I wanted to lash out. With everything I was feeling about my uncle’s predicament and all the emotions I had held back from Sherlock for so long, I desperately wanted to savage him, to strike him. But longing to get through to him, I rose, went to where he sat, knelt before him and placed my palms on his knees.
“It was not nipped in its nascent bud, Sherlock Holmes. Not for you and certainly not for me. You were my first... you are the only man that I... with whom I have ever...” I heard myself start to stutter.
“Oh, can you not complete a sentence now?”
“You were the first man I ever...” I felt my cheeks redden.
Finally he understood. “You mean you never... then you never... with Victor?”
“I was not in love with Victor. As I have told you a thousand times. But I am still in love with you.”
“Love!” he shouted, taking up his glass of port again. “I tell you that I have no need of it!”
“That isn’t true, Sherlock. I see that now. You cannot live with nothing in your life except cases and deduction. There is more to life than that for you. More to life than the work of your brain for you and more to life than medicine for me.”
“Oh, no, Dr. Stamford, it is true. I have decided I cannot live without working my brain for there is nothing else to live for. Least of all love.”
“You may try to suppress your thoughts and sensitivities and the physical sensations you feel when I am near you, but, Mr. Holmes, you make it clear in so many ways that you are fighting a battle you cannot win.”
“No, you are wrong, and I was wrong to entertain foolish, youthful thoughts. I shan’t give in to such a notion again.”
“What youthful thoughts?”
“That I could - that there could exist any parabiosis of love and logic.”
“You do not even realize that you still care for me, do you? When even the gift you gave me the other day is indicative.”
“What? A stethoscope?”
“Of all the instruments in my medical office that require replacement, the stethoscope was the one you chose. And what does a stethoscope do, Mr. Holmes? It allows you to listen to internal sounds, to listen to the air breathing in and out, and to the sounds of the heart.”
I returned to my chair and sipped my port, staring at him over my glass. We sat in silence for some minutes, yet I could tell he was as shaken as I had ever seen him. And at a loss for words, which was utterly impossible.
“Do you not understand, Sherlock, that whatever gifts are within my power to give, they are yours?”
He stared at me.
“Sherlock, must you dwell on the negative aspects only? Love is a true treasure.”
“Treasures are fleeting, Poppy. They sparkle but only for a moment. Then they grow dim, dull, tarnished. They slip through your fingers. Love stops us, then makes us dance, then halts us yet again and cuts us off at our knees. It cannot stand the test of time.”
“You’re wrong, Sherlock. A century of wind and rain and all the elements cannot eradicate that night. It still stands, like a castle, like a fortress on the cliffs. Weathered, perhaps, but its stone is still strong.”
He swallowed the remainder of his port. “No, Poppy. From afar, it may seem perfect, solid. But close up, it must give up its imperfections. As time carves into it, the flaws are revealed.”
I stared back. “Its purpose has not been abandoned. It is an organic living thing and it is unfinished.”
Finally, I rose and walked to the door. “I must attend to Aunt Susan. I will help you exonerate my uncle, and when we have done so, we shall revisit this conversation. Good night, Mr. Holmes.”
28
After Sherlock left, I roamed the house to seek out Aunt Susan. I felt uncomfortable with myself, with the conversation I’d had with my miserable, loutish friend at such a time. A pang of shame washed over me for having dallied with Sherlock to engage in a discussion of our past when my Uncle had just been hauled off to the Yard, and my aunt was in a state of shock and concern. I thought I might retch.
Damn you, Sherlock Holmes, I thought. When I was with him, it seemed that my life stretched and pulled, slowed down and sped up. I could not understand my behaviour nor could I comprehend why he was so willing to entirely sacrifice the possibility of a full and balanced life for the immediate pleasure of solving a puzzle, a case, or a crime. Yes, criminal investigations were exciting. Being on the precipice of danger was exhilarating; I had to concede that. But the delicious and impassioned satisfaction he took in seeking the truth, no matter how horrific, and in being able to show everyone what he knew - always so much more than they knew - to the exclusion of all else... this I could not absorb. Had ever a man been such a conundrum?
I wandered from room to room and finally found Aunt Susan in my bedroom, sitting on the edge of the bed, the fingers of her right hand pinching the bedspread, the hat Effie had fashioned for me resting in the left.
I tip-toed across the bare wooden floor, trying to avoid the creaks so I would not startle her. “Aunt Susan,” I whispered.
She looked up. Her eyes were rimmed in red, which came as no surprise, but the eyes themselves were hard as agates. I could see that she was angry, more angry than upset, and that was an emotion I knew to be inconsolable. I sat
