I brought her food, but it stayed untouched on the plate no matter how I tried to cajole her into eating. When I caught her taking twenty minutes to eat a single almond, I began wondering if there was some kind of Watsonian guide for the care and keeping of Holmeses.
When I sent my father an email to that effect (subject line I Need Your Help, postscript Still haven’t forgiven you and won’t), he responded that, yes, over the years he’d written down an informal series of suggestions in his journal; he’d do his best to adapt and type them up for me.
When the list arrived the next day, it was twelve pages long, single-spaced.
The suggestions ran from the obvious (8. On the whole, coaxing works rather better than straightforward demands) to the irrelevant (39. Under all circumstances, do not allow Holmes to cook your dinner unless you have a taste for cold unseasoned broth) to the absurd (87. Hide all firearms before throwing Holmes a surprise birthday party) to, finally, the useful (1. Search often for opiates and dispose of as needed; retaliation will not come often, though is swift and exacting when it does—do not grow attached to one’s mirrors or drinking glasses; 2. During your search, always begin with the hollowed-out heels of Holmes’s boots; 102. Have no compunctions about drugging Holmes’s tea if he hasn’t slept; 41. Be prepared to receive compliments once every two to three years; 74. (underlined twice) Whatever happens, remember it is not your fault and likely could not have been prevented, no matter your efforts). I wondered if I should create some kind of subclause for when the Holmes in question was a girl and her Watson was a guy who liked girls. It’s not your fault if you care too much about her. If you want impossible things. It couldn’t have been prevented, no matter your efforts.
I had to employ rule #9 (sometimes for your own sake you must leave Holmes to his own devices, even if you return to find he’s set himself on fire) when real life began to creep in. The rugby team had asked for permission for me to rejoin in what should have been the last week of my suspension, and gotten it from the school. Holmes had insisted that I go. A number of Dobson’s friends were on the squad, and she’d decided I should ask them, in a roundabout manner, about his last weeks alive. If he was seeing anyone unusual, leaving campus at late hours, taking strange calls. If some blond man had sold him any drugs, and what he’d said. That sort of thing. I’d figured that I could manage well enough.
Holmes disagreed. “You’re a terrible liar,” she said, perched on her lab table. I stood before her, like a schoolboy about to recite his lessons. “More specifically, I can read your thoughts as if they were printed in block letters on your forehead. Really, sometimes you think so loudly that I can hear you in the next room. There’s no way you can approach your teammates in an innocent manner. We need to fix that.”
“I’m so sorry to hear about your unfortunate telepathy,” I snapped.
“See, just there? You’re frustrated, and think I’m being rude.”
“Oh, well done,” I told her. “Really fine detective work. Why are we doing this now?”
She ran a hand through her hair. “Watson,” she said, “we’ve hit a brick wall. We’ve come up with nothing new. Just let’s get you into shape, okay?”
“Okay.” I deflated at the pleading note in her voice.
She smiled. “Let’s start with the basics. How to recognize when others are lying to you, so you can begin to police your own habits.”
She walked me through it—where someone looks when they’re recalling a memory, and when they’re fabricating one; how an honest man stands, and a lying one, how they hold their shoulders (slumped), their hands (behind their back, to hide fidgeting), if they’d prefer to stand or sit (to stand, probably with nervous feet). All of it she rattled off as though reading from a book.
“How young did you learn all this?”
“Five,” she said. “My mum was cross with Milo for teasing me. He kept telling me Santa Claus was real.”
“I’m sorry,” I asked, “was? Don’t you mean wasn’t?”
“No.” She ran her finger down the agenda in her lap and sighed. “Right, so it’s eight o’clock already and you’re tetchy because you have history homework for tomorrow—I can tell by your feet, stop shuffling—so do a practice run or two and then we’ll be finished.”
I stuffed my hands in my pockets to keep myself from fidgeting. “Do you want me to try to lie to you?”
At that, I watched Holmes fight back a laugh. “God, no, that would be pointless. No, I’ll make a series of statements and you can tell me which are true. Thumb up for truth, thumb down for a lie.”
“I’m pretty good at reading you, you know,” I told her.
“That might be true,” she said gamely. “But did you know that my father worked for the M.O.D. for fourteen years before the Kremlin got wind of a scheme of his and tried to have him assassinated? Or that, growing up, I had a cat called Mouse? She’s white and black and very fussy, and once the neighbor boy tried to drown her in a bucket. My mother hates her. Milo joined up with MI5 at age seventeen. No, that’s false, Milo runs the world’s largest private security company. Or no, actually, he’s an enfant terrible preparing a hostile takeover of Google. He’s unemployed. He’s a complete tosser. For years he was my favorite person in the world.”
I held my hand out rather stupidly between us; my thumb hadn’t moved. I’d spent too much time imagining what her life was like, before me, so I drank in all these facts—even the contrary ones—as if they were water.