Holmes' Mistake
by Pandapony

Chapter Six

In the morning, over breakfast, Holmes greeted me as though nothing had transpired between us. I kept my eyes upon him at all times, looking for some subtle clue that would acknowledge the new intimacy between us, and explain the rules of this new relationship to me.   But Holmes acted as though we had done nothing improper that evening.   My heart began to sink, as I theorized he was ashamed, and wanted to forget what had been, to me, the most joyous moment of my life.

That afternoon, I dressed and prepared to go on another venture outside.   Holmes offered to accompany me, but I declined, explaining in a note that I wished to be alone.   His aloof nature had left me wounded.   Now I saw him wounded in return.   He flushed bright red and looked away, reaching for his violin without looking back at me.

I clenched my teeth in frustration.   It was difficult enough to keep misunderstandings at bay in any normal relationship, I discovered while married to Mary.   But it was made even more difficult by my lack of speech.   Finally, I decided the only way to be clear on the subject was to write down everything I was thinking.   I wrote a three-paged letter before I left our suites, the melancholy, jarring tunes of Holmes' violin filling my head as I asked him directly if he regretted the previous night or held me in lower esteem because of it.   I then handed it to him grimly, and made my way outdoors for my walk.

My stroll took me down the Strand, and I stopped in my favourite tobacconist for my cigarettes. I was halfway back to our flat when I heard footsteps approaching rapidly behind me, and turned to see Holmes, following me at a slight distance.

As he approached, he stealthily slipped his arm through mine and steered me towards the park.

“I do not intend to come across as cold or rude,” said he, his voice low.   He avoided my gaze. “But I have no idea how to proceed, my dear Watson.   However I assure you that I continue to hold you in the highest esteem, and would like nothing more than to spend more time with you in such a fashion.”  

I looked over and, to my amusement, the great Sherlock Holmes was blushing like a schoolboy. I reached into his coat pocket and caressed his hand in response.   He looked at me then, nervously, excited, like someone in love for the first time.   I realized, in many ways, this was an accurate description of Holmes.   He had no experience in the turbulent emotions of love, and so I would have to teach him.

I stopped at a bench and we both sat down.   The sun was warm on our faces, and Holmes leaned his head back and closed his eyes, smiling as he took in the heat.

I handed him my note.   Last night was wonderful.   Will you come to me this evening?

Holmes' eyes darted suspiciously around, and he quickly ripped the note into pieces, stuffing the paper into various pockets of his overcoat.   I laughed at his discretion.

He smiled ruefully back at me.   “I wish I could, my dear, but I am afraid I have a prior engagement, with Mr. Siegerson.”

I raised an eyebrow.   Mr. Siegerson was one of Holmes' alter egos.

Holmes leaned back and closed his eyes once more.   “Siegerson has the unfortunate task of spending this evening lurking around the dockyards.   But I promise you, when this Cavendish case if finally over, I will return to your side.”   He opened his eyes, and stared at me.   “If you will have me.”

If I could have kissed him then and there, I would have.   But there were far too many people out in the park, enjoying their strolls.   Therefore I made do with squeezing his hand once more, and smiling to illustrate my acceptance of his offer.

That evening, over dinner, Holmes detailed his plan in apprehending Cavendish and his connections. It had taken him almost a month of sleuthing to discover where Cavendish and his accomplice met, and their schedule of transactions.   His sharp eyes glinted with the thrill of the chase, and I could tell that he was embarking upon the conclusion of this mystery.

Suddenly, I thought of Holmes venturing into this inhospitable underworld alone, in the frightful darkness of the dockyards, and I made a decision to accompany him.

So you will intercept Cavendish and his contact at the docks? I scrawled on paper.

Holmes nodded, extinguishing his pipe and preparing himself for a cold night outside.   “It is imperative that I find out who this contact is.   He is our man, Watson, and I intend to follow him this evening to finally solve this case.”

I'm coming with you I wrote to him, already reaching for my revolver.

I was shocked when Holmes suddenly lunged forth and, with all of his great strength, pushed me against the wall by my lapels.   My eyes widened in surprise.   He looked suddenly furious.

“You are going nowhere,” he hissed at me.   “It is far too dangerous, and I will not have you within a mile of the docks, do you hear me, Doctor ?”

He let go then, and hastily collected his pocket watch.   He was breathing heavily, anger flashing in his eyes.

But I could be just as stubborn, and shook my head at him.   If this is dangerous, then all the more reason I should accompany you , I wrote hastily.

Holmes read my note and then scowled, crumpling the paper and tossing it to the floor.   He glared at me.   “Absolutely not!   You are not leaving this house.”

I stepped forward, my anger clearly apparent on my face.

Holmes dashed for the door, as if he would be able to escape me by mere speed.   He turned to me.   “I will know if you follow me, and so do not think of doing so.   If you love me, man, for god's sake, stay home!”   He stormed out.

I was too exhausted to storm out after him, so instead, I simply picked up the bow to his violin and threw it after him.   I watched several strings break and realized that little fit of impishness was going to cost a pretty penny.  

Blast the man! I wrote.   I looked at the note, wondering who on earth I had written it for.   Damn him for not lingering to read my curses!   I pocketed this one, and wrote several more for future use.   And then I grabbed my cane and my hat, and followed after him, making sure to kick the violin bow down the stairs for good measure.

My heart was pounding by the time I caught up with him, trying to hail a cab.   The weather was frightfully cold and I wished I had remembered to bring my scarf.  

Holmes took one look at me, and his lip curled in rage.   “Watson!” he shouted.   “Are you an imbecile?   What did I just—“

I grabbed him by the collar of his jacket and kissed him, biting his lip to force his mouth to me. Just as quickly as I had done so, I let go.  

Holmes looked around him in shock, but it was too dark and the street too empty for our indiscretion to be noted.   I glared at him, transmitting all my rage.   I fumbled in my pocket and handed him a crumpled note angrily.

He read it, and his eyebrow rose.   So did the corner of his mouth.   He held out the note for me to read.

I would like more tea, please was the note I handed him.   Scowling, I discarded the paper on the ground and fished around in my pocket for something more appropriately scathing.

Just then a cab pulled to the curb and Holmes flailed his hand to attract it.   He grabbed my arm in his and pulled me with him.   “All right, you may accompany me.   But if you do not do exactly as I say, I will leave you to bleed to death this time!”   I had no chance to respond, as we were both jerked back into the seat as the cabby took off.

We sat in a stewing silence as the cab made its way to the river.   Holmes was still angry. He would not even look at me.

As I stared, however, I saw a flicker in his eyes that was new.   Holmes was not simply angry. He was frightened.   There was a wide-eyed vulnerability in his expression, the likes of which I had only seen once before, as I lay with my head in his lap, bleeding to death.

I had been worried he would look down upon me as a failure for our last case.   But once I realized that Holmes did not wish my company because he was afraid I would be hurt, my heart swelled in my chest, along with my confidence.

I had wondered, a month ago, if I would be able to forgive Holmes, and trust him once more with my life.   He had been wrong.   His mistake nearly cost me my life.   I had wondered if I could ever find myself contentedly accompanying him upon another dangerous adventure.

And yet, without having taken a moment to think about it, I was at his side once more.   My fear was second place to the dedication I felt regarding our partnership.   I still trusted him.   I still needed to be with him.

I reached over and squeezed his knee affectionately.   He turned to glare at me, his grey eyes blazing from under the shadow of his hat.   He shook his head sadly.

“I do not think I could bear losing you again,” he whispered.   He looked away, flushing. For Holmes, that was as endearing a remark as I could ever hope, and so I squeezed his knee tighter, hoping to reassure him.   I had no intention of being injured again either, and would be more cautious from this point out.   But I was still coming along.

The docks were ominously lit by a few gas lamps.   Half of the lamps near the water had burned out or were shattered, and the landscape was plunged in shadow.   The smell of rotten fish wafted from the shore, and I pulled a handkerchief to my mouth to block the odious odours of the wharf.

Holmes quickly steered us past looming piles of fishnets and barrels of tar.   Around one corner we were instantly accosted by several impoverished prostitutes, lifting the hems of their skirts as they offered their damaged wares.   I frowned at their poor state; their skin was filthy and one of them sported a frightful rash.   Holmes simply snarled in their direction and grabbed my arm, holding me closer as we made our way past.  

The pier was almost completely shrouded in darkness.   But somewhere, in that blackness, Holmes must have caught sight of his mark.   He jerked me back with him, crouching behind an impressive tower of empty barrels.

“Stay low and quiet,” he whispered in my ear.   I could feel his lip against my skin, and the warmth of his flesh and his voice caused me to shiver in the corresponding coldness of the night air. Holmes pulled me closer, wrapping his long arm around my shoulder.   I was shivering in the cold, but he was not.   He leaned his head to mine.

“Once I see who Cavendish's contact is, I will follow him.   And you will go home.   Do you understand?   This is not only for your safety; I cannot track a man with you by my side.” His words were whispered, his lips flirting along my earlobe.   I felt a corresponding flush of desire, but Holmes pulled away, eyes bright and focused on his task.   I sighed and leaned back to gain a better view of the scene which was to transpire.

Cavendish appeared on the pier only moments later, his rough features hidden by the large rim of his hat.   I recognized him merely by the bulk of his shoulders, remembering Holmes' description of him as a “bear of a man.”   Cavendish stood nervously, smoking a cigarette and glancing into the surrounding darkness with fleeting glances.

Holmes had gone quite still beside me.   It was as though he were asleep.   Only the keen shine to his eyes, as he watched his prey, showed his alertness.   His body was   liquid, ready to pounce at the slightest signal.

A second man joined Cavendish a few moments later.   This gentleman was smaller in stature, and shivered noticeably in the cold, despite his fur cap.   He had a wide moustache and wore silver eyeglasses which gave his face an exaggerated, pinched expression.   The two men spoke in whispers for several minutes before Cavendish handed the man an envelope, and the two parted ways.

“Watson, go home!” Holmes hissed quietly in my ear.   In a flash he was up.   I followed his movements as he slunk against the shadows of the pier wall, and I saw his head briefly appear behind his quarry.   But then I lost him to sight completely.   Even knowing he was there, I could not find my friend.

I unintentionally groaned as I stood up, both my old leg wound and my new stomach scar protesting the movement in such cold. As I made my way from the hidden space behind the barrels, I suddenly caught sight of Cavendish, perilously close.   I sucked in my breath, holding myself quite still, as the man searched the surrounding darkness warily.

He had obviously heard something.   He was now scouring the area with his stick raised, pushing it into the dark nooks angrily.   I could feel all the blood rush from my face in fright.   He was only a few yards away.

Suddenly, I felt a hand at my mouth and I almost yelled out.   But I recognized Holmes' smell before I saw him.   Without a word he motioned backwards, and quietly, slowly, led me away from Cavendish.

Once we were around the corner, I hastily scribbled a note to him.   What about Cavendish's connection?   Follow him!

Holmes shook his head.   “I'll wait for the next opportunity.   I saw Cavendish returning this way and realized you were in danger.   Come, Watson!”   Without another word, he led me round the corner and back towards the street.

My mind raged as we walked.   Holmes had been waiting for this opportunity for a month.   Now he had given up his quarry simply because there was a slight possibility that I was in danger. I felt suddenly insulted.   I did not need coddling and the   fact that he had given up his target out of some need to be over-protective rankled.

And I was sickened by the fact that my presence had ruined all of his hard work.   There had been a time when he had trusted me to handle danger alone.   Now, he would no longer run that risk.

Holmes reached over and squeezed my gloved hand in his.   He smiled briefly, as if discerning my concerns.

I frowned at him, wishing to convey my frustration at his behaviour.   For a moment, we stopped, looking at each other openly, both of us communicating with our eyes alone.   Holmes studied my expression with the corner of his mouth upturned, as if amused by my frustration.   In exchange, I snorted impishly at him.  

Holmes reached out and tucked a loose strand of hair behind my ear.  

And then I saw movement out of the corner of my eye, from behind Holmes.   It was Cavendish. He had found us.

And he was pointing a gun.

“Holmes!” I cried, my voice coming out in a blast of agonizing pain.

I seized Holmes' arm and dragged him down with me out of range.   The silence was shattered by the report of Cavendish's gun.   I grabbed my own revolver.   Pushing Holmes down and away, I fired back.

We both heard a startled cry, and Cavendish hit the cobblestones.   Holmes was up in an instant, rushing towards Cavendish with his stick raised.  

“Holmes!   Be careful!” I shouted.   The words sliced at my throat, felt jagged and painful.   I had not even intended to use my voice, so I was shocked and delighted by the sound.

Holmes suddenly dodged to the left as Cavendish fired wildly.   In another moment, Holmes was over him, kicking the gun from his hand and slamming his cane against the man's arm hard enough to cause Cavendish to cry out.

I ran towards the two men, my mind still whirling in joy that I was able to speak.    Holmes was wrestling with Cavendish, pounding the man's head into the stones as he roughly turned him over and handcuffed Cavendish's hands behind his back.   I leaned down to retrieve Cavendish's revolver, which I quickly slipped into my pocket.

“Have you got him secured?” I asked.   My voice was weak and scratchy, but Holmes could hear me.   He could hear me!   He looked at me in surprise, and suddenly, without caring about the man writhing and cursing at his feet, he barked in laughter and pulled me into an embrace.  

“Watson!” He touched my cheek with the side of his hand.   “Thank God!”  

“I'll fetch a cab, shall I?”

Holmes nodded, and then frowned as he looked down at his captive.   “Let us get him to Scotland Yard without delay.   You've done an excellent job of shooting his kneecap.   He will need immediate attention.”

I dashed into the street.   It took several minutes for me to find a cab in such an inhospitable part of the city, but soon enough we were on our way to the police, Cavendish moaning lowly in the seat across from us.

Although I wanted to speak my mind, my heart, anything that required words, I found myself suddenly shy.   I did not want to share such a joyous occasion with foul company the likes of Cavendish, and so neither Holmes nor I spoke as we went about the business of securing Cavendish into police custody.   Holmes tarried a bit longer, describing Cavendish's accomplice and setting the police force onto the man's trail.

And then, finally, we were on our way home.   In the cab, Holmes held my hand and squeezed it affectionately.   It was strange, how much we were able to communicate to each other without words now.   A month away from my own voice had taught me how to show my feelings as well as I could have described them.

Mrs. Hudson greeted us at the door.   She held out the broken bow string with a raised eyebrow.

Holmes' eyes went wide.   “How the devil did—“

“—I did it,” I admitted sheepishly.

“Doctor Watson!” cried Mrs. Hudson.   She stared at me in shock.

I grinned back.   “Yes, apparently, you will have to put up with my voice once more.”

Mrs. Hudson instantly began to cry, enfolding me in the type of hug that only small older women had the power to do – surprisingly inescapable and suffocating.   I looked over her shoulder at Holmes, who was watching us with his own small smile, his eyes twinkling in merriment.

“Would you like supper?” she asked me.

I nodded.   “Yes, thank you, my dear.”   I caught Holmes' narrowed eyes.   I smiled back at our landlady.   “Although I beg you to bring it up in an hour or so.   Holmes and I have much to discuss in private now that I have my voice back.”

Holmes grinned impishly, and immediately made his way upstairs without me.   He even began to undress on his way up, pulling his cravat from his throat with much show.

I finally managed to disentangle myself from my good landlady's arms, and made my way after him.

Both of us said nothing as we silently went upstairs to my bedroom.   Once the door was shut and locked, Holmes reached his hand around the back of my neck and pulled me to him for an overwhelming kiss that lasted long enough to leave me panting and my need overpowering.

“I have missed your voice more than I dared admit,” Holmes whispered to me, unbuttoning my waist coat.  

I kicked off my shoes.   “I must say, I rather missed it myself.”

“How do you feel?” Holmes asked.   There was concern in his eyes.   Nevertheless, his hands were very skilfully unbuttoning my trousers as he asked.

I pulled his shirt from his arms, and marvelled at the beauty of his pale flesh.   I was stunned, as usual, and almost forgot the question at hand.

I smiled down at him.   “Well, my throat hurts like the devil, but I'm awfully glad nevertheless. Although I sound like I have a   mouth full of gravel.”

Holmes' eyes fluttered.   “I think you sound absolutely delectable.”   He stood and kissed me deeply, his tongue plunging into my mouth and filling me.   He leaned back to stare into my eyes. “You have the most erotic voice I have ever heard, Watson.”

I smirked.   “Ah.   Well then hopefully you will forgive me for your bow.”   I pulled him down with me onto the narrow bed.  

Holmes shook his head.   “Do you have any idea how much that bow cost?”

“I shall replace it.”

“You could pay me back in services,” Holmes whispered, entwining his legs with mine.

“Do you want me to talk dirty?” I whispered back.   Holmes leaned his head back and laughed.  

I laughed with him, delighted by my own voice, by the feel of his sinewy body in my arms, the conclusion of the case.

And then I proceeded to render Holmes himself speechless.

 
Chapter Seven