Baker Street Scenes

Ah, the comforts of home. Holmes's home, that is, 221B Baker Street. Sometimes it's relaxing just to sit back and let your mind drift through past excursions through the Sherlockian Canon. Imagining an evening at Baker Street, a cozy fire crackling in the hearth Whilst outside the wind wails like a child in the chimney-what could be more pleasant? Watson reads one of Clark Russell's sea stories in his chair, and Holmes ... he's probably seated cross-legged-on.the floor cross-indexing his commonplace books, or working with extracts from the newspapers. Perhaps he and Watson will have a glass of port as the evening wears on. Eventually, Watson will give the first yawn and they'll retire, Holmes perhaps staying up a wee bit later to finish some bit of hot cross-indexing. Comfort, tranquillity.. you can almost hear Starrett's 11221BIl being recited in your mind.

But sometimes,we tend to take a one-sided view of things, and the scenes we fondly picture of the comforts of Baker Street are not always the ones that were probably most common to those rooms. A man named Sherlock Holmes lived at 221B Baker Street, you will recall, and that man had certain peculiarities about him. If you ever want a quick splash in the face with cold water, go back to the first page of SIGN. The opening of that tale is not a pleasant piece at all.

"For some time his eyes rested thoughtfully upon the sinewy forearm and wrist, all dotted and scarred with inumerable puncture marks," Watson tells us of Holmes just prior to the detective’s taking an injection of the dreaded cocaine. For months, Watson has been watching Holmes shoot up, every day, three times a day. The whole thing irritates Watson, too. But the doctor writes of "the cool, nonchalant air of my companion which made him the last man with whom one would care to take anything approaching a liberty," and how Holmes's amazing abilities and masterful ways made Watson "diffident and backward in crossing him." Dr. Watson may be trying to read a Clark Russell sea story, but Holmes and that damnable needle are giving him an ulcer as he silently fumes. The two men in the beginning of SIGN are not the life-long friends as we always think of Holmes and Watson. They're roommates, pure and simple. The normal guy and that bizarro junkie whom he lives with. Watson probably had to write of Holmes's amazing crime-solving out of self-defense, just to show all the doctor's friends and ac-quaintances that his fellow lodger had some merits. Perhaps even to remind himself.

Much has been written of the long-suffering nature of Mrs. Hudson, their landlady. The poor woman had bullet holes in her walls and ragamuffins on her stairs. But what of the poor guy who was probably in the same room trying to nap when Holmes started shooting that V.R.? Life with Holmes could not have been easy. How many times do you think this scene occurred?

"Come, Watson, the game is afoot!" Holmes would say as he shook Watson out of his slumber.

"The game,is ... wha? Lemme sleep, Holmes, I'm only the chronicler."

"It's murder, Watson! Three cabbies killed in the same night with nitrate on their fingers!"

"S'boring, Holmes; tell me about it tonight," Watson would say just before rolling over. "I'm still recovering from Maiwand."

And on it would go. Perhaps the most tranquil nights Dr. Watson spent at Baker Street were the ones when Holmes was off chasing around London on a case. Peace and quiet at last -- until some cranky plumber or book-seller came tromping in, only to be revealed as Holmes in disguise. If any real tradesmen did show up, Watson was probably tugging at the beards or taking a bath-sponge to their faces in search of his flaky roommate. Sooner or later, living with Holmes would even begin to drive a man as sedate as Watson a little bonkers.

For the truly cozy and comfortable Canonical evening, perhaps we should not be daydreaming of Baker Street at all. Paddington, Kensington, or Mortimer Street would seem the places to be, spending a quiet evening with John H. Watson and his latest wife. A warm fire would burn in the hearth as the latest onslaught of the elements moaned and wailed outside. Dr. Watson would read his sea stories in peace, while Mrs. Watson would pull but her needle....and begin to crochet.

(Printed in Plugs & Dottles, October 1987)