He is at his work, tending to his patients with compassion and sympathy. How long would his sympathy last, should he know my true feelings for him? Would he view me with compassion, or would he turn away in disgust?

Sadly, I am too much the coward to find out. No matter, there is another solution – a seven percent solution, to be precise.

The needle breaks my skin and I feel the numbness spread up my arm soon the pain shall stop and I will float far away from my misery. Unrequited love cannot harm me in my cocaine-induced dreams.

The red mists of rage clear away and I find that I have been pounding the man into jelly, far after he could have offered any resistance. I search my addled memory for some clue to the cause of my irrational attack upon this hapless criminal. Of course he had threatened Watson.

I turn to look at my friend, rubbing my knuckles where I have bloodied them upon the thug’s teeth, hoping that my sweet doctor might see my pain and heal me. A cold chill runs down my spine when I see nothing but stern disapproval in his eyes.

My darling John is with me, here in my arms, his moustache tickling my upper lip ever so slightly. I pull him into a tighter embrace, and the dream vanishes, leaving me only with my lumpy pillow in my arms, the trail of spittle upon its cover growing cold against my lips.

As I have done oft before, I take up my pistol seeking to end my miserable existence, but find I cannot yet send the bullet into my skull. Instead I empty all five shells into the pillow, executing it for the heinous crime of not being John Watson.

The images upon the page are beautiful, but not as beautiful as Watson, who watches me from behind the door. Indeed, I have left the door ajar for the express purpose of showing him how implicit my trust in him has become. I watch him watching me shave, and I see a gleam of desire in his eyes as he observes my toilet. Does he not see how my mirror reflects him hiding there in the shadows? Does he not know how I am displaying myself for him?

And why can I not tell him how I yearn for him?

I used to look out to the street when sitting in our bow-window, but now my finest afternoon pastime is to watch him, observing how the sunlight reflects in golden waves upon his russet hair. I am glad to see that Mrs. Hudson’s excellent cooking shall not go to waste Watson has a healthy appetite and it is a pleasure to watch him eat.

But what of his other appetites? Did I really see that gleam of desire, or has my observational detachment failed me?

“—the fuck are you staring at?!!” he shouts.

I wish I knew, dear man.

Our search for young Mlle. Vitier ends as I feared the brute has left her half-naked upon the embankment. I give my hat and my great-coat to Watson and withdraw my lens to examine the body, although I already know what marks I shall find there.

The welts upon her neck show how he toyed with her, throttling the life from her slowly I shall make sure Johnson swings for this atrocity.

I envy the woman her troubles are at an end. Watson must know how I feel by now, and does not reciprocate. Why else is he so distant?

“In here!”

I close the door behind us just as Lord Ainsbury enters his mistress’ boudoir. How unfortunate that he has chosen to ignore my counsel either he is endeavouring to effect a reconciliation, or, worse, searching for the letters himself. The creak of bedsprings from the room suggests the former the only other sound is Watson’s quiet breathing upon my neck.

I cannot help myself my arms slip around his waist and I draw him to me, inhaling his scent. Perhaps if I kiss him –

Watson draws away, faking a sneeze to cover his disgust.

What have I become?

Watson is at his surgery, so I sneak into his room and lie down upon his bed, sliding his nightshirt from its home beneath his pillow. I had thought perhaps to wear it, thus wearing his scent, but of course it would not fit me instead I hold it to my cheek, rubbing my face against the soft worn cotton and imagining that I am holding Watson. I succumb eagerly to my fantasy, and soon I am rolling shamelessly amidst the sheets, nuzzling his pillow and endeavouring to convince myself that I can feel moustachioed lips returning my fervent kisses.

I weave the melody around a string of arpeggios, rapidly scrolling through the Strad’s range before settling just lower than centre of its tessitura. Here lie the sweetest-sounding notes best able to reproduce the music emanating from the centre of my heart. I pour into my improvisation the affection I dare not speak aloud, and with the ripple of ornaments I describe how my heart flutters at the sound of his voice. Soon, the sorrow of my secret plunges the melody into a deep, sonorous lament.

Without warning, Watson stalks out, slamming the door behind him.

How I repulse him!

I may leave Watson to distract the Countess with complete confidence in our private jests, this talkative, vacuous woman is called “that thing,” and Watson confesses that despite her considerable charms, he feels nothing but contempt for this chattering noblewoman. I easily find the evidence I am looking for in milady’s boudoir, but rather than returning to Watson directly, I indulge my humour, secretly observing him fending off the Countess’ advances.

I watch in amusement as the Countess tries to seduce my friend I am still laughing at her attempts when Watson suddenly acquiesces, kissing her and destroying my heart.

As my own cowardice denies me the final respite of death, I instead lie still upon the settee, distraught that I cannot transform into something else, like some figure from Greek mythology. Myrrha became a tree, Narcissus a flower why must I live with my doomed passion? Why can I not melt into the cushions, become one with the furniture?

The absurdity of this thought would make Watson laugh. The pain this realization engenders is enough to break my heart anew.

I hear him enter I do not stir.

He approaches me. I do not stir. I do not – ECK!

“Enough of your damned loafing, Holmes! I am going to examine you whether you like it or not.”

I strip off my shirt but go no further even in my current state of dismay, my traitor body would betray my desire should Watson see me naked I stare off into the distance, attempting to convince myself in vain that I cannot feel his back against my own.

He shakes his head despairingly, then begins his professional ministrations, tapping here and probing there. Despite his clinical detachment, there is something in his touch –

But is it love? Do I dare hope?

Without Watson to push me, I do not eat. Mrs. Hudson has given up her cajoling, leaving me alone with only bread and fruit upon the sideboard, accompanied by the occasional pot of fresh tea, none of which I touch.

I take to my bed, perusing my scrapbooks: clippings of famous cases bring no joy, but the lock of Watson’s hair (surreptitiously taken from him as he slept) sustains me as food cannot.

As the appointed hour approaches, I grow more animated, pacing the sitting-room restlessly, checking my watch against the mantel-top clock every minute.

Damn! When will he arrive?

“I found this in Aberdeen.”

His voice is casual, almost offhand, but nothing can hide how he has upturned all of Scotland for the one book I wanted. The marks upon his coat-sleeve and his trouser-cuff tell of innumerable visits to bookstores, some impossibly off the beaten path. John Watson has crawled over literally millions of dusty volumes and walked through miles of musty paper, just to bring me 500 Extremely Difficult Violin Sonatas.

Even after my odious behaviour, he would still do this for me.

I clutch this treasure to my chest, mute with amazement at Watson’s enduring friendship.

“I knew the valet had to be lying, once I saw the spots upon his shirt-cuff.” I pause to light another cigarette, trying desperately not to notice Watson’s leg alongside mine. “Taken with the chambermaid’s reluctance to tell what she had seen, the chain of reasoning must prove to any idiot capable of …”

I barely listen to my own words the touch of the cigarette upon my lips brings back last night’s dream all too vividly, and the memory of him, urgent in my mouth –

Rough hands jerk me to reality. “Put that cigarette where the sun doesn’t shine!”

He flings my extinguished cigarette to the carpet and pounces upon me, one hand still tightly clutching my collar with trembling fingers.

Sweet Lord! Is he really – oh, my …

I can feel his warm breath upon my lips, and I lift my chin to meet his mouth, snaking my right hand up to stroke his gorgeous coppery mane. My heart pounds against my ribs as I close my eyes, awaiting a thousand fantasies made manifest –

The creaking door aborts paradise we hastily throw ourselves to opposite ends of the settee.

I swear I shall make Lestrade pay for this!

It cost me an exorbitant sum to book every single room in this inn under a different name it was worth every penny to share this bed with Watson tonight. He has not approached me since our near-kiss last week, but the incident has sparked my courage. I brazenly watch him undress, admiring his charming blushes.

We settle into the bed back-to back, and I wait an interminable span of five minutes before I make my move.

At the first touch of my fingers, he springs from the bed, tumbling to the floor.

Could I have read the signs wrong?

I cannot play music the Strad’s G and A strings curl broken up from the fingerboard.

I cannot smoke my favourite pipes both the clay and the cherry-wood have had their tips immersed in strychnine since yesterday afternoon.

I cannot work the papers hold only bland, unimaginative crimes.

I cannot study, for I am wracked with the guilt of having forced Watson to break his arm when retreating from my advances.

I can only leave out my feeble gifts: a tin of moustache wax and a fresh Anjou pear. I retreat to my room, taking the morocco case with me.

I stare out our carriage window, ignoring my hunger-pangs as I wearily reflect upon the depths of human depravity and the injustices of our society due to his high station, the viscount will only suffer the lightest of sentences. Had I anything to say upon the matter, that noble-born blackguard would swing for what he did to the poor girl.

Soon my eyelids grow heavy and my thoughts disordered, and I realize that Watson is watching me with deep concern.

Good old Watson! As I sink into oblivion, I feel myself falling toward him.

I know he shall catch me.

I release the tourniquet, allowing my head to loll back, my gaze falling upon the table-lamp depicting Lord Ganesha just in time to see him wink an eye, his trunk and arms undulating pleasantly to a syncopated drumbeat.

Too much, I think dimly, watching the god’s fearsome dance. I have over-dosed, and the drumbeat is the irregular stutter of my heart, its tattoo pulsing out and beyond into blue-clouded infinity.

Ganesha smiles upon me. “Go back and live,” he laughs. “John Watson loves you.”

Live. Laugh. Love. Yes.

Then Watson is striking me back to life.

He will catch me.

“Damn it, Holmes, I can’t be guarding you constantly! You could have died, and then where would I – the world be? The world needs you, you know. You may quote George Sand all you like, but I tell you are too important to treat yourself like this. Yes, “l’ouvre c’est tout, but, blast it, man, can’t you see that you are everything to –”

He breaks off and finishes his work in silence, but I have heard enough. I lay a hand on his shoulder, preparing to tell him my heart.

He pulls away. “I shall be finding lodgings elsewhere.”

I have reasoned and bargained, even pleaded, but still he is packing to go.

“I cannot take any more of this,” says he. “I shall only stay if you promise to quit your addiction.”

Quit my addiction? I need my Watson more than I need the air I breathe. I cannot quit pursuing him, not now that I know my love is returned.

I tell him I shall never quit, and he flees the room, shouting that he shall dispose of the poison himself.

The poison?

What an ass I have been! In a flash I am at his side.

I pull him to me, and he stiffens in my arms. I press my lips to his and his eyes fly open wide, inhaling sharply against my mouth. I caress his lower lip with my tongue, gently sucking it into my mouth as I stroke his soft hair.

His arm slips around my neck as the kiss deepens, pulling us both down to the tile floor.

“I never dreamed –” he hisses.

I nip his shoulder-blade. “We have both been listening to our doubts and fears. These twin inner monologues have harmed us enough.”

Then there are no more words.

This time it is no dream. John Watson is in my arms I am in his bed. I nuzzle into his chest, my cheek resting against the soft scattering of russet hair, my fingers idly tracing the contours of his earlobe, just as I have longed to do.

We have spent the evening doing many things we have both longed to do, and the scent of our exertions and our combined release lingers upon our sweat-slickened skin.

Watson stirs uneasily this time I know what troubles him.

“For once in your life, Watson, will you stop that lame inner monologue!”