Sherlock Holmes- A Study in Blood

Chapter 3

"The friend who can be silent with us in a moment of despair or confusion, who can stay with us in an hour of grief and bereavement, who can tolerate not knowing... not healing, not curing... that is a friend who cares."  ~Henri J. M. Nouwen

Sherlock Holmes sat in one of the large armchairs of Watson's office one rather chilly morning in November, pretending to be interested in the newspaper spread out before him as he smoked his pipe.  Normally, he would have devoured the information he gathered from the paper, piecing together clues and solving crimes before anyone else realized they'd been committed.  But not this morning.  This morning he was focused on the room up the stairs where Dr. John Watson was helping Mary bring their child into the world a month earlier than previously expected.  Holmes tapped his foot impatiently and blew a stream of smoke past his lips. How long was such an event supposed to take, anyway?  He had been informed of the impending miracle at precisely 4:17 this morning.  It was now exactly 5:42 in the evening.  Mary's occasional cries and screams of pain still pierced the air, always followed by the low comforting tone of Watson's voice as he soothed his wife.  Holmes could only imagine the anxiety his friend was experiencing.  He did not envy him.

Suddenly, Mary was silent and the sound of a baby's cry floated through the air.  Holmes could not help but smile.  Just a little.  Whether from the joy he felt upon the child's highly anticipated arrival, or from the hilarity of Watson becoming a father, he was not entirely sure.  Nevertheless, he left the lonely office to meet Watson at the stairway, assuming his friend would come down soon to make his proud announcement.  As expected, Watson emerged from the bedroom and appeared at the top of the stairs.  But this was not the Watson Holmes was expecting to see.  There was no ridiculous smile spread across his face.  No joy alighting his eyes.  No spring in his step.   There was no laughter on his lips.   Instead, his face was frighteningly pale.   Paler than Holmes had ever seen it.   His eyes were dull and glazed over.  His hair stood up in all different directions as if he had been pulling on it all day.  And as he took slow, deliberate steps towards his friend, he seemed alarmingly weak.   "Good God, man," Holmes said with concern lining his voice, "what is it?"

Watson gripped the banister so hard his knuckles turned white.  But the room was spinning, he had to hold onto something to keep himself upright.  His knees shook and threatened to give out beneath him with every step he took.  He looked down at Holmes, his vision blurred slightly by unshed tears.  He heard him ask what was wrong, but he sounded so very far away.  One more step and the world went blessedly dark.

Holmes sprang into action when his friend fell unconscious, taking him up in his arms with a strength he was truthfully a bit surprised to find he possessed, especially considering the old wound in his shoulder that still caused him pain.  He carried him back up the stairs and placed him in the bed he himself had been occupying the past few nights.   Mrs. Hudson, who had been fetched by Sherlock himself upon Watson's request early this morning to assist with the birth, stood in the doorway when he turned back around.  "Oh, the poor dear," she sighed, looking at Watson's still form.

At that moment, the baby cried again from the room down the hall.  And suddenly, it all became clear to Holmes.   Mary's sudden silence.  Watson's collapse.  The baby's persistent cry.  The Mrs. Dr. Watson had died in childbirth.

Though he had never particularly cared for children, finding very little use for them, Holmes discovered he was quiet curious about the wailing thing in the next room.  Stepping past Mrs. Hudson, he followed the sound to the bedroom formerly occupied by such a happy couple.  Now, it felt like a tomb.  Upon seeing Mary's body, Holmes all but lost his breath.  A corpse was no new sight to him, but this...  He gripped the bed's bannister for support and shut his eyes.  Although their relationship had always been, shall we say, rocky at best, Holmes knew how happy she had made Watson.  And he knew how much the good Doctor had loved his wife.  To lose her would surely take it's toll on him.  After all, having the woman you loved cruelly taken from you was not an unfamiliar pain to Sherlock Holmes.

He opened his eyes, coming around the side of the bed to tenderly take her limp, cold hand in his.  "Rest well now, my dear.  I will watch over them for you.  Have no fear.  Be at peace."

He then turned his attention to the corner of the room.   The daughter of John and Mary Watson lay in a small bassinet, clothed only in a cloth diaper and wrapped loosely in a white blanket.  She kicked her legs and held two tiny fists up by her face as she continued to cry.  Holmes cocked his head to one side as he examined the tiny thing.  While knowledgeable about a great many things, caring for a child was not one of them.  And since Watson was currently incapable of doing so at the moment, Holmes took it upon himself to comfort the infant.  "Well," he said to the baby girl, "it's rather cold in here, don't you think?"  At the mere sound of his voice, the screams faded to mere whimpers.   Pleased with this, Holmes continued, "Yes, as do I.  Shall we go somewhere where it is a bit more comfortable?"

Unsure of just quite how to best move her, he simply decided to pick up the bassinet and carry it downstairs to Watson's office where he started a fire.  Sitting in the chair he had been in previously, he pulled the bassinet closer and rested his arms on the edge, peering down at the baby.   "There we are," he said, reaching in to ever so carefully tuck the blanket around her little body, "isn't that better?"  She started to cry again.  Holmes groaned.  "Whatever could possibly be the matter now? You know, you haven't nearly been alive long enough to have so much to cry over, my dear."

But cry she did.   And it was then that Holmes had an idea.  "Stay right there," he said, before dashing back up the stairs and retrieving his violin.  Coming back down to the office, he stood over the bassinet and began to play a traditional lullaby.  The notes were long and flowing, and they floated through the melancholy house.  Mrs. Hudson heard him and left Dr. Watson's side for just a moment to investigate.  She watched from the stairway as Holmes swayed with the swells and dips of the music he played for the baby who now slept soundly.  She shook her head and a small smile touched her lips.  Just when she thought she had that man all figured out.

When Holmes realized she had finally stopped crying and had given herself up to sleep, he placed the violin down on a table and leaned over the bassinet again.  When she was not screaming, she was actually quite an attractive child.  Light blonde curls covered her head.   Her cheeks were flushed pink and her lips were the perfect shade of red.  She yawned suddenly and squirmed a bit before settling back down into dreamland.  Holmes found himself smiling in spite of himself.   Perhaps there was something useful about a baby after all.

This particular one, anyway.

*~*~*

The young widower, Dr. John Watson, stepped forth from the small crowd to place the first shovel of dirt on his late wife's grave, his face seemingly void of any emotion at all.   But one only needed to look a bit closer to see in his tortured and tear filled eyes a heart heavily burdened with sorrow.  His jaw was clenched tight against the cry of anguish that lingered in his throat and tore at his chest as he determinedly poured the soil on top of Mary Watson's coffin, gripping the shovel tightly to prevent himself from shaking.

As they walked away from the grave site after the service, the small baby girl in Mrs. Hudson's arms began to wail pitifully.  Sherlock Holmes looked from the poor thing being comforted by Mrs. Hudson and back to Watson.  His friend's gaze did not even waver at the sound of his daughter's cry, and he kept his stormy eyes focused on the wagon that would take them to their new- old residence, 221 Baker Street.  It had been decided that Watson and the young Miss Watson would move back into the flat in Mrs. Hudson's home with Holmes.   Between preparing for the move and Mary's funeral, Dr. Watson had yet to hold his daughter, barely even having the time to acknowledge her existence.  Therefore, Holmes, with much help from Mrs. Hudson, had been the primary caregiver for the little girl.  Holmes wondered, rather, he hoped Watson would embrace his role as the child's father now that things were beginning to settle down again.   Holmes was not sure how long he would last as the sensible one.