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Watching the detective: on the case with Sherlock Holmes
A chance encounter with the famous detective reveals a brilliant mind, but it’s his passion for the chase that sets him apart.
John Watson
guardian.co.uk, Thursday 18 July 2013 15.39 EDT
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‘As extraordinary as he is, Sherlock Holmes is just a man, and that might be the most extraordinary thing about him.’ Photograph: P. McGuigan.
Possibly you think this is sad, but if so you’ve probably never experienced the pleasure of being so deeply immersed in a good book that the real world dissolves around you – in which case, you’ve been missing out.
Detective fiction is a paradise for those of us with active imaginations. It provides a diverse variety of locations to explore, a wealth of unique characters, and the intellectual challenge of solving a good puzzle. But as much fun as it is to play detective in the queue at the bank or on the Tube platform, most of us never expect adventure to happen anywhere but on the page. I know I didn’t – at least, not until last week.
Chances are you’ve read about the case: the murder of two former KGB agents, and the attempted murder of a third. Maybe you’ve even read that the well-known consulting detective Sherlock Holmes was assisting the police. What you probably don’t know is that, in the course of his investigation, Mr. Holmes happened into my shop. Suffice it to say, he wasn’t browsing for books.
I can’t say much more than that, and I wouldn’t want to, really. It’s not my intention to brag about my involvement (which was negligible, anyway) or reveal any sensational details about the investigation. But I did get to spend a little bit of time with Sherlock Holmes, and, as someone who makes a living talking about fictional detectives, I can’t pass up the opportunity to talk about the real deal now he’s crossed my path.
First things first: he really is that brilliant. Maybe even more so. He knew everything about me within moments of meeting me, piecing together my whole life story from the smallest, most insignificant cues.
Second: he really is a master of disguise. I didn’t recognize him at first – which is impressive, when you consider how often his picture shows up in the paper these days. It’s incredible what a transformation a hat and a pair of glasses can make. But what really changed was his demeanor, his mannerisms, his posture. His entire way of inhabiting his body shifted, so that he wasn’t just wearing different clothes, he really was someone else. I have to say, Hollywood lost a gifted actor in Sherlock Holmes.
Third: he’s fearless. I saw him run straight into danger, with no hesitation at all. Of course, for people like Holmes, the danger is immaterial. In fact, everything besides his investigation is immaterial. His focus on his work is absolute. Nothing – not anything – could distract him from pursuing his investigation to its end, and, believe me, there were some diversions.
But as extraordinary as he is, Sherlock Holmes is just a man—and I think that might be the most extraordinary thing about him. It’s easy to think of the people we read about in the papers as larger than life – Holmes the Boffin, like a character in some story – but in actual fact, he’s not all that different to you or me. All right, so maybe he’s a bit cleverer than most of us, but the difference, I think, is not so much to do with intellect (though his is staggering) as it is with priorities.
My impression is that Holmes is someone for whom the case is the paramount priority. He seems to live for the work. It’s remarkable, really. I mean, how many people do you know who love their jobs so much that they would rather be working than doing absolutely anything else in the world? What might you or I be capable of if we devoted ourselves as wholeheartedly to our own endeavours?
Don’t get me wrong. I love my job. I’m incredibly lucky to be in my line of work and I can’t imagine doing anything else. Of course, that doesn’t mean I don’t have my own idle fantasies about being a latter day Philip Marlowe. We all do. But I think those fantasies, in the end, aren’t really so much about playing detective as they are about imagining what our lives would be like if, rather than sitting around reading stories, we were the ones who took the initiative and wrote our own. What’s the worst that could happen if, instead of just daydreaming about doing something, we actually did it?
And I suppose what my encounter with Sherlock Holmes has got me thinking is, Well, why don’t we find out?
*
“Sorry,” John says, getting to his feet, “we’re not open for another—Oh.”
Sherlock Holmes tosses a printout of an online news article onto the counter. John doesn’t have to look to know what the piece is, but he does anyway. Below the headline, the photo of Holmes in that absurd deerstalker the press loves so much stares up at him in CMYK color.
“Inspired title,” Holmes drawls. “Really, no one’s ever thought of that before. Still, I suppose it was the best you could do.”
“I didn’t choose the title,” John replies. He’d made peace with the fact that his encounter with Holmes was just a one-time thing, he really had, but now the man turns up out of the blue to insult his writing and John finds himself strangely defensive.
Although, really, if John’s being honest with himself, he was hoping this would happen. He might have imagined, as he was writing, that Holmes would read his column and be drawn back to the shop—back to him. But now, standing in front of him – Holmes’s expression imperious, scornful, hostile to John were it had been so open once – he wonders if writing about Sherlock Holmes mightn’t have been a mistake.
“And no doubt the other tired clichés that abound in the rest of the article are your editor’s fault, as well.” Holmes snatches up the printout again and proceeds to read in a simpering tone: “ ‘As extraordinary as he is, Sherlock Holmes is just a man, and that might be the most extraordinary thing about him.’ ”
There is nothing worse than hearing one’s own writing read aloud in an unsympathetic tone, and John grits his teeth. “Anyone else would be flattered,” he points out.
Holmes sneers. “Anyone else would be an idiot.”
John feels himself draw back, then stops, squares his shoulders. “What is it that bothers you, exactly? That I wrote about you, or that I dared to suggest you were a mere mortal?”
Holmes’s expression is one of pure disgust. “If I want sycophantic drivel written about me in the press, I don’t need your help.”
“Yeah, right, thanks for that. Did you even read past the headline, or did you jump to judgment the minute you saw my name?”
“Why should I, when your only qualifications as a journalist are that you fucked a features editor once?”
“How—” But of course he knows. Of course. He’s Sherlock Holmes. The worst part is that it’s true—at least in part, anyway. He’s well aware he wouldn’t be writing at all if he hadn’t hit it off with Diana at someone’s wedding and they hadn’t got talking about the shop’s recent coverage in the Sunday Times. John’s not ashamed of that fact, but Holmes’s derision makes him feel as though he should be, and, oh, he hates that. Which may be why what he says next is the most juvenile of retorts: “Jealous?”
“Please,” Holmes scoffs. “You’re the one who wrote a kiss-and-tell. Anyone with half a brain would be able to figure out—”
“Well, it’s a good thing ordinary people are such idiots, then, isn’t it,” John snaps back. “And, really, would that be such a terrible thing?” He knows he’s not drop-dead gorgeous like Holmes is, but he can’t help bristling at the thought that he’s an embarrassment.
“Congratulations on putting two and two together, I’m sure, but I hardly think spending five minutes in my company entitles you to speak authoritatively on the subject of Sherlock Holmes, do you?”
“Oh.” John is reeling a little from the force of the realization. “So that’s it.”
In front of him, Holmes has drawn himself up stiff.
“You’re not angry I wrote about you, you’re cross I figured out who you were. I get it, you were hoping for a quick, no-strings-attached shag you could just chuck away when you were finished.” John snorts. “Well, I’m sorry I didn’t conveniently disappear after we’d fucked, but don’t worry, I haven’t been sitting here pining for you, if that’s what you’re so concerned about.”
Holmes’s expression is no longer quite so easy to read. He looks a little stricken, actually. “I’m a private detective,” he says carefully, with the air of a rehearsed statement. “I’ve no need for a public image and I would appreciate it if you could do your part to keep my personal life out of the papers.”
All of John’s righteous ire evaporates on the spot. For everything he wrote about how, underneath the larger-than-life persona, Holmes is really just another ordinary human being, John is still surprised at how vulnerable Holmes looks right now. He seems young, almost wounded, although he seems to know it, and makes an attempt to harden his expression.
“What’s more,” Holmes continues, “if you persist in trying to manipulate me, I guarantee you’ll regret it.”
“To—?” John tries to reconcile Holmes’s words, but he can’t. It doesn’t make any sense.
Except—
—if, rather than sitting around reading stories, we were the ones who took the initiative and wrote our own—
—I’m sorry I didn’t conveniently disappear after we’d fucked—
John feels a sick twist in the pit of his stomach.
It never once occurred to him that, to someone as highly attuned to subtext as Sherlock Holmes, his column might have sounded like a veiled threat to expose him – to tell his own story about what Sherlock Holmes is really like. And his words today (which sound bitter now even to his own ears) could easily be construed – especially by someone with ample experience of extortion – as blackmail, a refusal to disappear until he was paid into silence.
The thought of Holmes sitting in front of his computer and reading such malice into John’s words, words which John only ever intended as complimentary—it wrenches him.
“I wouldn’t,” he says, the words thin in his throat.
Holmes nods tightly, looks away. “Good. Thank you.”
“Honestly, I would never—”
“Fine,” Holmes snaps. “I apologize if I came to my conclusions prematurely.” His hand closes around the printout, crumpling it, and he is staring at John with such a painful expression, indecisive, injured, proud. He draws a breath as if to speak, and John catches his own breath, waiting, but instead Holmes turns on his heel and walks out.
“Sherlock—”
Holmes doesn’t stop, and John doesn’t go after him.
It’s not that he doesn’t want to. He wants to run out into the street and pull Holmes into his arms and kiss him until neither of them can breathe. He wants to crowd him against the wall and lay his hands on him and never let go. But Holmes has made it clear he isn’t interested in John broadcasting their involvement with one another, and John, for everything he wrote about pursuing one’s goals with single-minded intensity, can’t seem to force himself into action. He’s not the type to hesitate. Typically, he flourishes under pressure – triage, enemy fire, the pre-Christmas sales rush – but when it comes to Sherlock Holmes, he finds himself paralyzed, caught in doubt. The giddy, reckless rush of their first encounter has been complicated by the hope, diligently repressed up till now, that this thing between them might be something more. If it was just a one-time thing, if it meant nothing to either of them, John felt free to leap headlong into it. But he’s kidding himself to think it didn’t mean anything, that he doesn’t want more, and that leaves him— standing here, watching Sherlock Holmes walk away.
Out the front window of the shop, he can see Holmes cross the street, his shoulders tight under his dark coat. His strides are long and brisk, and with one, two steps, he disappears down the pavement and out of John’s view.