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Among the many strange occurrences which I witnessed during my years in close companionship with Mr. Sherlock Holmes, few astonished me more completely than the night upon which I was summoned to a police station in Whitechapel to secure his release from custody. The circumstances appeared so utterly inconsistent with Holmes’s habits that for some time I suspected either an error or a malicious jest.
It was close upon nine o’clock on the seventeenth of March when a messenger arrived at my practice bearing a brief note. The handwriting was unfamiliar, and the message itself was blunt to the point of discourtesy.
Doctor Watson - If you know a gentleman calling himself Sherlock Holmes, you may wish to attend the Whitechapel station at once. He has been detained for drunken and disorderly conduct.
I read the line twice before the absurdity of it properly registered.
Holmes drunk.
The notion was preposterous.
Holmes’s experiments with stimulants had caused me concern in the past, yet alcohol was among the few indulgences for which he possessed no taste whatsoever. Indeed, I had more than once heard him remark that spirits dulled the faculties and were therefore an obstacle to rational thought. Nevertheless, the message had clearly been written in earnest, and I lost no time in securing a cab for the journey east.
The district of Whitechapel presented its usual scene of noise and activity as I arrived. Groups of men lingered outside the public houses, and from one nearby street I heard the lively strains of fiddle music accompanied by bursts of singing. Shamrocks appeared in several lapels, which reminded me that the evening marked the Irish celebration of St. Patrick’s Day.
The police station itself stood in rather less festive spirits. A weary constable directed me to a small office where a sergeant sat reviewing a ledger.
“You’ve come about the tall fellow,” he said, glancing up.
“I have come about Mr. Sherlock Holmes,” I replied.
“That’s him.”
“May I see him at once?”
The man shrugged and led me down a narrow corridor.
Holmes sat upon a wooden bench behind the bars of a holding cell, his long limbs arranged with surprising composure given the circumstances. His coat was somewhat disordered, though his expression was entirely calm.
“Watson,” said he mildly as I approached, “this is most unnecessary.”
“Holmes,” I cried, “what in heaven’s name is the meaning of this?”
“A minor misunderstanding.”
“You have been arrested for drunkenness.”
“Have I?”
“You know perfectly well you have.”
Holmes regarded me with the faintest hint of amusement.
“I assure you the matter will resolve itself presently.”
I studied him closely. There was no odour of spirits upon his breath. His eyes were clear and his speech entirely steady.
“You are not intoxicated,” said I firmly.
“Your diagnostic skills remain admirable.”
“Then why are you here?”
Holmes leaned back against the wall and folded his hands.
“I am awaiting developments.”
The evasiveness of this reply provoked my irritation.
“You will kindly explain yourself.”
Holmes sighed as if most put-upon.
“I attended a gathering this evening.”
“In Whitechapel?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“A number of my acquaintances were present.”
I soon understood his meaning. Holmes had long maintained a network of street informants among the less fortunate and labourers of London, individuals whose familiarity with the city’s alleys and markets provided him with information no policeman could easily obtain.
“You were celebrating St. Patrick’s Day,” I said slowly.
Holmes inclined his head.
“The festivities were proceeding in a perfectly orderly fashion until the arrival of several constables who appeared determined to disperse the company.”
“For what reason?”
Holmes’s smile faded.
“I could discern none beyond a certain prejudice.”
I felt a chill of comprehension.
“They intended to arrest some of the men,” said I slowly. “Merely because they were Irish?”
“Quite.”
“And you objected.”
“I expressed my views.”
“You were arrested.”
Holmes sighed.
“Not immediately.”
“Holmes.”
“It seemed advisable,” he continued, “to attract and maintain their attention.”
“And how precisely did you accomplish that?”
Holmes met my gaze.
“I behaved in a manner consistent with drunken disorder.”
For several seconds, I could only stare at him.
“You made yourself the spectacle so they would leave the others alone.”
Holmes said nothing.
I drew a long breath.
“My dear Holmes,” said I quietly, “I sometimes wonder that a man of your character should choose to keep company with me.”
For an instant, he looked genuinely startled, as though the sentiment had struck him with unexpected force.
“Watson,” he answered, “if you truly wonder at it, then you have missed the simplest deduction of all.”
He paused, the words seeming for once to come less readily to him.
“There is nowhere I would rather be.”
At this perhaps opportune moment, footsteps sounded in the corridor, and before our conversation could continue, a familiar voice spoke sharply.
“What is all this nonsense?”
Inspector Lestrade appeared at the doorway, his narrow features drawn into an expression of weary annoyance.
“Holmes,” said he, “you cannot go about getting yourself locked up every time a constable annoys you.”
“The outcome has been satisfactory,” Holmes replied calmly, features already composed so that I wondered if I had seen the previous sentiments there at all.
“Yes, well. I have heard enough to know this business should never have occurred.”
Within minutes, Holmes was released, and a stern conversation followed between Lestrade and the officers responsible. Apparently, Chief Inspector Gregson had taken a dim view of the evening’s events. Holmes endured the proceedings with an air of polite boredom.
When at last we stepped out into the street, I expected him to accompany me home. Instead, he paused and looked back toward the darker lanes of the district.
“You are returning?”
“Merely to confirm that the evening concluded peacefully.”
“You intended to go alone.”
“It is hardly necessary for you to accompany me.”
I considered this for a moment.
“If you are returning to Whitechapel,” said I, “it occurs to me that a doctor might prove of use.”
Holmes regarded me for a long moment with that searching expression which had unsettled so many criminals and confounded so many policemen. At length, the severity of his gaze softened, and the corner of his mouth lifted in a faint, knowing smile.
The celebration had resumed by the time we arrived. Lantern light glowed along the narrow street, and music filled the air while men and women crowded around a makeshift table laden with bread and bottles.
Holmes was greeted with cheerful cries, and someone pressed a shamrock into his hand. To my astonishment, he placed it carefully in the buttonhole of my coat while avoiding my eyes.
“You see, Watson,” he murmured, “the evening was worth preserving.”
What followed thereafter is somewhat difficult to recount with precision.
I distinctly remember accepting a glass or two offered by Holmes’s acquaintances, and I believe I later accepted a third. After that point, the music, the laughter, the spirits and the press of friendly company seem to blend together in my recollection. Yet certain impressions remain with curious persistence: Holmes standing close beside me; the warmth of his hand steadying my elbow when the pavement proved less reliable than usual; the sudden cheer which rose from those around us when, emboldened perhaps by the spirit of the evening, I seized him by the lapels and kissed him with an abundance of feeling which far exceeded my coordination.
There followed, as I dimly recall, a chorus of laughter and good-natured catcalls, accompanied by several emphatic assurances from our companions that no tales of the matter would travel beyond that friendly street. Holmes himself appeared vastly amused, though whether at my boldness or my unsteady condition I cannot say. I retain a vague memory of his answering the gesture with equal warmth before guiding me away from the gathering with a patience which, in retrospect, must have required considerable effort.
The remainder of our journey home exists only in fragments: the cool air of the night upon my face, Holmes’s arm about my shoulders, and the general conviction that the world had become a remarkably agreeable place. Indeed, it is something of a wonder that I was not myself detained for public drunkenness before the evening concluded, a fate from which I suspect I was spared only through Holmes’s timely guidance and intervention, for which I must confess I remain sincerely grateful.
The following morning, I awoke rather later than usual with a headache of considerable severity. For several seconds, I lay perfectly still, attempting to reconstruct the events of the previous evening. It was then that I became aware that Holmes was not seated in his customary chair observing my condition with clinical amusement, as I half expected.
Instead, he lay beside me, one arm draped securely about my waist, his long frame slotted comfortably against my own in a posture of the most unambiguous familiarity.
At another time, such a discovery might well have occasioned alarm. Yet I found that I could summon no such feeling. On the contrary, the arrangement seemed so entirely natural that I remained where I was for several moments longer, listening to the quiet rhythm of his breathing, and observing the great man at rest.
Holmes slept with a stillness which I had rarely observed in him while waking. The restless intensity which so often animated his features had entirely vanished. His lashes lay dark against his pale cheek, and the habitual sharpness of his expression had softened into something almost innocent in repose.
Looking at him thus, I experienced a sudden and most fervent determination that whatever strange turn our friendship had taken during the previous evening, I must not be the one to spoil it through awkwardness or alarm. The opportunity seemed at once too unexpected and too precious to risk through any clumsy display of uncertainty. I therefore lay quietly where I was, content for the moment simply to remain within the circle of his embrace and to hope, with an earnestness which would no doubt have amused Holmes greatly, that I might prove equal to the circumstances.
Holmes stirred presently and opened his eyes.
“You are awake,” said he softly.
“I am,” I replied.
Holmes regarded me closely then, with a trace of uncertainty in his expression which I had seldom seen directed toward me. The look was so uncharacteristic that I felt an immediate desire to set it at rest. I offered what reassurance I could by grasping his hand and holding it against my sternum, where I am sure he could not help but feel the steady beating of my thoroughly devoted heart.
Upon this motion, I saw him relax and felt his fingers flex in mine.
“I regret,” said I, “that my recollection of the latter portion of the evening is somewhat imperfect.”
Holmes’s lips curved in a slow and distinctly mischievous smile.
“My dear John,” said he, “I assure you the evening concluded most satisfactorily.”
He leaned forward then and kissed me again with a calm deliberation which suggested that Holmes himself had reached a very definite conclusion about the matter some hours earlier.
If the gesture was intended to assist my memory, I cannot say that it succeeded. My head still protested most vigorously against any serious effort of recollection, and yet this circumstance did not appear to discourage Holmes in the least. On the contrary, he seemed vastly entertained by my condition, and though I could muster only the most languid participation at first, he appeared perfectly content to remedy that deficiency with patience and no small degree of enthusiasm.
It would be inaccurate to claim that my memory improves greatly beyond that point. Indeed, I only truly recovered the following day. I can say only that our long friendship, though already a matter of great personal importance to me, emerged altered in a manner which I have never had cause to regret. Though somewhat indistinct in my recollection, I retain a clear impression of Holmes displaying a warmth and lightness of spirit which I had rarely seen in him before that morning, but which I would come to know well in the days and years that followed.