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Holmes was in a foul mood, jumping from subject to subject and displaying anger at all of them. "And then there is this Conan Doyle, who calls himself a doctor, and yet he —"
I shook my head. Something else was clearly wrong. "Whatever is the matter? ...Is it Mary?" This was always a good guess. Though she had done wonderful things for him-- I do not think it too much to say that she gave back meaning to his life at a point where it seemed to have none-- their close relationship and their similarity in temper meant that she was also capable of affecting him more deeply than I have seen anyone else do.
He scowled horribly, and I knew I had hit on it.
It does not take a Sherlock Holmes to deduce what is likely to happen when a girl who is about to achieve her majority leaves Jane Austen novels lying about, even if said girl is usually hard-headed and devoid of romanticism.
But, judging from the surprise on my friend's face, perhaps it took a John Watson. Holmes has a deep understanding of the dark depths of the human heart, necessary for his profession, but I fear that it has left him no more cognizant of the more ordinary workings of the heart than any other man, and even less comprehending of his own.
"Watson, don't be ridiculous."
I considered my words, how to broach the topic. "Do you ever think, Holmes, that Mary might be forming an attachment to you?"
He looked away from me, frowning. "If this were to be the case, pray tell, what would you expect her to do?" It was an admission of weakness, I knew; anyone else's actions he would have been able to predict easily.
I sighed. "I rather fancy she would take the tack of asking you to marry her," I said. "It would appeal to her-- shall we say-- delight in overturning feminine sensibilities."
"Don't be ridiculous," Holmes snapped. "She is a child."
"Not for much longer," I said quietly. "Holmes, I believe that you need to think about this, at any rate. What will you do if she does ask you?"
"She will not," he almost growled. "She will not!"
He would not speak more on the subject.
*
The next time I saw him, he greeted me with not so much as a salutation, but rather an angry glare: "Watson, what is this I hear of fairies?"
The tone of voice tipped me off at once: it was not like my friend. Sarcasm, I had definitely expected, and maybe some mild scornful humor directed at Conan Doyle. Not this simmering rage. "Holmes, be calm."
"How can I be calm with this travesty--"
I had a fairly good guess as to what underlay his words. "Did Mary--" I started. I did not know how to finish the sentence, but I did not have to; I knew by his stricken face that I had guessed correctly.
"She asked me to marry her last week." He paused. "At least, she was planning to. I headed her off. Told her not to be silly, in so many words." He shook his head. "Watson, you were completely correct in our previous talk, and I understood that as soon as I thought about it. Still, I hoped you were mistaken."
I shut my mouth, sorted through several things to say, and at last settled on, "Well. I too had hoped that it would not come to this."
Holmes paced the room, full of frenetic energy. "I must confess I was not over-gentle with her. I had to head her off before she said something that we would both regret. She is a child. A child who plays at proposing marriage."
"Holmes," I said gently, "she is not a child. Not any longer."
He deflated suddenly. "No. And therein lies the problem." He rubbed the bridge of his nose with his thumb. "But she will not pursue the matter-- not now. I have seen to that."
"But it is now a constant struggle, with it out in the open," I said.
He scowled. "I would not make her a subservient wife, though sometimes the danger she puts herself in tempts me greatly. But equally I will not be yoked to the immature whims of a child. And she herself — she is young. She does not have the requisite experience to make such a decision — "
I said dryly, "I shouldn't worry that she hasn't tried to sample what else is out in the world." I am not nearly as good at sleuthing or disguising as Mary, but I am a medical doctor, and if I could not ferret out the truth from the questions and concerns of a patient, what sort of doctor would I be? Mary's marked increase in questions regarding, for instance, the transmittance of certain types of disease, though she had attempted to couch them in academic language, had not gone unnoticed.
Holmes raised his eyebrows, but to my relief, said nothing.
"You are--"
"I am a fool!" he flared, and then made a visible effort to regain his composure.
"You are afraid," I said, watching him closely. "You are afraid of biasing your judgment. You are afraid of losing what you have with her, the partnership, the friendship, the — yes, I will say it — the love that has grown up between you."
"Watson," said Holmes, the corner of his mouth quirking up very slightly, "I am beginning to think that it is extremely dangerous to allow a medical man to perform deductions on one's emotions."
"Holmes," I said gently, "you told me the same thing before I married my own dear Mary. I told you then that I trusted my judgment would survive the ordeal. Has it?"
His lips quirked. "How can I say it has not, when you show me your judgment is far better than mine? And yet —" His voice was so soft I almost could not hear. "If ever I give in to her, even once, I shall-- I shall-- there will be no turning back. And so I must say nothing."
I protested, "that is not at all fair to Mary, considering that you were the one who--"
Holmes turned, and his eyes were bleak. "I know, Watson. I am not saying that it is right. But if I... There are limits, Watson. There are things I cannot do. And I am telling you that I cannot bring it up, because if I do I will pressure her one way or another, and that I will not do. I cannot taint her path to happiness. I will not do it."
I said, "Then... if Mary herself asked again?"
"If she does ask again, I shall consider her to have grown up enough to merit a real answer." Holmes looked at me with a glint of humor in his eyes. "And yes, Watson, should that day ever come-- which I doubt-- I shall endeavor to myself act in such a fashion as to merit receiving such a question."
Dear Mary, though she is much quicker than I at many things, can sometimes be so secure in her cleverness as to be rather obtuse as well. I was certain that she did not suspect Holmes and I had talked about her, and she did not even blink at my assertion that Holmes had been terribly unhappy about the fairies, complete with the inference that it was all we had talked about. She does not always know Holmes as well as she thinks she does--although I think it not improbable that she will come to know him rather better yet.