My Dear Watson by Fields L.A

Author:Fields, L.A. [Fields, L.A.]
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Publisher: Lethe Press
Published: 2013-03-24T23:00:00+00:00

1919: Walk

I surmise pretty rapidly where my husband has disappeared to, leaving me with a tray of softening cake slices, each one falling to gelatinous pieces. I spot him and Holmes through the window, walking arm-in-arm across our field. The neighbors are far enough away from us in the country that they wouldn’t see more than two human figures, unless of course they had binoculars for bird-watching, as I do.

They’ve walked out towards the horse fence that lines the perimeter of the next property, hands stretched out to brush the tall grass. Sherlock Holmes throws his head back in laughter, and a sickening self-consciousness rolls through my body, wondering if Watson is telling tales about me. I’m sure in the next moment that I’m being silly; why would they leave just to talk about me? Probably neither one of them even thinks about me when they are alone together. I don’t know which thought makes me feel worse.

I keep the binoculars pressed to my face hard enough to leave little marks. Holmes will know what I have been up to, but to hell with him and what he knows! I have a right to see this if I want to.

Holmes snatches a weed bloom from the grass with his skeletal fingers and hands it to Watson like a suitor. It’s just a little scraggly bunch of yellow flowers that pop up every spring, spreading further and further each year. Watson smiles at the gesture and tosses it over his shoulder for luck. Watson and I do that on our walks. That makes Holmes laugh too. When did he get so damn merry? I was under the impression that laughter in him was rare.

For a moment they grow still, and Holmes touches Watson’s face, tracing the lines coming from his eyes, smile lines made by a lifetime of mostly happiness. He has a couple of stress lines between his eyes from all the horrible things Holmes has done to him over the years, but still he lets Holmes stroke his cheek and pat his chest and kiss him on the lips.

I tear the binoculars away from my eyes and fling them away from me. One of the scopes lands in a piece of cake. I turn to stare at it, trying to obliterate what I have just seen and replace it with something else. I’ve imagined them together, pictured it in my head as Watson told me his stories, but it’s very different than witnessing it myself. Having never met Holmes, it was easy to talk about him in regards to Watson; it was just like speaking of Mary, like imagining his relationship with someone long dead. But now this man is in my house, in my time, and somehow I just never thought he would be.

Staring at the slaughtered dessert, I don’t notice Maurice standing in the doorway until he clears his throat. I haven’t said much to him about all this, but he knows it anyway. No one ever keeps secrets from their servants; all you can hope is that they’re loyal to you.

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