With This Pen - A Full Partner

I have recorded elsewhere the dramatic conclusion of the Milverton case; after a while, the quarrel it sparked faded from my memory. At my insistence, Holmes used his influence to assure that the girl Agatha would not become a suspect in her employer’s murder due to the unusual circumstances of her disappearing fiancé, and there the matter rested, or so I thought.

One evening a few weeks later, I came home from my surgery to find Holmes busy with Peterson, the commissionaire from the hotel down the street, measuring the man from head to toe with a tape measure.

“So have we started a tailor shop to supplement the detective business?” I asked cheerfully.

“Hullo, Doctor Watson,” said Peterson, turning slightly to face me while Holmes bustled around him. “I’m helping Mr. Holmes with a theory on body top graphing.”

“Body topography, Peterson. And please keep still,” Holmes muttered, measuring from the back of the man’s knee to the bottom of his neck. He scribbled a note on his shirt-cuff and then turned to me. “I could use another set of measurements to test my theory further,” he told me. “Do you mind, Doctor?”

“I’m always willing to be of assistance to a scientific inquiry,” I replied, sitting down at my writing-desk. “What are we measuring?”

“We are measuring,” Holmes said, rolling up the tape measure, “the correlation between length and girth of various parts of the body. Thank you, Peterson, that will be all.”

Peterson turned at the door. “I’d be interested to know how it all measures up, if you’ll forgive the pun, sir.”

As soon as Peterson was safely away, I rose from my chair and greeted my lover with a kiss. “It was an absolute wrench of a day at the surgery.”

“Mmm – I can tell,” said he, kissing me again. “You made do with a cold duck sandwich in your consulting-room again, accompanied by a cup of that beastly poison your nurse brews.”

“His Lordship should be insulted,” Holmes murmured softly, fingering the lapel of my coat. “So how is Mrs. Harris’ oldest boy?”

“Recovering nicely,” I answered. “He should be up and about with nary a limp in another week. You noticed where his cast left a mark on my sleeve, of course.”

“Of course,” Holmes echoed, leading me by the hand to the hearthrug. “And, of course, I can detect the good lady’s – how shall we say – distinct perfume on your person. Mrs. Harris is certainly affectionate, isn’t she?”

“I’m sure you did, my boy,” he said, with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Take off your coat,” he added, picking up his tape measure from the mantel.

“Apparently not. After all, I didn’t call you John. Here,” he said, pressing the tape measure into my hand. “Now just hold it like that – thank you. And there – hold again – and there.” He gave me a perfunctory peck on the cheek before taking the tape back. “Hold out your right hand,” he commanded, and quickly began measuring the circumference and length of each finger, noting each measurement carefully. “An acquaintance of mine at the British Museum came to me with an interesting theory. Left hand, please. This man has the quaint notion that there is a correlation between the girth of one’s limbs and digits and the length of the corresponding parts. Now, as you know from your anatomical studies, the idea is –”

“Completely preposterous, yes,” I said with no little impatience. “So why are you wasting your time taking what you know are useless measurements? Unless you are trying to seduce me,” I continued in a lower voice, as Holmes stepped closer to measure the length of my right arm. “So tell me, does this theory cover all portions of the anatomy? And do you wish me to remove my trousers to better facilitate measurement?”

“Please do not distract me, Doctor. You see, his theory is not that there is only one correlation, but that each man has his own ratio of correspondence. The relation between the length of, say, your right index finger and its girth is markedly different from my own, but the ratios of your right index finger and your left thumb should –” he scribbled aimlessly at a few figures. “No, the theory falls apart, I’m afraid.” He threw his hands up in an exaggerated gesture of defeat, and flopped down onto the settee, casting me an appraising look. “You didn’t accept payment from Mrs. Harris, did you?”

I drew myself up somewhat indignantly. “Holmes, ever since she lost her husband last winter, she and her eldest son are the only means of support for their family. I couldn’t in good conscience –”

“John,” he said placatingly, “I was not reproaching you. I admire your compassion and the ease with which you give of yourself to those who place themselves in your care. But I do feel uneasy when, instead of rewarding yourself with your favourite little luxuries, you are forced to settle for poor substitutes.”

“Substitutes?” I muttered, feigning ignorance, although I knew all too well which pleasures I had recently forgone due to my depleted resources; I had been hoping he hadn’t noticed.

Holmes smiled gently at me. “Earlier this morning, I saw the ash you left on the side of your breakfast plate; you have been smoking Bradley’s cheaper blend rather than the hand-rolled specials that you enjoy when you can afford them. Also, I see that on your way home from the surgery, you stopped by Chatham’s sweet-shop as usual, but instead of purchasing your preferred – and much more expensive – marzipan, you settled for a quarter-pound of humbugs.”

“Which I finished on the way home,” I replied, sitting down next to him. “I can see the mud on my trouser-cuff from the gutter by Chatham’s, but how did you deduce that I’d gotten humbugs?”

Smiling angelically, he drew my mouth to his. “The taste is distinctive, even through that foul tea,” he murmured, kissing me lightly. “But that is not the point, old friend. You see, I have come to the conclusion that your current need for parsimony is my fault.”

“Watson, a while ago, you reminded me just how much of your time you give to this Agency when you could be pursuing your own career.”

“Even so, the point was a valid one. You have habitually aided me in my career while neglecting your own. Instead of solidifying your client base, you have accompanied me on my cases, taking my notes, acting as my agent, handling our travel arrangements, procuring my supplies, and performing a thousand other tasks that make my job easier. I would be literally lost without you, and yet you do all these things not only without complaint, but without pay. Yes, I do pay your expenses,” he said, silencing my protest, “but not your salary. And I believe that is what should change. I propose to make you a full partner in this Agency, so that you will not have to suffer the consequences of your generosity.”

He interrupted me with a kiss. “No more arguing,” he whispered. “I’ll talk to my solicitor and have him draw up a contract that we can both live with.” He fingered my shirt-cuff thoughtfully. “See, look how the ink has spattered from your pen,” said he. “Did you honestly think you were saving money by buying that horrible self-filler?”

“Actually, I spent quite a lot of money on the pen that did this. It’s supposed to be splatter-proof,” I laughed. “But they haven’t gotten the mechanism right. A friend of mine in Philadelphia says he’s found one that works, but I have yet to see the fountain pen that doesn’t splatter.”

“Was he talking about the Conklin crescent-filler, or the Waterman twist-filler?” Holmes asked.

I shot him a weary look. “The Waterman. Why am I not surprised that you know the latest in American writing technology?”

“You know my methods, Watson. Any piece of information which may lead to the solution of a problem –”

Holmes chuckled, shaking his head. “I think we’ve both grown quite a bit since the Jefferson Hope case[1].” He leaned forward and drew me into a tender kiss, his lips caressing mine with growing ardour. I leaned back into the settee and pulled him atop me, nuzzling his forehead as he gently bit my neck, kissing his way slowly to my earlobe, where he delivered several delightful nibbles before pressing his lips to my cheek.

“Not in your words. But your actions make it quite plain,” I told him, brushing a stray lock of hair from his brow. “It’s rather pleasant to be chastised for not indulging oneself.”

“I have seen too much evil in this sad world of ours,” he answered solemnly. “I spend almost all of my time amongst the dregs of society, and so you are often my only example of decency and civility in a life weary with corruption and greed.”

“Perhaps,” he conceded absently. “Perhaps not. I know that I am growing tired; my cases of late have had too much brutality and not enough of those features of special interest to stimulate my imagination.” He grasped my chin lightly in a cupped hand, brushing his thumb over my lips. “Now, your features, on the other hand …”

We lazily exchanged a few more kisses, each one growing more passionate as our hands and mouths began to stray beyond the bounds of propriety.

“I think we should continue this discussion in our bedroom,” I said, nibbling upon his collarbone.

Holmes sat up and looked at me with a curious gleam in his eye. “John,” said he quietly, “if you could, would you marry me?”

My jaw hung open as I gaped at my companion in sheer disbelief. Holmes chuckled kindly, touching my cheek with an affectionate titter. “You needn’t worry, Watson. My current romantic mood is no doubt a temporary aberration brought on my sheer admiration for your latest act of generosity; I’m sure that by tomorrow morning, I’ll be the same cold, heartless blackguard you’ve come to love. My advice to you is to enjoy this anomaly while it lasts.”

I pressed my lips to his, nuzzling him fondly. “Yes,” I laughed, pausing for another sweet kiss. “Yes, I would definitely marry you.”

Sherlock Holmes stood up, pulling me into his arms alongside him, his mouth pressed into mine, our tongues wrestling deliciously. His long arms snaked around my waist, his hands gripping my buttocks roughly as I ground my hips into his.

“Then it is entirely too bad,” he replied between fervent kisses, “that we cannot marry.” He nibbled at my neck, continuing down to the sensitive area below my chin. “I should love to indulge in the pleasures of a wedding night with you,” he continued, biting gently at my collarbone.

“I think,” I answered fervently, “that we could replicate a satisfactory approximation with no great inconvenience.” Together we moved to the sitting-room door, falling upon it and rushing up the stairs to the bedroom, all the while stealing caresses and kisses at each step.

[1] In “A Study in Scarlet,” Holmes compares the human mind to a “little empty attic,” implying there was only a finite space for relevant information to be stored there.