[Sherlock Holmes] The Legend of the Nightingale

The author has something to say: OK, the author is back from traveling, this is a chapter I have been writing on and off for the past few days.The title of this volume is hardcover, and the author doesn't know anything about psychology at all. This is entirely because of Jeremy Brett.It's a story that I don't really want to repeat, but if you want to know, you can look up the story of how deeply Brett was influenced by the character he created with all his heart. He himself has been reluctant to mention anything about bipolar disorder.Whether Holmes' performance in the original book is related to related symptoms can only be said to be a guess by readers, and there is no conclusion.Personally, I think this is more in line with the feeling, so it is used here.Based on the impression Holmes gave me, this should only accumulate until retirement before it really becomes a problem that affects work and life.Well, the abusive nature of the hairdresser has started to make trouble again in this volume, let's make sure that the ending is good.After all, it's the last point, and it would be meaningless if there are big twists and turns forcibly.

This chapter is the last time Iris and McMurdo appear in the text.Out of a private message, I added another song for the two of them.

(Nightingale's notes)

1903 was a painful year for me.

The twentieth century hit me hard.My mother died of illness at the end of 1902, and Mr Nightingale, old, moved in with his son, in dire health.I didn't go back to Sussex to live for a while, and all my relatives avoided me, and Mr. Nightingale Jr. was more polite than kind.No wonder they.A 35-year-old unmarried (as far as they know) woman who is not doing business, has caused more new things in her lifetime than the three generations of the Nightingale family combined, and has had a cold relationship with the family for many years. Maybe it would be better for them to disappear earlier.My reputation in the industry is not too big, if you don't count the fact that everyone is very curious about female detectives, but I can still get along.Mr. Nightingale Jr. didn't know much about business, and managed to manage without any trouble.The two of us were in a state where neither of us would, nor would we bother to accept, the other's help.In the end, rather than saying that I left voluntarily, it is better to say that old Mr. Nightingale felt that my absence would be more conducive to his recovery, and ordered me to go back and forth.

Then, in mid-1903, the McMurdos both left England for America.I know very well that they could have sailed early in the year if it hadn't been for not wanting to leave me alone when I was devastated by the loss of a loved one.On the one hand, for these two Americans, they have been in London and Manchester for too long.While thrilling and never boring, they just can't be in the same place forever.On the other hand, it was also a point that made it impossible for Iris to postpone the trip. She received a letter from Godfrey Norton from the United States, informing Eileen Norton that she had contracted a serious illness.I know there is no way to keep them from any aspect.This time I have reason to believe that it is unlikely that they will have the opportunity to cross the ocean to England again.Iris firmly forbade me to cry at my farewell.She often makes others cry, but she never cries herself.There is also Jack, my first partner in my career, who is so sophisticated and cutely cunning.His last words before saying goodbye were: "Angela, this is the last time the two of us work together." I found that I couldn't say any gorgeous farewell words. Who would believe that they could not be happy?

I was left alone in Manchester.

Such days did not last long. In July, Watson wrote to me, asking me to come to London as soon as possible and make preparations for my permanent residence in Baker Street. At the same time, I specifically stated that I must first meet him at his home.I therefore closed my Manchester office and set off for London.Thus began the ordeal of 7B Baker Street.

I had a foreboding about Holmes' condition.Since I don't meet often, every time I can clearly feel that some of his temperament is aggravating, but Watson, who often cooperates with him, is not easy to detect.We have become accustomed to Holmes' arrogance when he has great success and the corresponding annoyance and frustration when encountering ups and downs, and sometimes over-expression.It's only recently that I've sensed that his erratic temper has begun to develop in directions other than work, or maybe it has permeated his entire life, but he used to fill his life with work, making us think it was high intensity The result of mental work and regular self-enclosure.During this period, I took care of Watson to pay attention to his mental state. Emotional state may affect the mind, although we all know that it is futile to explore Holmes's mind.By the time Watson had to summon me to London, the "symptoms" had exceeded all expectations.

It was Mei Li who opened the door for me.I haven't seen her for almost half a year. When she was excited, her face was a little scary. I had to remind her to calm down.The disease had worn down her appearance but not her spirit, and her beautiful eyes were still as moving as when she first saw her.Then Watson came out of the room, apologetic for calling me from my work in Manchester.Only then did I know that the doctor had temporarily closed the clinic to take care of Mei Li due to her recent poor health.

"It seems that we all have to sacrifice work for love." The doctor said with a tired smile, and handed me the small teacup, "But it's not too different from work to me."

This is a lie.What he is doing now is the work of a nurse.

"What has happened to Holmes?"

"It's hard to give a precise definition." The doctor said, "I can't even say what kind of disease it is. For the time being, let's say it's emotional instability."

"I'm not surprised." I said nervously.

"How should I put it, it seems that when he is in a good mood, he is a bit too good. He has bursts of inspiration and is very talkative. He can even stay up for days and nights..."

"He used to be like that too."

"But he wasn't so melancholy before."

It seems that the combination of London and consulting detectives gives a melancholic impression.But it makes me uneasy to apply the word "melancholy" to Holmes.

"I'd need to meet him in person to be sure."

"Let's go now," said Watson. "It doesn't matter if Merry stays at home for a while. Mrs. Hudson, who I left alone in Baker Street, is probably in a nervous breakdown. She has been trying to persuade Holmes to eat for three days. But he kept almost no water but tobacco and sherry, never opened the windows or drew the curtains, and was forbidden to clean his room. Needless to say, there was no case at this time. Only once did I go in, and his room was full of pencil sketches, There are also stickers on the wall, all drawn by himself in an unconscious state, some of which I can still recognize, and some of which I can’t tell what they are, as if he was drunk or dreaming. Holmes never drinks Drunk, I can be sure of that."

"But it doesn't mean he doesn't have nightmares." I sighed.

Mrs. Hudson could literally cry when she opened the door for us.The poor old lady already has silver hair and dark circles under her eyes.She hugged us both hard, like old comrades reunited.

"Thank God, Doctor, I can't last without you."

"All right, Mrs. Hudson?" Watson closed the door behind him, and hung our two coats on the coat hooks.

"No, doctor, not at all," cried the landlady. "Mr. Holmes, he is getting more and more frightening. I went to deliver tea this afternoon, and I couldn't wake him. I managed to get him Drag him to the bed, and take this opportunity to feed him some sugar water..."

"Nice job, Mrs. Hudson."

"Thank you, doctor. I don't know how he is now, but he must be awake. The door of the room was locked again when I went to see him. He may be mad at me for it."

"Mrs. Hudson, you're a good man. You'll make it to Judgment Day even if we don't come."

"Stop talking, Dr. Watson." The landlady wiped away her tears.I took out my handkerchief to her, but it was useless for her to hold it.

"Nightingale, go and have a look, he needs you right now."

"Probably we need ladies on duty," said Watson with a wry smile.

Subconsciously, I grabbed my collar with my hands and walked up the stairs.The house was quiet, and I could hear the breathing of two people behind me.

I stood in the familiar corridor and took a deep breath.There was a smell of smoke in the air, but I felt strongly that it was him, the closer I got, the stronger the feeling, and even a little pressure to breathe.I stood at the door, raising my hand to knock.

"There's no need to knock, Nightingale."

I raised my hand and tapped my forehead, feeling ridiculous.Holmes is still Holmes after all.

The moment I opened the door, I was almost suffocated by the smoke.The smog in London is considered clean air by comparison.Holmes was reclining in his arm-chair, in his night-gown.The curtains were so opaque that I couldn't see his face clearly.I reached for my glasses, thought about it, and gave up.

"Close the door." A hoarse voice said.I almost didn't recognize it was Sherlock Holmes.

"Close the door? Don't be kidding. Listen to how your throat is choking. Close your eyes," I yelled, ignoring the door behind me, walking past him, and flinging one of the curtains.Holmes raised his hand to grab me, but before he could, the light shone through.I pushed open the window involuntarily.Looking back, Holmes was shielding his eyes with a bony hand.He was used to the dim light.Only at this time did I see clearly that he was almost so thin that only a skeleton remained, and the nightgown that he had used for many years seemed much looser.

"My God, Holmes, are you going to do this to us every two days!"

I forcibly grabbed his wrist and pulled his hand down, because I felt that the palm of my hand was hurt by the bones because I grasped it too tightly.That haggard face appeared in front of me.

"Let go, Nightingale." Holmes said softly with his eyes slightly closed.

I let go of his wrist and leaned forward to hold him in my arms.

"Does suicide need such a slow method?"

"I wish you wouldn't," he said weakly, pushing me away softly but irresistibly.

"At least tell me why."

"It's nothing, Nightingale," was all he said.

"Oh Holmes!" I put my head in my hands. "You know very well that you have nothing to hide from me, though you can do it if you want. What is there between us?"

In spite of my numerous failures, my persistent attempts to arouse his tenderness when my mind ran into a block, no doubt failed again.He turned his head away.I looked around the room and started noticing the sketches taped to the walls and piled up on the desk, the sofa, even the bed.The doctor said that he slept most of the time when he was depressed, which means that he was drawing almost non-stop when he was awake.The so-called sobriety.Some I could read, the streets and houses of London, Baker Street, and portraits of people I didn't know.There is even a large realistic Reichenbach Falls, which I thought he would never want to recall.There are more that I can't understand, almost random smearing and rendering, some can see the outline, and some can't see anything.At this time, I saw a sheet on the desk, which should be new, and there are debris left by sharpeners on it.This is still a painting so abstract that it can be called graffiti.Even so, I found a pair of relatively clear eyes in the middle of the frame.I froze for a moment when I stared at it.The way those eyes looked at me tenderly was so familiar, but it only lasted a second.When I blinked and looked again, that feeling was gone again.

"Nightingale, get out," said Holmes suddenly.

I look back at him.Holmes was staring at me from his arm-chair.

"But……"

"You go out first."

Although he was staring at me intently, I knew he was worried about what was on the desk, but was too shrewd to glance at it subconsciously out of the corner of his eye.I carefully left the desk to say something more, but without warning, he grabbed the arm of the chair and yelled at me:

"go out!"

Except for him, it is impossible for me to tolerate such a weird temper from anyone in the world, and it is not normal for him to treat me like this.I thought it would take a few more minutes to get to this step.But at this time, I can't give up on him, I know very well.I leaned in and kissed him on the cheek, or cheekbones.He wanted to push me away violently, his chapped lips brushed my chin when he turned back to avoid it, except for the weakness of his movements, he looked like he wanted to throw me hard on the floor.Then he suddenly slackened, his thin shoulders slammed back against the back of the chair, and then quickly reacted to the other extreme that is unimaginable to ordinary people.He hugged me back with his bony hands, buried his head on my shoulders, and pinched my back through the clothes with his slender fingers, like a drowning man clung to everything he came across randomly.The desperation revealed in this action somewhat shocked me.

"I'm sorry, Nightingale," he whispered in my ear.

"It's nothing. You don't need to apologize."

"Sorry, Nightingale." He just muttered to himself.