Riona (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
rionaleonhart) wrote2006-07-14 01:04 pm
rionaleonhart) wrote2006-07-14 01:04 pm
Entry tags:
I Reject Your Reality And Substitute My Own.
I'm not usually remotely interested in football, but this is quite possibly the most fantastic thing that I have ever seen. I’ve never been able to watch the birth and rapid proliferation of an Internet meme quite like this before.
Anyway! This wonderful post on Holmes and the Holmes/Watson relationship by![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
squeemu (spoilers up to the end of The Return of Sherlock Holmes) reminded me of a certain quote from The Adventure of the Lion's Mane which made me incredibly distressed. If all goes according to plan, this entry should discuss Certain Aspects Of Sherlock Holmes' Later Life Which Made Me Sad and also the relationship between Holmes and Watson and not go spiralling off into discussions of Sherlock Holmes/House crossovers in which House does his best to send Holmes off on wild goose chases while Watson and Wilson roll their eyes and laugh at their insane friends and then become Best Friends Forever, although I fully intend to discuss that at some point in the future.
There are so many things that I love about the relationship between Holmes and Watson. There’s the way in which Holmes get annoyed when Watson goes off and marries (although of course he is always willing to abandon his wives and go gallivanting off with Holmes on the trail of a new case):
"Miss Morstan has done me the honour to accept me as a husband in prospective."
He gave a most dismal groan.
"I feared as much," said he. "I really cannot congratulate you."
I was a little hurt.
And, at the beginning of The Blanched Soldier:
The good Watson had at that time deserted me for a wife, the only selfish action which I can recall in our association. I was alone.
There's the fact that Holmes actually sneakily paid a relative the money to buy Watson's practice just so Watson would move back in with him. That quote very nearly made me explode with glee (HOLMES/WATSON IS SO AMAZINGLY WONDERFULLY OBVIOUS I LOVE IT).
Watson will put up with anything that Holmes does. He will endure his criticism of Watson’s writing, his untidiness, his habits of indoor pistol practice and his absent-minded violin playing:
When left to himself, however, he would seldom produce any music or attempt any recognised air. Leaning back in his arm-chair of an evening, he would close his eyes and scrape carelessly at the fiddle which was thrown across his knee... I might have rebelled against these exasperating solos had it not been that he usually terminated them by playing in quick succession a whole series of my favourite airs as a slight compensation for the trial upon my patience.
When Holmes claims not to have faith in Watson’s skill as a doctor, Watson is extremely hurt, but is still prepared to acquiesce to his wishes and devotes all of his attention to finding someone who can treat him. Clearly his patience is supernatural. Holmes nearly kills himself and Watson when testing the effects of a drug that killed two people and drove another two insane, and Watson forgives him in a moment because Holmes is genuinely sheepish and apologetic and it is one of those rare occasions in which Watson can actually see that Holmes really cares about him:
At the same moment, in some effort of escape, I broke through that cloud of despair and had a glimpse of Holmes's face, white, rigid, and drawn with horror - the very look which I had seen upon the features of the dead. It was that vision which gave me an instant of sanity and of strength. I dashed from my chair, threw my arms round Holmes, and together we lurched through the door, and an instant afterwards had thrown ourselves down upon the grass plot and were lying side by side, conscious only of the glorious sunshine which was bursting its way through the hellish cloud of terror which had girt us in...
"Upon my word, Watson!" said Holmes at last with an unsteady voice, "I owe you both my thanks and an apology. It was an unjustifiable experiment even for one's self, and doubly so for a friend. I am really very sorry."
"You know," I answered with some emotion, for I had never seen so much of Holmes's heart before, "that it is my greatest joy and privilege to help you."
(Er, Holmes doesn’t mistreat Watson quite so much as these paragraphs may seem to indicate, but Watson certainly does put up with a lot.)
Then, of course, there is The Adventure of the Three Garridebs, in which Watson is shot and Holmes has an absolute fit:
I felt a sudden hot sear as if a red-hot iron had been pressed to my thigh. There was a crash as Holmes’s pistol came down on the man’s head. I had a vision of him sprawling upon the floor with blood running down his face while Holmes rummaged him for weapons. Then my friend’s wiry arms were round me, and he was leading me to a chair.
“You’re not hurt, Watson? For God‘s sake, say that you are not hurt!”
It was worth a wound — it was worth many wounds — to know the depth of loyalty and love which lay behind that cold mask. The clear, hard eyes were dimmed for a moment, and the firm lips were shaking. For the one and only time I caught a glimpse of a great heart as well as of a great brain. All my years of humble but single-minded service culminated in that moment of revelation.
“It’s nothing, Holmes. It‘s a mere scratch.”
He had ripped up my trousers with his pocket-knife.
“You are right,” he cried with an immense sigh of relief. “It is quite superficial.” His face set like flint as he glared at our prisoner, who was sitting up with a dazed face. “By the Lord, it is as well for you. If you had killed Watson, you would not have got out of this room alive. Now, sir, what have you to say for yourself?”
So I ask you, how can this wonderful and beautiful and insane friendship, this complete devotion, be eventually reduced to what we are told by Holmes at the beginning of The Adventure of the Lion's Mane?
At this period of my life the good Watson had passed almost beyond my ken. An occasional week-end visit was the most that I ever saw of him.
IT'S NOT FAIR. IT'S NOT FAIR AND IT MAKES ME WANT TO CRY. Seriously, I can't think of anything more tragic.
...well, them never meeting in the first place would probably have been more tragic, but still. How could this happen?
Also it annoys me that he’s got that friend of his on the Downs, and apparently they’re so close that they can drop in on each other without invitation, and I just want to yell ‘WHAT ARE YOU DOING? WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING? WATSON IS THE ONLY PERSON IN YOUR LIFE, GO BACK TO WATSON.’
Also also he can’t stop being a detective the excitement of the case was all that kept him from injecting himself with cocaine what will keep him sane when he’s a bloody beekeeper?
EDIT: DID I MENTION THAT THEY ARE ALWAYS CALLING EACH OTHER 'my dear Holmes' AND 'my Watson' AND IT IS REALLY REALLY CUTE? BECAUSE THEY DO, AND IT IS.
Anyway! This wonderful post on Holmes and the Holmes/Watson relationship by
squeemu (spoilers up to the end of The Return of Sherlock Holmes) reminded me of a certain quote from The Adventure of the Lion's Mane which made me incredibly distressed. If all goes according to plan, this entry should discuss Certain Aspects Of Sherlock Holmes' Later Life Which Made Me Sad and also the relationship between Holmes and Watson and not go spiralling off into discussions of Sherlock Holmes/House crossovers in which House does his best to send Holmes off on wild goose chases while Watson and Wilson roll their eyes and laugh at their insane friends and then become Best Friends Forever, although I fully intend to discuss that at some point in the future.There are so many things that I love about the relationship between Holmes and Watson. There’s the way in which Holmes get annoyed when Watson goes off and marries (although of course he is always willing to abandon his wives and go gallivanting off with Holmes on the trail of a new case):
"Miss Morstan has done me the honour to accept me as a husband in prospective."
He gave a most dismal groan.
"I feared as much," said he. "I really cannot congratulate you."
I was a little hurt.
And, at the beginning of The Blanched Soldier:
The good Watson had at that time deserted me for a wife, the only selfish action which I can recall in our association. I was alone.
There's the fact that Holmes actually sneakily paid a relative the money to buy Watson's practice just so Watson would move back in with him. That quote very nearly made me explode with glee (HOLMES/WATSON IS SO AMAZINGLY WONDERFULLY OBVIOUS I LOVE IT).
Watson will put up with anything that Holmes does. He will endure his criticism of Watson’s writing, his untidiness, his habits of indoor pistol practice and his absent-minded violin playing:
When left to himself, however, he would seldom produce any music or attempt any recognised air. Leaning back in his arm-chair of an evening, he would close his eyes and scrape carelessly at the fiddle which was thrown across his knee... I might have rebelled against these exasperating solos had it not been that he usually terminated them by playing in quick succession a whole series of my favourite airs as a slight compensation for the trial upon my patience.
When Holmes claims not to have faith in Watson’s skill as a doctor, Watson is extremely hurt, but is still prepared to acquiesce to his wishes and devotes all of his attention to finding someone who can treat him. Clearly his patience is supernatural. Holmes nearly kills himself and Watson when testing the effects of a drug that killed two people and drove another two insane, and Watson forgives him in a moment because Holmes is genuinely sheepish and apologetic and it is one of those rare occasions in which Watson can actually see that Holmes really cares about him:
At the same moment, in some effort of escape, I broke through that cloud of despair and had a glimpse of Holmes's face, white, rigid, and drawn with horror - the very look which I had seen upon the features of the dead. It was that vision which gave me an instant of sanity and of strength. I dashed from my chair, threw my arms round Holmes, and together we lurched through the door, and an instant afterwards had thrown ourselves down upon the grass plot and were lying side by side, conscious only of the glorious sunshine which was bursting its way through the hellish cloud of terror which had girt us in...
"Upon my word, Watson!" said Holmes at last with an unsteady voice, "I owe you both my thanks and an apology. It was an unjustifiable experiment even for one's self, and doubly so for a friend. I am really very sorry."
"You know," I answered with some emotion, for I had never seen so much of Holmes's heart before, "that it is my greatest joy and privilege to help you."
(Er, Holmes doesn’t mistreat Watson quite so much as these paragraphs may seem to indicate, but Watson certainly does put up with a lot.)
Then, of course, there is The Adventure of the Three Garridebs, in which Watson is shot and Holmes has an absolute fit:
I felt a sudden hot sear as if a red-hot iron had been pressed to my thigh. There was a crash as Holmes’s pistol came down on the man’s head. I had a vision of him sprawling upon the floor with blood running down his face while Holmes rummaged him for weapons. Then my friend’s wiry arms were round me, and he was leading me to a chair.
“You’re not hurt, Watson? For God‘s sake, say that you are not hurt!”
It was worth a wound — it was worth many wounds — to know the depth of loyalty and love which lay behind that cold mask. The clear, hard eyes were dimmed for a moment, and the firm lips were shaking. For the one and only time I caught a glimpse of a great heart as well as of a great brain. All my years of humble but single-minded service culminated in that moment of revelation.
“It’s nothing, Holmes. It‘s a mere scratch.”
He had ripped up my trousers with his pocket-knife.
“You are right,” he cried with an immense sigh of relief. “It is quite superficial.” His face set like flint as he glared at our prisoner, who was sitting up with a dazed face. “By the Lord, it is as well for you. If you had killed Watson, you would not have got out of this room alive. Now, sir, what have you to say for yourself?”
So I ask you, how can this wonderful and beautiful and insane friendship, this complete devotion, be eventually reduced to what we are told by Holmes at the beginning of The Adventure of the Lion's Mane?
At this period of my life the good Watson had passed almost beyond my ken. An occasional week-end visit was the most that I ever saw of him.
IT'S NOT FAIR. IT'S NOT FAIR AND IT MAKES ME WANT TO CRY. Seriously, I can't think of anything more tragic.
...well, them never meeting in the first place would probably have been more tragic, but still. How could this happen?
Also it annoys me that he’s got that friend of his on the Downs, and apparently they’re so close that they can drop in on each other without invitation, and I just want to yell ‘WHAT ARE YOU DOING? WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING? WATSON IS THE ONLY PERSON IN YOUR LIFE, GO BACK TO WATSON.’
Also also he can’t stop being a detective the excitement of the case was all that kept him from injecting himself with cocaine what will keep him sane when he’s a bloody beekeeper?
EDIT: DID I MENTION THAT THEY ARE ALWAYS CALLING EACH OTHER 'my dear Holmes' AND 'my Watson' AND IT IS REALLY REALLY CUTE? BECAUSE THEY DO, AND IT IS.