Love in Idleness

By Marina Monzo

Dedicated to Leah Mena

In many people, idleness is a state which brings unease. It should be said that Sherlock Holmes in one of those people. Upon knowing him these years, I am all too familiar of the effect of inactivity on my dear friend.

I sat down with him, that fateful day in August, in the living area of our Baker Street apartment. Engrosses in a novel, which he had recommended to me, I was startled to hear him exclaim,

"By Jove, Watson, I fear I shall be mad from this before too long!"

Roused from my reading, I looked at him from my place on the couch, and saw him drawn up in his favorite armchair, knees brought to his chest. He was in the perpetual state of moroseness which came over him at these times.

"Six weeks, Watson. Six weeks without a case," he said grimly. "This is London, is it not? Crime is around every corner. Every alley, every wharf, every home. Yet none so great as to be worthy of my skills."

It is quite an ill thing to wish for crime, yet the look on my friend's face had me hoping for, at least, a case of enough magnitude to pull my friend from this dark mood.

I attempted to reassure him. "As you said, it is London. A case, a mystery, will come along…" I trailed off as Holmes withdrew a syringe from a nearby table drawer. He readied his drug as I spoke. "Holmes, I believe that's your second time today. I fear for your health."

He looked up and fixed me with a cold, dark gaze that echoed his state of mind. "I must have stimulation, Watson. All I have without it is…I have monotony. Repetitious, dull, monotony."

You have myself! I thought desperately.

"I cannot live life in idleness," he pronounced.

"Holmes…," I said quietly. It pained me that I, his closest companion, had so little effect on him. "I…you don't need the cocaine."

He looked at me with a grim smile. "An active mind…," he injected the drug into his arm,"…is a sound mind, Watson."

My companion wasn't the sole sufferer in this daily monotony. It affected myself greatly, as well. With no cases to give my mind to, my thoughts stayed on the most confounding mystery I've ever come across-Sherlock Holmes himself, and my feelings for him.. I realized long ago that my feelings were romantic, were of love. He showed no signs of reciprocation, and I believed my feelings held more pain than pleasure for myself with this fact. With nothing to busy myself, save for my own profession, which had been unimpressive as of late, I had only these feelings to return to. These feelings, which would have no release. No way at all to make use of them. It was incredibly difficult to be in love in idleness.

"I'm going for a walk," I stated as I rose from the couch.

"It's a bit dark for a stroll, don't you think?" remarked my friend, who was now looking more energetic as he rifled through the newspapers yet again. Not being buoyed by my own grim thoughts, I gave no reply and set out at too quick a pace, tripping halfway down the stairs.

"All right there?" Sherlock called, having heard my fall.

"Fine, just fine," I said as I left, though I knew this was false. I was not fine. I was hurt not with physical, but emotional pain. I leaned against the front door, preferring to be out in the dark streets of London, rather than face the cold eyes of my companion with my now moist pair. Did my company, and concerns, truly mean so little as to give him no pause in his self-destructive habits? Words have never fallen on such deaf ears! I did not want to think how my love would be processed by that machine of man.

Looking up into the night sky, I realized it was indeed too dark for a walk, especially on these dangerous streets. I headed back inside, and halfway up the stairs heard a dreadful sound. The thud of a rather tall human body hitting the floor. I rushed inside to see my friend on the living room floor; his long limbs sprawled at a gruesome angle.

"Sherlock!" I exclaimed as I rushed to crouch beside him. I immediately felt his neck and wrist for a pulse, and, finding a slow but certain one, I removed the syringe from his arm, and threw it across the room.

I shook him by the shoulders, calling his name repeatedly in an attempt to rouse him. After several excruciating seconds of unresponsiveness, I realized with horror that he wasn't breathing. I knew I had to perform CPR. I straightened his limbs in the correct positions, and tilted his head back as I pressed my mouth against his and breathed into him, ignoring the passionate feelings it gave me. After repeatedly filling his lungs, he awoke with a gasp, rapidly gaining back his deprived breath.

"Thank God," I murmured, panting myself from the exertion.

Sherlock focused his gaze on me and said," No need to cry, Watson. I'm all right, thanks to you."

"Oh," I breathed as I noticed tears were running in profusion down my face. As they left me I knew my other feelings were in need of release as well. "I-I'm fine…I thought you were dead…"

"Watson, why are you crying still, while I am fine?" He asked.

"Because I love you!" I confessed. "I thought you were dead and would have never been able to tell you! I love you, Sherlock Holmes, you-you mechanical, cold, unemotional, brilliant man!" I rubbed my eyes and was astonished to see him laughing. I had expected something like this, but it still hurt and offended me. "My pain amuses you?"

"Watson, I knew!" he said through his laughter.

"Excuse me?"

He sobered." I have known your feelings for quite some time now. Possibly even before you knew them yourself," he explained.

I sighed in exasperation. "How on earth could you have possibly known that I love you, and not say anything about it?"

He smiled confidently. "Knowing you as I do, Watson, I expected it was a matter of time until you accepted it and told me yourself."

"How could you have known the depths of my heart…?"

"Simple deductive process. How you avoid my eyes, and leave the room as I undress, and avoid my touch even when I attempt to aid you. I learned of your affection simply from your attempts to conceal it."

"I see. I should have expected as much," I sighed. "Well, what happens now? Should I begin packing my things now, or-"

I was halted in my words by his lips against mine. I sat in stunned silence as he smiled and rose. He walked over to where the thrown syringe had landed, and stepped on it. It shattered with a satisfying crunch. He faced me and said," I believe that love is rather stimulating to the mind, do you not?"

"I-I-you don't mean…?"

He came to me and declared, "I love you, too, John," and kissed me again.