The Sounds of Darkness

by "Uncharacteristically Silent"

We knew that our son's illness was not our fault. It was absurd to even think that we had somehow caused it, because we had not. But I could not help but feel like I should have done something, anything to prevent... My husband feels the same way. He hides it, like most of his stronger emotions, behind a mask of calm. But I saw his intense anguish when he thought I was not looking... the glittering unshed tears or the twitching of a certain muscle in his jaw as he watched our baby toddle around, his chubby arms outstretched and his blue-gray eyes wide open but unseeing.

Yes, with a strange constriction in my throat I can admit it: The son of Sherlock Holmes, a man whose livelihood once depended upon his eyes, is blind.

"Father?" Eight-year-old Jonathan Russell Holmes patted his way around the table with a letter in his hand, his already long fingers caressing the smooth edges and wax seal with inquisitive gentleness.

"Yes?" Asked Holmes, laying aside his paper.

John reached his father's knee and laid the letter down in front of him. "What is the small lump on this letter? It almost feels like the drops of candle wax that Mother spilt on Mrs. Hudson's table cloth yesterday."

"Very good, John." John flushed with pride. He desperately adored his father and tried to be as observational as he could, using his fingers instead of his eyes to arrive at logical conclusions that reassured me that, though my son might be blind, his mind certainly hadn't suffered. He was quick for his age, I was thankful to note, his mastery of the Braille system of writing had been accomplished at a rate which his tutor had found astonishing. John tries so hard, but it was painfully clear to both Holmes and me that John would never be a detective. Holmes took John's finger and carefully outlined what I could now see was an old-fashioned wax seal. "This is wax, John, but a special kind for sealing important letters. It's tradition for noblemen to press their family's crest into the wax."

"Oh! Is it a case, Father? Could this be from His Majesty?" John's face lit up at the thought and reverently touched the wax seal again.

"I don't think so, son," Holmes chuckled. "This appears to be an invitation from one of our friends... the family crest strikes a whimsical chord to my mind..." Holmes slid the letter, still unopened, over to me where I saw the coat of arms for...

"Lord Peter!" exclaimed John with a little shout. "Quick, Mother! What does it say?" We didn't see dear Peter very often but John had promptly developed an attachment to the funny man whose nose was "like Father's!" I will never forget the day that Peter met John for the first time. He was five years old and, upon entering the parlor where Peter was, had asked in a serious voice if he could "see" the nobleman's face. Peter had replied yes with a curious expression but thankfully, he did not flinch as John's chubby fingers gently roamed over the angular nose, tentatively touched the wide mouth, and with confusion, pulled Peter's monocle off to better inspect this strange item.

Holmes cleared his throat, I started, smiled ruefully then slid a butter knife under the seal and opened the letter. It read, in a fine copperplate:

Lord Peter Wimsey respectfully requests the presence of Mr. and Mrs. Sherlock Holmes at a gathering on the occasion of his lordship's birthday. Dress should be semi-formal.

And near the bottom in a familiar scrawl:

Please bring Johnny as well, he can play with my sister's brood.

"Oh please can I go, Mother? Please?"

I looked at Holmes, who shrugged minutely, then said: "I don't see why not. But," I raised a warning finger. "Make sure you've finished your school work and do not forget to apologize to Mrs. Hudson for tormenting her cat yesterday."

"Yes, Mother." John scurried off obediently, without bothering to have his hands up protectively in front of him. Mrs. Hudson kept the house so orderly that John was able to walk about without his cane, trusting his memory to lead him sure-footed. The problem arose when Holmes or I left something out of place... Holmes got up and soon I felt his gentle hands massaging my neck.

"He will be okay... won't he Holmes?" I whispered. He didn't answer at first so I reached up and grasped his hand in mine. He brought it to his lips briefly.

"If he's anything like either of us, I think he'll do well in life. With or without sight." He kissed my hand again then continued rubbing my neck.

"But..." I continued, my heart aching for our child. "What will he do with his life?"

As the night of Peter's party arrived, John was making himself a bit of a pest as he urged Holmes and me to dress faster so we could leave. Finally we bundled into the car, Holmes tucking the extremely valuable book we had bought for Peter under the seat.

After Bunter let us in, Peter spotted us and disentangled himself from his sister-in-law to greet us with his usual effusiveness: "Mr. Holmes! Mary! So good of you to show up! How are the bees, old man? Still buzzing I suppose? Mary, my dear, you look wonderful," his voice lowered to a whisper. "especially compared with the relatives I've been forced to entertain. Blasted nuisance, having to entertain on one's own birthday, what?" Peter spied John, clinging tightly to his father's hand, head cocked as he listened to Peter and the faint music of a string quartet coming from further inside. Bending down to the boy's level, Peter ruffled John's hair affectionately. "And how are we this fine night, lad? Still terrorizing Mrs. Hudson's cat, I trust?"

"Yes, sir!" grinned John, his face lighting up.

"Good lad." Peter caught my disapproving glare and smiled sheepishly. Propelling us further into the room, Peter called for Bunter, who appeared with his usual silent alacrity.

"My lord?"

"Bunter, would you be so good as to see that Master John here finds the sitting room? I believe that's where Mary went to entertain the children. Oh, and tell the quartet to quit playing Mozart, I'm depressed enough as it is."

"Right away, my lord." Bunter put one of John's hands on his arm and they soon disappeared down a hallway.

"Sonata in A Major," Holmes muttered absently.

"Hmm?" I asked, watching Bunter's back retreat.

"Sonata in A Major," he repeated. "It's what the quartet was playing."

"Oh."

The rest of the party passed in a blur. Peter adored the book Holmes and I had picked out for him, and he immediately sent for Bunter, after stroking the cover lovingly, telling the faithful manservant to take the book "as if it were a newborn babe" up to Peter's private room so he could examine it later. Once in awhile, I spotted Lady Mary Parker, Peter's sister, dashing from the hallway and back again with punch and cookies. I did not envy her, she looked tired. Peter's best friend and brother-in-law was the Chief Deputy Superintendent for Criminal Investigations at Scotland Yard and had to miss the party because his superior as assigned him to investigating a string of murders in the West End, or so Peter informed us.

The night wore on, people fluttered about, said their good-byes to Peter and soon Holmes and I were the only guests left. "Well..." Holmes said rising from the depths of a leather couch. "Russell and I must be going, John has school tomorrow." Peter extended his hand to my husband.

I rose with him. "Yes... It was a lovely evening, Peter. Many happy returns, of course." I raised a motherly finger at him, a grin tugging the corners of my mouth. "Don't do anything rash during your cases and I'm sure you'll live to see lots more."

Bunter appeared with our wraps. "Shall I get young Jonathan, Mrs--" he coughed delicately and seemed to change his mind on how to address me. "Ma'am?"

I shook my head, walking towards the hallway. "I'll get him, Bunter. Thank you anyway." He bowed. As I got closer to the sitting room, I heard faint piano music and wondered for a moment if Lady Mary had any skill with that particular instrument. Whoever is playing is very good... it sounds like that song the quartet was playing... Mozart's Sonata in A Major wasn't it? When I arrived in the doorway, however, I stood still for several minutes in utter amazement at the scene that lay before me.

To my left was a long couch on which sat a softly snoring Mary Parker surrounded by a few children that I vaguely recognized as hers. Right in front of me was a magnificent grand piano, shining and black... on the bench sat a small form whose feet didn't yet touch the ground... fingers racing over the keyboard with stunning expertise.

John's eyes were closed but he played as if he could see the music right in front of him. I stood as if rooted to the spot. So complete was my astonishment that I don't think I could have been more surprised if he had sprouted wings right then and flown off.

Soft steps behind me broke the spell and I whirled, shushing whatever words that had started to issue from the lips of my husband and Peter. Exchanging a confused look, the two men came up behind me and then stood rigidly still as they too saw John play.

Too soon the music ended and the little spine relaxed on the bench. I became aware that my hands were covering my mouth and removed them hastily. That slight movement must have alerted my son, because he turned to face his impromptu audience. "Mother?"

Holmes and I walked carefully to his side, while Peter went to wake Lady Mary. "John... where did you learn to play like that?" I breathed.

He shrugged self-consciously. "I didn't learn... I just do." His young brow wrinkled with thought. "It's almost like I can... see the music... when I heard that song that the quartet was playing when we first got here... I found this piano... Lady Mary said I could play with it if I was careful... the music just seemed to..." John stopped, his vocabulary too small to express what he felt.

"Flow," supplied his father, looking at him with a new light in his eyes. "I know the feeling myself... One can lose oneself in music."

The End