A blustery wind rustled through Baker Street, which looked as mute and cheerless as the grey late-autumn sky. Busy Londoners hurried about with coats drawn tightly about them, pinched faces cast towards the street, aware that these were the last days they could survive outside without the protection of muffs, scarves and woolen hats.

For nearly three years, the rooms at 221b remained shuttered and empty. Once a month, Mrs. Hudson received a cheque from Mr. Mycroft Holmes who implored her, in the same formal language, to keep them furnished, clean and bereft of any lodgers. Why he insisted on keeping rooms that were no longer occupied by his late brother was a mystery to her, but she honoured his wishes, due in no small part to her own sadness. She had been so fond of Sherlock Holmes and his faithful colleague Dr. Watson that new tenants would have seemed strange and intrusive.

She had seen Dr. Watson from time to time since he returned from Switzerland after that fateful trip. He had left Baker Street when he got married in late 1890, and established a small practice at the west end of the city. When his work brought him to the neighborhood, he called on Mrs. Hudson to pay his respects. She was always glad to see him, touched that he still thought of her, and he in turn was pleased that she still regarded him with warm, maternal affection.

She had worried so when he returned from the Continent a shadow of what he had been, weighed down immeasurably under the strain of grief and guilt that would have undoubtedly destroyed a lesser man. He made fewer excursions to Baker Street, and on the rare occasions Mrs. Hudson’s eyes alit on his enervated visage, she attempted to coax him inside for an extra meal even though he always declined. Perhaps, she thought privately, he could not bear to look upon the rooms where he had spent so many happy years with his friend. When his wife Mary was alive, she was somewhat assured in knowing that someone was looking after his needs. But after she, too, passed away, Mrs. Hudson genuinely feared for him, feared that what remained of his heart was too fragile to withstand the loneliness and isolation for which it was never designed.

A sudden and violent wind whipped a small pile of leaves into a frenzy that whirled past the door through which a great many people, from grooms to noblemen, governesses to diplomats, cab drivers to kings, had once passed. It may be argued that not one of them was as well-known or respected as its former inhabitant, the great Sherlock Holmes.

*          *          *          *

It was an unusually long black mood, even for him.

What had come over Holmes and refused to relax its hold was unknown to me. True, he had no case to solve and had been unemployed for nigh on three weeks. But where he usually languished dumb and indifferent in the torpor of his seven-percent solution, he was instead given to moments of open hostility and insolence, which did not appear to have any clearly identifiable cause.

Our last case had ended well, if a little harrowingly. We’d spent an evening staked outside the home of a suspected counterfeiter, and when he emerged with not one but four henchmen, we had to scramble to enact a lengthy pursuit about the city, which was complicated when the men scattered somewhere in the vicinity of Covent Garden. It was a forgivable miscalculation on Holmes’s part, and I carried no animosity towards him for what happened, or I should say, what nearly happened to me. He had come flying around the corner of an alley to find me pressed into a brick wall underneath the burliest member of the gang, who held a knife at my throat and was threatening to cut if I did not give up the chase. I had read as much fear in his eyes as uncertainty, and did not think him truly capable of murder. I’d seen soldiers in Afghanistan with more obvious bloodlust than he, and even less willing to take the lives of their fellow men.  

But Holmes was incensed. He pounced on the man and beat him senseless, long after he had relieved him of his weapon. He then turned to me with a queer expression upon his face, and told me if I was not more careful in the future, he could not be held responsible for the consequences. Strange to have heard this from him when I thought that surely the terror that crossed his face just before he leveled my attacker would give way to something more akin to relief, such as it may come from a man so detached as himself.

When the gang had been apprehended, we made our way home in a cab whereupon Holmes fell into a cold silence that did not let up for days. He spoke little in the interim, though several times I caught his sidelong glances in my direction and recognized a lingering ghost of fear in his eyes. I asked him once if he was all right, but he only answered with a cryptic, “I think it’s high time I put it to rest,” and that was the end of it.

His mood did improve somewhat after that, but he remained on edge. His outbursts had become so totally unpredictable that they often left me befuddled and gaping for words of admonition or self-defense that never came.

I remember one instance in which he had been playing the loveliest Bach Partita on his violin, and with a particular sensitivity that shrouded wistful subtleties within the buoyantly vivacious phrases of the Chaconne. As often when he played, I stretched myself on the settee, closed my eyes and smiled once again at good fortune for providing me with a roommate who was so gifted.

My reverie was violently interrupted by the sound of harsh, dissonant arpeggios scraping across the bridge, and I awoke to find Holmes shooting me an accusing glare as though I had called for it.

When I asked him what on earth was the matter, all he said was “Rubbish! All of it, rubbish!” and stormed from the sitting room.

It was therefore with no little relief that I greeted the onset of our next case, even more so because it offered me more than a professional distraction.

On a rather unremarkable weekday, I sat perched at the far window in the sitting room listlessly observing the flow of traffic below. One particular figure caught my eye, a very pretty young woman with honey-coloured hair, whose dark cloak billowed behind her as she hurried across the street. To my great delight, the same lady appeared in our sitting room moments later, and told us she was recently beset by a series of circumstances so strange that she felt compelled to seek the advice of Mr. Sherlock Holmes. I was not oblivious to the spark of interest in Mary Morstan’s eye when her gaze fell upon me, and the initial attraction was wholly mutual.

Holmes was ever in his element, irascibly pacing the room as she told her story, in some instances seeming keenly focused on her narrative, and in others entirely ignorant of her very presence. In the end, however, he agreed to make inquiries into her case after a good many bizarre turns caused his brilliant grey eyes to leap on enough occasions that I knew the light was on and would remain so until he had exhausted his faculties in attempting to solve it.

I felt very naturally protective of Miss Morstan, whom I learned had few relations and lived a quiet and modest lifestyle as a governess. She demonstrated remarkable character, and represented herself with all the charm and soft-spoken intelligence of a prominent society woman. Moreover, her positive energy and natural serenity was a welcome contrast to the mercurial temperament of my flatmate.

It was not until the case was nearly at a close when Holmes finally noticed that my attentions to Miss Morstan were developing into something more serious.

“Where are you going, Watson?” he asked me late one afternoon. “We’ve work to do down at the docks this evening.”

“Why, I am going out to take Miss Morstan for a walk. I told you of my plans two days ago.”

“Humph!” he barked. “I cannot be expected to recall every appointment of yours when I am so wholly absorbed by a case as I am with this one. I suppose you shall be back before nightfall?”

“Presumably, Holmes, though I don’t see why you need my help at the docks when you’ve a dozen Irregulars doing your bidding as we speak.”

“Do what you will, Watson. I have survived without you before and I shall be able to manage it again,” he waved his hand and sat down at his desk.

I left him there and went to my room to ready myself for my outing. I popped my head into the sitting room on my way downstairs to announce my departure.

“Just a minute, Watson,” Holmes said, turning around in his chair to face me.

He regarded me with a penetrating glare. “May I ask what your intentions are with this young lady?”

“Beg your pardon, Holmes?” I was astonished to hear him ask me such a question.

“Well, naturally I cannot help but notice that you seem more interested in our client than the case, a turn which is most unusual in the regular pattern of our work.”

I entered the sitting room and closed the door.

“Well, to be entirely honest with you Holmes, I’ve recently been considering the possibilities for my future. A number of people have asked me when I plan to find a woman and settle down, and I’ve been turning the matter over in my mind. I always fancied myself a family man, though I admit that my involvement in your cases has waylaid my interests for a considerable time.”

I had meant to tell him I was considering taking a wife, but talking of such things with Sherlock Holmes always proved difficult, not least of which because one risked the wrath of his utter contempt for softer feelings.

“Have our—my cases ceased interesting you, Watson?” he asked me quietly.

“Not at all, Holmes. In fact, I hope to continue to avail myself to you even after I have established a domestic life outside of Baker Street,” I replied.

My words appeared to sting, for he winced behind a dark frown.

“So you think…that you are suited to such a life,” he mumbled, more to himself than to me.

“I would not be the first one,” I sighed, knowing full well the underlying implication was that he did not know me so well as he thought.

“Go then, Watson, and tell Miss Morstan I have every reason to believe her case is nearing a close.”

“Thank you, Holmes. I certainly shall,” I said, and I left.

A half hour later, I was escorting Miss Morstan through Hyde Park, noting to myself again what pleasant company she kept. We talked of many things, and found that we had a number of ideas and interests in common. She listened eagerly when I spoke about my desire to open my own practice, and offered words of encouragement the likes of which I hadn’t heard from anyone in some time.

“Your kindness is most welcome, I must say, Miss Morstan,” I remarked when we sat upon a bench.

“Oh?” She removed her bonnet, and patted a few stray wisps into place. More than once this afternoon, she had looked upon me with some concern, and I gathered my exasperation with Holmes was still written on my face.

“Something is troubling you, I think,” she murmured, and shifted towards me.

“Holmes is my best friend, you know, but there are some things upon which we will never see eye to eye, and it can be frustrating,” I confided as I watched a trio of birds refresh themselves in the pond.

“You do seem particularly acclimated to one another’s habits,” she observed with her customary perception. “On what subject, may I ask, is it that you find disagreement?”

“Oh, he’s always been stubbornly convinced that the ‘softer emotions’ as he calls them are an utter waste of time. He once told me that whatever is emotional is opposed to that true cold reason he places above all things. Well and good for him, I suppose, but I do wish he was more forthcoming with his support of others who have such needs,” I said, blushing slightly, and hoping my last statement did not seem too forward.

Miss Morstan’s grip on my arm tightened affectionately.

“I understand,” she said. “You wish your friend would be happy for you.”

“I do,” I said, my heart filling again with warmth over her generosity of spirit.

“Give him some time,” she said, “and he will soon see that what’s best for you may not be so for him. A good friend would accept that.”

I smiled down at her. “I’m sure you’re right. Now, let us concentrate on more pleasant matters. I know of a small café nearby that serves excellent tea.”

She smiled and nodded, picked up her bonnet and we walked arm and arm to the Phoenix Café.

When we parted that evening I was all but certain that I would ask for her hand at our next meeting, and the sparkle of anticipation in her parting glance told me that she likely suspected my intentions.

Holmes was nowhere to be seen when I arrived home. There was no fire upon the hearth and the door to his bedroom remained tightly closed during the hour or two I spent in the sitting room. It surprised me, therefore, much later that night and long after I myself had retired, to hear the sounds of his violin emanating from beneath the floorboards. Though I am well-acquainted with his repertoire as well as his styles of improvisation, this was nothing I’d heard before; a sad and mournful lullaby that he repeated again and again, varying the cadences only slightly each time, until I fell asleep.

*          *          *          *

Several days later, after a protracted chase across the Thames, Holmes and I finally landed on the man we were after, a convict by the name of Mr. Jonathan Small. In the comforts of our sitting room, Mr. Small regaled myself, Holmes, Miss Morstan and Inspector Jones the fascinating and gruesome tale of the treasure of Agra. I furiously dictated the facts in my notebook knowing full well that I had a very singular story on my hands that I should waste no time committing to paper. For his part, Holmes sat in his chair with tented fingers and a raised eyebrow as he listened to our guest recount his involvement with Miss Morstan’s father. To my right sat the latter, looking pale but calm, despite the loss of the great treasure she had been promised and despite the most upsetting details of her father’s last moments alive.

I reached for her hand and squeezed it, and she returned me a grateful smile. I glanced over at Holmes in time to catch him narrow a scowl in our direction just before he shifted his focus back to the criminal who sat before him.

When the last of the details had been recounted and no more questions remained, Mr. Small took his leave in the custody of Inspector Jones. I escorted Mary to the street where I hailed her a cab and promised to meet her later that evening after Holmes and I had finished our end discussion of the case.

When I returned to the sitting room, Holmes was rifling through the drawer of his desk.

“A glass of port to celebrate, Holmes?” I asked him jovially.

“I am in no mood to celebrate, Watson,” he said flatly. “The reaction is already upon me and I shall be limp as a rag for a week.”

He located and drew his Moroccan case from the drawer.

“Well, if you’d rather be alone, then I’ll leave you to it,” I said evenly. I was anticipating my night with Miss Morstan, and was in no mood to watch Holmes abuse himself; even less so to incur his abuse of me.

“I suppose you mean to take Miss Morstan for your wife,” he called just before I exited the sitting room.

“Yes, that’s right, Holmes. What of it?” I asked him with some impatience.

“Oh, it really is of little matter to me, Watson. I’m just sorry to see you fall prey to the trappings of emotion when you’ve shown so much improvement in your reasoning capabilities.” He tried to sound casual, but it came across as somewhat strained.

“Not everyone shuns emotion as you do, Holmes,” I returned lightly. “Some of us find there are rewards in allowing ourselves to fall in love.”

“You’re a fool,” he spat, glaring back at me, “to think that your ultimate happiness lies in the participation of a tired social institution. I predict you will grow sick of each other’s company in less than a year’s time.”

“Now look here, Holmes,” I said, my voice rising despite my best efforts to remain composed, “you’ve no right to say such a thing to me. If you cannot congratulate me on this very natural progression of human relations, then at least do me the honour of casting your indifference on the subject. I will not suffer your cruel words.”

“Gladly,” he said icily. “I shall be only too happy to rid you of my cold reason and grant you free reign to indulge your pathetic fantasies.”

“How dare you call me pathetic,” I hissed, “when it is you who is so obviously crippled by utter lack of human qualities.”

His glare intensified. “At least I don’t require the attentions of a vapid and insinuating woman to generate a false sense of my own self-worth.”

I could no longer contain my anger. In three bold steps I approached him, raised my arms and grabbed his shoulders. For a single moment, I thought I might strike him, but the urge quickly passed and was replaced by another, much stronger one.

I slammed my mouth upon his. I only meant to momentarily humiliate him, to make him feel small, foolish and above all sorry. And I might have. Except that once my lips landed on his I tapped into a wellspring of desire that immediately engulfed us both.

Intoxicated by his palpable disbelief, I dared myself to go on, to best him once and for all, even if it meant…

I ripped open his waistcoat and shirt, tore off his cravat, and continued to mount a full attack on his mouth, my teeth and tongue smashing into his, in order to prevent plea and protest. We were both well aware that, had he wanted to, he could have called up a reserve of strength that was more than enough required to fend me from his person, but he offered only passive resistance, backing away as I advanced and uselessly swatting at my hands that flurried like hungry black flies right back to another part of his body.

It would be easier for me to write that I knew not what I was doing or might do, but that would not be the truth, for I knew exactly what would come of my actions if they continued unrestrained, and with every smoldering grasp of his lips I tasted more and more the possibilities that lay before me. I had him out of his waistcoat and shirt in no time at all and, after starting on my own, soon quit the effort altogether for fear of meeting his gaze for too long, losing my authority, failing in my nerve.

I pushed him into his bedroom with my mouth. He staggered backwards, nearly stumbling as I lumbered us to his bed. So intense was my anger and so profound his surprise that he briefly stilled when, in a powerful combination of rage and lust, I flung myself on top of his groin and began clawing at his trousers.

He gasped when I lifted his hips and roughly pulled his clothes past his knees. In that moment I stole a glance at his face and saw his flushed cheeks and disbelieving eyes staring down at me with alarm. I had never attempted any such thing before, but to be with Holmes in a situation in which I alone held the reins was an unprecedented turn of events that threw my every God-given competitive urge into full force.

I was at once terrified and overflowing with confidence as I looked down to see his half-hard member rising beneath my throat, meeting my challenge with equal potency. There could be no turning back now, and for what reason I might do escaped me entirely. I would see this through to the end.

I gulped and hesitated, but only for a moment, then closed my eyes and did the unthinkable; I placed my swollen lips on his arousal once, then again, gumming his warm hard flesh until a staggered moan from above me renewed my determination. I dipped my head and swallowed him whole. He gasped and threw his head back onto the pillow, his restless legs knocking about either side of my head, his hands grasping at the sheets until he pulled them from the mattress. My bared teeth on his shaft dared him to try and remove himself, causing him to thrust forward helplessly, keening in his frustration.

With unmitigated authority, I pulled his remaining clothes from his feet and tossed them aside. I wanted more, still more, to show him that the strength of my resolve was greater than any sense of wrongdoing, decency, even criminality, and to exploit his own delicate sensibilities in the most brazen and shocking way possible. I grabbed his sac and squeezed, mashing it into his prick, his legs, his perineum, unable to discern his cries from pain or pleasure and hoping there was little difference.

My own groin had thickened considerably in reaction to the raw scent of his body and his uninhibited thrashing, and I was more than ready to race him to the finish. I unfastened my trousers and took firm hold of myself with my free hand, allowing myself to moan behind his flesh when I first touched my throbbing prick. When I realized this had a physical effect on him, I increased my vocal intensity as I stroked and pulled, teasing him, mocking him, showing I could outdo him for pleasure if I chose.

What he thought or felt, whether anyone had ministered him in such a way before, was of no importance to me in this moment. The years of his stubborn and smugly avowed aversion to soft emotions finally reached a point past which I could no longer to permit him any ground. I was offended and hurt and I wanted him to feel the same.

I was not long in coming off, for the sense of power is perhaps the greatest aphrodisiac known to man. I tightened my grip and pulled harder until I exploded so intensely that my body seized in convulsion and my field of vision dissolved into a white haze. I never lifted my mouth from Holmes, but opened my lips just enough to give my savage cry a momentary escape before the rest of it burrowed in the back of my throat where the first drops of his issue sprang forth from the vibrations. He bucked his hips and pulled back as though trying to push himself from me, and I redoubled my efforts to restrict his movement by locking my lips around his base in an air-tight seal.

Suddenly, with a strangled cry, he clamped his hand on top of my head, and turned his face to the wall. Tiny spasms wracked his body, and he gave himself up to his finish, one shuddering sigh at a time. Bittersweet fluid flooded into my mouth and seeped down my throat. I sucked it back, stubbornly refusing to relinquish any pressure until I had pulled the last of it from his tip and his body went still. Only then did I unceremoniously drop him from my mouth, sit back on my knees and begin to recover myself.

Disordered silence fell upon the room like the aftermath of a terrible storm, two men gasping for breath and bits of clothing strewn about suggesting far greater damage beneath the surface.

On shaking legs, I rose to my feet and turned away from the limp figure on the bed. I fumbled to reassemble my clothes, starting with the broken buttons on my open shirt, but my hands were trembling too badly to manage them. When Holmes stirred behind me, the weight of my actions began to sink in with due force. I could only imagine what form his reaction might take.

I heard the mattress creak underneath him when he stood, and the sound of bare footsteps approached me from behind. I froze, closed my eyes and braced myself for a formidable reprimand wherein he would berate me for doing him such a disproportionately harsh, vulgar and unwarranted turn. I thought for a moment he might even kill me.

And then Sherlock Holmes proved once again that it was he who had the greater capacity for surprise.

He placed his hands on my shoulders, pulled gently at my loosened shirt and slid it from my arms. My eyes flew open, and when I felt his fingers slip into the waistband of my still-unfastened trousers, I looked down in astonishment and watched him push my remaining clothes to my feet. In two bold strokes, he had rendered me as nude as himself.

He pressed a hand into my shoulder and turned me to face him. I saw no anger or spite, nor did he appear defeated, insulted or even humbled. Rather, his coal-black eyes shimmered with vivid curiosity behind an expression I have only seen on a handful of occasions, when an unexpected turn or singular fact seemed to penetrate the deepest essence of his powerful intellect, and its acuity was evident even after he closed his eyes, brought his hand to the back of my neck and pulled me in. He grasped my swollen lips with his own, and in an embrace very much unlike the one that had aborted our argument, we lingered, tasting one another, enmeshing our tongues, opening wider, stepping closer. I let my head fall to the side when he kissed a trail to my neck, and he sighed into my touch when my hand found its way to the small of his back.

And then we were in his bed. To this day I cannot say which was more surprising—his willingness or mine, though his prowess in such matters was soon obvious. I swallowed a gasp as he pressed his thigh between my legs, kneading the underside of my sac and dragging his newly stimulated flesh suggestively along the length of mine. I was bracing myself for an elaborate revenge that trumped what I had just done to him, but this proved to be no such thing.

Never had I lain with another man, but there was something very familiar about the experience and the way his form wrapped around mine that night. He took his time with me, gently coaxing my limbs into alignment with his, nodding when I reached for him, smiling when I began to move against him.

Everything that transpired between us from that point on seemed to unfold in a strange, ethereal way, outside of the world and the linear passage of time. We did not speak and we barely slept; the few instances in which I dozed were truncated by the perception of a light kiss on my forehead or an inaudible whisper against my neck. My instincts responded before I did, and by the time I had fully awakened I was already pressing my body into his, and we were making love again. When we had finally exhausted ourselves, dawn was creeping in through the curtains.

I awoke in his bed the next morning to find Holmes nearly dressed and bustling about the room.

“Holmes?” I blinked several times until he came into focus.

“Ah, Watson. I had hoped I would not wake you. Scotland Yard has summoned my assistance in Winchester.”

“Do you want me to go with you?” I asked, sitting up.

“No, that won’t be necessary, thank you. Stay and rest a while if it suits you. Mrs. Hudson has been preparing breakfast these past twenty minutes.”

I searched his face, a hundred questions forming in my mind, starting with what it had all meant and where he learned to make love like that, but I remained silent as he gingerly reached out and brushed his thumb across my cheek. He cocked his head slightly as if he were about to say something, but only flashed a shy smile before turning serious again. I grasped his wrist and gently kissed his palm. For a few hopeful seconds I wondered if he might delay his departure and come to me again. But he slowly withdrew and turned to leave.

“Holmes?” I said again as he pulled the door closed behind him. He hesitated for only a moment in a sliver of light, and then he was gone.

I sat on the edge of the bed with my head in my hands. I had not thought I’d slept more than fifteen minutes at a stretch, so overstimulated were my nerves, but it must have been more if Holmes received a telegram, rose and dressed without my notice.

It was then that I suddenly remembered Mary. I cursed, leapt to my feet and ran to my writing desk.

“Very sorry. Case review took longer than expected. Will call upon you this evening. –J.Watson”

I summoned Mrs. Hudson to post it immediately, and returned to the sitting room in a troubled daze to contemplate what on earth I was going to do.

*          *          *          *

Sherlock Holmes sat over his microscope, trying to adjust the focus underneath his wearied eyes. His face was drawn and his eyes a paler shade of grey, for he had barely slept in three days. The case in Winchester had taken as long, and with little respite. All that remained was to measure the degradation of the silver sulphide on the victim’s photograph in order to ascertain its relative date.

He faintly registered the knock at the door, and was taken off guard when Mrs. Hudson entered the sitting room bearing a calling card.

“It’s Miss Morstan to see you, sir,” Mrs. Hudson told him. “She seems rather distressed.”

Holmes sighed and pressed his fingers to his temple. “Very well. Show her in, Mrs. Hudson.”

A short time later, Mary Morstan entered the sitting room. He forced himself to bestow a smile upon her and said, “Ah, good evening, Miss Morstan. Pray, take a seat and tell me how I may assist you.”

He motioned to the chair at the table, and she sat while she nervously removed her gloves. She fidgeted with them as she spoke in a trembling voice.

“I am sorry to trouble you again, Mr. Holmes, but there is something that has been pressing on me for several days and I do not know where else to turn.”

“What is it, Madam?”

“As you know, Dr. Watson and I have been courting for some weeks now, and until recently I had every reason to believe he was to propose marriage.”

He looked at her with an expressionless stare.

“However, in the last three days a change has come over him that I cannot account for, save for the fact that he tells me he has been working long hours and is very tired.”

Holmes drew an inaudible breath and waited.

“I presume that he has been assisting you in another demanding case and I wonder, Mr. Holmes, if it might not trouble you to relieve him of his duties, so that he may pursue the goals of which he spoke to me just a few days ago,” she looked up at the detective hopefully.

Holmes slowly exhaled and replied, “It would not trouble me in the least to honour your request, Miss Morstan, but unfortunately I cannot. You see, Dr. Watson and I are not currently engaged together on a case.”

“Oh dear,” she said, as a troubled expression disturbed her usually serene countenance.

For a brief moment Holmes felt a flash of sympathy, but it quickly passed. He had no desire whatever to speak with Miss Morstan on the subject of their mutual friend, and wished more than anything that she would take her leave and never cross his threshold again.

“I’m afraid I find myself rather at a loss,” she said, staring down at her lap.

Holmes shifted his weight from one leg to the other with some impatience.

“Your best plan, I think, would be to appeal to the doctor,” he said stoically.

“I have already done so, and he has told me nothing more than what I have already relayed to you.”

“I am sorry, Madam,” he said, scooped up the pile of papers he had strewn across the settee, and began leafing through them, hoping this action indicated the interview was over.

Mary stood from her chair. “Can you think of nothing, sir, that may have caused so sudden a change to Dr. Watson’s regard?” she pleaded.

He did not raise his head from his activity, but slowed his actions as if to make room for the consideration of her question.

Mary spoke again, “If—if there’s someone else, Mr. Holmes…”

This time he glanced up at her quickly, too quickly to hide the fear in his eyes before he searched her face. In the instant he recovered himself it was already too late, for she had searched his first and she had seen the truth.   

He granted her an insincere smile and replied stiffly, “Not to my knowledge, Miss Morstan.”

Mary squared her shoulders, straightened her posture and addressed the detective in a voice more fully composed.

“Mr. Holmes, as you worked tirelessly to solve my case, I grew to admire your ability to uphold logic as a ruling force, and your refusal to allow passion to sway your adherence to matters of intellect.”

She regarded him steadily.

“I am afraid that I suffer from a great weakness where Dr. Watson is concerned, and while I am not blinded by love, I am no longer as well-equipped to make reasonable decisions as I was. I am sure I do you no less than justice in presuming that your long and intimate friendship with him would have you acting in his best interests whenever the chance arose.”

Holmes was sorely tempted to tell this woman just how well he did know the doctor; that the man’s angry tongue could be put to excellent use, that he had performed most admirably and enthusiastically in his first encounter with another man, and that two times out of three the tremulous sighs that escaped him at the height of his passion took the shape of his lover’s name.

But he said nothing.

 “I must once again appeal to your superior powers of reason, Mr. Holmes,” Mary continued with calm deliberation. “Please. What shall I do?”

He stared at her for several long seconds, offered her a cold smile, and said, “I am sure, Madam, that Dr. Watson would like nothing more than to honour his wish to be by your side, and I think that your patience shall be soon enough rewarded with a favourable offer.”

She let out a sigh and smiled in relief. “Thank you, Mr. Holmes, for putting my mind at ease. When I see him tonight, I shall remind John—Dr. Watson that I feel quite the same. If I may impose upon your goodwill one more time, sir, I ask that you please not tell him that I have been here. I do not want him to think I have compromised his trust in disclosing private matters between us.”

Holmes waved his hand in a final gesture of dismissal, and she rose to leave. As she pulled down her hood, she smiled at him again, visibly lightened by his words.

“Good day, Mr. Holmes.” She turned and bustled out of the sitting room.

He walked slowly to the window and looked towards the street. He watched her exit the premises and hail a cab. Just before she climbed inside, she glanced up behind her and saw Sherlock Holmes staring down at her. She smiled again at him, but his expression did not change.

*          *          *          *

Dusk was beginning to fall on Baker Street when I ascended the seventeen steps to 221b. I had not seen Holmes in three days on account of his work in Winchester, but when I saw the light of the sitting room glowing amid the approaching darkness, my heartbeat quickened and I made haste to reach him.

We had not exchanged more than three sentences to one another since the early hours of Monday, and I was anxious as ever to speak with him and quiet my warring mind, for I could no longer withstand the pain of my heart being pulled in two opposite and agonizing directions.

I will freely admit that I hoped Holmes would help make the decision clear. I cared a great deal for Mary, but it would be useless to deny that such passion as I had shared with my best and closest friend held the greater appeal.

I held my breath and opened the door to an empty sitting room.

“Holmes?” I called out cautiously as I removed my hat and gloves and tossed them on the table. I heard a noise from within his bedroom. A moment later, Holmes emerged carrying a heavy stack of books, his face slightly flushed and his eyes oddly hollow.

He looked up in genuine surprise.

“Watson,” he said softly. He paused in his path and the pile of books momentarily sagged in his arms.

“Yes, I—I wanted to see you before I went out for the evening,” I said. I offered an encouraging smile and took a few steps towards him, but the way he tensed his body and turned away stopped me in my tracks.

“Going to meet the lovely Miss Morstan, are you?” he asked me in a strident voice as he went to his desk and set the books down.

“Ah, yes, I am,” I replied hesitantly, “although I’m sure you know why it was necessary for me to see you first.”

“What is it you want? My blessing? You shall have it. I can ring for Mrs. Hudson to bring us some champagne.” He gestured towards the door, but continued to busy himself at his desk.

I was utterly taken aback. This behaviour was exactly the opposite of what I had heretofore seen and expected.

“No, Holmes, I rather think you and I need to talk about what happened,” I said with some chagrin. 

“What happened? Oh, you mean the other night? Well, there was little damage done if any, Watson. I forgive you.” He kept his tone brisk and his back to me.

“I don’t think you quite understand. I am not here to ask for your forgiveness. I am here to ask what it is you want of me.” I hoped this sounded like an invitation to bring me into his confidence, and not a directive to account for his actions. As confused as I was, I could not be sorry.

“I want you to be happy, I’m sure. Miss Morstan is certainly a fine match for you,” he responded tersely.

“That is very much unlike the sentiments you flung at me three days ago, Holmes,” I flatly reminded him.

With a hardened sigh, he raised himself from his activities and stared at the wall in front of him. “Well, what’s done is done, is it not? I cannot prevent you from enacting whatever intentions to which you have committed yourself.”

I faltered a bit. “Well, they were my intentions, yes, but that was before we—“

He jerked his head in my direction.

I continued, “Before we…spent the night together in such a way. Did it not affect you at…at all?”

The sitting room seemed unusually warm just then, although the low flames in the fireplace had nearly diminished to their embers.

“That hardly seems relevant in light of the fact that you have been courting a young woman who desires very much to promise herself to you,” he said with no softening of his voice.

“I know, and I shall be the first to admit I have made some mistakes, but, Holmes, if there’s to be something more between us I’ll—“

He finally turned to face me. His expression was painfully passive.

“You’ll what, Watson? Offer to marry me?”

I was too stunned to reply.

“Leave your inamorata in the lurch so you can pursue a dangerous and illegal relationship with a man who, by your own description, is ‘a brain without a heart?’ Give up rendering fanciful tales of my cases and take up writing torrid accounts of our newfound activities for the titillation of the simple-minded public? Please, my dear fellow, if you have any reason left in your emotion-addled brain, use it to see your way past this absurdity and apply it to the only course of action that is left to you.”

And he again turned abruptly away from me.

“Do you no longer wish for my companionship?” I asked him meekly.

“Was it not you who made that decision weeks ago when you began your enthusiastic courtship of our client?”

“I had thought you and I might continue to work together,” I answered, wondering now if I stood to lose everything.

“Did you?” he sneered. “You will remember, of course, that I started my consulting business without your assistance, and I am therefore well capable of continuing it thus.”

I finally crossed the room to where he stood.

“Holmes, please do not say such things to me. Surely you must have some feelings about this. Please, isn’t there anything I can—“ I reached out for his arm in an attempt to turn him towards me.

“Yes, Watson,” he said, shaking my hand away, “you can go ask your lady friend what she’s been waiting to hear, for it is far too late for you to do anything else. And kindly close the door on your way out.”

His pitiless words cut me to the quick. But Sherlock Holmes had made up his mind, and there was no moving it. Perhaps he was right. We were certainly in no position to continue our indiscretion for any length of time, and he seemed to be as steadfastly against the softer emotions as ever.

And yet…

I could distinctly recall the easy way his fingers had curled around mine when I pushed my palms into his, how his face had assumed the same rapturous expression of euphoric contentment when he climaxed as when he listened to the great Sarasate, and how tenderly he had brought my hand to his lips when I reached across his chest, thinking him to be asleep.

Was there truly no place in which he kept those feelings?

With a heavy heart, I pulled on my gloves and replaced my hat upon my head. I stood there for a moment, hoping he might allow himself to remember that for one night the softer emotions had made him feel very, very good.

But he remained stooped over his desk, a sad, dark figure bent on keeping himself sequestered from the intrusion of love upon his strictly ordered mind. I sighed and left him alone in the sitting room, closing the door quietly behind me. 

I paused when I reached the street, and tried furiously to plan my course of action. If my next act was to propose marriage, I needed to find my way to an entirely different frame of mind by the time I reached Mary’s home, for she had already been troubled enough by the recent and inexplicable shift in my demeanour. It was a fair distance from Baker Street, but taking the journey on foot was highly preferable to a cab just then. I took a deep breath and turned in the direction of my destination.

I stopped when I heard what sounded like an anguished cry. I turned and scanned Baker Street for signs of trouble, but saw only a few solitary figures passing along the opposite side of the street. I continued on my way.

Just before I turned the corner, I looked back at 221b and saw Holmes close the sitting room window.

Mary Morstan and I married just before Christmas of that year in a small ceremony at our local parish. I had moved out of Baker Street in the weeks preceding it, though the wounds from my clash with Holmes were so fresh that I hired a crew of men to pack and remove my things. He had not come to our wedding, and while it saddened me to realize that this reflected our tattered friendship, I also knew that his presence would have complicated what was to be a happy occasion.

In the months that followed, I opened a small practice in a two-story row house on the west side of town, and Mary and I made our home above it. She settled happily into her role as wife, decorating the place with feminine touches and inviting her friends to tea. It was not long before our modest rooms glowed with hominess and activity, though it always felt somewhat strange to me to sit at my writing desk without the scent of tobacco and chemicals wafting across the room. For the first few weeks, I startled myself by turning to speak to Holmes, to ask him to clarify a detail or share a memory, only to realize he was not there.

It is fortunate that I had other tasks with which to employ myself; my practice evolved from a steady stream of loyal patients to a bustle of consultations, housecalls and surgeries, and I am proud to say that I had soon the resources to engage two assistants for my endeavour. Mary made herself useful by touting my skills within her vibrant social circle and making sure I took my meals on days when the activity in my consulting room kept me from reaching the dining table in my regular fashion. She was ever sunny and supportive, and proved herself to be the companion and confidante that I had sought.

In the evenings, I visited my club when the mood for male company struck upon me, though I found that in my years with Holmes I had become accustomed to a level of conversation that was rarely matched by my peers and colleagues. Those singular deductive problems over which the two of us grappled in the sitting room made the everyday trials of others seem lamentably dull by comparison. At first, I attempted to draw more intriguing details from my friends’ accounts of their working and social lives, but soon gave it up when nothing proved so interesting as a missing document, a disappeared family member or even a little scientific puzzle that would challenge my intellect and imagination.

I did not once see Holmes, and received no telegrams from him calling for my assistance. I hadn’t any insight into his well-being or lack thereof, save for the brief moments in which I happened to see Mrs. Hudson near Baker Street when my work summoned me to that area of town. She always greeted me with bubbly enthusiasm, though her face grew serious when she spoke of her remaining tenant. “He’s all on edge,” she would tell me in a low voice, never uttering his name but instead rolling her eyes towards the ceiling to indicate the subject of her complaint. I never offered anything more than casual reassurance that his mood would soon right itself before bidding her good day and going on about my business.

Five months quickly passed, and I had everything I thought I wanted. My new life had taken so much of my time and attention that I did not often engage my feelings about Holmes, except to think with regret on how poorly our last conversation had ended. But when my marriage, practice and social life settled into routine, I realized that I was missing more, much more, than I had first realized.

It was not simply the lack of adventure that left me feeling empty and vaguely dissatisfied, but the way in which his presence always seemed to stimulate me beyond myself. Accustomed as I was to his habits, Holmes’s eccentricities, his quickness of mind and his powerful spirit caused me to exist in a constant state of anticipation that I failed to notice until it was gone. The challenge of keeping up with the blazing force that defined his approach to life was not merely something I craved, but something I had depended upon, and I no longer felt complete without it.

I found myself daring to think back on that night the previous autumn, when our connection strengthened, if only for a few hours, through the bond of our physical relations. For a man as socially reclusive as Holmes to suddenly open himself entirely to me, to have been the object of his stunning focus, to have experienced a part of him that must have lain dormant well beyond the span of our friendship was one of the singular thrills of my life. Discovering his humanity in such a manner only deepened the allure of his enigma, and I would gladly have followed him to the ends of the earth simply to catch a glimpse of it one more time.

That he was all brain and no heart was never an accurate account of him, for his senses of moral justice, loyalty and kindness showed themselves again and again in the work he did. But his moments of vulnerability were so rare, and happened in the instant of a single breath, that in each case I had been able to convince myself it wasn’t true. Yet when this same man reached for my face after I’d brought him to another concupiscent finish, and proceeded to pepper my mouth with breathless kisses, all pretense of being unsusceptible to the softer emotions was gone. Here was someone who knew how to love, and who was permitting himself to be loved in return.

Of course, we could never engage in such a way again. He had made it clear that his purely intellectual lifestyle would only be hindered by love, and furthermore I was now married. But I was even more saddened to think that we might go on for years without seeing one another again. Whatever had happened between us was not worth the loss of everything we’d had in the years of our platonic intimacy. I wanted my friend back.

I wrestled with myself for several days on the matter of contacting him. I found the solution the following Wednesday morning when I picked up my copy of the Times and saw none other than the great detective himself staring at me from the front page. With a familiar swell of pride, I read that Holmes had just been awarded a medal of honour for assisting the French government upon a matter of supreme importance. Congratulating him on his latest accomplishment would be a most suitable avenue in which to re-enter his life, though I was not at all sure how to go about it, whether it would better I wrote him a letter or simply showed up at Baker Street.

The following day, the 24^th of April, Holmes made the decision for me by walking into my consulting room. Our reunion transpired nothing like I had hoped or imagined; the first thing I noticed was how much paler and thinner he was, that his clothes were dirty and rumpled and that his manner was one of unusual agitation.

“You don’t look well, Holmes,” I said in astonishment.

“I have been using myself too freely,” he said in a flat voice. “I have been rather pressed of late. Have you any objection to my closing your shutters?”

He did not wait for my reply, though I would have assented, and edged his way round the wall, flinging the shutters together and bolting them tightly shut.

“What is it?” I whispered.

“Air guns,” he replied, and when he sat before my desk I saw that two of his knuckles were burst and bleeding.

“Scratches,” he said, impatiently waving away my concern. “Nothing, nothing to signify.”

He extracted a cigarette with trembling, impatient fingers, and I leaned forward to light it for him.

“You know I am not a nervous man, Watson,” he said, “but it is stupidity rather than courage to refuse to recognize danger when it is close upon you.” He took a long drag from his cigarette, which seemed to calm him momentarily.

“I am sorry for calling so late, for not contacting you to announce my visit, and I must further beg your indulgence to allow me to leave by scrambling over your back garden wall. Is Mrs. Watson in?”

Holmes had a way of inserting a pointed question at the end of a more casually-rendered statement.

“She’s visiting her cousin in Bath,” I told him.

He nodded curtly and continued to smoke in silence.

“I think you’d better tell me what this is all about, Holmes.”

“It is unique in the annals of crime,” he began, and for the next hour he told me of his  activities over the last four months that had led him battered and nervous into my consulting room. I learned that he had been in France, that a priceless painting had been stolen from the Louvre, that the French government commissioned him to help find it, and that in doing so he had uncovered a network of thieves and forgers that had led to one Professor Moriarty. This would not have been so out of the ordinary had he not gone on to describe Moriarty as the Napoleon of crime. With a mix of fascination and horror, I listened as he recounted the man’s diabolical past and his recent and most unwelcome appearance in the sitting room of 221b. He had challenged Holmes outright, telling him he must stand clear or suffer the ultimate consequence. There had been three attempts on the detective’s life in the hours before he entered my consulting room.

“On Monday next,” he concluded, “matters will be ripe. The Professor and all the principal members of his gang will be in the hands of the police. Then will come the greatest criminal trial of the century.” He stubbed out his third cigarette and settled back into his chair with a grim, satisfied smile. But a troubling flicker of uncertainty interrupted his expression.

“I…cannot do better than to get away for the few remaining days. It would give me great pleasure, Watson, if you would come on to the Continent with me.” He posed this question to me with the same amiable detachment he always had.

“The Continent?” I asked him anxiously, “I would be delighted, Holmes, but where?”

He shrugged. “Anywhere. It’s all the same to me.”

“Yes, but won’t we have to dispose of Professor Moriarty first? It seems that we’re under siege in this very room.”

He gave a slight nod and crooked his mouth in a half-smile. “That reminds me. I must be on my way.” He rose and headed towards the back of the house.

“Won’t you stay the night?” I called after him.

“No, it’s too dangerous for you if I stay here. I will leave the way I came and find lodgings with brother Mycroft. We start tomorrow morning.” And just before he climbed out the window, he gave me an elaborate and specific set of instructions to meet him at Victoria Station. I agreed to follow them to the letter, and then watched him skulk out the window and disappear into the night.

I was left with a barrage of mixed emotions. On the one hand, I had been terribly glad to see Holmes, and even gladder to have been taken into his confidence once again. But the gravity of the situation was disturbing, if not overwhelming, and it left me wondering if the world’s first unofficial consulting detective had finally met his match.

The next day I arrived at Victoria Station, as instructed, just in time for my train. The compartment Holmes had reserved for us was empty save for a dour Italian minister who said nothing while I looked frantically about the station for my friend as the train pulled away. He nearly sent me into cardiac arrest when he greeted me in the person of the minister and removed his disguise, but I ought to have known he would continue to take every precaution. We left the station reasonably certain we had shaken our pursuers for the time being.

For the next week, Holmes and I made our way towards the Alps, and in many ways it was a lovely trip. I’d never been to Switzerland before, but the beauty of the landscape reminded me irresistibly of the northwest provinces of India, and it had been some considerable time since I had been away from the urban clamour of London.

As for my companion, I did what I could to draw him out of himself, but he remained distant and preoccupied. I talked little of my practice and not at all of my marriage, and neither did he offer up anything more than a desultory response to my inquiries upon the current case.

Before our lives changed so drastically, we two had been capable of passing many hours together without a word between us, though we were no less grateful for the other’s presence. Now I caught myself anxiously stealing furtive glances at him in order to assess the state of his mood, which remained inscrutable save for the obvious signs of his unease.

We lodged together, but did not share rooms; Holmes made a careful point of engaging separate quarters at every inn. Whether this was for our safety or the desire to avoid temptation I do not know. As little patience as he had for the institution of marriage, he always acted in deference to the social mores therein and I did not for one moment believe he would coax me to compromise my vows.

Gradually, however, we grew accustomed to one another’s company again, such that we communicated more through body language than actual words, and we fell in with the natural comfort that always existed between us even before we knew each other so intimately. Hiking proved the best way for us to pass the time, and our continuous progression across the Alps hearkened back to my days with the Northumberland Fusiliers when our constant trekking seemed the best way to steady our nerves and keep morale high.

On our way over the Gemmi Pass, we happened upon a particularly beautiful summit where winter and spring found an agreeable latitude at which to co-exist. Mounds of crystalline mountain snow dotted soft carpets of grass, and small rivulets ambled away from a shallow pond formed patiently over the years by langorously dripping icicles. Tufts of wildflowers sprouted confidently through the ice-crusted banks, and bowed genially to the light breeze that wafted through the tall pines every now and again.

We slowed our pace when we reached this unspoiled oasis that teemed with such gentle life as to appear immune to the dangers that threatened us, and for the first time in our travels I felt that Holmes and I were the only two beings on earth. It seemed we were miles from the people whose lives were so entangled with our own, miles from the possibility of death, miles from the laws and rules that dictated with whom we should be partnered. I sat upon a boulder and inhaled the refreshing scent of pine while Holmes meandered about in a more relaxed state than I’d seen him in some time.

I watched him squat near the stream and remove his hat before dipping his hands into the frigid water and splashing it upon his face. He tipped his head towards the warm light of the sun and sighed, icy droplets clinging to his eyelashes and running down his cheeks, which looked softer, fuller and more boyish in the sunlight. I felt as much as the fleeting relief that visited his countenance, for there were shades of contentment that I recognized from the night of our physical intimacy.

He took his meerschaum out of his pocket, tamped the tobacco and raised it to his mouth to light. Without thinking, my focus narrowed on his lips as they wrapped around the stem of his pipe and pulled the tiny flame of his match into the bowl.

Those lips, those bow-shaped, pliant lips, had once wrapped around me, too, in a way I have not experienced before or since. He had kissed his way down my stomach and taken my arousal into his mouth. I watched, mesmerized, as my pelvis tilted up and down, pushing in and drawing out in a slow, sensual rhythm that stoked my desire to exquisite degrees. We were soon both moaning softly for the eroticism of it, and I remember feeling then, too, like the world surrounding us had disappeared and all that remained was that small bedroom at 221b Baker Street.

Holmes smoked thoughtfully for some time, staring into the horizon with that peaceable expression that I had longed to see again, simply to know that somewhere within his private reserve lay the capacity for happiness. What he thought of during this time was in no way evident to me, but I wondered then as I do now how often, if at all, he thought about that night.

When we had resumed our ascension up the path, and my gaze rested on my friend’s long, lithe form ahead of me, I found myself increasingly stimulated by the reminders of his natural grace and agility as I had come to know them. When, for example, his breathing laboured during the more strenuous portions of our climb, it described the heady pace at which he had writhed on top of me, our hands interlocked above my head while I mirrored the roll of his hips, eventually launching me into such a climax that something between a sob and a laugh leapt from my throat at the overflow of joy that surged through my body.

Holmes had released my hands and inched his way up my body, his own arousal nearly at bursting point. I placed my hand over it and pressed down, anchoring him to my stomach while he trembled and thrust, losing himself on the plateau of manic lust that precedes the plunge into ecstasy. I ran my other hand over his sweat-slicked back, urging him on, breathing his breaths, until he dropped his head towards mine, buried his face in my neck and came to quivering glory over my chest.

I fought the inevitable physical response invoked by these memories, and shifted my thoughts back to the practical concerns of simply surviving another day. I was nearly put to rights, thank goodness, when we at last reached the little village where we were lodging. I determined to write a letter to Mary that afternoon apprising her of my whereabouts and assuring her of my continued safety. I was not prepared to admit that writing a letter to my wife was the only way I could force myself to divert my thoughts from Holmes.

When we reached our village, Holmes and I sat ourselves on a bench outside a family-owned winery near our inn and ordered a carafe of Blauburgunder.

“Nothing like drinking the wine where it’s grown,” I said, breaking the morning’s silence.

Holmes smiled half-heartedly, but his eyes had resumed restlessly scanning the horizon.

I placed my hand on his shoulder. “Are you all right?”

He gave a slight nod. “It has been a fine morning. I find this mountain air quite agrees with me.”

He squinted again towards the alpine sun, which cast his profile in a state of such striking masculine beauty that I forgot myself and allowed my hand to drift from his shoulder to his face.

His eyes fluttered closed as I brushed my index finger down his cheek and hovered on his chin. He reached up and gently grasped my hand before pulling it away, and we spoke at the same time.

“Holmes, I have—“

“Watson, you—“

“A letter for you, Mr. Holmes!” rang the clipped German accent of our inn’s landlady, who came rushing over to give Holmes an envelope. He tore it open and read before silently handing the note over to me.

All gang safely secured. Only Moriarty escaped the net.

Mycroft

My heart sank into my stomach.

“I think it would be better if you were to return to England, Watson,” Holmes said quietly, flicking a glance in my direction.

“Why?”

“I think you will find me a dangerous companion now. Moriarty will devote all his energies to taking his revenge upon me, and if I have a companion—“

“Would you be rid of me?” I interrupted.

“No,” he said, mustering enthusiasm that never surfaced, “except for the reasons I have given you.”

I refused to believe this case was beyond my assistance.

“We’ve been in tight places before together,” I argued.

 “Never as tight as this one.”

“I’m not leaving you, Holmes,” I said firmly. “Not unless you order me to go.”

His mouth twitched momentarily in a half-hearted smile, but his unseeing stare suggested defeat. He had ordered me to go on the night I became engaged to Mary with such hostility that I made no effort to stay. But abandoning Holmes to his self-chosen isolation and leaving his side to face mortal danger alone were two entirely different things. Had he ordered me to go in this instance, I would not, could not have done so. The exhilaration of our travels and the sense that we were miles ahead of Moriarty and his gang were giving way to exhaustion. But we continued on because there was nothing else to do.

On the night before we left for Meiringen, I could not sleep. There were too many unsaid words between us, and the thought that one or the both of us might come to some serious harm before we had been able to reach a full reconciliation was too much to bear. I slid from my bed and into my robe. I stood outside his door for some time, arguing with myself over the question of whether or not to wake him. Finally, I rapped lightly and called his name loud enough so he should hear me, but out of earshot of the other guests.

When there was no answer I decided against pursuing it, and returned to my room. I would speak with him on the morrow, when we had reached a comfortable resting place as we had found today, and were in a better position to discuss things.

But I never got the chance.

Once in Meiringen, we put up at the Englischer Hof, a charming inn tended by a man who spoke excellent English, and who was eager to point us in the direction of the area’s attractions. He all but insisted we visit the Reichenbach Falls on our way to Rosenlaui, and even now when I think back on his fateful advice I cannot fault him for the recommendation, for if I were in his position I would surely be as enthusiastic. Perhaps this is why I did not see past the thinly veiled attempt to remove me from my companion’s side in the form of a note from a Swiss lad imploring me to return to our hotel to attend an Englishwoman who was losing her battle with consumption. I had my scruples about leaving Holmes, but he assured me that he would remain cautious in my absence. He promised to meet me at Rosenlaui that evening.

What happened next is a series of painful events I have written of elsewhere, and it is no less excruciating to revisit them now three years later. I called out again and again over the deafening roar of the Falls, long after my desperation yielded to grief, long after I considered following him over the edge, because I knew that the final cry of his name would be my last prayer of finding him. Need I add how dreadfully sorry I was that I had not taken greater notice of the dark figure ascending the mountain as I descended, or that I had  believed the false story about the dying Englishwoman? Nor can I count how many times I have played and replayed what I might have said to Holmes if I had told him what was in my heart. I wished like mad that he had known how much he truly meant to me, that I never did want to leave him, that my world without him had felt little more than half a life.

But it was too late. He was gone. The note he had left for me by the Falls offered some small comfort, as I was glad that he had considered me in his final thoughts. And I tried to remind myself as often as I could that he had after all succeeded in his last endeavour, that the loss of the best and wisest man I have ever known also ridded London of its most dangerous criminal.

I returned home in a state of subdued shock that was so paralyzing I avoided eye contact with everyone who crossed my path. Mary had never questioned my decision to accompany Holmes to Switzerland, nor did she comment when I entered into full mourning after I returned without him. She offered sympathy and comfort when she could, but I believe she was unnerved by my eerily taciturn manner, bracing herself for a tide of despair that had not yet come. I did not know how to tell her that I could find neither words nor actions to justify the great and fundamental loss that I had endured.

I dreaded going to Baker Street to share the news with Mrs. Hudson, but I found that she had already seen the Times, as evidenced by her swollen red eyes and the well-used handkerchief she kept clutched to her breast. I held her for some time while she wept, and when her fit finally passed she led me to the sitting room and showed me the hundreds of condolence letters that were pouring in from all over the world. It was Holmes’s career amassed in piles of cards and flowers, grateful clients and families of clients whose lives were far better because they had once consulted the great detective.

“I cannot imagine replying to them all, Dr. Watson,” Mrs. Hudson said, her voice breaking again.

“You needn’t do so, Mrs. Hudson,” I told her gently. “You are bereaved. They just want us to know that they’ve been affected, too.”

I studied our old sitting room, forcing myself to stare at his things where he had left them as one might press on a wound out of a morbid curiosity to test the threshold of pain. There was his violin, resting near its case where he had invariably placed it just before we departed for the Continent. My chest tightened over the sights of his Persian slipper dangling from the right corner of the mantle, his disputatious pipe tossed carelessly onto his desk, which was a mess of foreign documents and newspaper clippings, and his favourite sitting chair with the cushion still slightly dented from recent occupation as though its owner had just gotten up and left the room. In fact, it seemed that Holmes might walk in at any moment and go on about his business.

The sitting room had become unbearable. I hugged Mrs. Hudson, told her I would call on her again soon, and left.

I returned home from Baker Street in a state of exhaust, for my grief—or rather the postponement of it—was exacting a heavy toll on my physical strength. I headed for my bedroom to lie down, but was diverted by my wife, whose voice called out to me from her sewing room.

“John?”

“Yes, Mary?

“May I speak with you a moment?”

“Certainly, my dear.”

I entered Mary’s sewing room and sat across from her in the armchair next to the window.

“There’s something on my mind that I feel I need to tell you. I hadn’t supposed I would do so while he was alive, but now that Mr. Holmes is…gone, it has been pressing me.”

“Oh?”

Mary looked down at her knitting and frowned. My heart rate increased as she searched for the right words. She could not possibly have known. Could she?

“I spoke with him,” she said and stopped.

“Indeed? When?”

“I went to see him. It was on the very day you proposed marriage to me, in fact.” She looked up at me nervously.

I let out a long exhale and let her continue.

“You see, I was worried, John. I suppose I must put it down to inexperience, though at the time I was quite unsure of myself and uneasy in my mind. You must understand that.” She gave me a pleading look, but I could offer no reassurance as I held my breath and continued to wait.

She looked down again. “It’s only that you were…well, you hadn’t spoken of marriage again in those three days, and did not seem quite yourself, at least, not the same man who courted me while Mr. Holmes solved my case.”

I shifted uncomfortably in my chair.

“I asked him if he knew…of any reason your affections had changed.”

I cleared my throat. “And?”

“He told me he knew of none, and that I should appeal to you.”

The echo of my old friend’s habitual phrase sent a fresh stripe of pain through my heart, but I remained stoic.

“I was not satisfied.” She looked up at me again with even more uncertainty, “So I asked him if there was someone else.”

“He denied there was, but something in his countenance…I don’t know. I wasn’t certain I believed him. No, I know I did not. I am not the judge of character that he was, but the fleeting expression that crossed his face told me there was something he was not telling me.”

I wonder if she noticed I had stopped breathing altogether.

“I’m not sure you were ever aware of this, John, but I had sensed for some time that Mr. Holmes harboured some rather unnatural feelings towards you, and I surmised that he might have been jealous of our courtship, and perhaps said something to put you off. I then made a direct appeal to use his greatest strengths on my behalf once more, and he honoured my wishes. I wanted you to know that.”

“What strengths?” I asked her, surprised at how cold my own voice sounded.

Her eyes widened in surprise. “Why, I merely told him how much I admired his commitment to logic and reason, and that perhaps he would employ them in looking out for your best interests.”

I closed my eyes. She had no idea of the enormity of her confession, nor the unfathomable guilt that it brought upon me, for I could blame no one but myself for the impossible position in which I had placed the three of us. I knew very well that I had betrayed her affections the moment I lunged at my best friend. With mounting humiliation, I thought of the two of them facing one another in the sitting room in a strange and awkward battle for the territory of my heart. It sickened me to know now what Holmes had sacrificed, believing it to be for my benefit, and how he must have hated me for what I had done.

“John,” Mary said, pulling me away from that horrible image, “please, say something. Say you are not angry with me.”

For the rest of my days on earth, I would never outlive this regret.

“I appreciate your honesty,” I replied stiffly. And I wish to God you’d never told me, I thought.

“You are not angry?” she asked me skeptically.

“No, I’m…” I paused and carefully chose my words. “I’m grateful that you cared enough of my well-being to seek counsel with my friend,” was all I could manage.

“I always thought him a true gentleman,” she asserted.

“That he was,” I replied curtly, and left the room.

At the memorial service for Sherlock Holmes, the parade of mourners was so long the queue stretched four blocks from the entrance of the church. I presumed these were the kind people who had taken the time to send notes and flowers, and though I mostly stared dumbly ahead of me, I did recognize some faces in the crowd. When they approached me to pay their respects, their heartfelt words were remarkably similar; Mrs. Helen Armitage, née Stoner, Miss Violet Hunter, Mr. Melas and my old friend Percy Phelps had all told me they owed nothing less than their lives to Mr. Holmes.

The whole of Scotland Yard was in attendance, all the men we’d ever worked for, with and even against, appearing somber as they held their hats in their hands and gazed sorrowfully in my direction. Inspector Lestrade warmly grasped my shoulder and told me the Yard had lost one whom they regarded as their own. Holmes would have scoffed at this, but I knew what he meant.

Mycroft Holmes gave the most elegant eulogy for his brother, and I was equally impressed by his reserves of strength that kept his emotions at bay as he regaled the crowed of hundreds with tales of Sherlock’s great gifts. More than once, he had them laughing through their tears, and even I smiled recalling the singular instances in which Holmes’s little-touted instincts for humour had lightened a mood or a situation.

After the brief ceremony in which the city of London honoured my late friend with a posthumous medal of achievement, the crowd slowly filed from the church.

I stayed behind and waited until Mycroft Holmes was alone, for I owed him an apology.

“Ah, Dr. Watson,” he said, turning to me after he bid the last mourner good-bye. “How are you?” His large brown eyes narrowed with concern.

“I’ll be all right, Mr. Holmes,” I said, reaching for his hand. “I just wanted to let you know I’m sorry I couldn’t—“

He held up his free hand. “No apology necessary, Doctor. I imagine this great loss is harder on you than anyone.”

“It has been a difficult couple of weeks,” I assented. “While the public response has been wonderful, it has also been rather overwhelming. As for the other circumstance—“

He waved his hand again. “You’ve no need to explain yourself, sir, but I must assure you that there was no one my brother held in higher esteem than you.”

I swallowed against the expanding lump in my throat and bowed my head.

“Please do let me know if there’s anything I can do for you, doctor, anything at all,” he said kindly.

“I will, sir, I will,” I said, giving his hand a final shake.

“My best to your wife as well,” he said with a gentle smile, glancing over at Mary’s lone figure waiting for me in the back of the sanctuary.

“I shall pass along your regards,” I said, and quickly turned away before he could observe the full measure of my remorse and, God forbid, deduce the rest.

*          *          *          *

Sherlock Holmes sat in a chair smoking a cigarette. The room was chilly, he wore only a pair of faded trousers, but he did not trouble to relight the fire. He glanced with some irritation at the figure in the bed across from him, and rested his forehead against his palm. The small flat was dim and sparsely furnished, and the man lying in the bed was an acquaintance of some weeks. With his hollowed cheeks hidden by a growing mound of unkempt facial hair, and his English gentleman’s wardrobe exchanged for that of a German vagrant, Holmes was barely recognizable. Only the two piercing grey eyes that peered from behind a haggard face truly belonged to him.

The figure spoke to him in German. “Ah, you are still here. I was afraid you had left already.”

“What of it?” Holmes replied rudely without looking over at his companion.

“I thought you might like to go another round. The first ended so quickly,” the man said seductively.

“I think not.”

“Are you thinking of him again?”

Holmes looked up sharply. “Who?”

“Mr. Watson.”

“What could it possibly matter to you?” he responded hotly.

“Oh nothing,” purred his companion, crawling to the foot of the bed, “it’s just that you never reach your little death until you call out his name. Perhaps you would like to pretend I am this Mr. Watson? I don’t mind. My past lovers have requested this of me in the past and I have always satisfied them accordingly.”

The idea of this worthless German actor, who was entirely devoid of any interest save that he happened to be in a pub during an exceptionally lonely spell, assuming the identity of the good doctor was more than Holmes could bear. He hurled his cigarette into the fireplace and flew out of his chair.

“You are not Mister Watson,” he hissed, grabbing a fistful of the man’s hair and bringing his face an inch from his own. “You are not fit to serve the man a drink much less speak his name in my presence. If you do so again, I shall rend you so thoroughly that the entire German police force may scour the city on end and never find all the parts.”

The little man was delighted. “Ooo yes!” he shouted. “Beat me! Beat me with your powerful hands until I beg for mercy! Then take me for all I am worth and abuse me on the inside! I am Mr. Watson! I am Mr. Watson!”

Holmes growled in disgust and pushed the man roughly to the bed. He made haste to find his remaining clothes, and quickly dressed. If he did not leave at this very moment, he was afraid he might commit a deed which he had only ever sought to avenge in his previous life. He left his companion in a moaning heap, writhing and furiously stroking himself as he babbled nonsensically, “Hurt me, Mr. Watson, make me bleed. I am Mr. Watson…oh yes, Mr. Watson…”

After Holmes reached the street he slowed to a halt and sighed. His attempts to assuage his guilt and pain were having the exact opposite effect. This would not do.

He was on his way somewhere else anyway.

Of the scant good fortune I had been granted in those days, the fact that I had set up my practice next to a music teacher turned out to be one of my greatest comforts. In the busy first months of my practice, I’d taken little notice of my neighbors. It was not until I reduced my patient load after my return from the Continent that the harmonious strains from the other side of the wall finally reached my ears, and I began to make it a regular habit to be in my consulting room every Tuesday between the hours of three and five, when Mr. Hapsburg’s most singular vocal student took his lessons.

I distinctly recall the first time I occasioned to hear the extraordinary talents of one Mr. Maxwell Jarvis, for I instantly stopped what I was doing and pressed an ear to the wall in order to perceive every nuance of his extraordinary phrasing. His clear, pure baritone seemed to burst forth with no effort at all, and the small studio in which he practiced must surely have trembled under the power of his sound, which I imagined must be coming from someone of equally formidable girth. I was therefore surprised to see him leave the premises that day in the person of a tall, gaunt man of just under thirty, with a shock of jet-black hair and a lanky gait that belied the refinement of his musical skills.

Every week at precisely the same time, Mr. Jarvis appeared at the front door of Mr. Hapsburg’s building, a sheaf of music tucked under one arm, and rang the bell. Minutes later, he would be warming up with the aid of the piano, first in a series of sustained tones, then onto more ornamented variations that exercised the high and low ends of his range. When twenty minutes had lapsed, he would move on to simple folk tunes and English ballads, songs I knew from the time I was a boy, but his renditions were so full of fresh zeal that I felt I was hearing them anew.

The real performance began at four o’clock sharp, when he turned to the more complex repertoire of the operatic stage. Had Mr. Hapsburg sought to exact a fee for the privilege of listening to him from the comforts of my own consulting room, I should gladly have paid him, for there could be no greater talent in all of London than that of his star pupil. Not only that, his singing offered me temporary relief from the dull pain that I carried with me, and for those two hours a week I was reminded what hope felt like.

One Tuesday in late spring, Mr. Jarvis auditioned a new piece, a series of short songs that seemed to echo something I might have heard before. I cannot account for precisely why or how it was so, but I knew, I always knew, that they reminded me of Holmes.

The piano opened with a descending melodic minor theme that foreshadowed the melancholy to come. When Jarvis began to sing I was utterly transported.

Fremd bin ich eingezogen,
Fremd zieh' ich wieder aus.
Der Mai war mir gewogen
Mit manchem Blumenstrauß.
Das Mädchen sprach von Liebe,
Die Mutter gar von Eh', -
Nun ist die Welt so trübe,
Der Weg gehüllt in Schnee.

I do not speak German, but I did not need a translation to understand that this was the tragic lament of a lonely, isolated and restless soul. I surmised the subject was unhappy love, for what other sentiment could be so deeply felt? The final line, uttered first in a major key, then repeated in the darkened tones of the minor was so evocative of a broken heart that I held my breath as the piano finished the phrase.

An dich hab' ich gedacht.

I remembered Mary had a German phrasebook, and I ran to our sitting room to retrieve it. It took some concentration, but I pieced it together.

That I thought of you.

When Mr. Jarvis left that day, I watched from my window as his figure disappeared into London traffic. Standing in place he looked very much like Holmes, particularly when he wore his long black overcoat, extended one leg slightly beyond the other for balance and rested his weight upon his stick. I allowed myself to imagine it really was my friend, and that he was calling on my neighbor once a week in order to bring me the kind of peace I had known when he played his violin during our more idle hours at Baker Street.

For several weeks, Mr. Jarvis and Mr. Hapsburg rehearsed those songs. On occasion, they would stop mid-phrase to discuss some means of improvement, but I never minded. The repetition boded well for me, for I soon had my favourites memorised. One in particular, so simple as to be little more than haunting, motivic fragments, barely ventured above pianissimo and explored the lowest range of the voice, which was quietly sidestepped by the piano’s accompanying whispers.

In die tiefsten Felsengründe
Lockte mich ein Irrlicht hin;
Wie ich einen Ausgang finde,
Liegt nicht schwer mir in dem Sinn.

Bin gewohnt das Irregehen,
's führt ja jeder Weg zum Ziel;
Uns're Freuden, uns're Wehen,
Alles eines Irrlichts Spiel!

Durch des Bergstroms trockne Rinnen
Wind' ich ruhig mich hinab,
Jeder Strom wird's Meer gewinnen,
Jedes Leiden auch sein Grab.

My hand instinctively flew to my heart upon its completion, for there was something inherently and disturbingly truthful within those lines that my soul seemed to recognize even as my mind still struggled to comprehend the words. At five o’clock I walked out my front door, and caught Mr. Jarvis taking his leave.

“I beg your pardon, sir,” I called to him as he descended the steps.

He turned a friendly face to me. “Yes, sir?” He looked nothing like Holmes, and for some reason I was relieved to see this.

“I am Dr. John Watson, Mr. Hapsburg’s neighbor. I must tell you how much I greatly enjoy hearing you sing. You are blessed with a marvelous voice.”

He blushed and extended his hand. “Thank you kindly for saying so, Dr. Watson. My name is Maxwell Jarvis and it is my hope that one day all of Europe will share in your opinion.”

“I’ve no doubts about that, Mr. Jarvis,” I said, shaking his hand warmly. “May I ask what piece it is that you and Mr. Hapsburg have been rehearsing these past few weeks? I’ve scarcely known anything more moving.”

Jarvis smiled knowingly. “Ah, who else but Schubert could render a tragic poem by Wilhelm Müller with such romantic delicacy? It is called Winterreise, and in my opinion one of the composer’s finest achievements. I am performing it next Friday at St. James’s Hall.”

“Indeed? I know the venue well.”

“Perhaps you would like to come, Dr. Watson. I would be glad to reserve a couple seats for you and a guest at no expense to yourself.”

“How kind,” I said, shaking his hand again. “My wife and I have not attended a recital in some time.”

“Consider it done, sir. And I thank you again for your complimentary words.” I granted him a farewell nod and watched him proceed up the street, dodging pedestrians with the absent-minded clumsiness of someone for whom art is the only plane of existence.

The following Friday, Mary and I found our reserved seats near the front of the hall, which afforded us the best view of the performers. Upon our seats were two copies of Müller’s poem, one in the original German and the second an English translation. Within a few minutes of our arrival, Mr. Hapsburg and Mr. Jarvis took the stage, both looking shiny and polished in their formal wear as they bowed before the audience.

When Hapsburg played the brief introduction to “Gute Nacht,” Mr. Jarvis lifted his face towards the distant horizon and began to sing the words I knew so well. For the first time, their meaning was clear to me.

I came here a stranger,
As a stranger I depart.
May favored me
With many a bunch of flowers.
The girl spoke of love,
Her mother even of marriage -
Now the world is so gloomy,
The road shrouded in snow.

I had been correct—it was a sad song about unrequited love and lost opportunity. Why it had stirred me so became increasingly evident, and I do believe my heart stopped beating at the start of “Irrlicht” or “Will o’ the Wisp.”

Into the deepest mountain chasms
A will o' the wisp lured me;
How to find a way out
Doesn't worry me much.

I'm used to going astray,
And every way leads to the goal.
Our joys, our sorrows,
Are all a will o' the wisp's game!

Through the mountain stream's dry channel
I wend my way calmly downward.
Every river finds its way to the ocean,
And every sorrow to its grave.

I suddenly recalled where I’d heard its melody before. It was the moody lullaby Holmes had played repeatedly late that night when I had returned from my outing with Mary. Suddenly the faceless narrator whose laments had only resounded to me in musical tones took on the features of Holmes, and as Jarvis sang I watched my friend hopelessly wandering through a cold dark labyrinth, broken-hearted and alienated, looking for a passage that would lead him from his impossible angst.

I can scarcely recall the remainder of the performance, though I know the pair received a standing ovation at its end, and I am dimly aware that afterwards I offered some words of gratitude to Mr. Jarvis, who looked rather ill at ease amidst a swarm of female fans whose adoring gazes never left his face even as I fumbled past them to shake his hand.

The tide was coming and I was desperate to stay ahead of it just long enough to find my way into seclusion. Once we arrived home, I brushed aside Mary’s inquiries as to my well-being and hastened towards the guest room. I locked the door from the inside, sat in the chair by the window and waited.

I came here a stranger,
As a stranger I depart.

It began as a painful stab into my heart, spread into my stomach and soon had me in its inescapable clutches. Heaving sobs wracked my body so violently that I clung to the chair for support, soon gave up, and sank to the floor. The reaction was as much for Holmes as it was for me and my unforgivable ignorance of the stark truths about him that I’d failed to observe when he was alive.

I did not leave that room for three days.

*             *             *             *

Sherlock Holmes was sitting cross-legged on a rug in a great Temple. His large, slate-grey eyes shone like moonstones on his angular face, the features of which looked darker and more severe underneath his clean-shaven head.

“You say you are a logician,” said the Lama.

“That is so,” said Holmes.

“You are seeking enlightenment,” said the Lama.

“That is so,” said Holmes.

“You have taken the fast,” said the Lama.

“I have, your Holiness,” said Holmes.

“Then let us begin,” said the Lama.

And so Holmes told the Lama of his travels, his incarnations, his accomplishments. He spoke, too, of his days as a consulting detective, renowned for his stellar logic and reasoning skills, his cunning and intuition.

“But there is more,” said the Lama.

“I have told you all,” countered Holmes.

“You have not. There is significant imbalance within you,” said the Lama.

“Your Holiness, for years I have enacted numerous teachings of the Buddha. I have held detachment and reason among my highest goals. I have avenged much crime and wrongdoing in the world, and devoted my life to aiding others in need.”

“But you do not live fully among sentient beings,” said the Lama. “There is more you must learn.”

“Pray continue, your Holiness.”

“Compassion and forgiveness,” said the Lama.

For one month, Sherlock Holmes meditated. He considered the ideals of altruism, compassion, the plight of sentient beings upon this Earth. Visions of all forms passed in and out of his mind. When he arrived at forgiveness, he only saw one person.

You are just back from Afghanistan, I perceive.

How on earth did you know that?

There was his young, tanned face, full of astonishment and awe.

Oh the cause is excellent!

Then I am your man.

There he was leaping from his chair with excited energy.

You have erred, perhaps.

It seems to me I have done you full justice in the matter.

There was his wounded expression, always somewhat strained as though the full measure of his pain was held somewhere else.

I really have some scruples taking you tonight. There is a distinct element of danger.

Can I be of assistance?

There was his unyielding courage overtaking the fear that turned his eyes from sea green to sapphire blue.

You could not possibly have come at a better time, Watson.

I was afraid that you were engaged.

There was his gentlemanly respect and humility as he bowed out of the sitting room.

I suppose you mean to take Miss Morstan for your wife.

Yes, that’s right.

There was his indignant glare as he braced himself for the insults that were sure to follow.

Holmes, if there’s to be something more between us I’ll—

You’ll what, Watson?

There was his hopeful and longing gaze betraying affections that went beyond friendship.

How can you forgive a man for loving too much?

Holmes faced the Lama again.

“Your Holiness, for one month I have meditated upon your teachings, and the teachings of the Buddha. I have internalized altruism, compassion and felt the plight of all sentient beings upon this earth.”

“You have done well,” said the Lama.

“Yet forgiveness eludes me,” said Holmes.

“It does not come without love,” said the Lama.

“I know love,” said Holmes softly. “I have loved.”

“But you are missing a vital link in the chain,” said the Lama.

“Your Holiness?”

“You must love yourself.”

Holmes’s eyes widened.

“The capacity to love oneself or be kind to oneself should be based on a very fundamental fact of human existence: that we all have a natural tendency to desire happiness and avoid suffering. Once this basis exists in relation to oneself, one can extend it to other sentient beings. For many, this is a singular challenge in the path towards enlightenment.”

For another month, Holmes meditated. At first, his visions centered again on John Watson, but then something shifted in his mind and he saw someone else instead.

He observed a curious man sitting behind his chemistry set, fascinated with the elements and formulas that constitute the sum of life. He saw a brave man risking his life to save a Greek and his interpreter from sulphurous poison, a governess from a brutish employer, and a young woman from her murderous stepfather. He saw a kind-hearted man dismiss a jewel thief in an angry fit of sympathy. He saw a sensitive man playing the violin, his chin resting against the instrument in solace, long fingers shaping the notes that helped to remind him of the possibility of humanity’s redemption. He saw a desperate man tie off his arm and inject himself with a seven-percent solution of cocaine. He saw a wise man bow his head while a French government official placed a medal around his neck. He saw a courageous man wrestling the Napoleon of Crime on the banks of the Reichenbach Falls. He saw a fragile man wrapped around the body of his true love, sighing and caressing as strong hands traversed his most sensitive flesh, not daring to speak his name for fear it would make him disappear.

He opened his eyes.

*          *          *          *

I sat at my desk staring at the letter I had just received from the editor of the Strand. I had not written a word since the Reichenbach account appeared last May. The ensuing public outcry had the magazine’s accountants desperate to avoid the loss of tens of thousands of subscriptions, and they implored me to continue to write of Holmes despite his passing. I had alluded to my notes on hundreds of unpublished cases, the editor had argued, surely I could render a good many more compelling stories to satisfy their readers?

I was confounded as to how to tell him I had lost my muse, that I had no desire to write of old cases without their subject there to chastise me for embellishing the facts with an overabundance of romanticism. Doing so would only remind me, once again, that those days of excitement and fulfillment were long gone.

“You loved him, too, didn’t you, John?” said Mary’s voice behind me. She had been sitting in her chair reading a book.

I sat up in surprise and spun around to protest. But when she raised her sensible brown eyes to meet mine, I realized it was futile. I sank back into my chair.

“How did you know?”

“You’re not the same. Not since you returned from the Continent. A part of you is gone. I had hoped it might come back after you had sufficiently grieved, but I see now that it could only exist while he was alive.”

Mary’s own sadness was evident in the crease of her brow, and for the first time I recognized that she had been grieving, too. I crossed the room and knelt beside her chair.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Mary. I never wanted to hurt you. You must believe that.”

Her eyes filled with tears, but her voice remained strong.

“I know that, John. I may never understand the depth of your feelings towards Mr. Holmes, but I cannot think the less of you for it. I only wish it was I alone who held the key to your heart.”

“You mean more to me than I’ve communicated to you, especially in these past several months. You have been as loving and loyal a wife as any man could ask for,” I said as I pushed the tears from her cheeks.

“And you’ve been a good husband, too, but I cannot remain under the shadow of the great detective. I do not wish to deny you your grief, but neither do I want to go on living with a ghost.” She turned her gaze to the window and willed the tears to stop.

I knew she was right. Holmes was gone, that was a fact, and I owed it to my wife and to myself to try and move on, to give what was left of me to her and fulfill the promises I had made on our wedding day. I took her hands in mine.

“Let us begin again, Mary, you and I, and recommit ourselves to building the life we first imagined.”

She nodded and squeezed my hands. “I should like that very much.”

“We shall travel together, and discover new things, start a family and rejoice in the experience of bringing new life into the world,” I said determinedly as I pulled her to me.

“I do so love you, John,” she whispered, holding me tightly to her small body.

The Adventures of John and Mary Watson, I thought, will take the world by storm. I nearly believed it could happen.

*          *          *          *

“Dr. Sigerson, I think you’d better take a look at this,” his assistant called from the corner of the laboratory.

The scientist went over to Neilsson’s station and peered into the microscope, his sharp, stone-grey eyes dancing excitedly behind the lenses. “Ah, I had not expected it to crystallize so quickly.”

He glanced up at his assistant and offered him a rare smile. “Well done, Neilsson.”

“Thank you, sir,” the latter replied, his fair skin turning a mild shade of pink under his sand-coloured hair. “Shall I begin the alkaline experiments then?”

“I think not,” Sigerson replied with his usual efficiency. “I should prefer it if you would clean the test tubes for next week’s classes.”

“Happy to, sir,” Neilsson smiled, and blushed again when Sigerson thanked him with a pat on his shoulder. He had become deeply interested in the brilliant scientist who seemed to appear in Oslo from nowhere before accruing a career’s worth of accolades and international recognition for his explorations. Neilsson eagerly awaited his returns to the laboratory, when Sigerson brought back samples from his excursions for examination and study. Even more fascinating than his work was the curious way the latter regarded him, from the moment they had been introduced, with an expression that hovered somewhere between wistful and longing. Neilsson was certain there was something more profound underneath Sigerson’s cold, precise disposition, and with increasing regularity his mind turned to imagining the joys that might be had in discovering the man’s passions.

He began to look for ways to please him, to bring praises from him, to spend more time at his side in assistance. On a few occasions, he had been able to draw a conversation out of him, and he was delighted to learn that Sigerson loved music as much as he did, and enjoyed trying his hand at the violin when he was not working in the lab.

“You must play for me sometime,” Neilsson had said in a burst of enthusiasm.

Sigerson’s shy smile slowly faded into sadness, but he nodded and replied with a noncommittal, “Yes, perhaps…one day.”

Neilsson finished cleaning all three sets of test tubes, and laid them to dry next to the sink. He had decided that tonight he would extend an invitation for Sigerson to dine with him in his home, and to bring his violin with him. He was nervous; he did not want to advance himself too swiftly on their fragile friendship, but he felt reasonably confident it was not an intrusive request. He drew a breath and approached Sigerson’s small office.

He knocked casually on the open door. “I’ve finished cleaning the glasses, sir, and I’ll be on my way unless you need something else.”

Sigerson was deeply absorbed in a treatise on organic chemistry, and did not look up.

“Very good, Neilsson,” he said absently.

“I had also wanted to ask you as well, sir, if there’s any way you might like to…well, that is to say…”

Sigerson finally regarded him. “Speak up now, what is it?” he prompted him lightly.

“Well, sir, I’d like to invite you to my home for dinner this weekend. Only if you want to, of course. And your…your violin would be more than welcome, too.” Neilsson was blushing furiously now and he hated himself for it.

Sigerson’s gaze softened before growing dark. He placed the treatise on his desk and frowned.

“If you’d rather not, sir, I understand. Can’t say I’m much of a cook,” Neilsson added hastily, sensing his invitation was none too welcome after all.

Sigerson pressed his fingers into his temple. “No, Neilsson, it’s not that. It’s just that I do not go out much, you understand.”

“Perfectly, sir. Do let me know if you change your mind,” he replied.

Sigerson returned to his reading. “Indeed I will. Thank you, Watson.”

Neilsson had been on his way out the door, but he stopped and turned, a look of confusion creasing his clear blue eyes.

“My Christian name is Lars, sir.”

Sigerson turned ashen, and froze.

“Of course, how stupid of me. Have a good night, then.”

Lars Nielsson’s disappointment over the rebuke of his offer was nothing compared to his devastation the following Monday, when he arrived at work and learned that Dr. Sigerson had vanished without a trace.

*          *          *          *

I sat in the consulting room of my friend Dr. Abrams and paged mindlessly through a newspaper.

We had been on holiday in Bristol when Mary was seized with fits of lower abdominal pain that became so acute she was bedridden for the entire five days we meant to travel the countryside. My first thought was food poisoning, but when we discovered blood on the bedsheets, I began to fear a much more serious condition, and summoned a local doctor to examine her. He told me that Mary had suffered a miscarriage at some point in our travels, due to a growth on her uterine wall, and recommended she undergo surgery as soon as possible in order to determine the nature of it.

I did not want to exacerbate her condition by returning to London, but the doctor insisted she have the procedure close to home, and by someone who had the resources to contend with her diagnosis. I could tell right away that he was not optimistic, but I refused to accept the idea that I might lose two loved ones in the space of a year, and did nothing but offer my wife encouragement and hopeful sentiments that I privately prayed would turn out to be true. We sought the advice of Dr. Abrams, one of the best surgeons in London, who agreed to consult with us immediately upon our return. I was now anxiously awaiting the results of her operation.

I tossed the paper aside when I saw Abrams approaching the consulting room, and I rose to greet him. His face was grim.

“Sit down, please, Dr. Watson,” he said, and he sat on the settee next to me.

“How is she, doctor?”

“The mass in your wife’s uterus is not only cancerous, but it has spread into her ovaries. After she recovers from this surgery, we can go in and try to get more of it, but I’m afraid we haven’t the capability of removing all of it. At best, we may be able to give her a few extra months, but no more. I’m sorry.”

*          *          *          *

The city of Khartoum glittered like broken glass underneath the hot Sudanese sun. The Mahdists had seized the city less than ten years previous after the massacre of the Anglo-Egyptian garrison, leaving the capital in ruins and its citizens in a constant state of distress.

Sherlock Holmes had come here by way of an underground café in Persia, where rumours were swirling of suspicious stirrings among the Mahdiya, prompting him to assume an old identity and follow a line of inquiry into the north of Africa. He was indistinguishable from his Arab counterparts underneath his robes, and he slipped in and out of secret meetings and closed societies undetected by the fiercely anti-British militants who were charged with protecting the city.

Upon his arrival in Khartoum, he paid a brief visit to the Khalifa and was startled by the obvious signs of the Mahdiya preparing for an all-out attack against the British occupation. He went straight to the War Office.

“Yes, sir?” answered a tall officer when Holmes entered.

“Lieutenant Charles Watson, please,” he replied gruffly.

“What name shall I give?”

“My name is Abu Aqel. He will remember the Afghani holy man with whom he met some years ago.”

“Wait here, please.”

A short time later, the officer reappeared, followed by another.

“Lt. Watson?” Holmes offered his hand and hid a smile. The family resemblance was unmistakable, particularly in the deep-set and thoughtful eyes the man shared with his cousin John.

“Yes, Mr. Aqel. It is a great pleasure to see you again, sir.” The two men shook hands.

Holmes took out a sealed envelope and placed it in the lieutenant’s hand.

“Please see that this is passed onto the Foreign Office. It contains details of the very deepest moment. It is paramount that it should come by your hand and not mine.”

Lt. Watson knew his informant well enough to trust his word. He saluted the man and promised to do his will.

Holmes returned the salute, and shook his hand again in order to prolong the exchange just long enough to linger on the face that was so familiar he could imagine the doctor in his cousin’s place, with his kind smile and trusting air, warmly expressing his gratitude.

He then left the War Office and vanished into the desert.[1]

*          *          *          *

Mary faced her sentence with the bravery and grace I always admired about her, and I remained by her side every day for the rest of her short life. I had a renewed sense of grief accompanied by the terrifying realization that I was soon to be alone in the world, and feared that I had no desire left to continue the struggle towards happiness.

I wondered how much longer I was doomed to suffer, why Fate had decreed that my ideal partner should be split between two diametrically opposing personalities, one who willingly offered the kind of companionship that I craved and the other for whom my passion knew no bounds. I agonized over the question of why they both must be taken from me, if my wrongful actions truly warranted the severity of such a punishment. But, as on all things, Fate remained silent as I watched my wife quickly fade away.  

I thought about those first months of our marriage when we made our home together in a bustle of energy and optimism. If there was ever a time I was close to being fully hers it was in the days before I lost Holmes on the Continent, before I knew to what lengths she had gone to secure a life with the man she loved. Even then our happiness felt in some ways like an illusion to me, as if I was performing a role for which life had prepared me until the moment an eccentric chemist observed I had been in Afghanistan within seconds of our introduction. No one that followed him ever had a chance. 

But Mary had found precisely what she sought, and I plundered my memory for signs that I had made her happy in our years together. I feared her own regrets would prey on my conscience, too, until I realized I had been given a chance that I’d not had with Holmes.

We were up late one night, she on the settee, I by her side, watching the late summer rain beat thin, sinewy branches against the window panes. I had convinced her to drink half a cup of tea before I injected her nightly dose of morphine.

“Mary,” I whispered, turning towards her, “I need to ask you something.”

She gave a slight nod behind closed eyes.

“I need to know that you’ve forgiven me,” I said, fighting the emotion that threatened to escape my throat. I vowed to remain strong, if not for me then certainly for her.

“Forgiven you for what, John?” she asked me hoarsely.

“For not being the man you thought you married.”

She let out a long sigh before she spoke again. “You are exactly the man I thought I married. I think I…always knew…somewhere…that you belonged to him. It was obvious from the moment I…I first walked into your…sitting room.”

The heavy blanket of morphine was beginning to envelop her, but her eyelids still fluttered in the struggle to remain alert. She went on in a quiet, but clear voice.

“I still wanted to be with you, John, so I…pursued you…selfishly I think… despite…despite knowing that…he was….that you…”

I squeezed her hand. “I never placed myself in a false position regarding my affections for you, Mary, never. And I believe I was right in choosing you to be my wife.”

“I know,” she breathed, “You mustn’t…punish yourself…for being so…loved.”

The drug had obviously confused her thoughts, for I knew she must have meant to say it the other way round. But her head dropped to the side as she finally surrendered to sleep.

I smoothed her hair from her brow, kissed her forehead and sat back in my chair. I would be here when she woke again in a few hours to soothe the pain, calm her fears and relight the fire.

At a laboratory in Montpellier, France, Sherlock Holmes was recording his latest observations on the coal-tar derivatives when the door opened and the page boy appeared.

“Pour vous, Monsieur Lefitte,” said the boy, tossing him a large envelope.

“Merci, Georges.”

Holmes placed his notebook aside and examined the envelope with his magnifying glass. When he found the tiny insignia of the Diogenes Club dotting the “i” in his latest alias, he tore it open. Inside were two newspaper clippings; one detailed the murder of Ronald Adair, second son of the Earl of Maynooth, by a soft-nosed bullet fired from an unknown weapon. The other, dated a year earlier, contained the obituary for Mrs. Mary Watson, née Morstan, wife of Dr. John Watson, biographer of the late Sherlock Holmes.

There was no message included, but the two articles were as clear a summons to return to London as a telegram urging the same.

Holmes was more terrified now than he’d been in the entire three years of his journey.

*          *          *          *

“Dr. Watson, is that you?”

“Oh hello, Mr. Holmes,” I said, squinting at a large, familiar form that crossed the street to meet me.

“Mycroft, please,” he said, extending his hand. He seemed in unusually good spirits.

“Indeed, Mycroft,” I shook his hand. “I do not often see you outside the confines of the Diogenes.”

“Ah yes,” he gave a self-deprecating laugh. “I had some business at the Foreign Office today. How are you, doctor?”

“Right enough, I suppose.” I knew what he was asking me. “She’s been gone just over a year now.”

“Has it been that long? My goodness. I trust your practice is holding up?”

“Going well, thank you,” I lied. The truth was business had waned over the last twelve months. In my unrelenting grief, I had limited my consultations to just under a dozen a week and I was so far unable to regenerate my former number of patients. I was down to one assistant, who was responsible for my housekeeping and cooking as well.

“I’ve also been engaged by Scotland Yard to assist in some of their cases,” I added.

“Then you’ve no doubt heard of the recent murder of Ronald Adair?” he asked me with an unreadable expression.

“As it happens, I’m on my way to meet Inspector Lestrade at Park Lane right now. Nasty business, it seems.” Lestrade’s telegram hadn’t told me much, but that he thought the case might interest me.

“Well, I’m sure the case will reveal a great deal in due course,” he said, and I swear there was a glimmer of excitement behind his eyes, though for what reason I could not fathom. He had never been as stimulated by crime as his late brother.

We bid each other good day and went our separate ways.

*          *          *          *

Sherlock Holmes appeared in the doorway of his old bedroom at 221b Baker Street. When Mrs. Hudson turned and saw him she felt a scream rise in her throat. She had never seen a ghost before.

He raised a gloved hand and crossed the room to where she stood, struggling helplessly for words that emerged only as high-pitched cries. He gently pressed her small body to his chest and quietly soothed her.

“Oh, Mr. Holmes,” she sobbed.

After she had come back to herself, and after Holmes had convinced her that he was indeed as real the nose on her face, he explained his three-year absence. With wide eyes she listened to the story of his escape from the clutches of the devilish man who had visited their rooms in April of that fateful year, how he had traveled extensively and learned much, and that he had returned to put the last remaining member of Moriarty’s gang of criminals in the hands of the police.

“In fact, I shall require your assistance, Mrs. Hudson,” he concluded, and smiled when her face lit up with interest and excitement.

“I’d be thrilled to help out any way I can, sir,” she said.

“Excellent,” said Holmes. “I will be going out shortly, but I shall give you full instructions this afternoon.”

“Have you seen the doctor?”

His heart skipped a beat. “Not yet.”

“Well, I’m sure he’ll be glad to see you, Mr. Holmes. He’s had a time of things since you left, and I gather his practice has suffered, too, since his wife passed.”

She looked over at Holmes whose downcast expression bore signs of his own grief.

Mrs. Hudson spoke again very gently. “To tell you the truth, Mr. Holmes, he was never the same when he returned from the Continent. Even before he lost his wife he was already considerably faded. Oh, he tried to be a good husband. But it seemed to me that—“ she stopped.

He looked up wearily. “What, Mrs. Hudson?”

She straightened herself and looked him in the eye. “It seemed to me, sir, that his heart went over the falls with you.”

He started and slowly lowered himself into a chair. She turned away, straightened the mirror and went downstairs.

Mrs. Hudson always knew when it was time to leave the room.

*          *          *          *

“Mr. Mycroft Holmes, this is Mr. Sigerson, just in from the Continent. He wished to consult you on the matter of our account with his international fishing company.”

“Mr. Sigerson, it’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” Mycroft said, shaking his hand. “Come this way, sir.”

He led him into his private office and closed the door.

“I did not expect you so soon, Sherlock,” Mycroft said as he turned to the wet bar and poured two glasses of whisky. “Given the storms passing over the North Sea, I thought the journey from France would take you three days, at least.”

Sherlock Holmes removed his disguise and grinned when his brother turned to face him. “The journey was arduous but, thankfully, not a protracted one.”

Mycroft handed his brother a glass. “To your return from the dead,” he declared, and the two toasted and drank.

“So, brother mine, did you find Baker Street as you left it?” asked Mycroft as he settled into his armchair.

“There are one or two items missing, but the rest is exactly how I remember. Thank you for seeing to my rooms while I was away,” he added.

“Ah yes, your violin. The doctor wanted as a token to remember you by and I saw no reason to deny him.”

Sherlock frowned and turned his gaze towards the floor.

“It would seem you have not yet told your old friend that you still walk among the living,” Mycroft observed.

Sherlock shook his head.

“Well, you must be very anxious to see him as he will no doubt be overjoyed to see you.”

“So you think…” Sherlock smiled dubiously.

“I know he’ll be relieved and thrilled that you are as alive as he remembers,” Mycroft replied evenly while he scrutinized his brother’s face.

The other sighed. “I am afraid there was more damage done than you realize,” he said.

“Yes, I thought something out of the ordinary had occurred between you two after he left your home to establish his practice. But three years is a long time.”

“Maybe not long enough.”

“Oh, my dear brother, surely you cannot believe that man is capable of carrying bitterness in the same heart that has mourned for you since the day he returned from Switzerland?”

Sherlock inhaled sharply and raised his eyes towards the ceiling.

“Suppose you tell me about it,” Mycroft gently pressed.

Sherlock sat in silence for several long moments before addressing the question.

“It may surprise you to hear, Mycroft,” he finally said, glancing over at his brother, “that shortly before certain events took me to Reichenbach, I lost my head. In realizing that my regard for the doctor changed into something rather unwelcome, I did the only sensible thing. I drove him into the arms another, thoroughly abused him for it and then engaged him in a battle of wills that ultimately took a rather salacious turn. An act of rage on his part developed into something entirely different on mine, and I compromised myself in the most egregious manner.”

“Hmm. I hadn’t thought you’d tumble down that road again since that Trevor fellow tied you up in knots at university.” Mycroft drained the remainder of his whisky.

“Yes, well,” Sherlock cleared his throat, “had I not been so foolish in thinking I could lay claim to a man who had every right to plot the course of his own future in whatever fashion best suited him, I might have spared us years of considerable regret.”

“Did he regret as well?”

“I have no doubt he regretted the mar on our friendship and most likely the actions that preceded it, but to my knowledge he did not suffer from his ensuing choices.”

“Because he married.”

Sherlock nodded.

“Humph,” Mycroft grunted.

Sherlock looked up in surprise. “What?”

“I may see things a little differently. If you’ll permit me…” Mycroft rose and walked the length of the room to his desk. He unlocked and opened the top drawer, shuffled through some papers and took out a plain foolscap document.

“I saved this for the occasion of your return, thinking it might benefit you to know how deeply Dr. Watson’s affections ran.” He handed his brother the letter and retreated to gaze out the window while he read it.

Dear Mr. Holmes: I am flattered by your request to compose a eulogy befitting your late brother’s contributions to the whole of humanity, and were it merely a hypothetical exercise, I would make every attempt to do the best and wisest man I have ever known full justice in the matter. However, as I have already written of the excruciating events that led him to his watery grave, I find that I am bereft of the strength to continue to write of him in such a capacity. My heart has been newly aggrieved upon learning that shortly before my marriage, a friend of mine held counsel with the great detective which subsequently led him to make a sacrifice that brought irrevocable damage to our working and personal relationship. Had I the capability to right this terrible wrong before it was too late, I might now feel that I was worthy of eulogizing the man I dearly loved. As it stands, however, I must come to terms with my deep and abiding regret before I can in good conscience address the public on the subject of their lost hero. Please accept my full apologies. Yours, Dr. John Watson.

Sherlock’s eyes were rimmed with tears when he at last looked up.

“You commissioned him to write my eulogy?” he asked softly.

“Of course I did, and as you can see he turned it down for reasons that had heretofore escaped me,” Mycroft returned. “Oh, he came to the ceremony, as did half of London, but he was as shattered a man as I have ever seen.”

“And suffered the loss of his wife not long after,” Sherlock said, sighing and shaking his head.

“Yes, and I attended her funeral as well. He was saddened by the loss, of course, but it paled in comparison to his devastation at losing you. If you cannot now see that, Sherlock, I’m afraid there is no hope for you.” Mycroft smiled gently at his brother in light jest.

“What good would I have been,” Sherlock quietly pleaded, “to a man who desired the companionship of a wife and family? What good would he have been to me, whose very lifeblood is reason and logic, and who has no use for passion?”

“On the contrary, my dear brother. You are the most passionate person I know.”

Sherlock stared it him, parting his lips slightly in astonishment.

“I’ve never seen anyone use their god-given gifts with such unyielding dedication as you have. Like it or not, Sherlock, logic is your passion. And that doctor of yours is no less a part of your work than the great mental powers with which you have been endowed. To my mind, it stands to reason—yes, reason— that you would grow to love someone who had nurtured your talents with as much enthusiasm as yourself. And what of his? His literary gifts have brought both of your names international recognition. Do you not think he was as dependent upon you as you were on him?”

Sherlock furrowed his dark eyebrows as these remarks resonated in his mind. Then, with pursed lips and a grim smile, Sherlock rose from his chair.

“Forgive me, Mycroft, for ending our reunion so prematurely, but I need to pay a visit to someone.” He reached over and clasped his brother’s hand.

“I am greatly indebted to you,” he said gravely. “Thank you. For everything.”

Mycroft chortled softly and patted Sherlock’s hand affectionately.

“Go make amends. When you’re settled and happy you may buy me a plate of oysters.”

Sherlock smiled and went for his hat and coat.

“May I ask how you intend to go about this?” Mycroft called after him.

Sherlock chuckled dryly. “You know I cannot resist a touch of the dramatic,” he said, nodding towards the disguise that lay on Mycroft’s desk as he pulled on his gloves.

“Sherlock,” he warned his brother, “go easy on him. That man has suffered unduly for his mistakes.”

“On the contrary, my dear Mycroft,” he mimicked as he replaced his hat with a flourish and turned on a brilliant smile. “he has suffered unduly for mine.”

And in a graceful sweep, Sherlock Holmes left his brother’s office, exited the Diogenes Club, hailed a cab and sped towards Baker Street.

*     *     *     *

Dr. Watson left the courthouse to return to his office and contemplate the next phases of the case. He was already deep in thought as he descended the staircase, and did not see the crippled bookseller who sat hunched over on the last step. The doctor tripped over him, scattering his books and garnering a startled cry. He apologized profusely as he retrieved the man’s wares before continuing on his way. He stopped once and turned to apologize again, for he thought he had seen tears in the old man’s eyes. But when he turned back the man was already gone.

The bookseller hobbled up the street leaning heavily upon his cane. He was struggling a bit, having taken a foot off his stature for several hours already, no joke for such a tall man. He was on his way to pay a call to an old friend, to talk of forgiveness, of compassion and of love’s recovery.  

He had composed a long, carefully-constructed speech in his mind, intending to regale his friend with a chronological account of where he had been, what he had done, who he had seen; that he had learned a great deal about the world and about himself, that he never intended to cause any hurt with his disappearance, though he knew it was inevitable, that he hoped in time they would be able to repair their bond, and perhaps even take up residence under the same roof and continue the work they had been doing.

But when Watson came around from his faint, and reached out to grasp his arm to ensure he was not a spirit, Holmes would stare into those eyes that were the color of England’s summer sky, see them swimming with awe, gratitude, anger, disbelief and love and, knowing he was home at last, his entire speech would desert him, and the only words that he would suddenly see fit to utter would be the culmination of three years spent in a quest for his ultimate and most personal truth: “I have never stopped loving you.”

Mrs. Hudson smiled to herself as she left the store, hugging the bottle of champagne she had just purchased in anticipation of a great celebration. In a short time her boys would return to their rightful place above her head where they belonged. Flurries of activity at all hours of the day would bring 221b Baker Street to its former character, save for the new and curious instances when both lodgers sequestered themselves behind drawn shades and locked doors. Whatever activities took place in there during those times, the landlady’s instincts told her to leave well enough alone. And well enough it must surely have been, for she had occasion to see each of them emerge after such interludes, bearing an expression of tranquil satisfaction that reminded her of the way Mr. Hudson looked after the two of them had spent the afternoon making love.

Two weeks later, Mycroft Holmes lay in a lopsided slump at the table. He had fallen fast asleep after finishing just over half of his fifth plate of oysters. The kitchen staff, who had been instructed to keep them in endless supply by the man’s brother, bustled about, smiling whenever he snored, staying careful not to wake him.