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amado1The Dr. Watson thriller series, to recap, puts John Watson in the midst of WWI as a medical officer, while Holmes, retired, typically plays his own role from afar. In each book, Holmes and Watson are apart, with Watson getting most of the screentime, but their stories always closely intersect and usually include at least one in-person reunion.
I didn't care for Book #2, "The Dead Can Wait". Actually, I had so many little criticisms that I almost gave it two stars on Goodreads -- but at base, Robert Ryan's writing is too good for a 2-star rating. Book #3, "A Study in Murder", was MUCH better, and I would rate it a firm 4-stars, right next to Book 1. Probably better, because A Study in Murder didn't feature any dumb twists!
The basic premise: Watson finds himself in one of Germany's worst POW camps. Three English POWs have died by apparent suicide during a secret seance to contact their dead comrades. The Germans want Watson to figure out what really happened. At the same time, Holmes has been contacted about a transfer. He can save Watson from the camp by offering himself up instead -- and Holmes takes the bait!
The good:
This book ties back to the first in the series so effortlessly that it feels like it's the REAL Book #2! Bloch, the German sniper, makes a natural and unforced reappearance. Watson remembers the tragic events and the men he lost in Book #1 whenever appropriate! (In Book #2 he seemed to have selective amnesia, or came across as weirdly unaffected by the loss). Mrs. Gregson returns, of course, but so does Miss Pillbody, the spy I hated so much in Book #2 and loved to pieces in Book #3.
A character from "His Last Bow" plays a significant role in this book, which is a plus for ACD fans. Probably less fun if you haven't read "His Last Bow" since fifth grade, like me! XD
The pacing was excellent. The level of description remained top-notch. Holmes' and Watson's characterization was pitch-perfect imo. The first book jumped around a lot from one POV to the next -- it was busy, but it worked. The second book tried to do the same and became a muddy mess. The third book dispenses with this, limiting us to basically three intersecting plotlines, all of which flow naturally into each other. I didn't get the sense that I was being ferried from one inauthentic cliffhanger to the next.
We also finally get confirmation of Mrs. Gregson's feelings for Watson, and his feelings for her, which was handled well imo. I'm a diehard Holmes/Watson shipper but Ryan manages to write romance for Watson while firmly centering the Holmes/Watson relationship, so I actually enjoy Watson's straight love life in these books.
The bad:
Hmm. It's hard to think of anything, really. Oh! Watson was deliciously competent and intelligent in Book 1, while still fumbling just enough to keep it realistic. In this book, he wasn't quite so intelligent or competent imo. Again, like my criticism for Book 2, I would have appreciated more deduction and brilliance from our main character. But he DOES solve the mystery, so it's not that big of a complaint.
Once again, stolen identity becomes a plot point, but it's less egregious here than in Books 1 and 2. What is Ryan's obsession with stolen identities?? This time, it was handled pretty well -- a kid who used to run errands for Holmes and Watson on Baker Street happens to be trapped in the same POW camp as Watson, as a servant to the officers. But it turns out he's an officer in disguise, he never knew Holmes and Watson before, and he's secretly running a scheme to extort wannabe escapees.
See, that's a bit more reasonable than the false identities in past books.
Okay, and the quotes!
Watson often wondered about the wisdom of not requiring officers to work; sometimes, enforced idleness could be as much a punishment as forced labour.
*****
"Oxford perhaps?"
"For five years," he confirmed. "Jesus College. You know it?"
"I know it helps if you speak Welsh." While he was in Cairo researching blood transfusion, Watson had met an alumnus of the college called Lawrence, who explained that because Jesus was founded by a Welshman, some connection with the country helped facilitate entry. Lawrence, although brought up in Oxford, had been born in Tremadog. One day, Watson thought, he must write down his Egyptian adventure with the diminutive Orientalist and spy.
(Please! I love T.E. Lawrence!!)
*****
It was only at that moment that Watson appreciated how much he had been banking on getting out of Krefeld. Perhaps that was why he had been so adamant about stopping Hanson; he had been -- subconsciously -- worried it might jeopardize his own release. And now this. It made him all the more wretched. He felt a crack zigzagging across the dam that was holding back the waters of despair. He struggled to keep his voice even.
(Early on, Watson takes a walk outside the POW camp with a new arrival, a boy with shell shock who's allegedly suicidal. But the boy is faking. He tries to escape, but Watson prevents him, and the boy is shot and killed.)
*****
"My sense of honour, such as it is, tells me I should try my damnedest to get a man like you out of here. My sense of survival tells me not to rock the boat. Unlike you, Major Watson, I am not a brave man."
"Brave? Me? I think not. The brave thing to do might have been to go along with Hanson."
"And then I suspect I would be drinking alone, perhaps a toast to two fallen men."
*****
"So I am to be the instrument of suffering for Holmes? Is that your grand scheme?" Watson tried to make it sound as pathetic as possible, but he feared there was method in this cruelty.
"Until I come up with a better idea."
"Why not shoot me and have done with it? Holmes would mourn me, I am sure." He was serious. It was a valid alternative to what the German was proposing.
"Oh, no," said Von Bork. "What would another death count? Death has lost all its currency in this war, don't you find? But misery and starvation? No, an ongoing punishment, a constant drip-drip of pain to the Great Detective, is far more satisfactory."
(At this point, Watson thinks he is being moved to a worse camp solely so his suffering will torment Holmes. He has no idea Holmes has actually agreed to take Watson's place.)
*****
"You were magnificent in there," said Nathan with undisguised admiration. "I can think of no man who could have coped better and a great number who would have done a damned sight less."
She couldn't quite untangle the compliment and she let it pass.
*****
It was murder, not war. He would write a report at the first opportunity. Surely, when this madness was over, there would be a reckoning for such callous actions away from the battlefield?
One dead man among millions? Do you think they will care? Can anyone afford to care?
It was flat, unsentimental and it was very likely the truth.
"I will care," Watson said out loud, his voice thick with venom. "I will damn well care."
(This is after Watson's loyal aide is shot during the transfer to a more severe prison. The guards blithely claim the aide was trying to escape)
*****
He had acquaintances -- including writers and scientists -- who believed in such things as the afterlife and being able to access the spirit world. Some even accepted the existence of fairies.
*****
He heard the peal of laughter from beyond his makeshift curtain and suddenly felt very alone and bereft. He found himself wishing for that phantom voice in his head, which surely was only one step removed from Pickering's delusion. He had to chuckle to himself. Well, if that voice wouldn't come, he could conjure it up. He had promised Critchley a story. What better way to escape the grim confines of the camp than to slip back in time, to the clack of horses' hoofs and the shouts of costermongers and paperboys? He laid what was per page probably the world's most expensive notebook on the desk, took up his pencil and began to write the story he had started telling the unfortunate Hanson back in the woods near Krefeld.
(I love that Watson turns to his time with Holmes for comfort)
*****
Holland. Sherlock Holmes was going to Holland. And she knew what the motive was -- she even understood it, after a fashion. But she also knew that Holmes had to be stopped. Yes, John, she was certain, would want her to stop him. No matter what the cost.
(Mrs. Gregson says she understands why Holmes wants to save John ... just pages after we find out Mrs. Gregson's motivation to save John is that she's in love with him! And the foreshadowing here is great. In the end, Mrs. Gregson tries to stop Holmes from crossing the bridge into Germany, and she's shot to death in the process)
*****
Chin up, old chap. If you succumb to despair, Von Bork will have won.
Von Bork had already secured victory. What chance did one old man, alone and ailing, have against a machine determined to crush him?
As I have said before, my mind, and I believe yours, rebels at stagnation. Give me problems, give me work, give me the most abstruse cryptogram or the most intricate analysis, and I am in my own proper atmosphere. I crave mental exaltation. You must do the same.
"Holmes," he said out loud, "will I ever truly be free of your platitudes?"
*****
Across the Channel and over the border in Germany, escape, for the moment, was the last thing on Watson's mind. He had allowed himself to pass beyond the walls of the vermin-infested basement cell and into the golden years at Baker Street, with the century not quite over and dear Victoria not yet dead. There were pipes and scones, hansom cabs and wild dashes across London. And there was Holmes.
*****
He could smell the cinder and smoke that greeted them at Euston, recall exactly the gleam in his friend's eye as they boarded the train. "Feeling alive once again!" as he had put it.
Oh, Holmes, that it should come to this.
*****
She opened her eyes, and through the distorting lens of the broiling surface, she could just make out three figures, each with swollen, dark heads. Golliwogs were drowning her, she thought, as her airways filled with the bath's contents.
(Startling! Mr. Ryan, was this really necessary?? Does it even make sense? Idk if those dolls were even popular in Germany. Ilse is a German character. Why would she think of racist English dolls when she's being drowned?? Bizarre)
*****
Some of that blood swirling in the bath was hers. She had a gash running from the side of her left breast almost to her navel that she didn't recall receiving. It was only now beginning to sting. She replayed the frenzied moments of the attack in her mind, but could not isolate the moment she received the cut or who inflicted it.
*****
"Are you a man of science, Major? Someone who believes all the wonders of life will one day be explained by chemistry and physics?"
"I'd like to think so," said Watson. "Not the wonder of it, perhaps, but the mechanics, yes."
*****
While he savoured the cake, Von Bork pulled out the telegram he had picked up from the postkantoor in Venlo. Reading it for the tenth time washed away all the sourness that the conversation had built up.
Agree all terms. Need a week to tidy affairs in London. Leave all details of exchange at Hotel Bilderberg. Holmes.
*****
"Mr Holmes?" he asked.
The rheumy eyes turned to look at him and he was surprised by the vacancy in there. The greatest mind in Europe seemed to be curiously absent. "Yes. I'm sorry, do I know you...?"
(I knew at once that it was Mycroft, not Sherlock!)
*****
"We know your intentions, sir, regarding Von Bork and Major Watson, and can't let you do this, no matter how noble your motives."
Nathan carefully prised the Gladstone from the bony fingers.
A sparkle came into Holmes's eyes, like the embers of a dying fire offering one last flare. "He's my friend, you know. Watson. An old friend."
*****
An imposing table of polished walnut dominated the centre of the room; along its spine was a series of silver platters, the contents hidden under cloches. A trio of decanters stood at one end, the spirits within ranging from a light straw colour to a deep, syrupy brown. A marble fireplace directly opposite the French windows held a flickering log fire, although the amount of smoke puffing into the room suggested it was burning green damp wood and that the chimney might be in need of a good sweep.
(I just loved this description)
*****
She was sure the old detective would be furious with her, but he would have to see that she had both Watson and Holmes's interests at heart. Much as she wanted Watson home, she couldn't sacrifice his old friend to do that. It would, for one thing, destroy Watson if Holmes offered himself as a sacrifice to save him, which is what he fully intended to do. Watson, on the other hand, would rather they perished together than he survive at the expense of his companion. He had demonstrated that out on the Black Sands off Foulness.
*****
"It's an old Greek tradition when you are talking to the shades. Read your Homer. Blood-letting helps summon the dead. There are hungry ghosts out there, so some say."
*****
"Holmes is an icon. A legend. People follow him, believe in him. If we can have the great detective declaring the war has been a terrible, futile waste of British lives and should be halted at once..."
"Yes, yes, I see that. But I have met the man. He won't do that."
Hersch held a steady gaze.
"Not unless...."
"precisely. Not unless we break him." The admiral drained his Sekt. "And break him totally."
*****
He recalled how it often took an oblique approach to ignite Holmes's curiosity. Watson had on many occasions pointed out in the newspaper over breakfast a tale that he thought might snap Holmes out of some torpor or other, only to be dismissed with a curt apercu, which put the potential case into context or, just as often, the dustbin. However, leave the same piece of journalism lying around or, indeed, dismiss it oneself, and Holmes might just turn his beady gaze upon it and Watson would almost feel the vibrations of that great brain cranking into action.
*****
"They were damn fine boots. Sorry to see them go," he said with a winning smile that dimpled his chin. The man must have broken plenty of hearts back home, Watson thought.
(Very straight of you to notice, Doctor)
*****
"You know we can't allow Sherlock to fall into German hands?"
"That's why I am here," said Mycroft glumly.
"And so why doesn't Sherlock appreciate this?"
Mycroft gave a sigh that shook his frame. "Sherlock is not a political animal. Oh, I know he did political favours for both of us from time to time, but the political wasn't why he acted. It was the challenge of the case or, as I said, as a personal favour. He will not have thought this through. He will only have thought of saving Watson."
*****
"Does everything in this camp have a price? My head excepted?"
Harry thought about it. "Mostly. Food, drink, sex--"
"Sex? You mean there are women here?"
A thick silence settled into the room.
Watson reddened. "Oh, I see."
"Doctor, you aren't telling me you don't know about--"
"Of course I know about such things. Why, I am sure you have heard some base rumours regarding my relationship with Holmes that have sprung up in recent years."
*****
He wondered what Holmes was doing at that moment. Probably settling down by the fire with pipe and book. Perhaps his young companion, Bert, would be with him. Watson felt a twinge of envy but quickly suppressed it.
*****
"Sometimes, the name Sherlock Holmes brings out the best in people."
"Ah, but it's the other one you want to save, isn't it, Georgina?"
Mrs. Gregson recognized an attempt to upset her, the gentle press of a knife between the ribs, presaging the sudden twist. "I want them both home," she said flatly. "They are old men who deserve a rest."
*****
My Dear Watson,
By the time you get this, I will either be dead or on my way to the eternal sleep of death. The thought of this journey is lightened by the knowledge that you will be spared any more suffering and can go home to a well-deserved retirement. I would recommend bees, but I know you never shared my enthusiasm for the wonders of the hive.
...
Do not grieve. I have feared the slow decline of old age more than any of the other evils I have faced. I have peered into the abyss of senility and know it isn't for me.
....
I say again, do not grieve for me. Ours was the most wonderful of times, you were the best of companions and colleagues. And friend, of course. What adventures we had. But I fear that the world that will emerge from this conflict would ill suit me.
....
I wish you many more years and assure you that, should you decide to unearth some of the cases yet to be put before the public, I will be in no position to object. Just do not dim your own considerable light at the expense of mine, as you are wont to do.
I shall see you on the bridge, John. It will be a pleasure to greet you one last time.
Your friend as ever,
Sherlock Holmes.
I didn't care for Book #2, "The Dead Can Wait". Actually, I had so many little criticisms that I almost gave it two stars on Goodreads -- but at base, Robert Ryan's writing is too good for a 2-star rating. Book #3, "A Study in Murder", was MUCH better, and I would rate it a firm 4-stars, right next to Book 1. Probably better, because A Study in Murder didn't feature any dumb twists!
The basic premise: Watson finds himself in one of Germany's worst POW camps. Three English POWs have died by apparent suicide during a secret seance to contact their dead comrades. The Germans want Watson to figure out what really happened. At the same time, Holmes has been contacted about a transfer. He can save Watson from the camp by offering himself up instead -- and Holmes takes the bait!
The good:
This book ties back to the first in the series so effortlessly that it feels like it's the REAL Book #2! Bloch, the German sniper, makes a natural and unforced reappearance. Watson remembers the tragic events and the men he lost in Book #1 whenever appropriate! (In Book #2 he seemed to have selective amnesia, or came across as weirdly unaffected by the loss). Mrs. Gregson returns, of course, but so does Miss Pillbody, the spy I hated so much in Book #2 and loved to pieces in Book #3.
A character from "His Last Bow" plays a significant role in this book, which is a plus for ACD fans. Probably less fun if you haven't read "His Last Bow" since fifth grade, like me! XD
The pacing was excellent. The level of description remained top-notch. Holmes' and Watson's characterization was pitch-perfect imo. The first book jumped around a lot from one POV to the next -- it was busy, but it worked. The second book tried to do the same and became a muddy mess. The third book dispenses with this, limiting us to basically three intersecting plotlines, all of which flow naturally into each other. I didn't get the sense that I was being ferried from one inauthentic cliffhanger to the next.
We also finally get confirmation of Mrs. Gregson's feelings for Watson, and his feelings for her, which was handled well imo. I'm a diehard Holmes/Watson shipper but Ryan manages to write romance for Watson while firmly centering the Holmes/Watson relationship, so I actually enjoy Watson's straight love life in these books.
The bad:
Hmm. It's hard to think of anything, really. Oh! Watson was deliciously competent and intelligent in Book 1, while still fumbling just enough to keep it realistic. In this book, he wasn't quite so intelligent or competent imo. Again, like my criticism for Book 2, I would have appreciated more deduction and brilliance from our main character. But he DOES solve the mystery, so it's not that big of a complaint.
Once again, stolen identity becomes a plot point, but it's less egregious here than in Books 1 and 2. What is Ryan's obsession with stolen identities?? This time, it was handled pretty well -- a kid who used to run errands for Holmes and Watson on Baker Street happens to be trapped in the same POW camp as Watson, as a servant to the officers. But it turns out he's an officer in disguise, he never knew Holmes and Watson before, and he's secretly running a scheme to extort wannabe escapees.
See, that's a bit more reasonable than the false identities in past books.
Okay, and the quotes!
Watson often wondered about the wisdom of not requiring officers to work; sometimes, enforced idleness could be as much a punishment as forced labour.
*****
"Oxford perhaps?"
"For five years," he confirmed. "Jesus College. You know it?"
"I know it helps if you speak Welsh." While he was in Cairo researching blood transfusion, Watson had met an alumnus of the college called Lawrence, who explained that because Jesus was founded by a Welshman, some connection with the country helped facilitate entry. Lawrence, although brought up in Oxford, had been born in Tremadog. One day, Watson thought, he must write down his Egyptian adventure with the diminutive Orientalist and spy.
(Please! I love T.E. Lawrence!!)
*****
It was only at that moment that Watson appreciated how much he had been banking on getting out of Krefeld. Perhaps that was why he had been so adamant about stopping Hanson; he had been -- subconsciously -- worried it might jeopardize his own release. And now this. It made him all the more wretched. He felt a crack zigzagging across the dam that was holding back the waters of despair. He struggled to keep his voice even.
(Early on, Watson takes a walk outside the POW camp with a new arrival, a boy with shell shock who's allegedly suicidal. But the boy is faking. He tries to escape, but Watson prevents him, and the boy is shot and killed.)
*****
"My sense of honour, such as it is, tells me I should try my damnedest to get a man like you out of here. My sense of survival tells me not to rock the boat. Unlike you, Major Watson, I am not a brave man."
"Brave? Me? I think not. The brave thing to do might have been to go along with Hanson."
"And then I suspect I would be drinking alone, perhaps a toast to two fallen men."
*****
"So I am to be the instrument of suffering for Holmes? Is that your grand scheme?" Watson tried to make it sound as pathetic as possible, but he feared there was method in this cruelty.
"Until I come up with a better idea."
"Why not shoot me and have done with it? Holmes would mourn me, I am sure." He was serious. It was a valid alternative to what the German was proposing.
"Oh, no," said Von Bork. "What would another death count? Death has lost all its currency in this war, don't you find? But misery and starvation? No, an ongoing punishment, a constant drip-drip of pain to the Great Detective, is far more satisfactory."
(At this point, Watson thinks he is being moved to a worse camp solely so his suffering will torment Holmes. He has no idea Holmes has actually agreed to take Watson's place.)
*****
"You were magnificent in there," said Nathan with undisguised admiration. "I can think of no man who could have coped better and a great number who would have done a damned sight less."
She couldn't quite untangle the compliment and she let it pass.
*****
It was murder, not war. He would write a report at the first opportunity. Surely, when this madness was over, there would be a reckoning for such callous actions away from the battlefield?
One dead man among millions? Do you think they will care? Can anyone afford to care?
It was flat, unsentimental and it was very likely the truth.
"I will care," Watson said out loud, his voice thick with venom. "I will damn well care."
(This is after Watson's loyal aide is shot during the transfer to a more severe prison. The guards blithely claim the aide was trying to escape)
*****
He had acquaintances -- including writers and scientists -- who believed in such things as the afterlife and being able to access the spirit world. Some even accepted the existence of fairies.
*****
He heard the peal of laughter from beyond his makeshift curtain and suddenly felt very alone and bereft. He found himself wishing for that phantom voice in his head, which surely was only one step removed from Pickering's delusion. He had to chuckle to himself. Well, if that voice wouldn't come, he could conjure it up. He had promised Critchley a story. What better way to escape the grim confines of the camp than to slip back in time, to the clack of horses' hoofs and the shouts of costermongers and paperboys? He laid what was per page probably the world's most expensive notebook on the desk, took up his pencil and began to write the story he had started telling the unfortunate Hanson back in the woods near Krefeld.
(I love that Watson turns to his time with Holmes for comfort)
*****
Holland. Sherlock Holmes was going to Holland. And she knew what the motive was -- she even understood it, after a fashion. But she also knew that Holmes had to be stopped. Yes, John, she was certain, would want her to stop him. No matter what the cost.
(Mrs. Gregson says she understands why Holmes wants to save John ... just pages after we find out Mrs. Gregson's motivation to save John is that she's in love with him! And the foreshadowing here is great. In the end, Mrs. Gregson tries to stop Holmes from crossing the bridge into Germany, and she's shot to death in the process)
*****
Chin up, old chap. If you succumb to despair, Von Bork will have won.
Von Bork had already secured victory. What chance did one old man, alone and ailing, have against a machine determined to crush him?
As I have said before, my mind, and I believe yours, rebels at stagnation. Give me problems, give me work, give me the most abstruse cryptogram or the most intricate analysis, and I am in my own proper atmosphere. I crave mental exaltation. You must do the same.
"Holmes," he said out loud, "will I ever truly be free of your platitudes?"
*****
Across the Channel and over the border in Germany, escape, for the moment, was the last thing on Watson's mind. He had allowed himself to pass beyond the walls of the vermin-infested basement cell and into the golden years at Baker Street, with the century not quite over and dear Victoria not yet dead. There were pipes and scones, hansom cabs and wild dashes across London. And there was Holmes.
*****
He could smell the cinder and smoke that greeted them at Euston, recall exactly the gleam in his friend's eye as they boarded the train. "Feeling alive once again!" as he had put it.
Oh, Holmes, that it should come to this.
*****
She opened her eyes, and through the distorting lens of the broiling surface, she could just make out three figures, each with swollen, dark heads. Golliwogs were drowning her, she thought, as her airways filled with the bath's contents.
(Startling! Mr. Ryan, was this really necessary?? Does it even make sense? Idk if those dolls were even popular in Germany. Ilse is a German character. Why would she think of racist English dolls when she's being drowned?? Bizarre)
*****
Some of that blood swirling in the bath was hers. She had a gash running from the side of her left breast almost to her navel that she didn't recall receiving. It was only now beginning to sting. She replayed the frenzied moments of the attack in her mind, but could not isolate the moment she received the cut or who inflicted it.
*****
"Are you a man of science, Major? Someone who believes all the wonders of life will one day be explained by chemistry and physics?"
"I'd like to think so," said Watson. "Not the wonder of it, perhaps, but the mechanics, yes."
*****
While he savoured the cake, Von Bork pulled out the telegram he had picked up from the postkantoor in Venlo. Reading it for the tenth time washed away all the sourness that the conversation had built up.
Agree all terms. Need a week to tidy affairs in London. Leave all details of exchange at Hotel Bilderberg. Holmes.
*****
"Mr Holmes?" he asked.
The rheumy eyes turned to look at him and he was surprised by the vacancy in there. The greatest mind in Europe seemed to be curiously absent. "Yes. I'm sorry, do I know you...?"
(I knew at once that it was Mycroft, not Sherlock!)
*****
"We know your intentions, sir, regarding Von Bork and Major Watson, and can't let you do this, no matter how noble your motives."
Nathan carefully prised the Gladstone from the bony fingers.
A sparkle came into Holmes's eyes, like the embers of a dying fire offering one last flare. "He's my friend, you know. Watson. An old friend."
*****
An imposing table of polished walnut dominated the centre of the room; along its spine was a series of silver platters, the contents hidden under cloches. A trio of decanters stood at one end, the spirits within ranging from a light straw colour to a deep, syrupy brown. A marble fireplace directly opposite the French windows held a flickering log fire, although the amount of smoke puffing into the room suggested it was burning green damp wood and that the chimney might be in need of a good sweep.
(I just loved this description)
*****
She was sure the old detective would be furious with her, but he would have to see that she had both Watson and Holmes's interests at heart. Much as she wanted Watson home, she couldn't sacrifice his old friend to do that. It would, for one thing, destroy Watson if Holmes offered himself as a sacrifice to save him, which is what he fully intended to do. Watson, on the other hand, would rather they perished together than he survive at the expense of his companion. He had demonstrated that out on the Black Sands off Foulness.
*****
"It's an old Greek tradition when you are talking to the shades. Read your Homer. Blood-letting helps summon the dead. There are hungry ghosts out there, so some say."
*****
"Holmes is an icon. A legend. People follow him, believe in him. If we can have the great detective declaring the war has been a terrible, futile waste of British lives and should be halted at once..."
"Yes, yes, I see that. But I have met the man. He won't do that."
Hersch held a steady gaze.
"Not unless...."
"precisely. Not unless we break him." The admiral drained his Sekt. "And break him totally."
*****
He recalled how it often took an oblique approach to ignite Holmes's curiosity. Watson had on many occasions pointed out in the newspaper over breakfast a tale that he thought might snap Holmes out of some torpor or other, only to be dismissed with a curt apercu, which put the potential case into context or, just as often, the dustbin. However, leave the same piece of journalism lying around or, indeed, dismiss it oneself, and Holmes might just turn his beady gaze upon it and Watson would almost feel the vibrations of that great brain cranking into action.
*****
"They were damn fine boots. Sorry to see them go," he said with a winning smile that dimpled his chin. The man must have broken plenty of hearts back home, Watson thought.
(Very straight of you to notice, Doctor)
*****
"You know we can't allow Sherlock to fall into German hands?"
"That's why I am here," said Mycroft glumly.
"And so why doesn't Sherlock appreciate this?"
Mycroft gave a sigh that shook his frame. "Sherlock is not a political animal. Oh, I know he did political favours for both of us from time to time, but the political wasn't why he acted. It was the challenge of the case or, as I said, as a personal favour. He will not have thought this through. He will only have thought of saving Watson."
*****
"Does everything in this camp have a price? My head excepted?"
Harry thought about it. "Mostly. Food, drink, sex--"
"Sex? You mean there are women here?"
A thick silence settled into the room.
Watson reddened. "Oh, I see."
"Doctor, you aren't telling me you don't know about--"
"Of course I know about such things. Why, I am sure you have heard some base rumours regarding my relationship with Holmes that have sprung up in recent years."
*****
He wondered what Holmes was doing at that moment. Probably settling down by the fire with pipe and book. Perhaps his young companion, Bert, would be with him. Watson felt a twinge of envy but quickly suppressed it.
*****
"Sometimes, the name Sherlock Holmes brings out the best in people."
"Ah, but it's the other one you want to save, isn't it, Georgina?"
Mrs. Gregson recognized an attempt to upset her, the gentle press of a knife between the ribs, presaging the sudden twist. "I want them both home," she said flatly. "They are old men who deserve a rest."
*****
My Dear Watson,
By the time you get this, I will either be dead or on my way to the eternal sleep of death. The thought of this journey is lightened by the knowledge that you will be spared any more suffering and can go home to a well-deserved retirement. I would recommend bees, but I know you never shared my enthusiasm for the wonders of the hive.
...
Do not grieve. I have feared the slow decline of old age more than any of the other evils I have faced. I have peered into the abyss of senility and know it isn't for me.
....
I say again, do not grieve for me. Ours was the most wonderful of times, you were the best of companions and colleagues. And friend, of course. What adventures we had. But I fear that the world that will emerge from this conflict would ill suit me.
....
I wish you many more years and assure you that, should you decide to unearth some of the cases yet to be put before the public, I will be in no position to object. Just do not dim your own considerable light at the expense of mine, as you are wont to do.
I shall see you on the bridge, John. It will be a pleasure to greet you one last time.
Your friend as ever,
Sherlock Holmes.
