And, ahem, if you are a bored beta reader, I have work for you! ^_^

I take pleasure in watching him when he is unaware, which is most of the time. His eyes travel through the lines of the novel he has in his hands, and his face grows younger against all physical laws. Does he imagine himself as a sailor, as a pirate, as the captain of his ship?

He shifts in his arm-chair. The story must be getting interesting.

He has the most expressive eyes I have ever seen in a man. They convey more eloquence than what his pen will ever achieve.

Now he smiles faintly and blushes and shifts again. Oh, a love novel, then.

He looks so charming when he is infatuated! I have been tempted to tell him so, but never dared. Whatever pleasing qualities my female clients may possess, I’m but a beetle to their allurement. It is always my friend, with his courteous manners, his shy smiles, his occasional and discreetly indiscreet looks who never fails to tell me that the lady in question may be considered attractive. It would not please me, his divided attention would not, if it were not because otherwise I could never get to see him so pathetically masculine.

Might it possibly be a spicy novel? My good old friend is blushing steadily now and fighting a naughty smile.

Women are always his biggest cause of distraction. He is a ladies’ man. He worships them. And, what am I to do, but to resort to my wit, raise my voice, pace around him, call him, insult his intelligence, praise him, provoke him, everything, everything I can to make him notice me again?

Should I interrupt him now, harshly, as a joke? Tell him exactly what I think he is reading? Would it cause him any embarrassment to be caught? No, in this case he would simply stare at me, filled with hurt, or anger at my insolence. No, not anger. It would rather be hurt, undoubtedly. It is always hurt when I abuse him.

But then, I would know it. That I had incited such emotion. I. Not a novel, not a woman. I.

My mind already made up, I get up, go to the coal scuttle, pick up an old pipe and let it fall on the floor, soundly. Watson jumps in his arm-chair, visibly startled.

“Good Heavens, Holmes!” He closes the book and places his hand on his chest over his heart. I laugh.

“I’m sorry, my dear friend. I did not mean to disturb you.” I apologise. Then I pick up the pipe again, laughing softly. “This reminds me…” But I shake my head.

“Of what?” He asks, his curiosity aroused.

“Oh, no-no-no, Watson, another time, perhaps. I would not wish to interrupt your reading for an old story like that.”

“A story? Would you possibly mean an old case?” He asks, eagerly.

“One of my first cases, in fact, not very long after moving to my rooms at Monteague St.”

I return to my arm-chair, satisfied.

“Holmes, please,” he begs me, his brows arched hopefully.

“Oh, all right, Watson. But only because I think you will like it. It was a sunny Saturday morning and I was deadly bored of moping around…”

“Why is so cold in here, Watson?” he asked, irritably.

“It’s December, it is supposed to be cold,” said I. Then I realised it might have sounded a little curt, so I tried to amend it a second later. “You should take a bath. It should help you to warm up.” He looked up at me with a helpless expression which pained me to no end. “I shall talk with Mrs. Hudson,” I smiled at him, “it will not be but a moment. You will feel better very soon.”

“What would I do now without you, my dear Watson?” He asked, with a self-deprecated smile that hurt me as few things did. What would you do, indeed?

*

“Easy, my friend, let me help you.”

“I’m not an old lady.”

“Of course you are not.”

“You would not be here if I were, would you?”

“Precisely.” He was already in the bathtub, so I let go of him. “Is the water hot enough?”

“Scalding.” I laughed at that.

“My mission is accomplished then, I shall leave you now.”

“Oh no, stay, Watson.”

“As you wish.” I looked round, searching for the stool we kept in the bathroom. He started his ablutions, while I made myself comfortable.

*

“I know I’m being a nuisance to you,” he said, emerging from the bottom of the tub, his skin pink and shiny.

“Not at all, my…”

“I am!” he cried, “I am,” he said, in a lower tone. “That is a fact. It is also a fact that you are willing to put up with me, for now at least. It should be only a matter of time that you find yourself another wife,” he said even lower. And still he added, “But I should not address this issue or you will get angry.”

He could be extremely unfair, at times.

“Holmes, are you really sure that you want me to be here?”

“Did I detect a faint warning in that question? Are you finally thinking of moving out?” his voice was heavy with unconcealed suspicion.

“I meant in the bathroom, Holmes, the bathroom.” I stayed calm, as I knew he was not quite himself in those moments. However, I suspected that there was, deeply buried between layers of aloofness and denial, a latent resentment towards me because of my marriage. Also, I found it particularly telling that he did not seem to be in the slightest bit remorseful at all after his long years of silence following his disappearance at the Reichenbach Falls. Had I not known better, I would have blamed his masterful and controlling nature, of which I have provided uncountable examples, for his remarkable lack of friends. Almost fifteen years had elapsed since our first meeting, and Sherlock Holmes remained as self-centred as he had always been.

“I thought I had already told you that I wished you to stay keeping me company.” His thin and nervous fingers were fidgeting with the sponge.

“Well, but I’m not having an argument,” said I, in my hardest tone.

“You are upset.” His head was bent so that his wet black hair kept hidden most of his face.

“Yes,” said I, sternly. Then again, I could not help but feel intrigued by the fears which surely laid behind that absurd question. “Holmes, would you mind telling me what on heavens is it with you today?” I asked, my tone conciliatory.

“Of course, why not?” he cried, raising his head and leaning on the tub in the same pose of conceited complacency I had observed in him a thousand times in front of illustrious clients or members of the police. “You, my dear friend, have been weighing up the idea of leaving Baker Street. You have been thinking about it all day.” And then he added, petulantly, “You seem to forget that I can read you like a book.”

I realised that my mouth had dropped open. I shut it and inhaled deeply, deciding whether it was better to laugh it off or get truly offended for his lack of confidence in my friendship.

“You are right.” I made a pause. “I have been thinking about making a trip.”

“Ha!” He started and splashed some water.

“Yes. A short trip with you.” He looked at me visibly startled. “I was thinking of taking you out of London. I have been trying to remember the name of a little villa my colleague talked me about last week. As much as I often express my deepest admiration for your abilities, Holmes, I must now confess that this is not the way I wanted you to find it out.” He had gradually changed his face into the most pained expression I had ever seen on him.

“You must forgive me, my dear Watson,” he whispered, letting the sponge drop on the water surface. He inhaled soundly and then sighed, looking half ashamed, half irritated.

“You should get out of the tub or you will get cold again,” I admonished him.

“Yes, the water is freezing.”

“Wait a second. I shall fetch you a towel.”

*

“Is that a telegram?” I asked, pointing at the piece of paper he had between his fingers.

“And a most welcome one!” He answered in the strident tone he used when he was in high spirits. Then he raised his head with a bright smile. “A telegram from Lestrade, who requires our presence! Immediately!” He entered his bedroom and began to dress humming cheerfully.

“Holmes, if you don’t mind my asking, are you sure that this is what you need at this moment? A case?”

“Of course I do not mind, my dear fellow. Although I would advice you not to speak of what you ignore.”

“I think I should know a patient’s condition when it is so blatantly obvious,” I argued.

“Obvious! That’s a good word! Pray excuse my being so honest, Watson, but observation is not one of your talents.”

“Holmes…”

“Pray take your coat, it’s a cold night.”

“I believe I shall not.” He paused and stared at me puzzled. “I believe I shall stay at home to-night.” For further credibility, I took the paper and sat in front of the fire. “Be careful.” He gave a glance at my leg, looking a bit confused but deciding to put the matter to rest.

“Very well.” It was all he said before crossing the door and stepping down the stairs.

*

The second I heard the front door closing after him I threw the paper away and hid my face behind my hands for a moment. There were few the times I let my temper get the best of me, and I always repented afterwards. Holmes was not a well man and it had been a mistake to let him go without me.

Yet it was equally true that he was the most selfish person of my past and present acquaintances and that I often felt as his violin or one of his pipes would have felt if they had the sense and the opportunity: used and discarded at his will. He wanted to have me at his disposal without any consideration for my opinion. I was a habit, almost a possession. He did not expect his violin to run away from him but he could not expect the same from me. He knew it and he did not like it. That was all.

*

It was half past eleven when he finally got home from his excursion. He found me nestled in my arm-chair in front of the fire, where I had remained since he left. His expression was cautious when he addressed me.

“How’s your leg?”

“Not much better I’m afraid, but thank you.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“And Lestrade’s business?”

“Oh, well,” he said, looking pleased by my interest. “It’s nothing extraordinaire, but it possesses some peculiarities. Or maybe it is that I cannot afford to be too picky these days, who knows!” He lit his pipe with a small coal of the fire. “Maybe if I had other matters in hand I would not even bother with it. But you do not look well, my old fellow. I think it’s past time for you to retire.”

“Are you going to bed, Holmes?”

“No, I shall be smoking for a while.” I looked at him reprovingly. “Watson, do not worry so much all the time. I assure you I feel quite well.”

“I can see that,” I retorted, not without a hint of sarcasm. I got up and went to the door before turning to him again, “Call me if you need anything.” But my friend did not answer, sunk as he already was in deep thoughts.

I went to my room and tried to put myself to sleep, although my preoccupied mind would not let me rest. I heard him pacing up and down for a good part of the night.

*

“Mr. Holmes was up and out very early this morning, sir. He took some coffee but nothing else. I’m seriously worried about his health, doctor. He looked very pale and you know how he has been until just yesterday.”

“We both know how he is, Mrs. Hudson. I’ll do what I can and it won’t be much, I’m afraid.”

“You must speak with him, doctor, he will listen to you.” He would not hear a word from me. Not about his health and certainly not from me, but Mrs. Hudson needed reassurance and, as always, I was happy to oblige.

*

Eight hours later Sherlock Holmes was back at Baker Street, all weary satisfaction and looking just on the verge of collapse. I hurried to his side because I was afraid he could not reach his arm-chair, but he refused my help rather unceremoniously.

“Oh, do not fuss, Watson, please,” he asked.

“I’m not fussing! Look at yourself, man! What the deuce have you been doing, Holmes?”

“You would know if you had come with me. I confess I could have done with another pair of eyes. Or fists, for that matter, but all is well that ends well, is it not?” He asked, resting his head languidly on the back of his arm-chair. “At least the look upon Lestrade’s face was well worth it.”

I felt the blood drain from my face. “Holmes, are you wounded?” I run to him, but he stopped me with a sharp look.

“Do not stress yourself, doctor. If I had required medical attention I would have turned to a detached professional.” That remark felt like a blow. He seemed to deduce by my expression that he had touched a nerve, because he added quickly, “I did not mean to insult your abilities, my dear friend, it is only that you tend to worry a trifle too much where my health is concerned.”

Well, I have myself for a patient man. A very patient man. Otherwise I could have not shared my life for a good number of years with one of the most Bohemian of men. But that what I was witnessing was the slow and inevitable destruction of a great mind, a still young man and, most importantly, my friend. His nerves were shattered, as a result of months of overwork and tension, and his periods of depression were as black as ever. He did not give himself time enough to recover, so every new case left him even weaker. And I had to suffer it all in silence, for my friend’s masterful manners did not let me so much as utter a word.

“Oh, Watson, please, do not make that face! I’m merely stating that your feelings of guilt might be clouding your good reasoning.” For someone who claimed not to be an expert on emotions, he sometimes could read mine as is they were printed upon my face.

“It is not my good reasoning which is at stake here, Holmes and no matter how much you do divert the issue. You must acknowledge that you have limits and let your body rest and recover in a natural fashion. Sometimes I think you do not value your life in the least and that is… painful for me, as your doctor and as your friend.”

“You surely understand that I cannot change my nature for you.”

“Morphine is part of your nature? Cocaine is part of your nature, Holmes? Straining yourself to exhaustion is part of your nature?”

“Cocaine assists me to withstand routine! My brain needs activity, problems, puzzles. I know you mean well, Watson, but you are a physician and my body is your only preoccupation, whilst to me, my body is the last thing to consider. My body is only a tool!”

“But Holmes, has ever occurred to you that you are indeed human? You speak of your body as if your brain were a separate entity! For God’s sake Holmes, you are on the verge of an absolute breakdown! How on earth can you not see that?” I spoke with such vehemence that my friend just stared at me for a few seconds, amused incredulity upon his face.

“Is that your expert opinion, doctor?” He asked, almost mockingly.

“I think I have had enough for to-day,” said I, standing up without looking at him. I directed my steps to the door and then I took the stairs up to my bedroom. I intended to dress, to go to my club and to remain there until I could face him again without feeling exasperated.

I entered my room and began to undress when I heard a knock on my door. Sighing deeply, and wishing from the bottom of my heart to spare us an argument, I opened the door to see Sherlock Holmes standing there, looking at me tiredly and rather sheepishly.

“Are you angry?” he asked. I did not answer. Instead, I moved to the other side of the room, leaving the door open. He took the message, entered and closed the door behind him.

“I see you are angry”

“I’m not going to argue that. You are always right, after all.” I retorted.

“Oh Watson,” he sighed theatrically and sat upon my bed, “I have hurt your pride and I’m terribly sorry, but really, you should rely on me more often! I assure you I have no intention of ending my life so soon.”

“I’m not discussing it further. Do as you please,” said I, and continued putting my shirt on.

“Have you decided our destination already?” This question made me pause for an instant. I noticed that he had seen it yet continued without mentioning it. “We are not departing to-morrow, are we? I think I need a full rest before making any preparations. I would not pick up that jacket, my boy, you look gloomy enough as it is.” I did not dignified that comment with an answer and he began to look impatient “Well, do you intend it to be a surprise?”

“What I intend is to go out right now and have a nice dinner. Preferably in good company.”

“Being sulky does not suit you.”

“Because being insulted suits me better, is that it?”

“You realise you are making too much of a trifle, Watson.”

“Oh, yes, it is just another symptom of male hysteria”

“I never said you were hysterical. Not that I would not recommend you a pelvic massage, though. It is said to work miracles on women.” I stopped dressing and looked at him, shocked.

“That was gross and unworthy of a gentleman like you, Holmes.”

“Do not be so prudish. It’s a common practise in your profession,” he said, irritated. “And I find it highly hypocritical to prescribe it to females and discourage it for males.” He stretched upon my bed with visible gusto.

“Women are more prone to hysteria. Male hysteria is not unheard of, but it is extremely rare.” I remarked.

“Continue your medical preaching and it will cease to be,” he said tiredly and curled up. “Imagine your consulting-room full of male patients waiting for you to give them treatment.” He chuckled softly.

“Health is not a laughable matter.” said I, sternly.

“No, my good doctor, of course not.”

I finished dressing, searched the room for my gloves and went for the door.

“And so dear Watson goes hunting.”

I smelled the venom on that remark and did not answer.

*

Some two hours later I was back at Baker St. The old wound in my leg was making my evening even worse than the foul weather and I had not found suitable company at my club, so I had decided to go back and check on my unwilling patient.

As I did not find him in the sitting-room and the door of his bedroom was still open, I went directly to my bedroom.

He had undressed, leaving his clothes in a heap on the floor and put himself under the sheets. I was surprised at first, for he was always extremely careful with his clothing, sometimes even primly so.

I approached him and, even in the dim light, I could see he was somewhat flushed and looking feverish, but deeply asleep. I rested my hand softly on his forehead and this woke him up.

“Watson.” His eyelids were heavy with slumber.

“You have a temperature. Sleep.” Instead, he searched the room with still half-asleep eyes.

“What am I doing in your bed, doctor? Extremis malis extrema remedia, I see.”

“It was you who fell asleep on it. If it’s my bed what is needed for making you rest, then I shall take the settee for a fortnight.”

“Oh, no, no, you will hold me responsible if you hurt your back, my dear friend. Pray take your bed and let me go back to mine.” I pushed him back with my hands.

“By no means. You are going to stay here until I say otherwise.”

“Take my bed then,” he conceded.

“Why, thank you, I should be delighted.” He smiled briefly at that, but still I could sense his reticence.

“How was your dinner?” he asked softly as I tucked him in.

“I dinned at my club alone.”

“I had gathered that much.”

“Lonely, Holmes.” I gave him the truth, for it was that what he was seeking. “It was lonely. And now sleep, there’s a good fellow.”

I went for the door and exited the room.

*

His bedroom was always a mess by our landlady’s standards, but I pitied the poor soul who intended to remedy that.

Once inside, I closed the door realising that I had not brought any night-dress with me, so I decided to borrow one from my friend which, although way too long to my shorter stature, was still a better alternative to sleeping in my undergarments.

His bed was unmade and crinkled but it was all the same to me. Cold linens embraced me and I was soon losing consciousness to the smell of clean clothes and a sweet remembrance of my friend’s cologne.

*

I was roused only two or three hours later by the sound of papers being soundly shuffled in the next room. Terribly clumsy and half-asleep, I got up and went to the sitting-room to find Holmes in one of my night-dresses rummaging through stacks of papers.

“May I ask you what in heaven’s name are you doing at this hour, Holmes?” I asked him, exasperated.

“I should have known! That face was so familiar! It’s somewhere in the middle of this mess.” He waved a hand in one of his characteristic mannerisms. My night-dress, manifestly too short for him, made him look like an overgrown child, together with his tussled hair and his reddish cheeks.

“But it surely can wait until to-morrow, can it not?” I dared to suggest.

“Watson, give me a hand, man!”

“Oh, for the…”

*

“I’m sure that I must be stupid, but I can’t see the urge. The man has already been caught!”

“Once I remembered where I had seen that face, I could not sleep.” He retorted, irritated.

“Perfectly reasonable in your condition,” I remarked, putting him in his bed.

“Are you going back to your room now?” He asked, somewhat mollified.

“And pray tell me what else do you expect me to do? You may have not noticed, but it’s three in the morning!”

“I wonder… would it be too much if I asked you to stay here until I fall asleep? I know I’m not being the most amicable fellow lately, Watson, but if you complied, I should be most grateful.” He eyed me almost shyly, what was, for all its queerness, a good reason to stay per se.

“One of these days I could surprise you and keep saying ‘no’“ said I, through clenched teeth but only half-joking.

“Watson, you are too unselfish for that,” he said, although sounding unconvinced.

“And you take advantage of it.”

“Only when you let me. Oh, please, leave that upon the chair and sit here on the bed. Or better still,” he said, moving to the other side of the bed, “come under the blankets. We shall not let you catch a cold because of me.”

I simply stared at him for a few seconds, truly disconcerted.

“What?” he asked, impatient.

“Nothing. I fancy that, being you, this invitation should not be taken in any other way.”

“And pray tell me, what ‘other way’ would you be referring to?” he asked, frowning. I shook my head as so to clear my mind and entered the bed in one swift movement. Once inside I found that I did not feel any better.

“This is improper, Holmes.” I felt myself blush. “Has that thought not occurred to you?” I was unable to look at him and my cheeks were burning with embarrassment. I felt Holmes tense and heard him say very tersely, “Sometimes you came up with the most preposterous ideas, Watson.” I felt myself blushing even more.

Silence fell over the two of us. Some minutes elapsed and I relaxed a little. Only then my friend spoke again.

“This is nice,” he said, very softly. And I pondered how singular a feeling it could be for a man like Sherlock Holmes just a plain and ordinary human action like that of sharing a bed.

“You do not share your bed often,” I did not ask.

“Only once, that I remember.” It was his prompt reply. “I was seven, I think, and it was out of pure necessity, you see. There were no other bed available in the inn.” He took a brief glance at me. “I considered Mycroft to be very much older than me, then, you know,” he chuckled to himself, “he was so tall and strong. I think I hugged him.”

There was something, deep buried in those few words, which spoke in such volume of innocence and loneliness that wrung my heart.

“Sharing a warm bed is just perfect for cold nights in winter. There’s nothing cosier.” I tried a light tone, although my voice was heavy with emotion.

“You miss it.”

“Not now.”

One could, but only looking very carefully, discover an almost invisible trace of vulnerability under all his masterly manners and selfish requests.

“I never had a younger brother,” said I.

“You are shorter than Mycroft,” said he, turning to me and sliding slowly his arm upon my chest.

“And younger,” I added, passing my arm under his head and hugging him loosely with my right arm. He rested his head very softly upon my shoulder.

“I’m not as soft as a woman,” he whispered.

“No, I could not take you for one.” I chuckled.

“It’s going to be difficult to keep pretending.”

“Pretending what?”

“You to be Mycroft and I to be…”

“Let’s not pretend, then,” I interrupted.

“…a woman.”

His chest moved rhythmically and I found its effect very soothing.

“You smell of soap.”

“It’s your soap.” I realised that he might have used it before coming down from my room.

He began to follow imaginary patterns on my borrowed night-dress with his long and nervous fingers.

“I’m very fond of this night-dress. It’s too big for you.”

“I could not go into your bed naked.”

“I also took one of yours.”

“So I noticed.” I had to still his hand with mine. Despite the season, I was starting to feel a little too warm.

“Whatever is the matter?” his whispering voice sounded surprised.

“Nothing is the matter.” said I.

“You tensed all of a sudden.” He spoke a little louder. I disentangled myself from him and he used the opportunity to sit up upon the bed. He shot one of his keen glances at my prone body, and I knew that there was no reason to hide it any longer. “Could it be that you are regretting having come home so early, Watson?”

I covered my eyes with the back my hand for an answer.

“You are hungry. Your flesh is reacting.” Disgust was evident in his voice. I felt mortified.

“Could you be so kind as to let the matter drop, Holmes? Would it be asking too much?” I wished for all that was holy that he did not misinterpret me. “Yours has been the first warm body in years.” It was the truth. I had not shared my wife’s bed in her last months and I had remained celibate since then. “It is a perfectly natural reaction for a healthy man. And I do not see why I should have to explain all this to you.”

“If you find that you need it so much, you should seek professional help.”

“You mean a brothel.”

“Or use your right hand more often. Oh, is it too harsh for your medical ears even in this context? You won’t fall ill if you do, I assure you. But our dear Watson is a too respectable medical man for both solutions. And so, we shall wait until he finds an equally respectable young lady with whom he can have a respectable bedroom life.” His tone was unnecessarily reproachful and full of venom. I could not take it.

“Why, tell me, why do you seem to be so obsessed with my marriage? I fell in love with a lovely lady and I married her. And, after you disappeared from my life for three long years during which my dear wife died, you came back and now I’m here with you! I even sold my practise, Holmes!”

“You deserted me once.” His voice was low.

“I fell in love!”

“Well, I do not wish you to fall in love again!”

“But why? Why is it that you have such determined designs upon my life? This control-obsession of yours is close to insanity!” I asked, desperately. He turned his face to me. His eyes were wild and his expression murderous. In a flash, he grasped my wrists and pinned them above my head on the mattress.

“Are you planning on leaving me again? Answer me!” His whispering voice contrasted with his half-mad expression. The lateness of the hour and the straining of the talk were exhausting my anger.

“Holmes, that was never the question,” said I, whispering too. “I do wish to stay with you,” I assured, feeling almost beaten. “Why do you think I sold my house and my practise? Is it not proof enough for you that I am here, now?”

“You were here before you married,” he said, frowning. “And you are a helpless romantic. Whenever a pretty face is around your reason flies through the window.”

“Let go of me.”

“No.”

“You’ll have to, sooner or later. Let go of my hands, Holmes.” He did it, although reluctantly. Then he fell back on the bed, his breath ragged, betraying his anger.

If I had been to name other reasons for his attitude than his almost sick penchant for domination, I would have found that I had to remain silent. I truly did not understand his motivations. He was always distant and dismissive, so it was certainly not emotional deprivement, nor solitude, what compelled him to keep me by his side.

“You must believe me when I say that I do want to stay here,” I started to speak, some minutes later, when his respiration was back to normal. “Have you not thought that I should be more distrustful than you? You let me believe you were dead for three years. It is you who decides to disappear for days, weeks or months at times.”

“It is not the same. It is always out of necessity, Watson. Never for pleasure,” he said, irritated.

“Your reasons are not the point. You could disappear to-morrow and forever and I would not know where you went to or for what purpose.”

“If I have kept certain information from you it has been only for your own safety. I would not think of jeopardising your life for my work.”

“My good God, Holmes, I think you just do not wish to see it!”

“You are the only friend that I have. I’m not going to lose you,” he said, blind and deaf. All my protestations were in vain.

“Holmes, I could say the very same!”

“Watson, I have nobody else.”

“Oh no, you still have your brother!” To my chagrin, my tone was full of resentment. I had not forgotten that Mycroft had known of his brother’s well-being during the years of his absence.

“Don’t be a fool, Mycroft is exactly like his mother. He does not love me. Never has,” he spat. That made me instantly silent.

For some minutes, there was only a tumult of memories in my mind and the roar of my own blood in my ears. Then came the rage, the bitterness and the desolation. Cold and misery nested in my chest as if a frozen hand had grasped my heart. I closed my eyes and inhaled deeply as I digested how desperately lonely and needy was the grown child who was lying next to me.

Behind my eyelids, I could picture him as a sad-eyed, unhappy boy, avid for even mere scraps of affection, turning to take refuge in his books and weird habits, and gradually building the unreachable fortress which surrounded him when we first met. A brain without a heart, indeed! How treacherous, hurtful, how painfully unfair those words had been!

I turned my head to look at my friend’s sharp profile, once more void of expression.

“My dear friend, surely you… you do know that I love you,” I spoke those words out loud and clear, for I did not wish he had any doubts. Holmes’s face flinched, but otherwise remained still. Then, in a soft and broken voice, he said, “I know.” He most probably noticed it, because he took a minute to compose himself again before continuing.

“What I do ignore is what I should do to preserve such a precious treasure.” He looked at me, his expression puzzled. “My dear Watson, I honestly do not know.”

I propped myself up upon one elbow, lifted a hand and gripped his shoulder in what I hoped were a firm and reassuring way. Only hoped, for my old convictions about him were dramatically shattered and my strength gone.

“Try not to concern yourself and just trust me.” I told him, tenderly.

“It’s too difficult and risky.” He frowned, but covered my hand with his.

“Life always is.” I smiled at him. He seemed to doubt for a moment, but then let go of my hand, pulled me down on top of him and hugged me tightly. There were no words then, nor there will ever be, to express the sweet warmness I felt at such rare and sudden fit of affection from my cold and distant companion.

I had ended up with the upper half of my torso over his, so I encircled his arms by his armpits and held his shoulders. I could feel his breath upon my ear, his wiry fingers upon my back and his heated neck upon mine.

“Do not desert me again, Watson.” His skin smelled clean and hot like fresh-ironed sheets mixed with a sweet and familiar bodily scent. It was the sort of smell which never failed to enrapture me and make my chest swell with emotion.

“That sounded like an order.” I squeezed his shoulders soothingly and massaged as much of his back as I could reach, trying to relax him and taking a selfish pleasure in every second of our embrace.

“You know that it was,” he said, almost jokingly.

And we remained entwined in that fashion until I, regrettably, began to feel dizzy and overwhelmed. My hands wandered from his shoulders to the back of his head where his hair was surprisingly cool and soft. I buried my fingers in it, enjoying the silky threads upon my skin.

It was at that point that I became aware that my treacherous body was imposing its needs again, taking advantage of my emotional vulnerability and my tiredness.

“Holmes,” I tried to put my voice under control, but it sounded hoarse none the less. I felt his fingers moving across my back up and down, nervously. He did not answer.

“Holmes,” I repeated.

“Watson,” an almost unknown voice whispered softly to my ear. I felt it upon my skin like a caress, and my body trembled with pleasure in a perfect rapture, exhaling part of my soul at my friend’s nape. Like answering my own, a twin quiver shook the body I had between my arms.

A few seconds of stillness and silence that felt like an eternity prolonged our indulgence in that mad embrace.

Then, his hand squeezed my shoulder very softly and I felt his nose nuzzling the back of my ear. Another wave of pleasure invaded and conquered me through a thousand nerves and pores vibrant with such a gentle touch. I summoned one of my hands to try and reach one of his earlobes, while my nose decided on its own to play with its twin.

“Ah…” and I missed his breathing upon my ear, but felt pleased by his shakiness. I nosed purposefully the junction of his mandibula and his neck while fingering very gently the helix of his ear and then flicking rapidly the lobule with a digit.

“Ahh…” He was moaning soundly and I groaned in return. This seemed to undone him, because he tilted his head and took my earlobe between his lips and tongued it frantically, sucking and licking it with extreme fervour. To witness such ardour and passion upon my friend made me lose any reservations I might have had left. My body was driven mad by arousal and lewdness and, deeper in my mind, by a sudden and arrogant disregard of law, moral, society, its values, its mores, my beliefs, my profession, myself and everything but the needy and wanting body and soul that were trembling beneath me. I decided not to think.

Feeling only his mouth on me, I pressed down upon the mattress trying to relieve the ache between my thighs.

“Watson…, John…,” he whispered hoarsely, letting go of my earlobe. It was my turn to worry his ear with heated laps and its inner channel with the tip of my tongue. “On the top of me, oh Watson…” I obeyed him and placed my whole body over his with only the thin linen of our nightdresses between us. He stiffened and lifted his hips against me, letting me feel his manhood erected and throbbing with lust just as mine was. I pressed down upon him as well.

“Ah, Watson…, ah, feel me, feel me.” He was panting and nearly sobbing, but he was not, by any means, weak or soft like a maiden, for he grasped my hand with a strength that I often forgot he had. I propped myself up on one elbow and pulled up his nightdress hastily until I found the hem and I touched the skin of his knee. Up went my hand, stroking the soft hairs of his thigh with the tips of my fingers in my way to his crotch. With my head hovering over his, even in the poorly lighted room, I could see his expressive face contorted by desire. A fleshy tongue darting between his thin lips to wet them, brows frowned and eyelids heavy and short, panting breaths, disguised him as the very portrait of male debauchery. And that was my long-time friend and companion, the always cold, collected and aloof Sherlock Holmes.

Such a sight did nothing more than increase my lust. I had an instantaneous letch for watching him spend, so I laid hold of his penis and began to feel him.

“Oh, fuck,” he said, in a husky, thick voice. His bawdiness inflamed me. I pulled the foreskin up and down and then the prepuce off and on the fleshy knob until his rod got stiffer. His moaning resounded loudly in the quiet of the night.

“Shhh, they will hear you.”

“To hell with them. Frig me.” It was my turn to moan. Being with him like this, watching him so unashamedly blind with lust, hearing those obscenities out of his pristine mouth made me even more randy. I began to frig him.

“You too, frig me, do me, feel mine too, feel it, …ah, ah.” He lifted my nightdress, took me in his hand and began to mimic my movements. His prick was oozing seminal fluids and the sound of our hands rubbing our cocks was indecently loud.

“Oh, John, ah…, mmn, ah.” He was approaching his crisis and in a sudden movement, he propped himself up and tried to kiss me upon the lips. A strange revulsion came instantly and I averted my face. He let himself fall again upon the bed and increased the pace with his hand. In a few seconds I was spurting my seed, my head hidden in the hollow between his neck and shoulder. He spent shortly after me, oddly quiet and still.

*

It must have been five in the morning when I sat in front of the fire I had stoked only minutes before in our sitting-room. Holmes was still in his bedroom, where I had left him silent and perfectly awake.

Before my eyes laid an unknown territory with no visible paths. My physical reaction I could not condemn, for I was a sound man with a healthy appetite which had been ignored for far too long, so I had reacted under its powerful and undeniable influence. I had tried to warn Holmes. Of that I was sure. And he, presumably in a similar or worse condition than me and with considerably less experience, had been unable to stop himself. Those were the facts, cold and succinct. I prayed to God that Holmes could see them in that very fashion.

But, what of our old intimate friendship? What of the loneliness of us both? What of the tenderness we had shared before succumbing to lewd and lascivious carnal pleasures? What of Holmes’s confidence? What of my unquestionable love for him? Why was I feeling so disgusted with myself and so utterly and dreadfully lost?

And there was that one memory which filled me with fear. I had refused his kiss. I shut my eyes with dismay. Even in the middle of our libidinous act, my body had rebelled at the prospect of kissing a man. To fondle him, was one thing, but sharing a loving kiss was, from my point of view, another thing entirely. I fancied that every boarder of my time had had his initiation at the hands of a fellow student as it had been my case. The not-so-secretive places where boys handled and felt each other pricks were as common as lewd talk and circulating pornographic novels. I had enjoyed the feeling of the soft loose skin over the iron-hard rod of my random companion, as well as his face at the moment of spending. There was a time when I had talked bawdy to a mate whilst frigging him to help him to imagine he was with a woman, and I had spent only by looking at him, feeling him and hearing my own words.

It was true that I had not felt another man’s stiff penis in more years than I could count, although it had been a long unfulfilled letch of mine to watch a couple enjoying sex next to me, and to be able to touch them freely everywhere while they were at it. It was only a fantasy and, to be honest, I was not in the least ashamed of it. But no fantasy had ever included kissing a man.

In my experience, kisses meant always love or romance. I had never kissed a prostitute, or a woman with whom I had not been infatuated.

Sherlock Holmes. He was more than dear to me. I could have given my life for him anytime. Even the departure of my dear Mary had not affected me as his fake death had. I had been pathetically aware of my one-sided devotion, loyalty and unconditional love for him. And still, my body did notice a difference. What would have it meant for him my evasion? Would I have hurt him? Was that even possible? Was I giving it too much thought?

Immersed I was into deep thoughts when the object of my pondering went out of his room. He was still wearing my night-dress and over it, his mouse-coloured dressing-gown. He went directly to the pipe rack, took one, filled it, lit it and sat on his arm-chair in front of the fire. He did not look at my direction.

I was afraid of speaking, for I did not know what to say. Then it occurred to me that I could be no wrong if I began apologising.

“Holmes, I…” I faltered, “I do not even know where to begin to apologise properly for what has happened to-night.”

“Do not apologise then,” he said, between clouds of smoke. “I should be apologising to you too, for I do not know what came over me. So it could be better if we forget it all and do not mention it again,” he said, with a cold demeanour.

I did not know what to expect from him, but I did not like that cold dismissal. Furthermore, I did not believe it. I was beginning to see his true self through the small cracks in his facade.

“But I do wish you to know that I maintain every word that I said to you.” I declared. His eyes moved quickly to look at me and a strange expression flickered on his face, but only for a second.

“Thank you,” said he, in a restricted voice. “Your honesty is much appreciated.”

“I love you, my dear chap,” I said in a low voice, as it seemed easier, “and I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable.” He looked visibly moved again and tried to conceal it by getting up and going to the window. I got up too and approached him a little.

“You are not disgusted then?” He asked, whispering.

“Good heavens Holmes, of course I’m not!” I tried to grip his arm, but he avoided it.

“Please, don’t”

“Sorry, I was not going to… I did not…”

“It is all right.”

A minute of strained silence followed.

“You thought I was disgusted because I did not…”

“Watson!”

“But I need to know, let me…”

“There is no need to relive it!” he cried.

“Please, let me finish! Hear what I have to say for once in your life!”

“I don’t know why I should have to endure being humiliated by you!” He shoved me aside and tried to get away but, falling on my knees, I gripped the hem of his dressing-gown.

“Please, Holmes, please,” I begged him.

“Get up! Get up I tell you!” He pulled from my good shoulder forcefully but unsuccessfully.

“I do not wish to humiliate you, don’t you see? I have left everything behind each time you have called me. I have broken the law for a word of appraisal from you. I would withstand torture just to hear you say you care for me.”

He closed his eyes, defeated.

“Oh Watson, what is happening to us?

“You thought I was disgusted because I did not let you kiss me.” He flinched. “I do not know how to explain it. I suppose that my scarce experience with males did not involve kissing. I have only kissed the females I have loved. And it is not that I do not love you, for I do, and you know it. I do not understand it myself. So please, forgive me. Do not push me away.”

“Push you away?” He smiled bitterly. “I would chain you to a wall of this room if I could.” Those words set my heart beating madly. “I have never kissed anyone.” I felt remorseful tears filling my eyes and I could do nothing to stop them.

“I’m so sorry,” I sobbed. “I love you so much, please, forgive me.”

“No, you have done nothing wrong,” said he, in a barely audible voice. “Please, do not weep, I do not know if I can hate myself more than I already do. Get up, come, sit on the settee.”

I obeyed him and sat at his side, while he took a blanket from the back of the settee and covered us both with it.

*

We had remained in silence until I stopped weeping.

“We need to be practical about this,” he said, breaking the silence and sounding almost like the efficient thinker I knew so well.

“Indeed. How?”

“Let’s go to sleep. I’m exhausted. I cannot think clearly.”

“I thought I would never hear those words from you.” I was not teasing him, as I was honestly shocked.

“To-night is full of firsts, it seems.”

I silently nodded.

“We shall rest, and then we shall plan our holidays. I find you need them as much as I do. Maybe even more.”

“I concede that you may be a most tiring patient.”

“I know.”

“I love you all the same.” He blushed and smiled shyly, looking deeply moved. I loved him even more for that.

“My dear friend, I do not deserve you,” he said, his eyes averted and his voice low.

“I’m yours all the same”

“I’m grateful for that,” he said, standing up and tending me his hand. I took it and he seized me up.

We made our way to the door, where he stopped. I bade him good-night in silence.

*

My bed smelled of him. I slept until midday.

*

A week later, we took a train to the country.

END

The gaslight was shining shyly over our breakfast table on a cold morning of the Winter of 1894. From the window, one could see a few people in the street wrapping themselves up in heavy coats to avoid the distasteful caress of the fog. Although I could not discern the reason, I was feeling somewhat depressed at the sight of those people, immersed in their daily troubles and occasional happiness, maybe wandering without purpose, even on such an unfriendly Saturday morning.

Thinking of my own existence as if it were a mere passing shadow, one more of the thousands of souls who live in London, I remembered myself as a young man, full of hopes and expectations, who wanted to get from life adventure, love, friendship… and I believed that it was possible for everybody to get to know those things as I had. Yet, as years go by, one also may see an infinite sadness lying beneath the things we still possess and beneath those that we have already lost.

I turned my sight from the window to our sitting room, and a warm feeling made me smile sadly at those pieces of furniture and objects so familiar to me. I could see Holmes still sitting at the table in his dressing gown, pipe in hand, looking at me quietly. I was accustomed to his ability to interrupt my thread of thoughts, but this time he said nothing. Maybe the mere knowledge of my concern had infected him with my melancholy.

Three weeks have elapsed since his last case, and the active nature of my friend, unable to endure the drab and ordinary life like most of us, had fallen into a sad and worthless languor, aggravated by his use of the pernicious cocaine. This morning, as the others, he would turn the pages of the paper, looking for something of criminal interest and then, he would lie down upon the sofa for hours, with a dreamy expression in his eyes. Only the lust of chase would wake him up to his more energetic self.

“It seems to me, Watson, that unless something extraordinary happens today, we both are going to have a very bad day” said he, looking at me tiredly.

“We could have a walk later, if you like. It may help,” I suggested.

“With this weather? Are you suggesting that we commit suicide by catching pneumonia?”

“At least it will be a more natural death,” said I, pointing to the box in which Holmes kept the bottle of cocaine.

“Yes, and it would allow me to enter that undiscovered country in your pleasant company. Nevertheless, it would be a pity that your frantic public could not read the hasty and rather pathetic end of our uncommon lives.”

“There is no need to be sarcastic, Holmes.”

“I agree, my dear Watson.”

I kept silence and turned again to the window. Holmes and I hardly argued, but when we did, Holmes always said the last word. That time, like many others, Holmes was right, I had to concede that. The weather was almost as awful as our moods, and a stroll would do very little to change it.

Fortunately, something came to turn our luck, and it started with the ring of the doorbell. A few seconds later, we had Lestrade standing at the door of our sitting room, looking at the same time puzzled and somewhat reluctant. Holmes immediately adopted the attitude of someone who has important things in mind but tries to be a good host.

“My dear Lestrade, take a seat near the fire, please. Whatever made you quit your office in such an unpleasant morning, it must be remarkable indeed!”

“I know you are always busy, Holmes, but I also know the interest you have in everything which is out of the common,” he commenced, “and so, I thought you should like to hear about it. It is an extremely weird business Mr. Holmes, of the kind of stories I used to read as a boy. Maybe Dr. Watson here could give us his professional point of view as well, because I’m sure that it’s related to some kind of macabre ritual that only can be conceived by insanity itself.”

“Lestrade, I assure you that you have an innate talent to catch attention, so spare us dramatic introductions and describe the facts.” Although my friend was trying not to look openly interested, I knew him well enough to notice the excitement in his eyes and his tensed pose. Lestrade looked momentarily offended, but in a few seconds he seemed to resign himself and continued his story.

“A year ago YYY prison, in ***, reported the disappearance of a corpse which was about to be conveyed from its mortuary to the cemetery of ***, where the next of kin to the deceased lived. The prison have a small building next to the cemetery where the corpses are kept until a relative claims them, otherwise they are buried in its cemetery. John Woods, the deceased, had an older sister in ***, as I said, who was informed the same evening of the death of his brother. The corpse was carried to the mortuary to remain there till the following morning. At some moment during the night, between ten and six, someone broke into the mortuary and stole the corpse.

The second case occurred three months later, and this time the deceased didn’t have any relatives, at least none known by the authorities of the prison. It was James Hill, the famous counterfeiter who was sent to prison four years ago.”

“I remember it. During the trial I couldn’t help thinking that he had something to do with Moriarty,” Holmes interrupted.

“As I was saying, the body of James Hill was moved from the infirmary to the mortuary together with the body of another convict who had passed away a couple of hours before. The burial was arranged for the following day, but again, the corpse disappeared during the night. We have not found the corpses. Neither of them.

The third and last case happened last week, being similar to the others, save that on this occasion, the corpse was found on the moor three days later. It seemed that it had been object of a macabre ritual, because it had been horribly mutilated. I have here a copy of the forensics report. As it is the only evidence we have, I have thought it would be a good idea to bring it with me in case you were interested.”

“By all means, my dear Lestrade. But I am afraid that I shall need a more detailed report of the three disappearances…”

“I supposed so, and I have brought all the documents concerning the case. None of us is a magician, Mr. Holmes, but if you have any idea, I should be extremely glad of hearing it.”

“And I should be only too happy to provide it, my dear friend. And now, I am sure you have some more important matters at your office… By the way, are you staying there today? Well, well, if I have something I shall let you know.”

When Lestrade had been shown out Holmes looked at me, rubbing his nervous hands together with an expression of pure joy on his face.

“What do you think of that, Watson? Isn’t it gorgeous?”

“Holmes! For Heaven’s sake,” I exclaimed.

“Calm down, my dear fellow, you know what I mean. Besides, these three were already dead,” he said, holding the reports against his chest with one hand while cleaning up the table with the other.

“Holmes, if I did not know you, I should think you are not human. But I suppose it is all right, if it keeps you away from the cocaine.”

We spoke little more after this, for Holmes immersed himself in the documents for the whole day, without even troubling to have lunch.

The following morning when I got up, Holmes was already in the sitting room, bending over a map and studying it intently.

“Come Watson. We have just an hour before our train leaves to ***. Of course, that is presuming that you will come.”

“I should be glad to, if you wish it.”

“Naturally. We have to hurry, my friend, or we’ll be late.”

A few hours later we were on our way to *** prison in a rather shabby carriage we had hired when we arrived at the station. We had already rented a little house that was placed midway between the small village and the prison, to stay during the investigation. Although there were questions in my mind concerning the case, I observed the austere profile of my friend, eyes closed and immersed in his own thoughts, and I stayed silent.

By the time we arrived the prison it was getting dark and the silhouette of the building looked somewhat menacing. A guard was outside waiting for us and he guided us to the office of the Head of the prison. He was a tall man with an imposing figure, broad shoulders and piercing little eyes, who looked down at us coldly.

“I am a very busy man, Mr. Holmes, and I shall not waste my time with amateurs looking for sensationalism. I do not see how your presence here can be of any help. I shall also request that you finish this interview as soon as possible.”

“I assure you I have no desire to waste your time. The reports from Scotland Yard were detailed enough, and so, for now, I have no need of repeating any question that has already been answered. Nevertheless, I should be very pleased if you introduce me to Dr. Smithson, for there are some aspects of this matter I should like to discuss with him.”

“I am afraid that will be impossible, Mr. Holmes. Dr. Smithson left to the continent two days ago. I gave him permission. You may talk to his assistant, Dr. Hughes.” Holmes looked startled for a moment.

“Is that so? How can you condone the absence of a member of your staff in the middle of a criminal investigation?

“Dr. Smithson is an extremely competent doctor with an immaculate reputation. He has already done his best to clear up this matter, as have we all. If you are going to imply that…”

“Do not be offended, Governor, I am not implying anything yet. As you said before, you are a busy man and I do not wish to bother you. So, if you give us permission to see Dr. Hughes, I should be most grateful.”

The Governor appeared outraged. He left the room for a few moments and came back with a guardian, who led us to the infirmary.

The place had a rather oppressive atmosphere, and a few candles that dimly lighted it. There were some beds aligned but no occupants. The guardian conducted us through a small corridor and knocked a door. A nervous little young man with an expressive face opened that door and once we were introduced, he shook our hands enthusiastically.

“Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson, my name is Gregory Hughes, and it is an honour to meet you, sirs. I can define myself as a devoted admirer of your work. Please, come in. You see, now I am glad Dr. Smithson is not here, because otherwise I could not have had the chance to help you.”

“But you work here,” I said.

“Well, yes, I do. But most of the time I only assist Dr. Smithson with his routine examinations. I’m married and I live in *** with my wife and daughters. Normally, I leave this place in the afternoons.” We took ours seats around a small, clothed table.

“What can you tell us about Dr. Smithson,” asked Holmes.

“Not much I’m afraid, I don’t have your abilities, Mr. Holmes. He is not a talkative man, he spends most of his time here, and when he doesn’t, I don’t know where he goes. When I arrived here, a year and a half ago, he seemed to be immersed in some kind of project, but I’m not sure. He was always locked in his laboratory, and during my first three months I had nobody to talk to. After that I had the chance to know him more, but only professionally. I can give him my opinion, he corrects me when I do something wrong, and he listens to my comments. I work well with him.”

“Who certifies the deaths of the convicts?”

“He does. He is always here when it happens, and if I am here too, I only assist him.”

“Were you present when John Woods, James Hill and Mortimer Fox passed away?”

“No, I wasn’t.”

“But you examined the corpses.”

“No, I didn’t. What for?”

“It was only a question about procedure.”

“I have already told you. He is the one qualified to do that. I’m only his assistant, and I only can certify a death if he is not here.” Dr. Hughes appeared defensive. “I really wish to help, Mr. Holmes, but I don’t know if…”

“Of course, it is only that we do not have much time. Dr. Smithson seems to be an extremely reserved person. Were you not curious about him at first? And I assure you I appreciate your opinion.”

“Well, yes, I was. But I soon learnt to let him be. For instance, I only entered his laboratory once. He wasn’t there but I didn’t know it, so I went to ask him some questions. There were a few experiments running, and I tried to figure out what they were about. I intended no harm, but he acted as if I were thinking of stealing his discoveries. I felt very offended then, but he didn’t know me, and that project seemed to be important. I suppose it was a normal reaction.”

“I see. Could you show us Dr. Smithson’s laboratory?”

“He gave me the key as I have occasional need of something within. I cannot see your reasons, but if you think it necessary…”

Dr. Hughes looked puzzled. I did not have any clues about Holmes´s interest, either. It was a small square room full of shelves, and a large table was placed in the middle of it. As soon as Holmes entered the room, he appeared to forget our presence, for he started his intended examination of the room, muttering under his breath, his magnifying glass in hand. I observed him as I had done a hundred times before, and I have to say he didn’t look satisfied. Ten minutes later he let out a little cry that startled us. He picked a few envelopes out of his pocket, and proceeded to fill them up with whatever it was he had found. Dr. Hughes looked even more nervous.

“I hope this will help you, Mr. Holmes, because I must ask you to leave this room. I shouldn’t have let you in. If Dr. Smithson knew…”

“I have already finished. You don’t have to worry, Dr. Hughes, and I’m most grateful for your help. Watson here will take good account of your cooperation.”

“I should prefer not to be named, if you don’t mind. Please, gentlemen, I think I have done enough for you.”

“As you wish, of course.”

We left the room and went back to the small office. There, Holmes made an exhibition of his scenic talent, for he excused himself for his stupidity and returned to the laboratory to retrieve his forgotten magnifying glass. Dr. Hughes was obviously too concerned to be aware of Holmes´s trick, although for me it was the only thing I saw clear in the entire evening. My friend returned smiling and then we left leaving behind a very worried Dr. Hughes.

Outside, the same carriage was waiting. The night air was cold but clean, so I welcomed the little trip to our rented house. The rarefied atmosphere of the prison had had an oppressive effect upon my spirit.

I was as clueless as usual about my friend’s discoveries, but I preferred to reach the house before asking him anything. I buried myself in my coat and tried to forget all of our visit, although the little I could discern of the landscape seemed to me as lifeless and hopeless as the prison.

Almost an hour later we arrived at the small cottage which was our destination. Placed in the middle of nowhere, I should have expected it to be old and in disarray, but it happened to be clean and comfortable. As I examined it, Holmes remained outside talking to the driver.

After our dinner, which consisted on a picnic prepared by Mrs. Hudson, Holmes opened his bag and extracted a black case, which was full of little test tubes and a carefully selected set of chemical samples. After clearing the table, he organized his improvised laboratory and started to work in silence.

I had learnt to know when I had best let him alone, and so I decided to have a look around the house. It was an old but clean cottage, with a small kitchen and two bedrooms. It was the kind of place to which I would have wanted to go on holidays. I thought that I could propose Holmes to rent something like it for a week or two after the case were solved.
I was in one of the bedrooms, pulling out my nightshirt and slippers from my bag and smelling the clean scent of the bed clothes, when I heard the voice of my friend calling me from downstairs.

“Watson? Where are you?”

“Up here,” I answered, going down the stairs. “Is there anything you want me to do?”

“Not yet, I’m afraid. Were you thinking of going to bed?” I shrugged my shoulders.

“Well, there is not much to do… this room is rather small and I don’t want to be a distraction.” He smiled at me warmly at that.

“My dear Watson, I don’t deserve you,” he said, fondly. Then, he stood up swiftly and went to the door. “Would you mind waiting here just a few moments, Watson? I need to fetch something from my bag. Did you leave it in one of the bedrooms? The one on the left?” I simply nodded, and he went out. I sat there for a while, wondering first how could he have deduced that, and then if maybe it had been only a guess.

A few minutes later, I realized that I had stopped hearing Holmes upstairs. I stood up and approached the door, listening. I had still my hand on the knob when I heard a strangled noise.

“Holmes!” I called, “Holmes, is there anything wrong?” I asked just before I entered his bedroom. There, kneeling on the floor, with his upper body on the bed, was my friend. I was stunned for an instant before I knelt down to examine him.

“Holmes, Holmes, what is the matter?” He was having a fit of a kind I had never seen. He was making terrible noises as if there was not enough air in his lungs, his eyes were wide open and he was clutching the bed clothes with both hands. I tried to help him upon the bed, but in his state that was a impossible task. After two attempts I finally could raise him and lay him on the bed, and I ran out of the room to fetch my medical bag. My heart was pounding in my chest and my hands were trembling when I picked the bag up. I returned to the room to find Holmes laid on the bed absolutely still. I sat at his side and examined him while my shirt was getting soaked by a cold sweat. There was no pulse. His face was relaxed and his eyes closed. I opened my bag and got everything I thought it could be of use to get him back. I wanted to be sure it had not been a sort of catalepsy, an illness of which I had but a very poor understanding, and whose study was then at the very beginning.

I worked on his body for an hour unsuccessfully, but I did not want to surrender. Nonetheless at some point I knew I had to acknowledge the truth. The tears that had been blurring my eyes the last minutes finally started to run and I felt sick.

In only an instant, my life, my whole world had shattered. Confusion and desolation clouded my mind, and with a stone upon my heart and trembling knees I got out of the room. In my feverish state of mind, I even contemplated some ideas which, had I acted upon them, would have given this tale a very different end. I am grateful to whatever spirit or soul that had compassion on me and protected me from my madness and desperation.

It was with such a state of mind that I went downstairs to pass what were undoubtedly the worst hours of my life.

A few hours later I was sitting still by the side of the window, unable to move or think or see any other thing but the body of my dear friend Sherlock Holmes dying in my arms. There had been so many times I had regretted not having been present at Reichenbach Falls! And then, again, I had failed my friend in front of Death.

Still lost in my thoughts, I heard an indescribable little noise in the bedroom. I used the back of my hand to dry my cheeks, and then I rose to go up to the room. There, it took me a few seconds to set my eyes to the dim light, but after that, I could observe the second miracle of my life: Sherlock Holmes was propping himself on his right arm, his head lifted to me.

“What time is it, Watson?” his voice was weak, but it was undoubtedly a living voice. My eyes widened, and I felt again tears blurring my eyes.

“Holmes!” and I gave two steps to kneel down on the floor and gripped him by the arms. So, it started the least manly episode of my life, for I rested my head on his chest weeping desperately. I had been in such a state of affliction only a few minutes before, that the discovery had broken the nervous tension and led me to find relief in such an improper way.

“Thank God! Thank… God!” I could not say any more. During the following moments, neither of us spoke. I could not understand what could have happened, but in that very instant I did not care. I only wanted to feel the warmth of his body, to feel that I was not dreaming, that those arms and that chest were alive. It did not matter to me either whether my closeness and my emotions were making him feel uncomfortable, because the only thing I had on my mind was that the dreadful night I had suffered had been a nightmare. A little after, Holmes shifted and held my arms.

“Watson… Watson, please, calm yourself!” he requested with an unusual sweetness in his manner, without success. “Watson, please, man! Listen to me! Let me explain it, and then you may knock me out as I deserve.”

“What… what are you talking about?” I asked, trying to control myself.

“Watson, I really am extremely sorry, but you must believe me. I wanted to warn you, but the effects were too fast.”

“What are you talking about?” I asked again.

“The drug, Watson, the drug. I knew you’d try to stop me, so I thought to take it and then inform you… but it was impossible…” The rest of the sentence died behind his lips, for I had tensed my grasp of his arms as the meaning of what he was saying reached my brain.

“A drug? The cause of this was… a drug?” The words were almost hard to pronounce.

“Watson, my friend, try to understand, please. It was the only way to prove my theory. I only took a little dose; I didn’t know it would affect me so soon. I did intend to tell you, so you could observe the effects. I didn’t mean to upset you, my dear friend, and I’m deeply sorry.”

“Upset me?” I barked out. “You don’t know what you’re talking about!”

“Watson…”

“How could you? I wonder how could you…” I asked bitterly, as some unwanted tears were filling my eyes and I was unable to steady my voice. “Holmes, you could have died! My God, I thought you had died! How can you be so irresponsible?”

“Watson, you already know me. This is not the first time it has happened.” Holmes was visibly weak, and I could see that he was starting to feel overwhelmed by my unexpected attitude.

“I could have stopped you this time! It was a dangerous thing to do. You… you should have told me. Why? Why didn’t you tell me? What am I here for? Why am I always following you everywhere?” I tried not to sob, although my anger was only aggravating my state of distress. “But of course, I mean nothing to you! Nothing. Your own life means nothing to you. Your cases are the only thing you see, the only thing you expect from life. The rest is simply rubbish. And I’m a fool for believing…”

“Watson, please, just listen! I have told you, it was only a little risk I had to take to prove…”

“Rubbish! Don’t you dare to try to convince me that the agony I’ve felt the last hours… the worst hours of my entire life… don’t say it was worth it. I know you think it is, but please don’t say it aloud!” In vain I was trying to collect myself and tears were running free over my heated cheeks.”You can laugh at it later. At my thickness, at ‘poor old Watson’… It was not so funny before, when I thought I had failed to save your life again. Having your dead body in my arms and being unable to do anything. I was so nervous, so confused! I could not find any explanation. After your return I swore to myself I wouldn’t let you die again, even if that meant losing my own life. But there I was, a common physician, with the corpse of my friend…” Words were failing me and I struggled to find my voice.

Holmes was looking puzzled but he took my hand in a failed attempt to soothe me. He appeared to be totally at a loss.

“Watson, stop. You’re hurting us both. You’re overreacting… you haven’t listened to me.”

“I’ve listened enough! And don’t talk nonsense… hurting you? As if it were even possible! You should have to be human to be hurt.” I made a pause, to see the reaction of Holmes at my words. He was sitting up in the bed, blinking, looking unable to decide what to do or say to mend matters. As I already knew, this was not the kind of situation he was accustomed to manage, but at that moment, that thought only infuriated me further. “I assure you, Holmes, that this is the last time you laugh at me. And I thank you, because this nightmare has helped me to realize many things. And believe me, that was worth it.”

He let my hand go, and then combed his hair with his fingers slowly and unsteadily. Then he gave me a strange look.

“Watson, why don’t you do us both a favour, and think about it later? You’ll see things different in the morning. You’re not yourself now,” he said, uncertainly.

“Of course I’m not! Right now I’m feeling like a fool, I’m feeling alone, and I’m tired of pretending. You have opened my eyes tonight, Holmes.”

“Watson…”

“Don’t!” He kept silence for a moment. Then he spoke again.

“If I had known you would react like this, I should have never done it,” he said, in a soft tone. “I may well not be the most emotional man in the world, my dear Watson,” he made a pause and sighed, “but I’m quite sure that you know I shouldn’t have caused you such torment on purpose.”

“How many times am I going to have to mourn over your death, Holmes?” I asked, in a low voice. I felt too tired to speak louder. “I don’t want to feel like this anymore. It’s too painful. And not for the sake of your cases. That’s your idea of friendship, but not mine.”

He kept silence for a moment, looking pained. Then, he asked in a soft voice and very slowly, seeking my eyes tired, but intently, “You’re not going to…”

“Leave you?” Although I should have wished to disguise it, there was pain in my tone. “After all the efforts you have made to keep me away of my duties, you mean? To go back to my practice, which I sold because you asked me to?” He lowered his eyes a few moments, then he locked them with mine and spoke in a very quiet voice.

“What do you want me to say, Watson?”

“I don’t know, Holmes. I really don’t know. I doubt that anything you do or say can make me feel different.”

He nodded once and passed a hand over his hair. Then looked at me with an air even more disconcerted.

“What do I do now?” he asked me almost soundlessly. “I don’t know what to do, Watson.”

But I did not answer.

“Give me just… one moment. Only a moment… to think. I need to clear my mind.” Saying this he bent down, averting his eyes, and rested his head upon my shoulder.

An instant later he lifted his arms slowly and grasped mine. There, I could feel all his energy struggling to control himself and then, I saw with crystal clarity that a storm of emotions was about to break him in pieces. It was the first time I saw him in that state. Despite all my anger, I put my arms around him, and after that he seemed to relax a little. But it didn’t last long. With a sudden motion he held me close to his chest, so tight I had trouble breathing.

I felt a lump in my throat. I had accused him of ignoring me, but I had always known better. In my angry state I had said that I meant nothing to him, but I had always known I was his only friend. And at that moment, he looked so vulnerable, so lost, so unlike the man I knew! My worst emotions vanished, and I rubbed his back in a soothing movement, leaving me deeply moved and strangely reassured. I embraced him tighter, and murmured comforting words at his ear.

“It’s all right, Holmes… forgive me… I’m sorry… you’re fine, and that’s all that matters,” I sighed, “I don’t know what has happened to me…you’re alive!” I needed to weep and laugh at the same time, “You’re here, my friend,” I kissed his temple, “…it’s all right now.” He shuddered and his hug softened a little. He lifted a hand, placed it softly on my right cheek. Then he kissed me on the left and brushed his cheek against mine. The feeling was comforting, and it calmed somewhat a throbbing headache, one I had not been aware I had till that instant. I kissed him back, turning my head slightly towards his, and after that, slowly and sadly, our lips met. We remained in this way a few seconds, before Holmes left my lips with a sigh and kissed me on the cheek again, lifting his other hand to place it on the back of my neck. And then rested his head on my shoulder. I felt nothing but his body, close to mine, his warmth, and a cloud of happiness bright enough to light the rest of my life.

“You must be tired, my dear Watson, and I’m thoroughly done in.” He said eventually, letting go of me. His voice sounded weak but serious. “We’d better get some sleep now.”

“Are you all right, Holmes?” I asked him, worried again about his health. It surprised me that I had chosen such a dangerous moment to forget my duties as a doctor.

“I shall be, in a few hours. Don’t worry, Watson. I’ll call you if I feel bad, I promise.” He gave me a shy smile.

“I’m not sure I should leave you alone, Holmes. You’re weak and besides, I still don’t know what that damned thing you took was,” I protested, still rather anxious.

“I need to rest now, nothing more, I assure you,” he squeezed my hand, smiling sadly. “Watson…”

“All right, Holmes.” I was still reluctant, but I did not argue. “Good night.”

“Good night.”

I stood up and left the room to get back to my own, where I took off my clothes and got in the bed, falling asleep seconds later.

***

My feelings when I woke up the following morning were contradictory. On one hand, I felt deeply relieved. On the other, I was extremely reluctant to meet Holmes downstairs. The awkwardness of the situation of the previous night kept me in bed thinking a long time before I finally got up.

We had never talked about our feelings for each other, not like that. I had known how important he was to me, but I had never told him before. And I could not avoid being a bit ashamed about my behaviour. I had wept in front of him, and I had made him feel insecure. For a man like Holmes, that was undoubtedly the most embarrassing thing, as it had never happened to him before. How were we going to act afterwards?

And then, there were the other things that had happened, those about which I was almost scared to think. They were too complicated, too intimate, even to give them a name in my mind.

We had kissed. And only remembering it was making me feel anxious, although in that moment it had seemed to be the most natural thing.

We were intimate friends, but not in that manner. Questions as “Why did I have to kiss him?” were tormenting me, together with others as, “but why not?” Why was it so difficult to think about it in the morning? He had kissed me too, and the mere thought sent shivers down my spine.

Eventually I got dressed and came downstairs to the sitting room. Holmes was already there, standing by the fireplace.

“How are you feeling?”

“I have made some tea, Watson, on the table, with some bread and butter. We have a long stroll to the village, where I need to send some telegrams. There we can have a proper breakfast.” He said, without looking at me.

“You have solved the case.”

“I have solved a problem, but not the case. I’m afraid the rest will be left to the police.”

“To catch Smithson?”

“Exactly. Although if I’m not mistaken, he will be already out of reach. It was not a difficult problem, you may believe me. The circumstances were confusing at the beginning, but our doctor is a man of science, not a criminal. His plan was almost childish.”

“If I understood rightly, he must have used this experiment of his on the prisoners. He certified their deaths and left the rest to their accomplices. But… the last one?”

“The last one was a hoax. He probably wanted to stop, but he didn’t know how. The solution to his problem made him a murderer.”

“He administered a larger dose to the last one and left him to die.”

“And then he constructed the Gothic scenario to deviate attention. If I had been there when the police found the body, I could have had some evidence to send him to prison. But now this matter is a bit more complicated.”

“How did you know about the drug?”

“Because I was looking for it. It seemed to me impossible to believe that everything was a coincidence. Two famous criminals disappeared, the doctor of the prison disappeared, and an unknown poor devil on the moor. After examining the facts, the possibilities were reduced to a single one.”

“But, how did you find the poison? Why did Smithson leave behind such an evidence?”

“Watson, every substance, conveniently mixed and prepared, and administered in the proper manner, can be poisonous. I had read a few articles from our doctor about chemistry. None of them about this particular one, of course, but I knew he was an expert on certain substances. And about leaving it behind, my good friend, there were a hundred dangerous drugs in there! Only an expert like him would have been able to find it, and that after analysing them all. It would have taken months! Time enough for him to be out of sight.”

“But how did you know which it was? You could have been mistaken!”

“You know my methods, Watson. That room told me more about our man than his personal diary would have done. I only had to observe.”

Despite the faith I had in my friend’s abilities, I could not help but thinking that it had been too dangerous, and I told him so.

“I promise you that it will not happen again.” He said, in a low voice.

“I hope so.”

“You have my word. And now,” he added, finally turning his head to me, “we have to go to the village. Drink your tea; we’ll come back later to pack our things. I shall give you more details on our way.” He went to the door as I poured me out a cup.

“And, Watson?” He said quietly, giving me his back.

“Yes, Holmes?”

“About last night… don’t think about it now, please. Later, I wish to tell you something.”

I sat there drinking my tea, without knowing what to think or feel. My mind was once more in turmoil. But, I decided to trust Holmes. After all, it was a matter that concerned us both.

***

We strolled back to the cottage in companionable silence for a while. The air was cold and moist around us and the sky conferred on the path an odd sense of unreality, as if the dim and yellowish light were coming from nowhere.

Holmes and I had not talked since we started to walk down the path out of the village. But each step we took towards the cottage was leading us to the event of the previous night.

I was regretting my outburst more than any other thing in my life. I had always been honest with myself about how painful some of Holmes’s words or attitudes were for me. I had written a few times about my feelings. Even my readers knew it, so I was certain he did, too. Why then, should it be so difficult to face a situation like that? And why was I so anxious about what Holmes had to tell me? I had not seen anything in his behaviour that could anticipate more tense moments between us. At least anything excessively awkward, given the circumstances. Nonetheless, I could not help being concerned.

We had walked for a while when we reached a small clearing located at the right side of the path, where large stones were scattered over the ground. There, my friend halted and left the path with long and slow steps. He approached a rock that the elements had sculpted to strange shapes and stopped with one gloved hand on it. I came closer to him.

“After all, Holmes, I am glad that we can breath the clean air of the country. We ought to look for something like this, or a little more cheerful, next Spring. What do you think?” He turned his head to me and smiled.

“A compensation for last night?”

“Holmes, I…”

“I know, I know.” He made a pause. “Watson, there is something I want to apologize for. I have given it some thought, and I have come to the conclusion that I have asked too much from you.”

“Holmes…” but he made a short gesture with his hand to stop me.

“I had expected you to understand, but it is my fault that you did not. You are the kindest person I have ever had the pleasure to meet, my friend, and it is my fault that I tend to forget that.”

I knew then that what was following could not be good, if Holmes was talking in riddles.

“You know, Watson, that I have had only a few friends in my life. I have my peculiarities, as you call them, and not everybody has patience enough to put up with them. The event from last night is the highest example. That is why I owe you an explanation. I cannot expect from you to understand something you do not know.” He took a seat on the ground and gestured me to do the same. He also searched for a cigarette and lit it.

“This is hardly a matter I like to talk about, but after your reaction last night, I saw it was necessary that I gave you what you need to know to understand why I am so careless with the feelings of the heart.

“You have often portrayed me as a cold and emotionally unaffected man. And you already know how important is for my profession to be so… dispassionate. It has been a feature of my personality for a very long time and it suits my purposes well but… I did not become like that due to my profession, I assure you that. It has been more a casualty, a very fortunate one. It was at some point in my youth that I realized that I should not let my heart grow.”

“But why on earth did you do such a thing?” I asked, bewildered, “how can anybody do such a thing?”

“Watson, you don’t understand. I decided it would be inconvenient to pay attention to that matter, and I simply decided to remain blind to the physical and emotional qualities.”

“But why?”

“I thought it would be inconvenient, Watson.” He said that looking at me with the impatience that I knew so well, but mixed with a desperate plea in his eyes and a strangled voice, as if he wanted me to grasp the full meaning of that word. I stared him while my brain struggled to elucidate his words in vain.

He sighed in desperation and looked at me with dismay.

“Watson, you positively are aware that men may develop deviant tendencies.”

When the meaning of his statement struck me, my blood ran cold. He watched me freeze and before I could pull myself together, he declared gravely, “Once I had determined for certain that I could not be attracted to the opposite sex as I was to my own, I decided to ignore the whole matter. I have never regretted it, not once in my life.” He looked me in the eye while he said this. “I have already told you that I have never been a very sociable fellow (now you know one more reason apart from those you know so well), so I have never had to… reprimand myself. I am dedicated to my work as if I were a monk, and it satisfies my needs thoroughly. And when I have no intellectual work to deal with, you already know what I do. My life, as bohemian or weird as it may seem for other people, suits me entirely,” he paused and stared at me seriously with intense eyes. “I mean that I cannot make exceptions, Watson, which sometimes leads me to a certain disregard for other people’s feelings, as happened yesterday.”

I have never felt so overwhelmed as I felt at those words. The worst part was that I could not process such an amount of information in only a few seconds. Of all the things I could have not expected to hear from my friend, this one was the most inconceivable. I was aware of Holmes’s stare and his uneasiness, but I took a few moments to settle my nerves and my stomach. Eventually, I found my voice.

“I’m quite taken aback, Holmes. I… don’t know what to say.”

“I understand.” His face was unreadable.

I examined the first piece of information. Holmes was a deviant, and he seemed to be absolutely aware of that.

“You are sure… I mean, you have no doubts?” He looked at me sharply.

“You know how accurate my conclusions are. You would not expect me to reach this particular one without doing a bit of research.” After saying that, he appeared to be deflated, “Watson, believe me, you don’t want to know the details. That’s all water under the bridge.”

“You can try… maybe it was something transitory,” I persisted, although it sounded foolish even to myself. It was hard to think clearly, but not only for me.

“Transitory! Do I have to tell you the things I dream when I have nocturnal emissions?” He said irritably, but a second later, he added, “I apologize for my bluntness.”

I was shocked at Holmes’s harsh words and, to my shame, I felt myself blush. He continued talking.

“I have never told anyone. I told you to make you understand. You are the closest friend I have, I wish you to understand that I have a flaw, I have tried to prevent terrible consequences and fortunately, that problem does not affect me as it did in the past.” He stopped to look at me with a softer expression. “Pray remember this the next time I hurt your feelings, or anyone else’s. But this is the way I am. I cannot change.”

He lit another cigarette, and I did the same, although my hands were even more unsteady than his. We remained there, thinking, smoking and surrounded by a white and cloudy atmosphere of unreality.

I revised his words once and again, trying to elucidate the inner meaning in them. Why was he so afraid of being more open to his feelings? I knew he had them. I knew he cared for me, even if he only acknowledged it in moments of real danger. I was his closest friend, but he also needed to keep me at distance. And then, slowly and painfully, a thought put itself into words. He was afraid that he could come to love me. If he would let himself. I inhaled the smoke from my cigarette as if I were trying to get from it the strength I needed. My feelings were oddly conflicting: a soothing warmth in my chest was struggling against a mounting anger the source of which I could not fathom.

I was his closest friend. I was a man. He was afraid of himself, afraid of me. I was his humble servant, I admired him, I followed him everywhere and did everything he asked me to. Would it mean that the brave Sherlock Holmes was a coward in front of me? And why did his attempts to repress himself infuriate me so much? I turned my head to stare at him, at the thoughtful profile I had learnt to know so well.

“What you actually are afraid of, Holmes?” I asked, fully aware of where I was leading to. I wanted to force him to say the truth. Or to lie. “Even I cannot be an exception? I have left behind everything to be by your side. Why do I not deserve a little more than the rest? I have put at risk everything for you. I have suffered more than anyone for your cause. Why am I not different from other people to you?”

“But you are already different. What is it exactly what you do want me to say?” he asked through his clenched teeth. “What do you want to hear from me?”

He reached nervously for his cigarette case and picked up one and lit it. He kept the case in his right hand and I observed for a few moments. I remembered our embrace, our kiss.

I reached for his cigarette case but grabbed his hand instead.

“What are we going to do to mend this, Holmes?”

“To mend what?”

“Last night.”

“I think that I have already explained it to you.”

“But I have feelings for you!”

“What kind of feelings?” He said and let his hand go.

“I don’t know what I’m feeling. I don’t know what I feel for you. It was easier before last night.”

“Watson, let us forget that.”

“Why?”

“Watson!” I grabbed his shoulder and squeezed it. I had never hidden myself from him, I had not hidden any single feeling from the beginning. I had let him see my confusion, my loneliness, my needs. In less than twenty four hours I had confessed openly my devotion and my pain. He had opened himself too and had confessed something that very few people knew. Only old acquaintances. It was time to mend things up, at last. We had to move forward.

“We must go back to the cottage or we’ll miss our train,” said Holmes in a low voice, without looking at me.

“Let’s go on, then.”

We stood up and went back to the path. I could barely keep my hands from Holmes’s back. I needed to show him I was there. I needed to give us both reassurance. The complicity between us, our half-words, everything I had ever felt at his side, when he talked to me, when he smiled, every time he looked at me fondly, everything seemed to accompany me down the path. What did it mean that he were a deviant? For me, then, only an open door. A door opened for me only. I wanted to prove to him that my pure devotion for him could make it work. Everything he wanted me to do, only to see him share his inner self with me. I felt sure that I could convince him. I had to let him know that I could be whatever he wanted me to be. For me, it only meant the challenge to show the person I cared for that I could love him as he needed to be loved.

We walked our way back to the cottage with the burden of all the things we had said and those we had kept buried in ourselves. My resolution was one of the last ones. Also my own reaction at the thought of his physical needs intrigued me somewhat. Curiosity, excitement, anticipation. I had never had any doubts about my nature. Could the reward of his love be sufficient to make it change?

I observed his lean form as we walked, and I tried to imagine him with his body pressed to mine, I imagined him hugging me as he had done the previous night. Would I feel free to show him the way I love? Could it be so different from making love with a woman? I reached my hand to his back and rested it between his shoulder blades as we continued walking. He seemed to react but he did not avoid my contact. I had already done that to soothe him when he was suffering from some of his nervous breakdowns, those to which I had referred in my writings without details. When he seemed at the verge of tears or extremely depressed.

I captured a glimpse of the cottage still yards away and my heart started to beat faster. At the moment we were at the front door, Holmes picked the key out of his pocket with a trembling hand. I saw him trying to steady it to open the door, but it took him a few moments.

We entered the house almost at the same time. I still had my hand on his shoulder and once inside, we remained still. My mind was a turmoil; my heart was beating madly and the air I was breathing seemed to be insufficient. Holmes was quiet by my side, but some seconds later he took off his coat. Slowly, he went to the table and remained there with his eyes low. I took my coat off too and went to him, pretending I wanted to appease him. But I put both of my hands on the table, and I tried to think of something to say.

I heard him exhale. He lifted his head and muttered something inaudible. I looked at him but he averted his eyes.

“Please tell me what you want me to say,” he said.

“I don’t want you to say anything.”

“We should go back to London.”

“We could stay here for the night.”

“Watson, what do you want from me?”

“A proof. I need to know. Please.”

“And what happens next? What happens if we cannot?

“Nothing. It changes nothing.”

“Ha!” He let out a dry laugh. I continued talking, lowering my voice to conceal my lack of confidence.

“I need to feel special to you. I have always needed it, but you have not shown it to me. Do it, please. I need to know you tried it, once, at least.”

“Watson…”

“Let me try.”

I put my hands on his arms and lifted my head to meet his lips, keeping in mind that we had already done that. I gave him several kisses on the lips as I would have done to a woman, before directing my attention to the rest of his face. I caressed his jaw, his cheekbones, his eyelids, his brows, with my lips. He was shaved and his skin was smooth and soft, although his features were too sharp to be taken for a female face. I was not expecting a reaction from my friend, for I had merely added a little more to what we had done the night before. I was only trying to make him relax and to feel myself confident enough to continue. I reached again for his lips and kissed them softly, then I made a pause and I took a little distance with my eyes closed.

This was undoubtedly the most difficult task I had ever attempted. Never before I had felt so opened, insecure and brave at the same time. I was not only trying to convince Holmes, but also myself, that the step I had chosen to take was sincere and natural. We were both longtime friends and our relationship had always been deepening, just from the beginning, until that moment. I needed to feel him loving me. I needed to show him how much I loved him. We were not common people.

I decided a bolder approach and took his mouth with my lips parted, encouraging him to part his too, moving the tip of my tongue right and left over the line where his lips met. When he finally did, I felt that some immaterial part of me was sliding inside him along with my tongue.

The still hesitant contact with that wicked organ excited my senses and the stimulus stirred an impulse to dominate it and make it yield. Flicking the tip of my tongue over it, first languidly and then with increasing fervour made my friend shudder and surrender. He sucked my tongue into his mouth and I did not need more self-justification. That he was losing himself in what we were doing was at that point so obvious, that I felt emotionally overwhelmed. I could have tasted the deepest of his soul if that had been possible, feeling him wriggling along my body as I ravished his mouth with all my will.

After a few blissful moments, I abandoned his mouth to breathe. When I opened my eyes, he was looking at me intently as if trying to see if I was having second thoughts. He actually opened his mouth to say something, but I blocked his lips with my fingers. He raised his hand, unhurriedly, grasped my own and very slowly, he lowered it until it rested on his crotch. His eyes never left mine during the time it took that movement. He kept staring at me when I felt his manhood through his trousers. He was aroused. I swallowed. Hesitantly, my hand trembling, I stroked him there and I felt it pulsing, although his face looked unaffected. Somehow I thought that applying more force to my touch could steady my hand, so I kept stroking him for a while until his grip on my wrist hardened. Holmes was now flushed, his white skin softly dyed by the colour of passion, nearly black eyes losing focus for moments, while his breath touched my mouth and my nose in short exhalations. A maddening scent unknown to me until that moment made me search the hot cavern of his mouth, lustfully thirsty of his juice. When he tried to escape from my hand and from my kiss, I kept my face close to his, using my mustache to tickle his ear.

“I’m not going to stop.” My voice sounded raspy.

“As you wish.”

His hand left my wrist, went to my crotch and covered the bulge with his palm. He started to move his hand over my member with a steady rhythm as I exhaled, closed my eyes and invaded his mouth again, fingering his hardness through his garments.

We went on kissing, all eager tongues and playful teeth, teasing each other purposefully through the clothes, as if trying to convince our reluctant fleshy tools to come out and play together. Holmes was eating me as a ravenous man eats a piece of meat, getting in his mouth as much of me as he could, hollowing his cheeks to suck my tongue deeper, savouring me with such a greed that it looked as if he could only feed on me. It felt like a drugged dream, surrounded by rubbing touches, moist tongues and hot breaths, indulging in a mutual but not fulfilling masturbation, fully dressed until he moaned inside me. That sound sent boiling blood through my veins. I groaned freely, and hearing myself so bold aroused me even more, and encouraged me to break off. I undid his fly button, introduced my hand through his trousers reaching past curly harsh hair and then, for the first time, I felt the smooth skin of his phallus. I pulled it out and encircled my fingers around his erected member and I touched him as I had learnt to do it to myself, paying attention to the crown, spreading its moisture with my thumb, teasing lightly the slit with the tip of my index finger. With trembling hands, Holmes undid my flies and slipped his hand to handle my erection, starting to mimic my movements.

Our breaths were laboured and erratic, sharing the air, inhaling our mixed scents, only to be interrupted by sloppy and lewd kisses and groans and panting moans. Without stopping the pumping movement of my hand over his erection, I reached for his buttocks with my free hand, slipped my fingers to grab one of his cheeks and I pulled him closer. He groaned once more, spreading his legs and rubbing himself wantonly against me. Lustfully lost as I was, I tried to reach his anus with my fingers. And when I found the tight hole and rubbed it, I felt his shaft pulse and stiffen even more in my hand. I stroked him faster and seconds later he found his release, coating my fingers with his seed. I observed my friend’s face as he climaxed. His eyes were closed as if in pain, his lips parted, panting softly until he finished and opened his eyes slightly unfocused. I felt a sudden urge to devour his face, to taste his nose, his eyelashes, so my tongue took the lead to his chin and I started to lick at it greedily. Letting go of his member, I grabbed his buttocks pulling him even closer for an instant. Then I covered his still busy hand with my own to pump my erection, thrusting madly until I spurted my own release.

If I had to choose only a single moment of my entire existence to save it from oblivion; if I had to treasure only a feeling, one only from childhood to old age; if I could revive the same few minutes for all the eternity, I should surely choose the first few seconds after our orgasms, those which found our bodies melted in a warm fog of sighs and whispers, which surrounded us tenderly in that lost cottage, far from home. I should treasure forever the joy that made me shed tears of confused happiness and sated relief. I should revive the comfort I felt with him hugging me loosely, the delightful pressure of his head on my shoulder, the sweet words which we shared there, the secret intimacy which I have no way to describe. For those moments of secret bliss, although brief to Time and polluted to God, will remain to my eyes the purest and eternal of my life.

It was extremely painful for me to see the needle, resting after use, on the table of Holmes’s chamber at Musgrave mansion. We had come, or so thought I, to escape the routine of the absence of work, to run away from this particular and disastrous habit towards which Holmes had a tendency when he felt vacuous.

I had, innocently but maliciously too, entered his room to obtain (just for a while, certainly) the notes he had taken of his previous cases, those which he had carefully hidden from me all that time. Since I knew about their existence, I had desired to consult them, nevertheless, Holmes had been irrationally protective towards these notes.

Before I took notice of the dangerous needle, I had heard him singing while he was preparing himself for supper. I almost regretted my intention then, until I sat before the trunk, and saw the object. I felt sad, overwhelmed and worried, and I could hardly rise and get out of the room.

All through the evening I tried to be a good guest to Musgrave, who was undoubtedly enjoying our company, and to observe my friend’s unnatural behaviour, the result of mixing cocaine and alcohol. He appeared strangely amused, and although I secretly liked seeing him in this mood, I was also concerned about him. His remarks were short, quick and humorous, and his gaze was penetrating, as if he could see our innermost thoughts. Almost everything seemed to be funny to him that night.

When Brunton came in again to refill our glasses with some more brandy, and he offered it to Holmes, I considered the possibility of taking away the glass from him. I was relieved when I heard him decline. Holmes fixed his eyes on the butler, then he rose, and followed him as if he wished to see inside him, so intense was his gaze. He paced the room as if there were nobody else there, until I came near glaring at him with no very friendly eyes, trying in vain to get a bit of his attention. Those were difficult moments, for Musgrave was addressing me and I had to answer him, but I was unable to take my eyes off Holmes. He went to the fireplace and reclined his forehead on his hand, I could not say whether dizzy, terribly amused, or simply tired. When Brunton finally went out of the room, Holmes exploded into laughter, and Musgrave and I followed him, so infectious was his laugh. I started to feel light-headed, less anxious, and I realised that I was somehow indulging myself with the brandy. The smoke around us, the warmth of the flames and the taste of brandy in my mouth were hypnotising me, and giving me too some kind of sweet unconsciousness and pleasure.

As we kept on talking, the whole room became hazy and I thought no more about the duties of friendship. I was enjoying the evening and the sight of Holmes in that state, without any feeling of guilt this time. I even suggested to myself that I might take advantage of the situation and to try to get what I wanted from Holmes. I knew how much he liked being praised, so I chose this way to make it easy. To my surprise, flattery was not useful this time, as Holmes was not at all unaware of my real intentions.

“So my dear Watson is trying to cajole me by flattering me in the most impudent manner I have ever seen! My dear friend, whom I used to trust, is trying to deceive me!” he said mockingly. I could not but smile shamelessly at this.

“I was only teasing you,” I lied.

“Of course you were. You know me well enough, don’t you?” said he, leaning on the sofa. If I (and he) had been someone else, I would have thought he was flirting. He certainly was Holmes, and I, Watson.

“I beg your pardon, but I don’t know what you are talking about.” Musgrave interrupted.

“Our dear Watson was pretending to flatter me in order to get from me some notes I have from my first cases. That’s all, isn’t it, Watson?” he asked, grinning this time.

“That’s right, I suppose.” I did not know what Holmes was referring to with this question, but I was really enjoying the game.

“That’s it. Any more questions, Musgrave? Any comment, perhaps?” Musgrave seemed to be a little baffled. Nonetheless, he smiled to us both.

“You’re room-mattes after all! It’s difficult to join in a private joke,” he said at last.

“Private! I’m not sure you know the word, Watson. It means ‘personal, secret, not to be shared with others’. Would you care to include it in your vocabulary?”, he asked me, mocking me again.

“Room-mattes, Holmes. Did you know we were that? It means that we *share* a home, expenses, time… and some other things, sometimes *dangerous* things,” I answered, smiling. “That often implies confidence. Do you know this word?” It was certainly a delightful comedy.

“What kind of *dangerous* things, Watson? And, what kind of confidence?” I did not know then how long I could continue that conversation, and neither could I foresee how far it would lead. All I knew was that Holmes and I were having a little, friendly quarrel.

“Sometimes… illegal ones,” I answered, calmly, to his first question.

“That’s enough! That’s enough, gentlemen, for me, at least.” Musgrave interrupted again, laughing. “I’m going to bed. You may stay here, if you wish. I hope not to find you harmed, doctor, tomorrow morning. I know Holmes’ fists. Good night, gentlemen.” And he went out of the parlour.

Holmes and I remained there in silence for a few long minutes. My friend was leaning on the sofa, smoking a cigarette, languidly, and contemplating the fire. Then, he turned his head a little to look at me.

“What kind of confidence, Watson?” He was not mocking me now.

The heat from the fire was at this point unbearable. The whole room was dense, suffocating, and I could not swear that the flush of my face and, the flush of my friend’s own face, were only due to the flames, the smoky fog, or the alcohol.

“I should be much obliged to you, if you would be kind enough to show me your documents,” I requested, in a polite manner, inappropriate to us most of the time.

“What kind of confidence?” He asked one more time. He started to smile, steadily fixing his eyes on mine, making the ambiguous atmosphere return to the rarefied air.

“You trust me.” I paused. “And I trust you.”

“You desire to see my notes, don’t you?” He was almost murmuring, his voice so low and so sweet. I nodded, slowly. “Do you hope to find them… interesting?”

“I find all of your cases interesting. You already know that.” And I could not help adding, “You’re a most interesting man, Holmes.”

“Flattering me again, Watson? I see you are indeed aroused by the idea of consulting them,” he paused to light a cigarette. “What would you do for these poor notes of mine, Watson?”

I was resolved in getting them, an obsessive idea for I, somehow had wanted it to be so. I sighed and swallowed.

“What do you want me to do?”, asked I.

“I’m not sure, Watson. I…” He paused. Then, he gave a wicked grin. “May I suggest that we go to my room to discuss it further?” His appearance was as self-confident as it always was, but I could hear his voice trembling a little. Could it be that he was frightened too?

When we entered his bedroom I found it warm, but perhaps the contrast between the claustrophobic parlour and the clean air of the room made me shiver.

“Are you cold Watson?”

“I’m fine, thanks, Holmes” But I noticed he was shivering too. He stopped in front of his trunk, the one which had brought us here. He sat on it casually, and looked up from his feet smiling at me weakly.

“I hope you will be reasonable in your request.” I said. Holmes turned his head to the table, and handled a little bottle.

“What about… join me in this, Watson? I would be delighted to see you under its effects. Maybe not? Of course, you look well enough for tonight. And if you… Could you… inject me, Watson? Would you do it for me?”, he requested, rubbing his fingers lightly over the bottle’s surface. My face turned serious as I recovered some of my concern.

“Are you really asking me to do that? It would be… extremely difficult for me, Holmes.” I said that sadly, but sweetly.

“Would you mind lighting a cigarette for me instead, Watson? Would it be asking too much?” As an answer, I picked up a cigarette from Holmes’s case, put it between my lips and lit it. I exhaled the smoke slowly, as I came closer to my friend, who was still sitting on his trunk, with the cigarette between my fingers. Holmes leaned his head to meet my hand and took the cigarette touching my fingertips softly with his lips. I did not withdraw then, holding it while Holmes inhaled the smoke. He leaned back his head, letting the cigarette rest between my fingers. Looking at me shyly, he asked,

“Would you like to share it with me, Watson?” The sound of my name in his voice seemed to be constant that night. I raised my hand to my lips and felt the cigarette lightly wet by Holmes’s saliva. It was a weird sensation, which flowed round my whole body like a wave. We remained there, gently covered with the smoke of our cigarette, without speaking, sharing our breath and moisture. When we finished it, Holmes’ voice demanded something more.

“It has not been a high price, has it? I think I’m right if I request a little more.” His eyes were as bright as they had been in the evening. Will you pick up one of those sweets from that box?. Musgrave has always been a kind of addict to them.”

I led myself to the box at which he had pointed, and opened it, finding inside a large amount of sweets. I rested my hand on the table for a few moments, trying to collect myself, while I was feeling the gaze of Holmes fixed on the back of my head. Although his tone with me was soft, almost weak, the remains of his masterful manner were still present and, how weird it seemed to me this time! I was obeying him voluntarily, playing with him, allowing him to go on further. Knowing then, in front of the table, how far I would be disposed to go. We had been interchanging the leading role the whole night, encouraging one another to that… sensuous, puzzling, self- contradictory laissez-faire approach. Startled by this thought, trembling, I picked up two of those sweets, and turned to him.

He was still looking at me, his pupils dilated. The time I had been standing with my back to him seemed to have weakened his last careless tone of command.

“Put it into your mouth and… ” he paused. His voice was almost a sigh. “Come here, please, Watson, come… closer.”

I obeyed slowly, and then I resolutely approached him, trying not to show any shadow of my own weakness. I could see he was in that very moment the frightened one. I was standing there, only a few inches from him, always sitting on his trunk, his head looking upwards at me.

“Now, you are going to ask for it, aren’t you? You certainly desire to taste it, do you?” I was looking downwards at him. I asked that seriously, letting escape from me all the disturbed tension that I was feeling. I was not intending to be rude and hostile at all, but in that closeness, my mind was reacting against my body. That was not the way. Whatever was going to happen, I should not miss the opportunity of seeking to discover his emotions.

Hearing this from me made him tremble, as his cheeks turned suddenly pale. The explicit awareness took him by surprise, and made him look faint. He bowed his head and I could see his right hand shaking half-way to his forehead.

“It’s absurd, absurd, I… I’m… exhausted,” he whispered. I bent down then, and placed my hands on his shoulders, holding him tightly. His eyes were still closed when I started to speak.

“My dear friend, are you all right?” asked I, in my sweetest manner, as I allowed my hand to caress his face softly, tilting his chin upwards. “We are already room-mates, after all, aren’t we? You… trust me, Holmes, do you remember that? Are you… lacking confidence, my friend? I trust you, too.” I smiled, and saw how he opened his eyes to look at me, sadly and tenderly. “So you don’t desire to go on with this…,” I smiled openly, “*illegal thing*?” He chuckled first, and then, shyly, he smiled at me. I took the other sweet between my fingers, and carefully put it into his mouth, feeling again his lips in my skin. Slowly, he raised one hand and held my arm, peering at my eyes with that tenderness which I had glimpsed only a few times.

“May I… touch you, Holmes?” I begged, failing to keep the leading role after that. I brushed my fingers softly across his cheek. A sudden shiver seemed to run through his body, and then he caught my hand. He paused, and asked,

“My dear fellow, don’t you think it would have been easier if we had continued the game?” Apart from the content of his question, that was again the very Holmes I knew. His friendly grey eyes were brightening warmly and, for an instant, I felt back at home. I smiled at him again, enjoying as never the opportunity of sharing with him each moment of our intimate friendship.

“I’m not sure how it is going to develop, but I prefer this to that, Holmes.” He smiled.

“You know I’m not the only eccentric one of Baker Street, Watson. We’re indeed a nice couple!” He rubbed his hand on my arm.

We were there, looking at each other, but both of us unable to take the decision. Finally, Holmes did. He leaned forward a little, paused, and went on to place a chaste and almost imperceptible kiss on my cheek. I slid my hand around his neck to the back of his head and leaned my forehead on his chin. Then, I dared to touch his lips slightly with mine. That simple gesture was to me in that moment the most amazing thing I had ever made. I had kissed my friend and colleague Mr. Sherlock Holmes on the lips. His response was both inexpert and warm, for he pressed his mouth against mine tightly, as he leaned forward even more. The arousal of the evening rekindled vigorously, and we were trapped in a burning moment of lust and passion, in which I felt the physical needs of Holmes as he knelt down and pressed his upper body against mine. The awareness of his urgency only exacerbated my own desire. Our kiss gained confidence and intensity as Holmes wrapped his arms around me, making me feel all the love, loyalty, comprehension, solitude, suffering even, which had always been inside him.

My hands worked quickly and, when I saw his bare upper body, his chest moving up and down in the heat of the moment, all my previous experiences seemed frivolous and nasty. The starved flesh of my friend was clamouring for the pleasure of my care and attention, after those years of chastity and hidden need. I kissed his throat, his shoulders, noticing that my shy partner did not even dare to breath. I caressed his arms softly, and then I took one, the left one, and passed my hand over his bare forearm. I rubbed my thumb over the little marks I found there, and I could not stand looking at him with sadness. His reaction was startling. He opened his mouth as if he were going to talk, but in an instant took me in his arms in a tight embrace which lengthened into a few minutes.

A little after I felt his body relax, so I continued my exploration. But each time I took notice of his eyes fixed on mine, in a silent request of my… why not? my natural sweetness, I captured his mouth in deep kisses, until we both felt breathless.

The moment arrived when Holmes led me to the bed and began to undress me. His fingers, although accustomed to probes and tubes, had an exquisite sensuous touch, and they were giving me infinite pleasure with each caress he lavished under my shirt. It was so strange to me to see my friend and myself in such context! Perhaps neither of us had ever imagined that, or perhaps… those sinful nightmares which had surely woken us in the middle of the night, sweating and panicking, had not been undesirable after all.

When we were nude, pleasure, passion and endless delirium guided us through a thousand whispers and sighs to the kingdom of desire. What my fingers brushed and my mouth tasted, with his whole body at my mercy, pleased me and made me feel certain that my own need of filling him with my skin was indeed his own need. Softly and gently covered by the sweet treasure of his highest moment of pleasure, I entered him. So my friend presented me that night with the prize for all the years of humble devotion.

We lay on his bed in silence afterwards. Resting secure in his arms, my head on the pillow of his shoulder, I slept.

It had to be at dawn when I felt his hand rubbing my shoulder.

“Watson… Watson, are you awake yet?” he murmured.

“Good heavens, Holmes, what time is it?”

“The right one for you to get out of my room and to get back to your own,” he said, frowning. I looked at him, bewildered and blinking.

“Holmes, I just can’t believe it.”

“I’m quite sleepy, and I don’t want you to be caught here with me. My dear friend, do you want to send us to prison?” I could hardly avoid smiling, seeing Holmes returning to his usual practical mood.

“Of course not, Holmes,” said I, putting the blankets aside. “But, what about your notes…?”

“Watson!”

“All right, I’m going. By the way,” I added, pointing to the bottle of cocaine, “try to give it up, if you love me. It’s no good for you, it isn’t worth it and I don’t like it.” I did not hear his response, if there was one, for I slid out of the room, taking the bottle with me.

It was an autumnal morning, cold, and cloudy. Holmes had just finished his breakfast, and he was now lying on the sofa of our sitting-room, reading the morning newspapers. His last case was over, and his energy was again decaying, mournfully and inexorably.

My admiration, my care, and my… love for him had become so evident to both of us in the last few months that I could hardly avoid speaking without showing my feelings for him. Even in my written stories, anyone attentive enough could read the real nature of my interest in Holmes. And he, who could understand the reason of my most insignificant movements, was undoubtedly aware of my devotion to him.

From the beginning, I had noticed his pleasure when I truly expressed my admiration for his intellectual capabilities, and the fondness for him that it implied. That fondness was soon after reciprocal, it was a fact. He liked having me close to him through his authoritarian and rather selfish manner. These certainties, and the confidence I had in his deductive skills, gave me boldness enough to express in words my concern that day.

“Holmes,” I asked for his attention, “do you really think we can go on with this indefinitely, without changes, the whole life?” That was it. I said it, calmly, fixing my eyes in his steadily.

“¿Why not?” was his answer. He did not look surprised at my question. Certainly, he knew what I was talking about, and he looked disposed to be honest with me.

“Because I don’t know how long I shall be able to bear it. I don’t want to be insistent, I shall speak no more about it after this. But I need to make things clear.”

“Haven’t I made it clear enough to you yet, indirectly?” He answered me, cold and distant, as was usual with him when he was out of humour. “I can’t see what you’re expecting. I have never shown myself uncertain, and I can’t see either what have made you talk about it, either.”

“And what does it mean? What must I understand? That there is no possibility… because you don’t want it, or because it’s impossible?” I asked, conscious of how unclear the question was. His answer could not satisfy me.

“Because it’s impossible.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t want it. I renounced all this when I chose my profession. Watson, please, don’t think any more about it.”

And that was all. What can I understand about his answer? What was the reason of his negative? Was it moral prejudice, or a simple personal compromise? Did it mean that, apart from this compromise, there was nothing to prevent him from being closer to me?

“I can wait until you decide to retire.”

“Of course you can. But there will be no guarantee in that.”

“It’s me, then?” His last words, and the way of they were said, had wounded me more than the jezail bullets had. In that very moment, all my boldness, and all my resolution to be calm, what I had succeded in, seemed to be defeated by this simple statement. “I see. It’s me, then.” I got up, determined to lock myself in my bedroom, unable to keep my serenity.

“Watson!” I turned back. He seemed to doubt a moment. “It’s not you. Believe me, please. I have decided it so. But if sometime, for any reason, I had to break my promise…” I saw how uncertain he was how he would finish. He didn’t know how he was going to say it. I could have stopped him from telling me, for I knew what he was going to say. But, after all the time we had kept silent, and before all the silence that was to come, I let him continue. These words were all that he would give me. I needed to hear them.

“What?”

“I wouldn’t contemplate any other possibility… if I had to break my promise.”