The
Letter |
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I have long grown accustomed to
all manner of odd deliveries at our Baker Street rooms, at all hours of the day
or night. Dangerous firearms, noxious poisons, and the occasional explosive
charge arriving in the small hours of the morning can give a man a careful
outlook when dealing with his correspondence, to say the least. At the risk of
sounding blasé, after that one
unforgettable afternoon spent with a live panther as our dinner guest (actually
well-behaved and chaperoned by a charming young woman, whose unusual story I
hope to make public some day), there is little that will unnerve our household.
Consequently, the arrival of a large steamer trunk stamped with the seals of
far-off and exotic ports, accompanied by a large stack of musty antique books
bound in a battered leather strop, seemed positively mundane. As Mrs. Hudson
was away on holiday, I signed for the delivery myself, only half-listening to
Peterson’s drawled explanations. I had just awoken from a well-deserved sleep;
we had returned early in the morning from assisting Lestrade with a dangerous
manhunt in the East End, and so I had little patience for something as trivial
as Holmes’ lost luggage. “It’s a funny thing, doctor,” said
the commissionaire, his hand resting upon the doorknob. “It should’ve been
delivered with the rest of Mr. Holmes’ things six months ago, but these were
left behind at the depot.” “Yes, thank you, Peterson, I’ll –”
I stopped in mid-sentence, the import of his words finally hitting me. “I’m
sorry, would you repeat that?” “These were left behind at the
depot from when Mr. Holmes returned, sir. You know, from when we all thought he
was dead.” “Yes, I remember,” said I, a trifle
sharply. “Good day.” I turned away as Peterson left, not daring to move a
muscle until I heard his quick tread descending the stairs. I made a mental
note to apologize to him when next I saw him. I had been needing to make mental
notes like quite often of late; I had been brusque to Mrs. Hudson, gruff with
the new chambermaid, and positively vicious to that poor young constable who
had sprained his ankle during the arrest last night. In fact, there was only one
person in my life whom I had not insulted over the last six months. Six months, I thought bitterly.
Six months, and still the wounds had not yet healed. I tried to tell myself
that Holmes had acted for the best, and to my friend I had presented every
outward sign of goodwill, gladly falling once again into our old routine. And
yet Holmes’ blithe and cavalier attitude still rankled; my companion gave no
indication that our separation of three years had affected him in any way other
than the inconvenience of losing his biographer and sounding-board. I, on the other hand, had been
deeply affected by the separation. For three years, I had walked around London
as if dead myself, seeing nothing, hearing nothing, feeling nothing. Even as my
sweet Mary lay dying, I had been in mourning for Holmes. Then six months ago,
he had come back into my life, indeed had brought my life back to me. When I
awoke that April day from my faint, it was as if I had been reborn into the
only life that had ever held any meaning for me. That fateful awakening had been
weighing heavily on my mind. I had come to my senses gradually, and my
impressions of the experience were jumbled and confused: while emerging from
the dark embrace of Morpheus, I felt gentle arms caressing me to consciousness,
while the touch of what must have been the brandy bottle to my lips became a
soft kiss, the trickling liquid a flickering tongue deliciously rousing me from
oblivion. Then I had opened my eyes and found Sherlock Holmes hunched over me,
his grey eyes wide with concern. That moment had come to haunt me
for the past six months, as had my subsequent actions. Without any thought as
to my future livelihood, I had thrown in my lot with Holmes, selling my
practice and moving back in to my bachelor digs, following my companion like
some spaniel, even to the point of barking at anyone who came too near him. I
had taken his scant apologies and accepted his thin explanations, giving him no
complaint nor asking any questions, content simply to be once more by his side.
What had I become? Was I really
his Boswell, or was it something else? Even Samuel Johnson’s famed biographer
had chronicled the actions of other notables of his time. I do not remember
reading of Boswell sharing rooms with Johnson, either, nor did he follow his
friend everywhere as I followed Holmes. And certainly neither of those great
authors, those stolid pillars of their society, would have had the feelings
that I had been having … I pulled myself away from this
dangerous train of reflection, and then my eyes lit upon the steamer trunk and
the stack of books. The books, of course, I
recognized, though it seemed odd to me that they would have been part of
Holmes’ missing luggage, being the very set of props he had used in his
disguise as the old bookseller. I smiled despite myself as I read the titles,
idly wondering where Holmes had procured them. Here, sure enough, was Origins of Tree Worship, The Holy War, and British Birds, as well as the Catullus. It was this last volume
that brought me up short. “Catullus,” I murmured aloud, my
face suddenly burning as dim memories of my boyhood in Australia surfaced from
the mists of time. I had been a scholarship boy at the school in Ballarat, awkward
and shy, but I always enjoyed my literature classes, particularly the ancients.
However, the finer meaning of the poet Catullus had escaped me until one of the
older boys explained the meaning, complete with a demonstration I shall never
forget. I blushed hotly as I remembered the secret pleasures of the dormitory
nights, those strange, forbidden embraces we enjoyed in the dark. The words of
this Roman poet who celebrated the love of his own gender had fuelled an entire
summer term of furtive kisses and caresses that even now made my cheeks flush
with the memory. That had been a mistake of youth,
I thought, the passing indiscretions of two lost and lonely boys, best
forgotten in the wisdom of adulthood. Without my bidding, my fingers
thumbed through the yellowing pages until I found the passage that had sparked
such passion. Before I could read the lines, however, a slim white envelope
fell from the leaves of the book, fluttering to the floor, two sheets of plain
writing paper slipping from the open flap. As I bent down to retrieve the
pages, I saw my name upon both them and the envelope. My mouth went dry as I
realized what I held in my hands. Holmes had mentioned once, almost
in passing, how he had undertaken to write to me many times, but, in his own
words, he had been afraid that my affectionate regard would tempt me into some
indiscretion that would threaten his secret. At the time, I had nodded and
agreed; lately, the memory made my fists clench and my jaw tighten. After all
these years, Sherlock Holmes did not trust me with his secrets. And yet, here I held one secret in
my hand. This, apparently, was one of those un-sent missives, describing his
life away from me. My heart went to my throat and I found myself unable to keep
from reading the words in that so-familiar hand:
Hot tears welled up from inside
me, and I closed my eyes, my hand of its own accord touching my lips, as my
other hand clutched the letter to my pounding heart. The man I had come to revere above all others
loved me. He loved me. Unbidden, a memory surfaced again:
a gamin smile under a thatch of tousled red hair, a gleam of mischief in a pair
of bottle-green eyes … Go on, John. Touch it. See? I’ll touch yours – it’s all right, I won’t
hurt you. There, doesn’t that feel good? Yes, that’s right. Yes, John, like
that. Oh, yes … I was shocked back into reality by
Holmes’ voice at the bottom of the steps. “Now, Inspector, I need not insult
your intelligence by outlining the connection between the extra barrels of salt
and the missing jewels. When I found out that the harbourmaster was in Westmoreland
during the period in question –” “By Jove, you’re right!”
Lestrade’s voice answered, as two pairs of feet ascended the steps. Still I
could not move, my feet rooted to the floor, and I stared at the door as a
rabbit stares at the hunter raising his rifle, listening to the detective’s
voice upon the stair: “So the clerk had
to be the one who’d taken the ledger! And then he framed himself in such a way
as to draw suspicion to his superior, eh? Nasty bit of work, that,” the
professional chuckled as the door opened. “I must confess he had me almost
convinced in his innocence. Of course, he made his fatal error when he –” Holmes
swept in the door and immediately stopped short, taking in the trunk, the stack
of books, and the letter in my hand, and instantly deducing the meaning of it
all. His questioning eyes held my gaze, and at that very moment, my treacherous
memory brought a sneering voice to my ear: Did you hear about Worthington and Smythe? Caught in
flagrante delicto behind the stables!
Absolutely disgusting, that. Father’s expelled them both, of course. Those
types might be tolerated up north, but we can’t have that sort of thing
happening here, can we, Watson? “Watson?” Holmes whispered, his
hand still on the doorknob. Behind him, Inspector Lestrade frowned over his
shoulder. “I – I have to leave,” I
stammered, looking down at the floor. I let the letter drop from my fingers,
fluttering unheeded to my feet. Silently, Sherlock Holmes stepped
aside and I barrelled through the door, not looking at either man, only pausing
to take my coat and hat from the hook before plunging down the steps and out
into the street. I walked without knowing where I
was going for some time, and my steps led me to the neighbourhood of the hotel
I had lived in before first moving to Baker Street. And just there, across the
street, was the Criterion Bar, where Stamford and I had met that fateful
morning. I sighed as I remembered our conversation. He was bemoaning himself this morning because he could not get someone
to go halves with him in some nice rooms which he had found, and which were too
much for his purse. By Jove! if he really wants someone to share the rooms and the expense,
I am the very man for him. I should prefer having a partner to being alone. I stared blankly at the familiar
façade. At the moment, I had no idea what I was feeling; the shock of my
discovery had blunted my reactions. I could not fathom it; I had
followed Holmes all these years with absolute devotion and reverence, never
knowing if my affection was returned, or to what degree, never even considering
that he had any love to give. With a leaden finality I realized
that there was no question as to what must happen next. I could not, even now,
contemplate a life without Holmes. If he wanted me, then he would have me. After
all, I was the very man for him; I always had been, and always would be,
totally, inexplicably, his. I just wished I knew how I felt
about it. I gazed across the street at the
Criterion, feeling no disgust, no exaltation, no fear, no joy, just absolute,
mind-numbing shock. I slowly realized that the shock came not so much from
knowing that Holmes loved me, as that he had failed to deduce what my reactions
would be to his love. He thought me an innocent, a normal red-blooded English
gentleman with no hidden desires. Oh, I was no stranger to the love
of my own gender. I knew the pleasures well. But I also knew the dangers, and I
knew now why he had run away. After all, I had just run away myself … and I was
not ready to go back, not yet. I needed a drink first. Then we
would deal with this together, Holmes and I. Together … the beginnings of
emotion began wearing through, and I was relieved to find that I was content,
at least, with my decision. There was no other choice to be had, really, but
still I would need some liquid fortification. Breaking the Offences Against the
Person Act was not something to be taken lightly. I entered the bar, sliding onto a
well-worn stool and ordering my usual ale, before patting my pockets and
realizing that I had left my billfold back at Baker Street. “That’s all right, Watson,” said a
voice at my elbow. “You never paid your way before; why start now? Barkeep,
tonight this man drinks on me.” I turned and gaped in astonishment.
My anxiety had conjured the memory of an old enemy’s voice, driving me away
from my home; now cruel Fate had brought forth the man himself as my rescuer.
The youth had been achingly beautiful; maturity had turned the headmaster’s son
into a marble sculpture, just as handsome and just as devoid of feeling. I
heaved a weary sigh. “Penrose Fischer! What a pleasant
surprise!” “Little Johnnie Watson, the charity
boy from the third form! But now you’re Dr. John H. Watson, MD, the well-known
author, of course! Who would have thought, eh? Though you always could spin a
tale,” he said, guiding me firmly by the elbow to a table. “Really, Watson, you
can’t tell me that that Holmes fellow is really as clever as you make him out
to be.” “Sherlock Holmes,” said I with
some coolness, “is indeed the most intelligent man I have ever had the honour
to know.” Fischer shot me a penetrating
look. “Indeed. Well, I won’t argue the point. Say, I don’t suppose you heard
what happened to Albertson, did you? I admitted I had not. Silently I
reflected upon why I had found Fischer so appallingly hateful at school; he knew
– and told – every unpleasant rumour about everyone in his acquaintance. I
wisely kept silent, not daring to think what he would tell the rest of London if
he knew my predicament, as he catalogued the latest half-truths and slander of
a dozen souls, most of whom I had not seen or heard from in well over two
decades. I nodded and made noncommittal noises at the appropriate junctures in
his hateful monologue: “… and so Roswell’s daughter is
marrying a man whose family is simply inappropriate. Jews, you know …” I bit the inside of my lip. The
man had not changed; he was still the most intolerable bigot. Holmes and I had
travelled to many dark places in London, and there I learned that the rudest
ghetto held a nobility that this so-called “proper” gentleman could never
achieve. My adventures with Holmes had taught me many things, and I knew myself
to be a better man for the experience. Only half listening to Fischer’s
monologue by now, I began to feel a strange sense of warmth steal over me. I
recognized the feeling; it was the same mixture of joy and fear I had felt when
Mary had agreed to be my wife. “… I must say I was relieved when
I heard you’d gotten married, my boy, even though you had to settle for a
governess. Still, we take what we can, eh? You had to get out of there, after
all. Two bachelors living together for so long – people were beginning to talk, you know.” I coughed on my drink. “There, there, Watson,” Fischer
laughed, clapping me painfully on the back. “So how is the little woman?” “She died last November, in
childbed,” I told him with an ice-cold stare. Even though I had left the house
in haste, I still wore the black armband that declared my mourning. Some people simply do not observe, I
thought angrily. Fischer did not even have the
decency to look embarrassed, but merely nodded in a transparent affectation of
sympathy. “Of course, dear fellow, I’m so sorry. I remember reading about it, now.
Well, at least you’re better off than old Worthington,” he finished with a
sickening laugh. I started guiltily. “Worthington?”
I echoed. I tried to keep my demeanour as casual as possible. “You mean you haven’t heard what
happened to that nancy-boy Worthington?” “I never saw him after he was
expelled,” said I. Strictly speaking, this was not true, but I was not going to
share the details of my last conversation with my disgraced hero of that
turbulent summer. “Somehow – I don’t know how – he
got into London University and got all the way to his final year before they
caught him this time. This time he did the right thing, though I hear the fellow
he was with went away to India or some godforsaken place. Good riddance, eh?” “‘Did the right thing?’” I
repeated. A sickening pit in my stomach had begun to form. Fischer, gratefully,
did not notice, but took another pull of his ale and smiled as he continued to
destroy Worthington’s reputation with all the relish of a man enjoying a fine
cigar. “Well, he rid the world of a
pervert, anyway. Hung himself. Should’ve taken his ‘wife’ with him, but I
suppose the darkies won’t mind another sexual deviant in their midst. India’s
just the place for that sort of thing. From what I hear, they’re bang alongside
any perversion out there. Comes of not being decent Christians, I suppose.” I bit my tongue, bleakly wondering
what Our Lord would think of such blatant hatred and intolerance. My sexual
deviance might be a sin, but I could not think that such venomous disgust was any
less a sin than the love I had found with Worthington in that darkened
dormitory room so long ago. And now no less a man than
Sherlock Holmes wanted to share a similar love with me. I shivered
involuntarily as I half-listened to Fischer’s tirade against perverts,
foreigners, the Prime Minister, and various other annoyances of modern society
as he saw it, while I contemplated being in love with Holmes. I knew, all too well, how such
love could harm me. Worthington had not only taught me the pleasures of love,
but also the pain of heartbreak and infidelity. I don’t know why you’re so upset, John. It’s not like I ever said you
were the only one. Come on, you know you enjoy it, so why not enjoy it with
everyone you can? Somehow, I did not think I was
likely to come home one day and find Holmes in a passionate embrace with
another man. He barely tolerated the company of others; I was his only constant
companion. Fidelity would not be one of our issues. But what of discovery? We
certainly risked more than simple expulsion from a backwater private school in
Australia, and I feared that India would not be far enough to escape the
inevitable scandal should we be found out. Suddenly, I realized that I needed
to discuss this with Holmes. I had flown out of Baker Street without informing
him of my own feelings; if he truly did not know that my heart was already his,
what might he be thinking of my retreat, even now? He did not know that I returned
his love. I myself had not realized the depth of my affection for the man. And
yet, clearly the measure of my devotion could be told in that not once through
this entire affair had I even considered the possibility of leaving him.
Instead, there was a solid inevitability about the whole thing; although I had
not told him so, I already considered myself his. It was only a matter of
explaining that it had been fear and shock that had made me run … “I say, Watson, what’s the matter?
You look as if you’ve seen a ghost, what?” I had risen without realizing it. “I have to get back to Baker
Street,” I muttered. “Baker Street?” Fischer scowled.
“You mean you’re still playing detective with that odd boob of a crook-hunter?”
Holmes and I had run into Fischer once, years before my marriage. Holmes had
not been impressed, and had treated the man to all the withering sarcasm he
could muster. Fischer, on his part, had tried to engage the great detective in
a battle of wits, and, of course, found his armoury sadly failing. I could not help but smile at the
memory, even now. “Holmes and I just assisted Scotland Yard in locking up a
dangerous murderer last night, yes,” said I. “But you’re not sharing rooms with
him again, are you?” Fischer jeered. “As a matter of fact, I am. Our
cases might come at any hour of day or night, so it is decidedly more
convenient –” “Any excuse to be with your
darling love,” Fischer sneered. I had had enough. My readers will
know that I am a long-suffering individual, but there is a line, and once it is
crossed, my temper can become quite violent. I hauled off and belted the man
across the jaw. Fischer recovered almost instantly, barrelling up into my
stomach, fists flying. Soon we were brawling across the tables, and then
something (a chair, by the feel of it) broke over my head and I knew no more. *** I awoke in a dank cell in the Bow
Street station, lying uncomfortably on a cold stone bench. Inspector Lestrade straddled
a chair beside me, smoking a cigarette, an amused smile curling his lips. “You care to tell me what
happened?” said he. I sat up, rubbing my head. “It
depends upon the charges.” Lestrade chuckled quietly.
“There’s no charges laid against you. That Fischer fellow is well-known to us.
He’s always starting bar fights. So what did he say to you?” “Nothing that should have warranted
my reaction,” I admitted, taking the cigarette Lestrade now offered. “So it had something to do with
that letter,” Lestrade persisted. I hung my head, blushing
furiously. The detective laid a sympathetic hand on my shoulder. “Have I ever told you about my
brother George?” he said quietly. I looked at Lestrade dumbly, a
worm of fear eating into my heart. This non-sequitur might lead anywhere; a
police cell was not the place I wished to discuss my love for Sherlock Holmes. The little professional divined my
nervousness, and patted my shoulder kindly. “George was special – a little
different, but a kind, gentle, soul. He sang in the church choir every Sunday,
and was always helpful and cheerful, no matter what. Then he met Alan.” He
paused significantly, tapping the ash from his cigarette before continuing. “Alan
was another gentle soul, and their friendship was a beautiful thing. They went
everywhere together, boating and fishing, helping the old folks of the parish –
they even built a tree-house for the children of the neighbourhood. They had a
very … close … relationship.” I said nothing, staring down at
the flagstones of the cell. “I knew that there was more than
friendship between them,” Lestrade continued, “but they were happy together,
and so I let them be. I’m not a wise man, but it seems to me that if God is
love, than love cannot be wrong. Jesus bade us do no harm and help where you
can, and that’s exactly the way Alan and George lived, every day. And then,
when …” he took a deep breath, stubbing out his cigarette on the cold stone
wall. “After they were found out, the same folks they’d helped for years branded
them ‘perverts’ and ‘deviants,’ with not a single voice raised in their
defence. The villagers who had benefited from George and Alan’s kindness and
generosity ganged together and burned down the tree-house, calling it the
‘fairy castle.’ I was shipped away to boarding-school, of course, without the
chance even to say goodbye.” His voice broke slightly. “I don’t know what
became of Alan, but George … George went home, took father’s gun, and then …” I watched numbly as Lestrade wiped
away a single tear. “It shouldn’t have happened,” said
he eventually. “Love shouldn’t be a crime.” I nodded in silent agreement. Lestrade patted his pockets
theatrically. “I seem to have left my badge back at my desk,” he told me. “Therefore,
I must caution you that anything you say will be promptly forgotten.” I smiled despite myself. “What did
Holmes tell you?” I asked. “Nothing. As soon as you left, he
threw me out without a word of explanation.” “But then how did you –” “Look,” said Lestrade, “I don’t
know what this current spat is about, but you two have been together too long
to let whatever it is tear you apart. Every couple has these rough patches.” I looked at him sharply. “What in
the devil do you mean by that?” Lestrade arched an eyebrow. “I’d
like you to consider,” said he sternly, “that I have known you both for well
over a decade. I know that you and Holmes are lovers.” This was really too much. I threw
back my head and laughed bitterly. “If only we were! That letter …” I shook my
head, looking at Lestrade intently, reasoning that I might as well tell all. “I
swear to you,” I continued solemnly, “that I did not know of his true feelings
for me until this morning, when I chanced upon the letter you saw me holding.” Lestrade frowned slightly. “But
I’ve watched you two together. Anyone can see that you’re very much in love.” I shrugged. “I didn’t see it, and
neither did Holmes. According to his letter, he believed that I would not
return his love. That letter,” I continued with a deep sigh, “was his
declaration of love for me, written just after we lost him in the Reichenbach falls. He
ran away in order to escape his feelings for me,” I finished quietly. “But he came back,” Lestrade
pointed out. I swallowed hard. “I know.” “You mean to tell me that you had
no clue how he felt?” “Not a one.” “I could see it every time he
looked at you.” He paused thoughtfully. “Come to think of it, he only looked at
you that way when you were looking somewhere else. Strange that he didn’t
notice your absolute devotion – I don’t mean that in a bad way, you know. We’re
all a little in awe of him, it’s hard not to be. But you …” he paused
tactfully. “I love him, yes.” The act of
admitting it lifted a weight off my shoulders, and I laughed slightly. We fell
into silence for a while, staring at the cell floor, each of us lost in our
private thoughts. Lestrade spoke first. “Can I ask
you a personal question, Doctor?” “Of course.” “If you love him, and he loves
you, why did you run away?” I took a deep breath. “I was
frightened,” I answered slowly, “for a variety of reasons.” Most of which I really don’t want to think
about right now, I added to myself somewhat peevishly. “First and
foremost,” I continued, “I know what people think when a man loves another man.
But I do love him. And if he loves me …” Lestrade nodded sympathetically.
“You would do anything for him.” “Even break the law,” I agreed
ruefully. “This law deserves breaking,” the
detective said darkly. “Not that the letter of the law has stopped you two
before,” he added. “Oh, don’t looked so shocked, Doctor. I know of at least two
times when our illustrious friend has let a criminal go, but I’m not breathing
a word of it to a soul but you. It might be wrong for a copper to say, but I
believe in justice first and the law second, if you take my meaning.” “There should be more coppers like
you,” I said with feeling. We stared together at the floor in silence. I
finished my cigarette and stubbed it out on the sole of my shoe. “So if there
aren’t any charges against me …” I trailed off cautiously. Lestrade laughed softly. “Doctor John
Watson is not even here. You’re a simple John Doe, and you can go as soon as
you’re awake. I’m sure,” he finished, “that you have some things to discuss at
home.” Suddenly, a vision of Holmes’
worried eyes as he saw me with his letter sprang to my mind, and I leapt up
from the bench. “How was he when you left?” I cried. Lestrade jumped to his feet with a
mild curse. “You’re right,” said he. “I’ll drive you to Baker Street myself.” Very few people know that
Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard started his professional life as a
cabdriver; if ever I am moved to write about criminal cases other than those
handled by Holmes, I shall definitely record the dramatic story of his first
involvement with – and subsequent recruitment into – the London Metropolitan
Police. He still prefers to drive himself in the police growlers, and that day
he navigated the four-wheeler through the thickest of rush-hour traffic without
a single pause, bringing me to the door of 221B with unbelievable speed. I
jumped out and turned to shake the detective’s hand. “You’re a good man, Gabriel Lestrade,”
said I solemnly. “A word of brotherly advice, if
you’ll take it,” he answered. “I don’t need to tell you how masterful he can
be. Don’t let him be your master in this. For both your sakes.” I nodded wisely. “Thank you.” I
turned and fairly ran up the stairs, only pausing at the door, my heart
suddenly at my throat. I was about to declare my love to
Sherlock Holmes. My hand stole to the armband at my
shoulder. I had been widowed for eleven months; I had yet another month of
formal bereavement for Mary. I’m about to engage in a sexual
act with another man, I thought ruefully, and I’m worried about whether or not
the mourning period is over? With a sigh, I pulled my wedding ring out from my
watch-pocket and held it tightly in my palm. You belonged to him long before you ever belonged to me, John, Mary had
said once, a long time ago. He needs you.
Go to him. Granted, that had been for a case of fraud in Brighton, and yet
… And yet, I wondered just how much
Mary understood. Not once had she complained of my absences, no matter how
frequent and at what short notice. And when I did return … I blushed as I remembered how I
would return to Mary after a case with Holmes, so full of the excitement of the
chase and the danger that my ardour knew no bounds. The night I returned to her
after we had apprehended Taylor the poisoner, I fairly broke the bedsprings and
nearly called out Holmes’ name. I gasped with the memory. I had, indeed, almost called out
for Holmes at the supreme moment of intimacy with my wife. I had put the thing out of my
mind, attributing it to lack of sleep and food combined with an overabundance
of firearms and explosives. That night, I had been sorely tempted to kill the
blackguard, but Holmes had commanded me not shoot, and I had reluctantly obeyed,
allowing Bradstreet to cuff him and lead him away. Later, I had come to my
wife’s bed filled with visions of a filthy face cowering at the wrong end of my
pistol, a face which had recently mocked us as he threw oil of vitriol at my
friend, barely missing that chiselled jaw and those brilliant eyes. I told Mary
the story of our adrenalin-churning race across the rooftops even as I began
caressing her, entered her while remembering how I had knocked the man down,
and spent myself as I imagined pulling the trigger, sending Taylor to his grave
rather than leaving him in police custody. In seeing myself kill a man for
Holmes, I had found his name upon my lips as I died the little death. Mary must have known. We had both
known; I had just refused to admit it. You belonged to him long before you ever belonged to me. I detached the ring from my
watch-chain and kissed it, and then removed the black band from my arm,
wrapping the ring in it before putting them both in my jacket pocket. I took a
deep breath and laid my hand on the doorknob, pausing as another insecurity
rose its ugly head. He had run away because he had
been afraid of his love for me. Could it not follow, then, that his return
indicated that his love had cooled somewhat, if not completely? That letter had
been written over three years ago. What guarantee did I have that it reflected
Holmes’ current feelings? Then I remembered the look in his
eyes when he saw the letter. Underneath the fear, underneath the guilt, there
had been – There had been hope. I forced myself to cross the
threshold, locking the door behind me. The room was completely dark; the
shades were drawn and the lamps unlit. The fire had been laid but not yet lit,
it being rather warm for late October, and so only the thin slivers of sunlight
from behind the shades illuminated the room. Holmes sat in the cane-back chair,
which he had drawn up to his desk. I did not announce myself, nor did he
acknowledge my presence, though he could not have but heard my step upon the
stair. At first, I thought to approach him quietly and (my lips quivered at the
idea) give him a tender, courting kiss before telling him my heart had belonged
to him for longer than I cared to remember. Then I saw the hated morocco case
upon his desk, lying open in a stripe of sunlight, the syringe out and ready,
its dose carefully measured and dripping slightly from the gleaming needle.
Holmes was slowly tying the tourniquet around his arm. I sighed with relief; I
was not too late. Do not let him be your master in this, for both your sakes. Suddenly, I knew what I must do. I swept forward and snatched the
syringe from the desk, dashing it to the floor and crushing it under my heel. I
grabbed the morocco case and threw it into the grate. Then, before he could
react, I grabbed Holmes by the shoulders and kissed him roughly, pushing him
back down into the chair even as he tried to spring to his feet, thrusting my
tongue into his mouth, brooking no refusal. As soon as he melted into my
embrace, I pulled away, pressing a single finger against his lips. “Rule number one,” I growled,
tapping his mouth with my finger at every word. “No … more … cocaine. Swear it,
Holmes.” “Watson, I –” I stopped his words with another
fierce kiss, this one almost cruel in its intensity. He moaned into my mouth as
I forced him to open to me, crushing his sinewy body to mine with such ferocity
that I felt my ribs creak. I pulled back again, once again putting my finger to
his mouth. “You know that I am not often crude,” said I in my sternest voice,
“but I shall tell you right now that I should rather submit to you using your
prick to inject your seed up my arse thrice daily than ever again suffer you to use a needle to inject that poison into
your veins.” “My dear Wa –” “No more cocaine, Holmes. Swear
it.” He took a deep breath. “No more
cocaine. I swear it.” His grey eyes glittered in the meagre light, and my heart
flushed with pride as I realized that for once, he was under my spell, rather
than the other way round. I kissed him again, this time more
gently, but still my embrace was aflame with a passion that would have
frightened me had I been upon the receiving end. Certainly Holmes trembled in
my arms as I pressed him to me, my mouth urgently invading his, my hands taking
possession of his shoulders and chest. Once more, I pulled back from him,
placing two fingers upon his lips. “Rule number two: no more deception.” Holmes raised an eyebrow, the
spell momentarily broken. “Now, honestly, Watson, I –” “If we are to be lovers,” I interrupted, trusting upon
the impact of the word to silence him, “then it is precisely honesty that I
require from you. I cannot share my bed – or my body – with a man I cannot
trust. That means no more pretending to have exotic diseases in order to get me
worked up enough to entrap your suspects, no more pretending to be in London
investigating a blackmailing case when you’re really camping out on the moor
less than a furlong away, and no more
pretending to be dead for three years because you can’t see how much I love
you.” Holmes’ jaw dropped. “You love –” I drew his mouth to mine, and this
time my kiss was as tender and sweet as the first one had been violent. I
caressed his lips with mine, this time inviting his tongue into my mouth, opening
for him, allowing him to lead this embrace. With a sigh I relaxed into his
kiss, savouring the taste of him and the feel of his strong, muscular arms
encircling me. Eventually we pulled apart, and Holmes leaned his forehead
against mine. “All right,” said he with a sigh,
“no more deception. But I’m going to have to give you some serious coaching in
deceiving others.” I laughed, suddenly unable to
believe the conversation I was having. “Perhaps it will stand me in good stead
at the card table,” I said. “I can start winning back some of my money from
Lestrade.” Holmes gave a wry chuckle. “Dear
me, I wonder what he thought this morning! I wasn’t exactly my usual charming
self when I showed him out.” “So he said.”< |