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SECRETS
We all have secrets we do not want to share. We see things, we feel things, we do things – and some things are not meant to be seen, felt or done. And sometimes we wish these things had not happened or that we had not been involved or that we simply could undo what happened. Sometimes these secrets are so strong that they tear us apart. Once in a while these secrets are overwhelming and we protect ourselves by pretending that we don’t know about them. We forget.
In the Great Scheme of Things, the secrets of my childhood do not seem very important now. They’re conveniently gone, like youth itself, I suppose. New secrets have replaced them. Some of them are crippling. Why, I wonder, did I choose to walk with a cane when in Reality I did not need it? Something to do with the war, my therapist agreed with me. But now, years later, I feel certain that the secrets of my youth had come back to haunt me in the War, making me an inefficient soldier at best and a coward at worst. And yet – was I ever a coward? I hardly think so, but who knows? Who remembers? Secrets do.
No one is immune. The greatest man I have ever known, Sherlock Holmes, had his own secrets. They protected him against the unseen forces he spent his life fighting. To this day I believe he was not consciously aware of them and I believe he chose the vocation of consulting detective as a defense against haunting or crippling memories. It really doesn’t matter, I suppose. He was vital and energetic and effective, and the social inadequacies he possessed did not possess him. Few people who knew him would agree with me. He turned people away emotionally, caring only for his own interests and his own company. Except for me. I was the lucky one.
I entered into the whirlwind of his existence at a time, I believe, when he finally was beginning to admit to himself that he was human, and, in fact, did need to seek the company of others. All through childhood, his education years, and his early adulthood he had preferred to be alone. But at the age of 30, suddenly Sherlock Holmes chose to take on a roommate. I was elected. I didn’t know it at the time, but Sherlock was extremely well fixed financially. He told me we could afford a nice place on Baker Street if we pooled our resources, but I found out later that he could easily have afforded to buy the entire block if he so wished. Why a roommate – and why me? The answer is he was lonely. And I reminded him of himself in some ways. But it was more than that. It had to be.
If you followed the blog I continuously wrote when Sherlock was alive and solving cases (with me as his assistant), you are already aware of his abilities and you are as aware as I was of the relationship we shared. So I won’t bore you with repetition. (If you wish, you will be able to find these blogs historically documented in public domain for many years to come.) The purpose of this manuscript is to make you aware of some of the things that you didn’t know – because I didn’t know when I was writing – about Sherlock Holmes the man. Sherlock Holmes the person, the person who had a heart just like the rest of us, no matter how hard he tried to keep it Secret.
Sherlock has now passed on – a natural and “permanent” death this time, unlike the first time. He died peacefully, with me at his side, after having attained the age of 80. His life was well spent and more worthwhile than that of anyone I have ever known. I miss him terribly and I cherish every memory, both good and bad. They were all Sherlock, and he was my friend.
Since no doubt I will soon be following him in this final endeavor, as I did in all our life enterprises, it is time to document this story. The only requirement (which will be handled by my solicitors) is that this story must not come to public attention until at least ten years after my death. It is my wish that Sherlock’s memory must be honored in the finest possible way, and hopefully the passing of some time will allow that to happen. That is my only stipulation.
This then is my story of Sherlock Holmes the man. Not the great detective with the phenomenal brain and the almost superhuman powers of observation, but rather the frail, fractured, all-too-human being. On one occasion, and only one occasion, he willingly revealed to me the depth of the emotions that he really felt (and normally refused to admit), as well as some small background that might explain those emotions. I hasten to point out that he was under no obligation to do so. He did not need to bribe me to friendship as I was completely devoted to him by then and had felt great love for him for some time already. I will never really know why he chose to do it. But for all these years I have felt honored beyond belief that Sherlock Holmes picked me for his friend and chose to open his heart to me. And I will feel that way to my dying day.
It happened two weeks after his re-appearance from the “dead.” As is well-documented, Sherlock needed to convince Jim Moriarity’s hired assassins that he had perished after admitting that he was a “fake.” His “suicide” was done very convincingly and the assassins were, indeed, called off. Since Moriarity himself had died, I assume the assassins collected their pay and forgot all about eliminating Mrs. Hudson, DI Lestrade, and myself. Sherlock, who was apparently very active during his disappearance, later incapacitated them. (During the year and a half that Sherlock spent in hiding, he also managed to eliminate or incapacitate much of Moriarity’s crime network, a tremendous boon for Britain.) Also as is well documented, his re-appearance to me, who truly believed him to be dead, provoked some very strong emotions in me. I will never forget the incredible wave of relief and joy that seemed to wash over my entire body as I saw him standing whole and alive in front of me. I can still see his face with the genuinely happy smile, and I remember him taking a couple of steps in my direction. After that, the memories are not clear. The joy I had reveled in for a few seconds evaporated and an intense rage replaced it. I had never felt this kind of anger – I was not able to focus on anything other than to punish Sherlock for the personal hell he had put me through during that year and a half I thought he was dead. As he moved toward me, I lunged at him and attacked him. I attacked my friend.
The rest is a blur. I punched him to the ground, jumped on him and hit him again repeatedly. I wound my hands around his neck and attempted to strangle him. Apparently (and this is hard to believe, but it’s true) I actually raised him to his feet by his shoulders and then attacked him in the solar plexus. When I knocked his head into the fireplace mantle, he fell to the ground. I yelled “Get up!” but he did not.
My rage was so intense that I do not actually remember these things, and I do not care to try to remember. The reason I am able to relate the incident so accurately was that Sherlock had placed a camera in the flat ahead of time, supposedly to film the happy homecoming. It wasn’t until many years later that I was able to work up the courage to view the filming, and I did so with a great feeling of shame. It’s difficult to believe that I was capable of such violence, particularly against the only person I have ever loved. Or perhaps that is the reason. No matter. This story is not about my emotions. It is about Sherlock’s.
The film revealed that I hovered over Sherlock for a short while. When he did not rise, I incredibly chose to remove myself from the room, rather than act as his physician and tend to his wounds. Shame after shame! The film showed that immediately upon my departure, Sherlock slowly rose. He attempted to straighten himself to his full height, but found it was too painful. He groaned and it was clear he was in some pain. He removed himself to his old bedroom. The camera continued to run, but he turned off the light.
The next morning I awoke in my own familiar bedroom, dazed, sore and a little confused. The anger lingered, though mostly dissipated. I recalled a vague outline of the situation: Sherlock had appeared to me here at 221B after I believed him to be dead. My first response was supreme joy, and this was immediately replaced by the anger I felt at having been deceived by someone so special to me. I remembered we fought physically. I was sore from throwing punches and connecting, but felt no other pain. Looking in the mirror, I was able to ascertain that I had no bruises whatsoever on my body. There was only one conclusion to draw: Sherlock had not fought back! (The film I viewed years later proved this to be true.)
I made my way to the kitchen and was astonished to see Sherlock sitting at the table! Somehow I had not expected him to remain. It was no longer his home, after all, and, besides, I somewhat thought I might have imagined the whole incident. And yet, there he was, big as life, just like in the old days and with a smile on his face. A crooked smile, because one side of his face was swollen. Both his eyes had been blackened, he was slightly bent forward and one of his wrists was bandaged, but clearly he had managed to clean himself up and tend to his own wounds. And smile for me.
Amazingly, he asked me, “Feeling better?”
Sherlock Holmes never ceased to astound me, but seldom had I been more astonished at anything he said than at that moment. After I had inflicted serious damage on him, after I had ruined what he clearly had hoped for as a happy homecoming, after I had let him down as his friend, he still asked me how I was doing! Many things went through my mind before I answered, most of them teeming with guilt. And yet I knew with certainty that my rage had not been manufactured, that it had been an appropriate response to what I had viewed as – well – treason! I determined not to show the guilt that nagged me.
“Why are you alive, Sherlock?” The acidity was a bit too present in my voice. I vowed to do better.
“Sit down, John, I made you coffee.”
“I don’t want your coffee,” I said, eyeing up the steaming cup longingly. I hovered for a moment in a position of superiority, but the aroma of the beverage got the better of me. I sat and sipped. It was good, made just the way I liked it. Instantly my sore muscles seemed to relax. Was the coffee the cause? Or was it something else?
“I owe you an explanation, John, and . . . “
“You owe me a lot more than that!” I snapped at him.
“Yes, I know, and I intend to make it up to you.” Sherlock’s smile had disappeared, but I detected nothing less than pure affection and admiration in his tone. I searched his face for confirmation, but it was badly battered and offered few clues. I cringed. In the presence of the great man I so revered, it was becoming difficult to remain distant. Surprisingly, I found that all I really wanted to do was embrace him and thank the Heavens that he was still alive, whatever the reason, but I chose to remain icy and true to myself. After all, for the last year and a half, he had been gone and I was all I had.
He had chosen to be gone.
I glared at him.
Sherlock sighed deeply. “John, I didn’t actually die that day . . .”
“No kidding.”
Mercifully, Sherlock ignored my iciness. I was even beginning to annoy myself.
“John, it was a ruse and it was carefully planned. Moriarity was an admirable antagonist and had brilliantly set me up for extinction. I found myself in the untenable position of defending myself. There was nothing to do but jump. It was exactly what Moriarity expected. He had prepared for it and was so confident that I would kill myself that he chose that moment to end his own life. He had nothing else to live for. But I did!”
At this point he paused for a drink of coffee, never taking his gaze off me. I began to feel uneasy but did not recognize the reason.
“All you had to do, Sherlock, was not jump. Right? If Moriarity was already dead, what could possibly have possessed you to go through with it? You could have come down to ground level – the elevator, that is – and we could have talked it out. Made plans. Let the world know you weren’t the fake Moriarity seemed to have convinced you that you were. Because I always knew . . . “ I was choking up. Time to find the iciness again.
“Yes, John, you always believed in me. I knew that. I had to play with your mind to make you believe that I thought of myself as a fake. The phone conversation we had was my suicide note, intended ostensibly to convince you, and thereby the rest of the world. And you came through like a champ. For which I must thank you.”
“I don’t want to think about that phone call.” I looked away, finding it harder and harder to keep my voice steady. “It was . . . sad . . .”
“It saved your life, John.”
I stared at him, open-mouthed, I’m afraid.
Sherlock sighed again. He set down his coffee cup. “I trust you, John, with my life. You’ve always come through for me. And I owed you the same courtesy. That’s why I did what I did.” He stopped talking, looking to me for encouragement, but I was working hard at remaining cold. He continued, “On the rooftop, Moriarity confirmed what I had anticipated – that he had planted his assassins in positions to immediately eradicate you, and Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade. If I did not jump. If I had simply walked away from that rooftop, all three of you would have been killed. Instantly.”
I suddenly felt my blood run cold. Was Sherlock telling the truth? Of course he was. I braced myself for the rest.
“John, that phone call to you was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do. The jump – the jump was nothing compared to that call. I had pre-arranged for a lorry to be placed with cushioning in the bed and I jumped directly into that. Molly and I had procured a body similar to mine prior to the rooftop incident and that was unceremoniously dumped on the sidewalk in place of me. I was safely driven away, and you were left to validate my jump. And to mourn my loss.” He stopped talking and slowly reached for the coffee. I believed I detected tears in his eyes, but perhaps they were my own.
We were both silent for a moment. I digested this new information. If this was true, then Sherlock almost died. To save my life. And the lives of two other people who were important to him. Was this consistent with the Sherlock Holmes I remembered? Maybe. Maybe not. But maybe. I just didn’t know! Like I had a thousand times before, I wished to God it had never happened. I looked up at Sherlock. He was very quiet and studying me intently. Then with a start, I suddenly remembered something he had just said.
“Sherlock, what did you mean when you said that phone call was the hardest thing you’ve ever done?”
He looked away. “I did not . . . I mean, I had not anticipated . . .how much . . .” He stopped talking.
An idea was beginning to form in my mind. I wanted the opportunity to allow it to take shape. But first there was something I had to do.
I reached out to touch Sherlock Holmes. On the shoulder, a benign nurturing contact. He recoiled slightly from the touch and I wondered what the reason might be. A new look of pain had quickly crossed his face so my conclusion was that I had somehow injured him in that area as well as all the others. Again I felt the supreme guilt that had plagued me through our entire conversation.
But I felt more than that. An almost palpable wave of relief washed through my body. I knew now for certain that Sherlock was alive. I had seen him, I had talked with him, and now I had touched him! This was no trick! Sherlock was alive! I sat back down and firmly set my jaw. I was almost overcome. I felt like weeping and did not want to do so in his presence. I closed my eyes and forced myself to concentrate on the idea that was forming in my mind.
The room was silent for a few minutes. Other friends may feel uncomfortable with this lack of conversation, but Sherlock and I had never been ill at ease in each other’s presence. I was grateful for this as I needed this time to collect myself.
I was about to speak when I heard him say, “John . . .” in a very small voice.
I cleared my throat. “Yes?”
“Do you have any questions you need answered?”
I looked at him, this great friend of mine. My heart went out to him as I remembered again how I had hurt him physically and how he had not fought back. I thought back through the times we had shared, the adventures he had shown me how to enjoy. I remembered the laughs and the insults and the times he had made me angry enough to leave the flat. I knew he was a human being and other people had never known this. I knew it because he allowed me to know it. For the thousandth time I thanked God that Sherlock Holmes had chosen me as his friend. How grateful I felt! My heart was ready to burst with the joy of knowing he was alive and at the same time I still felt the rage that came from him intentionally allowing me to think he was dead for all these months. How could one human being incite all these conflicting emotions?
But there was one thing of which I was very, very certain – I loved this human being.
It would mean everything in the world to me to know that I was loved in return. But this was Sherlock Holmes. And that would never happen.
The idea that had been nagging inside my head suddenly came to the forefront. There was one thing I wanted and it was suddenly incredibly clear how I could attain it.
“Will you do something for me, Sherlock?”
He looked relieved. “Anything you ask.”
“Anything?”
“Yes. I owe you that.”
I took a deep breath. “There are questions I want answered. And it is very important to me that they are answered honestly.”
“I will be honest.”
“I want to be sure. I want to ask you to go one step further.”
“Meaning . . .?” He looked confused.
“I want to have you hypnotized and I want to ask you questions under hypnosis.”
As I expected, this surprised him. He drew his breath in slowly before answering. “Are you sure? You may not like what you hear.”
This caused the first smile of the day for me. “No matter. There are things I want to know about you. Things that I don’t think even you are aware of, so you could never really answer consciously. This is the only way I can think of that might work. Or it might not work, either. Not everyone can be hypnotized.”
“Is this truly what you want, John?”
“Yes, it is.” He stared at me and seemed to be mulling it over. When he didn’t say any more, I asked him, “What do you want, Sherlock?”
“I want our relationship to resume where we left off, exactly as it was.”
This surprised me a little as I hadn’t actually thought such a thing was possible. But of course it was exactly what I wanted, also. Very much. I asked him, “Do you trust me?”
“With my life.” This was spoken so emphatically and sincerely that I felt my eyes burn.
“Then will you do it?”
“For you, yes. With one stipulation.”
“Which is . . .?”
“I never want to know what you find out. Promise me that.”
The deep meaning and intensity of this statement stunned me. I stood and turned my back to him, not wanting him to see my face. There was a catch in my voice as I said, “Right, I’ll promise that. When I go in to the clinic tomorrow, I will ask around for a recommendation on a qualified hypnotherapist.” I began walking to my room. Over my shoulder I said, “Thank you.” If he responded, I did not hear.
It was two weeks before our appointment with the hypnotherapist came up. It took place in her office in London. Her name was Casey, and she was very, very nice. I liked her demeanor immediately and it was clear that she did not appear to be much of a threat to Sherlock, even though she was a woman. Sherlock’s facial lacerations and contusions had mostly cleared and he had long since removed the wrist bandage. Not long after our conversation that fateful morning, I had insisted on examining him. I was his physician, after all, and demanded his cooperation, which he grudgingly granted. My conclusions were that there were no serious injuries and that he had done a professional job of attending to his wounds. He was Sherlock, after all. The irony of the situation did not escape me – I had inflicted the wounds and treated them. Why would Sherlock still want me as a friend?
The hypnotist insisted on informality. We were to call her Casey. She chatted for a brief while about benign subjects, a technique used to put average people at ease. This worked on average me, but I noticed Sherlock seemed to be tensing slightly with the delay. I changed the topic to the pending hypnotism itself and we discussed the ground rules. Casey explained the basic procedure. Sherlock wanted us to know that this was not to be hypnotherapy, but just a hypnotic state under which I, his trusted friend, may ask any questions I want. This will be the one and only time he will allow this procedure, he made it clear. Casey then informed Sherlock that all questions had to be spoken by her, which he did not like but accepted. I was aware of this fact and had spent the fortnight preparing and writing down things for her to ask. Casey was sworn to secrecy, unnecessary since she was a licensed professional, but Sherlock insisted. I agreed; I wanted to make this as easy on Sherlock as possible. My only goal was to find out more about this complicated person I cared so deeply about. I had no ulterior motives.
I insisted on recording the entire process, a valuable tool to guard against forgetting in the future. The camera was focused on Sherlock but all three of us appeared in the picture. As a result, the text that follows is essentially a transcript of what happened.
As the three of us settled in and made ourselves comfortable, I gave my friend one more chance to change his mind. “Sherlock, do you trust me?”.
“Yes.” Sherlock looked at me. I could tell my concern relaxed him slightly. It was very clear to me that he would never have allowed such a procedure for anyone else in the world and I would not betray his trust for anything. I nodded at Casey to begin.
The last thing Sherlock said before his hypnotic state was, “Remember your promise, John.”
I had spent the last two weeks carefully wording the questions I would ask and writing them in a small notebook, which I took care to keep on my person at all times. Sherlock had said he did not want to know what the questions were to be, but even an accidental glance at them might sway his subconscious. I wanted honest answers; he led me to believe he wanted that for me as well. At this point I found that I was beginning to feel nervous. Anxious for the session to begin, but, conversely, afraid. I looked to Sherlock. He nodded.
I checked the camera and handed Casey my questions. She glanced at them and raised her eyebrows. She then began her induction technique.
Casey spoke in a clear soft monotone. She explained to Sherlock how he could feel the little muscles around his eyes and that he should imagine them relaxing. Every word seemed to be well chosen and she asked Sherlock to agree with her at each step of the way, which he did. Clearly he was a willing participant. Each time he spoke, his voice was thicker and slower. The next step of the induction was what Casey referred to as a wave of relaxation, commanding Sherlock to sink into this relaxation deeper and deeper. She repeated the relaxing words, and with each repetition, Sherlock’s head lowered a little more until his eyes were completely closed and his chin was resting on his chest. At this point Casey tested Sherlock’s relaxed state by holding his hand. In a normal state Sherlock would have reacted sharply to such contact, but he did not seem to be aware of what was happening. I smiled; Casey was convincing me. She asked Sherlock to count backward from 100 in his mind. He had stopped responding to her with his voice and she seemed to expect this. His breathing evened out and he seemed to be sleeping.
“This is what we want. We’ll start with a couple test questions,” she said softly to me. Turning to Sherlock, she asked, “What is your name?”
We saw Sherlock’s lips move but neither of us heard his quiet answer. Casey said, “Please speak louder. I cannot hear you.”
“Sherlock Holmes.” This time it was louder and clear enough for us to understand, although I had to admit it seemed that Sherlock’s voice had somehow altered. He spoke more slowly than usual and in a tone that I can only describe as “dreamy.” I was now absolutely convinced that the hypnotic state was complete.
“Do you have a middle name?”
“No.”
“How old are you?”
“Thirty-two years, ten months, eleven days, fourteen hours, thirty-nine minutes and five seconds.”
Casey shot me a look. I shrugged. She obviously didn’t know who this Sherlock Holmes guy was. I chuckled to myself.
“Sherlock, I am going to ask you some questions. You are to answer honestly and completely. You are very relaxed and your answers to these questions will cause you little or no stress. It will feel good to answer honestly. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
For some reason, his simple response caused a protective reaction in me. I was aware what the questions would be and he was not. Here was the great Sherlock Holmes, completely helpless and with his fate in the hands of a total stranger. If someone wanted to hurt him now, physically or emotionally, he could offer no defense. I felt the urge to jump up and check to make sure the doors and windows were locked. I wanted to check Casey’s diplomas – again. I wanted to say something to Sherlock to reassure him. All this, I realized, was my guilt working against me. Sherlock had, after all, agreed to this and entered into the hypnosis willingly. He did this for me because he was my friend. I must do everything in my power to protect him. But, for my own peace of mind, I must not interrupt the process. Several times during the hypnosis I had to fight down the impulse to call it off.
“Do you feel good, Sherlock?”
“Yes.”
“I am going to ask you some questions that will be answered with something other than yes or no. How do you feel, Sherlock?”
“Good.”
“That’s fine.” Casey glanced at my question list. “Sherlock, we are going to go back in time. We are going to return to your childhood. We have returned to your early childhood. Can you tell me one of your earliest memories?”
“I am sitting in a high chair looking out the window.”
“What do you see out the window?”
“I see Poppy coming up the walk. I look for him every day at this time.”
“Is this a good memory for you, Sherlock? Remember to be honest about all your memories; it does not matter if they are good or bad.”
“Poppy makes me happy.”
“How old are you there, Sherlock?”
“Three years, two months, . . . “
“Never mind, that’s enough. Do you see your mother in this memory?”
Sherlock hesitated. Then: “Yes. She is sitting at the table talking to Mycroft.”
“Who is Mycroft?”
I whispered, “That’s his brother,” but Sherlock also said, “My brother.”
“OK, and how old is . . . wait, never mind. What are your brother and your mother talking about?”
Sherlock seemed confused. “I don’t know.”
“OK. What happens when Poppy comes in the house?”
Sherlock smiled. “I’m happy. Poppy brings me a sweet. He talks to me and tells me he loves me.” Suddenly his smile faded.
“Now what is happening, Sherlock?”
Sherlock looked agitated. “Mummy and Poppy are arguing. They’re unhappy. They yell at each other. They go into the other room. Mycroft hides under the table; then he runs out the door. I am alone.”
“Are you alone much in your childhood, Sherlock?”
“Yes, much.”
I felt a lump in my throat and, not for the first or last time that day, my heart went out to my friend. Casey spent a moment studying the question list again before continuing. “We’re going to go ahead a few years now, Sherlock. Leave your early childhood behind and now remember your early years in school. Picture yourself in school at your school desk. What are you doing?”
“I am standing beside my desk reciting ‘Snowbound.’”
“By Whittier? As a child?!”
Sherlock smiled. “It was the longest poem I knew and the teacher was being boring so I decided to take over the class.”
“But how old . . . never mind. Let’s just . . . let’s just go to your home after school that same day. What is happening there?”
Sherlock’s smile abruptly disappeared. “Mummy’s talking to Mycroft. When I come in, they stop. They always stop whatever they are doing when I walk in.”
“I see. Where is Poppy?”
Sherlock hesitated before answering. “He is gone.”
Casey changed her voice tone to empathize. Softly, she said, “Where do you think Poppy is, Sherlock?”
“I don’t know. He left.”
“When did he leave?”
“He left when I was four years . . .”
“He left when you were four years old? Where did he go?”
“I don’t know.”
“Why did he leave?”
“I don’t know.”
“Was Poppy unhappy?”
“He was unhappy with Mummy.”
“Sherlock, I’m going to ask you questions that can be answered with any words you want. You must be honest. Even if the honest answer does not feel good, it will feel better than if you lie to me or to yourself. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“Did you love your Poppy?”
Sherlock hesitated for a moment. I saw a pained expression cross his face and a single tear fall from his closed eyes. I noticed that he gripped the chair arms. My own heart ached. I wanted to do something to comfort him but forced myself to control my actions and be professional.
“Yes,” Sherlock barely whispered.
“Did you love your Mummy?”
Another hesitation and change of expression. This time he looked angry. “No.”
“I see. Was there anyone else in your childhood you loved?”
“No.”
Casey looked at me with a sad expression. I looked away.
“Sherlock, we’re going to go somewhere else now. We’re going to go to a place in your childhood where you had an unhappy time. A very unhappy time. Can you tell me where that is?”
Sherlock fidgeted in his chair and said nothing.
“Sherlock, why are you not answering me?”
“I’m trying to choose.”
This seemed to be surprising to Casey. She hesitated a moment. I confess I needed that moment to control my own emotions.
“All right, I see. Let me help you choose. Please choose the time in your childhood that was the most unhappy. Take your time, and remember that it will feel better to talk about it than to keep it inside. Tell me how old you were, just the number of years. The most unhappy time of all.”
Sherlock looked very agitated. But he talked as commanded. “I was twelve years. My calculus teacher liked me. . .”
“Did you like your calculus teacher?”
“No. But Mr. Roykin said he liked me. I was the best student.”
“Why was that an unhappy time for you?”
“Mr. Roykin did favors for me. But I didn’t want special favors. . . “ Sherlock stopped talking. He looked agitated and I noticed his forehead starting to gleam with perspiration. I was afraid to hear what was coming.
“Go on, Sherlock,” Casey urged gently.
“I . . . I . . .”
“Remember, nothing can hurt you here. You are safe and you will feel better if you talk about it.”
“I . . . He . . .”
“Go on.”
“He . . . touched me.”
Casey didn’t miss a beat. Her voice was very calming. “Where did he touch you?”
“In his office. After school hours.”
“OK, in his office. But, I meant where did he touch you on your body?”
“He grabbed my shoulder. Like he did with the boys who misbehaved, except I didn’t misbehave. And he touched my face. My lips . . .”
“OK, Sherlock, I understand. Tell me what you did when he touched you.”
“I ran away from him. I ran home. No one else was home and it felt safe.”
“That’s fine, Sherlock, you did fine. Did Mr. Roykin do this to you ever again?”
“No. I asked to test out of the calculus class. I did not want to see him again.”
“You did fine. Now, do you know where this Mr. Roykin is today? In today’s time?”
“Yes.”
“Where is he today?”
“He died seven years ago and is buried in North Cemetery.”
“All right, I understand. Does it feel better now that you have told me about Mr. Roykin?”
“Yes.”
“Mr. Roykin can never hurt you or make you unhappy ever again. Do you understand that?”
“Yes.”
“Now let’s . . .” I touched Casey’s arm as a signal for her to stop. That incident had clearly been hard for Sherlock to recall but it had been even harder for me to hear it. If I needed a minute to recover, I could only imagine how Sherlock felt. But Casey shook her head and indicated my friend. When I looked at Sherlock again, he was sitting passively and quietly. The perspiration had disappeared. Apparently he did indeed feel better after talking about it. I deferred to the specialist.
Casey consulted the list again. “Sherlock, we are going to travel to the present day. But before we do, I want to ask you about your brother Mycroft.” She turned to me. “Is he still alive?” I nodded.
“OK, Sherlock, I want to ask you about what Mycroft meant to you when you were a child. Did you have what you considered a normal brother-brother relationship with him?”
“I don’t know.”
“Why don’t you know?”
“I don’t know what a normal relationship is.”
She looked to me and I nodded a sort of confirmation. She continued. “That’s OK, Sherlock. Just tell me about the relationship you had with Mycroft. Say anything you want. It’s safe to say what you want.”
“We didn’t like each other.”
“Go on, that’s not enough. Tell me more.”
“Mummy liked Mycroft.”
“And Poppy liked you. Is that it?”
“Yes.”
“You said Poppy loved you. Did Mummy love Mycroft?”
“No. Mummy didn’t love anyone. Poppy loved me.”
“Was there jealousy between you and Mycroft?”
“Yes, much.”
“Did your brother ever do anything to hurt you in any way?”
“No.”
“Do you love him? Does he love you?”
“No.”
“Am I safe in assuming that the only person in your childhood who you felt close to was your Poppy and he left you when you were only four years old?”
“Yes, Poppy was the only one.”
“I see. All right, Sherlock. You have answered these questions honestly and you now feel good because you have done so. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
Casey sighed and sat back in her chair. She reviewed the final questions on the sheet and turned to me. “I’m going to sum up now. He’s done a lot here. We’ve made him remember some tough times, things that were long buried. I think this will help him a lot. The rest of the questions should be easier for him. Thank you, John, for bringing him to me. He’s very interesting and I feel as if I really did help him.”
She turned back to Sherlock. “We are now in the present time, Sherlock. Your childhood is behind you and we are in the present year. Let’s talk about your life now. You are safe here and nothing can hurt you. I will ask you about your present life and you will answer honestly and you will feel good about answering the questions honestly. Tell me how you feel right now.”
“I feel good right now.”’
“Are you happy, Sherlock?”
“I have never been happier.” For some reason, this startled me. I paid even closer attention.
“I’m glad for you, Sherlock. What is it that makes you so happy?”
“John.” This is what I deeply wanted but never really expected to hear. Silently I thanked the gods who brought me into the path of this complicated human being.
Casey stole a quick glance at me before continuing. “What is it about John that makes you so happy?”
“He is strong where I am weak. He understands me more than anyone ever has. He doesn’t judge me. I believe he loves me.”
“And no one has loved you since your Poppy, is that correct?”
“Yes. I wanted to know what love felt like again. I was lucky to find John as a friend.”
I felt a lump in my throat. It almost seemed like I was witnessing one of the great moments in history. I swallowed hard. Casey turned to me. “I’m down to the last couple questions, John. But there’s another one I want to ask myself at the end. Do you mind?”
Unable to speak, I nodded my assent.
“Sherlock, you enjoy John’s friendship yet you disappeared from his life for a year and a half. Why did you do that? Where did you go? As before, answer honestly and you will feel good afterward, even if it is hard to answer.”
“If I had not faked my suicide, John would have been killed. I would have found that intolerable. I found a way to fake suicide and survive. It was necessary to convince John that I had died or he would have been killed. I did not want to do that and I am ashamed. He was my friend and did not deserve that. During that time, I traveled Europe incognito and used my skills to dispose of Moriarity’s accomplices. I recently returned to John and revealed that I had not died. I could not do this until I was quite sure he was safe from Moriarity’s network. He is safe now. It feels good that I saved his life.”
So Sherlock had been telling the truth! He really had done all this to save my life. Tears welled up in my eyes. I blinked them away; I did not want to miss anything.
“We are almost done, Sherlock. You have done well. You will feel good because you have answered all the questions honestly and completely. I just have two more questions. It has been many years since you have felt love for anyone. Do you think you are capable of feeling love any more?”
“Yes.”
“Is there someone you love? Today and in the present?”
“Yes."
"Who is that?"
"John.”
The tears that had been welling in my eyes began to fall. I ran my hand across my face but they continued to come. Sherlock Holmes, my great friend and the greatest man I have ever known, felt love for me! It was something I had suspected for a long time but now I knew for sure. How could such an honor be bestowed upon simple John Watson? Never in my life had I been prouder or happier.
I heard Casey begin the process of bringing Sherlock out of the hypnotic state. “Wait!” I told her. “I want to say something to Sherlock – while he’s still under. Please – can I do this?”
She seemed a little surprised but agreed to my request. “Tell me and I’ll paraphrase for him. He can hear only me.”
I nodded by way of thanks and turned to my friend. I wiped my hand over my face again and composed myself for my speech. “Tell him,” I said, “tell him that I am very honored that he's my friend. Tell him he was right - I do love him. Tell him my life was hell when I thought he was dead, and I can’t even put into words how happy I am that he’s still alive. Maybe I never understood him as well as he said, but I hope he can forgive me for the times I didn’t. Tell him that I’ll always be there for him. All my life if I’m able. I owe him so much.” I would never have been able to say these things to Sherlock in a normal state, and I appreciated this clandestine opportunity.
I turned back to Casey and said, “That’s it, I guess.” There were tears in her eyes, too. She placed her hand over mine and said to Sherlock, “John loves you very much.”
Her simple paraphrasing did not disappoint me at all. Somehow she had said everything I had wanted to say to Sherlock in just those few powerful words. I nodded and walked out of range of the camera; I wanted to be by myself for a moment.
I listened while Casey went through the procedure that would safely remove Sherlock from the hypnotic state. I was worried that Sherlock would somehow not return to normal – normal for him, anyhow – but my fears were unfounded. I kept my back to them until I felt the wave of anxiety pass. When I looked again, Sherlock’s eyes were open and he was as stoic as always. Casey continued to speak to him in a low comforting voice for a while. As part of the wakening procedure, she had planted the suggestion that he would feel refreshed and happy, and that he would not remember anything that had transpired while he was in the hypnotic state. I studied his face for clues but it seemed that Sherlock was all the things Casey had suggested and nothing more.
Only a fraction of the questions I had given the therapist had actually been asked. Having witnessed the procedure firsthand now, I can understand why Casey did not feel she could include everything. It would simply be too much. Sherlock would have bristled and the constant intrusion might have somehow fragmented the entire procedure. Or perhaps not. I did not think to ask Casey at the time, and, since Sherlock and I agreed to only one session, there was no need to pursue anything further. I was very happy with the way things went – the main questions I wanted answers for were no longer mysteries to me, and Sherlock seemed none the worse for answering them honestly.
We exchanged pleasantries and left Casey’s office in the usual manner – Sherlock’s brisk walk keeping him in front of me and me attempting to keep up. As we waited for the elevator, we said nothing and did not look at each other. We were each lost in our own thoughts. This continued through most of the cab ride home, this comfortable silence. Then, out of the blue, just as the cab was about to pull up outside 221B, Sherlock startled me by saying, “Did you get your questions answered, John?”
“Yes, I did. And thank you for agreeing to it. Just . . . just . . . thank you.”
The cab stopped and Sherlock opened the door to get out. As he did so, he said, “Just to let you know, John, I do in fact forgive you for the times you did not understand me. You needn’t apologize.”
We went in to 221B Baker Street and resumed the lives that had made us so happy up until that dreadful day a year and a half earlier. Sherlock had said that he had never been happier, and I admit that the same was true for me.
It was some time later when I realized that my request for Sherlock’s forgiveness of any remission of understanding on my part had actually been asked when he was in his hypnotic state. There was no way he could have heard me, and yet he responded to it later when we were outside our flat. How did he do this?
This was the one and only time I received a deep insight into the feelings and character of this very complicated, very human man I am so honored to call my friend. His belated comment to me made me suspect that perhaps he had not really been hypnotized after all, and yet the film I have watched over and over convinces me that he really was in a hypnotic state. I will never know the truth, and, honestly, I am not interested. I believe that everything Sherlock told me that day was the truth, whether said in an altered state or not.
Over the years, through the changes we have endured, I have always remained faithful and by his side, as he has for me. He is gone now and a big part of me has disappeared with him. But my life has not been in vain, because I have been a friend to Sherlock Holmes, the greatest man I have ever known.
1. Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.