Title: Duty, Honour, and Loyalty
Author: Sara
Series: Sherlock Holmes
Pairing: Holmes/Watson
Rating: R (mature themes, no explicit sex)
Warnings: Death of a major supporting character (not Holmes or Watson)
Summary/challenge: Where duty and honor conflict with love. Written to answer
the challenge: "A well-meaning meddler decides to do
something about the latent attraction between Holmes and Watson and decides to
play matchmaker."
Betas: Lyra was an enormous help--from helping me kill off Mrs. Watson to making
sure that motivations were clear throughout. I cannot thank her enough! xs
helped with eliminating Americanisms and anachronisms. jm, as always, gave me
confidence and helped with refining things. Any errors and problems that remain
are probably the result of my stubbornly refusing to listen to them.
Part of the Cliche Fuh-Q-Fest at
http://www.kardasi.com/Cliched/index.htm
Feedback to: sara_merry99 @ yahoo.com
Archiving: With the Cliche Fuh-Q-Fest and, eventually, Slash Cotillion. Anywhere
else please ask (especially Sacrilege!).
Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, and Mary Watson were not created by
me. They are in the public domain, so in that sense they belong to me, as they
do to the rest of the world. But I am in no way claiming to have created them.
Note on Chronology: Assembling a Sherlockian
chronology is a challenging endeavour. There are a multitude of chronologies by
various researchers and there is a considerable amount of disagreement between
them. For the purposes of this story, I have not followed any particular
chronology exclusively, but have chosen between a few different ones as suited
my needs for the story. The dating of "The Adventure of the Dying Detective",
"The Stock-Broker's Clerk" and "The Hound of the Baskervilles" (which is not
mentioned in this story) I take from Mr. Frankland's "Some Chronological
Crankiness" (http://members.aol.com/mfrankland/chronology.htm).
The dating of "The Boscombe Valley Mystery" I take from Baring-Gould's
Annotated Sherlock Holmes. "The Red-Headed League" is dated according to
Brad Keefauver's Birlstone Railway Timetable (http://www.sherlockpeoria.net/Who_is_Sherlock/ChronologyCorner.html).
As Watson was very clear with the dates on "The Final Problem" and "The
Adventure of the Empty House", there is no substantial disagreement on those.
Additional note: Some dialogue in the last section of the story is taken from
"The Adventure of the Empty House" by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I am not
endeavouring to pass Doyle's writing off as my own, merely to honour him by
integrating my own efforts into his.
Duty, Honour and Loyalty
Excerpt from Mary Watson's Journal:
April 6, 1888
John and I will be married one week from tomorrow. I am somewhat nervous about
our marriage and, most especially, about our wedding night. My unfortunate,
indeed, excruciating and terrible attack at the hands of that... ruffian so many
years ago has left me with a hysterical fear of the intimacies between a husband
and wife. I cannot dwell on the past, however, as I have a new future as Mrs.
John Watson ahead of me. I must strive to put all haunting thoughts and memories
out of my head, for John's sake. I will be the best wife to him that I can
possibly be and not let my childhood shame come between us. I have not told him,
or any other living soul, about it. I was sent home to England to escape the
man, and to escape the shame, and I see no advantage in uncovering old wounds. I
will do my utmost to pretend the event never occurred, as I have been for the
last 11 years. But I am frightened.
I must focus my thoughts on brighter matters.
The dinner party following the ceremony will be a small one, as neither John nor
I have any close family in England. My former employer, Mrs. Cecil Forrester,
will be there, as will John's friend from St. Bartholomew's, Mr. Stamford.
John's dearest friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, will not be attending either the
ceremony or the small dinner. Mr. Holmes has, apparently, made it quite clear to
John that he does not approve of our marriage. Not, John assures me, that Mr.
Holmes finds anything wanting in me. Indeed, John says that it is quite a high
complement--Mr. Holmes feels that I have the mind to make a great detective but
that marriage will take me away into purely domestic pursuits. I have no doubt
that John has repeated to me accurately what Mr. Holmes told him--but I am
certain that Mr. Holmes regrets more losing his roommate, friend and acolyte,
for John is definitely that as well. I know John is hurt by what he sees as his
friend's neglect, but I feel no small degree of triumph. When I first met John,
he was clearly living his life in the shadow of Mr. Holmes, content to pursue
Mr. Holmes' interests and to live at his beck and call. Shadows are not a
healthy place to live, however, no matter whose.
So, I have made plans. After our wedding, I shall make some modest attempts, as
only a wife can, to encourage John to shine on his own, rather than merely
reflecting the undeniable brilliance of Mr. Holmes. John is a highly skilled and
trained doctor and I think his medical career should take precedence over Mr.
Holmes and his sometimes unsavoury cases.
Excerpt from Mary Watson's Journal:
April 15, 1888
My attempt to forget my past was not a successful one. Last night was our
wedding night and John escorted me to my bedroom when we retired. Once there, he
made what I can only assume are normal marital advances. I tried to steel my
nerve and accept his caresses, but each touch drove me deeper and deeper into a
well of terror.
I tried to hide my fear under a natural maidenly reserve, with, I am afraid,
indifferent success. I allowed him to proceed with his activities; indeed, I
could hardly have stopped him as I was rigid with terror, just as I was when
Cpl. Harmon savaged me in that dank prison cell.
It is appalling that I am likening my marriage bed with my loving and loved
husband to the filthy cell where I was so horrifically used and attacked. But,
though my mind can appreciate that John is not at all like that man, my body
responds to intimate touches with terror and paralysis, no matter the source. I
could hardly see my husband's face at all in the grotesque rictus hovering above
me in his supreme moment; it was too like the hideous expression on Cpl.
Harmon's face that I see in my nightmares.
I think that John came to realize that I was suffering more than maidenly nerves
after his own pleasure was taken. He kissed me tenderly and pulled me close to
him and held me tightly. His tight hold was too like Cpl. Harmon's restraining
grasp for my fragile nerves to tolerate. My paralysis snapped and I flailed and
thrashed at him. Mumbling an apology and reiterating his love for me, he left my
room. I listened intently and, when I did not hear his footsteps moving away
down the hall, I rushed to the door and locked it behind him.
I was restless and wakeful until early in the morning, finally falling asleep
sometime after the clock in the hall chimed four.
Despite my late and restless night, I woke in time for breakfast this morning. I
hesitated to descend, embarrassed to see John this morning and fearful of his
reaction to my hysteria. I should not have doubted him. John is the most
gracious of men, and this morning he was kindness itself, taking full
responsibility for my poor reaction on himself. He never chastised me for even a
second but apologised for his own insensitivity to my obvious reservations. He
promised that in future he would proceed with such marital activities more
slowly, so that I might learn to enjoy them and not be frightened.
I could only nod and hope that my fears can be overcome with a slow and gentle
approach such as he suggests.
I know I should tell him about Cpl. Harmon. I feel I am somehow deceiving him by
not doing so--but I cannot. I cannot. It is difficult enough to write about such
things, impossible to speak of them.
After his gentle apology, I withdrew to my room and have remained here all day.
When John returns from his afternoon rounds, I will spend the evening with him
and try to make our time together as normal as possible.
Excerpt from Mary Watson's Journal:
November 2, 1888
My plan to bring John to independence of Mr. Holmes is succeeding admirably.
John still occasionally assists Mr. Holmes, but rarely does it interfere with
his attention to his patients or to me. It has been several months now since
John took off to assist Mr. Holmes with that matter involving the stock-broker's
clerk in Birmingham. I was very angry with him for doing so. At the time, he had
a patient who was exceedingly ill and he could have been needed at any moment.
Expecting Dr. Anstruther next door to drop everything to care for one of John's
patients does not give the impression to other doctors and, most especially, to
the hospitals in town that John Watson is a man they may rely on.
After that little row, John has been much more circumspect and if he does
venture to assist Mr. Holmes, he at least stays near London. His patients, and
the practice he purchased when we were married, are the better for it. His
healing touch and personable ways are attracting new patients every day.
I anticipate that soon his love of healing and of medicine will overwhelm any
desire he has for the excitement and adventure he finds in Mr. Holmes' cases.
Excerpt from Mary Watson's Journal:
May 18, 1889
I find I am being exceedingly selfish in forcing his medical practice and career
on John. I spent several months enjoying the success of my plan, as John
focussed his energies on his practice and on me. But the last few months have
shown me that I am doing him a disservice. He is still attracting new patients
and if the trend continues he may soon have to take on an assistant. We are
prospering beyond my hopes. And yet, John is miserable. He is a caring doctor,
concerned about his patients and their welfare, but it is clear that medicine
bores him to tears. There has been an outbreak of a mild influenza this season
and it has had John travelling at all hours of the day treating minor coughs and
slight fevers.
The outbreak has passed, thankfully, and he has had some time to catch up and
regain his strength. But his heart is clearly not in his work.
Lately, he has been closely following one of Mr. Sherlock Holmes' cases in the
newspapers, hanging on every word reported of his friend. I know that John
misses Mr. Holmes extremely. They have seen each other on numerous occasions
since our marriage, but the easy familiarity of their bachelor days sharing
lodgings is gone. I think he regains a sense of that ease when he reads about
Mr. Holmes and his work. He beams with pride in his friend on every occasion
when praise of his prowess is given in the press.
I have seen Mr. Holmes but a few times since John and I were married. He usually
comes to see John when I am away visiting or after I have retired for the night.
Once or twice, he has misjudged and called while I was still awake. If the
situation were different, I could almost think that he were jealous of me. When
John wishes me good night with his usual chaste kiss to the cheek, all he risks
anymore after my shamefully hysterical responses to his advances at the
beginning of our marriage, Mr. Holmes feigns an exaggerated interest in the fire
or a picture on the wall.
Taking John away from Mr. Holmes was, perhaps, quite selfish and wrong of me. I
think I have hurt the both of them by insisting on John breaking away. I must
consider this and if there is anything I might do to make amends.
Excerpt from Mary Watson's Journal:
June 12, 1889
Three days ago, I encouraged John to go off on a case with Mr. Holmes. This is
the first time since our marriage that I have encouraged any such activity on
him. I have been reflecting on my selfishness in trying to mould my husband into
a perfect City doctor for weeks now and had decided that the time was right to
change my policy about his association with Mr. Holmes. So I waited for an
opportune time to show him that my mind had changed.
It arrived three days ago in the form of a telegram from Mr. Holmes requesting
John's assistance on a case. I have pressed John very strongly about the
importance of his practice and the excessive nature of his attachment to Mr.
Holmes. When he received the telegram he looked to me with a forlorn
hopelessness in his eyes, clearly wanting to go and as clearly expecting that I
would not permit it. It quite tugged at my heart to see the sadness in his eyes.
He would have declined, saying something to me about his patients not being able
to spare him for even a day or two.
Those were the very words with which I chastised him so severely after his
sudden trip to Birmingham last fall and I was embarrassed to hear my own words
cited back to me.
I am gratified that my opinion is so important to him, though it was not easy to
see him so torn about Mr. Holmes' telegram. I feel as if I have somehow unmanned
my husband by making him so dependent on my approval. I suppose that is my
reward for making my praise and appreciation so conditional on his following my
desires regarding his life and career.
On my encouragement, John hastened to meet Mr. Holmes and travel with him to
Herefordshire. Their investigation met with great success, as I understand, and
John reports that through Mr. Holmes' efforts a young man has been saved from
the gallows.
It was delightful to see John on his return from their little trip. He was in a
state of vigour and enthusiasm such as I have seen but rarely lately. His eyes
sparkled and he greeted me with happiness and a warm kiss. I was so surprised by
the kiss that I allowed it and felt little fear of it, though, when he tried to
press further intimacies on me, I lapsed into a hysterical attack and locked
myself in my room until the next morning.
In any case, aside from my nervous fit on his return, John's trip seems to have
been quite a success. I shall have to encourage more of these excursions.
Excerpt from Mary Watson's Journal:
November 25, 1889
What a cruel, cruel trick Mr. Holmes has played on John. In order to catch a
criminal, Mr. Holmes pretended to be ill, dying, and allowed John to think that
he was witnessing his friend's last hours on earth. Does he not know how much
John admires him, how much John values their friendship?
How could he not?
Did he think that John would be unaffected by his supposed death?
John is now bundled up in a woollen blanket by the fire, sipping a hot toddy and
shivering uncontrollably. He says that he maintained his calm and professional
demeanour the entire time he was with Mr. Holmes and that the reaction to
feeling so close to losing his old friend only set in when he was again at home.
John has explained to me why Mr. Holmes deceived him so. It was vital to Mr.
Holmes's plan that John himself be convinced of his imminent demise. He did not
feel that John could adequately dissimulate and play the part required of him if
he knew that Mr. Holmes were not really ill.
It appears to me that John is merely making excuses, persuading himself that Mr.
Holmes had reasons enough for what he put John through, so that he might forgive
his friend for his cruelty. I know that John feels very fondly for Mr. Holmes,
but I cannot help but believe that he regards John as a tool, like his
magnifying lens and walking stick, to be used in whatever manner is necessary
and regardless of the consequences to the tool itself.
Excerpt from Mary Watson's Journal:
October 11, 1890
Ah, I think I begin to see Mr. Holmes as John sees him. I went to a concert with
Mrs. Halliburton to-day at St. James Hall. Sarasate was playing a program which
included the "Gipsy Airs", which I particularly wanted to hear.
I was quite surprised to see John and Mr. Holmes at the hall as well. They were
seated in the front of the large hall. As Mrs. Halliburton and I were a few rows
back, I do not believe either of them was aware that we were there. It is
sometimes impossible to know what Mr. Holmes has noticed, however.
During the concert, John was watching as Mr. Holmes listened to the German
pieces on the program. The rapt fascination with which he paid attention to Mr.
Holmes spoke volumes as to the depth of his friendship and his regard.
Later in the concert, John leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes to better
focus on Sarasate's lovely rendition of the "Gipsy Airs". Mr. Holmes turned
slightly in his seat and watched as John listened. The sweetest smile played
around the corners of his mouth as his eyes roved over John's face. As they
left, I noticed that they walked out of the hall moving so closely together that
their shoulders touched more than once. Out on the street, Mr. Holmes seemed to
move ahead of John slightly, clearing a way for him and making his passage down
the sidewalk easier.
I see that I have been underestimating the depth of Mr. Holmes' feelings for my
husband and John's for him. I have seen in the Andaman Islands that men can have
the same loving and tender relations with each other that a husband and wife can
have and I cannot see evil in it, despite what Church and Queen tell me. Perhaps
Mr. Holmes can fill the gaps in John's life left by my inability to be as loving
and intimate as John deserves.
Letter from Mary Watson to Sherlock Holmes:
December 16, 1890
Dear Mr. Sherlock Holmes,
I hope you do not think me forward in writing to you, but I feel very strongly
that I must communicate with you privately about matters concerning my husband.
I know from John's reports of you, and my own observations, that you are
uncommonly observant. I suspect, however, that while the observation of facts
and the deduction of conclusions regarding criminal activities is without a
doubt an area in which you excel, the deduction of the softer feelings and
passions to which men are prone is outside your area of expertise.
With that in mind, I would like to share with you my own observations and
deductions on a matter that might have escaped your attention. Please bear with
me if my presentation seems to ramble and digress. You must trust that I am
sharing with you the information necessary to support my conclusions.
Since my marriage to John, I have encouraged him to build his medical practice,
as you may know. I hoped someday to see him become a staff physician at one of
the large, prestigious hospitals in the city. Only John's strong sense of duty
to me as his wife, for whose maintenance he is responsible, forced him to comply
with my urgings. For himself he has never had any such ambitions.
I now feel that I have been in the wrong in so encouraging him. It is apparent
that he finds only occasional interest or satisfaction in his medical
activities. None of his medical colleagues have attained the status of even
casual friends and, aside from dinners that I press on him to develop his
professional connections, he does not go out in the society of other physicians
or surgeons. When he returns home from a day devoted to his patients, he is the
very picture of weariness and exhaustion.
By contrast, when he returns from an afternoon, day, or week of adventuring with
you on one of your cases, he is invigorated and enthusiastic. His friendship
with you is as a great reservoir from which he draws strength and vigour.
There is yet more, Mr. Holmes. I should not have troubled you with this letter,
merely to inform you of John's friendship for you, as I am certain you have
observed this for yourself over the years of your association. He expresses his
friendship for you every time he leaves patients, practice, and wife to join you
in facing danger, as no doubt you are aware.
What you do not, I believe, see is the light that shines in John's eyes when he
speaks of you. His eyes brighten and his whole countenance is filled with a
great pride that a magnificent man such as yourself, for that is how he sees
you, should choose his company and his aid in your adventures. At the same time,
his face is filled with what I can only call tenderness, such as is rarely seen
among gentlemen except when contemplating their brides.
Forgive me for being bold, Mr. Holmes, but on those rare occasions when I have
seen you with my husband, there is a similar expression on your face when you
look at him.
Please do not take this amiss. Draw from my observations such conclusions as you
will. My own conclusion is that John holds you in the very highest possible
regard. I am certain that his natural discretion and his sense of duty to me
will keep him from pursuing that regard in any unseemly direction. However, it
might be possible for a clever and determined man such as yourself to persuade
him otherwise, if you so desire, as I believe you do.
It occurs to me at this point that you might be questioning my motives in
sending you this letter. Allow me to reassure you, Mr. Holmes, that my motives
are no more or less than a wife's natural and honourable duty and desire to see
her husband as happy and prosperous as possible. You make John happy, sir, and I
would like to see that continue in whatever way you and he determine is best.
Do not be deceived, I am not willing to relinquish my role and status as Mrs.
John Watson. But know that should you and John come to a mutually agreeable
understanding, I will be discreet and happy for the both of you.
I thank you for your consideration of this matter and am
Your friend,
Mrs. John Watson
Letter from Sherlock Holmes to Mary Watson:
December 17, 1890
My dear Mrs. Watson,
I wish to thank you for your extraordinary letter and its revelations. As much
as it pains me to do so, I confess that I had not observed much of which you
wrote. As for that which I had observed, I did not permit myself to reach the
same conclusions as those at which you arrived. I fear my mind was clouded by
strong emotion, as you may have suspected. I am gratified that you did not
accept at face value Watson's rather exalted presentation of my abilities in his
little novels. Of course, that is itself a telling point which I had failed to
properly consider.
As I have long thought, Mrs. Watson, you are an exceptional woman with a very
clear mind. The world lost a fine detective when you chose to pursue a domestic
life. Very few wives would react in the manner you have chosen to the inferences
you have made.
I am somewhat concerned, for both myself and Watson, that you will come to
regret having sent me that letter, with its implied invitation. Not that I
mistrust you or your motives, of course. But what seems to be a reasonable
course of action when logic is holding sway in one's mind is often found to be
unacceptable when strong emotions become engaged. Are you entirely certain that
you wish me to attempt to come to an understanding with your husband?
I fear that even if you and I are in accord on the matter, Watson's natural and
proper sense of duty to you will prevent him from taking any action that might
dislodge you from your deserved place of primacy in his heart.
If reassured that you truly wish me to, I will, at the least, inform Watson of
my own regard for him. It is to be hoped that he will be gratified to know of
the esteem in which I hold him. You may rest assured, dear lady, that it is as
great as or greater than the esteem in which he holds me.
It is also possible, however, that you are mistaken and he will be horrified by
so unnatural a regard. If that is the case, I hope that you will provide Watson
with the comfort and friendship he will be lacking in my absence. If our
conversation goes badly, I will pursue activities that will keep me out of
London for some time.
Let me reiterate my admiration for you, Mrs. Watson. I am
Your friend,
Sherlock Holmes
Excerpt from Dr. John Watson's Private Journal:
December 20, 1890
A most amazing and unexpected thing happened to-day. It is now several hours
later and I still find my thoughts quite disarranged. My hands are shaking so
that I can hardly hold my pen.
I went to visit Holmes in Baker Street this afternoon. I had been visiting a
series of neurasthenic patients in that part of town and, as I was feeling a
certain lack of enthusiasm for the medical field at that moment, I decided to
call on him.
Holmes was just sealing a letter when I arrived and my appearance seemed to have
startled him a bit. He dropped the letter onto his desk and came around it to
greet me. "Hullo, Watson. It's good to see you, old chap."
His greeting was almost effusive and my heart was warmed by it. The estrangement
between us that has been brought about by my marriage has pained me greatly and
I was pleased to see his enthusiasm for my presence.
He looked at me so closely that I found myself almost fidgeting under his gaze.
Then he glanced at my feet and said, in an inconsequential tone, "I see you have
been dealing with a lot of trifling cases among your patients."
I looked down at my boots, and, seeing a few different colours of mud, nodded.
"Yes, I have seen several patients to-day, but how did you know they were
trifles?"
He smiled. "Ah, Watson, I see no less than eight different types of mud upon
your boots and trouser legs and, yet, the day is not far advanced. You could not
have spent much time with any of those patients. So, their illnesses must have
been of little consequence."
I smiled. "You are, of course, right, Holmes. There appears to have been quite
an outbreak of hypochondria of late. I have seen more neurasthenics in the last
two weeks than I have in the previous year. It and head colds are my two most
common complaints this season. It is tiresome."
He smiled, a genuine lingering smile such as I rarely see light on his face.
"And yet you do not seem so weary as all that."
I considered this, for I had been quite tired when I left my patient's home. As
Holmes had observed, I was feeling quite energetic again. "Well, I appear to
have gotten a second wind. I should bottle the essence of Baker Street and sell
it as a curative to my hypochondriacs. I should be able to afford to leave
practice then."
While I was speaking, Holmes had moved toward me, with his quiet, almost feline,
grace. "And your presence is a tonic for me, my friend. My thoughts are clearer
and my mind sharper when you are near."
I inhaled sharply and my eyes met his in my startlement. Holmes had never before
made so clear his opinion of me or our friendship. I could read in his grey eyes
a wealth of warmth and tenderness that I could never have imagined were hiding
behind his cold, almost stern, facade. I opened my mouth to speak, but what came
out was barely a whisper, "Holmes..."
He reached out toward me and stroked my cheek, gently, with a fingertip. I felt
the touch thrill through me and I wanted nothing more than to feel his fingers
touching my entire body. I tried to summon up the revulsion that a man should
feel about such a perverse and degenerate advance.
I could not.
I have always wanted more from Holmes, I felt, than he was capable of giving.
More friendship, more consistency, more ... affection. I could tell by the
trembling in his finger where it rested on my jaw that he was as emotionally and
physically moved as I myself was. I was shaken by this demonstration that his
emotions for me ran as deeply as mine for him.
"Holmes...," I said again, more strongly, and moved toward him. He leaned down
as I stretched up and he kissed me, a gentle, courting kiss. But that touch of
our lips was as a dam breaking.
The passion between us, so long held in check by discretion and convention,
rose, without any sign of stopping. Our kiss grew in depth and intensity, and I
slid my hands around him under his dressing gown, feeling the strength in the
lean, sinewy muscles of his back through his shirt and waistcoat. His hands
similarly explored my chest, opening my frock coat and working at my waistcoat
buttons. I looked down in time to see his long, graceful fingers removing the
tie pin from my cravat.
The pearl tie pin given me by Mary as a wedding present.
I stilled his hands with my own and stepped back a pace. I do not know where I
found the strength to do so, for it was the hardest step I have ever taken,
backing away from that which I had desired so long. "I'm sorry, Holmes....
Mary...."
He nodded. "I feared you would feel this way, though I could not..." He stopped.
His face was clouded with strong emotion for just a moment before his normal,
passionless mask fell again, like a guillotine. "I trust we can remain friends,
as before."
"Of course," I replied. He started to walk away from me but I couldn't let him
go without explaining my position. "My feelings for you are as they have always
been, Holmes, and as they always shall be. But my duty--"
He gave a small, half smile. "I could not have said it better myself, my dear
Watson." He stepped away and sat in his chair, taking up the long pipe at his
elbow. "Now, allow me to enlighten you about my latest case."
He told me a bit about an affair that he predicted would be very shortly taking
him to France.
I left him after an early evening, alternately heartsick at what I had almost
had, and then definitely lost, and elated that he could share...but, no, it is
best that I not think about that which cannot and should not ever be. My duty,
if not my happiness, lie with Mary, and I hope my friendship with Holmes can
remain as strong as ever. In that I must be content.
I made an excuse for myself immediately after dinner and retired to my room, as
I am still emotionally very raw and could not hide my distraction from Mary even
though I know I must. It is essential that I never let Mary know what has
occurred and the passions that have been unleashed in me. She will, no doubt,
assume that I am susceptible to such perversions because of her fear of marital
intimacy. Nothing could be further from the truth; Holmes has held my heart and
my soul since young Stamford introduced us at St. Bart's almost ten years ago. I
have been susceptible to him since long before I ever knew her.
Whatever the demon is that haunts Mary and keeps her out of our marriage bed,
and she will not speak to me of it even when pressed, it is without a doubt a
fearsome one to hold a strong woman of such character in its grip so firmly. I
will not add to her burdens by making her feel that she has failed me in any way
because of it.
Telegram from Sherlock Holmes to Mary Watson:
December 20, 1890
Watson could not be moved to abandon his vows to you. Take care of him. I leave
tomorrow for the Continent and shall be gone for some months.
Regards, SH
Excerpt from Mary Watson's Journal:
December 21, 1890
Mr. Holmes appears to have acted on my letter in some manner.
John spent yesterday afternoon with Mr. Holmes and came home extremely shaken. I
made an excuse for him, something about a difficult patient, and gave him a
glass of brandy.
Though we dined together before he retired very early, he was distracted and
distrait and could barely maintain a conversation about the case he and Mr.
Holmes had been discussing. He would talk for a moment, then his thoughts would
drift away and he would fall silent. Twice during these abstracted moments, I
caught him running his fingers over his lips with the most heartbreaking
expression of longing.
Both times, after just a second, he started guiltily and looked at me with an
expression on his face that almost made me regret my letters to Mr. Holmes.
There was such a great pain in his eyes, as though I, our marriage, stood
between him and his heart's desire.
I suppose I do, despite my best intentions.
This morning, John was cheerful and as attentive and solicitous as ever.
Possibly more so. If it were not for the slightly sorrowful look in his eye, I
would never suspect that anything had occurred. I see that he has chosen to
focus his attentions and affections on me rather than Mr. Holmes. I am glad.
It appears that Mr. Holmes was correct in his suspicion that I was not really
prepared for what I thought I wanted. What seemed proper and correct, or at
least reasonable, in the cold light of logic and duty now angers me. I suggested
to Mr. Holmes that he take some action and I hoped, sincerely, that he would be
successful in negotiating an arrangement with John. Now that he has made the
attempt, I am unhappy.
I should be pleased and honoured that John's feelings for me are stronger than
those he holds for Mr. Holmes. I am. But I can see so clearly that he regrets
having had to make the decision it is impossible not to feel also sadness and a
wholly unjustified anger at Mr. Holmes.
Excerpt from Mary Watson's Journal:
April 5, 1891
It has been four months since last John or I heard from Mr. Sherlock Holmes,
aside from such reports of his activities as have appeared in the news.
If I did not know that John's heart was elsewhere, I could be quite pleased with
our current status. He spends his days busily engaged with his practice, which
now employs a young man as an assistant, and his evenings in quiet harmony and
gentle solicitude to me.
He seems content...or at least not discontent, though I believe that he will not
allow me to see otherwise. I imagine that he feels guilty--guilty for loving me
less than he loves Mr. Holmes. Here in the privacy of my diary I feel I can say
the words, though delicacy would prevent me from ever saying them aloud.
I have tried a few times to tell him of my hand in the events, of my consent.
Each time, as soon as I mentioned Mr. Holmes's name, John just smiled and
assured me that things were a bit strained between them when Mr. Holmes left for
the Continent but he was certain that all would be back to normal as soon as he
returned. I must accept that.
I have been feeling unwell of late. My abdomen aches such that I have had to
loosen the laces on my corset quite a bit and I have been bleeding as I do
during my monthly affliction, but at odd intervals. I would hope that I am
expecting, except that John has not touched me in that manner in more than two
years.
Letter from Sherlock Holmes to Mycroft Holmes, hand delivered:
April 7, 1891
Mycroft,
I am currently engaged in an investigation of the most dangerous and intelligent
criminal I have ever faced. I am leaving you with my final instructions and my
will, in case something desperate happens to me. You will find that my
instructions are very peculiar, but I insist that you follow them to the letter.
My will is not to be opened or read until six months after my presumed death.
It is possible that I will feel it necessary to feign my death and disappear for
a time. If I do this, I will wire to you as soon as it is safe to do so. I will
be using the alias H. Sigerson, a Norwegian explorer. If you do not hear from me
within six months after my reported death, you may assume that I am truly dead
and proceed to execute my will.
If you receive a wire from Sigerson, do not, I pray you, inform anyone that I
survive. My safety will depend on no one knowing that I live. No one.
It is to be hoped that none of these precautions will be necessary. However, as
you know, it is rather better to be more prepared than necessary than to be
less.
I thank you for your assistance in this and remain ever,
Your brother,
Sherlock
Article from Reuter's Dispatch in the Evening Standard:
May 7, 1891
Rosenlaui, Switzerland
Mr. Sherlock Holmes, London's renowned private consulting detective, is reported
as dead. Though details are lacking, it appears that Mr. Holmes was in an
altercation with an unknown person at the edge of Reichenbach Falls, near
Meiringen, Switzerland. Local police believe that the two men fought and tumbled
together over the cliff and into the thundering river below. It is not possible
to recover the bodies from the base of the falls, though local authorities did
make an attempt, so the other man involved in the tragedy may never be
identified. As the two men were alone when they fought and fell, it is unlikely
that full details will ever be known.
Telegram from H. Sigerson (Sherlock Holmes) to Mycroft Holmes:
Florence, Italy
May 15, 1891
Have travelled safely to Florence and am proceeding eastward. Direct any
correspondence to General Delivery, Baghdad.
Please execute my instructions as previously directed.
Sigerson
Telegram from Mycroft Holmes to H. Sigerson:
London
May 20, 1891
Invited JW to Baker Street so he could collect any desired mementos, as per your
instructions.
JW chose the Stradivarius and your old dressing gown.
He is very much affected by your death.
MH
Excerpt from Mary Watson's Journal:
May 28, 1891
John has suffered a great shock.
While I was on my recent visit to Bath, John and Mr. Holmes apparently went to
Europe. Some time later, John returned, but Mr. Holmes did not. I understand
from the newspapers that Mr. Holmes was killed, though John will not speak to me
of him or of their trip abroad.
Indeed, most days he hardly speaks at all, but merely sits wrapped in an old,
greyish dressing gown I do not recognize staring dully into the fire or at Mr.
Holmes' violin, which he brought to our house from Baker Street. Occasionally he
sighs. Other days, he manifests a forced, and patently false, good cheer. On
those days, he eats a hearty breakfast with me and spends the afternoon away. I
believe he is at his club. I am grateful that, though he comes home deeply
melancholy again, he does not come home smelling of spirits or giving any
indication that he is the worse for drink. I would suspect brain fever, except
that he is completely coherent and rational at all times.
I fear that in my misguided and yet loving attempts to ensure my husband's
happiness, I may have brought him a greater grief than he can easily bear and
one which he needs must bear alone. He must feel that no one could comprehend or
condone his love, his passion, for Mr. Holmes. He will not speak of it to me or
anyone else. He must grieve without the benefit of an official mourning period
because the loss he is mourning must remain hidden. It is most difficult for
him.
Some would suggest that this grief, this great evil, has been visited upon John,
and Mr. Holmes, as punishment for their sin of loving one another, however
innocently. I find it hard to believe, though, that a benevolent God could ever
punish a deep and heartfelt love like theirs. Perhaps this failure of my
religious understanding has doomed, and damned, us all.
I can only hope that the passage of time will restore John to his former self.
It has been but three weeks since his return from Switzerland and I feel he is
still in shock from the loss of so dear a friend and the love that they were
never free to share.
I am still not well. I have been in some pain and my belly is even more swollen.
My trip to Bath to visit Grace Holden was at John's advice in hopes of restoring
my health. I have not mentioned my continued ill health to him since his return
from the Continent. He has burdens enough.
Telegram from Mycroft Holmes to H. Sigerson:
London
November 2, 1891
JW is publishing accounts of your adventures in The Strand. He is writing
as though you are alive.
Should I demand that he stop? As your heir, I can threaten legal action.
JW is acting like a man in deep mourning and no longer goes out in society.
MH
Telegram from H. Sigerson to Mycroft Holmes:
Lhassa, Tibet
November 21, 1891
JW's stories doing no harm. Leave him be.
Sigerson
Excerpt from Mary Watson's Journal:
October 4, 1892
John has been forced to consult with a gynaecologic surgeon regarding my case. I
am to have a hysterectomy tomorrow in order to save my life. Despite my horror
of marital intimacy, I had hoped that someday, somehow John and I might be able
to have a family. It appears that hope is to be no longer.
As painful as the thought of losing my ability to become a mother is, I am
grateful that I am married to a prosperous doctor with access to the best
medical care. If I were still a lowly governess, I should have to suffer the
attentions of a midwife. John says that I should surely not survive the year in
that case.
Letter from Sherlock Holmes to John Watson, unposted:
December 16, 1892
Montpelier, France
My dear, dear Watson,
It has been almost a year and a half since I last saw you at Reichenbach Falls.
Your absence from my daily life has been unexpectedly difficult. If you recall,
I remarked to you shortly after your marriage that I was lost without my
Boswell. That is true, but I am also lost without my friend and companion.
The night we shared in the Englischer Hof in Meiringen has only made our
separation more difficult. At the time, I felt that it also made it more
necessary.
I hope that someday you will come to understand, either through your own native
understanding and sensitivity, which you have always underestimated, my dear
friend, or through receiving this letter after my true death, that I had to end
our association when I did. I knew that no matter what else happened between us,
you would always return to Mrs. Watson. I could not even make a case that you
should not, for she is your wife and you have a duty to her that far surpasses
your duty to me, your friend, as you said the morning after as we walked to
Reichenbach Falls. It was better for me to choose the time and manner of our
parting than to allow you to shake my hand farewell at Paddington and take a
hansom home to her when we had returned to London.
I also felt a definitive parting was necessary for my own mental balance. As you
observed in your little story about the Irene Adler affair, I was long convinced
that strong emotions disrupt the finely tuned machinery of my mind, or any mind
honed to a specific purpose. I have learned in the years following my "death"
that the grief I feel at the loss of your companionship, your friendship, is as
strong as any emotion we could have shared together and yet my faculties seem as
sharp as ever.
I am now certain that you would have been responsive to my advances, if I had
only had the courage to make my feelings known before your marriage. I know that
my own frequently expressed scorn for the softer feelings would have made you
reluctant to act on your own affection for me, if your sense of delicacy had
not. Wisely so. I do not think I would have reacted well. If I were as wise and
as clever as you have so consistently made me out to be in your recent stories,
I would have known that love unexpressed is still love.
Yes, I love you, Watson. I hope you know that, even though I never had the nerve
to say it directly to you. I regret my lack of courage extremely.
You will no doubt be pleased to know that I have abandoned the use of the
cocaine solution. Even the cocaine could not dull the pain of your absence, so
it seemed somehow without purpose. I have not needed it to stave off boredom for
there has been an adequacy of stimulation in my life of late due to my pursuit
by Moriarty's surviving agents. I have even found during our separation that
part of the pleasure in the needle was in the care, the love, you showed with
your disapproval of my self-poisoning. Most importantly, the remembered pleasure
of our one night together far outweighs the pleasure in the little bottle. In
rare dull moments now, I lose myself in remembering the taste of your kisses and
the feel of your touch.
I know that you have suffered in my absence and from the thought that I am dead.
The thought pains me greatly. I have written and re-written a dozen apologies to
you in the years since Reichenbach. I regret extremely the pain I have caused
you. I know there is no way I can adequately explain why I have not contacted
you. It is not that I do not trust you to keep my whereabouts a secret. It is
not that I do not want to contact you; on the contrary, I ache to hear your
voice. But the wound caused by knowing that our feelings for each other are
mutual and, yet, must remain forever unexpressed has, even after all this time,
barely healed.
Only two of Moriarty's men remain alive. Once they have been defeated, the way
will be clear for me to return to London someday. And I shall do so, once I am
ready to resume our friendship as of old. At that time, I will let you know that
I live and that I am ever,
Most sincerely yours,
Sherlock Holmes
Letter from Dr. John Watson to Dr. Joseph Waltrop, gynaecologic surgeon:
January 16, 1893
Dear Dr. Waltrop,
I wish to thank you as both a fellow professional and as a husband for the
assistance you rendered with my wife's cancer of the cervix. She has recovered
from the surgery, but still seems to be in considerable pain.
I would like to schedule an appointment to consult with you again regarding her
case, at your convenience.
Sincerely,
John Watson, M.D.
Excerpt from John Watson's Private Journal:
September 15, 1893
I have just sent off what will be the last of my Sherlock Holmes stories to Dr.
Doyle, my literary agent. I have written these stories in order to provide a
memorial for my dearest friend, who has no grave or stone. For the services he
has done for London, England and the world he deserves no less than a great
statue.
It is, perhaps, ironic that Holmes would not appreciate the memorial I have
toiled so diligently to create for him. He was vocal about his displeasure with
my first two accounts of his methods. I can only hope that if his spirit is
somehow watching over my writing he appreciates the attempt, however inadequate
by his exacting standards. My stories have brought Dr. Doyle no little fame, as
I have asked him to publish them under his own name rather than mine.
Each time I set pen to paper to write of Holmes, treating his adventures as
though he were still alive and ensconced in our old rooms in Baker Street, it
opens anew the wound of his death and of the loss of that great passion we
shared in that little room in the Englischer Hof. There are many more cases I
could write up, many more stories I could tell of our time together, but I
cannot take any more of that pain. Not with Holmes lying forever at the base of
that terrible cataract. Not with Mary lying at death's door in her room.
Most especially not with Moriarty's agents writing what can only be called base
slanders about my friend, implying that he was the criminal and Moriarty simply
misunderstood. My own pain I could possibly have continued to tolerate but these
vicious attacks against Holmes' character I could not withstand in silence.
So I have written an account of his final case and his death at Reichenbach. It
was possibly the most difficult thing I have ever done, finally admitting to the
world and to myself that Holmes is dead. Now his memorial is as complete as I
can make it.
Excerpt from Mary Watson's Journal:
November 8, 1893
I haven't much strength anymore and have been unable to write for some months.
The pain from my condition is intolerable and John, in his pity for me, gives me
morphine to dull it. Unfortunately, the morphine also dulls my thoughts and
leaves me in a stupor most of the time. I have refused this morning's dose so
that I can write my last thoughts here with a clear head, if a shaky hand.
I am going to die soon, though John tries to keep up a cheerful aspect for my
sake. I think it will be for the best. I look forward to a respite from the pain
and hope that John will find happiness and love with someone else after I am
gone.
In my haze of pain and narcotics, it is sometimes possible for me to forget that
Mr. Holmes has died. In his stories for The Strand, which he reads to me
every month, John has written of him as though he is still alive. I grieve for
him that, in his attempts to provide what he sees as a fitting monument for his
dear friend, he must be continually faced with the pain of his absence.
I am going to request that John read these diaries after I am gone. Perhaps it
will help him to understand that which I could not tell him in life.
Excerpt from Dr. John Watson's Private Journal:
December 9, 1894
Oh, God.
In her last moment of lucidity before her death a week ago, Mary called me to
her bedside and said, "John, there is much about me that you do not know." I
shook my head to negate her statement, because we have been close friends, if
not as intimate as husband and wife might be, but she continued, "I know that I
have not been all you hoped for as a wife. Read my diaries," she feebly waved a
pale, thin hand toward her writing desk, "after I am gone. You will understand
more then."
I held her close as she slipped back into sleep, hating myself for enjoying the
fact that in her last days her illness made her less fearful of my touch. The
innocent intimacy we were able to share in those horrible days was, I think, a
balm to us both.
After her death, I began reading her diaries and have just now finished them.
She was right, as she so very often was; there was much about her that I did not
know, and I do understand more now, though the understanding isn't necessarily a
pleasant thing.
She was cruelly used and savagely attacked by a corporal under her father's
command at the convict prison in the Andaman Islands and as a consequence she
was sent back to England. I understand now why she was so frightened of my
affection, my touch. Some discreet inquiries sent to the Andaman Islands by
telegraph indicate that the man was never directly punished for his abominable
act, though he died there several years ago of breakbone fever. I must admit
that I gain some ghoulish satisfaction from the fact that he died in pain, as
she did.
My poor Mary. She must have felt such shame and so alone. If only she had talked
to me, had shared with me the source of her terror, I might have helped her to
see that she could be treated with love and gentleness, and so I might have
taught her to enjoy the touch of a lover.
And Holmes. She saw how I felt for him and how he felt for me. She was always so
very astute and intuitive. I should have known that she had given him her
blessing in approaching me. He never would have attempted to change the nature
of our friendship otherwise. He is far too honourable and discreet to have come
between a man and his wife under any but extraordinary circumstances. Once again
my deductive powers proved themselves inadequate to the task; Holmes must have
been so disappointed in me.
I am weeping. I am weeping for what Holmes and I might have had if I had trusted
him just a bit more. That one night in Meiringen has been haunting me for nearly
3 years as I felt that I had betrayed my wife and my honour. It haunts me now
because that glorious pleasure, that love, could have been mine for months
before that fateful day.
Oh, God! Perhaps, if I had not turned Holmes away, if I had not rejected him, he
would have stayed in London pursuing interesting cases here instead of
travelling Europe and getting involved with thwarting Moriarty's plans. Could I,
in my unnecessary concern for my wife, have started the chain of events that
lead Holmes to his death?
Could my rejection of him, first in London and then again after our passionate
night at the Englischer Hof, have driven him to engage in a battle he knew he
must lose? Or, God, so much worse, to leap into the chasm after Moriarty before
I could return to him?
It is all too much for me. I have lost both Holmes and, now, Mary. If only I had
allowed myself to have both for the time I might have, I would now have at least
memories to keep me company during the dull days and interminable nights.
Thank God I still have a thriving practice, for it gives me some way to fill my
days and keeps me too busy to think about the friend I have just lost in Mary
and the love I lost years ago in Switzerland.
Telegram from H. Sigerson to Mycroft Holmes:
Alexandria, Egypt
February 4, 1894
Have heard that Mrs. JW has died. Please confirm.
How fares JW?
Reply to General Delivery, Cairo.
Sigerson
Telegram from Mycroft Holmes to H. Sigerson:
London
February 5, 1894
Mrs. JW's death on December 2 after a long illness confirmed.
JW's medical practice declined during wife's illness and has now recovered. No
other news of how he fares.
MH
Telegram from H. Sigerson to Mycroft Holmes:
Luxor, Egypt
February 10, 1894
Learn what you can about JW and relay as soon as possible to Khartoum.
Sigerson
Letter from Mycroft Holmes to Sherlock Holmes, sent to the British Embassy via
diplomatic bag:
February 12, 1894
Dear Sherlock,
I hope this letter finds you in Khartoum.
Professionally, Watson is well enough. His practice naturally declined when he
was taken up with his wife's care. He was a model of devotion and spent much
time at her bedside. He now is giving all of himself to his medical work. He
wakes early and spends the entire day seeing patients, both his own and those of
other doctors who request his aid, returning to his house late in the evening.
You may not have had the opportunity to notice in your travels but he ended his
stories of you in The Strand with an account of your death at the
Reichenbach Falls. It is most touching.
I have had a difficult time learning anything about his personal affairs and
well being. He no longer goes to his club even occasionally. The porter there
described him as being in a very bad way for some few months after your "death",
though he attributed it to the onset of Mrs. Watson's illness. He was rarely
seen while caring for his wife and has not been seen at all in the months since
her passing.
I can say that he has lost considerable weight and appears frail and worn.
A conversation with his housekeeper indicates that the house felt like a house
of mourning since long before Mrs. Watson took ill. She said that Dr. Watson
stopped participating in society after your death, though he does go out every
so often for a drive.
I must conclude that the double blow of your death and Mrs. Watson's has left
the good doctor in a state of grief that he may never escape.
Your efforts in Cairo and Luxor were appreciated at the highest levels. The
situation in Khartoum should prove to be even more suited to your particular
skills. The consulate can provide you with all the information you require to
resolve the situation, if you have not done so already.
Your brother,
Mycroft
Excerpt from Dr. John Watson's Private Journal:
April 7, 1894
I sit here writing this at my old desk in Baker Street. I feel as though the
world had been turned upside down for the last three years and has now righted
itself. Holmes sits in his accustomed place by the fire, and if I strain my ears
listening I can hear Mrs. Hudson puttering around with the tea things.
Holmes is alive! The very idea is so amazing that I can scarcely credit it,
though he sits almost close enough for me to touch, and I know that if I
requested it he would move so that he was closer. He returned a few days ago,
but until now I have been unwilling to allow him even as far away as the few
feet that separate us.
He appeared in my study three afternoons ago in the guise of a wizened old
bookseller I bumped into on the sidewalk earlier in the day. He did not reveal
himself immediately, but distracted my attention away from himself for a moment.
When it returned to him, there stood Holmes. For just a second I feared that
years of grief and strain had finally snapped my reason and that I was imagining
him there in the place of the old man. Then he smiled his unmistakable smile.
I am embarrassed to admit that I fainted. It is only because of his assistance
that I collapsed onto a chair rather than the floor.
I awoke with my collar loosened and Holmes taking a flask of brandy away from my
lips. As soon as my eyes fluttered open, he spoke, and that voice which is
forever indelibly imprinted on my heart and soul said, "My dear Watson, I owe
you a thousand apologies. I had no idea you would be so affected."
I gripped him by the arms, feeling the lean strength of his muscles beneath the
sleeves of his coat. "Holmes! Holmes! Is it really you?"
I reached out and stroked his cheek and, though I had only touched him in so
familiar a manner twice before, my fingertips instantly knew the smooth skin of
his cheek, despite the traces of gum remaining from his disguise.
He smiled at me, stroked my lips with the tips of his fingers, and, after I
nodded, leaned in and kissed me. Like our first kiss so many years ago in Baker
Street this was a chaste, courting kiss, gentle and delicate. And, like that
first kiss, the passion we felt quickly rose and overtook us. I opened my mouth
to him and immediately felt his tongue slip inside my mouth. The sensation made
me moan and I was grateful that I was sitting for I knew that my knees would not
have the strength to hold me up were I standing.
Holmes pulled away, and I made a small noise of displeasure at the loss of his
mouth on mine. "JohnÉ John, before we continue I must apologise."
I confess that I was surprised by this statement. He was here, in front of me,
again. Kissing me again. At that moment, his apology made no sense to me at all.
I'm afraid that I blinked rather stupidly at him for a moment before he
continued, "I have caused you so much pain the past three years with my absence
and by allowing you to believe that I was dead. It is for that I owe you a
thousand apologies, my friend."
"I understand. I would not wish to live a single minute of those years again,
but I do believe I understand."
He smiled at me, his grey eyes soft with emotion. "Tell me your deductions then,
Watson."
I smiled, recognizing an old, familiar game. "After falling into the chasm and
somehow surviving when Moriarty died, you saw yourself with an opportunity to
begin a new life elsewhere. One away from London and, most importantly, away
from me and my exaggerated sense of honour and duty." At that thought the smile
disappeared from my face and I felt tears pooling in my eyes. "HolmesÉ Sherlock,
there were times that I thought I might have driven you to suicide at that
horrible place with my rejection of our..." I paused and searched his face for a
moment then steeled my courage and continued, "Our love. I am more grateful than
I can say that you live and that you have returned to me." A few tears broke out
of my control and slid down my cheeks.
Holmes pulled me close, holding my head against his breast, and stroking my hair
and neck as I brought myself back under control. "Hush, John, hush. I understood
as well, my friend. Your honour and loyalty are two of the many things I love
about you." The tears passed swiftly, though I continued to allow Holmes to hold
me.
He pushed me ever so slightly away a few minutes later. "What do you say we
forgive each other and move on?"
I nodded, and we kissed again to seal the promise. I was about to suggest that
we retire to my room, so as not to scandalise the housekeeper, when he sat back
on his heels and said, "I'm afraid that my troubles are not quite yet over,
Watson. We have, if I may ask for your cooperation, a hard and dangerous night's
work in front of us. Allow me to explain the situation to you."
I nodded and moved to the settee, so that Holmes could sit next to me. Our
shoulders and knees brushed as we sat and talked, and that small contact was
enough to keep my desire for him aflame. He explained that he did not have to
climb out of the chasm at Reichenbach because, through some fighting techniques
he learned from a Japanese sailor, he was never in it. I admit that I was
listening with only half an ear to the meaning of the words he was saying, most
of my attention being on appreciating the cadences of his speech, which I had
long missed.
Somewhere in the middle of his long speech, I heard him say that he had several
time taken up his pen to write to me. My heart was warmed to know that he had
thought of me in his absence, as I had so often thought of him. A stray
thought--which Holmes would no doubt dismiss as nonsensically romantic--occurred
to me that, perhaps, he and I had been thinking of each other at the same
moment, though separated by circumstances and miles. My heart was warmed by the
notion.
He snatched me out of my reverie by taking my hand in his as he said, "So it
was, my dear Watson, that at two o'clock to-day I found myself in my old
arm-chair in my own old room, and only wishing that I could have seen my old
friend Watson in the other chair which he has so often adorned."
He smiled at me so dazzlingly and warmly that I could have fallen in love with
him all over again, and I recognized his words for what they were, an invitation
to return with him to Baker Street and live there again as his friend, and his
lover. I smiled at him in return and nodded my agreement.
His eyes sparkled and his smile became even broader. "You'll come with me
to-night?"
"When you like and where you like."
"This is indeed like the old days. We shall have time for a mouthful of dinner
before we need go."
I looked up at him a little shyly, afraid for a second that I had read him
wrong. "I hope the new days we will share will be even better than the old ones,
Holmes."
He leaned down and took my head in his strong, graceful hands, taking my mouth
in a passionate, desperate kiss. "They will be, John," he said, looking intently
into my eyes before he pulled away from me again.
Over dinner, he told me more about his adventures in the three years we were
apart. His tales of the dangers he faced would have chilled me with fear for his
safety had not the man himself been sitting before me to show that he had
survived all that he went through.
My case file contains my notes on our adventures of the evening: the wax dummy,
waiting in the empty rooms across the street for Colonel Sebastian Moran to
attempt to assassinate Holmes, Moran uncovered as the murderer of the Hon.
Ronald Adair. I will not repeat all of those notes here in my personal journal.
After we had finished with Lestrade, we retired to our old rooms in Baker
Street. It was strange and wonderful to share the sitting room with him, the
mutilated wax bust set aside in the chemical corner. We sipped a brandy
together, sending each other looks that smouldered hotter than the coals in the
fireplace.
"So, Watson," he said, setting his glass down on the table at his elbow, "when
can you arrange to have your things moved here?"
I stood and walked toward him, extending a hand to help him out of his chair,
before I answered, "I can have my personal items sent 'round tomorrow, but I to
stay here tonight with you."
I opened his shirt a button at a time, kissing his neck and jaw as I did so. I
could feel his hands working at my tie, and I was struck with the thought that
we were standing in almost the exact same place we had been the first time we
kissed so long ago. I was grateful for an opportunity to undo the mistake I made
then. I stilled his hands and pulled away fractionally. I could see that he was
remembering that afternoon as well, because his eyes showed his hurt, though his
face was still and impassive until I spoke, "You are my primary duty now,
Sherlock. Never again will your needs be put aside because someone else has more
of a claim. I swear it."
He smiled and swooped down on me, taking my mouth with his and stripping off my
shirt in a shower of buttons. Sensing my urgency, and knowing his own, Holmes
led me to his room and there we made love such as I have never known it to be
possible. My body thrilled to his touch and to the thrill of touching him.
It has been three days now and this is the first time either of us has allowed
the other to be far enough away that we could not touch if we so desired.
I must stop writing now. I have just looked up and Holmes is smiling at me in a
positively scandalous way. I believe it is time for us to retire.
Sara's site