Reunion
by Pandapony

Chapter Two

Holmes and I alighted at Cavendish Square and took a long, winding route through stables and alleys until he led me to an empty house. He had not informed me of what our goal was that evening, but the familiar rush of adrenalin that accompanied my friend's cases was coursing through my veins, and I was able to curtail my curiosity for the moment, more intrigued by the singular route we were taking through the back alleys of London.

Holmes opened the door to the empty house with utmost precaution. Our feet creaked on the boards as we made our way upstairs. Holmes' cold, thin fingers closed round my wrist and led me forwards down a long hall. We came to rest in a large and empty room which overlooked none other than Baker Street.

I could barely see Holmes in the foreboding dust and darkness of that place. But he put his hand upon my shoulder and his lips close to my ear.

"Do you know where we are?" he whispered.

"Surely that is Baker Street," I answered, staring through the dim window.

"Exactly. We are in Camden House, which stands opposite to our own old quarters."

"But why are we here?"

"Because it commands so excellent a view of that picturesque pile.” Holmes instructed me to look out the window. To my surprise, I saw the silhouette of my friend standing guard in the window.

Holmes explained his elaborate plan to lure his would-be assassin to the area. His trap had been set. As we waited for the events to unfold, Holmes watched the street with a nervous, excitable look upon his face. Yet every time he made eye contact with me, he would blush slightly, and his nervousness seemed to fade, grow shy, and he smiled with a new sincerity I had not noted in him prior to his demise.

This was not the Holmes I left in the Reichenbach Fall, I realized. We waited in the dark, silent and watchful, and I thought about what Holmes had told me. For years he had harbored unnatural inclinations towards me, towards men. It explained much about his dislike of women and his cool, distant nature. It also served to help me understand how he could at once be so warm to me, so trusting and friendly, and yet had always held me back an arm's length.

But here, now, there was a sensuality to him, an emotional side, that I had never seen before in his previously calculating nature. It was as though our years apart had served only to strengthen his feelings for me. In return, I must confess that I too appreciated him more, now that I had once lost him.

As the hours past, Holmes' anticipation grew, until I heard that thin, sibilant note which spoke of intense suppressed excitement. An instant later he pulled me back into the blackest corner of the room, and I felt his warning hand upon my lips. The fingers which clutched me were quivering. Never had I known my friend more moved, and yet the dark street still stretched lonely and motionless before us.

But suddenly I was aware of that which his keener senses had already distinguished. A low, stealthy sound came to my ears, not from the direction of Baker Street, but from the back of the very house in which we lay concealed. Holmes crouched back against the wall and I did the same, my hand closing upon the handle of my revolver. Our shoulders brushed in the darkness.

For my part, I felt like I was a twelve year old boy again. I had forgotten how exhilarating, how utterly thrilling, it was to be here in the dark, on a case with Sherlock Holmes. This man, my closest friend, a man I thought dead, was beside me, leading me once again into his world of danger and surprise. I could barely contain my joy in silence.

My happiness must have shown, even in the pitch black of that wretched room, for Holmes suddenly grabbed my hand in his and pulled me towards him. He kissed me. It was slow, heated, and full of years of his unrequited love and years of my grief and regret. It was the best kiss I've ever given or received, and it reached to my very spirit, making me realize how much I had suffered and how every moment was worth it, to be here, now, with Holmes' lips upon mine.

We broke at the sound of the landing door opening. I saw the vague outline of a man. He crept forward into the room.

He was within three yards of us, this sinister figure, and I had braced myself to meet his spring, before I realized that he had no idea of our presence.

We watched in silence as he approached the window and proceeded to piece together a singular weapon, the likes of which I had never seen before. Crouching down, he rested the end of the barrel upon the ledge of the open window, and I saw his long moustache droop over the stock and his eye gleam as it peered along the sights.

He was aiming at the silhouette of Holmes. A second later, I heard a whiz and breaking glass.

At that instant Holmes sprang like a tiger on to the marksman's back and hurled him flat upon his face. He was up again in a moment, and with convulsive strength he seized Holmes by the throat; but I struck him on the head with the butt of my revolver and he dropped again upon the floor. I fell upon him, and as I held him my comrade blew a shrill call upon a whistle. There was the clatter of running feet upon the pavement, and two policemen in uniform, with one plain-clothes detective, rushed through the front entrance and into the room.

"That you, Lestrade?" said Holmes, breathlessly. As I caught my breath, Holmes began to laugh, his eyes dancing with merriment.

Lestrade was our companion indeed. He took in the re-appearance of Sherlock Holmes with far more grace than I had, shaking my friend's hand and smiling. Lestrade had filled out over the last three years, but his sharp features were just the same as always, and he looked both pleased and chagrined as he congratulated Holmes on another capture.

“It's good to see you back in London, sir,” said he.

“I think you want a little unofficial help,” said Holmes, turning quickly to give me a secret smirk before schooling his features back into that of a stern lecturer. Holmes clucked his tongue at the inspector and shook his head. “Three undetected murders in one year won't do, Lestrade. But you handled the Molesey Mystery with less than your usual –- that's to say, you handled it fairly well.”

Lestrade produced two candles and the group of us took a good look at our prisoner, who Holmes revealed was none other than the highly-distinguished and respected Colonel Sebastian Moran, once of Her Majesty's Indian Army.

All of us stood and listened as Holmes, with no little arrogance, riled up the enemy that had stalked him since Holmes supposedly foundered at the Reichenbach Fall. Holmes detailed Moran's crimes, and then further surprised the gentlemen from Scotland Yard and myself by blaming the Colonel for the recent murder of the Honourable Ronald Adair.

Holmes turned to me, a glint in his eye. He gripped my arm affectionately.

“And now, Watson, if you can endure the draught from a broken window, I think that half an hour in my study over a cigar may afford you some profitable amusement."

“Of course,” said I. My head spun with the dramatic capture of Moran, with seeing Lestrade again, and with the delicious kiss in the darkness.

We made our way across the street slowly, watching Lestrade and the two policemen grapple the Colonel into a four-wheeler.

In the dull yellow light of the street gas lamp, I stood with Holmes at the footpad of 221B Baker Street, my heart swelling with nostalgia. I looked over and saw my friend's face glowing with his happiness, and once again, my stomach sank with the realization that I had to inform him that what transpired between us back in my office could never again be repeated.

He looked anxiously at the door, and at me. “You will come in then? Perhaps we may even secure ourselves a bite to eat. I informed Mrs. Hudson to prepare for two tonight.”

“How did you know I would come?” I asked.

Holmes smiled briefly. “I did not know. But I had hoped.” He reached for my hand, but I stepped aside, feeling my uneasiness creep up my throat like a sickness.

“Holmes,” said I. “Look, I--”

“No.” Holmes reached out and quickly covered my mouth with his hand. His eyes grew very wide, startled. “Do not say it yet.” He removed his hand and stared at me. “Let us go upstairs and have a cigar first. Grant me another hour of this happiness before you break my heart, all right?” He gave me a quick smile, and then turned from me to open the front door.

I stood frozen in place, horrified that he knew what I was going to say, when I wasn't even sure myself how I was going to say it. With a feeling of impending doom, I followed him through the open door, where I was seized upon by my old landlady, Mrs. Hudson.

Everything about 221B Baker Street was warm, welcoming.

The smell of Mrs. Hudson's shampoo as her head rested on my shoulder, giving me a hug. The quiet, distant ticking of the grandfather clock in her room. The dim hall light, the crack in the first stair, the familiar colors of the front carpet. The moment I stepped inside, I felt on the verge of tears, for returning to the world I had loved and been loved in. On the banister, a scratch I made when moving in my belongings. On the hat stand, my old red scarf still hung, forgotten but not displaced.

I ran my hand over the fringe of my scarf. Mrs. Hudson smiled at me.

“Mr. Holmes' brother instructed me to leave everything in its place for the last three years,” said she. “I even left the few belongings of yours, Doctor, in the exact position you last saw them!”

My eyes did well with tears then, but I blinked quickly to hide the evidence. Holmes was already on his way upstairs. He turned and looked at me anxiously.

“Come, Watson.”

And like I had always done, I obeyed him.

Upstairs, we recounted the capture of Colonel Moran and Holmes filled in the missing details of the case as we smoked cigars and drank his brandy. The familiar sounds and smells of our sitting room lulled me into a peaceful state. I never wanted this evening to end. And yet I had done wrong; I had led Holmes astray, and there could be no peace between us until I corrected my former mistake.

When Holmes finished his story of Moriarty's gang and his tracking of Moran, I tentatively began to ask him questions about our time apart. He spoke more hesitantly than he had in my office that afternoon. He had learned from his errors, it seemed. As he told each story he would pause frequently and look me in the eye, as if weighing whether this new information would cause me to strike him once more.

“So you have returned to Baker Street, and to your old life once more?” I asked.

“Indeed.” Holmes leaned back and stretched his long limbs in his chair, yawning. “Once again I am free to devote my life to examining those interesting little problems which the complex life of London so plentifully presents.” Holmes drained the rest of his brandy and stood. He turned quickly and smiled down at me, where I sat on the settee.

“You should sell your practice and move back to Baker Street with me,” Holmes said. He touched my shoulder, and I straightened. Holmes immediately withdrew his hand and retreated back to his chair. He refilled his pipe, never looking at me. He lowered his voice.

“I realize that what happened in your study was an anomaly,” said he. He looked up at me then, with no anger, just stating a fact. “I can think of no other reason than gratitude for my survival, that would explain why you would allow my advances to go so far. But you may rest assured that I will never again touch you if you do not desire it.”

“But Holmes…” I could feel my face turning red with the embarrassment of the conversation, but I had to know. “… You confessed that you have had feelings for me for some time. How can I pretend to ignore this?”

Holmes' mouth quirked up into a brief, cold smile. “You forget, Watson, that I lived with my desires firmly under wraps for several years before. If I succeeded in doing so once, I can do so again. For I would much rather stifle my unnatural tendencies and live with the consequences, than lose you as a friend.” He looked to me then, eyes bright. “Please consider returning to Baker Street. Your rooms are just as they were when you left them. Quit your practice, and continue your excellent work as my associate and biographer.”

“Let me consider it,” I told him. I was weary from the long, emotionally trying day, and I could no longer trust my own decisions.

Holmes sat back in his chair again, curling his long legs up. “Of course. And now, to repay you for your assistance this evening, perhaps I shall play some of the songs you used to enjoy, back when we were slightly younger?”

Holmes reached for his violin. I closed my eyes and leaned back against the settee, smiling as I listened to the beautiful notes of my friend's playing. How many evenings had I fallen asleep, content and at peace with myself and the world, listening to Holmes play me my favorite songs beside the fire? I sank back into that contentment, still hardly able to believe that after so much time, I could be happy once again.

 
Chapter Three