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The dismal grey sky and the driving rain made it a perfect day for a funeral.
I sat in an automobile besides Sherlock Holmes on our way to the
cemetery. Our driver followed the gun cart which carried the casket. Although it
had been a long time since I had been allowed certain liberties with Holmes’
person, I nonetheless clasped his hand in an attempt to comfort him. I was
surprised when he continued to hold me firmly as he gazed out of the
rain-splattered window at the mostly deserted streets.
The few people
milling about completely ignored us. After all, in a city that had lost so many
of its young men in the Great War and was then further decimated by the
influenza epidemic, a funeral procession was hardly a thing of
interest.
I glanced over at Holmes. I had not seen him for a few years.
He looked older, certainly greyer, and much graver. I could still read him, even
after all this time, and I could tell that he was deeply affected by this
loss.
It was just two days prior that I received an unexpected telegram
from him.
“Brother Mycroft is dead. Will you attend funeral? SH”
Although I had seen Sherlock Holmes sporadically throughout
the War, and had met his brother only a handful of times, I would still follow
Holmes whenever I could. I met him at the service, planning to offer my
condolences and then stay out of the way. Holmes was having none of it.
“My dear Watson,” he said, shaking my hand and offering a brief yet
genuine smile. He then sat me next to him and refused to hear of my leaving his
side. I still hadn’t left his side.
The cemetery was wet and soggy when
we arrived, although the rain had let up a little. A small group followed the
casket, and a brief, somber service was offered. Then Mycroft Holmes was lowered
to his final resting place.
The attendees began to disperse until only
Sherlock Holmes and I remained. I squeezed his shoulder quickly and then made to
leave so as to offer him some privacy for his last farewell.
Holmes
turned to me. “Stay Watson,” he whispered. “Please.”
“Of course, my dear
fellow.”
Holmes turned back and looked down upon his brother’s grave. I
took a half-step backward and reflected upon the fact that I had seen far too
many funerals in my life. Death always walks hand in hand as a constant
companion if you are a doctor, or even a biographer of an independent consulting
detective, I thought wryly. My own personal losses had been devastating, but
nothing could prepare me for the horror of the Great War and its aftermath.
Although I stayed in London caring for the returning soldiers, their
horrific tales from the trenches wounded my soul. Warfare had been terrible when
I had been in Maiwand, and it seemed that it had grown even more terrible still.
Finally, when the War was over, we were dismayed to discover that the dying had
only yet begun. London was caught in the worldwide influenza epidemic, and
thousands after thousands died. I heard that 250,000 people had died in Britain
alone; I shudder at the horrific enormity of that figure. Patient after patient
I tried to save—patient after patient died.
“Does it always feel like
this?” Holmes asked, breaking into my melancholic reverie. “This loss, this
sadness.”
I refrained from stating that he had been around death all his
life and thus should know the answer, for his eyes were turned to me and showed
his honest confusion. I also knew, first hand, that Holmes was not as
cold-hearted as he seemed, and that his emotional detachment was in some ways a
means of self-preservation. Besides, I knew of no one who Holmes trusted with
his emotional fragility save me, and I was still honored that he held that trust
after all these years.
I gently squeezed his shoulder. “Yes,” I said,
knowing that lying would be unacceptable. “But it does become more
bearable.”
He nodded. “Is this how you felt when Mrs. Watson, the first
Mrs. Watson that is, passed on?”
“Yes. And my brother. And…” you, I
didn’t finish. I would never forget that feeling of icy horror and unbearable
loss as I gazed down the chasm of Reichenbach Falls.
But Holmes could
always read me. “My dear Watson,” he said, his voice strained. “I owe you far
more than a thousand apologies. How ever did you forgive me?”
I smiled
briefly at his stricken face and his realization, twenty-five years later, of
the unintentional pain he caused me. “That’s easy, Holmes,” I said gently,
squeezing his shoulder once more. “The joy of having you back in my life, alive,
far outweighed my anger at your deception.”
“You have been far too good
to me.”
“Holmes, if your brother was to come strolling across that knoll,
or to reappear in your rooms three years from now, wouldn’t you forgive him for
any pain he caused just for the chance to have him back?”
He closed his
eyes and I could see dampness forming on his lashes. “Yes,” he whispered,
reaching up and clasping my hand still upon his shoulder.
He opened his
eyes and looked into mine. “I’ve missed you all these years, my dear Watson,” he
said. I could hear the truth of his statement.
Suddenly I was desperate
to keep him near me. “Where will you go now?” I asked. “Do you have rooms in the
city?” I realized sadly that I didn’t know the answer.
“I have returned
to my villa in Sussex, and am in town for a fortnight or so to handle Mycroft’s
affairs.” His voice broke slightly on that statement. “I am planning to engage a
hotel for the evening, but will likely move to Mycroft’s rooms so as to clear
them out.”
“Holmes, I will not hear of you staying in a hotel. You must
stay with me,” I insisted.
“I could not bear to be a burden to you or
the current Mrs. Watson.”
“The former Mrs. Watson moved to America during
the War, and you are never a burden to me.”
He blinked. I have only
utterly surprised him a few times in our lives, and this was one of those
times.
“My dear fellow…” he began.
“It’s quite alright, Holmes.
She has a sister living over there, and she left at the beginning of the War to
be safe. She doesn’t wish to return and I don’t want to leave. And so, I believe
she went to one of the Western states and was able to finalize a divorce. I only
received the papers last week.”
Holmes looked dumbfounded. “I’m sorry,”
he finally uttered.
“I’m not,” I said with a sad little smile. “Well, not
too much. She’s happier there, and I have little to offer her
here.”
“Don’t say such things! If anyone doesn’t see how great of a man
you are, then they are a fool.”
“My dear Holmes,” I said, clasping his
hand once more. “You flatter me. Please, I insist that you come and stay. I have
a comfortable spare room, and I won’t hear of you staying at a hotel.”
He
looked at where our hands met. “Are you sure that’s wise, John?”
I
dropped his hand as if burnt. “I have no intention of making you
uncomfortable.”
“Your intentions have never made me uncomfortable, per
se. I just don’t want to burden you at this time.”
“Holmes, I don’t
want to lose you, your friendship, after finding you again after all these
years.” I glanced down at the grave. “I also don’t think you should be alone
right now. Please, Holmes, come and stay.”
He nodded and took a deep
breath. “Yes,” he whispered and gave me a fleeting smile.
He then looked
down at the casket. He stood in silence for a few more moments, before bending
down and grasping a handful of dirt. He threw the dirt into the grave.
“Good-bye, brother mine,” he said in a quiet, broken voice. He turned to
me. “Lead the way, Watson.” He followed me from the cemetery and never looked
back.
**********
My housekeeper had prepared supper when we
arrived, and Holmes joined me in the meal. I smiled as he picked at his food,
for that was one aspect of his behavior that hadn’t changed.
The
housekeeper readied the spare room and helped Holmes to unpack. I could tell
Holmes was still in shock over his loss, which was only to be expected. I sat
him in a chair beside the roaring fire in my sitting room and provided him with
tobacco for his pipe. I sat across from him. The scene was so reminiscent of our
life at Baker Street that I was torn between smiling at the memories and weeping
at the melancholy sense of loss.
My housekeeper looked in on us once
more. Assured that we required nothing else for the evening, she then left to go
home for the night.
“His heart finally gave out,” Holmes said suddenly
into the silence.
I nodded.
“He lived through the War, and his
activities were crucial to our success. And now he’s just gone.”
“I’m
sorry,” I said, knowing how meaningless my words were.
He continued to
look into the fire.
“You were working for him during the War, weren’t
you?” I asked.
“Well, never directly ‘for him’, you understand, my dear
Watson. But I was working under his suggestions and directions.”
“So you,
too, helped the war effort then?”
“In my own small way, I like to think I
had some success.”
I smiled slightly.
A few more moments passed
in comfortable silence. Yet I was ever curious. “What now, Holmes? Do you plan
to remain in Sussex with your bees?”
“My bees have long since deserted my
hives. But yes, I think I will remain in the countryside. With brother Mycroft
gone, there’s no hold on me in London anymore. Or in any future government work.
Besides, I think I’ve earned a bit of a rest.”
We sat quietly for a while
by the fire, smoking our pipes.
“What of you, Watson?” Holmes finally
asked. “Any plans to return to practice?”
I sighed. “I don’t think so. I
worked hard to help the returning soldiers. Those that made it home, anyway. And
to help keep people alive as influenza swept our land. I don’t think I’ve ever
felt more helpless in my life.”
“I’m sure your efforts were great,”
Holmes said soothingly.
“They were. Only they were not successful.” I
sighed again. “It’s 1919 and I’m sixty-seven years old, Holmes. I’m weary and I
think that I, too, need a rest. A practice in London is hardly
that.”
“You should move to Sussex. The sea air would do you good, and a
small country practice would not be too taxing.”
I smiled.
He
continued. “A few patients, walks on the beach, swimming in the ocean pools.
Plenty of time to write and relax.”
“That’s an idyllic picture you paint.
What a lovely dream.”
“I was serious,” Holmes said, his voice
brittle.
“My dear Holmes…”
“Move to Sussex with me, Watson. You
have nothing here. No wife. No work. Just terrible memories.”
“I can’t
just move to Sussex with you, Holmes!” I said, trying to remain
reasonable.
“Why ever not?”
“Because the laws haven’t changed!
It’s been more than 15 years since I was forced to marry so as to preserve our
freedom, and the laws haven’t changed!”
“Watson…”
“No, I can’t do
it, Holmes. Do you think, even after all this time, that I can see you day in
and day out and not want you?” I leapt to my feet. “Do you think that I won’t
still burn for you, as I have for decades? That’s why you had to leave London in
the first place, remember? Seeing and not touching became unbearable for us
both.”
“The laws be damned, then.”
“We tried that once. It almost
landed us in gaol.”
Holmes stood and faced me. “It would be different
now,” he argued.
“In what way?”
“No one would pay attention to
two elderly gentlemen living together, especially after the War. And you’re a
widower. No one would question it.”
“I think that’s a naïve assumption,
Holmes. Furthermore, that didn’t work the first time we tried it.”
“We’re
a lot older now, Watson. No one knows, or cares, about us in
Sussex.”
“It’s a lovely dream.”
He would not be stopped.
“Besides,” he continued to argue, “wouldn’t it be expected that my biographer be
close by so that he can immortalize my stories?”
I smiled wryly. “Holmes,
you hate my writing.”
“Not true, my dear Watson. I just disapprove of
your tendency to romanticize. However, I would gladly put up with all your
romantic notions if I could have you in my life.”
“I think you’ll find
that my sense of romance is gone.”
“I don’t believe that.” And with that
comment, he kissed me.
It was the sweetest kiss of my life.
It had
been more than fifteen years since I had last kissed Holmes. It felt like it had
been yesterday.
We finally broke apart. He leaned his forehead against
mine. “Please Watson,” he whispered. “I’ve only ever wanted a few things in my
life—the ability to make a living with my wit, for my brother to be proud of me,
and to have you. I’ve been fortunate enough to have all three at various times.
But now, with Mycroft gone, I am utterly alone. As are you. Please, move to
Sussex.”
I made one desperate, last attempt. “Holmes, why are you doing
this now? We’ve spent years apart. In fact, you didn’t even want to stay tonight
in my home. Now you wish me to believe that you want me to live with you.
I—“
He cut me off with one of his long fingers to my lips, which he then
gently traced. “It’s as you said, Watson,” he explained. “Do you think that I am
immune to the desire between us? Do you think that I can see you without wanting
you?”
I gently kissed his finger and then turned away from it. He traced
my cheek.
“You’re not thinking clearly,” I argued. “Your grief for
Mycroft—“
“Has nothing to do with my desire for you.” He continued to
stroke my cheek. “Please, Watson, move to Sussex.”
I already noted that I
would follow Holmes anywhere that I still could. “Yes,” I said quietly. Then I
took him in my arms and kissed him again.
His eyes closed and he leaned
into me. I gently pulled him closer. “Sherlock,” I whispered against his lips.
He shuddered and our lips met again, the tip of his tongue seeking entrance. I
gladly granted it to him.
We kissed for a few moments of bliss. We broke
apart slowly and I clasped his hand. He said nothing as I led him to the spare
bedroom. I knew he would be uncomfortable in my marriage bed, even though the
marriage was dissolved.
We entered the room and I was pleased to see
that the housekeeper had lit a fire. Holmes pulled me toward him and we kissed
again, a slow passion burning through us. “Please, John,” he said, breathless
and needy. I trailed kisses down his neck and he gave a soft moan.
He
began to remove my jacket, his slightly rheumatic fingers working slowly on the
buttons. I returned the favor. Our movements were slower, less hurried, than
they had been in the past, but whether that was a sign of our age or our almost
frightening anticipation I wasn’t sure. We continued to kiss as battered,
wrinkled bodies were revealed.
We lay on the bed, wrapped in each other’s
arms. I could feel his arm underneath me, his hand stroking the back of my neck
and shoulders. I drew him closer and kissed him deeply.
I had missed
this. Dear Lord, how I had missed this. I broke our kiss and held him to me,
almost overwhelmed with my desperate joy. He kissed my forehead, my eyelids, my
neck. His hands caressed my body.
“Sherlock,” I whimpered as he took my
heated rod in his hand.
I did the same for him and kissed him fiercely.
We stroked each other slowly, gently, luxuriating in taking our time, as if we
were trying to make this one night last forever so as to compensate for our
fifteen lost years.
When we finally came to glory, our quiet cries were
filled with joy and sadness.
I held him to me and kissed his brow. “I’ve
missed you, my love,” I said in a trembling voice. He merely drew closer, kissed
my chest, and fell asleep in my arms. Smiling slightly, I allowed myself to
follow him into Morpheus’ realm.
**********
I awoke in the middle
of the night, or more accurately early morning, as dawn was rising over the
horizon. The bed was cold and empty. I looked around the room; the fire had
burned to embers, and Sherlock Holmes was standing at the window, watching the
birth of the new day.
I went to him and stood behind him, drawing him
into my arms. He resisted slightly, then yielded to my embrace. I looked over
his left shoulder and watched the dawn.
“A new day begins,” Holmes said,
“with brother Mycroft gone and Dr. Watson at my side. I don’t know if I live
this day as a dream or a nightmare.”
“What do you mean?” I asked
cautiously.
“Will you really come to Sussex?” he asked
instead.
“Yes, if you want.”
I felt him stiffen. “The question,
Watson, is what do you want?”
I understood what he was really asking. He
had been quite insistent the night before, and I quite reluctant. He was
allowing me, under the light of day, to make my choice freely and with no
pressure. I also knew he would accept whatever I decided.
I thought
seriously for a while, of all the pros and cons. Holmes deserved the utmost
consideration, and my decision would have to be what I considered best. He
waited, patiently, in silence.
I came upon one simple truth, over and
over again.
I kissed his brow. “In all my life, Holmes,” I whispered, “I
don’t think I’ve ever wanted anything more. Yes, I will move to
Sussex.”
He gave a quiet sob and I clasped his hand, holding it to his
chest. We both watched the sun continue its ascent.
“Then I live this day
in a dream,” he said, turning toward me and kissing me. “A happy dream. Come
take this final road with me Watson, perhaps the final journey of our lives, to
wherever it may lead.”
“Yes,” I said softly and kissed him once more.
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