. The stains are darkest in the upper left quadrant, somewhat lighter in the upper right, even fainter in the lower right, and hardly visible at all in the lower left. And you this area in the center is pristine." I traced the tilted oblong with my finger. His eyes followed the line, avidly. "Now, if we re-fold the paper as, from the creases, it must have been originally folded," I said, as I did so, "the answer is clear. The paper was folded, with this quadrant up, when whatever...blotted it...was spattered across it."
Though in a pitiable state of agitation, John had followed me closely. "You're sure, Mary?" he said. "You're absolutely sure?"
To be honest, dearest, I wished ardently at that moment that I could have consulted with you before answering him. He seemed to believe that the fate of the world depended upon the answer to this question, and I would have felt so much more confident if I could have known that your opinion concurred with mine. Being alone and very frightened for poor John, I could only rely on my own wits.
"Yes, John. And see here, there are no blots at all near the folded corner. From that we may deduce that some object was resting on the paper when the blood--"
I stopped. I had not meant to acknowledge that I knew they were bloodstains. I have always known, of course, that there was more to the story of Mr. Holmes's death than John had told the public. You know as well as I do, dearest, that there always is. Before I could decide how to proceed, John picked up the cigarette case and moved it slowly across the paper, positioning it with surgical precision, until the edges of the cigarette case lined up exactly with the edges of the unstained portion of the paper.
He began to mutter under his breath. I couldn't make out the words. Finally, he shouted, "Oh, what an ASS I have been!"
His fist slammed on the desk, knocking over his untasted glass of port. Instinctively, I snatched the cigarette case and paper from the desk before the spilled wine could touch them. John didn't seem to notice. He watched the deep red liquid spread across the desk, and
Forgive me, dearest, I have had to take myself in hand, and begin again. He looked at the wine spilling across his desk, and then I can only say that his reason simply gave way. It was horrible. He would not want you to know the details and I do not want to recall them. Within an hour he was in bed, raving with delirium, while I mopped his perspiring brow and Dr. Trevelyan monitored his pulse. It was brain fever, the doctor told me, brought on by some sudden shock. Trevelyan would look in on him every few days; but he would require constant care, and his room should be kept in low light, as free as possible from all disturbances. After two days I dismissed Margaret; she was always in the way, and very clumsy in handling John. I have had no time to advertise for a replacement. Dr. Trevelyan offered to arrange for a nurse, but I declined. I could trust myself not to repeat any of his ravings or to expose his weakness to others. I could not be certain of that with a hired nurse or servant. I don't know what I should have done without our Society ladies, who made sure that the larder was always stocked, and took it in turns to visit so that I might spend an hour or two in the company of a healthy and rational human being. I was too exhausted to write, or even really to think. I sat by his bedside and prayed that he might recover, or that he might pass out of this life without more suffering.
It was only last Monday that, as I sat by his bedside in the early morning, he turned his head to look at me, and called my name. Oh dearest, do not be angry when I tell you what a blessed relief it was to hear the kindness in his voice and to see the light of affection in his eyes. We were once man and wife; and now, we are two sad friends who wish each other well. That is all.
"Mary," he said. "What is the matter? Have I been ill?"
I told him what had happened.
He looked up at the ceiling, and sighed. I saw the tears run down from the corner of his eye.
"And have you been looking after me all this time?"
"Someone had to," I said.
He looked at me.
"God bless you, Mary," he said. "You are an angel."
"I am only a woman," I replied.
He sighed, and drifted off to sleep.
Later that day, his appetite returned, and in another four days he was able to get up, dress himself, and sit by the fire in his study. He was, by turns, cheerful and morose, contented and restless. That Sunday, he went out for the first time, and returned in a very depressed frame of mind. Fearing another attack, I implored him to tell me how it was with him. He demurred, and for the next two days seemed to be getting gloomier in spirit even as he became stronger in body and mind.
And then, dearest, last night--just as I was beginning to fear that I might never be able to come to you--he came into my sitting room, and said that he wished to speak with me.
Though his strength returns every day, he is still a pitiful sight. He lost flesh during his illness, and in desperation, during the second week, Dr. Trevelyan ordered all his hair cut off quite close to the scalp, to ease the fever. It has grown back since, but it sticks up all round his head like the bristles of a hedgehog. As soon as his hands were steady enough, he shaved off his mustache entirely, and it has not yet returned to its usual state. He is quite pale.
"Mary," he said, "you and I will part soon. Let us understand each other, for once, before it is all over."
I own I felt my heart skip a beat or two. I did not see how he could have known about you, for he is not of a suspicious nature, and I have never mentioned your name to him. But he seemed to be prepared for some unimaginably awful ordeal.
"I have never asked you whether there was...anyone else," he began, haltingly. "Just as you have never asked me whether--"
I could not bear it. I interrupted him.
"John, please stop there."
He waited, very apprehensively, for me to continue.
"I would have you know," I began, "that everything I told you, when I asked for this separation, was absolutely true. But since then, things have...that is...after that...I...learned...that there...there is someone else."
John sat up, startled. I felt panic. I had assumed, from his opening up this conversation, that he somehow already knew. But it was quite clear from his face that he did not.
It took him a moment to master himself. Then he said, politely but very coldly, "Is it anyone I know?"
It took me all my courage to take the next breath, and then use it to speak.
"Yes," I said.
"Who?" he asked, in that same chilling tone.
"It's Violet Hunter."
I was terrified; I was proud. I had done it. I had said the impossible thing. Whatever happened next, I had done it. I had named you as my love. Oh dearest, I cannot tell you how good it felt--or how frightened I was.
John stared. I feared the worst.
"Miss Hunter," he whispered.
I nodded, afraid to speak.
"The governess with the chestnut hair," he murmured.
"She is starting up a girls' school at Walsall," I said. "I intend to join her there, as soon as you are well enough."
John looked at me, somewhat blankly.
"John," I pleaded. "Say something. Shout at me or curse me or anything you please, but say something."
He nodded. He laughed, once. He got up from his chair, and left the room.
"John," I called after him.
"I won't be a moment," he called back.
I heard him go into his study. I did not hear the door shut, or any rummaging in drawers. And he did return, a moment later, to my sitting room.
He was carrying the decanter of port, two glasses, and a box of his favorite cigars. He pulled over my sewing-table, pulled up his own armchair, and set down the port and the glasses. He withdrew the gold watch from his waistcoat pocket and set it down on the table. He removed the stopper, poured out two glasses of port, and pushed one toward me.
He lifted his own glass and held it up, looking over it at me. His little bit of a mustache twitched. He took a deep breath.
"A toast," he said. "To Miss Mary Morstan, the best and the bravest woman I have ever known."
You will believe me when I say, dearest, that this was not what I had been expecting. Since he seemed to wish it, I lifted my own glass, and we both drank. I find I do not like the taste of port; but I felt I had to return the gesture.
"To Doctor John H. Watson," I said. "The only man I have ever loved."
We drank again, and he set down the glass. His eyes were bright with tears.
"Oh, Mary," he said. "Did I ever make you happy?"
"You did, John," I said. "It was...it was a wonderful romance."
"But not much of a marriage," he said, gloomily.
We talked for hours; and we parted as friends. I won't tell you all we said, dearest, for I know you wouldn't enjoy it. I will say I was surprised that John asked me none of the questions one might expect a man to have upon learning that his wife was in love with a woman. That is, I was surprised by that until John told me what had really transpired at the Reichenbach falls. Suffice to say that I now understand the import of his questions about the paper and its stains, and why my answer came as such a terrible shock to him. John has given me leave to share some of the details with the executive of our Society at a closed-door meeting which will take place tomorrow. John has ever been the very staunchest supporter of our Society, and I am sure that our ladies will come to to the aid of a man to whom we all owe so much of our liberty and happiness. When I have secured their cooperation, I will be quite easy in my mind as I board the train on Friday. Oh, dearest, how I long for our reunion! How sweet it will be to hold you again after this long, trying time apart! Forgive the blots on this letter, dearest; they are tears of joy. I am loved; and I am free. What more can any mortal ask for?
ever your dearest,
Mary