The Snake and The Rabbit

One muggy August afternoon, Inspector Hopkins came calling. He was a sorry sight. His head was hung low with his hat in his hand. Holmes, myself, Lizzie and Mycroft were having tea.

The good inspector took a deep breath.

“Both?” Lizzie spoke from her seat on the window.

Inspector Hopkins looked at her with shock in his eyes. “Both.” He shuffled his hat in his hands, “how did you know?”

“I know my father.”

I looked at Holmes who was looking at Lizzie. He finally made eye contact with me. Somehow he knew what was going on. I could see it.

Over the next couple days, Lizzie busied herself with funeral arrangements. Her father had a will and she employed Mr. McFarlane to settle it.

I had never known Holmes’ to be religious or spiritual. However, it was becoming apparent to me that Lizzie was. Her afore mention of God was no accident. During her stay with us, we had many heated debates about religion. Holmes was about logic, data, and facts; if he could see it, taste it and touch it then and only then it might be real. Myself, though I never went to church, I saw many things on the battlefield that logic could never explain away.

So when at the funeral Holmes played and she sang it brought tears to my eyes. The desire in me was to fall to my knees and weep openly. His playing accompanied with her song was sad yet joyful at the same time. I was not along in my feeling of joyful despair other sobs filled my ears. Inspector Hopkins was beside me, he too was wiping fiercely at his face.

A few days after the funeral, Holmes had been out for some reason. I was sitting on the couch when he returned reading.

“Engrossed?”

“Fascinated.”

Holmes raised an eyebrow at me. “Indeed.”

“Holmes, what do you know of the song that you played at Mr. Parker’s funeral?”

He took a deep breath, “they sang it all the time. Her grandmother loved the song. She had gotten the lyrics from a traveling preacher.” He smiled a sad smile as he looked out the window. “The house always smelt of food. She would be in the kitchen kneading huge piles of dough.” Holmes sniffed the air. There was a twinkle in his eyes. “Come Watson.”

We went down stairs. At the bottom of the stairs, we heard singing.  I knew not the song. We snuck into the kitchen to find Lizzie kneading dough and Mrs. Hudson stirring in a pot. Holmes tiptoed behind Lizzie and stole a piece of dough.

Lizzie playfully gasped and giggled, “dough thief. Am I my grandmother now? If so; I need to chase you around the kitchen with a cloth and threaten you within an inch of your life.”

He stared at her for a moment, “something is missing.”

She looked wounded, “from my bread.”

He smiled trailing his finger through the loose flour then wiped it down her nose. “Now you are closer to being your grandmother.”

She laughed and chased him around the kitchen with her cloth. “I hope you mind not, I invited Mycroft over for tea.”

“Not ah-tall.”

The look on his face; I had told Lizzie that I knew Holmes loved her. From the look on his face at this moment, I knew that he adored her.

He had caught her hands, “you boys run along up stairs.” The bell rang, someone was at the door. “Find a way to entertain your brother. I know that might be difficult.”

He whispered something in her ear. She smiled as he kissed the top of her hand. Mrs. Hudson looked at me and smiled.

It was Mycroft at the door. I was lost in thought as we three walked to the parlor. I thought about Irene Adler and how Holmes called her “the woman”. I always thought she was the woman that he judged all women by. Then there was the young Violet Smith. I had hopes for those two. But it was not she that he was attracted to, it was the problem. The thrill of the chase. However, downstairs was a woman that had from all accounts, crushed him. After having met her, I understood why a man would detest the female sex. Though she had no malice in her for her decision to take another path that included him not; the pain was no less the same.

I left the room. As if in a haze, I walked down Bakers Street until I found a bench. My head ah-whirl with images and thoughts. I noticed not that someone had sat down beside me until she hissed.

“Do you need to talk?” Her voice was but a whisper.

“Where do I begin?”

“How about at the beginning?”

“All of my life, I have been searching for love. Holmes often makes off colour remarks when it comes to my knowledge of the fairer sex.” I smiled. “My short marriage to Mary was as I hoped it would be.” I paused, “I miss her.” We sat in silence as I collected my thoughts. “You have told me your reasoning behind why you turned him down. I see it but fail to understand. The way he looked at you in the kitchen, I dream of that. I dream of a love so strong. You two have it and will do nothing with it.”

Her voice was calm when she asked, “what would you suggest I do?”

I was ah-gasp, “get married, start a family, moved to that little cottage in Sussex Downs and live out the rest of your lives in the bliss of love.”

“How do you see that?”

I was stunned. “What?”

“Tell me what you see. How do you see us?”

“You both blissfully happy. The man adores you. I saw it on his face.”

She stood, “I will not do that to him.”

“What give him joy?” I was angry beyond measure. I stood as well.

She sat back down very gently and I followed. “Watson, think with me for a minute, humor me.” I looked at her blankly. She closed her eyes before speaking. “For as long as Sherlock has been in your life; he has never been fond of women. Correct?”

“Correct.”

“Tell me why?”

“I have learned that you made the decision not to marry him.”

“And what did I tell you?”

“Which time?” I hissed.

“Love has never been our problem.”

The Snake and The Rabbit