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One of the defining features of my friend Sherlock Holmes is that he always, regardless of circumstance, has the last word on a matter. Whether it is a quick, biting jibe that is beyond its recipients scope of understanding or the discreet rise of his brow for a second before his face returns to it usual countenance of stone, his feelings in regards to an issue inevitably slip through the cracks. I am not entirely sure that he is able to control it, although it would seem obvious that he can, for the moment the words pass his lips in times that require silence or he feels a slight shift in his expression when he ought to remain resolute in his outward façade, a fleeting look of self-reproach passes over him. Only for a second though, and then they are lost beneath the weight of his self-control. It is these times, and only these times, that his hold upon himself wanes briefly. You will never see Sherlock Holmes wrapped up in a fit of his own anger, but beware those sharp, cutting words that slip from his tongue as easily as snow from a dyke and the piercing looks that know you are wrong and will not let you go from their gaze until they have told you so.
Often have I found myself in the position where the final resolve to one of our many debates is for Holmes to walk away, but only after he has firmly implied his feelings on the subject via one of his little methods. I found it infuriating at the start of our relationship as housemates that he would simply turn his back on me after he had delivered the “fatal blow” to our conversation, as it were, and when he would turn from me I wanted nothing more than to seize him by the arm and wheel him round until I was done with him. Sometimes, depending on the topic that had been offered up for dissection, the flash of remorse that crept over his face would make a brief appearance, but he quickly swept it to one side. His level of restraint enraged me as much as his ability to silently dig holes in my opinions and taste did. It was impossible to point it out to him though, for even if I had he would bark a reply from the safety of his room or later in the evening I would be met with a twisted look upon his face that spoke his mind in volumes.
If Sherlock Holmes had an opinion on something regarding my personal life, he would proclaim his view of it to me whether or not I had asked him to. I should have known from the moment we met and he deduced (with no great difficulty) that I had served in Afghanistan. It was no secret, but he had read it with one glance as though it were as clear as print that had been embossed across my forehead, but in my initial excitement of finding a rail upon which to run my life I did not take it as the warning that it was; that it is both foolish and impossible to attempt to keep secrets from him.
After my army service and eventual dismissal, the only redeeming upshot had been that I would have able to once more to build a wall of privacy around myself. Throughout my education and service I had had very little scope for discretion of my person, and while I felt no shame in my own activities and wants, I had yearned for the opportunity to hold onto something that was just for me. The years of sharing myself with others had worn me thin and then Holmes had come along, presenting me from the outset with a chance to mend myself. I jumped on the prospect.
It had not been as I had hoped and expected it to be. For a year after taking lodgings with Holmes I remained an invalid. It was one of the few things he did not share his opinion on. Perhaps he did, but I had grown blind to the automatic looks of pity that my state drew from people and Holmes is certainly not the type of person to throw a crippled ex-solider an ounce of sympathy. I was unable to start constructing the private life for myself that I had longed after for so many years as I rarely left Baker Street. My nights were spent in what had become “my” armchair in the sitting room, either as a single audience to what I learnt was Holmes’ frightening skills on the violin or absorbed in what I also quickly discovered was the sort of writing that my new flat mate found abhorring.
Slowly though, as we shared tobacco and we became mutually closer, my health improved. It was spurred on by his allowing my involvement in his work. Suddenly I found myself more like the man I had been before the war and my illness, and certainly more like the sort of man who would be able to form habits worth keeping secret. Holmes seemed pleased at my recuperation, but it was as I started to find myself in his immediate company more and more frequently rather than just in the nest of our shared sitting room that the scathing remarks and derisive looks began to show themselves.
I took them as jest as best as I could, for in all seriousness what did I know of his methods of chemistry or of how many types of cigar and cigarette ash he claimed to be an expert in? Nothing, I admitted, so when he asked my opinion of such a thing it was only a means for him to amuse himself. However, it was a completely different matter when he switched his source of amusement from my failings in the field of deduction to the personal affairs that I was gradually starting to build up.
I trusted that Holmes did not read my mail, and I believe that he never once did but someone like Holmes does not need to actually read a letter to know what it is about. It is a simple matter of the handwriting, the choice of stationary, the postmark. For him they tell more about the author than the actual contents ever could. It took about of one month for him to reason the nature of the post I was receiving. I had made no attempt to hide my liaisons, and yet the fact that he knew so intimately where I was going, who I was seeing and what I was doing when I was not in his company felt like an intrusion on a level that was as inconsiderate as it was callous. I did not pry into his secrecy, and what irritated me the most about the whole situation was that one only has to look at Holmes to know that he holds an infinite number of secrets within himself that he will share with no living person, never mind with the pen and paper. It is utterly impossible for a man to have lived as long as he and to have experienced all that he has without adding to the inbuilt well we come with that holds our confidences, where we can bring them to the surface when required or try in vain to drown.
Yes, I was more than interested in him as a person; his work fascinated me. Everything about him did, from his choice of tailoring to his taste in brandy. But there was a line which I knew I was not permitted to cross under any circumstances. I had attempted to venture towards it a couple of times but it had earned me the cold shoulder and he had physically shut himself away from me as soon as he gathered where the line of conversation was heading. So when Holmes shot me a knowing look as I announced that I would be leaving Baker Street for the night I received it indignantly, angry that he was allowed the liberty of judging me while I knew nothing of his own short-fallings other than that he had an occasional habit for taking drugs and that his work sometimes blurred the lines between right and wrong to the point where I was unsure where he stood. He just had to get that last stab as I went for the door, that unspoken, petty taunt that said “I’m right and you cannot prove me wrong”.
So it went on for months; the more I grew in health, the more outgoing I became. I grew to trust him enough to take charge of my cheque book for I found that I had developed an alarming gambling habit and while I do not pretend to have been cured of it, I am certainly not as susceptible to having my money drained from me as I was at that time. There were also a couple of women who had caught my attention more than once and Holmes was quick to notice if I ever seen the same again. He never knew their names, and I never brought them back to our lodgings. As much as his habit of ridiculing me caused me grievance, I was completely in the dark when it came to his own choices of partnership and I did not want to cause him any degree of discomfort by confronting him with that night’s subject of my intentions. In truth, it appeared to me as though he was without the need to arrange nightly trysts with almost-strangers as I was at that time. He had never spoken of any person who had engaged his interests, past or present, and in my effort to avoid another caustic spell between us I did not probe him on the matter. Why he should show such an interest in my own doings was a cause of mystery to me. I considered that he was merely curious out of a lack of experience or that he was doing it simply to annoy. I did not want to believe either, and I tried not to think about the subject but after months of his subtle, insidious mannerisms towards my personal life, I could not let it slide any further.
“Going out tonight, Watson?” He asked coolly one evening, looking up from his armchair where he was draped like a faded curtain, swathed in his mousey dressing gown. The clock on the mantle had just chimed a quarter to seven.
“Perhaps.” I answered, feeling my eyes close for a moment as I stood from my own chair.
Holmes continued to lounge in his chair, his long, spindly legs clad in immaculately tailored grey pin-striped trousers crossed and leaning towards the glowering fire. His gaze fixed idly on the flames in the grate and his hands were empty. One hung lazily at his side where his fingertips brushed at the worn carpet. The other rested on his chest. I watched it, rising and falling slowly, the only sign that he were actually alive and not simply a figure made of wax, sitting too close to the fire and waiting to melt.
“Well I may be out when you return.” He said without further prompting.
“I did not confirm that I was going anywhere this evening.”
A slight flicker of a grin flashed across his features. “No, but the letter that arrived in this morning’s post did.”
I felt my fists move as though to clench. A letter had indeed arrived addressed to me that morning, but I had not told him. It was currently resting in the inside breast pocket of my suit coat, where I had placed it immediately after opening and I had not removed it since. That Holmes could have known of it was inconceivable.
“It’s quite simple really.” Said he. “Although I can assure you that I know nothing of its contents other than that it more than likely an invitation from a person of the fairer sex seeking your individual attention,” (he stressed the word “individual” with as much lavish overtone as he could muster) “It is in the inner pocket of your suit coat. In most circumstances, should you keep a letter or a note in there you would not be worried about it become dislodged but as it happens you have been pressing your palm to your breast almost every single time you have stood or turned today to reassure yourself that it is still there. Therefore, the letter is of importance to you and you wish to keep its contents a secret.”
I sighed. My shoulders fell and I felt my head tilt to one side. “Well done you. I suppose I should congratulate you for yet another spot-on deduction, and yet I am unable to because as much as I am happy for you for being correct, it is at my expense and I do wish you would save yourself the bother.”
Holmes appeared slightly moved by my little speech. He righted himself in the chair and drew his legs into himself until he was precariously perched on the edge of it. He stared up at me, one corner of his mouth faintly twisted downwards in what I could almost have mistaken to be a frown had it not disappeared almost as soon as it had surfaced, perhaps having thawed due to his close proximity to the fire.
“Dear Watson,” He began, his sinewy arms wrapping themselves around his legs. “Whatever has gotten into you this evening, and while we are discussing it, as of late?”
You I wanted to say, and I actually felt my tongue twitch as the word formed in the back of my mouth. I choked it back down and forced a smile at my friend.
“Nothing,” I lied “Just champing at the bit for something to do.”
“Then you should go out if you were not already planning on doing so.”
Why? I thought automatically, and suddenly I realised that I really had no clue as to why I was feverishly attempting to keep my liaisons to myself. Indeed, they were none of Holmes’ business and yet I was acting as though I were ashamed of myself when I was not the one prying into a close acquaintance’s life for no apparent reason at the obvious discomfort of the one on the receiving end.
Why do you not want him finding out? It’s because you don’t really want to go, isn’t it? You’d rather stay here and subject yourself to yet another helping of his damnable humour and for what reason? Because you’d rather he spoke harshly to you, as long as it means he’s speaking to you at all? Because he is the centre of your entire life, the reason you are what you’ve become and he has every right to know what you get up to when he’s not around?
As I juggled these thoughts in my mind, he approached me. My coat was opened and the letter that rested in the inside pocket was removed in one deft movement that left me stunned at its speed as well as the audacity of the move. Before I had time to react, the letter was crumpled into a ball within Sherlock Holmes’ fist and hastily dropped to the floor between himself and I. Looking at it and then to him and then back again, I suddenly realised that all of my surmises about his reasons for enforcing himself on my personal life were correct, but also incomplete for as Holmes stood before me, his arms folding into themselves and his impossibly strong jaw jutting out from his skull another reason came to mind.
He’s jealous.
It was so obvious, now that he had displayed behaviour to back the theory up so colourfully. Sherlock Holmes was jealous that I was constructing a life that did not involve him. He would not go as far as to sabotage any of my arrangements, from the pained expression on his face that clearly showed he was trying to keep his emotions under control I could tell that if he had left an intervention of some sort any longer then he may very well had put some serious consideration into doing so. But what an intervention! The sender of the letter was not a stranger to me; indeed I had met with her several times. Looking at the crushed ball of paper on the floor at our feet, it was easy to surmise that Holmes had recognised the handwriting upon the envelope as it had appeared at our door at least three times before.
“Why you cling to them, I do not know.” He murmured, tucking his bottom lip between his teeth. His face took on a sneer as he nodded down at the ruined letter. “You know who they are from, what they ask of you. Even down to where you are to meet. Why do you carry it about with you? It is of no use to you, Watson.”
I wanted to argue with him, but it was impossible. He was right again, and since there were no other words to be said I was prepared to leave it at that but I was granted another surprise from Sherlock Holmes as he closed the gap between us once more, a hand coming to rest where the letter would have been had it remained in my coat pocket. Through the layers of my clothing I could feel the pressure and heat of him against my skin. His eyes remained fixed upon his own hand, the pale, lean fingers in stark contrast against the dark hues of my clothing but it did not remain for it found its way to my jaw.
His hand tilted my head upwards and I allowed him to do it as he inspected me with astute attention. I tried to shift my eyes to the side, but at such close proximity I found it impossible to look in any other direction than straight ahead so I opted for the easier option of closing them. Unable to see as I was, I could nevertheless feel him encroach further until his forehead came to rest upon my own. By this point I was transfixed to the spot with a mixture of trepidation and curiosity as his eyes continued to bore down on me and I awaited his next move.
When it came, I found that I was neither shocked or repelled to have his thin, mantle lips upon mine for at that moment, it seemed like the most perfectly natural conclusion to the scenario. I could faintly taste his tobacco for the kiss was a gentle one and it was neither demanding or imposing. His hand was still steady against my jaw and he did not force it any further, as though he were keeping it in place to anchor himself down. His other found its way to the cuff of my own sleeves which hung uselessly at my side, filled with the urge to clamp onto him and yet I could not move. The scene seemed completely unreal, and I felt as though I were standing at the other end of the room watching myself wrapped up in the subdued embrace of my flatmate and the only person who I had considered for a long time to be a friend. I simply could not bring myself to move lest I shattered the illusion.
My mind charged with thoughts, none relating to the obvious fact that Sherlock Holmes was holding his lips to mine. Instead, my mind could only conjure more questions; was it part of an experiment or was he simply trying to prove a point and why was he not repelled that I was a fellow man? I was intrigued to find that I was not disgusted myself, for I could not think past “This is Holmes.”.
I came back to myself as Holmes subtly tilted his head and caught my bottom lip between his own. I was undone. With the ruined letter at our feet forgotten, he stepped forward and encompassed me within the frame of his slender arms. I moved in reverse with him and my back hit the wall. As I did so, I craned my head up to meet the increasingly zealous kiss and alarmingly, my stomach jolted with a raw shock.
What are you doing, John? I asked myself as my arms finally reacted with the rest of me and gripped him tightly, one on his waist and the other on an arm. No, what are you letting him do to you?
My mouth opened to his and already I could feel myself awash with callow desires. I ventured to test him further. His own tongue responded eagerly to mine as my grip on him increased. One of his own hands found its way into my hair and my head was coaxed backwards and for a few seconds it was as though we had forgotten to breathe. The moment was broken only by Holmes giving a hitched groan that dissolved into our kiss. I could not help but answer him with a cry of my own as the kiss rapidly started to career out of our control. Our arms became tangled, as did our breath until I could feel nothing other than the press of an enlivened body against mine. All thoughts for my engagement later that night had long since fled and with my own growing arousal, my thoughts became clouded with need. The hands that roamed over me were undeniably male, yet the touch was gentle as it was demanding and the lips were soft as they were earnest.
I forced my eyes open for a second, supposing that I would be met with his gaze but instead, his own were tightly closed shut with a look of great concentration. It was Holmes who ended the embrace, what seemed like minutes later. Inhaling, he pulled away and stooped over me, taking me in with a deep look. His lips were slick with our efforts and a few strands of hair had worked loose and had fallen over his brow. The expressions that Holmes so often fought to keep under control were showing themselves as clear as day. His bottom lip was drawn between his teeth and he chewed upon it lightly. His keen, grey eyes were overcast with unrefined vivaciousness and his chest swelled with deep intakes of breath.
I was still reeling from the kiss, my hands on his sleeves and the alarm that one would expect to follow such an experience did not appear. My head had begun to cool, and so the realisation that I had not only kissed my friend, but that we were both male did not bite at me. I could feel no shame or disgust. It was only when Holmes took a step backwards in an effort to straighten himself up and knocked against the letter on the floor that we both came crashing back to reality.
“You,” I said slowly, trying to order my words before they spilled forth from my mouth. “You really don’t have anything to prove, Holmes.”
My friend shifted his gaze to the side, completely unable to look upon me. A sad expression befell his flushed appearance, intensifying the colour that had blossomed over his otherwise pale façade and I immediately regretted my choice of words.
“You shall be late.” He said quietly, his voice steady and low. There was no evidence in it to suggest what his body was otherwise pertaining to. It was also clear that the statement was a command, and that he wished to be left alone.
I stood with my back against the door and my hands fell away from him as he bent to retrieve the letter. When he righted himself, he turned away from me and walked to the fireplace where he adeptly threw it behind the guard and into the smouldering grate before placing himself firmly against the fireplace whence he begun to scour through his pipe collection.
“Watson, I am almost certain that your guest will want your company before eight.”
“I did not confirm that I had an engagement for this evening.” I persisted, repeating myself from earlier.
“You did not deny it either.” He retorted, clicking his chosen pipe between his teeth and blowing through it.
I turned from him now and reached for the handle, feeling utterly defeated. He simply could not help himself, could not stop getting the digs in or making biting remarks. It was simply part of his character; a part that I would rather not have been reminded of and that eclipsed the experience of the kiss that we had shared.
And then it came to me, and I spoke the words that to date have been my one and only successful turn at having the last word. As I opened the door and made to leave, I left him with these words:
“And I did not deny you either, which you had best forget for both of our sakes, Sherlock Holmes.”