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It was the sound of our sitting-room door being swung open that awakened me at last, and I blinked emptily at the wall, trying to assess my surroundings.
To my great dismay — and to that of my joints in particular — I found I had spent the night slumped over my writing desk, having finally lost my battle with Morpheus, and with nothing but a freshly finished first draft to act as a pillow. At some point through the morning a wool duvet had materialised over my shoulders and, though it was nigh on lunchtime, someone had closed the curtains to block out the sun’s light.
Sherlock Holmes stood in the opened doorway, clad in his grey coat, his top hat already in hand and a flush of red brightening the line of his cheekbones due to the coming winter air.
“What a splendid morning”, he announced, ignoring my answering groan and the loud pop in my spine as I yawned and stretched. He discarded the rest of his attire in quick motions and pulled the old mouse coloured dressing gown about his body. He walked over to the mantlepiece to retrieve his small silver cigarette case and took one out, placed it between his lips and grabbed the fire tongs to fetch out a coal to use as a lighter. Having done so, he placed the coal back into the fireplace and proceeded to stoke it back to life, bathing our rooms in soft golden colours.
Only after he had taken a drag and breathed out a fine cloud of smoke that wrapped its winding tendrils around his form did he finally turn his attention to me.
“Dear me, doctor, is it the Liverpool affair that brought you to abuse your sleep schedule in such brutish a manner?”
“H’m?” I mumbled, attempting to rub the sleep out of my eyes. “Oh, yes. I am to send this to my editor by nightfall. I might have finished it as early as last week if it hadn’t been for this dreadful block.”
Holmes regarded me from beneath half-closed lids, “You were still writing at around midnight, when I last saw you awake. You continued long past that hour.”
He didn’t pose it like a question, but I treated it like one all the same.
“I believe I did, though I’m afraid I couldn’t tell you the exact time I lost consciousness.” I brushed the duvet between my index and thumb. “Thank you, by the way.”
He waved a hand dismissively. “Think nothing of it. And the manuscript is finished?”
“The process was like pulling my nails out one by one, but yes.”
I patted the pile of papers into order, and Holmes came over to my desk. I handed him the manuscript without a word. As he took it, he bent forward over my chair and kissed me. I kissed back, grabbing him by the curve of his neck, feeling the soft brush of smooth jaw against my palm and the fresh aroma of his aftershave fill my nostrils. His own hand reached up, scratching my stubbled cheek with a fingernail which, once we had separated, he presented to me. Chuckling at the dried ink I found there, I rubbed at the careless stain on my face.
Holmes pressed one final, quick kiss to my lips before standing back and returning to his earlier position, sitting cross-legged on our settee with the papers arranged in his lap.
For all Holmes might make fun of my writing, it’s become our custom, over the years, that he should be my first reader. This arrangement has proven agreeable for many reasons: firstly it is practical, as it allows him in the event of a slipup on my part — a name I ought to change or a conversation which ought to remain unrecorded —, to warn me of my oversight and correct it; secondly it pleases him, as he is a peacock first and man second, and he revels in my constant attention.
With his first glance at the manuscript, his brow furrowed.
“Apologies for the handwriting,” I said, anticipating his remark, “but it is a first draft in every sense of the word. While I always rewrite them before I show them to you, if I have to lay my eyes on that thing again, I fear I might be sick.”
He clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth in acknowledgment, “Ah, of course. I should’ve known.”
“Now, if you’ll excuse me” I said as I stood up, “I feel positively filthy. I’ve neglected my morning toilet for long enough, I believe.”
And yet I lingered. I made a show of rubbing my stiffened leg, but truth be told, the spirit of the writer in me awaited eagerly for some sort of response for my full night of work. I watched Holmes’ face, studying the slight changes in his expression as he struggled through my mangled handwriting. As he turned the first page, I was surprised to see his eyebrows shoot up his prominent brow and almost disappear into his hairline. He blinked twice and studied the manuscript intently. He turned to the second page and, sure enough, his eyes fixed themselves with such an intensive curiosity they could have burned a hole clean through the paper. In less time than it could have possibly taken to read the text, he again turned another page.
“What is it?” I inquired, a sense of uneasiness growing in my stomach.
He raised his gaze to mine, and I saw he was trying to keep his expression neutral. “My dear Watson,” he purred, “why, you’ve never mentioned your artistic talents before.”
As realisation struck me, I felt my mouth fall open and a hot flare of embarrassment make its way up from my neck to my face, until the tips of my ears burned red. I inhaled sharply.
“Oh.” said I, and his grip on his features failed as the corners of his thin lips were pulled into an impish smile. He thumbed through the remaining pages with a playful twinkle in his eyes.
“Yes well, a mere hobby of mine, nothing more than silly scribbles between the paragraphs.” I said as I walked over to where Holmes was seated. “If you would be so kind as to give it back, I’ve changed my mind: the sooner I finish copying this draft, the better”
But Holmes only tutted, ignoring my outstretched hand and regarding me with a stern expression. “My dear Watson, this won’t do,” he scolded me, “we’ve had a conversation about the futility of modesty often enough. A misjudgement of one’s skills is a misjudgement, regardless of the sentiment behind it. On the contrary,” he smiled back down at the pages in his lap, “I believe Miss Potter might finally find a rival worthy of the title, if you ever decide to indulge in this whimsy.”
I snorted, “The style seems hardly appropriate for a series of crime stories.”
“Do you think so?”
“I prefer a more simplistic linework.”
“Fascinating! And you’ve been doing this for how long?”
Finding myself the target of his curiosity, I relented. “Since I was a boy,” I took a seat by his side, “but I have only recently started again. I am a little out of practice.”
He hummed in response and leaned his weight against me as he continued to survey my work. His eyes skimmed the quick sketches of the local flora I’d made and I tensed when, turning another page, he broke into a full-toothed grin.
“And I suppose this is me.” he said, and I could hear the smile in his voice.
The drawing he was referring to was a character study of Holmes that covered more than half a page. Between the paragraphs my arse, I thought to myself.
In the picture, I had captured him kneeling, almost sprawled on the floor, fully engrossed in his examination of the carpet while looking for cigar ash. I wasn’t altogether happy with the end result, but there was something in the simplicity of rushed lines and rough shapes that conveyed the pure frantic energy of the chase that always gripped my friend during an investigation. His lean form lay crouched, twisted, yet elegant as seen from the back, the weight and strength of his upper body resting solely on one arm while the other hovered in front of his face.
“I don’t like how your nose turned out.”
“My dear boy, I wouldn’t blame you,” he laughed softly, “one too many fistfights has rendered it quite an ugly thing.”
“And you were lecturing me about modesty.” I teased, kissing the corner of his eye, and he conceded.
Holmes, running the tip of his finger along the paper, looked suddenly pensive, his gaze transfixed on the gentle flickering of the fire. “May I—“ he stopped himself and pressed his lips together. I waited, seeing that he was considering his words, then he turned to face me, his grey eyes searching mine, “Would it be easier if I posed for you.”
I blinked, shocked. “Posed?”
“Yes. Logically, it must be a simpler task to draw a stationary subject rather than one dashing hither and thither. Besides, I am already your muse in one of the arts, I can find no harm in taking that same role in one of the others.”
“Well, if- if you truly wish to,” I stammered, “then of course, I’d be honoured.”
Holmes grabbed my hand in a gentle squeeze and grinned.
Following that day, he was more than supportive of my hobby. He even encouraged me, upon learning that, in my youth, I had been too poor to afford anything more than a pencil, ink, and paper, to pursue other materials and techniques now that I had the means. In fact, it was hardly a month later that, with winter making its presence felt all over the country, I found myself on Christmas day sitting at my writing desk like that pivotal morning, with discarded wrapping paper in my lap and a box of watercolours peeking up at me.
Holmes did pose for a painting, as promised. All worry of inconveniencing him vanished as soon as I saw him sitting in his armchair, his fingers woven together and a playful smile on his lips. It was an educational and pleasurable experience, for I will never tire of looking at him, but I strongly suspect that, out of the two of us, he enjoyed it the most.
I have the painting to this day and am tremendously proud of it. Though the few people to whom I’ve shown it seem to admire it, they will never be able to appreciate it as fully as when I see it, hanging next to its twin in Holmes’s bedroom — a jewel amongst the wall of snarling criminal faces — while the weight of my beloved’s head presses against my breast and all is at peace with the world.