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If anything, I downplayed Sherlock Holmes’ debilitated state after his two-month battle of wits with Baron Maupertuis that finally ended with my friend destroying the man’s criminal speculation racket and sending the Baron fleeing out of Europe. (For reasons that will be made obvious, I downplayed the rest-cure as well.) Worn both physically and mentally by his work, too deeply sunk into abject depression to appreciate his magnificent victory, my dear one was a pitiful sight in his Lyons hotel room when I came to take him home.
Once we were back at Baker Street, I coaxed him into coming with me on a long restorative holiday at the estate of my friend Colonel Hayter in Reigate. A homosexual man does not need the terms “bachelor establishment” nor “fullest freedom” translated, and Holmes agreed to go with me.
During the trip from London to Surrey I did not let go of my lover’s hand, and he gratefully leaned against me in our private train compartment. A two-month absence from my spouse had worn on me also; I eagerly anticipated the pleasure we two could openly share while safe at Colonel Hayter’s estate.
The visit did indeed revive my poor friend, but I spent it in frustrated tenderness – for Sherlock Holmes slept in my arms the entire week like a newborn babe.