Yet, hadn’t he demonstrated how deeply he felt for me? On my nineteenth birthday - was that really four years ago? - he had given me a drawing of the archangel Michael and compared me to the ‘warrior-angel,’ writing, “What a likeness of you, the avenger of the little ones murdered by the Angel Maker.”
And hadn’t he once said, “You know that I relish silence and stillness, but when I am not with you, I miss the sound of your voice... Is it time for me to show you how I feel?”
Remembering that confession now, I started to shake, just as Sherlock had shivered that night at the cottage when he admitted that he cared for me. He was truly afraid of what was about to transpire between us, and he had told me that he was shaking because “of what happens to me when I am with you. Because I cannot control my emotions where you are concerned. I cannot keep my distance from you. Because I have these feelings and my body keeps betraying me and I would... I fear I would neglect my work...”
It always came back to that. His work. His destiny. Such a complicated man was he. Devoted to solving crimes, yet unwilling to formally join the Metropolitan Police. A scholar and an avid reader, but lacking in interest in so many subjects that others found fascinating. Skeptical about religion, yet could quote it as a clergyman quotes the Bible chapter and verse. Less and less interested in theatre, despite his flair for the dramatic, yet fond of Shakespeare.
Once, when we had been conversing on the banks of the river near my home in Norfolk, I’d asked what play he liked best. He told me Twelfth Night, though he’d immediately passed that off as a deference because he was born on January sixth.
“I like that play as well,” I’d told him. “It’s about love.”
“I suppose,” he said, “But we must not forget that the play symbolizes how love can cause pain. Some characters see love as a curse, one that disrupts their lives. Some suffer pain from being in love. Orsino, I believe, depicts love woefully as an appetite, ‘which cannot be satisfied.’ Olivia sees it as a plague. All these love-struck victims... they suffer. And doesn’t Shakespeare also show that love is exclusionary? He demonstrates that some people find romantic happiness, but others do not.”
“But no, the couples find happiness with each other.”
“Some, not all,” he corrected. “Malvolio and Antonio are prevented from having the objects of their desire; Malvolio, because he is unworthy of his mistress Olivia, and Antonio whose love for Sebastian can never be realized. You see, Poppy?” he had asked, a shadow crossing his face, “love cannot conquer all obstacles, and those whose desires go unfulfilled remain in love, but feel the sting of their failures all the more severely.”
So, could it be that Sherlock feared love because he was certain he would fail at it? Could I convince him otherwise?
“We’re here, Miss,” the cabbie said.
I quickly paid him and ran to Uncle’s front door. I felt a hand on my shoulder, started and twirled around. It was dark and the fog was dense, but I made out the figure of a little boy in the shadows. He was thin as a scarecrow and almost as frightening in the dark shadows. His hair was raven black and slicked across his forehead, and he wore overalls and a frayed cap. At first I thought he was one of the street sweepers and that I was in his way. But then I recognized him as the little boy that Sherlock had sent to summon me to Bart’s to do the autopsy.
“What are you doing, skulking around?”
Pacing restlessly as he spoke, the boy said, “Mr. ’olmes says I’m right good at sleuthing, I am.”
Poor little waif, I thought. I contemplated momentarily how it came to pass that London streets were the home to thousands of displaced children like this one before me. What I would give to sweep them all into my arms and keep them safe.
“Your name is Rattle, isn’t it?”
He nodded.
“And why do they call you that?”
“Cos I chatter too much.”
I laughed. “Well, Rattle, did Mr. Holmes send you here to spy on me then?”
He nodded. “’e sent me to keep yer from goin’ inside, Miss.”
“But I live there, so why should I stay out here in the dark and mist?”
“’e says it’s dangerous. So jus’ come wif me.”
“I cannot do that. I am sorry. I’m going in now.”
I turned to go inside and he was instantly in front of me. He was lightning quick and agile and found a way to block each step I took, each turn I made. He was so thin and wiry, and filled with the inexorable pertinacity of all children, that I was unsure how to get around him without lifting him by his collar.
“You are the artful dodger, aren’t you?”
“I ’as me orders, Miss.”
Annoyed, particularly in light of the fact that Sherlock thought I was in danger, yet he had no compunction about putting this child in harm’s way, I asked, “Rattle, tell
