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This is what it is behind the words.
The Holmes in my hands, formed out of ink. He is brilliant and untouchable; he always gives a good show. I make him feel in glimpses, and then I claim he feels nothing at all. My dear, he says, and he smiles.
The steps are right, we walk them, mysteries solved and atrocities prevented, sometimes. There is truth in what I set down here, paper under pen in my hand. But all you can see is the words, and words are such unreliable things.
The Holmes in my hands, formed out of skin. He is gaunt and haunted; he wants to see if he can be broken. I put him back together, and then I take him apart. My love, he says, and he smiles.
The detective and the writer. The teacher and the student. The addict and the gambler. The most intimate of friends. All of these things are true. But they are as words are, only part of a story, order overlaid on chaos. Beneath the pages, between the words, this is where we live.
Holmes calls me a liar, because lies of commission and lies of omission are one and the same for him. He ever seeks the truth; I lie for a living.
Holmes does not write. Not like I do.
The Watson in the words, he is a ghost that bleeds ink. He is a shadow, a reflection, an outline. He lives in a story, and so nothing can touch him. He is what I need him to be.
The words form Holmes' pale elegant hands, the grace of his walk, the curve of his smile. But I have seen his fingers broken and I have seen him bleed and I have seen him when he cannot bear the world. I have seen him, and I have seen him, and I have seen him. Sometimes it feels like all I can do. So I do one thing more, and I write.
The Watson in this room, he is a man in love. He is a criminal. He is so easily damaged. He has very little left of him, and yet he hands over his heart. Don't break it, he hopes, and he believes, yes, but. Nothing is certain. Not even this.
I do not see facts. Not like Holmes does.
The world in the words, it is a London polished to a shine. I give it to you in pieces: a mystery, a shadow, singular points of interest for your consideration. Sometimes my tales end in sorrow and ruin, but they always end. Close the book and walk away.
The facts form Holmes' view of the world, the breath in his body, the pulse in his veins. London, and truth, and crime, and myself, these are the things in his heart. I cannot explain how he is still innocent, but he is – right and wrong, truth and lies, and every mystery is explainable, given enough data.
My heart beats red blood; I have seen it leach into the sand half a world away, when every breath could be my last. And still, I have never felt so alive as I do here. I cannot explain how I am still innocent, but I am – justice and mercy, kindness and love, and good will always triumph, given enough time.
I give him everything, all of me, to hold in hands stained with chemicals and blood. He gives me everything, all of him, to hold in hands scoured by sand and death. Our fingertips are calloused against each others' palms, the ghost of them felt in the space between us outside of these walls.
The world outside our window, it is London in all its glory and squalor. It festers inside of me: blackened, gangrenous, petty cruelties not worth recording. It will never end. It will outlive me, and it will outlive Holmes, and it will outlive you. Holmes breathes it in, I bleed it out.
We are alive and real, we are fact and myth. We are here and we are here and we are here.
You taste like ink, Holmes tells me, my fingers on his lips. He kneels on the papers around my feet, my discarded words crumpled against his bare skin. His hair smells of chemicals and death when I wrap my arms around him; he smiles as I breathe deep.
The city sleeps ever uneasy beyond our drawn curtains; the night is cold beyond the reach of our fire. I pay no attention to London or my pen. Holmes whispers promises against my lips, my fingertips write truths on his skin, here where we live.