Fic: Enough, Part Two
Title: Enough (2/?)
Rating: PG-13, for "mature themes".
Disclaimer: I am not Sir Arthur. If you think I am, please seek medical attention.
Summary: Are letters enough to explain his plight? Set post-ENGR.
Author's Note: Remember me? I wrote this back in January. I never intended for it to be the first chapter of an ongoing story arc, but some things just write themselves, apparently. This is unbetaed, but don't hold it against me. :]


Sir, more than kisses, letters mingle souls; for, thus friends absent speak.

--John Donne

Dearest sister,

Your letter's arrival could not have been more perfectly timed, as my house has been consistently dark, dismal, and gray for the last month. However, for the same reasons, I fear I must decline your invitation to visit, as I am rather afraid that Mr. H would do himself a mischief, and, though he grates nerves I never knew present (not to mention that dreadful violin), I have grown quite fond of him.

Since you asked, it was a beautiful wedding, and Miss M--or, I should say, Mrs. W--a beautiful bride. I told both she and the good doctor afterwards that I wished them all the happiness in the world. Mary beamed, and thanked me, and was the very image of the radiant new wife, ready to manage her own house and manage her own affairs and manage her own husband, whether he liked it or not.

This is, of course, half the reason I hate her so. (And please do not try to tell me that it is because of my own brief happiness and its unfortunate, inevitable end! You have spun that tale once too many...) No, I hate her because she walked through my door. I hate her because she requested an audience with my tenants. I hate her because he liked it not.

I hate her because they like it not, more accurately. Dear God, I shall never forget the look in Dr. W's eyes on his wedding day... I would say that Mary will be the death of him, but I fear the poor man is already dead.

And Mr. H fares no better, of course. He's been an impossible character since last September, as you well know. I could count the nights he has recently slept on one hand, and with fingers to spare, no doubt! Mr. H will not speak except to shout, will not eat except to complain, will not bathe except for a case (for then Dr. W would see, and Mr. H is a man of the vainest tendencies)... I am at my wits' end, and have several times considered calling for his brother. I would speak to Dr. W about it, but he is troubled enough by what I assume to be an already loveless marriage, not to mention the weight of his own conscience, for anyone can see the change in Mr. H. I have even had their inspector friend inquire as to his health, and as I am sure you know, he is not a man championed for his mental prowess!

But Mr. H has some outlet for his melancholy, as he does write--the profusion of loose-leaf in the sitting room is testimony to that fact. Some are entirely illegible, but others... Suffice it to say that there are several I wish were not so readable. I am glad he trusts me enough to leave such documents about, but he seems to forget that I am not the only one who ventures into those rooms. As I have your confidence as a woman from similar circumstances (and because I have no idea how to help him), I will copy one here:

Dr. ---- W,

I am not a man of passion. I write monographs, not sonnets. I haven't time for waiting. I am a man devoted to his work. I am respected, if not liked. I do not care, and neither should you.

Another runs thusly:

W,

How could you not have known? I know that you are blind and incapable of even the simplest deductions, but how did it never occur to you? How did you miss it? How did you not see me? More importantly, how can I do the same?

Regards,
H

And another (which proves a depth of emotion I thought practically impossible for him to possess):

I rarely dream, but when they come to me, they are of you, ----. I nurse the foul craving, and when I don't, I remember that you will not come home to scold me for doing so.

And I empty another vial.

And again.

Call it a scientific process, if you will. The findings so far prove that my solution touches me more than you ever dared, and makes my heart race nearly as much. There are days that I hope to fall in love with it instead...

Others, however, are quite harmless, and implicate no one in such "illegality". (You would thank me for excluding the lewder ones from this letter, I am sure.) For example, I found something of a "to-do" list affixed to the settee--quite by accident, naturally--via a gob of some chemical as yet unidentified:

looked file box
looked newspapers
burnt newspapers
medicated
broke chair (must pay) (I hadn't even noticed the chair, to be quite honest.)
ran experiment
considered monographs
answered telegrams
medicated
upstairs (He spends so much time in Dr. W's old room...)
slept
composed (Is that truly what he calls it??)
cleaned gun
stoked fire
smoked pipe
medicated

...And so forth, though in retrospect it looks to be more of a "has-done" list. I had thought that the corner chemist would cut him off eventually, but I suppose it is not to be--to what else should "medicated" refer? Besides, Mr. H "un-medicated" is a thousand times more difficult, and if his best friend could not convince him to stop the nasty habit, then why should I be able to?

I am truly at a loss, for I have no experience in this kind of grief. Even when my dear husband departed from this world, I had been given ample time to prepare myself for it, and I did not have to bear the burden of a seemingly impossible love. And though I loved him, he was not in my life long enough for me to build it around him. For Mr. H has done such, whether he admits it or not. Yes, he came home at the oddest hours with no concern for the household, but Dr. W was always waiting for him to return. Yes, he fell into the blackest of moods in the intervals between his adventures, but Dr. W was always there to retrieve him. Dr. W not only kept him company, but made sure that he ate a little, slept a little, and smiled at more than explosions!

I do not believe Mr. H had truly lived before he met the good doctor...

How on God's green earth do you two manage? If I had thought to ask before, perhaps I could have helped them to hide, or at least have prevented the doctor's horrible mistake! But I know the blame is not mine, or Dr. W's, or even Miss M's.

Mrs. W.

The hour is late, and his violin has fallen silent at last. I should go check on the poor man, or, at the very least, remove the syringe from his arm. Please give my regards to Elizabeth.

With all my love and affection,
your adoring sister

PS: Call me a thief if you must, but I found the most curious thing crumpled under his desk. Apparently he does write sonnets, though they are quite dreadful, so I will not subject you to them. I honestly pray that some wretch comes to bodily harm so that Mr. H might have something better with which to occupy his time, because I've truly had enough.