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In the morning, I awoke to find Holmes sitting at the dining table, reading
through the morning papers and smoking. I immediately prepared to launch into a
long diatribe about the meaning of bed rest, when he suddenly held out his hand
to me.
“Please, no lectures, Watson.” He smiled warmly. “I am aware of
your advice, and I give you my word that I will not stray from the sitting room
all day.”
“You’re supposed to be laying down,” I scolded him anyways. I
sat across from him and opened up the tray to reveal a healthy portion of eggs
and ham from Mrs. Hudson. I sniffed and moaned in appreciation.
“I was
hungry,” Holmes told me.
I raised an eyebrow. Holmes’ appetite was a
fickle thing, and I expected him to have lost it completely after such a night
as last. But his plate confirmed his claim, showing only trace remnants of what
seemed to be a large meal. Holmes poured me some coffee, and even added my
cream.
“Thank you,” I said. I started into my eggs, pulling one of the
papers from Holmes’ stack.
“Besides, I wanted to share breakfast with
you,” Holmes said casually. He put out his cigarette. “I have not seen much of
you lately, what with your practice getting to be so busy.”
“And your
case,” I added, looking up to see his expression. I had a nagging suspicion that
this “case” of his was nothing of the sort. It had been an excuse to indulge his
carnal appetites. Strangely, this lie made me feel better. I did not like being
excluded from his work, and knowing that there was a chance he had kept me out
of it simply because there was no case pleased me.
“Hm. Yes, indeed,”
Holmes said, eyeing me carefully. “Well, no matter. I believe this will be a
productive day nevertheless. I intend to finally organize my
clippings.”
“Thank heavens,” I said. His notes and clippings had been
piling up in every flat surface of the sitting room for six months now. It was
getting to be a desperate mess.
“Assuming I have your permission to
engage in such strenuous work, Doctor?” Holmes raised an eyebrow. His lips
twitched in suppressed mirth. He was certainly in a better mood than
yesterday.
I smirked back at him. “You have my permission. As long as you
take it gently, and lie down in your bed if you feel the need.”
The words
caused a flush of heat through my body. I quickly looked down to my plate, and
shoveled some ham into my mouth. Good Lord, was this really going to happen
every time I said something even mildly suggestive? What had happened to my
mind?
Holmes watched me carefully. I could feel his gaze piercing me,
even though I did not raise my glance to meet his.
“As you say,” he said
quietly. He watched me like a hawk as I ate the rest of my meal in
haste.
I ran several errands that afternoon. To my relief, when I
returned home, Holmes was still in our rooms, dutifully sorting through a
mountain of clippings placed around him on the carpet. He was surrounded by
articles, and humming to himself as he smoked and catalogued.
I unfolded
the paper and stretched out on the settee above him. I intended to read, but I
found myself distracted by my friend on the floor. I studied him silently. I had
known him for so long, and yet now, knowing this new fact about him, I could not
help but be amazed. Holmes was a sodomite. He was not the virgin I imagined him
to be, but rather experienced, and receptive to sexual advances. I imagined him
with another man, and my thoughts flushed my entire being with a hot ache. It
was so absurd, imagining Holmes pleasuring another, and yet, now, I could almost
see it, see him engaged thus.
How had I thought him cold and unfeeling?
He had so often professed his lack of interest or capacity to love, I had
convinced myself. But surely I had been fooled. I knew Holmes better than
anyone, and knowing him, I should have detected the lie. There were moments when
Holmes showed almost heartbreaking tenderness towards me. His great love of Mrs.
Hudson, while usually masked behind insults, was apparent. Even his fondness for
Mycroft and Lestrade was without question. This was a man of deep feeling, who
had taken on the pretence of being heartless and calculating.
And why the
pretence? Surely to hide his unconventional nature. I had always accepted
Holmes’ bohemian lifestyle, but only now connected it with other aspects of his
personality. His flair for the dramatic; his tender touches to my shoulder in
times of need; his keen eyes shining when a handsome gentlemen came to call upon
us for aid; all of these little clues that told me I had been wrong in assuming
him to be nothing more than a machine.
It is truly remarkable how one
missing piece can make an entire puzzle snap into place. This was the clue I had
been seeking for years in understanding the singular personality of my friend.
And knowing such, knowing that he had trusted me with such a critical clue, left
me feeling content with the great bond between us.
Chapter
Three
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