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In the waning summer of 1895, my good friend Sherlock Holmes and I fled the blistering heat of the city for a case in the Berkshire countryside. I suspect this had as much to do with our growing irritation at our stifling and humid quarters as it did the case itself. Holmes may grumble when his habits are disrupted, but we were both grateful for a change of scenery and the pleasure afforded by a ramble over the hills with no company but birdsong.
For three nights we shared a sparse but homely room at the inn. Each morning Holmes spun elaborate plans, left instructions, and then headed into town for the day in pursuit of his quarry—though he may as well have vanished into the trees for as little as I saw of him. My time was spent on the simple but straining task of watching over the family. Our client, a widow with two small boys and a seemingly endless parade of visiting sisters to fuss over them, was hardly up to hosting inconvenient guests. After exhausting every avenue of polite conversation, I often ended up with a book in one of the high-backed chairs in the parlour dominated by a modern étagère. Sometimes the younger boy, Fred, would creep downstairs to bring me a battered old copy of Chatterbox and sit at my feet while I read aloud his favorite passages about horses, sharks, and pheasants.
A growing concern that Holmes was putting me aside while he delved into danger was quashed the final morning when a stranger arrived, well-dressed but ill-mannered, and threatened the lady of the house in such uncouth terms that I shudder to think what would have happened had she been alone with the children. I pursued him as far as the road and the coward nearly fled into the path of the carriage that Holmes and two local policemen arrived in, not a moment too soon.
Thus ended a mystery that I was not to have the details of until we returned to Baker Street, but Holmes was so pleased with the outcome, and so openly proud of my conduct, that I could not remain frustrated with him. He clapped me on the shoulder as the villain was marched away for questioning, praising my decisive action.
“My dear Watson, my steadfast soldier, you never disappoint.” His cool hand rested upon mine for a moment, and I saw in his eyes that he would have offered a clearer sign of affection had we been alone. But we were not and I had to content myself with the barest press of his hand, which was all he would quite sensibly permit in such circumstances.
By some misfortune of railway works, we were unable to begin our journey back to Baker Street that very afternoon as the timetable had been suspended until quite late in the day. We were, as a consequence, at rather a loose end for several hours. Holmes arranged for our luggage to be taken to the station for safekeeping, and we contemplated our options for entertainment.
If left to his own devices, Homes risked slipping from the cheerful satisfaction brought about by a case well concluded, and into one of his more contemplative moods. I had no wish to spend a glorious late summer afternoon watching Holmes smoke his pipe. Nor did I wish to listen should he find fault with the world, especially if it lay in my unforgivably sensationalist storytelling.
“My dear old man,” I said as we ambled along the cobbled street away from the inn, “we have vanishingly few opportunities in London for a pleasant ramble. Would you humour me if I said I wanted to spend the afternoon surrounded by the sights, sounds, and scents of nature?”
He raised an eyebrow at me. “With you by my side, of course,” I added, in case he had not assumed so.
He smiled indulgently. “I’d be delighted, my boy.”
The road widened as we reached the outskirts of the village. I offered my arm and we ignored the broad, dusty road in favour of a meandering path that wound around a pond and skirted the nearby woods.
I spoke softly so that I did not unduly interrupt the gentle birdsong. “Now that the shroud of danger is lifted from that poor family, I’m certain they’ll regain their happiness. Even if it takes some time.”
“I don’t see why not,” Holmes said, squinting as the clouds rolled away to reveal the sun in its zenith. “What could threaten their safety now?”
“Those boys have been without a father for nearly six months.”
I phrased this with more nonchalance than I felt, lest Holmes get it into his head I was volunteering myself for the job. My marrying days were behind me—but Holmes was not so stoic as to be immune to jealousy.
“Were they frightened?”
“Confused, rather. Their aunts kept them occupied, although young Fred often snuck downstairs to visit me. I’d promised to accompany him to the brambles behind the house to pick blackberries. I hope he isn’t too disappointed.”
Holmes’ loud peal of laughter sent a bird fleeing from a bush as we passed.
“I must hurry you back to London before these country pastimes ensnare you.”
He turned a mischievous smile on me and gently squeezed my arm, and I beamed up at him. I could not help it.
“You make it sound as though I committed myself to some exotic practice. I’ll have you know I picked the brambles in the meadow clean when I was his age and came home with my tongue, teeth, and fingertips stained darker than wine.”
Holmes returned his attention to the path in front of our feet. “Cleanliness was valued greatly in my formative years. Although I did sneak out to gather specimens of plants I found interesting, I should never have popped any of those forbidden berries into my mouth.” He chuckled. “I would certainly have not lived to tell you about it if I had.”
I was suddenly reminded of Holmes’ very particular interest in botany. I laughed to dispel my sudden chill. “I am certainly glad that you were never tempted to taste the glossy black berries of belladonna, or the cherry-red of bittersweet!”
He gave my arm another reassuring squeeze. “At least I can, with certainty, identify which berries ought to be left for the birds.”
We strolled on for several minutes without the need of conversation. I delighted in the gentle music of birdsong accompanied by the swish of the treetops in the light wind. I caught the sweet scent of creeping honeysuckle here and there where the warm breeze reached us between the trees. We were quite alone. In places, the path—really just a track most likely formed by the habits of rabbits or deer—was too narrow for us to walk abreast. At these points, Holmes released my arm and allowed me to lead him by the hand.
Eventually, we reached the limit of the woods where a hedgerow separated the trees from a farmer’s meadow beyond. The hedgerow was tall and lush, preventing us from either clambering over or pushing through. From beyond, the occasional lowing of cattle added a few baritone notes to the fine recital of Mother Nature.
“We will have to turn back,” Holmes observed.
“We will,” I agreed. “But not yet.” I pointed at the hedgerow a dozen yards further along from where we fetched up. “If I am not mistaken, that is a bramble patch, and I expect there will be ripe blackberries for picking.”
Holmes looked so startled at the suggestion that I almost laughed.
“Well, why not?” I added. “Mrs Hudson might even make jam if we bring enough home.”
I’d known Holmes long enough to recognise when his own curiosity tempted him into a new experience—it was something about the way his eyes darted about, analysing the intricacies around him that I myself did not have the wit to perceive.
“Why not, indeed,” he said softly. “I’m woefully unacquainted with these bucolic delights. Lead the way, my good fellow.”
He reached for my hand again and I hastened to take it. We did not often dare such close contact, beyond our rooms in Baker Street. I was content merely to hold his hand in mine as we tread carefully towards the spot—any of the bramble’s bounty would be a delightful bonus. As we crept closer I saw heavy clusters of dark berries hanging from the bramble in between the occasional unripe pink offshoot.
I removed my gloves and picked one fresh off the stem at chest height, pleased that my knack for picking the ripest hadn’t deserted me. It came free with a mere twist.
“There you are, try this.”
Holmes hesitated and then removed his own gloves, although he didn’t reach for it himself. I lifted the glistening fruit to his lips and he delicately ate from my fingers.
The look of surprise on his face will remain with me for the rest of my days. I was so moved by it that I laughed and reached for another to offer him, but he shook his head and covered his lips with his fingers as he crushed the sweet, tart berry with his tongue and swallowed it. I ate my berry greedily and chose yet another. We continued in this manner for several minutes, by which time I had denuded the prickly shrub of the biggest, shiniest berries within easy reach.
”Your arms are longer than mine,” I observed. I pointed to a tempting cluster just beyond reach of my fingertips. “Would you do me the honour?”
Holmes stood thrillingly close to me, reaching across to pluck a sprig of berries, complete with stem, leaves and thorns. The first berry he claimed for himself, closing his eyes and smiling as the flavour burst over his tongue. The second he offered to me. I saw his impish grin an instant too late to avoid the boyish prank he had just conceived—and as a result my lips and chin became stained quite purple with juice.
Of course, there had to be a consequence for his actions.
“Come here, you knave!” I exclaimed, reaching for the berries. He skittered back, smirking like the cat that got the cream, but there was nowhere to go in the dense shrubbery. I caught him in my arms and wrestled him to the ground, careful to keep us out of the bramble. He let out an undignified squeak as I threatened him with a ripe berry, before I leaned down and kissed him full upon the mouth instead.
“So this is what I’ve been missing all these years,” he said when we broke apart.
“Kissing boys in the bramble?” I teased.
He reached up and plucked a leaf from my hair.
“Dirty faces and stains on white linen,” Holmes said with a grimace. “The horror that our old nanny had of sticky hands. Mycroft and I were the cleanest children in all of England, I’ve no doubt.”
As we stood up and brushed ourselves down with our hands, I did my best to conceal a sharp pang of regret that his childhood had been so sterile. To distract him from noticing my unwanted pity, I pulled him close and kissed him softly again. He looked around us, then furtively returned the kiss.
“I wonder what we might use to gather berries for Mrs Hudson,” I said, contemplating the extensive and laden bramble patch. “When I was a lad, I used to get into terrible trouble for carrying whatever I didn’t eat home in my upturned hat.”
“A capital notion!” Holmes withdrew a clean handkerchief from his pocket and removed his cap. He lined the inside with the handkerchief and held it out to me. “This will do nicely.”
The image of Mrs Hudson greeting Holmes at the door, his old deerstalker brimming with berries, was too delightful to pass up. With the enthusiasm of young lads set loose from the schoolroom, we picked our way up and down the hedge, eating almost as many as we reserved for the hat.
“My mother never touched fruit with her bare hands,” Holmes murmured as he turned an overripe and leaking berry in his fingers before popping it into his mouth. “But we occasionally had blackberry fool after dinner on a hot day.”
I stilled, quiet as a mouse caught shuffling beneath the floorboards. I had known Sherlock Holmes for almost fifteen years and he’d never breathed a word of his mother in all that time. The image I had of Holmes’s father, cobbled together from private musings and one conversation with Mycroft in which the brothers said perhaps more than they intended, was of an aloof érudit—a man with endless patience for books and none for children. Of the woman who would make a match with such an intimidating person, I knew nothing.
Questions, I was sure, would result in my dear companion retreating behind the walls of his professional façade. I would not subject him to an interrogation and thereby risk a sour mood marring an otherwise wonderful afternoon. When it became clear that any further revelations about his family were not forthcoming, we turned our backs on the brambles. As we meandered back through the woods, I spoke about my own.
”My mother knew how to make all sorts of jams and jellies and confections. Although my father provided well for us, she came from the sort of country home where nature’s bounty was seen as a blessing.” I laughed. “I think my maternal grandmother knew the location of every bramble patch, crabapple tree, and damson bush in the county. When my brother and I visited, we would be sent out with baskets and instructed not to return until they were brimming with ripe fruit.”
Holmes let out an expansive guffaw and patted my back, looking at me sideways “In some ways, I envy you your particular freedom. However, had I the same freedoms, I doubt I would have spent my time much differently than I did.”
His gaze searched the little dirt track ahead of us. I smiled, for I could quite imagine Holmes as a small boy trying to learn all there was to know about poisonous plants. I pictured him examining his environs minutely for evidence of some real or imagined household intrigue, or turning up to dinner in disguise. I put these likely pastimes before him, but he merely shook his head and scoffed.
“My family would not have been terribly tolerant of such unbecoming behaviour.”
His careful enunciation would have perfectly hidden his feelings on the matter from a stranger. But to me, his cautious voice betrayed an upwelling of emotion. I took his hand again, gently pulled him to a halt and wove our fingers together.
“That’s all in the distant past. I consider you to be my family, Sherlock,” I said quietly. “And I would be greatly honoured if you would consider me to be yours.”
He studied my face for a moment before glancing down at our entwined hands. His other hand held his hat with the flaps tied together to make a handle for our blackberry basket. For a terrible moment I feared my confession had been too forthright.
Then he smiled—not the wry smirk that suggested amusement at some facet of a case, but a timid smile, much like the one young Fred offered me when I indulged his request for a story. How it rent my heart to be unable to enfold the child that Sherlock Holmes had been into my arms and comfort him!
For a moment I watched the dappled sunlight play over his face, as a mistle thrush sang above us and a clumsy bumblebee bumped and buzzed amongst the wildflowers that scattered between the trees. Finally, he squeezed my hand.
”I would like that very much.”