Sherlock Holmes: The Army of Doctor Moreau

CHAPTER EIGHT

It was hardly the first time I had been at the receiving end of one of Holmes’ bad moods. His manner was so changeable, swinging from excitement that bordered on mania to the most impenetrable brown studies. It was inevitable therefore that, as his only friend, I should sometimes see the very worst of him. I will say though that I took these moods with considerably more patience than some might have done. In fact, I have often played them down in my case studies as I didn’t want to give them undue importance. For those who spent any time with Holmes (and there were few who did, both by their choice and his reluctance to be in company) the speed with which his manner could change was an integral part of his personality.

During the first years of our marriage, Mary had wondered how I had managed to stand it. “He is a genius,” she would admit, “but I am at a loss as to how you could have lived with him.” It really wasn’t all that difficult and she grew to understand. Some people are just built differently from others. Holmes’ mind was a thing of wonder, never to find its match again. But for every leap of deductive brilliance, every astounding piece of analysis, there was a price to be paid. Quite simply, genius has its faults. He exercised that brain of his so much, abused it terribly, that it is no wonder that it repaid him with shifting moods. A man cannot kick a soccer ball between the goalposts with such frequency without occasionally tearing a ligament and suffering from a limp.

The important thing to remember about Holmes is this: the man was brilliant and also the very best friend I ever had. That he could manage to be both sets him apart as a giant amongst men.

This is not to say he couldn’t often be extremely annoying.