четверг, 27 мая 2010
02:01

"Once you are back..."

Insolitaria
"Я быть всегда самим собой старался, каков я есть: а впрочем, вот мой паспорт!"
(это часть первая)
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@темы: Холмс?, Про меня, глупости

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27.05.2010 в 02:03

Insolitaria
"Я быть всегда самим собой старался, каков я есть: а впрочем, вот мой паспорт!"
"Once you are back"


“There is a patient to see you, doctor”.
“Tell him to get hell!”
“I beg your pardon?”
I look away dangerously from my glass of brandy.
“I have told you like hundreds of times, all my patients are at Bart’s, what is so difficult about that?” I pause at the poor woman’s hurt look. “Forgive me, Mrs. Irving, I didn’t mean to be rude. Just – tired after the night shift”.

That is pure lie, of course. I am not at all that tired. And I could just as well see that chap, though I don’t quite understand, how comes private patients keep calling on me if I gave up my consulting room almost without opening it.
But I simply feel I need my day-off to hate the world openly before hate irretrievably poisons my mind from the inside.
I can only guess it is Ronald Adair’s mysterious death that has recently put me through too much of “What would Mr. Holmes have done?” So when on the top of it yesterday I had an extremely acute-minded Scotland Yard official reminding me I had mentioned my wife in my records, I found it suspiciously hard to keep from yelling something like “Do you know what fiction is?” right to his keen face.

When you come to think of it, no one is to be accused of ruining my life. After all, I have managed to find lodgments of my own and employment I somehow enjoy; it doesn’t leave me too much time for billiards, anyway.

But still it has been three years.

“No need to apologise, my dear fellow. I understand perfectly well that between your forthcoming marriage, your medical practice and that stupid writing of yours you have no time left for our little deductive problems.”
“No need to make excuses, John. I understand you had to stay up to the end to put it right into that stupid writing of yours, but rushing to Birmingham in the middle of the night is not exactly my idea of a trustworthy husband.”
Without a word and without an instant hesitation I took a pen and wrote: “It is with a heavy heart that I take up my pen to write these the last words in which I shall ever record the singular gifts by which my friend Mr. Sherlock Holmes was distinguished”.
“That is most generous of you, but, as the matter of fact, Major Forrester has received an appointment in Nova Scotia. Mrs. Forrester would like me to accompany the children to Halifax, and I consider accepting the offer. That should not be for long. Anyway, putting our feelings under a test will do but good to us both.”
“It is very timely indeed, as my brother Mycroft has some work for me, and I am anxious to take his offer. That is quite a good chance of getting out of London for a while. Wasn’t it ‘your medical opinion’ some change of scene and air would do but good to me?”

Three goddamn years.

There were three women I would have gladly called my wife.
The first was Annie Harrison. That was because of her I ever took up a quill at all. Her mother rushed to save her from me as soon as she learnt I was the John Watson whose brother had just given away most of the family fortune in Ascot, virtually bringing our father halfway to his grave.
The second was Violet Smith. I took my degree to impress her father, a professor of mathematics, who then told me India was the last place where he wanted to see his only daughter.
And then there was Mary Morstan. For her I wrote my so far most romantic story (I am not quite sure why I chose to put Holmes in there as well, as they both could but make a great fuss of it and they did).
Mary Morstan had no parents to make objections, but she didn’t care much herself for a man who considered wound pension a sufficient income and passed his days hanging around with a loaded revolver. I spent almost half a year trying to become the man she would care for. I had my checkbook locked in Holmes’s drawer. I worked regular hours. And I came home before nine to – who am I trying to fool – curse my wasted evenings.

There were three men I happily called my dearest friends.
The first was Andy Manson, who had shared my work and leisure for years, before lung diseases, which called him to a mining town in South Wales, and field surgery, which sent me to Netley, proved to be very different branches of medicine.
The second was Lt. Gordon Ramsey. I watched him bleeding to death at Maiwand, without literary moving a hand to help on the faint excuse of having a bullet drawn through my own shoulder; the same excuse was used to send me back to England towards pension, private practice, podagra, migraines – and occasional broken ribs as the greatest challenge to my surgical abilities.
And then I met Sherlock Holmes.
He got on my nerves. He never ceased to try my patience. He questioned my mental capacity, my writing skills and even my medical competence. He had no respect to my private affairs. He involved me in all sorts of questionable adventures. He was a walking danger to himself and to people around him. He kept me constantly on guard, and – who am I trying to mock – I enjoyed it.

Three bloody years ago.

I refill my glass to make sure drinking all this will be the only thing I regret tomorrow. Suddenly I am aware of my housekeeper still trying to get back my attention.
“Excuse me, doctor, but he insists”.
“All right.” It takes me some times to realise, whom she refers to. “But if he is not dying, I will make him wish he were”.

He pauses awkwardly at the doorway. I say nothing. I don’t even get up; just study his reflection in the cabinet. He is almost unnaturally thin and pale. There is a fresh scar on his forehead that could have been spared if mended more carefully. And all too familiar mixture of wit, brightness, arrogance and irritability is glittering in his grey eyes.
“Don’t you recognise me, doctor?” he finally says.
“Not until you get rid of that ridiculous muffler of yours, Holmes.” I still don’t turn to face him, puzzled by the childish excitement a part of me is experiencing instead of supposedly reasonable desire to slam the door in front of him. “What the hell brought you here?”
He produces a matter-of-fact grin.
“I missed you.”
“You – what?”
I jump to my unsteady feet.
“Easy, Watson. I had no idea you would be so affected.”
“Don’t flatter yourself. It is merely half a bottle of brandy after a sleepless night.”
“Well, I hope you will be able to collect yourself by noon. I would welcome your assistance more than ever.”
I know I should be exasperated, yet I rather feel like laughing.
“You are truly amazing me, Holmes. You disappeared and never sent me a word in three years. What on earth makes you think I will give everything up and run back to your side as if nothing happened?”
“Because I can see you never got married. I see you didn’t give up your stupid writing even thought you never got anything not featuring me published. I see you abandoned you respectful practice for an underpaid position in a public hospital, which gives you chances to serve occasionally as a police surgeon. I see you follow the crime columns. I see you still keep your revolver at hand.”
Once again I have hard time first not to inquire genuinely how the deuce he figured it all out and then not to try to reconstruct the less obvious parts of his deduction myself, while Holmes goes on with his lecture:
“Seeing all this after you haven’t had to undergo my influence for three years, one doesn’t require any special talents to conclude you want the old days back as badly as I do. You are a gambler, every inch of you, Watson. Challenge runs in your blood, and it was foolish of you indeed to think you would ever be able to suppress its call. Of course, I should have known better too, but don’t you wait for me to apologise, as it is as much your own fault as mine.”
Struggling not to get completely hypnotized by this exceptional flow of eloquence, I put on my best skeptic looks:
“Did it take you three years to come up with that speech?”
“Actually, I was improvising,” he parries without a blink and I feel the shame of my unconsumed insult fall back on me.
“You – are – mad”.
I stride towards him and pull his sleeve up impolitely to check his veins. And I do find multiple puncture-marks, clearly visible but at least a week old. He is in the middle of a case, then, and I have to hold my tongue not to ask what it is.
He pulls his sleeve back and I can see his other hand is bandaged carelessly with a handkerchief.
“So, you are coming with me,” he says.
“Not before I take care of this”.
I push him to my armchair as rude as I can and take the handkerchief off with a sigh.
“Boxing, I assume. Why don’t you grow up, Holmes?”
He catches my wrist and something very like indistinct fear comes into his eyes.
“Are you coming?”
“I will think of it,” I say, giving up my efforts to withhold a smile.
Who am I trying to trick, after all?
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