SH+JW 1881-1914

And what are the Adventures the Cases the Studies if not love letters if not odes to his remarkable friend his extraordinary friend his wise friend Holmes and what is Dr. John H. Watson if not a dyed-in-the-wool romantic-“you worked a love story”-so isn’t the whole damn thing a romance really one part pipe-smoking crack-hitting genius one part retired army physician two parts adrenaline in the London fog chasing murderers and aren’t they (rightly) the most different of creatures Holmes all head and Watson all heart Watson (our surrogate) our eyes and ears but most importantly our heart otherwise they’d be nothing but facts and figures but instead they’re stories love stories every one and it’s hard for the great man to admit it but isn’t it more than a little true-“I’d be lost without my Boswell”-that he was better for it because great men often die friendless and he has and will ever have a Watson to his Holmes and won’t his Watson be forever changed too-I have not lived for years with Sherlock Holmes for nothing-so isn’t it love maybe a tweedy tobacco smelling kind of love maybe a seeing but not observing kind of love a knife and whetstone (a Watsonstone) kind of love because Holmes is not as sharp as he might be without something solid to scrape against without someone to ask the right questions and exclaim excellent! to his elementary you can’t say it isn’t love can’t say Watson didn’t mourn when Doyle tried to kill off his hero that one time over the waterfall-It is with a heavy heart our doctor writes-a heavyhearted incoherent inadequate (Holmesless) Watson you cannot say he didn’t grieve can’t say that his heart didn’t go trip-trotting like a hansom horse every time he caught sight of some fast speaking tall thin dark man but not Holmes never his Holmes until one moment there is an old bookseller and the next there is Sherlock Holmes and his Watson faints dead away at the ghost returned much to Holmes’ surprise-“I had no idea you would be so affected“-else to say I did not think you cared so much my dear Watson Watson my dear my dearest my darling Watson a thousand apologies and who else would Holmes apologize to if not John Watson and so isn’t it love when Watson lies shot and bleeding-the clear, hard eyes were dimmed for a moment, and the firm lips were shaking-and he is he declares unashamed our Watson glad of his wound just for the revelation ah yes that Holmes does love him back would kill for him and so isn’t it love whether they’re fucking or not (perhaps unlikely after all they’re still Englishmen) whether on off nights in 221B Baker St. they sit by the fire while Holmes plays his violin and smoke and share old stories like brothers-in-arms or instead they catalogue the sounds a lame army doctor makes when pressed against a door jamb and the way a mustache feels on  a consulting detective’s cheek neck thigh after The Chase and they deduce deduce deduce the night away.