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Chapter Text

Sussex Downs

1970

What would the camera capture? 

Two men, two boxes, two cups of tea. A cottage kitchen on a sunny morning. 

If you studied the photograph, what would you see? 

A polished wooden table, bone china cups rimmed with gold, white muslin curtains fluttering in the sea breeze. The men sit at the table, sipping their tea, the boxes centred on the table between them. 

One man is tall, his hair white and lush, curls skimming the top of his shirt collar. He gazes at his companion with an expression the viewer must interpret for themselves; pride, love, amusement, a combination of all three? His shirt is fitted to complement his lithe figure, the colour a deep aubergine. There is a sheen to the fabric that suggests a silky and fashionable polyester. 

His companion is shorter, more solid, wearing a light sweater with blue and white stripes reminiscent of Picasso’s photograph in Life magazine. His silver hair is cropped short, his face still boyish under the wear of age. He is grinning, but there is something in the way he studies the boxes that must also be interpreted. A wistfulness, perhaps, a feeling that something is missing.

If only we could enter that sunny kitchen to eavesdrop on the conversation!

“Do you think the world is ready, Sherlock?” John asks.

“Is it ever?”

“The world is changing. At least we won’t be thrown in jail.”

“No. Not for this, anyway.”

“People will talk.”

Sherlock smiles over his teacup. “People do little else.”

John opens the box from his publisher. Four piles of books. Four grey covers with black letters. I am a Camera , they spell. The picture behind them is blurred, shades of grey suggesting a war-torn street that could be anywhere—Paris, London, Tunis, Berlin. He caresses them affectionately.

“But it doesn't tell the whole story, does it, love?” he muses.

“No.” Sherlock’s voice is warm, the syllable soft. “A camera never does.”

Sherlock fingers the papers in the second box. The box is old and flimsy. Once it may have held a ream of paper for John’s typewriter. Now it contains the typewritten pages of his manuscript along with letters whose ink has faded over the years. Fragile pages written on thin war-time paper or aeograms that folded into their own envelopes. There are flowers pressed between tissue that would disintegrate to dust if handled roughly. A sketch, done in coloured pencil, of John in his army uniform, sitting in the desert of North Africa. Sherlock knows that, if he were to sift down far enough, there would be photographs as well. Two children, a boy and a girl, with matching curls and light, cat-shaped eyes. Pictures of soldiers from the Great War, the War to End All Wars, two fathers who never came home, in spirit or in person. There is a postcard from Berlin, showing a street bright with lights from the clubs and cabarets. And one from Paris, of the Eiffel Tower, belying the evil that had occupied the City of Light.

Sherlock looks at John then, studying his face. He can read the thoughts there, the worries, the doubts. He always could. Now that face is as familiar to him as his violin. He knows every groove, each plane. He hopes that someday, still many years from now, John’s face will be the last thing he sees. He has never, will never, tell John this; it is too selfish. But it is a truth that he knows as surely as he knows the sun will rise tomorrow. He can no longer exist in the world without John Watson. He did it before, he has no desire to ever do it again.

“Sherlock?”

He’s done it. The Thing. Been so lost in his own thoughts that the world disappeared. Better to stay present. Savour each moment they have together. Nothing is promised.

“The book is good, John. Brilliant, extraordinary. A camera tells the truth, even if it cannot tell the whole story.” Sherlock lets his own hand caress the books in the box. “It is all there,” he says as he gestures to the other box, “even if the rest of the world cannot see it. We saw it then. We see it now.”

Chapter Text

Leave your troubles outside

So life is disappointing, forget it!

In here life is beautiful--

3 November 1942

There was a cabaret, and there was a master of ceremonies... and there was a city called Berlin, in a country called Germany...and it was the end of the world, and I was dancing with Sherlock Holmes, and we were both fast asleep.

 

John’s typing was painstaking. He pecked at the keys with two fingers, searching for the letters as he typed. Often the shaking of his left hand left him picking away with only his right index finger. He stopped to look out of the window of his dingy bedsit. The November sky was grey and dotted with barrage balloons. The Luftwaffe had left his city scarred. Although there hadn't been an organised bombing campaign for nearly two years, one could begin again at any time. Of course he would be safer outside the city, but how could he bear to be anywhere else?

In truth, there was one other place he desperately wanted to be, if only he could defy the laws of physics to return to it. He felt his lips quirk into a small smile at the thought of discussing time and space, Leibniz and Einstein, with his long-lost friend.

31 December 1930

Berlin

In 1929 I concluded my studies at the University of Edinburgh. I had thought to make my way by writing as my studies in English literature fitted me for little else other than teaching or writing. Teaching was, to my mind, out of the question. I was not made to mould minds as either don or schoolmaster. After several months of staring at the page with naught to show for my efforts, I gravitated to London, that great cesspool into which all the loungers and idlers of the Empire are irresistibly drained. There I stayed for some time at a private hotel in the Strand, spending such money as I had, considerably more freely than I ought considering my inability to succeed at my chosen profession. So alarming did the state of my finances become that I soon realised that I must make a complete alteration in my style of living. On the very day that I had come to this conclusion, I was standing at the Criterion Bar, when someone tapped me on the shoulder, and turning round I recognized young Stamford, with whom I had shared digs at university. 

“Why you are as free as a bird, Johnny!” he proclaimed when I explained my dilemma. “Nothing holds you to London or Edinburgh or even the Empire. To be a writer, one must see the world.” Stamford’s father was a clergyman who, with unprecedented liberality for his type, had sent Stamford and his sisters on a tour of Europe before he matriculated at Edinburgh. “You must see Paris, the Alps, Berlin, my man, '' he advised. “And,” he added with a wink, “When you visit Berlin, you must go to the Kit Kat Klub. I promise you have never seen its like!” 

And so I vacated the hotel, sold those belongings I could, packed the rest into two suitcases and made my way across the continent. Less than two months in Paris convinced me that either I was not for the French or the French were not for me, and I set my compass for Berlin. My German was passable, if barely so, and I thought to supplement my dwindling purse by giving English lessons.

And so I found myself sitting in a dimly lit Berlin nightclub on New Year’s Eve. And yet, however hard I tried, I could not picture Stamford, with his Calvinist Lowland Scots upbringing, in this place. Onstage, an all-girl orchestra, wearing next to nothing, played as the dancers, wearing even less, danced and sang a bawdy tune. My German was perhaps not up to the double entendres of the lyrics, but I got the gist of it alright. I could only hope that my visage did not give away my shock and surprise.

There were booths along the wall, clearly meant for larger parties or private assignations, while the main floor was covered with small numbered tables, designed to seat two. Each table held both a dim lamp and a telephone. One could, if one so desired, use the telephone to call someone sitting at another table. 

I jumped when the telephone at my table rang, as if by noticing it I had brought it to life.

“H-h-h-ello?” I stammered.

A deliciously rich baritone answered in German, too rapid for me to understand.

“I’m sorry, bitte , um, I mean, sag es bitte –”

The voice on the other end of the line cut me off, “Oh! You’re English! How droll! May I borrow your watch?” 

“My what?” I was certain that I had misunderstood; that after struggling to communicate in languages other than English for the past weeks my mother tongue had been rendered insensible to me. My watch? It was true that I had hardly slept after leaving Paris the day before and now it was nearly midnight….

“Do you have a watch or not?” came the reply.

“Well, yes, of course.”

“And may I borrow it?” The voice on the line was posh, dripping not only with annoyance but years of public school, “Perhaps I should mention that I am not a thief.”

I shook my head, trying in vain to clear my thoughts. “Yes, yes, I suppose s–”

The other party hung up with a click. The next thing I knew, a hand floated in front of my face. Long, graceful fingers. Pale skin that seemed to glow in the dim lamplight.

“Hurry up, man! Watch!”

That voice. Unable to resist, I dug into my pocket for the requested object and did not look up until I placed my pocket watch in that luminous hand. The hand closed around the watch and a tall, lithe figure dressed in black stepped away before stopping and turning back to me.

“Stay where you are. Gotta dash!”

The voice was definitely male, an incredible baritone that seemed to have found its way directly to my most private parts, but the body now sashaying away from me wore a clinging black evening gown with the back cut down to the top of a most alluring arse. I was both confused and aroused. Of course I would be staying where I was. Even if my current physical state wouldn't be obvious to everyone, I simply could not take my eyes off the voice personified long enough to stand up or move away. Dark curls tamed into a fashionable bob topped a neck so long that it was certainly against the laws of the Empire. A neck attached to boyish white shoulders that I found myself wanting very much to touch. Not just touch, kiss.

When the elegant creature reached the stage, they lifted the hem of their dress high enough to display feet in delicate high-heeled sandals as they climbed the steps, joining the master of ceremonies at centre stage.

The master of ceremonies was as mysterious as The Voice. He was short and dapper, his dark hair slicked back. To my surprise, his face was made up beyond what would be expected for the stage. His eyes were kohl-lined and his cheeks sported pink powder. His lips, made up in an exaggerated bow, were so dark they seemed black. And yet the effect was not unattractive.

Despite my humble upbringing in Hampshire, I’d been to clubs in Piccadilly and Paris, but this was unlike anything I’d encountered. The man wore spats and a bow tie but no shirt. I looked twice; his nipples were rouged to a deep red. The tie was attached to the configuration of suspenders worn over his shoulders but also over his trousers, emphasising his manhood. The trousers were short, all the better to show off the man’s socks and garters. The result was absurd and childish but also provocative and seductive. 

“Meine Damen und Herren. Mesdames et Messieurs, Ladies and Gentlemen,” the grotesque little man held up my father’s watch, “it is almost midnight!” His voice matched his appearance, the wheedling flirtation accented by an immature lisp. “Husbands--you have only ten seconds in which to lose your wives!” 

Everyone joined the countdown:  “Five- four- three- two- one! Happy New Year!”

The Voice dipped his companion backwards to kiss him. When he’d returned the man to an upright position, the tall brunet scanned the crowd, smiling when his gaze met mine. With a wink, he tossed the watch back to me before disappearing off stage.

I was astounded. Flabbergasted. Was Stamford? Did he suspect that I? The image of the heavenly being in the evening gown was burned into my eyes. I tucked my watch into my pocket and downed my glass of schnapps in one go. What was I doing here? In Berlin. In this club. What?

I hadn’t heard the orchestra playing until the music faded into silence as the emcee took the stage again. He smiled mischievously at the audience.

“And now, meine Damen und Herren... Mesdames et Messieurs... Ladies and Gentlemen--The Kit Kat Klub is proud to present a most talented young fellow from England. Yes–-England! I give you–-and don't forget to give him back when you're finished with him–-the Toast of Mayfair... the honourable Wili Holmes!”

The Voice, Wili, apparently, walked onstage to raucous cheers. The evening gown had been exchanged for a schoolgirl parody--knee high socks and strapped shoes, a dangerously short sailor dress, and a beret atop the curls.

“Mama,” he crooned, “Thinks I'm living in a convent,

A secluded little convent

In the southern part of France.

Mama

Doesn't even have an inkling

That I'm working in a Nightclub,” here Wili turned a dainty pirouette and continued singing over his shoulder with his back to the audience, “In a pair of lacy pants.”

The audience clapped and cat-called as Wili bent at the waist to display the lacy knickers under the short skirt. He continued singing, smiling at the audience from between his legs, slowly rising before turning to face them again. His voice was a clear falsetto now.

“So please, sir,” Wili sang pleadingly, “if you run into my Mama, 

Don’t reveal my indiscretion,

Give a working girl a chance.”

I could not wrest my eyes from this vision. My head pounded from the effects of drink and sleep deprivation but my heart echoed the beat for entirely different reasons. This being, this Voice, Wili, possessed an uncanny beauty. Like a Greek sculpture or a Renaissance painting, his alabaster skin glowed under the spotlights. The chorus had joined him on stage and every girl was shown plain by Wili’s charms. Their movements were clumsy, their singing out of tune in comparison to the young god before me. 

Inexplicably, my mind brought forth Ruskin’s assertion that “the art of any country is the exponent of its social and political virtues.” What were the social and political virtues demonstrated by this spectacle? I decided I didn’t care. The placard outside the club promised an escape from our worldly troubles:

Here, life is beautiful! 

It was beautiful, but a beauty that I had yet to experience first-hand. The freedom of sexual expression was so tantalizing and yet so frightening. I had spent years denying the part of myself that was attracted to Wili, to my mates at school, even to the scandalously dressed master of ceremonies. Kisses, yes. Embraces, yes. A manly thump on the back? Most assuredly. But I had never, not even with a girl, at the age of four and twenty. Was that perhaps the true scandal? Many men I knew, even those yet unmarried, had known a woman in that way. Of course I had working equipment, had seen to my own needs in the privacy of the w.c. or my own bed, but I had never, not with anyone. Perhaps it was needing to be the patriarch for my mother and sister at a tender age that made me wary of taking that intimate liberty with a woman outside of the marital bed.

I was eight years old, still in short trousers, when my father answered the call of duty and went to France to fight the Hun. For four long years, I knew that my own duty was to my mother and younger sister. Mother and Harriet looked to me to be brave when the night was dark, to be cheerful when the news from the front was dire. I broke the ice in my sister’s wash basin on cold mornings and filled the coal scuttle for my mother. I looked on with envy as other boys were free to climb trees in the orchard and play games in the schoolyard. When at last peace was declared, I waited anxiously for my father to return and take his place as head of the household. But my father returned to us forever altered, his physical health ruined by the gas in the trenches, his mind ruined by man’s cruelty to his fellow man. To this day, I do not know the horrors he experienced, although I can imagine them. His hands shook, his eyes scanned the horizon for dangers unknown, and he drank with an unquenchable thirst. My childhood was not regained when my father returned to us. Rather I was trapped in a strange limbo, neither child nor man; neither son nor father.

And now, as the year moved from 1930 to 1931, I was still in limbo, well old enough to be experienced, yet still a virgin. The singing and dancing continued, I suppose, but they no longer registered. My head was spinning and my stomach churned. As I broke out in a feverish sweat, my only desire was to get a breath of fresh air. I lurched from the table and tried to find the door. In my confusion, I jostled a passing waiter, nearly sending a tray full of drinks to the floor. 

“Entschuldigung,” I gasped. “Tür bitte.” 

The waiter laughed and pushed me towards one of his colleagues, calling out something I didn’t understand. And thus, like a ball in a maze, I was pushed from one waiter to another until I found myself outside in an alley. The air was cold and dank and smelt of piss and I sucked it down like a dying man. Resting my hands on my knees, I let my head hang down as I waited for my breathing to calm.

“You’ve only arrived in Berlin today,” said the Voice from somewhere above me.

I stood, startled, and, having risen too quickly, started to drop in a faint. Strong arms caught me, bracing me around my chest.

“Easy, friend. When did you last eat? Never mind, I already know the answer. You ate a lunch on the train this afternoon which did not agree with you. Upon arriving in Berlin, you stopped at a cafe for coffee and pastry. Since then, you’ve had two shots of schnapps and a flute of champagne. Idiot.”

“How did you,” I started.

But he continued on as if I hadn’t spoken. “Have you lodgings? I am looking for a roommate. There is a lovely suite of rooms on the Nollendorfstraße that I think we might just afford together, but of course it’s too late to disturb the proprietress now. Where did you plan to spend the night?”

I was loath to admit that I had no plan. I’d left my luggage at the train station, thinking to retrieve it once I’d found a suitable boardinghouse. I suppose I’d thought to find a bed for the night in a cheap hotel after ringing in the new year in this new town, this new country.

The Voice continued, “No matter, I have a place we can stay tonight. We’ll sort everything in the morning. After breakfast, we will pick up your belongings at the station before calling on Fräulein Schneider,” he paused, no doubt noticing my speechless confusion, and finished, “The proprietress of the rooms. On the Nollendorfstraße.”

He led me through a back door and up a narrow flight of stairs to a cluttered suite of rooms. The centrepiece of the main room was an enormous bed with its linens in disarray. My new friend steered clear of the bed and ushered me to a velvet sofa before disappearing. I took the opportunity to study my surroundings. Clothing was flung on every available surface; patterned dressing gowns, trousers, and several shirts. This room seemed to be a combination bedroom, sitting room, and dining room as it contained a wooden table with mismatched chairs, another velvet sofa, and a bookcase stuffed with books and papers. I saw a door and wondered if it was the w.c. 

My host returned with two glasses.

“This will prevent discomfort in the morning. It is a traditional recipe that I have improved upon, of course.”

“Of course,” I answered, inspecting my glass carefully. Its content was sickly yellow and quite thick.

Wili downed his in one gulp. 

“Best not to contemplate it, just swallow it down in one go.”

I did as I was told, although the wretched thing nearly came back up.

“What,” I choked out, “was that?”

“Prairie oyster,” he answered. “Raw egg, Worcestershire sauce, paprika--that’s one of my improvements--and a dash of vinegar. Gin will do in a pinch, but I think you’ve had quite enough alcohol for today.”

He bounced onto the bed, sitting cross-legged in the middle and looking like nothing so much as an Indian rajah. His black silk dressing gown with its lace-trimmed sleeves and vibrant roses embroidered up one side pooled around him like royal robes. His curls had been freed from their bob and were begging for my fingers to comb through them. He had washed his face, although traces of kohl remained around his eyes. Sans make-up, his skin was still alabaster, his cheekbones still chiselled, his lips still a soft, full cupid’s bow.  All the blood in my body seemed to be rushing to my lap; soon I would be unable to stand with any semblance of dignity.

“I was going to ask if you preferred to kip on the sofa, but I think perhaps you ought to join me in the bed,” said Wili.

I couldn’t speak. Of course I would be sleeping on the sofa, what did he take me for? And yet, my legs, of their own accord, straightened and I found myself standing--in more than the usual manner--and then walking across the floor.

“Good man!” chortled my companion. “Good man, indeed!”

My hands flew to my flies, but how could I hide? I found myself perched on the corner of the bed nervously drawing the quilt into my lap. My ears and cheeks burned. 

Wili drew a finger down my cheek. Compared to mine, his skin felt cool. How could he be so calm?

“My dear boy,” he said, “is this your first time?”

“Well no, of course not,” I spluttered. “I’ve, I mean, girls….”

“We will go slowly then.”

And then his lips were on my cheek, soft and dry. Gently, he cradled my head in his strong hands, placing a chaste kiss on my lips. He pulled back to study the effect of his buss. From across the room or from the stage of the nightclub, his eyes had seemed preternaturally light. Now, at this distance, I could see that they were the clear blue of a perfect summer sky rimmed and flecked with a darker blue. They were filled with mischief and intelligence and lust. Lust for me.

I imagined kissing those lips again, of tangling my fingers in his curls.

“Again?” he asked.

“Yes,” I breathed as I took his head in my hands. 

His hair felt exactly as I’d imagined, silky and springy. His lips were so soft, just brushing mine. I needed more and leant into the kiss, parting his lips with my tongue. He tasted of Worcestershire and gin and something unique, something I’d never tasted before. I was in his arms now, sinking myself into him.

“You are marvellous,” he whispered into my ear. “Perhaps I ought to know your name. If we are going to be roommates.”

Chapter Text

I have a terrible feeling I've said

A dumb thing.

Besides, I've only got one narrow bed--

Sleep is an ever-changing phenomenon. To “sleep like the dead” is to be impossible to wake; I have been known to create such a challenge for anyone wishing to wake me after an evening of indulgence. We say “to sleep like a baby,” when we mean one is sleeping peacefully; I was old enough when my sister was born to know that not all babies sleep peacefully. Chaucer is credited with an early version of the adage “let sleeping dogs lie” ( It is nought good a slepyng hound to wake for those who are interested). This, looking as I do now from years of maturity, seems a wise practice. But I was neither baby nor dog that night and I was certainly not dead. And yet I slept as I had never slept before. I was sated and comfortable, content in the arms that held me.

Which made it all the more disconcerting when I was woken before dawn. 

“John.”

I batted the voice away and burrowed deeper into the blankets.

“John,” he repeated as he shook my shoulder. “John, it is imperative that you wake. We need to vacate the premises.”

I shook my head and tried to remember where I was. For a moment, I worried that it had all been a lovely dream and that Stamford was waking me for an early morning lecture. But one look at that face, still beautiful in the half-light despite the disarrayed curls that crowned it, assured me that this was all quite real.

“What? Why?”

“Max,” he replied. “Bastard’s here although all signs pointed to him being out until mid-morning. He’ll be up the stairs in a minute and I’m afraid your presence will not be welcome.”

“Wait, who’s Max?” 

“This is his flat,” Wili said as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

“We…slept in his bed?” I was confused.

“Look,” replied my bedmate, “there simply isn’t time to explain just now. You’ve got to get up and get dressed.”

He bounded out of bed and threw my pants and trousers at me. 

“Wili! Wili, du böser Junge! Hier komme ich!” called a deep voice.

“Dear God!” Wili exclaimed.

He took one of the wooden chairs and jammed it under the doorknob.

Throwing my shirt and jacket at me he said, “This will buy us a minute or two, but you must hurry! Put those on and get under the bed!” 

Wili rummaged through the clothes lying around the room, frantically looking for something.

“Where is your coat?” he asked.

Someone, ostensibly Max, rattled the doorknob and banged on the door.

“Wili! Liebling! Lass mich rein!” Wili, darling, let me in!

 Wili pulled on his own trousers and wrapped his embroidered dressing gown around himself all whilst motioning me to hide under the bed. I watched in awe as my new friend transformed from exasperated yet purposeful to effeminate victim in the blink of an eye. 

“Du Rohling!” You brute! Wili answered, his voice high and tremulous. He continued in German, “Where have you been? I waited all night for you! I do everything for you, bring the crowds to the club, and this! This is how you repay me!”

At his frantic urging, I crawled under the bed. 

“Liebling!” answered Max.

My coat appeared under the bed with me.

Wili sniffled; he sounded close by. “I am not your Liebling.” A shoe appeared, carefully pushed towards me by an incredibly elegant foot.

“Wili!” More rattling of the doorknob.

“No! I know you were with, with HER!” Another shoe perfectly punctuated the word her as it slid under the bed. Wili continued, sobbing, “I can’t believe I trusted you. You promised! Du hast versprochen, auf mich aufzupassen--” you promised to take care of me  “and yet you…you…betrayed me with that…Hure!”

“Wili! Liebling! Schatz bitte!” Max banged on the door.

As Max banged on the door, Wili bent low to look at me under the bed. 

“Be ready,” he whispered. “When I say run, run out the door--I’ll meet you in the stairwell.”

I nodded my understanding. 

I heard the scrape of the chair across the floor.

“Do you promise to be good?” Wili bargained.

I imagined him leaning against the door with his hand on the doorknob. Bare feet, grey trousers, his chest pale under the silk dressing gown. Despite the predicament we were in, I found myself growing aroused.

“Ja mein Liebling. Anything you desire, please, just let me in, bitte.”

The door opened. From my vantage point under the bed, I saw a pair of polished black shoes facing Wili’s bare feet. I heard a rather wet kiss followed by a hard slap. The black shoes stumbled backwards as if their owner had been pushed.

“Ach! You reek of that whore! Go wash!” exclaimed Wili.

“Anything, Wili, Schatz. And, after I am clean, you may punish your Max. I have been so very naughty.”

I didn’t know whether to gag or laugh at the thought of Wili spanking Max. I wondered if I’d seen Max in the cabaret the night before. His voice was a rumbling bass, nothing like the wheedling lisp of the master of ceremonies or Wili’s melodious baritone. His feet, from what I could see, were wide, stretching his shoes over the edge of the soles. I pictured a fat, greasy man, balding, in an ill-fitting dinner jacket. The door to the w.c. clicked shut and I could hear water running.

“Now!” whispered Wili. “Run!”

I rolled out from under the bed as fast I could, holding my shoes in one hand, my coat in the other. Wili pushed me towards the open door, pausing for the briefest moment to kiss me.

He winked. “See you in the stairwell. Be ready to run some more.”

He shut the door behind me and I raced to the stairwell. There was a landing a few steps down and I stopped there to put on my shoes and coat. I found a sock stuffed into the toe of one shoe but not its mate. Oh well, I thought. A sock was a small price to pay for what promised to be the most interesting morning of my life.

I could hear muffled sounds from the flat above, but nothing to help me understand what was happening. I had begun to worry that I’d been abandoned when I heard the door slam and Wili appeared in the hallway. His long legs made short work of the stairs between us and he grabbed my hand as he flew by.

“Quickly!” he exclaimed.

Together we raced down the stairs but instead of exiting through the door to the alley we’d used the night before, we ran down a dark corridor peppered with closed doors. We hurried through an open door at the end of the hall into a large room. One wall was covered with mirrors; glittery costumes hung on racks along the opposite wall. This was a dressing room for the cabaret performers. Wili reached under a table covered with pots of makeup and brushes to retrieve a valise and violin case.

“All set,” he said. “An earlier exit than planned, but we can retrieve your belongings on the way to breakfast and then we are off to the Nollendorffstraße. No harm done.”

I stared at him.

“What about--” I began.

“Max?” he replied. “No worries there. He’s a bit tied up for the moment. He won’t be bothering anyone for some time.”

I was perplexed. “Tied up?” Realisation hit. “You don’t mean you actually--”

“Tied him up? Of course I did. Tiresome old bugger. Gagged him, too. That will teach him to come home early.”

He’d been guiding me through the cabaret as we spoke and we were now walking on a quiet street in the early morning light. I reached into my pocket for my watch, thinking to check the time, but couldn’t find it. I patted my other pockets, growing more and more worried.

“Here.”

Wili handed me my watch. 

“It must have fallen out of your pocket last night. I retrieved it before I left. Your father would have been disappointed if you’d lost it.”

“My father? How did you know that?”

“I didn’t know,” he said. “I observed.” 

He turned the watch over to show the inscription.

“To Harry with love, Clara. Your name’s John, not Harry, although you could use a middle name instead of your first, but we’ll assume that’s not the case. Besides, this watch is at least twenty-five years old and you’re,” here Wili studied me for a moment, “only twenty-four, so unless Clara gave it to you before you were born, you’re not Harry. It’s a fine watch, in good nick, so someone cared for it over time, not likely to be something you purchased for cheap at a pawn shop. We’ll go with father then. Harry’s your father, Clara, your mother. Most likely a wedding present. Inside the watch is a photograph of two children, the elder of which is clearly you. Eldest son inheriting his father’s watch. Please accept my condolences over his loss, which I expect was quite a few years ago now, although he did make it home from the war.”

I was astounded. The man was ascertaining my history from my watch.

“How did you know about the war?”

“Bit of a guess there, actually. Why would a man need a picture of his children in his watch if he saw them every day? He was separated from his family at some point; you aren’t much older than I am, and, considering that nearly half of the available pool of British men fought in the Great War, it isn’t a big jump to conclude that your father served King and Country. He came home a changed man, didn’t he? Drank?”

“How could you know about the drinking?”

“I looked at the inner plate, which contains the keyhole. There are thousands of scratches all round the hole--marks where the key has slipped. What sober man's key could have scored those grooves? But you will never see a drunkard's watch without them. He wound it each night and left these traces of his unsteady hand." He paused. “I am sorry. It must have been hard on you and your sister.”

I started to hear him mention my sister but then remembered the picture of the two of us inside the watch.

“Thank you. It was. Hard, I mean. He wasn’t the same man, afterwards. Hard on my mum, too.”

“I can imagine.”

The mood had changed quite suddenly. My friend seemed pensive and removed. After the exuberant energy of his deductions, I found his quietude unsettling.

“That was amazing.”

Wili turned to me, his bright eyes hopeful and searching.

“Do you think so?”

“Of course it was. It was extraordinary; it was quite extraordinary.”  

He was taken aback. “That’s not what people usually say.”

I laughed. “What do they usually say?”

“Piss off.”

I laughed out loud. What man with his faculties intact would tell a mind such as Wili’s to piss off? Beautiful and brilliant. How was I so lucky? Why would this amazing man want to spend another minute, much less offer to share a flat, with me?

As we walked toward the train station, I realised that, along with my sock, I’d lost my gloves. I blew on my hands and rubbed them together to warm them. My friend noticed and set down his baggage to remove his own gloves, offering them to me. I refused, of course. What I did agree to was each of us wearing one glove and placing the bare hand in a pocket. I carried his violin case whilst he continued to carry his valise. I was surprised, however, when he reached into my pocket and clasped my hand.

“There,” he said. “Shared body heat. We will be warmer.”

I looked around with trepidation; what if someone should see us? Despite the behaviour I’d seen at the club the night before, I could not imagine that open inversion would be greeted with any less trouble here than it would have at home. 

“Are you sure?” I asked.

Wili laughed and squeezed my hand. “No one cares here. Yes, so-called unnatural fornication is punishable by imprisonment,” I started to remove my hand from his grasp, but he held it tightly and moved closer to my side, “but the police do not enforce it. Turns out blackmail is a bigger problem than buggery; so they keep the peace by leaving us alone and taking away the need for blackmail. Berlin was, and in many ways still is, a garrison town. It won’t do to have the elite blackmailed by penniless rent boys.”

My astonishment must have shown on my face because he continued:

“Have you heard of Hirschfeld and his institute? He is doing remarkable work. Remarkable. He champions the doctrine of sexual intermediacy. You’ve heard of it? No? It’s brilliant. According to Hirschfeld, all human characteristics exist on a scale from masculine to feminine. Every person is a blend of masculine and feminine traits. He even believes that some people are transgender, that their sexual expression may be in opposition to their physical anatomy.”

I reflected on his words. Was there a hidden meaning there? 

“So, when you perform dressed as a schoolgirl,” I began, eyeing the black silk peeking out from under his long wool coat.

“I am playing a part,” he replied. “Yes, I enjoy dressing up, pretending to be someone I’m not, titillating the crowd,” here he waggled his eyebrows at me, “but I am quite happy, and proud, I might add, to be schwul, a warmer Bruder, as they say here.”

“My German is not spectacular,” I said, “but doesn’t schwul mean humid?”

He leant into me affectionately. “Hot and humid. And I am, aren’t I?” he asked with a grin.

We collected my bags at the train station and found a small café open for breakfast. Over a shared omelette and strong coffee, Wili explained his quest for a roommate.

“I couldn’t stay with Max one moment longer. I wasn’t lying when I called him a brute—he is one of the most vulgar men I’ve had the misfortune to meet. He is capricious and a consummate liar. He says whatever he finds convenient at the moment.”

“Why live with him in the first place?”

He waved his hand dismissively. “Convenience. Hard to be late when you live over the cabaret.”

“But you, erm,” I couldn’t force myself to ask the question that was burning a hole in my brain.

“Simply a transaction,” Wili answered. “Max enjoys a particular kind of man, which I happen to be, and I needed a roof over my head.” 

I mulled this over, taking a bite and chewing slowly to hide my silence. I was choosing my words carefully.

“So,” I said, “taking me on as a roommate--”

“Is the best thing that could happen.”

“Wili--”

“Sherlock.”

“I’m sorry?”

“My name. Sherlock. William Sherlock Scott Holmes, that’s the whole of it, truth be told. My friends call me Sherlock.”

I am embarrassed to admit my confusion, but, in my defence, the last few hours had easily been the most adventurous and disorientating of my life up to that point.

I held out my hand. “John Hamish Watson. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

Sherlock took my hand in his and shook it formally before bringing my hand to his lips.

“Enchanté, John Hamish Watson.”

And so began the most exquisite and singular friendship I have ever known.

When at last we reached Fräulein Schneider’s house, it was midday. The pension had once been grand, with its whitewashed exterior and oak door. Inside, the wood floors were worn and the carpets faded. The furniture in the spacious front room had been new sometime in the last century. Our proprietress was a thin woman in her fifties with greying brown hair and soft brown eyes. Like her surroundings, she was well-worn in dress and attitude but carrying it off with shabby elegance and pride.

“Ah! Herr Holmes! You are here for your rooms. And you have brought ein Freund I see. Will you also be needing a room, Herr…?”

“Watson,” I answered. “But we--”

“Because I do not have any more rooms available just now.” Her English was quite good. Not that I had anticipated being able to trade English lessons for rent in any case.

Sherlock was all charm and smiles. “We were hoping to share, Fräulein. That allows us to guarantee you the full hundred marks each month. If that is acceptable to you, of course.”

She considered his proposal for a moment. “Ach! Ja, the room is 100 marks. For one person. I should be charging more for two persons, but what difference does it make? An offer comes, I should take it, ja? Otherwise, I do not have 100 marks and I still have empty rooms. Come, I will show you.”

She led us up a flight of stairs and down a wide hallway. She pointed to each room as we passed by.

“This is Fräulein Kost. I am not liking her. She has too many uncles and nephews, you understand. Any trouble, you tell me and she is out. I have given already too many chances. Here, this is Herr Ludwig. Very quiet. Good tenant. He travels often but still pays me always on time. You will like him, I think. Ah! Here are your rooms!”

She unlocked the last door on the right and led us into a sunny room. The tall windows looked out onto the Nollendorfstrasse. The room was sparsely furnished with a small table with two wooden chairs, an ancient settee which may have once been upholstered in red but was now faded to a muted pink. A narrow table held an electric hot plate and an ancient kettle. 

Fräulein Schneider led us to a small alcove hidden by a curtain. Drawing it aside, she said, “And here is the bed. I am sorry it is only the one. But very roomy, ja? It will be fine or I will look for two single beds?”

“This is all perfect, Fräulein. Precisely as we discussed, except, of course, for the addition of Herr Watson,” Sherlock replied. 

He held out a handful of bills. “And we agreed on 100 marks? Here is the first month, in advance.”

Our landlady was delighted. “Such a gentleman, Herr Holmes! I am always happy to let rooms to ein Engländer. Trustworthy, good tenants you are.” She turned to me, “And you are also ein Engländer, Herr Watson?”

“Yes, Fräulein, I am. The rooms are quite nice. Danke schön.”

She smiled at the compliment. “They are what is here. I provide dinner each evening for my tenants. I serve now at 5 o’clock so you are not late to the club, Herr Holmes?”

“That is very considerate of you, Fräulein"

“You are a performer, as well, Herr Watson?”

I chuckled. “Oh no, Fräulein Schneider. No one would pay to hear me sing, although I can play the clarinet. I am a writer; I hope to give English lessons, as well, until I sell some of my stories.”

“So clever! A writer! Berlin is the place for writing. You will be as Hoffmann or Goethe or maybe Schiller!” She clapped her hands in delight.

“I don’t know about that, Fräulein. I’ll be happy just to make a living at it.”

“Oh you will, Herr Watson! The next great writer is here in my pension! I know this as I know my own hand. Berlin will provide the inspiration you need.”

Fräulein Schneider flitted around the room, showing us every detail imaginable. The outlet for the kettle-- “do not leave the plug in the socket!” and how the curtain to our sleeping alcove stuck if not drawn correctly--”pull too much and crash!” She carefully pointed out each building visible from our windows and gave a minutely detailed description of the residents in each one. Sherlock stood behind her, rolling his eyes and mouthing rude comments until I thought I would burst out in raucous laughter.

Finally, my friend could stand it no longer.

“Fräulein,” he said sweetly, “we would like to clean up before dinner. If you could show us the w.c?”

“But of course! How am I forgetting the w.c! Come, come, it is here--”

The communal bathroom was at the end of the hall, just a few steps from our door. By some miracle, Sherlock managed to keep her from an exhaustive tour of the small room, assuring her that we could operate the toilet, tub, and taps on our own. 

At long last, with a cheery, “Bis bald!” she made her way downstairs.

We shut the door to our rooms and breathed a sigh of relief.

“At last,” Sherlock said. “I thought we’d never be rid of her.”

Long arms enveloped me. 

“I’ve been waiting to do this for hours,” he said as he cradled my head in his hands and bent to kiss me. 

I am not a tall man, and the difference in our heights meant that I needed to raise myself onto my toes to reach him. As I leant into his kiss, I felt myself rising onto the balls to my feet. Of their own accord, my arms lifted so that I could entangle my fingers in his curls. I had never touched anything as delightful as those springy locks; never tasted anything as delicious as those lips. He was correct--how could I not miss embracing him? I may not have realised it until that second, but I had missed it from the moment we ran from the club that morning. Indeed, I had missed it from the moment I drifted off to sleep in his arms the night before. 

I could easily spend the rest of my life making love to this man, I thought, and it would never be enough. I leant into him, more forcefully than I intended and, standing precariously as I was on my toes, lost my balance. I clutched his shoulders, throwing him off-kilter as well. We rocked and skittered in an awkward dance but quickly found common ground.

We stood together, feet firmly planted, his arms around my waist and mine around his neck. 

“You alright?” he asked with a concerned smile.

“Course I am,” I replied, “I’m with you. I don’t think I’ve ever been more right in my life.”

Chapter Text

And since my stay in Berlin was to force

Creation,

What luck to fall on a fabulous source

Of stimulation.

We settled into our shared existence easily, as if picking up the threads of an established relationship. Sherlock, by necessity, retired in the wee hours and slept until late morning. I did not always accompany him to the club and frequently rose first. Whilst he slept, I wrote notes longhand and edited my typewritten pages. 

Despite our hot plate and kettle, Fräulein Schneider often brought us a tray with coffee and rolls in the morning. I would hear the faintest of taps on our door and then she would enter, wearing house slippers and carrying a tray.

“Pssst! I am very quiet for my artistes,” she would whisper. As she poured my coffee she would add, “but I am not providing Frühstück all the days. Only for today.”

“Of course. Danke, Fräulein. Danke schön.”

Once Sherlock was awake, I felt comfortable using my typewriter, which had found a permanent home on our table. When we took meals together we pushed it into the space between us where it served as our centrepiece, as beautiful as any bouquet. In the lonely years to come, I missed those early days the most. We had an easy rhythm, neither of us leading, neither of us following. I wrote, and cursed my own idiocy, and read my words aloud to my compatriot. He always listened carefully and gave me the encouragement I needed.

That is a half-truth. My memory plays the scene in that way, but the reality was a thousand times sweeter. 

“Christ! What am I playing at?” I might exclaim, pulling a sheet from my typewriter, ready to throw it in the bin.

“What are you on about?” my friend might ask from his consecrated bower on the settee, a half-eaten roll resting on his chest as he read the newspaper.

“I’m not a writer. A child could compose a better sentence!”

“Let’s hear it, then,” Sherlock would answer without looking up from his paper.

I'd read my work aloud whilst he’d hardly seem to attend, taking a bite of his roll and reaching down to the floor for his coffee. In the silence, I would assume he was more interested in the news, confirming my suspicion that I was not, in fact, a writer. I had not yet learned the error of underestimating my clever friend.

“Your conceit is sound,” he would say at long last, “but you’ve clouded it with,” here he waved his hand about to indicate said clouds, “commentary. Trust your reader. You mustn’t lead them down the primrose path; let them form their own conclusions. Show them what to think, don’t tell them.”

I would bristle; my temper was, and is to this day, ever wont to get the best of me, but upon rereading my words, I would see that Sherlock was right. Rather than convincing the reader of the truth by clearly laying down my points, I’d been telling them what to think without proving it. With a huff, I would begin anew. My friend, sensing my discomfort, yet without seeming to placate me, would pop the last bite of roll into his mouth, washing it down with coffee before rising and taking up his violin. 

Sherlock’s violin was an extension of his voice, a way to communicate what words could not. When I was in a foul mood, frustrated and fighting to put my thoughts on paper, he would play softly; gentle folk tunes or deceptively simple Mozart compositions. When the words were flowing and he knew not to interrupt, he would play Mendelssohn’s lieder or melodic pieces by Brahms. When I was relaxed and he was joyous, he played the Czardas at breakneck speed. With his colourful dressing gown and wild hair, he looked like nothing so much as a gypsy fiddler. 

I asked him once why he didn’t play the violin in the club, given his obvious talent and flair. “I sing for others; I play for myself,” he replied.

I thought of the times he played to match my mood, “But--”

“I said what I said, John.”

I do not want you to think that we lived overlapping but essentially separate lives. Nothing could be further than the truth. On the nights that I did not go to the club I was usually asleep by the time Sherlock returned to our rooms. But I did not stay that way. 

I would wake to the sensation of his arms around me, his regal nose burrowing into the back of my neck, followed by kisses and bites.

“Mmmmmm,” I would sigh drowsily.

His velvet baritone would fill my ear, “Dear God, I missed you!”

I rolled over to face him, luxuriating in the sight of his face, in the touch of his skin. He would come to bed naked, tugging at my pyjamas until I was naked as well. We giggled like schoolboys to find ourselves pressed against each other. His skin was warm and soft, smelling of tobacco smoke and greasepaint. He intoxicated me. I explored every inch of him with my fingers and tongue, always finding some new delight. The hair on his chest and arms was fine and lighter than his dark curls. Whilst I loved to run my fingers over it, what I loved more was to be pressed chest to chest with him. Nothing could bring me to attention more quickly than to have him on top of me, his body covering mine, except perhaps when positions were reversed. Young as we were, we quickly spent each other and fell asleep entwined together.

Sometimes I accompanied Sherlock to the Kit Kat Klub. He might sit with me, watching the crowd until the last possible moment, but, more frequently, he disappeared backstage whilst I sat alone. I learnt not to drink on an empty stomach and to limit myself to two shots of schnapps or perhaps a glass of Türkenblut, my favourite cocktail, a concoction of champagne and burgundy wine. I would sit with my little notebook, taking notes for writing later, and wait for Sherlock to appear onstage.

One night he appeared dressed in a black romper, a kind of short, backless combination garment or union suit. I nearly died at the sight of him with his beautiful chest on display between two elongated triangles of black satin. His sheer black silk stockings were held up by black garters, his muscular legs so lithe and strong beneath them that I lost my breath. He wore black heels, of course, and topped it all off with a black bowler hat. The whole effect was, as intended, titillating and alluring. Once he started dancing and singing, my blood boiled with both desire and possessiveness. He had a simple café chair on stage with him, using it to balance his body and extend his legs as he danced. When he began to gyrate his hips in time to the music while balancing precariously on the seat of the chair, that boiling blood rushed to my nether regions. I could not help but think of us together in our bed. Mistakenly, I took a moment to look around the room. Everyone else, both women and men, were mesmerised by him, watching him with open lust. I wanted to stand on my table and shout, “He is mine! Mine, do you hear?!” or to rush the stage and join him in his dance, physically and publicly claiming him.

Instead, I downed the rest of my drink and made my way backstage. I was waiting for him in the dressing room, in the chair I knew he sat in to apply his makeup, when he entered the room.

“John!” he exclaimed with surprise.

He was everything in that moment--male and female, alluring and innocent. He wore false eyelashes that made him look wide-eyed and younger than his twenty years, but his crimson lips were wicked and wanton. I grabbed him by the hips and drew him close. I bit into his neck and sucked, marking him.

“You are mine, do you understand?” I growled. “Only mine.”

“Yes,” he breathed, “yes, John, always.”

He threw his head back, baring his neck to me. His fingers were in my hair and he was thrusting his hips into mine. I might have taken him then and there, had not the room been flooded with the rest of the chorus girls, tittering and laughing.

“Ooooo, Wili! Du böser Junge!”

There was another voice then, deep and phlegmy, “Was ist das?”

“Damn!” whispered Sherlock.

“Wili!” shouted the deep voice. “Raus! Raus du Schlampe! Du Fotze!” Get out! Get out you slut! You cunt! “You are fired!”

My amazing, beautiful friend kissed me soundly on the lips before turning on his heel to face Max, the owner of the cabaret.

“Ja bitte. Natürlich,” Sherlock replied calmly, holding out a hand. “You owe me 70RM.”

The girls giggled at his boldness. I looked around the room; my eyes landed on the little master of ceremonies, watching from a corner. Seeing me, he grinned wickedly and winked. He had brought Max backstage to catch us together. Rat.

Max spluttered, mumbling something about Sherlock seeing the bartender to retrieve his cash, and left the room with the wind knocked out of his sails.

I stood behind Sherlock as he applied cold cream and removed his makeup.

“I am sorry, “ I said.

“What for?”

“I got you fired. If I’d been able to control myself--”

Sherlock sniffed. “Don’t be ridiculous. Max has been searching for a reason to fire me since New Year’s. In a way, you saved me.”

“Saved you? How so?”

Sherlock’s eyes flicked to mine in the mirror. “You kept it public. If he’d managed to get me alone…" he said quietly.

My hands clenched into tight fists when I realised what he meant. “Did he, has he…I’ll--”

Sherlock turned then, to take my hands. “No, darling. He never hurt me like that before. And now he never will.”

Chapter Text

Don't I adore you?

And aren't you mine?

My friend was indolent in his retirement. He often slept the day away, waking only when I nagged him to join Fräulein Schneider and the other residents for dinner. When he did join us at table he ate sparingly and refused to join in conversation. He was, however, perfectly happy to make sotto voce commentary to me throughout the meal. 

Of Fräulein Kost: “Her mother was an only child. As was her father.”

Of Herr Ludwig: “He went to Paris, not Brussels.”

Of our proprietress: “She’s in love with the fruit merchant on the Nollendorfplatz.”

Embarrassed for both of us, I kicked him under the table to silence him.

Early one evening in mid-February, Sherlock lounged on the settee, as he had since drinking a cup of tea for breakfast that morning. Suddenly, he leapt to his feet, stretching and preening like a large cat.

I glanced up from my typewriter. “What’s gotten into you?” 

“We need to get some air. We’re going out tonight.”

I paused my typing. “Where?”

“Anywhere. I’ve been remiss; I haven’t taken you sightseeing.”

“I went to the Brandenburg Gate on my own, remember?” I protested. “Besides, what sightseeing can we do at night?”

“The best kind, of course. Any idiot can go see the Brandenburg Gate. Sorry. But you haven’t really seen Berlin yet. Trust me.” He waved a hand in my direction. “Stop that racket and get gussied up. We have places to go and drinks to drink!”

Which is how I found myself in my best suit--“I suppose it will have to do,” groused my flatmate--at an enormous club and coffeehouse on the corner Leipziger Straße-Friedrichstraße. I was no country bumpkin; I’d attended the University of Edinburgh and had lived in London, but I had never been anywhere that could compare to Moka Efti. One rode an escalator from the ground floor to the first. These days, a moving staircase is no grand occasion, but in 1931, they were quite the curiosity. I believe Harrods boasted a similar contraption, but I had not ridden it. In any case, the wonder of a moving staircase was but a pale foreshadowing of what the night had in store.

As we rode upwards, I felt as if I were riding into a new world. Any surface that could be glass or metal was; many of the walls were panelled with mirrors. The effect was a gleaming modern aesthetic so different from the cheap elegance of the Kit Kat Klub. Light reflected off surfaces and danced in the dimmer corners of the room. 

Sherlock led me to the bar and ordered two glasses of champagne

“What are we celebrating?” I asked.

“My freedom,” answered my friend with a wink and clink of glasses. “Prost!”

A female voice called over the din of the crowd, “Vovochka!” 

Sherlock looked around and smiled in recognition.

“Your Serene Highness! Always a pleasure.”

We made our way down the length of the bar to a woman perched on a tall stool with her back to the wall, a prime spot for surveying the crowd. The tiny woman was a striking figure despite her size. Her posture suggested that she sat on a throne rather than a barstool, the height of which put her eye to eye with Sherlock. It is a testament to my time in Berlin that I didn’t blink to find her dressed mannishly in a crisp white evening shirt paired with braces and dark trousers.  Her chestnut hair was close-cropped and slicked back from her unadorned face.

 “John, may I present the Countess Irina Eldarovna Yuryeskaya, from St Petersburg.

I bowed my head. “A pleasure to meet you my Lady.”

The countess held her hand out to me. “Enchanté, John. You may call me Irina. But you will allow me to call you Vanya, yes? Ivan is much better name and you are reminding me of my dear cousin Vanya. You agree, Vovochka?”

I looked at Sherlock with my brow furrowed. Vovochka?

The countess laughed. “You wonder why I call him this? Because he is to me Vladimir, a ‘bright light.’ Vladimir, Vovochka, you see?”

“Named for another cousin, I presume?” I asked cheekily.

“No. Vovochka is--how you say--one of a kind.” And she kissed him lightly on the cheek.

My heart only fluttered a bit; the countess was not Sherlock’s type.

“But you are here tonight, not singing yourself?” she asked my friend.

Sherlock smiled. “Alas, no. I am no longer associated with the Kit Kat Klub.”

Irina laughed. “You mean you no longer are associated with Max. Pah! Good riddance! Besides, now you are seeing me sing. Much better choice.”

“But of course,” said Sherlock. “My friend John--Vanya--is new here. I am showing him the real Berlin.”

The countess clapped her hands like a delighted child. “A celebration! Then you must have treat!” 

She snapped her fingers at a bartender who brought her a small silver tray. She pulled a tiny vial from her trouser pocket and poured the contents onto the tray. “Enjoy!” she said as she slipped off her stool and disappeared into the crowd.

“Sherlock, is that?”

“Yes.”

Now I did feel like a country bumpkin. Cocaine. I could feel the blush creeping up my cheeks and ears. I was even more astounded when Sherlock bent forward and inhaled half of the white powder. 

He turned to me. “Your turn.”

I was stymied. Gobsmacked. Flabbergasted. I hesitated.

“Inhale it. Like smelling a flower,” he said.

And just like that, I bent forward and breathed the stuff into my nostril. It burned, but before I had time to wonder why anyone would willingly do such an unpleasant thing, a bright, beautiful flower was blooming in my face. I was a rose in my mother’s garden, facing the noonday sun. Heat and exhilaration exploded outward from inside my nose. The bright room seemed brighter; the music from the orchestra on stage grew more tuneful. Everything around me was filled with an indescribable muchness.

I grabbed Sherlock’s hands, intertwining our fingers.

“Amazing, isn’t it?” he said as he brought my hand to his lips. “But we must watch ourselves here. Not quite as strumfrei as some other spots. Here we are amongst the petite bourgeoisie.”

A voice rang out over the dance floor and bar. “Mesdames et messieurs, meine Damen und Herren, tonight we bring you…René!”

Sherlock raced to the dance floor, pulling me by my hand. “Come!”

He led us straight to the edge of the stage, where a crowd was gathering. The drummer began to pound an intoxicating rhythm. I swayed to the beat, my arms moving over my head of their own accord. As the string bass and trombones pulsed along with the drums, the relentless vibration moved through the dance floor to my feet and through my feet to my heart. My entire body throbbed with the music. 

The crowd roared when a tiny dark figure crossed the stage and stepped onto the low riser in front of the microphone. He wore a black top hat and leather coat with his sparkling white shirt and tie. As René began singing, he removed his top hat and long black coat. When the spotlight hit him I could see that, despite the slender moustache pencilled over his upper lip, René was actually the Countess Irina Eldarovna. I gasped and turned to Sherlock. He grinned mischievously, never ceasing his own pulsing dance to the beat. Now you are seeing Berlin, said his expression.

Around me, everyone joined in the song:

Zu Asche, zu Staub

To ashes, to dust…

Somehow, my lips were forming lyrics I had never heard before:

Es is doch nur ein Traum

It is nothing but a dream…

The music grew faster. The crowd was singing and dancing along with René and so was I. These were the truest words I had ever sung; this was a dream, a perfect dream. A dream I prayed would never end. I was in Berlin. I was living with the most beautiful man I had ever met and somehow he desired me. Me. We were dancing side by side, our movements perfectly matched. We were cogs in the eternal machine formed by the crowd but we were also the only two people on the dance floor, dancing to René/Irina’s dark mezzo voice. The words of the song were both hopeful and despairing; words that described dust and oceans, death and immortality.

Leg deine Hand in mein

Put your hand in mine… Oh God, yes

Und lass uns ewig sein

And let us be forever… and ever and ever…

When the song ended, the stage went dark and René disappeared. We--Sherlock, me, everyone on the dance floor--went mad with applause.  As the crowd slowly dispersed I turned to my friend. His face was flushed and his pupils blown wide, as if we’d just had sex. I wanted to hold him, to touch him, to experience him in his muchness. I stood on my toes to speak in his ear.

“Can we get out of here? Go somewhere we can dance together?”

We walked through the city to the Bülowstraße. I was giddy; I couldn’t not touch my friend. We held hands, I brushed my shoulder against his, I pushed him into darkened doorways to kiss him. The words “I love you” were bubbling behind my lips but, despite my euphoria, I held back. Those words were too important to fling out willy-nilly. I wanted to be sober when I said them. If the words were true, they could wait.

We came at last to a door marked Dorian Gray. I turned to my friend in disbelief.

He laughed. “What better name? You were thinking Reading Gaol would be more suitable?”

Of course not.

I felt immediately at ease inside the club. Like any number of pubs back home, the atmosphere was homier than either the shining Moka Efti or the shabby Kit Kat Klub. Except. Except the pairings I saw were almost exclusively of the same gender. Men holding hands. Men kissing. Men dancing together. 

“Is this what you were hoping for?” Sherlock asked.

I found it difficult to answer. “Yes,” I finally managed. “Oh God, yes.”

Here was a place where I needn’t look over my shoulder or hide my feelings. Where I dared to look at my friend, to hold my friend, as I’d seen my mates with their girls. 

“I want….” I started.

“Yes?”

I straightened my shoulders, pulling myself up to my full height. “Sherlock,” I asked, more calmly than I felt, “may I have this dance?”

There was no orchestra here, just a little ensemble in the corner--piano, violin, and clarinet--and yet the waltz they played was more thrilling than René’s performance at Moka Efti. I let my arm rest along Sherlock’s as he held my waist, our other hands clasped tightly. We both led and we both followed, moving as one person. We used the tiniest of movements to signal which way to turn. I might squeeze his hand, he might press his hand firmly against my waist.

When the tune changed to a jaunty two-step, we kept our hands clasped and danced side-by-side. My friend will always be a better dancer than I, but I didn’t care that night. I matched his steps and trusted him to turn me ‘round. We danced and laughed until we could no longer stand. We rested at the bar and refreshed ourselves with mugs of beer before making our way home.

By the time we reached the Nollendorfstraße, we grew quiet and slow, the effects of drink and drugs wearing down. Still, we wanted nothing more than to bed each other. We took off our shoes as soon as we were in the front door, sliding up the stairs and down the hall to our room in our sockfeet. Once inside our own room, our shoes clattered to the floor as we pulled at each other’s clothing. Coats, jackets, gloves dropped in quick succession. I yanked on Sherlock’s tie, loosening it just enough that he slipped it over his head and tossed it behind himself. His fingers were impatient on the buttons of my shirt, undoing them only until he could pull it roughly over my head and begin kissing my neck before the shirt touched the floor. Frustrated by our difference in height, he hoisted me to his waist and pinned me against the wall. I wrapped my legs around him and held onto his shoulders whilst he peppered my chest with rough kisses. 

“Darling,” I said, laughing. “Darling—”

“What?” he growled, slowing his kisses for only a moment.

“We have a bed….”

Later, as we lay sated and sleepy in those strange hours between midnight and dawn, I asked him about the Countess Irina.

“Is she really a countess? White Russian?”

Sherlock was lazily petting my hair. “Although I believe she is running from something, I don’t think it is Stalin or the Red Army. But she says she is a countess, so I treat her as such.” He stopped petting long enough to kiss the top of my head. “I doubt she is even Russian.”

26 September 1938

Czech-German border

Sherlock got off his bicycle and began to push it uphill. He wasn’t tired; the road was rough with rocks and roots, making it hard to navigate in the growing  dark. As he began to feel chilled, he untied the jacket from around his waist and pulled it back over his shirt and sweater vest. The customs house should be around the bend at the top of the hill. There was a more direct route with a better road, but he’d stuck to the backcountry for safety’s sake. Better not to risk running into a Freikorps patrol. 

He stubbed his foot on a rock and swore quietly to himself. Why had he allowed Mycroft to talk him into this fool’s errand? Hitler wanted the so-called Sudetenland—be realistic—the bastard wanted all of Czechoslovakia, this was just his foot in the door. The Nazi propaganda machine had fomented the tensions between the Czechoslovaks and their German-speaking neighbours. Leaders from earlier squabbles had escaped into Germany where they reorganised and received weapons from the German army. Now they were running raids across the border, targeting customs houses.

Although Chamberlain was headed to Munich for a meeting with the Nazis and the French, Mycroft had little confidence that appeasement would actually prevent war. Stubbornly, Chamberlain and Halifax refused to hear his arguments. I’m expected to toe the Tory line, little brother, Mycroft had written in his last missive. You are our best hope.

If I’m England’s best hope against Hitlerism, we are doomed, Sherlock thought. As long as conventional wisdom saw the Führer as a lesser evil than Communism, war was assured. Not that Sherlock saw Stalin as much better, only that he had the sense to play in his own sandbox. 

Sherlock heard footsteps behind him and his heart clutched. Steady on, he reminded himself, could be locals. No reason to think this was Freikorps or SA. Keep going. Don’t turn. Don’t run. He continued pushing his bicycle up the path.

“Ahoj! Hej, ty tam,” Czech. Friend or a trick? Sherlock kept going. “Stůj!” the voice called, asking him to stop.

Sherlock decided to hedge his bets and pretend he hadn’t heard.

“Sie da!” German now. “Halten!” His German was more passable than his limited Czech but something held him back from answering.

A figure appeared at the top of the hill, panting and out of breath.

“Oh Gott sei Dank!” cried the figure. A woman’s voice.

She was running towards him now. “Mein Bruder! Wili!”

She grabbed the handlebars and held the bike still. When he stopped walking, she threw her arms around him and whispered in his ear, “Vovochka, play along.”

She held his hand and called to the person behind them, “Hallo! Das ist mein Bruder--bitte nicht schießen! Er ist taub.” Don’t shoot, he’s deaf.  

So the visitor was armed. Deaf. He could playact this. He let Irina tap him on the shoulder and point downhill. He turned and formed an expression of surprise at seeing a burly man dressed in civvies carrying what Sherlock identified in the dusky light as a German-made Bergman MP18. A semi-automatic rifle. He did his best to calm his pounding heart.

Irina was prattling away in German. This was her brother. Stone deaf, poor thing. The family had been looking for him for hours. He was wont to wander off on his own, never meant any harm…in his own world.

Sherlock took the cue and patted her arm. He pointed to the sky and formed his hands into two wings flapping. Irina laughed gaily when he gave her a dopey smile and patted his cheek.

“See?” she continued in German. “Head in the clouds. He saw an owl and followed it into the woods. I must get him home. Mama is so worried.”

The armed man clicked his heel and nodded. “Go straight home, girl. And stay inside. We are doing the Führer’s work tonight.” His arm shot out in a salute. “Heil Hitler!”

Irina echoed him. “Heil Hitler!” 

She nudged Sherlock who shot his arm out straight but said nothing.

Together, they pushed the bike over the rise. The Freikorps member’s footsteps faded as he walked back the way he’d come. 

“I’m taking you to a safe house,” Irina said in unaccented English.

“But--”

“The customs house is already surrounded. We think they mean to burn it down. You and I need to get back to the main road and circle back. There’s a farmhouse where we can stay the night. In the morning, you’ll head towards Prague, and then to Poland. Your brother’s men will find you in Warsaw.”

“Countess?”

She laughed. “You knew I was no countess, Vovochka. I’m not even Russian. But you knew that, too.”

Chapter Text

So, you see, everybody in Berlin has a perfectly

Marvellous roommate.

Despite our three months together, I knew very little of substance about my friend besides his beauty and brilliance. Why had Sherlock come to Berlin? What of his family? 

With my writerly imagination, I created barely plausible scenarios. He’d been well-educated;  perhaps he was the second or third son of an illustrious family. With no title or holdings for him, had he abandoned England to live the life of a vagabond rather than respectably joining the navy or the clergy? Might he be an orphan whose education had been funded by a stern and mysterious benefactor? After years of subtle humiliation as a charitable project had he escaped his obligation of gratitude by running away to this German Babylon? Perhaps he was the bastard child of a lord or earl, raised alongside the legitimate children whilst his mother served the family. Had he tried to rise above his station and been banished in retaliation? 

As you can see, I had spent altogether too much time reading the more lurid novels of Stevenson and the Bröntes, not to mention serials in The Strand . Before you chastise me for neglecting to ascertain the truth, please know that I tried. Every inquiry about Sherlock’s personal history was artfully evaded. He would rather deduce--always with incredible accuracy--some facet of my own life or of those around us rather than answer questions about himself. And thus I knew more about our landlady and Herr Schultz, who owned the green grocery on the Nollendorfplatz, than my own companion and bedmate. 

And yet I hadn’t meant to snoop. I simply glanced at the little package Fräulein Schneider handed me that afternoon in early spring. Sherlock was out; he had taken out adverts in Die Freundschaft and Der Eigene proclaiming his abilities to solve problems, styling himself as ein beratender Detektiv--a consulting detective--and reminding readers that “friends patronise friends.” Despite the lax enforcement of Paragraph 175, many in our community of inverts and transsexuals preferred to rely on such ads when confronted with legal or personal problems. With his encyclopaedic knowledge of the world and powers of deduction, he was able to pay his half of the rent by solving what he referred to as his “cases.”

And so, when Fräulein Schneider met me at the foot of the stairs that windy day, my curiosity was piqued. 

“For Herr Holmes,” she’d said.

In particular, the return address on the brown-paper-wrapped package caught my eye:

To: Sherlock Holmes

17 Nollendorfstraße

Second Floor

Berlin

 

From: E Holmes

Shrewsbury College

Oxford

Shrewsbury was a women’s college, wasn’t it? Holmes? Did Sherlock have a sister? Of course it was none of my business. I set the little package on the table and tried to put it out of my mind.

About a week later I found the letter and a book lying on the table. My purpose for picking up the letter was only to learn the title of the slim volume underneath. A Room of One’s Own by Virginia Woolf. In retrospect, I ought to have flipped through the little book instead of reading the handwritten page with its bold script and enthusiastic underlinings.

My dearest Pan,

How are you, darling? How is Berlin?

I’m sending you an amazing book. I read it all in one go and then read it again–-twice-–and wrote notes in the margins. In fact, I love it so much that I went out and bought a copy for you. I simply couldn’t part with mine. Besides, I’m going to have Mummy read it at Easter. 

Read it quickly and write back immediately with your thoughts. 

I oughtn’t lead you in any way, but honestly, Pan, I can’t help it. Virginia Woolf is just brilliant. Brilliant. She says, “the androgynous mind is resonant and porous; that it transmits emotion without impediment; that it is naturally creative, incandescent and undivided.”

I think that maybe our minds are androgynous, Pan. Because we were always together and no one made us attend to all that gender nonsense. You tried on Mummy’s things with me and I chased around the park with you and built our fort. If that’s a good thing that came from losing Father, I’ll be grateful for it. You are my other half, Pan, and I’m so very glad. I can only hope you are as glad of me as I am of you. 

I miss you frightfully. I think it’s ridiculous that they sent you down. You could always apply to join me here, at Oxford, I mean, not at Shrewsbury, obv. We could even look for digs in town instead of staying at college. What a lark that would be! 

Seriously, darling, My is quite adamant that Berlin is not the place to be just now. I understand that politically things are rather complicated and likely to get worse. Come home, Pan dearest. 

All my love,

Your own,

Tink

I set the letter down on the book, trying to arrange it at the precise angle I’d found it. A sister. A sister who considered them two halves of the same person. Twins? Sherlock had not discussed his family with me; I assumed he’d come from some money, if only by his accent, but a sister at Oxford? He’d been sent down from Cambridge? Who was My? What a funny sort of name. Obviously, Pan and Tink were nicknames, too.Those posh kinds always had the oddest names for each other. 

Feeling like Pandora or perhaps Cassandra, I looked around for a way to busy myself and settled for paging through the latest edition of Der Eigene . When my friend came home, I was reclining on the sofa, struggling through a piece by Klaus Mann and avoiding any of the more explicit yet artful photographs. He stood in the doorway, sniffing the air like a trained bloodhound. My heart sank.

Quietly, furtively, he walked the perimeter of the room, seemingly unaware of my gaze. When I finally broke the silence, my voice caught in my throat, causing me to stutter and cough.

“G-g-g-g-good day, then?” I started, and then cleared my throat. “Very interesting bit here by Klaus Mann, have you read it?”

He stopped at the table, fingering the letter. He scanned the room again before he spoke.

“That’s not all you’ve been reading, though, is it?”

There was little I could do to hide the truth from my clever friend. At this point in our relationship, I did not understand his ability to infer the most accurate assessments through the observation of a man’s finger-nails or coat-sleeve; by his boots or trouser-knees. However, I was certain that he could deduce my guilt by the position of my feet on the sofa or the tilt of my head. And still I prevaricated.

“Well, there are quite a lot of personal adverts that caught my eye,” I tried with more courage than I felt.

“Indeed?” he mused. “Are you looking for a new roommate?”

“No, of course, not,” I replied. “It’s just that they caught my eye, these, erm, entries asking for assistance with problems,” I said, digging myself deeper and deeper, “for example, a young man is trying to find his missing twin…”

“Is that the best you can do? It’s never twins!”

He paced around the room, picking things up and putting them down before continuing, “For example, John, I am not a twin.”

The jig was up. And yet I was determined to hang onto my last shred of dignity.

“I never suggested--”

He cut me off, “You were thinking it. You read my letter. My private letter, I might add, and deduced, wrongly, that my sister and I are twins.”

He sat down in the armchair with his legs draped over the armrest.

“If you were curious, John, you might have asked. You’ve been wondering about my package since it arrived.”

When I started to protest, Sherlock raised a finger. 

“You have. Perhaps not every waking moment, but admit it, you wanted to know who in Oxford might send me a package.”

“Well, yes, of course, who wouldn’t be curious?” I replied. “I know nothing of your family, of your background…you never want to talk about yourself and I don’t have your gift for sussing out the minutest details from the way someone holds their spoon or...or…winds their watch.”

I was more than a little relieved to see my friend smile.

“Now, dear boy, you mustn’t be so hard on yourself. Surely you’ve come to some conclusions. I’d love to hear what you’ve come up with.” 

“I apologise for looking at your personal letter, Sherlock. It was, it was unseemly and I am truly sorry. But I am not going to let you humiliate me--”

“Ha! You are not getting off so easily. You know what to do--off you go.” 

He leant back against the armrest with his fingers steepled under his chin.

I sighed.

“That accent--you were educated at public school. You’ve had musical training, the violin, your singing.”

He nodded encouragingly.

“Your family has, or had at any rate, money.”

“Good. But?”

“But you are here in Berlin, singing in a nightclub, or, rather, you were.”

“Well done. Sparkling form. And?”

“And,” I was reluctant to give voice to what I’d read, but there didn’t seem to be any way around it, “and you’ve got two family members or, or, or friends who want you back in England. And your father’s dead, like mine.” I concluded.

“Excellent. What else?”

“Your, erm, sister is at Oxford. You were at Cambridge, but, erm, had a spot of trouble. That might be why you are here.”

“And?”

“That’s it,” I said.

“That’s it?”

I nodded. “How did I do?”

“Not bad for your first time ‘round the garden,” he replied. “I do come from money and my father was killed in the war. My uncle, and now my elder brother, controls the purse strings, because of course my mother--a mere woman--can’t be trusted with a chequebook of her own. My sister, Tink, is at Oxford, much to our brother’s chagrin; Holmeses have gone to Cambridge since the beginning of time. She, however, refused to attend any university that would not confer a degree upon completion of her studies.”

He swung his legs back over the chair and sat with his elbows on his knees.

“I was studying chemistry at Cambridge. Turns out they disapprove of setting fire to the laboratories, intentionally or not. And one is expected to apologise even if the fault lies with defective equipment.”

He pulled his cigarette case from his pocket, retrieved a fag, and lit it. He took a long drag and exhaled before continuing.

“Tink and I are what the cook referred to as ‘Irish twins', much to my brother’s irritation. Of course, he considers our sister quite unnecessary since together he and I comprise the traditional ‘heir and a spare.’ She serves only to prove that our parents had intimate relations more than twice. He works for the British government in some minor capacity, and yes, he would like me safely in the arms of the Empire, although for reasons quite different from my sister’s.”

I thought about the letter, left on the table with the book.

“Have I failed a test, then?”

He looked up, almost surprised that I was present. “Hmmmm? A test? No, not really.”

He studied me carefully for a long moment.

“I’m not a secretive man,” he continued finally. “By nature, my heart is open, although circumstances have taught me to protect myself; but I do know that I needn’t protect myself from you. Yet old habits die hard. If there is something you wish to know, you have only to ask.”

“But—” I started.

“What?”

“But I have asked. Repeatedly. You change the subject every time.”

Sherlock stood and held out his hand solemnly. “A gentleman’s agreement, then. A new era. From this day forward, I will answer your questions as truthfully as possible. Will that suit?”

I took his hand and shook it gravely. “In that case,” I began with more than a bit of cheek.

My friend cocked an eyebrow at me. “Yes?” 

“I do have one question.”

“Anything.”

“Your brother’s name is My?”

He laughed. “It’s short for Mycroft. Ridiculous family name. And he detests having it shortened in any way.”

Several nights later, as we were preparing for bed, my friend pulled a small framed picture from his drawer. He handed it to me shyly, standing silently with his hands clasped behind his back while I studied it.

The picture showed two children, a boy and girl, quite close in size and height. The little girl wore a ruffled dress of a light material, with matching shoes and socks. Her ringlets reached past her shoulders, pinned back on one side by an enormous bow, nearly as large as her head. She had a merry smile and a sparkle in her eyes. 

“She’s the little girl with the little curl, is she?” I asked.

“Yes,” grinned Sherlock. “We were--are both guilty as charged. When we are good, we are very, very good.”

I studied the boy next. I could indeed see the man before me in his curls and light eyes. He wore a crisp sailor suit and I imagined someone--nanny, mother, maid--keeping him still until the photograph had been taken lest he wrinkle his clothes. The man he had become was so rarely still that I believed without asking that he had always been so. They were indeed a matched pair, very nearly twins, with matching eyes and cheekbones. Sherlock’s curls were a shade darker than his sister’s and worn just below his ears. But it was more than the physical similarity; somehow, the photographer had captured their kindred spirits, intelligent and untamed. I considered the photograph a moment longer.

“Pan and Tink,” I said, having finally made the connection, “ Peter Pan , right? You’re Peter and she’s the fairy.”

Sherlock sat beside me on the bed and I allowed him to take the picture. Long fingers traced the image. 

“Yes,” he breathed with a wistful smile. “Everyone called us the Littles since we are so much younger than our brother. When Father went to war, and after, when he didn’t come home, no one spoke of him around us. I hardly remembered him and Tink only really knew him from pictures, but still. We knew we were being excluded and so we created our own world. It was hard for her when I went off to school.”

“She’s younger by how much?” I asked. “She didn’t go off to school herself?”

“Thirteen months. And no. Not the done thing in our family. Our uncle didn’t see the point and I think Mummy wanted someone at home. Tink had a string of governesses, of course, although she outmatched them all in curiosity and intelligence.”

He stirred as if to stand and I stayed him with a touch.

“Don’t put it back in the drawer. Please. Don’t hide any part of yourself from me.”

Summer 1919

Surrey

“Tink? Tink, are you here? Nanny’s ever so cross…” 

Their mother’s room wasn’t forbidden, not exactly. Nanny wouldn’t approve; Mycroft would be outraged, but Mummy wouldn’t mind. Mycroft would tell Mummy that she spoiled “the Littles,” but Sherlock knew Mummy didn’t agree. She would tell Mycroft that no one could spoil her “poor, fatherless darlings” and Mycroft would counter that he was fatherless, too.

Sherlock expected to find his sister at their mother’s dressing table, sampling perfumes and trying on jewellery, and was therefore surprised to find her huddled on the window seat with her knees drawn up to her chest.

“Shhh!” she warned.

“Tink, I can see your knickers.”

“Oh, who cares about knickers!” she whisper-shouted. “Can’t you see there is a tragedy happening right before my eyes?”

Sherlock joined her on the window seat.

“What am I observing?” he asked.

Enola sniffled and wiped her arm under her nose before pointing out the window. Sherlock crept closer. Ah! There was a bird’s nest there, tucked in the decorative masonry along the window ledge. Four blue speckled eggs were just visible from the children’s vantage point behind the window glass.

Sherlock turned to look at his sister. Her face was snotty and tear-stained; the bow that Nanny had tied in her hair that morning was askew. Maybe he could fix this--clean her up and present her to Nanny before Mycroft knew she’d gone missing. He fished his handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at her tears.

“Blow,” he said, holding the handkerchief at her nose.

She blew fiercely, releasing an enormous gob of snot. He’d save the hanky out and study the secretion under his microscope later.

“Now then, tell me about the tragedy. Has something happened to the mother bird?”

“No,” she shook her head. “That’s just it. The mama keeps leaving! She’s a terrible mother. She won’t sit on the nest for more than a few minutes at a time. I’m so worried that the eggs will be too cold and the baby birds will die before they are even born!”

Sherlock bit his lip. He’d need to tread carefully. The main objective was, of course, to present Enola to Nanny clean and ready for tea with a plausible excuse for having gone missing for the last hour. Uncle Rudy was coming and Mummy had given them all their marching orders: appear at tea in tip-top shape, act like the lady and gentlemen they were and help her convince Uncle Rudy to leave a nice fat cheque and disappear back to London for another two months. There had to be a way to meet the first objective without Enola feeling that he was as cold and uncaring as Mycroft.

He folded his handkerchief so that the scientifically important mucus would not smear and tucked it inside his pocket. Rising up on his knees, he straightened his sister’s bow as he spoke in soft tones.

“Listen, Tink, I’ve got a plan. Do you think you’d recognize mama bird in Father’s big illustrated guide to birds?” When she nodded, he continued. “Perfect. Some birds don’t start incubating until they’ve laid the entire brood. We can look it up together. Now listen, we’ve got a command performance at tea with Mummy and Uncle Rudy and Mycroft, of course. Nanny’s in a frightful state; she thinks she lost you and she’ll get sacked.”

Enola’s eyes grew wide and she started to protest. Sherlock placed a gentle finger on her lips and continued.

“Shhhh. Easy as pie. No one’s getting sacked. And we’ll research your recalcitrant mama bird after Uncle Rudy leaves. I promise. Just do as I say for now, alright?”

Enola nodded and she raised her right hand as if swearing in court.

Sherlock grinned. “That’s my girl. First, stand up, let’s be sure you’re in order.” When Enola was standing, he commanded, “Twirl.”

Enola twirled. The sash on her dress had come untied. Sherlock beckoned her back to the window seat and retied it. He studied her face, still a bit red and tear-streaked.

“C’mere,” he said, walking over to their mother’s dressing table. He poked about until he found the pot he was looking for. “Just a smidge of powder.”

He dusted her nose and cheeks with the face powder. Placing the pot and brush exactly where he’d found them, he then presented himself and his sister in the mirror. They were a matched set: he in his sailor suit and she in a cotton batiste dress. While his curls stopped at his ears, hers fell to her shoulders. Hers were a lighter auburn than his; Mummy said that his hair would be dark like Father’s one day. Their eyes were the same, though, silver-blue eyes that angled up at the outer edges, following the shape of their cheekbones. Sherlock smiled into the mirror. Enola smiled back at his reflection as she interlaced her fingers with his.

“I’m ready, Pan. Shall we?”

Chapter Text

But there is no-one... no-one in all of Berlin who is more deserving. If I could, I would fill your entire room with pineapples!

Perhaps I have led you to assume that Sherlock’s brother was overreacting, and, if that is the case, I apologise. He was quite correct: politically, things were complicated and growing worse with each passing week.

In our happy bubble at 17 Nollendorfstraße, life was, as the sign outside the Kit Kat Klub promised, beautiful. Fräulein Schneider was girlish and giddy whenever Herr Schultz appeared on the doorstep with another gift of fruit, and, as hardly a day passed without such a gift, it was a near permanent state of being. As for me, my first piece had been accepted by The Strand and I, too, was a bit giddy. 

And yet. 

Dark shadows were beginning to permeate the larger bubble of Schöneberg. The clubs, cafes, and shops we preferred were scattered throughout our neighbourhood. We felt most comfortable there amongst the other inverts and transexuals--those of our kind. Even Hirschfeld’s Institut für Sexualwissenschaft was in the neighbouring district of Tiergarten. We held hands without looking over our shoulders, went dancing together, and saw others doing the same. 

But the posters that could be seen all over Berlin were also visible on the Nollendorfplatz and along Motzstraße to the Viktoria-Luise-Platz. In bold letters, they decreed that National Socialism was the will of the people; the only way to end hunger and poverty and return the country to “good German values.” 

Conversely, the posters for the KPD--the Communist Party–-appealed to the proletariat to stand against fascism, promising that the Communists were the only ones truly concerned about the worker. Occasionally violence would break out between the two groups, leading to fistfights or worse in the streets. The police were as lax with the brownshirts as they were with our lot, and Sherlock and I learnt to walk quickly with our heads down when trouble was brewing.

The SA, the brownshirts, were everywhere, including clubs such as the Eldorado. We frequented the homey Dorian Gray more often, visiting the popular Eldorado only on special occasions. We were there that May evening to celebrate my publication in The Strand, taking the most intimate table we could find and ordering a bottle of champagne, when a boisterous group across the room caught our attention. A flock of chorus girls–-men in drag–-was flirting with a table of brownshirts. Many of the brownshirts were young and exemplary specimens of German manhood, the ideal Männerbund. These tall blond-haired lads who filled out their uniforms rather nicely brought to mind Michaelangelo’s David and other classical statuary and I was therefore surprised to see a rather rotund, potato-faced man sitting in the epicentre of the group. Clearly he was the leader of this bund, but why?

Sherlock leant close to speak in my ear. “That’s Ernst Röhm. Head of the SA.”

I looked at him, unbelieving. “The Sturmabteilung?” I worked to keep my eyes in their sockets. “Here?” 

Röhm grabbed a particularly well-chiselled young man and planted an enthusiastic kiss on his lips.

“Stop staring, John,” said my friend. “Unless you are thinking of joining them?”

“What?” I exclaimed. “Are you serious? Why would--”

“I beg your pardon. But you are practically drooling.”

I turned my chair so that I would not be distracted by the circus on the other side of the room. 

“Don’t be ridiculous,” I spluttered, trying and failing to surreptitiously wipe the nonexistent saliva from my chin.

Sherlock smiled by lifting one corner of his mouth, an expression well-shown to turn my insides to porridge. 

“You are truly the only thing I care to look at here,” I said.

“You say that,” he replied as he refilled our glasses. “To many more stories sold, John. Prost!”

“Prost!”

The Eldorado had a token system for dancing; we indulged in a number of tokens and enjoyed our turns around the floor. I worked to keep my eyes away from the SA commander and his devotees. I wasn’t attracted to any of them; why would I be? But I was fascinated by the unexpected scene. 

As we walked home through the sleeping streets of Schöneberg, Sherlock mused, “Just because a person shares our…peculiarities of attraction…does not make them good or honourable, John.”

“Well, no, of course not,” I countered, “but I would have thought, I mean, aren’t the Nazis rather about traditional German values and all that?”

“Yes. But most of all they are about power. And no one is immune to the seduction of power.”

Fräulein Schneider brought us a bowl of pineapple chunks with our tray of coffee and buns the next morning.

“Why, Fräulein, do I spy a taste of the tropics?”

She tittered. “Oh, Herr Holmes, you tease me!”

Sherlock reached out with long fingers to pluck a piece of fruit from the bowl.

“I am offended, dear madam! I never tease!” He popped the pineapple chunk into his mouth and treated both Fräulein Schneider and myself to his sounds of ecstasy. “Delicious!”

“Is it a special occasion, Fräulein?” I asked.

Our landlady blushed. “Ach, no. Only that Herr Schulz--he is owning the shop on der Nollendorfplatz, yes? He brings me such fruit. And a pineapple! It is coming here from California.” She leant forward to speak confidentially, “But I am too old for eating this. It gives me--how you say--die Blähung,” here her voice quieted to a whisper, “wind.”

Sherlock bowed low with solemn chivalry. “Then we shall save you any embarrassment by eating it ourselves.”

A week later, the residents of 17 Nollendorfstraße were gathered around the table, finishing their evening meal. It had been a simple weekday meal, nothing grand. Eintopf--literally "one pot," a stew to use up the remnants of Sunday’s roast, served with Kartoffelpuffer. I tucked into both with enthusiasm whilst Sherlock only had a taste for the potato pancakes which he smothered with applesauce.

Fräulein Kost, who, after many arguments with our proprietress, had finally deigned to wear a dress instead of a negligee and dressing gown to meals, picked at her food, complaining all the while that Fräulein Schneider only served rich and fattening dishes. How could Fräulein Kost be expected to keep her girlish figure when she was forced to eat such things? I had to stifle a laugh when Sherlock, with his expressive eyes, indicated that not only had Fräulein Kost cleaned her plate, she had helped herself to seconds.

Herr Ludwig was effusive in his praise, “This is a proper German meal, made with the fruits of German soil,” he said. “You should not be complaining, Fräulein Kost. I, at least, am grateful for the bounty of the Fatherland.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but I felt uneasy. Surely this simple meal did not warrant such a patriotic endorsement. But I would feel even worse in a moment.

Fräulein Schneider excused herself to fetch coffee, and, she said, "Ein echter Leckerbissen."

We all looked at each other with wonder at the prospect of a special treat. Usually we were lucky to have biscuits with our coffee. Wonder turned to delight when she presented us with a delectable chocolate-covered cake. Eagerly, Fräulein Schneider cut a generous slice for each of us, ignoring Fräulein Kost’s protests.

“Ananas-Marzipankuchen,” Fräulein Schneider proclaimed proudly as we took our first bites. 

The cake was a delightful combination of pineapple, buttery sponge, and marzipan, all covered with chocolate. Sherlock and I wasted no time polishing off our pieces. Fräulein Kost and Herr Ludwig followed suit, although they both had sour looks on their faces as they did it. 

When Fräulein Schneider retreated back to the kitchen, Herr Ludwig said softly, “It is not fitting. People are starving in the street and she is serving us cake with American pineapple. This is from that Jew grocer. Is the bounty of Germany not good enough for her?”

Fräulein Kost nodded in agreement even as she scraped her fork over her plate to capture every last morsel. I was speechless and looked to my friend for guidance. He replied with the smallest shake of his head. Best not to say anything. I replied with an infinitesimal nod and wry smile.

In bed that night, I turned to Sherlock.

“Do you think that Kost and Ludwig are Nazis?”

He was quiet for a moment, collecting his thoughts.

“I think that Herr Ludwig is repeating the rhetoric that one hears everywhere these days. As for Fräulein Kost, in her line of work, one does best to agree with the loudest voice in the room. In this case—”

“Herr Ludwig. After all, we're Engländer whose opinions are irrelevant.”

“Just so.”

And thus it was awkward when, two days later, we entered the house to find our landlady flushed and giggling.

“Ah, meine Herren! The news I have!” She held out her left hand to show us a ring with a small stone sparkling on her finger. “Herr Schultz has asked me to marry him and I have agreed!”

Sherlock, ever the gentleman, and having the superior poker face, took her hand to admire the ring. 

“My heartfelt congratulations, Fräulein,” he said and kissed her on the cheek.

Since he had paved the way, I found it easier to speak.

“Yes,” I said, “Congratulations, indeed. And to Herr Schulz. He may be the luckiest man in Berlin.”

Our landlady beamed. She seemed ten years younger, reminding me of Cinderella transformed for the ball. Fräulein Schneider wore one of her well-washed and mended dresses with a starched floral pinny over it, yet she could not have been more beautiful had she worn a couture evening gown.

“We are having the party to celebrate Saturday evening. Here, in the sitting room. You will come, yes?”

“We will come, yes,” answered Sherlock, and, in that moment, although I had never said the words aloud, I loved him with all my heart.

Chapter Text

The branch of the linden is leafy and green

The Rhine gives its gold to the sea

But somewhere a glory awaits unseen…

There were many words I did not say in the tumultuous months that followed Fräulein Schneider’s engagement, omissions I would regret for years to come. Even now, I wonder how our lives would have been altered had I summoned the courage to voice my feelings. 

As promised, Sherlock and I attended Fräulein Schneider and Herr Schultz’s engagement party that May evening. Our hostess was resplendent in what was surely her best frock, little worn but a decade out of style. I fancied that I could see the girl she must have been before war and disappointment and hardship had washed the colours of gaiety from her. She’d prepared a table with an assortment of biscuits and little cakes along with kirsch-soaked fruit in an exquisite cut-glass bowl. An uncut pineapple, in pride of place, sat on a nest of linden branches fresh with spring leaves. My friend was so fond of Fräulein’s Lebküchen that I was only able to lure him away from the table by wrapping two of the spicy biscuits in a napkin and placing them in my jacket pocket “for later.”  

Most of the other residents of the house, including Fräulein Kost, were there; only Herr Ludwig, who had left town on one of his mysterious errands to Brussels--Paris, whispered Sherlock--two days earlier and had yet to return, was missing. Various neighbours from our street and Herr Schulz’s fellow shopkeepers from the Nollendorfplatz mingled and ate and drank toasts. Someone had found music on the wireless, resulting in a lively, if unsophisticated, celebration.

Herr Schultz was determined to drink a shot of schnapps with each guest and circulated through the room with his bottle and glass. Every toast he made was a testimony to the glories of his betrothed, growing more effusive as the evening wore on. 

“She is the most beautiful woman in all of Berlin!

“I am the luckiest man in all of Germany!”

“If I could, I would fill this entire room with pineapples in honour of my bride-to-be! She would be the Queen of Pineapples!”

Mingling though she was, our proprietress would lift her head at each toast to gaze at her fiancé with a mix of chagrin and adoration that can best be described as hopelessly fond. It is a look that everyone deserves to have bestowed upon their person at least once in their lives and is one that I now save for one individual in particular.

Herr Schultz was no different from greengrocers I have known in Hampshire and Sussex and London and Edinburgh. I am quite convinced that, were I to travel to Shanghai or New York, I would find those greengrocers to be of a similar ilk. I do not mean that Herr Schultz’s balding head or round brown eyes identified him as such; for indeed nothing about his physical person proclaimed him as a member of that necessary profession. (For how else would we who populate the cities and towns acquire the fresh fruits and vegetables that our bodies crave?) No. Only when these persons begin to speak can we tell for certain. And then, as they discuss growing seasons and transport times, when they remember that I am particularly fond of strawberries in season and that my dear friend is partial to the sweeter varieties of apple, does the presence of an exalted greengrocer become clear.

Sherlock and I had visited Herr Schulz’s shop on the Nollendorfplatz on several occasions, finding it always clean, well-stocked, and inviting. He greeted his customers affably, keeping the conversation to the weather, his stock, and his hope to see everyone again soon. He recognised us both when it came our turn for toasts, greeting us as “Strawberry! Reine de Reinette!” (The latter being Sherlock’s favourite variety of apple, a French variety known as the Queen of Pippins.)

With the treasured biscuits secure in my pocket, Sherlock’s public school manners were finally back on display.

“Herr Schulz! My heartfelt congratulations on your engagement!” he said in flawless German.

“Ja!” Herr Schulz clapped him firmly on the back. “I am the luckiest man in all of Berlin! In all of Germany! I never thought to find such happiness again.” 

I am quite sure that I said something appropriate and that we downed our schnapps as men, but, in my memory, that is the moment when the front door opened and the sound of two suitcases being dropped to the floor rang through the room. Herr Ludwig had returned. He entered the front room, still wearing his overcoat, damp from the light mist that had been threatening to turn to rain all day.

“A party!” he exclaimed.

Our hostess was at his side in an instant.

“Ja! Herr Ludwig! Welcome! Of course you are invited! Here, I will take your coat.” As she helped him take it off she continued, “Herr Schulz and I are engaged! You must have some sweets and a drink!”

She draped his overcoat over her arm and motioned toward the festively laden table. It was then that we saw it: Herr Ludwig’s armband. Again my memory is faulty, for with the passage of years and the knowledge of what lay ahead, my mind tells me that everyone in the room froze at the sight of the red band with its white circle and black emblem. But, of course, no one stopped talking or eating or congratulating the happy couple. They had not yet learned how much to fear the Nazis. In that spring of 1931, it was only politics and how could that matter? Communists, Nazis, Social Democrats, trade unionists, Catholic centrists--the names changed and the world went on as it always had.

“I think I will not stay,” Herr Ludwig announced. 

Was he polite enough to pretend that he was tired from his journey or did he wear his disdain for our host openly? I wish I could remember. My friend, with his excellent memory, tells me that nothing dramatic happened in that particular moment. And yet I recall the sour taste of bile in my mouth.

“No, no, please, you must have some Linzerkeske--I know they are your favourite!” cried Fräulein Schneider.

And there was Fräulein Kost in her silky dress, handing him the biscuits on a glass plate.

“I will keep you company, mein Herr,” she purred. “Listen, the music--Volksgeist,no? It is more pleasing, yes?”

The music had indeed turned to a series of German folk melodies.

“Here, Herr Ludwig, dance with me!”

Fräulein Kost set down the plate and took Herr Ludwig’s hand to coax him into a traditional dance. Her partner was none too pleased, but he complied. Others in the room joined in, forming figures that they had surely learned as children. When that melody ended, a children’s choir sang an old song that was gaining new popularity. The children’s sweet treble voices sang of the beauty of the Fatherland—the stag in a forest of lindens, the golden Rhine. Everyone in the room was singing along, growing louder and stronger with each verse; everyone save Sherlock, the newly betrothed couple, and myself.

 

The babe in his cradle is closing his eyes

The blossom embraces the bee.

But soon, says a whisper;

"Arise, arise,

Tomorrow belongs to me!"

 

I watched Herr Ludwig’s face as he sang. He was singing of something that he was owed, something that had long been denied, something that he intended to claim by any means necessary.

Months passed from spring to summer and summer to fall, and, although the engagement was not broken, Fraulein Schneider found reason after reason to postpone the wedding.

Herr Schulz was a frequent guest at our evening meals, always when Herr Ludwig was away on business. His spirit was indomitable; he was always cheerful, bringing fruit and candy to his Leibling.

“It is only that she has never been married,” he said to Sherlock and me over coffee one evening. “She is unsure of opening herself to another. She cannot know how it changes everything. Everything tarnished shines when a person, a wonderful person, consents to make a home with you. Marriage can turn a hovel into a castle. Ja, it is only that she is frightened of something new. I am patient--have I not waited this long already?”

Herr Schulz carried our empty cups into the kitchen and helped his fiancée with the washing up. That was but one of the moments when I might have confessed my love to the best and brightest man I had ever known. Herr Schulz was right: being in love, feeling committed to another person, made the mundane marvellous. Sherlock and I shared not even two rooms–just the one and its alcove, and I would not have been happier living in Buckingham Palace. We talked of many things and nothing; politics, music, literature, science. Even our silences were engaging. When I walked with him, I saw the world through his eyes and it was infinitely more interesting than all the miles I had walked before I knew him. And yet I said nothing.

“Get dressed, Watson!” exclaimed Sherlock. “We are going out tonight!”

It was New Year’s Eve, the one-year anniversary of my arrival in Berlin.

“Dorian Gray?” I asked.

“For your anniversary? Don’t be ridiculous! The Eldorado of course!”

The Eldorado was sure to be crowded with curious tourists as well as Berliners celebrating the new year. I would have preferred the homier Dorian Gray, but said nothing. For many years to come, I marked this evening as the beginning of the end of my association with Sherlock Holmes.

When we arrived at the club, the evening’s festivities were in full swing. A lively floorshow was underway and empty seats were hard to find. Sherlock and I stood near the bar, sipping our first glasses of champagne.

“I say!” cried a crisp British voice. “Holmes the younger, as I live and breathe!” 

We were enveloped by a quartet of men. They were nearly indistinguishable from each other, although two were fair and two darker; two were tall and two closer to my own height.

“Isherwood!” the speaker, one of the fair ones, said, pointing to himself. “Christopher! I was at Cambridge with your brother.”

Sherlock nodded and smiled vaguely.

“These are my friends--Wystan,” he said, pointing to the other fair one, “Stephen,” tall and dark, “and Otto,” the shorter dark-haired one.

“How do you do?” Sherlock inquired politely. “This is my friend, John. Watson,” he added, almost as an afterthought.

“Ein Engländer! You’ve got to learn to live a little, Sherlock! I met Otto here at the Cosy Corner, didn’t I?” Christopher gave the slight dark-haired boy a possessive squeeze. “Ever been?”

Sherlock was solemn. “No. Not really my area.”

Christopher laughed before turning to me. “Pleased to meet you, John. Enjoying your visit to Babylon? Even with this queer old bird?”

I was taking a dislike to Christopher, but worked to hide it. “Yes, thank you. Been here a year–Berlin feels like home,” I said, stealing a glance at Sherlock.

“Home! Did you hear that, Wystan? Home! Stephen here goes home every six months–-back to jolly old England. Berlin isn’t home, Berlin is boys!”

The other fair one, Wystan, who could be distinguished from Christopher by his rather handle-like ears, spoke next. “Where did Jean get to? She was going to find us a table.”

The tall dark one looked over the crowd, pointing as he said, “There she is, waving herself silly.” He raised his voice as if he could be heard over the crowd and the music combined, “Jeannie! How many chairs? Can we fit--” he did a quick head count, “six, I mean seven?” and held up seven fingers.

Jean must have answered in the affirmative because suddenly Sherlock and I were being swept along to a table on the far side of the room fiercely guarded by a rather horse-faced girl.

She was counting heads and chairs. “If Otto can sit on Chrissy’s lap, this will work.”

“No need for that,” I said, “we don’t want to--”

“Oh don’t worry,” she replied. “Someone’s bound to end up on someone’s lap tonight, might as well be Otto and Christopher.”

I looked to Sherlock, but he was already taking a chair and indicating that I should join him.

Once we were all settled, with Otto indeed perched on Christopher’s lap, Christopher said, “Still doing that deduction bit, Sherlock? Your brother was always a  right git about it, too. Let’s see if I can try.” He studied me for a moment. “Hampshire? Am I right, John? By way of Scotland, I think.”

I shook my head in disbelief and looked again to my friend.

“You do have the faintest burr, John,” Sherlock said. “Particularly when you are tired or have been drinking.”

“One glass!” I spluttered. “I’ve only had one glass of champagne so far!”

Sherlock took my hand under the table and squeezed. Steady on , he seemed to say. I didn’t understand why we were here in the first place, but considering that Sherlock was perfectly capable of abysmal behaviour, I had to assume that his current social graces were on display for a good reason. I squeezed back: Alright. I trust you .

And so the evening wore on. Jean ordered a bottle of champagne for the table. Stephen ordered another. Drinks were poured. Jokes were made. Otto and I were the quietest members of our party. I gathered that he was German, native to Berlin, and working-class. Sherlock wore his own class like a disguise that night; he was witty and urbane, prone to laughing along with everyone else. And yet his smiles never quite reached his eyes. He was doing this for a reason, albeit one I couldn’t comprehend.

The floorshow was entertaining enough, a procession of dancers and chanteuses, many of whom were men in drag. I thought back to my first night in Berlin. The musicians here were more professional than those at the Kit Kat Klub, the costumes fancier, and still no one was as talented or alluring as my friend. As the clock ticked on toward midnight, I thought of the voice on the telephone, of the long fingers closing around my watch. I longed for that rush of excitement, of wanting him so strongly that I couldn’t breathe. And then, about half eleven, Sherlock stood, pulling me up with him.

“It’s been grand, Christopher. Thank you all for including us, but we really have to dash, don’t we John?”

My head was spinning at the sudden change. “Ahhh, yes. Yes. Yes we do. Of course. So glad you, erm, remembered, Sherlock. Well, yes. Pleasure to meet all of you. Alles Gute zum neuen Jahr!”

We walked towards home in silence. The end of 1931 was proving to be a letdown compared to the heady thrills of a year ago. We found a bench on a quiet street, and, without discussion, sat down together. The night was cold and clear; the moon, no longer full, was now visible in a sky sprinkled with stars. We sat close together with our shoulders and arms touching.

“Thank you,” Sherlock said quietly.

“Hmmm? For what?” I asked.

“Isherwood and his lot. Not the celebration I’d intended.” He sounded wistful.

“What was that all about, then?”

Sherlock hesitated, working his fingers together in his lap. “It’s only,” he started and paused again before continuing, “I mean….Christopher’s mother and mine run in the same circles. And my brother. Cambridge, old boys….One needs to put on a bit of….I hate it. Don’t usually bother. But tonight, I….Somehow. Anyway, I apologise.”

I was dumbstruck. My friend had, until this moment, seemed so confident, so self-assured. My conception of him was centred on his complete disregard for the expectations of others. Could it be that even Sherlock Holmes wanted to be accepted? Was he human after all?

I took his hand in mine, weaving our gloved fingers together. There was so much I wanted to say; my heart was full of love and admiration. To love a god was one thing, but to love a fellow human traveller–-I thought my heart might burst. The words I wanted to say were pressing against the dam of my teeth, surging words ready to burst into the night air.

“The time!” he said suddenly, “Give me your watch!”

“My…?”

“Your watch, man, your watch!”

Obediently, I dug my watch out of my pocket and handed it to Sherlock. He clicked it open and peered at its face in the faint light of the streetlamp.

“Ten, nine, eight,” he counted. “Seven, six, five, four, three, two--”

The night exploded in fireworks and the chiming of church bells.

“One,” he finished. “The happiest of new years, John Watson,” he murmured, bending his face to mine.

I clasped his face with both hands, sinking into his kiss. Tears pricked at my eyes. I told myself it was from the cold, but the truth was that they were those unspoken words finding release in the path of least resistance. I breathed them silently into his mouth, “I love you, Sherlock Holmes. I love you with all that I am.”

And we, two British men, strolled quietly to our flat whilst the citizens of Berlin celebrated around us.

October 1924

Hampshire

“He loved you, Johnny. He loved all three of you, though he mightn’t have spoken the words,” Uncle Hamish said.

They were sitting around the kitchen table in the little house outside of Alton. The floor was swept clean and the ancient wooden table scrubbed within an inch of its long life despite his father’s burial the day before. The clocks were still stopped, the mirrors in the hall and the bedrooms still covered. His mother and Hattie wore black dresses; his mother’s a decade out of fashion and Hattie’s quite ill-fitting. Mum had let down the hem and redone the bodice to accommodate Hattie’s newly curving figure and still his sister’s dress looked awkward and uncomfortable. Of course, one wasn’t meant to feel comfortable in mourning, thought John, that was rather the point, wasn’t it? It was better than sackcloth and ashes, he supposed.

His mother was nodding and quietly crying into her handkerchief. John tried to remember a time when his mother hadn’t been quiet. There were snippets in his memory of her laughing gaily and singing as she went about her day. He vividly recalled his mother playing hide-and-go-seek with him amongst the clean laundry hanging out to dry whilst baby Hattie lay in a wicker basket nearby. That smiling, rosy-cheeked woman was so unlike the pale, sombre mother he knew that John often thought he’d imagined the memory. Perhaps he’d read such a scene in a book and replaced the book’s characters with his own family in his mind. 

“He’d want you to have this,” Uncle Hamish was saying, handing Father’s pocket watch to John.

John took it, closing his fingers around the familiar roundness. The silver casing held the warmth gathered from Uncle Hamish’s pocket. Warm as Father never would be again. John tried to find a happy memory of his father. Surely there must be one. He remembered his father dashing off to work as a clerk at the solicitor’s office in Alton, nattily dressed in suit and tie. He remembered his father in his army uniform, saying good-bye to his family.

“Be good, Johnny,” he’d said, “look after our girls until I get back.”

That photograph still sat on the mantle in the sitting room; his father’s face serious, his hair fair under his cap. The man who’d come home had been thinner, smaller somehow, serious still, but without the conviction of the man in the photograph. The man who’d come home from the war had rarely spoken but was prone to loud fits of rage. After a night down the pub or even drinking at the kitchen table, Father took offence at everything, slamming chairs or walls, storming out of the house not to be seen until morning. That was the scene that rose from the depths of John’s memory: his father, dishevelled and crying, his head in Mum’s lap as she petted his hair.

“Hush,” Mum whispered. “It’ll be alright, Harry. It’ll be alright.”

“No, Clara, it won’t. It’ll never be alright again. I canna….”

Harry Watson had had the same soft burr as his older brother Hamish despite having left Scotland years ago. John could hear it now, “Ah, wee Johnny, remember always that you come from men like Rabbie Burns.”

“And Davy Balfour?” John had asked.

His father laughed and tousled John’s hair. “Aye, son. And Davy Balfour. And that Stevenson fellow, too.”

There had been no more stories after the war, no more nights for John to beg for “just one more page.” Of course, he’d been a lad of twelve then, far too old for bedtime stories anyway.

His uncle was still talking.

“He gave the watch to me last year, Johnny. Asked me to get a fair price for it in London.”

His uncle gently opened John’s hand and clicked the watch’s latch. A picture of John and Harriet was tucked inside the cover. The siblings, aged two and six, with their shining fair hair bobbed to their ears, smiled shyly at the photographer. Harriet sat on John’s lap with her little arm about John’s neck and John’s arm protectively around his baby sister.

“He wanted you two with him always, you see?” said Uncle Hamish. “I couldna sell it. I told him I did and gave him the money I knew he needed. I thought,” here Uncle Hamish’s voice cracked, “I thought there’d be time to give it back, that once he’d got his feet back under him…”

Mum reached her hand towards Uncle Hamish’s and held it tight. “You were so good to him, Hamish. He knew you loved him.”

Uncle Hamish let the corners of his mouth turn up wistfully. “I’ve money put aside for you two, Hattie and Johnny. Tisn’t much, but enough for you to go to university, Johnny. It’s what he wanted for you. Hattie, darling, there’ll be a wee nest egg for you, too. Whether you use it for a dowry or to start your own wee shop is up to you. You and Clara’ll know what’s best.”

Chapter Text

Why should I wake up?

This dream is going so well.

When you're enchanted,

Why break the spell?

January

Sherlock and I spent the first week or two of January tucked into bed with chest colds. I was up and on the mend within a week, but he coughed and suffered for a fortnight. He was a demanding patient, prone to malingering and hypochondria. Our landlady brought him soup and tea and warm mustard poultices. 

“Ach, du armes Ding,” she tutted over him. “I make you good bone broth. That will be making you well.”

Sherlock soaked it up and wrung it for all he could. “You are too good to me, Fräulein. Not even my mother took such care of me,” he managed to get out before a coughing fit wracked his body. 

Our Fräulein cooed and fussed, laying the back of her hand on his forehead. “Is fever, you think, Herr Watson?”

“I think he’s more likely to be overheated, Fräulein Schneider. I know you’ve better things to do than mollycoddle the patient; I promise to take good care of him.”

She hesitated. “Was ist ‘mollycoddle’,” she asked. “Ist gut? This ‘mollycoddle’?”

I sighed. I’d stuck my foot in it that time. Behind her, the patient pulled such ridiculous faces that I had to avert my eyes lest I laugh and injure the good Fräulein’s feelings.

“Yes,” I lied, “mollycoddling is very good and you are obviously an expert. You would make an excellent nurse,” I said, keeping up the pretence as I walked her to the door. “I promise to keep up your good work and yes, I will call for you if he needs anything.”

She patted my cheek. “You are such a good boy, Herr Watson. Stronger than our poor Herr Holmes.”

She peered over my shoulder at the patient who blew his nose loudly into his hanky before responding, “Danke schön, dear lady. Danke schön.”

Once our landlady had departed, I threw a small pillow at Sherlock.

“Enough drama, Miss Bernhardt. You are truly too much. Not even my own mother took such care of me? I’ve a mind to write your sister and see if she corroborates your tale of woe.”

“Strictly speaking, John, Mummy left most of that to Nanny, although I do remember her sitting up all night with Tink and me when we had measles.”

“You are a wretch!” I exclaimed, laughing.

He let his eyes grow wide and pulled down the corners of his mouth. “Of course I’m wretched; you are all the way over there. How can I possibly be expected to recover without you near me?” He patted the bed. “Komm bitte.”

“And what shall I do once I’m there?“ I asked. “Surely you are far too sick to do anything strenuous.

“I was rather hoping you’d read to me, actually.”

“And what shall I read?” I asked. “Not one of your dreadful scientific texts, I hope.

“You may read whatever you like,” he replied, “as long as you do it whilst sitting beside me.”

And so I read Kidnapped by Robert Louis Stevenson, a favourite from my childhood, to Sherlock those gloomy January days, sitting propped up in our bed with the patient’s head on my lap. 

By the time Davy Balfour’s inheritance was restored and Alan Breck Stewart had returned to France, Sherlock felt well enough to venture as far as the Nollendorfplatz, which we did on a rare sunny morning. The temperature was below freezing and I feared we’d never get past Fräulein Schneider who proved to be as exacting as any hospital matron. We were not allowed out of the house until we were bundled to her satisfaction in jumpers, hats, gloves, scarves and coats. I feared she would insist that Sherlock tuck a hot-water-bottle into his shirt, but at last we were on our way.

We’d hoped to buy oranges or grapefruit at Herr Schulz’s and were shocked to find the large plate-glass window smashed and the proprietor calmly sweeping up shards of glass from the pavement.

“Herr Schultz!” I exclaimed. “Are you alright? What happened?”

He was nonplussed. “Children. Only children on their way to school, making mischief. Please, do not worry yourself. But I am afraid I am not ready for doing business today.”

“No, no, of course not. Please, don’t think about it. But can we help?”

Sherlock let himself into the shop and retrieved the culprit, a plain brick with Jude scrawled in chalk. He showed it to me quietly.

“It means nothing--I am German,” Herr Schulz said. “This will pass. Leave me now to clean up this meshugaas. I see you tomorrow, yes? At Lina--at Fräulein Schneider’s.”

But there were no more dinners with Herr Schultz. Word of the incident spread through the neighbourhood quickly. Who knows the path it took; did Frau Haas across the street tell her friend, our proprietress? Perhaps one of Fräulein Kost’s “nephews” brought the tale. Herr Ludwig certainly had plenty to say about it at dinner that evening.

At least he had the decency to wait until Fräulein Schneider placed the food on the table and retreated to the kitchen before starting to pontificate and gossip with our fellow boarders.

“That old Jew--he can easily replace the window. It is nothing to him,” said Fräulein Kost.

“He should retire, give the store to a deserving German. Someone young and earnest who will not cheat his customers,” replied Herr Ludwig.

I started to protest that Herr Schultz was an honest merchant but my friend stopped me with a kick under the table and the slightest shake of his head. Stay out of it. So I picked at the food on my plate until the others had excused themselves. I gathered the dirty plates and silver, and, as if I were at home with my mother, carried them into the kitchen. Fräulein Schneider sat at the kitchen table with a cup of tea long grown cold, her handkerchief twisted between her fingers.

“Fräulein?” I said. “Shall I wash these for you?”

She started. “Nein, Herr Watson. It is not proper. I am doing the washing up. Just…in a moment, ja?”

I hesitated by the hob, my hand hovering near the kettle. “Shall I refresh your tea, Fräulein?” I asked.

“Nein. Nein,” she answered, waving her hand at me. “But,” she paused. “Perhaps you would pour me ein sherry?” 

She pointed and I found the bottle on the shelf and a glass in the cupboard. When she indicated that I should join her I retrieved another glass and sat down at the table.

“What other choice do I have?” she asked. “All my life I have managed for myself. It is all I know. There was a war and I survived. There was a revolution and I survived. I survived inflation–-billions of marks for one loaf of bread. The Communists make trouble–-and I survive. The Nazis say they will drive out the Communists. Who else will they drive out? Why should I care if it is not me? As long as I am here renting out my rooms, I will survive. Alone. As always I have.” 

And thus, Fräulein Schneider returned the ring and the few presents they’d received and began to buy fruit from a shop on the Motzstraße.

April

I sold a story to The London Magazine in February, but hadn’t had any luck since. Fortunately, the English lessons I gave allowed me to continue paying my portion of the rent. My most consistent students came from the Landauer family; Bernhard and his young cousin, Natalia. Natalia had been referred to me by her friend, Hippi Bernstein, who studied with me early in 1931. Hippi preferred teas and parties to learning English and soon moved on to other pursuits. Natalia, however, was a serious and focused student. Her formal manners and blunt directness were both refreshing and off-putting. 

It would not do for young Fräulein Landauer to visit our flat unaccompanied, so I travelled to her family’s house in Tiergarten, on the Hildebrandestraße, for her lessons. Natalia was younger than Sherlock, about the age of my sister Hattie or Sherlock’s mysterious Tink. In art and literature, she was more sophisticated than my sweet sister, but in other ways she was more sheltered and immature. Natalia saw the world in strict categories of black and white: translations were either right or wrong; art was either worthwhile or trash, goods were either well-made or cheap. 

When Natalia and her parents invited me to the family estate--an honest-to-goodness schloss in Schulzendorf--I was relieved that my flatmate was invited as well. Sherlock was everything his upbringing guaranteed he could be (and that his temperament assured that he rarely was) that afternoon. His posture was ramrod straight but his movements were unselfconscious and graceful. The Landauers were thrilled by his fluency in German--only his slight accent would ever give him away as a non-native. Not only did he charm Natalia’s parents, but he was responsible for snagging my best-paying student, her cousin, Bernhard.

Bernhard was older than I, well-dressed and handsome. He, like his cousin, could be quite formal, but there was something hidden underneath his Prussian manners. After luncheon, whilst I conducted Natalia’s lesson, Bernhard led Sherlock on a tour of the grounds. I could see them from the large sitting room windows, walking close together in deep conversation. Did I feel a pang of jealousy? Of course I did. Bernhard Landauer was everything I was not—rich, cultured, worldly. He managed all two thousand employees of the Landauer department store for his uncle. 

Sherlock was quiet on the way home to Schöneberg, avoiding my questions and hints.

“You and Bernhard had a bit of a talk,” I said.

Sherlock nodded. “Hmmmm.”

I tried again back in our rooms, “Must be a very interesting man, running a large concern like Landauer’s.”

“Rather,” was the terse answer.

As always, in his own time, my friend shared the answer to the puzzle of Bernhard Landauer.

“He is an invert, a homosexual like us,” he said that night in bed. 

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“He told you?” I asked.

“Of course not.”

“Then how do you know?” I asked.

“As ever, John, you see but you do not observe,” was the enigmatic reply.

I wasn’t going to let it go, however. “What? His fingernails? His cuffs? The way he holds his knife?”

My friend smiled. “All of it and none of it. He is remarkably well-groomed, but that wasn’t the tell. Whilst the rest of the family assumed we share a flat because we are both expatriates, Bernhard immediately understood our relationship. The way he assumed that we did most things together. How he would compare and contrast us--’and what does your friend prefer, Herr Holmes?’---he wishes he had a relationship like ours. But he does not. He is afraid.”

I pondered this as I twirled a dark curl around my finger. “Why do we have this relationship, Sherlock?” I asked. “What made you come find me in that alley?”

He was silent for a long time. He let his eyes close slowly and tried to feign sleep. I poked him in the ribs.

“Get on with you! I’m not an idiot--I know you aren’t asleep.”

Sherlock raised himself up on all fours then, boxing me in underneath him. “You were the only thing in the club that night that I wanted.” 

Then he kissed me, softly at first, but growing in intensity. I dug my fingers into his lush locks, pulling him tighter to myself. Did it matter why? Here was a man that aroused me in every way possible; intellectually, romantically, physically. I felt that I could happily live in his shadow for the rest of my life.

July

When the weather was too hot to be borne, we made our way to the lakeshore. Once to the famous Großer Wannsee was enough for me. The sand felt like a bit of home, reminiscent of outings to the Isle of Wight or Brighton, and the lake itself was velvety and cool, but the lido was too crowded for our taste. We preferred to make our way east to Müggelsee. Mid-week, we found we could have a small part of the beach to ourselves, perfect for a picnic and a refreshing afternoon. 

On this particular day, we made an early start and spent time hiking through the woods before lunch. Fräulein Schneider had packed us a bag of bread and cheese with fruit from the green grocer on the Motzstraße. Afterwards, we lay sprawled across the whole of our blanket with our heads side by side. The sun was hot; although it felt good, the idea of combining our body heat was too much to consider. 

“Sherlock?” I asked.

“Hmmmm?” 

“You are going home, back to England, one day, aren’t you?

He paused for only a moment. “When and if you do, I will follow.”

I smiled. This was the answer I’d hoped for. “And what will we do there? Where shall we live?”

“We’ll live in London, of course.”

“Of course,” I chuckled.

“We’ll take rooms in Bloomsbury, John--a tiny flat near Gordon Square. Tink will find a place nearby and my brother will be so scandalised that he shall never darken our doorstep.”

With my eyes closed against the sun I could see it; a wonderfully shabby place with floor to ceiling windows and dusty velvet curtains. The floor would be covered with a patchwork of worn Persian carpets and the braided wool rug from my bedroom in Alton. Books and papers everywhere--my typewriter in place at my desk, facing Sherlock’s haphazard stacks and piles. We would sleep on an ancient but sturdy four-poster bed in the larger bedroom and keep a smaller one for show in the other.

“We’ll need two bedrooms, John,” Sherlock said, “to maintain a sense of propriety.”

“But none of our Bohemian friends will care a fig,” I replied.

“Just so. I will continue as the world’s only consulting detective and you will write your great work.”

“I don’t know about great, dear boy--”

“Shut up. I do. You are a camera with its shutter open, recording, not judging. That’s the beauty of your Berlin stories. You aren’t approving of something people will find scandalous but neither are you condemning it. You are chronicling what you see and allowing the reader to decide what to take from it. When you set your mind to write your book, you will set the world on fire.”

I laughed and propped myself up on my arm to look at him properly. “I don’t know if I want to set the world on fire; I’d settle for making a nice income and,” here I paused to kiss him, “shagging you silly every chance I got.”

I pulled back to gaze at him. In the afternoon sunlight, I could see the faint freckles dusting his alabaster skin. I combed the curls off his forehead; they had absorbed the sun’s heat and were slightly damp with sweat. This was the moment. I love you.

Sherlock rolled out from under me and pulled me towards the shoreline. 

“What are you doing?” I laughed.

He stripped off his trousers, leaving them on the sand. He wore a blue woollen swimsuit beneath them. His shirt met a similar fate, carelessly tossed onto the beach. I stood on the blanket to carefully remove my own clothes and fold them neatly. I had a new swimsuit–-woollen pants like Sherlock’s–red and held up by a crisp white belt.

“Are you coming along or must I fetch you?” Sherlock called.

I ran towards him, then, racing to catch him up as he splashed into the water. He was a good swimmer, and, with his long limbs, made easy headway. However, I was the stronger swimmer and, despite my lack of height, caught up quickly. I tackled him as he treaded water, pulling him under to snog him. We burst up together, clinging to one another and laughing. 

I experienced a kaleidoscope of sensations; the cool lake water soothing my body, the heat of the sun on my head and shoulders, and Sherlock--his scent, his taste, the slick of his wet skin against mine. He pulled me towards the shore, just until he could stand with his shoulders above the water. I clung to him, wrapping myself around his muscular body. Although he hadn’t danced onstage in over a year, he retained those long, lithe dancer’s muscles that had drawn me to him my first night in Berlin. I wanted him still; indeed I wanted him every moment of every day. I had learnt in the past months to hold my yearning for him at bay as one does many things--staying awake when tired, ignoring an itch that arises at an inopportune moment, stifling a yawn in church--so that when the chance arose, my desire could not be contained. 

He clasped his arms around my back, digging his fingers into my shoulders. I pulled him close, revelling in the feeling of my chest against his. My mouth was everywhere, kissing him, consuming him--face, lips, ears, neck. 

“Oh God,” I moaned into his ear.

He answered with a deep melodic hum that warmed my core and drew my blood downwards. I strained against my new red swim trunks and noticed that Sherlock was in a similar state. I hastily surveyed our surroundings; we seemed to be quite alone, which was fortunate because Sherlock had already slipped his long, clever fingers beneath my waistband to tug downwards.

“Yes,” I breathed, “Oh God, yes.”

We managed to free each other from the wet wool and silently agreed to let our pants float beside us. We rutted against each other like young stags until we expended ourselves in joyous succession. Then we floated, weightless, for a few moments before retrieving our swim trunks and pulling them on underwater.

Back on shore, we lay side by side on our blanket, letting the sun and the afternoon breeze dry us off. It was a perfect, blissful, magical afternoon. One that, for many years afterwards, would seem like a figment of my imagination.

Chapter Text

Meine Damen und Herren, Mesdames et Messieurs, Ladies and Gentlemen.

Is it a crime to fall in love?

Can we ever tell where the heart truly leads us?

All we are asking is ein bischen verstandnis—a little understanding.

Why can't the world Leben und Leben lassen—live and let live?

New Year’ Eve 1932 was the last I would spend in Berlin. For many years afterwards, I could not hear the familiar strains of Should auld acquaintance be forgot/And never brought to mind without thinking of my extraordinary friend. On the other three hundred and sixty-four evenings of the year I tried mightily to forget him, but somehow, on the anniversary of our first meeting, I was drawn to raise a cup to him wherever he might be. For auld lang syne .

The political climate of Germany was growing more and more complicated, just as Sherlock's brother had predicted. The presidential election in March had kept Hindenburg in power, but only marginally so. Elections were held in July and again in November although neither the Nazis nor any other party gained a clear majority. The revolving door of chancellors made my head spin.

The world was changing. Again. By August, public same-sex dancing was banned although we continued to dance together at our familiar haunts. Our favourite clubs were still open--Dorian Gray, the Eldorado, Moka Efti--but the atmosphere was grim; the music played, the people danced, but there was a frenetic energy to it all, as if we were trying to outrun progress.

After the months-long bans against the Sturmabteilung and Schutzstaffel were lifted violent incidents in the streets increased. Strolling around the city on Sherlock’s arm stopped being an enjoyable pastime after we came upon a door-to-door search in progress on a Charlottenburg lane. Police vans blocked either end of the street with cordons of armed policemen standing as a barricade in front of them.  A shrill whistle blew as a squad of officers moved from house to house. When they’d searched every building without finding their quarry, they marched back to the centre of the street. Gradually the sound of singing drew our attention to the far end of the street where a platoon of brownshirts marched under a Nazi flag. The cordon of policemen parted to let them through. The song was hymn-like, but the words were anything but sacred.

Die Straße frei den braunen Bataillonen.

Die Straße frei dem Sturmabteilungsmann!

 

Clear the streets for the brown battalions,

Clear the streets for the storm division man!

The procession stopped in formation before the senior police officer.

“Unit, halt!” 

The SA platoon stopped as one.

“At ease!”

The platoon leader addressed the senior police officer, “Heil Hitler!”

The officer said nothing.

“Present the murderer!” commanded the platoon leader.

Two men broke formation to drag a man in soiled clothes forward. His eye was swollen shut and it was clear that he was only upright because the men on either side gripped him with strong hands under each arm. Unnerved, I looked at Sherlock. His face was a rigid mask, his lips pressed tightly together.

“Come along, John,” was all he said.

I kept my bewilderment to myself. Was this how civilised people acted? To allow a paramilitary group--a barely legal one at that-–to mete out punishment on a fellow citizen without a trial? This was not the Germany, the Berlin, I had come to know. Was it the Germany my father had known? I had grown up hearing stories about “the Hun,” the terrible, ruthless, and unfeeling enemy that had killed Sherlock’s father and ruined mine. Suddenly, Berlin became a copper coin lost in a mud puddle, trampled by hundreds of feet. The once warm and shiny coin lost its lustre under the tarnish and muck.

“John,” Sherlock said two days later as we sat together at our table. I’d been scribbling revisions in the margins of my manuscript. He looked up from his newspaper to continue, “that man, with the brownshirts.”

“Yes?” I replied.

“He was a scapegoat; an example being made.”

“So there wasn’t a murder, then?”

“There was a murder, of a brownshirt, the night before. Yes, in that neighbourhood. But the man who was beaten and presented to the police was not the murderer.”

“How could you possibly know that?” I asked.

“Because the so-called murderer is a client.”

“A client! Sherlock!” I bellowed.

“Would you keep your voice down?” he hissed. “Yes. My client hired me because they were being extorted and threatened by a former friend. When it became clear that we would not be able to halt the extortion, I agreed to help them acquire the necessary papers to leave Germany. Unfortunately, my client decided to plead with their friend one last time in an attempt--”

“To stay in Berlin?” I asked.

“Yes,” Sherlock’s disappointment showed on his face. “I did try to warn them. There was an altercation, a knife was drawn, and the true criminal was stabbed in his attempt to kill his former lover.”

I didn’t understand how Sherlock could be so calm. “Where is your client now? What are you going to do?”

“I am going to meet them this afternoon, in Kreuzberg. I would very much like it if you would accompany me.”

“Yes, yes, of course!”

Sherlock placed his hand on my arm. He held me in his sharp gaze, his eyes piercing through me. “John, you cannot write about this. Not now. Perhaps not ever. A person’s life may depend on it.”

“Of course,” I said. “I understand.” But in actuality, I understood very little.

We met Sherlock’s client in a run-down block of flats in Kreuzberg. The interior stank of piss and refuse. A single bulb on each landing illuminated the dismal staircase, with no further light down the halls. The squalid flat where we met Sherlock’s client consisted of one small room with a filthy mattress and a filthier blanket. No chair, no table, no other furnishings. A loaf of bread wrapped in paper and an empty beer bottle were the only signs of sustenance.

The person who answered the door was of average height with fine brown hair falling across their face. I could tell that once washed and styled it would have formed a fashionable bob, the kind usually held back on one side with a clip. They pushed the hair off their face with hands that were dirty and shaking yet as fine and elegant as Sherlock’s to reveal a sharp nose, green eyes, and reddish stubble. They wore a simple shirtwaist dress and torn cardigan with a pair of hobnailed boots and no stockings.

“Oh, Herr Holmes!” they said in a tenor voice made rough by tears. “You’ve come! Danke, mein Herr, danke shön.”

“Of course I came,” Sherlock said quietly. “I told you I would.” He turned to me, “John, this is Bibi Wertz. Bibi, my friend, John Watson.”

Bibi held out their hand. “I am pleased to meet you, John Watson.”

“Schön, Sie kennenzulernen,” I said, unable to think of anything else to say.

“Nein, it is not nice, but I appreciate your consideration,” Bibi said with a sad shake of their head.

Sherlock held out the parcel he’d been carrying under his arm. “Bibi, here are new papers, enough marks for a train ticket to Poland or Denmark; the Netherlands are a safe bet, as well. And fresh clothes.” Sherlock paused before continuing apologetically, “Your new passport gives your name as Friedrich Mülller, I’m sorry. It was the best I could do.”

Bibi took the package with a resigned shrug, "It is what it is. But, perhaps first...."

“Yes! Of course!” exclaimed Sherlock. He looked around the empty room. “John,” he said, reaching into his pocket for his wallet. “Take this, I saw a shop around the corner. We need a basin, a flannel, and some soap. Fill the basin with water from the courtyard on your way back up.”

I hesitated for a moment, feeling awkward about taking his wallet, but the look in Sherlock’s eyes reminded me that this was about Bibi, not my pride. If they could accept the current turn of events, I could run this errand. When I returned, Sherlock was sitting on the floor next to Bibi.

“Herr Holmes--ja, Sherlock--Horst,” Bibi’s voice cracked. They took a stuttering breath and continued, “Horst was my dearest friend, always, and then….When. When I thought we could be. But I was foolish. Who would? Not even Horst. I am….no one could, but I hoped.”

I stood quietly in the doorway as Sherlock took Bibi’s hand. “Bibi,” he said gently, “Bibi, you deserve to be happy. No matter who you are, no matter what is under your clothes. I hope that you are able to have a fresh start and find happiness.”

I cleared my throat. “All set here. Soap, water…”

Bibi stood, wiping their eyes with the back of their hand. “Danke. This is too much. But I thank you.”

Sherlock stood as well. “John and I will wait for you in the hallway, Bibi, and then we will walk you to the train station.”

We saw Bibi, wearing their new suit and old boots, onto a train bound for the Netherlands at Anhalter Bahnhof that afternoon. Sherlock was pensive afterwards, walking aimlessly with his head down and his hands shoved into his coat pockets. Wanting desperately to find a silver lining for the day, I looked for a distraction as we walked through Kreuzberg. I thought I’d found it when I spied a recessed doorway marked Noster’s Cosy Corner.

“Say!” I said, “Isn’t this the place your friend from Cambridge was going on about at New Year’s? The Cosy Corner? Shall we pop in for a pint before we head home?”

“John,” Sherlock began, “John--”

But I had already opened the door and started inside. Once my eyes adjusted to the dim interior, I thought it wasn’t much different from the Dorian Gray. Homey, unpretentious, with photographs of boxers and cyclists on the wall. I walked to the bar and ordered two mugs of beer. Sherlock joined me and kept his focus on his drink. I, on the other hand, was compelled to study the room. Slowly it dawned on me. Isherwood’s boys, in their shirtsleeves, showing off finely muscled bodies with their shirts unbuttoned to their navels and their sleeves rolled as far up their chiselled biceps as possible. In dark corners, these boys were paired off with older, better dressed men. Oh! 

I set down my mug. Suddenly I wasn’t thirsty anymore. I nudged my friend. 

“Sherlock,” I said, “I’m sorry. Let’s go home.”

“Yes, John. Let’s.”

Even as Sherlock drew into himself that autumn and winter, we remained intimate. Hardly a night went by without touching one another. If we fell asleep quickly, one of us would wake later, aroused by our closeness and wake the other. Sleepy lovemaking was satisfying, of course. Languid and gentle, we would cling to each other afterwards, enchanted by smells and sensations into an otherworldly slumber. Other times, my friend, always restless, would come to bed long after I’d retired, and, in an echo of his days performing at the Kit Kat Klub, would wake me with fierce nips and kisses.

“John,” he would purr into my ear. “J-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-ohn. Must. Have. You.”

On those nights he took me into him, as if only I could fill his empty spaces. He seemed consumed by an unquenchable need. If I hadn’t been so distracted by his ability to take me apart, I might have noticed that he was collapsing into himself. But I was young and selfish and blinded by lust and pleasure.

We spent New Year’s Eve at the Kit Kat Klub. I was surprised; we had not been back since Max had fired Sherlock two years earlier. 

Sherlock tried to put a shine on it. “What better way to celebrate than to revisit the place where we met?”

I was sceptical. Something was off, but at the time, I couldn’t see what it was. So, as I often did with my clever friend, I played along and followed him without question.

We sat at a booth in the back, observing the crowd as we drank schnapps and champagne. The club seemed a little more tawdry, a little more run-down than I remembered. Perhaps it actually was the worse for the wear or perhaps the glamour had disappeared with the loss of their best performer. 

Several members of the waitstaff and more than a few of the performers stopped by our table to greet Sherlock and wish “lieber Wili” a Happy New Year. Sherlock slipped easily into his Wili persona, instantly becoming coy and flirty each time a former colleague stopped by the table. The moment they stepped away, however, the man I knew and loved returned. 

As expected on such a festive evening, the club was crowded. The Kit Kat Klub drew a varied crowd--bourgeois Berliners who couldn’t quite afford a more refined venue, a few tourists excited by the racy atmosphere, and a new element, albeit one that one saw everywhere: Nazis. Party armbands were visible throughout the room, but seemed to be centred near a large booth occupied by brownshirts. The brownshirts were particularly loud and raucous, catcalling performers and waiters alike.

I took Sherlock’s hand under the table and squeezed. “Meeting you,” I began, only to be interrupted by a fanfare from the orchestra.

The little master of ceremonies, nattily dressed in a tailcoat and white tie, but grotesquely made up as always, appeared. He beckoned to someone offstage, coaxing and cajoling them to join him. Finally he blew a kiss to the unseen person and held out his hand. A gorilla danced awkwardly on to the stage. Not an actual gorilla, of course, but rather a person in a costume which included a pink tutu and brassiere with gaudy faux pearls hanging around her neck and from her ears. The lips on the mask were painted a garish red, completing the idea of an ape-shaped coquette.

“I know what you’re thinking,” sang the emcee, “you wonder why I chose her, out of all the ladies in the world. That’s just a first impression. What good’s a first impression? If you knew her like I do,” he crooned, “It would change your point of view!”

What followed was a vaudevillian soft-shoe number where the master of ceremonies sang of his girlfriend’s-–the gorilla’s–-many virtues. Despite her refinement, society frowned on their relationship. The emcee begged the audience for a “little understanding.” He asked, “Why can’t we all live and let live?”

Coming from this little man with his dark lips and unnaturally pale face dancing with the frankly ugly and clumsy burlesque gorilla, the question took on an unsavoury flavour. I clung to Sherlock’s hand. This was such cruel humour that I wanted to yell “Stop!”. 

At last the punchline was delivered:

Oh, I understand your objection,

I grant my problem's not small;

But if you could see her through my eyes,

She wouldn't look Jewish at all!

The crowd laughed and cheered as the emcee waggled his eyebrows in childish delight. The table of brownshirts stood and clapped loudly, stamping their feet to show the extent of their approval.

I felt sick; I wanted to leave. I wanted to return to the night two years ago when I’d been entranced by the man next to me as he turned everything I knew or thought about myself on its ear. I turned to Sherlock for reassurance, but found none. He squeezed my hand before letting it go and leant close to kiss my cheek. 

“I’ll be right back,” he murmured.

“Wait--where are you going?”

“Have to see a man about an ape,” he teased with a wink.

My ears rang. An ape? What was he implying? I threw back my glass of schnapps. I let the burn fill my stomach and hoped it would quiet the noise in my head. Why were we here? Clearly this outing was not about revisiting our first meeting. I surveyed the crowd again and my attention rested on the group of brownshirts and their hangers-on. Most were young men, of course, fair and well-built. A few older men, wearing jackets that indicated they were leaders of some kind or another. Chorus girls and boys flitted around the perimeter like butterflies in a garden. And finally I saw him, the spider in the centre of the web, the alpha male in the centre of the pack. Ernst Röhm. The Stabschef of the Sturmabteilung. Was he the reason we were here? 

I looked around the club for Sherlock and found him near the bar talking to a large man mopping his bald pate with a handkerchief. Max. The owner of the club. They seemed quite chummy for two men who had parted on such bad terms. A surge of anger and jealousy replaced the other emotions roiling through my body. I stood and crossed the room with the intent to place myself firmly  between Sherlock and his former employer. But as I approached them, Sherlock turned to me and smiled.

“Ah! John, Liebchen! You remember Max?”

I gritted my teeth. “Yes, of course.”

Sherlock’s voice was light, his Wili persona. “Max  was just telling me about how busy they’ve been and how much everyone misses me.”

I clasped his hand tightly and tried to keep my voice equally light. “Well, I have been missing you just now, Liebchen.”

Max clapped Sherlock on the back with a force that gave me the urge to punch him in his ample gut. “But your good friend is correct, Wili. This is not a night for business. You must come back and see me another time.” He turned to me. “Good evening, John.”

As Max walked away, Sherlock turned to me and spoke directly into my ear in order to be heard over the crowd. “How do you want to see in the new year? With a dance?”

I placed my palm on the nape of his neck, keeping him close to me. “With you. Just you. Not here.” I answered.

Sherlock nodded and soon we were bundled against the cold and walking towards home. His pace was brisk, but I had spent my entire life matching the steps of people taller than myself and I kept up with determination. 

“Sherlock,” I managed, although it was difficult to both speak and breathe whilst maintaining his pace.

He paused and laced our gloved fingers together. “John,” he answered. “My dear, dear John. Thank you for indulging me this evening.”

“Do you mind telling me what all that,” I waved vaguely in the direction of the club with my free hand, “was about?”

“Yes.”

“Well then?”

“Yes, I mind. Someday perhaps, but not today.” he replied.

For a fleeting moment, there was an unspeakable sadness in his eyes, so fleeting that for a long time afterwards I thought I’d imagined it. But I trusted him. He always told me, always in his own time and in his own way.

“Of course,” I said.

We celebrated the new year together in our bed in the Nollendorfstraße. We were shy at first as the events at the Kit Kat Klub had clearly affected my friend as much, if for different reasons, as they had me. But once we physically bared ourselves to each other, the barriers in our minds dissolved. This was my extraordinary friend, my first true love, although I had yet to tell him so. I hoped that night, as I unwound him, covering him with kisses, exploring every nook and cranny of his exquisite body, that he knew. He who could tell what a person had had for breakfast from a crumb on his collar must certainly know that I loved him with every fibre of my being. When I submitted to him that night, letting him fill my empty spaces before shattering me utterly, I wanted him to deduce it, to understand the words I could not say aloud and know they were true.

As the calendar turned from 1932 to 1933, we lay together, listening to fireworks and church bells. He cradled me against his chest, his fingers in my hair. Splashes of colored light from the fireworks outside shone on our walls and I fell asleep rocked by Sherlock’s breathing and anchored by his hand splayed across my breast. My only thought as I drifted off was that no matter the clouds gathering in the sky, we could weather the coming storm as long as we were together.

Chapter Text

It'll all work out. It's only politics, and what's that got to do with us?

January 1933

I met with Bernhard Landauer at least once and occasionally twice a week that winter. His command of English was very good; what he required was regular practice with a native speaker. He spoke French fluently and had picked up some Russian from his emigré employees. He was fluent in Yiddish as well and delighted in teaching me some of those idioms and phrases.

Like my friend Sherlock, Bernhard was a serious man who was easily bored by superficial things. He did not wish to practise English by speaking of the weather or what he’d had for dinner; he expected me to converse with him about literature and art and ideas. His was a fierce and passionate intelligence; like his cousin, he had a natural directness that was disconcerting until one grew accustomed to it. I tried to explain to him that many native English speakers would find his bluntness to be off-putting at best and argumentative at worst. Like Natalia, he could not comprehend this. His self-assurance did not allow him to consider that others might not agree with or at least want to know his exact opinion on any given topic. In this way, he challenged me to consider my own complacent thinking. 

Given my class and upbringing, I was prone to mould my behaviour to others’ expectations. When discussions became unpleasant I grew quiet and withdrew as quickly and discreetly as possible. I was not yet aware of the deep well of anger that life had already drilled inside of me and of the dangers that would come from refusing to vent that well, even a little.

I asked Bernhard about the growing tide of anti-Semitism. Did he feel threatened by it? Did he think it would actually become a way of life in Germany? Would he ever relocate? Thankfully, because of his own nature, Bernhard took no offence at my questions, but gave thoughtful answers. 

He thought a Nazi Putsch more likely than a Communist revolution but found the question dull. The better questions was what should one, as a Jew, do in the event the Nazis took control of Germany? Serious as he was, Bernhard had a sharp sense of humour and joked that he would settle in Peking, a city he had recently visited on business, if I would agree to go with him the next day. 

In actuality, he was certain that the Nazis coming to power was a question of when rather than if.  When he outlined the actions he thought his fellow Jews should take before things became completely untenable, I realised that he had given the situation more thought than he was willing to admit. To his way of thinking, the German Jews needed to present a united front to the Nazis and arouse the conscience of the rest of the world. This could be accomplished by a kind of general strike. The Jews should close their businesses and go out onto the streets and remain there, refusing to go home even as the storm troopers fired on them.

I could not imagine such a scenario. I was horrified, not by the idea of protest or a strike, but by standing one’s ground in the face of certain death. But I, like the world, was naive and had not yet learned the lessons coming with the rise of fascism.

February 1933

After the elections, Sherlock grew quieter. Often I found him lost in thought, oblivious to the world around him. One February afternoon, I came upon him standing in front of the window with his violin. He was still as a statue, holding his violin by the neck, his arm at his side. 

“Sherlock?” When he neither answered nor turned his head, I tried again. “Sherlock? Are you alright?” Still receiving no response, I crossed the room to him and laid my hand on his shoulder. “What is it, dear boy? Hard case?”

He shuddered and turned his face to mine. His beautiful shimmering eyes were brimming with tears.

“Darling!” I cried. “What’s wrong? Bad news from home?”

He shook his head and wiped his eyes on the sleeve of his dressing gown. Placing his violin under his chin, he replied, “Nothing’s wrong, John. Please ignore my flight of fancy.”

He burst into a particularly chaotic rendition of Czardas, turning his back to me to face the window again.

1 March 1933

“Ach! So terrible, the news, meine Kinder,” Fräulein Schneider said as she brought in our breakfast tray.

Sherlock grumbled and pulled the sheets over his head.

I gave him a disapproving look before turning to our landlady. 

“Yes, it’s terrible news, Fräulein. Do they know what started the fire? Have you heard?”

“Communists.”

Our landlady fussed a bit, mumbling about the dangers posed by the Communists and wondering what could possibly happen next. Finally, she stood, arms akimbo, surveying our chaotic flat. 

“But it’s nothing to do with me, is it? It will all go on whether I am here at 17 Nollendorfstraße or if I am on the moon.”

Once she’d retreated down the stairs, I sat on the bed next to Sherlock. Bernhard’s plan for a suicidal strike by the Jews swirled in my brain. First the Reichstag fire, then the Reichstag Fire Decree. What was next? Would they close the border? Incarcerate foreign nationals?

“Sherlock.” I shook him through the blankets. “Sherlock, I know you’re awake. We’ve got to get out of Berlin, out of Germany. How much money do you have? I don’t think I have enough for train fare home to England, but I could wire my uncle, maybe. Do you think your brother might--“

He poked his head out of his cocoon. “I’m not leaving, John,” he said.

“What?”

“Repetition is tedious, John.”

“But Sherlock, Sherlock, are you paying attention? They’ve suspended the Constitution. One could be arrested for expressing an opinion, searches and seizure of property are no longer regulated. Sherlock, we can’t stay here.”

Sherlock stood, wrapping himself in his black silk dressing gown and pouring himself a cup of coffee. “So go home, John. No one is stopping you.” Meticulously he added his requisite two sugars and stirred before taking a delicate sip.

“But--”

Sherlock turned to me. His pale blue eyes were cold, his face expressionless. It couldn’t have hurt more if he had punched me.

“But what?” he asked in a monotone.

I hesitated. “I thought, I mean I-I-I assumed, but that was presumptuous, I see that now.”

“Of course, if you don’t feel safe, you should return to England, John. Or go to Paris. Wherever suits you. There’s nothing holding you here.”

“Nothing--,” I had no words. 

I’d thought, but what right did I have to think? Sharing a flat, sharing a bed, had I really been stupid enough to believe that anyone, much less the genius polymath Sherlock Holmes, would want to stay with the likes of me?

Sherlock was getting dressed now, letting the silky black dressing gown puddle on the floor. I collected the sight of him, unclothed, naked; his lithe, muscular form, the roundness of his arse, his long, graceful limbs. He bent from the waist, legs strong and straight, to retrieve his trousers from the floor. A ballerino at the barre. Yesterday, I would have felt proud and happy that such a creature was mine. But I was a fool; Sherlock had never been, would never be mine.

Sherlock was buttoning his shirt.

“It’s been brilliant, John, it has. You’ve made Berlin beautiful. But Max has promised me star billing and there’s nothing for me in England; I can’t bear the thought of Cambridge and teas and debutantes.”

“Who said anything about Cambridge or debutantes?” I demanded.

“I’m afraid Mummy would insist, old chap,” Sherlock answered.

“Mummy? Mummy? What’s your mother got to do with this? What about a little flat in Bloomsbury, near Gordon Square--”

Sherlock stood in front of me, smiling. His eyes were brighter now, but I was missing something. Something very wrong. Sherlock reached out a finger and tapped the end of my nose.

“But we haven’t any money, John. However would we pay rent?”

“I could--”

“Sell some stories? Yes, I know you could. But what about me? My family, my brother, would not stand for me parading myself in a London nightclub, even if it were the done thing.”

“Who said anything about a nightclub? What about your cases? The world’s only consulting detective?”

Sherlock laughed. The sound was empty and hollow. “Mycroft might actually find that to be worse. I’d be an embarrassment.”

Sherlock kissed me then, full, on the lips; the kind of kiss I had grown to expect, to love, to crave.

“It’s been marvellous, John. The very best of times.”

Piccadilly

15 November 1938

Mycroft Holmes was content, which was quite an accomplishment given the current state of the world. The loss of the Sudetenland was only the latest debacle in Hitler’s march to war. The disastrous Munich Conference, the annexation of Austria last spring, the presence of the Czechoslovakian president, Beneš, here in London, the constant political manoeuvring….For God’s sake, Mycroft found himself agreeing with two backbenchers, Churchill and Nicolson–-it was nearly too much to bear. Occasionally, one needed a quiet moment–-alone–-to think.

Thinking was what Mycroft was doing at that moment. That was utter nonsense. Alden Mycroft Louis Holmes was decidedly not thinking. For the first time since receiving the news about Sherlock, he was not thinking. He was sitting by the fire sipping the finest whiskey he could afford. If he were prone to cigars, which was a disgusting habit, he would be smoking one. However, he’d dined very well at his club and had actually walked to his set at Albany through St. James’s Square. He made a mental note to mention it to Mummy the next time he wrote to her; she would be so pleased to see him taking exercise. 

Mycroft wrote to his mother every week that he was not in residence at Ferndell and had done so since Michaelmas Half 1915. He had never made a habit of writing to the Littles; they had made it quite clear that his presence in their lives was perfunctory at best. But he had promised Father to look after all three of them, a promise that Mycroft had broken most spectacularly. 

The telephone was ringing. Bother. Whilst his set included a kitchen and private bath, it did not provide quarters for a manservant, not that Mycroft could afford one in the first place. But how grand it would be to never need to answer the telephone again or to prepare one’s own tea or breakfast. Ever. To have another person draw one’s bath and lay out one’s attire….What was that infernal racket? Right. Telephone.

Mycroft stood and walked across the room. 

“Holmes.”

“Oh Mr Holmes, it be Penrose, sir, the porter,” the voice on the ‘phone had a distinctive West Country accent littered with rhoticity. 

“Yes, Penrose.” Mycroft hoped he sounded more neutral than he currently felt.

“Oh, sir, Mr Holmes, sir, I’m sorry to be bothering you of an evening like this, but there’s a bit of a situation down here, sir, as needs your attention.”

Mycroft pinched the bridge of his nose and let out a deep sigh. “Could you elaborate on this situation, Penrose?”

“It’s a girl, sir.” started the harried porter.

A voice interrupted, loud enough to be heard through the telephone. “I am not a girl, I am his sister. Mycroft! Mycroft! This is absurd!”

The voice grew muffled as if the receiver had been moved away from the speaker. “I apologise, Mr Holmes, sir. But the young person is creating quite the stir, sir, and p’rhaps if you could sort it out, or give your permission for her to go up, sir…” The man’s voice faded and there were the sounds of a struggle. 

Dear God above, how was this to be borne? Mycroft drew in a deep breath before speaking. “Penrose. Penrose, are you there?”

“Yes sir, Mr Holmes sir, I’m here.” The porter sounded out of breath.

“If it isn’t too much trouble, Penrose, could you put the young woman on the line, please.”

“Yes sir, one moment sir.”

“Mycroft? Mycroft, this is absurd! You’ve been avoiding me all day; I insist that you let me up immediately  or I’ll--I’ll--“

“Tell Mummy?” Mycroft finished for her. ”Really, aren’t we past that kind of behaviour?” He could hear his sister inhale in preparation for continuing her tirade, but he cut her off before she could start. “Enola, you will cease and desist this instant. Not only is this tantrum unbecoming a person of your station,” and here Mycroft’s voice dropped to a whisper, “you are embarrassing me!”

He hadn’t been avoiding his sister, per se; he’d avoided many people today. The news out of Germany was disturbing. Two days of violence and destruction; whatever one might think of Jews, the destruction of property and loss of human life was more evidence that the Nazis were fast becoming uncontrollable. Mycroft could and did tolerate a range of behaviours in his line of work, but bullying was simply bad form. To encourage violence against one’s own citizens….

The knock at his door was brisk and impatient. When he opened the door, he was grateful to see that Enola had calmed herself somewhat. There was still a dangerous fire in her eyes, but her face was not flushed and she greeted him with a nod, waiting until she’d entered his set before speaking.

“It’s Mummy, My. She’s beside herself; she doesn’t understand—-I don’t understand. What was Pan doing in Czechoslovakia in the first place? We thought he was coming to town—-why--? Are you sure that? Maybe he’s just….”

Mycroft worked his lips and inhaled before speaking. “I am sorry, dearest, I needed someone on the ground that I could trust. He knew the dangers and agreed to them. It’s difficult to explain to --“

“Don’t you dare finish that sentence, brother mine. Don’t you dare!“ Enola stepped forward and pointed a finger at Mycroft’s nose. “Mummy and I are capable of understanding quite a lot.  Despite the fact that we are mere women or civilians or whatever ridiculous excuse you use to let yourself off the hook, we are perfectly capable of understanding the reasons why you sent Pan off to die.  The problem is that you are conflating understanding with agreement.”

Chapter Text

And you find you are

Left by your lover

Though you moan

And you groan

Quite a lot

You can take it

On the chin

London

In the end, I wired my uncle for funds and he met my train in London. I’d never been happier to see him, this solitary figure from my childhood with his conservative double-breasted suit and modern trilby, standing quietly on the platform as the train entered the station.

We did not embrace or even shake hands. My uncle looked me up and down, and, catching sight of my two cases, asked, “That’s everything then?”

When I nodded my assent, he returned my nod and led me out of the station and onto the street. We took a cab to his flat in Woolwich, not speaking until we were settled in his sitting room.

“Ye’ve had your heart broken, then, Johnny,” Uncle Hamish said when the maid left us with a pot of tea and a tray of sandwiches.

I stared at him in reply and dropped my watercress sandwich back onto my plate.

My uncle laughed. “Oh my braw lad, it’s as plain as the nose on my face,” he said, pointing to said appendage. “Might I ask his name?”

I froze, speechless.

“One gets a sense of these things, Johnny. ‘Tis alright. I’ve not said a word to Clara; she suspects nothing. No, in fact she’s quite proud of your wee bits in The Strand ; loves to go one about you landing on your feet in Berlin and finding such a clever friend.”

“Uncle Hamish, I--”

“But he was more than a friend,” said my uncle, more tenderly than I had ever known him to be. 

Slowly it dawned on me. A confirmed bachelor. Always living alone. As a boy, I had invented a heartless fianceé who left him at the altar, turning him into a masculine version of Miss Havisham. But that had been my Romantic imagination. Uncle Hamish ran a successful import-export business, had for years, as capable of rolling up his shirtsleeves to unload cargo with his employees as balancing the books. I looked at my uncle with new eyes. I had only ever seen him as an older, softer version of my father. His hair, once as fair as mine or Hattie’s, had long ago turned white. His merry blue eyes crinkled in the corners when he bestowed one of his rare smiles on me. I remembered that he had sported whiskers when I was a boy, whiskers that grew in ginger despite his ashy hair. What had he been like as a young man? Had he had a male lover? Lovers?

“I long suspected, Johnny. One gains a sense of these things, bein’ one of the clan, so to speak. Aye. That’s all we’ll say about that, now. ‘Tis a pity you’ve had your heart split in two, but ye mustn’t wallow in sorrow. That’s no way to live. Tell me your plan for the future.”

But I had no plan. Still, we talked the afternoon away. He didn’t want to know much about my relationship with Sherlock--”if I don’t know, I don’t have to remember not to tell your mother”--but listened with interest as I told him about the political unrest in Germany.

“Aye,” Uncle Hamish agreed, “there’s talk of boycotting German goods. We’ve done without them before, we can do it again. There’s Jews all about the East End. Hard workers. I’ve no beef with them.”

As the sky grew dark, my uncle and I walked to his local pub for supper and a pint. He offered to take me on in his business if I had a true interest; when I hesitated, he told me to think on what I wanted to do with my life and let him know how he could help. His one restriction was that he would not pay me a stipend to “sit about and dream.” 

“Even if you never take a wife, Johnny, you’ll feel better knowing you’ve made your own way. If ye can do it with your stories, that’s grand. But until then, I expect you to earn your way and save for your future.”

The truth is that I could not bear the thought of touching my typewriter. I had used it all through university yet it seemed now to be intrinsically linked to my life in Berlin. Every story that I started to scribble in my notebook was about Sherlock, our flat, our neighbourhood, his smile, his wit. Eventually I stopped writing altogether. 

I could have sought refuge with my mother and sister in Alton, but I couldn’t bear that either. I feared that my mother would see the truth of who I was or what I’d become with one glance. How could I risk disappointing or, worse, disgusting a woman whose spirit had been sorely tested by life? She was so thrilled by my sister’s recent marriage and the eagerly anticipated  delivery of Hattie’s first child that I thought it best not to disrupt her joy. I was not, nor did I think I would ever be, prepared to answer the logical questions: When are you going to settle down, Johnny? Don’t you want to find a nice girl and start a family like Hattie and Ted?

Reluctantly, I took my uncle’s offer of work and found a grubby room to let in the East End. I kept his books, typed his letters and invoices, and pitched in at the warehouse as needed. It was not challenging or satisfying work, but it wore me out. Each evening when I laid down and shut my eyes I saw the lights of Berlin, but, being bone-tired, the vision would last only a moment before I fell into a dreamless slumber.

The days ran into each other, a never-ending slog where Sundays provided the only respite. Often I accompanied my uncle to church before setting off for a walk along the Embankment. Sometimes, for a change of scenery, I strolled through Victoria Park. There, by the Victoria Fountain, one could hear any number of speakers waxing loudly on myriad topics. I listened to the socialists and the free-thinkers, but gave those praising fascism a wide berth.

One Saturday in May, my uncle found me morosely reading the latest news from Berlin as I nursed my tea. The Nazis had organised book burnings in university towns all over Germany. In Berlin alone, twenty-five thousand books were burned in the Operanplatz. I felt sick. Was Sherlock still in Berlin? Surely Hirschfeld’s Institute, with its vast collection of texts on sexuality, had been targeted. What other mayhem had ensued while the books burned? Was my friend safe?

“This won’t do, Johnny. Won’t do at all,” he clucked. “Ye canna stop fools from doing what they will; certainly not from here.”

Then he whisked me off to Piccadilly, to the Criterion, for a rare dinner out. I hadn’t thought I was hungry, but the quality of the beef and my uncle’s heretofore unknown talent for gossip proved me wrong. Uncle Hamish seemed to be acquainted with at least half of our fellow dinners. Quietly he filled me in on who was sleeping with whom, who was in danger of losing a small fortune, and who, under any circumstances, must not be trusted. Truly it was the most entertaining evening I had enjoyed in months.

We were finishing off a bit of pudding and some rather fine port when a voice from another lifetime hailed me.

“John Watson, as I live and breathe! How was Paris?”

It was my old university chum, Stamford.

“Not for me,” I replied and introduced him to my uncle.

Stamford was perplexed, “Then where have you been for the last two years if not Paris?”

“Berlin. Surely you’ve seen my stories in The Strand?”

But he hadn’t. Stamford had been far too busy undertaking medical studies. He expounded on them with the zeal of the newly converted, having finally dissuaded his father of the idea of his joining the clergy. 

“There’s an open symposium tomorrow, Watson–-you should join me! We’re to hear this Fleming fellow who’s been working on antibiotics and antiseptics. Unless you think you’d find it dull?”

I hesitated, but my uncle kicked me under the table until I stuttered, “Of course, thank you.”

Once we’d made arrangements to meet at the hall the next day and said our good-byes, I turned to my uncle as we exited into the London night.

“What was that all about?” I asked.

My uncle clapped me on the back. “I’m old, wee Johnny, but I’m not a fool. You weren't made to clerk in my warehouse. If writing stories has lost its thrill, perhaps medicine will prove to be just the ticket. If not, you’ve only lost an afternoon.”

I lay in bed that night, contemplating my uncle’s words. Was it possible for Mike Stamford to set me on a new path twice in my life? What had I accomplished with my sojourn in Berlin? A few stories published in The Strand ? An indulgent and unnatural love affair? And yet. I knew that I would not trade those days for anything on earth. I tried to contemplate never having met the spectacular enigma that was Sherlock Holmes. The loss of him–-his cold betrayal–-had shattered my heart, and yet--And yet, I never wanted to forget him, not truly. So I took his memory and carefully placed it in an ebony box, as smooth and perfect as his violin. In my mind, I locked the box with the key to my father’s watch and set it carefully in the furthest recesses of my memory. Someday, when I’d found myself again, I would take the box, dust it off, and relive those magical days with Sherlock.

In the meantime, I would meet Stamford and hear this Dr Fleming speak.

April 1933

Berlin

Sherlock stared at his reflection in the mirror. His face. Just his face. A crimson lipstick in his hand. Apply colour to lips, he reminded himself. His hand shook, creating a  blood-red streak from the corner of his mouth to his chin. Damn! He grabbed a tissue and scrubbed at his face, smearing it. 

“Schatzi!” said a voice at his elbow.

Sherlock looked into the mirror. One of the chorus girls--Frenchie? No, Lulu. Little Lulu with her gamine haircut and large dark eyes. 

“Here, you’ve made such a mess.” She dabbed at his face with cold cream before smoothing it into his skin. “Pssssssh! It’s no bother, you relax and Lulu will fix it. I am good at fixing things.”

Sherlock closed his eyes and let Lulu clean his face. Her fingers were tiny, like everything about her. Delicate. Child-like. But he could pretend. Sherlock imagined sturdy fingers, shorter and squarer than his own, rubbing circles on his cheeks, combing his curls off his forehead. 

He could hear Lulu rummaging through the pots of make-up on the dressing table. She dabbed a sponge on his face before blending the dots together. No. Not Lulu. John. John with his strong fingers. If Sherlock kept his eyes closed, he could see John concentrating, his clever tongue darting out and wetting his lips. John would giggle, nasal and high-pitched--Sherlock loved that sound.

“I’ve never done this before,” John-in-his-head said, “are you sure?”

“I’m sure,” Sherlock replied.

“Of course you are sure,” Lulu said. “I make you so beautiful Christ himself is weeping. Open your eyes now, look up.”

Sherlock did as he was told, trying in vain to keep his eyes unfocused, to hold onto imaginary John, as Lulu lined his eyes with kohl.

“I’ll fix you up, Wili, no worries. Such a crowd tonight; Max is bursting. Important Nazi guys. Max says be extra sexy, make them spritzen ihre Hosen. Big spenders, ja?”

She stopped talking and sat back to study her handiwork. She dusted powder along the ridges of his cheekbones. 

“Ach! I should have such cheekbones--then I would be headliner, too, no?”

Sherlock smiled wistfully. Why should he have all the attention? He studied her.  Oldest child, mother dead. Seventeen, no, nineteen, just undernourished. An abortion last year. Responsible for younger siblings. She could use the money.

Lulu poured something onto a small spoon.

“Before I am doing the lipstick, ja? To perk you up. No tears, Wili Liebling.”

Sherlock took the spoon and snorted the cocaine. It burned. There had to be a better way to do this, he thought. An injected suspension would be almost as quick, leave his nose out of it. Ah! There it was. Hello!

Lulu leant forward, kissing him before he knew what was happening. For all her dainty childlike features she was forceful. She worked his lips open with her tongue and explored his mouth. When Sherlock pulled back, she laughed.

“It’s fine,” she said. “I know you are warmer Bruder, but you can’t blame me for trying.” She sighed. “Now your lips like this, ja?” she said, wielding the lipstick. “Gut! Now smacking the lips together aaaaannnddd finished.”

Sherlock looked at himself in the mirror. His battle armour.

“Danke, Lulu, danke schön.”

Chapter Text

I don't care much

Go or stay

I don't care very much

Either way

Grañen, Spain

“Hola, cariño,” I said in my halting Spanish. “¿Cómo está usted?” My tongue, which could create more than passable German and which rolled my r’s in a serviceable Scottish burr that made my uncle smile, felt thick in my mouth. “Let me see what we have here.”

My patient was a young boy, perhaps eight years old, with large dark eyes and silky brown hair. He was one of the many civilian patients in our little hospital, a farmhouse  in Grañen, just south of the Pyrenees. 

“¿Cómo te llamas, pequeño?”

“Martín,” answered the boy.

He held up both arms, bandaged at the wrists; his right hand was completely gone. By some miracle, the thumb and forefinger remained on his left. I swallowed and steeled myself.

As I unwrapped the bandages to observe the healing wounds, I kept my voice cheerful. “Does it hurt much, Martín?” 

“Not much, Tío,” he answered with a flickering glance at me.

I looked to the sister assisting me. Bridget’s Spanish was superior to mine and she often served as translator for our motley crew of volunteers.

“Can you tell him he needn’t be brave for me?” I asked. “I need to know how much it hurts so I can help him.”

Bridget nodded and conveyed my message to the little boy. He eyed me suspiciously as I studied his arms. His skin had been stitched over the gaping wounds left by the explosives and seemed to be mending well. No sign of infection. I began the task of redressing his arms. Hesitantly, he answered Bridget.

“He says his fingers ache. He knows they aren’t there. But still they ache,” she translated.

“Sí, Martín,” I said. “Can you tell him that is normal and not to be scared, Sister? And make sure that he gets something to help him sleep at bedtime.”

“Of course, Dr Watson,” she replied.

My work in Spain was more challenging than anything I’d seen in London. I had indeed joined Stamford at Dr Fleming’s lecture that Sunday afternoon in 1933. I was fascinated by Fleming’s quest to vanquish disease. His idea that our own bodies could create an antimicrobial he called lysozyme held my attention. When he discussed his work during the Great War and his theory that it was possible to overuse antiseptics, thereby killing these disease-fighting substances within us, I could not help but think of my friend. How I wished I could discuss this new information with him!

But it was not Dr Fleming’s talk alone that inspired me to enter medical school. As I told my uncle, the science presented was intriguing, of course, but I had always been a storyteller, a man of letters. What did I know of science? Of biology or chemistry? No, the impetus for pursuing medicine came from another source.

I continued working for my uncle, whose warehouse sat within a veritable neighbourhood of warehouses. Community was created by similarity of purpose–bring goods in through the nearby port, unload them and send them out to customers. There was a rhythm to this work, and, occasionally, danger. A toppled tower of crates, an accidental spark, an oily rag could all create injurious circumstances. 

Late one afternoon in December of 1933, danger came in the form of a light snow, a lorry, and a stack of barrels. Despite the driver’s best effort, the lorry slid on the snow-slick road, toppling a stack of barrels and pinning a man underneath. A cry went up, bringing men from the neighbouring warehouses to free him. These were burly men, perhaps differing in height, but muscled and strong. Save one. A lanky man with hair the color of straw and round spectacles stood to the side as the barrels were removed.  The fallen man lay in the snow with his leg oddly bent. He bellowed in pain when he tried to move and someone ran to ring for an ambulance. The quiet tow-headed man stepped forward. I recognized him, a clerk in the warehouse adjacent to my uncle’s.

“May I?” he asked.

When assent was given, he examined the injured man’s leg. He asked for materials to splint it--cloth and boards--before turning to his patient.

“I can set your leg,” said the clerk, “but it’s gonna hurt like billy-o, you in?”

The injured man gritted his teeth and nodded.

“You lot,” said the clerk, pointing to those of us gathered ‘round, “hold ‘em down, yeah? Here we go--”

We held the injured man down as the clerk pulled on the bent leg before easing it back into place. Skillfully, he used the boards and strips of cloth to support it and keep it straight. I was in awe. Once the injured man had been loaded in the ambulance and the small crowd dispersed, I turned to the clerk.

“That was amazing! How did you know what to do?”

The clerk shrugged. “‘Tweren’t nothin’, really. I were a medic in the war, you see. Started off driving ambulance and, well, one thing led t’another, and they trained me up a bit.”

“What are you doing here, mate?” I asked. “Why not go to school, become a doctor?”

The clerk ducked his head. “School weren’t never for me,” he said. “A column of sums is one thing, always could do them in me ‘ead. But the rest of it. Nah. Just glad to help.”

And he shuffled back to his warehouse. 

In that moment I knew: I wanted to help. I wanted to be the man who fixed the legs, who healed the wounds; the man who set things right. I thought of Dr Fleming and his lysozymes; if there were another war coming, might I save someone’s father or husband? Send someone home whole? That would be worth all the stories ever published in The Strand. One less father in a grave far away, one less husband lost to drink and nightmares. 

And so, with Uncle Hamish’s blessing and support, I entered medical school and joined my friend Stamford at St Bartholomew’s Hospital. I put my head down and worked harder than I had ever worked before, letting everything that wasn’t medicine pass me by. When I looked up again, it was 1936, and fascism was poking its treacherous fingers into my own backyard.

A new party had formed in England, neither Conservative or Labour, which, under the direction of Oswald Mosely, espoused the political philosophies of Mussolini and Hitler. Mosely’s blackshirts, his paramilitary protection squads, reminded me far too much of my last days in Berlin. As Mosely and the British Union of Fascists spouted more and more anti-Semitic sentiments, the short hairs on the back of my neck stood up. Not here, I thought. Not in my country. 

In October, the British Union of Fascists announced a march of four columns through the East End, from Tower Hill to open-air sites where Mosely would address his followers. I was terrified. But in the end, Bernhard Landauer would have been proud. Outnumbering the fascists by the hundreds of thousands, the Jews of London and other counter-protesters took to the streets with rubbish and chamber pots and chair legs. The East End had become my home and I was never so proud of it as on that day. There were casualties and arrests, but the citizenry had stood up to say “not here.” 

I realised that I, too, had a chance to stand up against fascism. The Socialist Medical Association was sending volunteers to Spain–a British Medical Unit aligned with the loyalists. I needed to do what I could to protect the fathers and husbands there from dying at the hands of the enemy.

And so I found myself living and working in this farmhouse turned hospital in the shadow of the snow-capped mountains. The Nazis were here, too, supplying the Nationalists with weapons and manpower. The Italians as well; it was they who had dropped the boxes marked “Chocolate” that little Martín and his friends had found. The children, like all children, had been too intrigued by the possibility of a treat to think twice. But the boxes had held explosives, not candy. 

We treated civilians and fighters alike since the enemy made no distinction between the two. There were soldiers among the Republicans, of course. Fighting alongside were volunteers from the International Brigades, socialists from around the globe standing against fascism. But there were also common people, people like those at home in the East End, fighting to save their homes and their way of life. There were grandfathers and young boys, clerks and teachers, farmers and shopkeepers–-and not only men. Strong women, pretty girls, mothers with children at home; anyone who could contribute did.

At first, I was proud to be there, proud to be making a difference. Surely the British and the Americans would come to the Republicans’ aid sending the Germans and Italians home with their tails between their legs. If the spectre of fascism could be thwarted in Spain, all the blood and pain would be worth it. I could bandage a hundred arms, splint a thousand legs, if only it meant that we could return to the life I had loved in Berlin. A world of free expression, a world of art and music, of literature and ideas, a world where I could dance with Sherlock Holmes and no one would look twice.

But the days turned into weeks, the weeks to months, and help did not come. There were Americans, there were my fellow Englishmen, but they came on their own, without governmental sanction. The mud and the filth, the lack of supplies, the days of sheer boredom followed by days when we could hardly keep up with the casualties began to wear on me. The war against fascism, my war, seemed unwinnable. 

The bombing of Guernica was the last straw. Perhaps if I’d had a stronger faith in the goodness of my fellow man or a stronger belief in the Almighty, I could have borne it. But my father had gone to war and come home a broken man. I had grown up seeing such men on every street corner; men blinded or missing limbs, the lame, the drunk, all unable to make a living. Other men had gone to war never to return, leaving their wives and children to fend for themselves. I had seen it in Berlin, too, in the devastation of the defeated. And now it was happening again. German and Italian planes flew over a beautiful market town on an ordinary spring day dropping bombs that destroyed most of the town and killed hundreds of people.

I could not help but think of our little village at home, of Alton, of my mother and sister. When I learned of a ship heading to England that was to carry Spanish children to safety, I volunteered my services. The ship, the Habana , would sail from Santurzi, in Basque country, in May. I would be on that ship.

December 1933

Berlin

Sherlock sat cross-legged in the middle of Max’s bed tightening the tourniquet on his arm. He prodded his arm until he found a vein. A morocco case, lined with blue velvet sat before him on the bed. He’d filled the hypodermic before picking up the tourniquet. Slender fingers reached for his prize, a carefully calculated 7% solution of cocaine. The pinch and burn of the needle barely registered so eagerly did he anticipate the rush to come.

Someone was pounding on the door.

“Wili! Wili! Du faule Sau! Kommen Sie!” Come on, you lazy pig!

Max. Speaking of pigs….

Sherlock took his time, carefully removing the hypodermic and replacing it in its case. He tucked the case into its hiding place, a clever pocket he’d sewn into his pillow one afternoon as Max slept off a binge.

“Ja, ja,” he called. “Coming!” Repulsive toad , he added in his head. 

He unfolded himself and stood looking in the mirror. He shed his dressing own, black and silky, but a little worse for wear these days. Max had gotten angry and tugged too hard at the belt one day, tearing off one of the loops. The lace at the cuffs was stained with something that had dried pale and stiff. As if it mattered. Sherlock tossed it onto the bed. He tugged at his black corset and checked that his stockings were secure in his garters. The cocaine was kicking in nicely now, calming the noise in his head and letting him focus on matters at hand. He pinched color into his sallow cheeks and smoothed his lacquered hair. No wild curls for Ernst; the Reichsminister preferred his boys blond and tidy. Sherlock had bleached the color from his hair and kept it short and smoothed into a proper Aryan style. The hair tonic made it shine and Sherlock thought of the fair heads in John’s watch. John. How he would hate this, be disgusted at what Sherlock had become. He slipped his feet into the shiny black pumps with the ridiculous bows that never failed to remind him of Gainsborough's Blue Boy . Max was pounding on the door again. Arsehole.

Sherlock crossed the room in two strides and pulled the door open mid-pound.

“Was?” he asked Max crossly. “I am here! Why are you standing in my way?”

Chapter Text

The continent of Europe is so wide,

Mein Herr

Not only up and down, but side to side,

Mein Herr

I couldn't ever cross it if I tried

Mein Herr

London

After my failure in Spain, I returned to London and was again working at Bart’s. Stamford was there, too, although he had given up the daily practice of medicine to teach it. Teaching suited him and he’d grown fat and jolly with a wife and three little ones at home. 

I had rooms in the City, rising and retiring to the bells of St. Paul’s. My life was simple; I woke, broke my fast, walked to the hospital, tended to patients, stopped at a pub or Stamford’s for my supper, walked home and went to bed. On Sundays, I wandered the city or stayed in my rooms with a book. The threat of war seemed less tangible here than in Spain or Berlin, yet it hung like a spectre over us all. No one wanted a return to the horrors of the Great War, not even I, despite having witnessed the rising of fascism and being loath to have it wash ashore in England. But I kept my thoughts to myself; no one wanted to hear what I had to say. 

As the weather turned cold and the days grew short, I missed my dear friend more than ever. I wondered where he was and what he was doing. Had he stayed in Berlin or returned to England? Was he here, in London, married like Stamford and growing fat?  I took to scanning the society pages, looking for mentions of Sherlock or William Holmes, although I saw none. 

One unfortunate evening in October, after days of rain, I sat before my pitiful fire with a bottle of mediocre Scotch. Well into my cups, I considered taking out a personal advert in The Times . I composed it in my notebook and am therefore able to include it here:

Once life was a cabaret. Looking to start the song anew.

Of course I never submitted it.

Soon afterwards, I was surprised to find a black Humber limousine parked near Barts on my route home. I am being fanciful; in truth I thought nothing of it until the door opened and a man beckoned me inside. Naturally, I planned to hurry on my way without acknowledging him. He addressed me and changed my mind.

“Dr Watson, I have news that concerns you.”

I bristled. “How could you have news that concerns me?” I asked. “I don’t know you.”

“I have a message for you from Sherlock Holmes.”

And thus I found myself sitting in the back of the limousine as the sky grew dark. The man beside me was impeccably dressed in a dark suit that most assuredly came from Savile Row. Along with its traditional cut and plain silk tie, the onyx cufflinks hinted at money. His auburn hair was thinning but neatly styled. He looked down his beaky nose at me with opaque eyes that gave nothing away.

I spoke first. “You have me at a disadvantage, sir. You know my name, but I don’t know yours.”

“It’s hardly important,” he replied. “You lived with Sherlock Holmes in Berlin, on the,” he said, pausing to consult a small leather notebook, “Nollendorfstraße.”

Although he hadn’t asked a question he seemed to be waiting for a confirmation.

“That is correct,” I replied.

“You have not been in contact with him since March of 1933, although you were both in Santurzi in May of 1937.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You sailed to Southampton on the Habana , accompanying refugee children. He was to have boarded the ship as well, but was…detained.”

My heart caught. He had been there? In Spain? I pressed my lips between my teeth. I would not show emotion to this stranger.

“No, I have not been in contact since I left Berlin, although I don’t see how that is any of your concern.”

The auburn-haired man cleared his throat. “Sherlock Holmes has always been my concern. I have worried about him. Constantly.”

“Who are you?”

“An enemy, in his mind. Perhaps his archenemy. Although that seems rather melodramatic, doesn’t it? Particularly when there are so many more likely candidates.”

I began to lose patience with this cloak-and-dagger nonsense.

“You said you had a message for me? From Holmes?”

“Yes,” he replied. “Quite.”

He pulled an envelope from his inner coat pocket and handed it to me.

The envelope was heavy, the paper thick and creamy. My friend had written John H. Watson on the front of the envelope as if, by including my middle initial, he set me apart from other, work-a-day John Watsons.

“Where is he?” I asked.

“He was last known to be in a small village on the Czech-German border delivering a message to the customs house. On the night he should have arrived, the Germans burnt the customs house to the ground. There were no survivors.” He paused before continuing. “He entrusted this letter to me when he returned from Spain. He asked me to deliver it to you in the event he….”

My companion tried, unsuccessfully, to compose himself. And the light dawned.

“You are his brother.”

“Yes.”

“And you fear he is d--”

He cut me off. “Yes. I am sorry to meet you under these circumstances, Dr Watson. I do not expect that we will have cause to meet again. But, if ever you should need, erm, assistance, you may ask for me in Whitehall, at the Foreign Office. My name is Mycroft Holmes.”

Summer 1915

Mycroft was pleased to be chosen to accompany Father on his walk without the Littles. Not yet five, Sherlock insisted on going anywhere Mycroft did, although Mummy and Nanny rarely allowed it. Enola was really still a baby at three. She would follow Sherlock anywhere, however.

Mycroft matched his posture to Father’s, clasping his hands behind his back and taking long strides to keep up. Just twelve, he was shorter than many of his fellows, but Granny and Father assured him that he would be as tall as Father one day and that he must be patient. He and Father walked up the lane and along the stone wall towards the main road. As they approached what Mycroft knew was the edge of Ferndell’s park, Father stopped and leant against the stone wall. Mycroft joined him.

“I say, old man,” Father said, “I’m sure you’ve heard about this business with the Kaiser.”

Mycroft nodded. Of course he had. He read the newspapers whenever he could get his hands on them.

“I’ve got to go and help sort this out, you see. It’s my duty. This dashed war is taking longer than anyone wants. Ol’ Kitchener’s got the right idea, though, and he’s asked for volunteers.”

Mycroft had no idea who Ol’ Kitchener might be, but he nodded sagely. 

“Thing is, sport, I need your help. I’m leaving next week, most likely for France. That means Mummy and the Littles will be at loose ends, you see. I need you to be the man of the place; can I count on you?”

Mycroft thought his heart might burst from his chest, but whether from fear or pride, he couldn’t tell. He stood up straighter and pushed his shoulders back. He wondered if he ought to salute.

“Of course, Father.”

“I knew I could count on you, Mycroft. Now listen, you’re still to go off to school and do your best, but you must write Mummy often and keep her spirits up. When you're home on your hols, I want you to be kind to the Littles. Show them the Holmes way of things.”

“Yes sir, Father. You can count on me.”

Chapter Text

Bye-bye, mein lieber Herr.

Farewell, mein lieber Herr.

It was a fine affair,

But now it's over.

I waited until I returned home to open the letter. In truth, I waited longer than that. Quite deliberately, I busied myself in myriad ways in order to postpone it. I placed my shoes neatly beside my bed and put on my slippers. I hung my suit jacket on its hanger, exchanging it for my favourite cardigan. I loosened my tie. I started to put the kettle on the hob, thought better of it, and poured myself two fingers of whisky. I lit the fire and sat in my chair. Still I did not open the letter. 

Five years. Nearly six since I had last seen Sherlock Holmes. That wretched day, my new life in ashes. Walking down the Nollendorfstraße for the last time. Alone. The great Weimar experiment ending. Our golden days of walking hand in hand in the Tiergarten, of dancing together at the Dorian Gray were gone. I had often wondered where he was and what he was doing. Many nights I entertained thoughts of sharing a bed with him; of waking to long limbs and dark curls draped over me. The touch of his hand, the taste of his lips, the sound of his voice all flickered through my mind at random moments I could not control. 

A violin solo on the wireless or a whiff of cigarette smoke in the street could send my mind helplessly back to Berlin. No matter how angry I was after that March day, I found it impossible to cease caring about my friend. The good days, the heady joy of wandering free in a time and place that seemingly embraced all forms of love and all expressions of individuality, outnumbered that last day. I smiled at my empty room as I remembered hiding under Max’s bed whilst clever Wili wheedled Max into the w.c. Had pastry ever tasted as delicious as the days we spent our last pfennigs on Kuchen or Bienenstich ? Everything I remembered seemed more: the rain wetter, the snow whiter, the sun warmer, his eyes brighter, his voice more melodious than anything I had known before or since.

At last I picked up the envelope and traced my name. My fingers trembled as I grasped the letter and slid it from the envelope. I unfolded the single page and began to read.

Ferndell

June 25, 1937

 

My dearest John,

Yes, you are and always have been ‘my dearest John’. If you are reading this, you know that we will not meet again. I am sorry, my love. Please know that I never meant to be apart from you this long nor had I any intention of living the rest of my life without you.

My brother contacted me in February 1933, soon after Hitler became chancellor. He persuaded me to use my ties in Berlin to get close to Ernst Röhm–remember how we saw him and his volkisch minions in the clubs? Some hoped that he could be reasoned with and made an ally. I was sworn to secrecy and allowed you to think the worst of me. I apologise for my heartlessness.

By the following year, intelligence indicated Röhm would not be swayed to our side. I hoped to return to London and to you, but, at the behest of my brother and his colleagues, I went instead to France and then to Italy, gathering information and making connections. After Stresa I hoped that I could at last return home. Instead, an injury delayed my plans and by the time I was well enough to travel, Mussolini had invaded Abyssinia and I found myself in Ethiopia. 

The fall of Addis Ababa disheartened me greatly and I began to despair that neither Hitler nor Mussolini could be stopped. My darling boy, I must ask you to forgive me again; my mood was so dark that I gave up any thought of returning to England or to you. I had failed at every task I’d been given--how could I return to you like that? I was no longer the confident man you knew in Berlin. I second-guessed myself at every turn, nothing made sense. I realise now that you were precisely what I needed, that you are the one who illuminates my darkness. 

I worked with an American named Blaine in Ethiopia and followed him to Spain to fight with the Loyalists. We naively thought we could make a difference, but it was more of the same. The bombing of Guernica was the last straw. I left Spain to the Spanish. 

I am at my family home as I write this, looking out over the gardens and park. How I wish you were here with me. We would take long walks to reacquaint ourselves with each other. I can picture the sunlight in your hair, making it shine like spun gold. (See? You are not the only Romantic one!) I hear your explosive laugh in my mind and it brings a smile to my face. I want so much to go with you to the seaside to confirm that your eyes are truly ocean blue. 

I planned to find you in London after this visit with my mother, but my brother has begged me to travel to Czechoslovakia instead. He feels this is a crucial moment in the prevention of a global war, and so, like Don Quixote, I am off to tilt at windmills. I hope to return to London and to you, but it would be wrong, I feel, to find you now only to leave again. When I come home to you, if you will still have me, it will be for good.

If I have learnt anything these last five years, it is that nothing in this life is certain. And so I write this account of my life since I last saw you. I will give it to my brother, Mycroft, with instructions to pass it on only if he knows that I shall never return to England.

You asked me once why, of all the people in the club that night, I chose you. I evaded answering because I didn’t know. I, who pride myself on deducing, on observing, could not explain what drew me to you. Perhaps it was the two little faces in your father’s watch, perhaps it was hearing English after weeks of speaking German. I know those were factors, but they were not the reason. Was it the way you struggled to breathe in the putrid alley? No. The expression of dismay and adoration on your face when you looked at me? No. Not even I am that vain. It was none of these and all of them. It was you, John Hamish Watson. You drew me as a magnet draws iron. I was powerless to resist.

My love, I have been working to get back to you since our parting. Know this. Feel it. Whatever your life brings, and I hope most ardently it brings happiness and that you never see this letter, know that I have always loved you.

Yours forever,

WSSH

 

SS Habana

Santurtzi, Spain

May 1937

“Never thought I’d be playing nursemaid to a pack of kids, did you, Scotty?”

Sherlock smiled. “No, Rick, never.” A flicker of movement caught his eye. “Estéban, vamos! Stay with us, cariño!”

A little boy with a mop of thick brown hair turned to look at him. “Mira, Tío! Mira!” He pointed to the ship in the dock.

“Sí, cariño, I know. That is your ship. Stay with us and you will get to explore the whole thing!”

“I’ll hand it to you, Scotty, you’ve got a knack for this.”

Sherlock looked at his companion. Rick was easily ten years older than Sherlock, but he carried himself with such a world-weary weight that he seemed even older. Currently, he carried a small girl and her doll on his back while her sister clutched Rick’s belt loop as the crowd pressed around them.

“Too bad you don’t,” Sherlock laughed, indicating Rick’s companions.

“Women,” Rick replied, “Age doesn’t seem to matter. They just can’t leave me alone.”

Sherlock ushered his small flock of children through the crowd. He counted heads constantly. Four. Three boys and a girl, siblings who had lost their mother when Guernica was bombed. He picked up the smallest boy and slung the child onto his back. The little boy clasped his arms around Sherlock’s neck and burrowed his head into Sherlock’s shoulder.

“Where are you going after this?” Sherlock asked.

“Paris,” answered Rick. “Friend of mine is playing piano in a café. Thought I’d check it out. Better wine and fewer fascists. You’re back to London, then?”

“Yes.”

“Anyone there for you?”

“My family, of course. Perhaps a reunion with an old friend.”

They’d reached the gangway and were ushering their charges forward. Sherlock glanced up at the people milling around on deck. Too many passengers for this ship, he thought. It’s going to be a hard crossing. Some four thousand children accompanied by volunteers and priests on a vessel meant to carry four hundred at most. He had it to hand it to Leah Manning and the Duchess of Atholl; they’d championed this entire operation, using donations and volunteers when the British government refused to step up. He couldn’t understand why the government was toeing the line of non-intervention when the Italians and Germans were providing lethal military support to Franco. He’d have words with his brother when he returned to London.

London. John. John would be in London. Sherlock would find him and spend the rest of his days doing penance for allowing John to think he wasn’t wanted. If Sherlock had known then what he knew now…

A head of blond hair caught his eye. Don’t be ridiculous, he told himself. John is safely in London, writing stories for The Strand . Perhaps he’d managed a novel by now. There it was again. Blond hair, the set of the shoulders—could it be? 

“John!” he yelled impulsively.

No one could hear him over this crowd. He wanted to run aboard the ship, shoving everyone out of his path. John was here, in Spain, on the Habana.

“¿Tío?” asked the little boy on his back. “¿A quién estás llamando?” Who are you calling?

“Nadie, cariño, nadie.”

He’d find John on board. He smiled; remember, he told himself, the ship isn’t that big.

The slog up the gangway was painfully slow. The children, excited at first, became cranky and tired. Sherlock resorted to singing to soothe his charges. 

Mad dogs and Englishmen

Go out in the midday sun.

The toughest Burmese bandit

Can never understand it.

In Rangoon the heat of noon

Is just what the natives shun.

They put their Scotch or Rye down

And lie down.

He could hear Rick Blaine laughing behind him. In his mind, however, he heard John’s wonderful barking laugh. He thought of John’s wide smile, his mouth open and threatening to split his face from ear to ear. Once the children were settled, he’d start searching. 

“Señor Scott!” called a voice on the quay. “Señor William Scott!”

Sherlock turned to see a man in an official uniform. Republican army? Local police?

Sherlock waved his hand. “Sí! Yo soy William Scott!”

The official hurried up the gangplank, pushing children and volunteers aside. He stopped, out of breath, still a ways away. 

“Por favor, Señor, you are needed. Come with me.”

“No,” Sherlock said, “I am sailing on the Habana in the morning.”

“No, no, por favor,” the official mopped his forehead. “Is most important. I am to tell you…” he screwed his face in concentration. “Second star to the right,” he said at last in halting English.

“For God's sake!” swore Sherlock.

“Don’t worry, Scotty, I’ll shepherd your lambs,” offered Rick Blaine. “Vamos, niños, come with Uncle Ricky.”

“I’ll catch you tonight,” Sherlock replied as he headed back down the gangplank.

On the quay, he turned once more to the ship, hoping for another glimpse of blond hair and strong square shoulders.

“Señor Scott! This way! Vamos!”

Chapter Text

For the sun will rise

And the moon will set

And learn how to settle

For what you get.

After reading Sherlock’s letter, I drank more whisky and read it again. And again. And again. When tears threatened to wash away his words, I folded it carefully, returned it to its envelope and tucked the wretched thing into my desk drawer.

Wretched thing. As if anything created by his hand could be considered wretched. 

Dearest John. 

Know that I have always loved you.  

If anything were wretched, it would be my cowardly self. How many times had I thought the words I love you , Sherlock ? How many times had I stopped myself from saying them aloud? 

What had I been afraid of? That he wouldn’t or couldn’t return the sentiment.

But even more, I was terrified of putting words to something that was wrong. 

Perverted.

Inverted. 

Like me.

Like Uncle Hamish. 

A smart man, a clever man, a wise man, would have gone to his beloved uncle, would have allowed his father’s older brother to serve up tea and sympathy in his tidy and precisely curated sitting room. But I was neither wise enough nor clever enough to do something so sensible. Instead I fell into lockstep, doing the things I had always done: breaking my fast, walking to Bart’s, walking home, going to bed, repeating it all the next day. I stopped visiting Stamford and his happy family and began taking every evening meal at the pub. Gradually I stayed longer and longer after picking at my plate. After a few pints it was easier to forget dark curls and silver-blue eyes. After a nightcap beside my cold hearth it was easier to fall into a restless sleep devoid of dreams of dancing with Sherlock Holmes. 

Did London have a white Christmas in 1938? I don’t remember. Mum and Hattie begged me to come home for the holiday; I threw their letters on the fire. On Christmas Day, I walked the city streets like one of Dickens’s ghosts. I wandered past Blackfriars Bridge and along the Embankment. Few people were out and about, perfectly suiting my black mood. I looked past the holiday trimmings to see only grey sky, grey pavement, and grey water.

I would not think of Christmas Eve at 17 Nollendorfstraße. I would not recall Fräulein Schneider’s Tannenbaum festooned with glass balls and white candles. I would not think of the bowl of evergreen branches on the table next to my typewriter or of the sprig of mistletoe we’d hung above our bed. I certainly would not remember the concoction Sherlock assured me was traditional Wassail which we drank whilst he and his violin filled our room with the joyous sound of Christmas carols. 

I did not smile when I recalled him whispering in my ear at midnight, “Have you been a good boy, John Hamish? Father Christmas has a gift for you, but only if you’ve been very, very good.”

No. I did not feel a flutter in my chest when I remembered what that gift had been, wrapped in the sheets of our shared bed. The silky smoothness of his member against my belly, the taste of his tongue in my mouth, the scent of him--musky, yes, but with a touch of citrus from his shaving soap; no, I did not remember any of those sensations.

A man passed me, tall and slender, with dark curls escaping from his tweed cap. For the briefest moment I thought, but no, of course not. Did I open my mouth to speak? I don’t know. Did our eyes meet? Not by my intention. Yet somehow we made a silent connection and I followed him, casually, nonchalantly, at a distance, to the underpass.

He waited for me there, leaning against the wall, hands in his pockets. I fought the urge to quicken my steps; already blood was surging to my groin. I wanted…something. Release. Release from grief. Release from regret.

As I neared him, I looked furtively to each side of the passage. He pinned me against the rough bricks, his mouth hungry against my neck, his hand tugging at my scarf to expose more skin. Emotion flooded my brain; with surging anger and lust I turned so that he was the one pinned even as I nipped and bit at him. Our hands found their way through layers of clothing to grab and stroke and maul each other. There was no tenderness. When I closed my eyes, violent red was painted over the face I saw in my dreams and daydreams--silky curls and silver eyes obscured by a scarlet haze. My hand found its way to this stranger’s hair, dislodging his cap to weave my fingers into his curls. But I was disappointed. His hair was coarse and smelt of lye soap. I thrust my hips forward, rutting against this stranger, encouraging him to go faster, harder, to bring my release more quickly. My hand increased its speed and intensity as well until we had both swallowed our ending cries.

He was gone with a nod, dusting off his cap and strolling down the passageway towards the fading light as if nothing had happened. I remained, supported by the cold brick wall, physically spent. The bodily release brought no lasting relief to my beleaguered soul; the heartache remained. The incontrovertible truth was that my friend was gone. There would be no reunion, no reconciliation, no renewal of our relationship. All the secret hopes I had carried with me to London, to medical school, to Spain and back again were dashed against the unforgiving wall of death. 

When at last I, too, made my way into the city’s twilight, I was making my way into a dim purgatory that would be my home for many months to come.

Ferndell

Enola Holmes knelt on the window seat, tracing shapes on the frosty windowpane. Stars and a heart, a wobbly snowflake that she wiped away with the sleeve of her quilted dressing gown. Silly this, ridiculous, she thought, a woman of six and twenty, drawing on the frosty glass with her finger. 

The night nursery was cold with no fire lit. The room was unchanged from the days when she had shared it with Sherlock. A tiny table with a gas lamp stood sentry next to a plump chintz armchair. Two white iron bedsteads with plain coverlets guarded two matching nightstands. An old stuffed bear sat on Sherlock’s bed; Enola’s dolls had all moved across the hall when Mummy and Mycroft had finally convinced her to leave the nursery behind. She and Sherlock had slept in the same room long past what many considered decent. Certainly longer than necessary. With the last nanny long gone and Sherlock only home for holidays, they’d enticed her into her own room with a dressing table just like Mummy’s and lots of ruffles. Enola wondered now if Sherlock had longed for his own room. He’d never complained if he had. But he wouldn’t; not to her.

In her memory, Mycroft had always had his own room. She thought perhaps her own arrival had instigated his exodus from a world constrained to the night nursery and the adjoining day nursery. Of course, there would’ve been room for a crib in here, not that she remembered it. She could ask Mummy. Regardless, with two younger siblings creating chaos in the day nursery, Mycroft had had lessons in Father’s library before going away to school, first with Mummy and then with a tutor. 

Sherlock’s tutor, however, had been relegated to the day nursery, teaching both Littles, much to everyone else’s chagrin. Enola had felt it was only right; she and Sherlock had done everything else together, whyever should lessons be any different? It had been the incident with the bottle of India ink and the bust of Wellington that had done it. It wasn’t as if the statue was anything to look at--one could argue that the splashes of black improved the duke’s aesthetic. The loss of his nose had been tragic, of course. And the bashed-in bit on the back of his head. Enola hadn’t done it on purpose, she’d only meant to be careful and helpful, so the tutor would let her stay in the library with Pan.

She pressed her cold fingers against her eyelids. She would not start crying again. She just couldn’t. Some days she thought that if she allowed herself to cry she might never stop. Mummy was so terrifically brave; she never cried in front of Enola, not after those first awful days. Perhaps Mummy had learnt to be brave when Father died in the Great War. She’d certainly put a brave face on Christmas this year with a tree and presents and plum pudding at dinner. My had begged off, saying that he was too busy at the Foreign Office to leave town. That was a lie. Of course he was busy, but more than that, he was ashamed. Oh, he could spin all the tales he wanted about Pan volunteering and king and country and the greater good, but Enola knew better. My had miscalculated. He’d been wrong. They all hated being wrong, of course they did, but no-one so much as Mycroft Holmes.

Absently, she traced the outline of a Christmas tree on the glass. She should go to bed in her own room. Mrs. Bates had gone to the trouble of airing it out and changing the linens for her and Bates had laid a roaring fire in there before leaving for the night. Enola padded across the nursery, between the two iron beds and their dusty coverlets. When she reached the door, she turned to face the room that held some of her happiest memories.

It wasn’t hard to imagine herself, hair tied in rags, tucked into the bed on the left.  On the right, Pan sat with a book on his knees and a torch in his hand. “Peter was not quite like other boys;” her brother read aloud, “but he was afraid at last,. A tremour ran through him, like a shudder passing over the sea; but on the sea one shudder follows another till there are hundreds of them, and Peter felt just the one. Next moment he was standing erect on the rock again, that smile on his face and a drum beating within him. It was saying, "To die will be an awfully big adventure." “

“You never were like the other boys, my darling,” Enola whispered to the empty room. “Godspeed, Pan. Godspeed.”

Chapter Text

So if you kiss me

If we touch

Warning's fair

I don't care very much

London

I wish that I could report that I burrowed into the cobwebbed corner of my memory to retrieve the ebony box holding the finest memories of my friend. I wish that I had found comfort in remembering his bored drawl or his frenetic postulations and preening. I might have lain in my bed, satisfying my physical needs whilst reveling in the memory of lithe muscles under pale, perfect skin. After my anatomy classes, I knew the name of each muscle in the human body. How he would have delighted in me naming them as I tasted his pectoralis major and obliques, nipped kisses along the rectus abdominis before moving lower, tracing his iliopsoas and pectineus with my fingernails. I could have imagined his pupils growing wide with excitement, the delicate blue obliterated by black as I explored his transverse perineal muscles and bulbocavernosus. My remembered Sherlock would have squirmed with desire, as would I, mirroring the caresses on my own body. I could have held myself then, imagining his long, clever fingers, strong from hours of playing the violin, gripping me, stroking me, satisfying me.

But I cannot report any such thing. After my encounter on Christmas Day, I seemed always to be ready, anticipating another opportunity, another stranger. I was playing a dangerous game; I was aware but reckless. The grim truth is that I had ceased to care. What good was caring? I had cared in Berlin. I had cared in Spain. In both instances, I returned to London alone and bereft.

When I was a boy, there had been a dog in our village, unloved by its master and left to roam free. He had been a beautiful creature once, his coat smooth and buttery yellow. The playful boy could always be enticed to romp with a stick or ball. His master, however, was not above beating an animal and would thrash the dog for any reason he could conceive. For running off. For staying in the yard. For barking too loudly; for not barking at all. Finally the animal took to the woods, living rough and growing thin. When the poor beast did wander into civilization looking for an easy meal, he cowered and growled in turn. He, like I, was lost without a pack. Lost and alone in those dark days of 1938 and 1939, I became like that dog, both withdrawing and lashing out. 

My Uncle Hamish withstood my ill-humour on several occasions, beginning on New Year’s Eve. He arrived to celebrate with me in the Scottish custom but I was embarrassed to let him into my flat with the fire unlit and nothing in the cupboard worth eating. Naturally, he would not accept my excuses but thrust himself over my threshold instead. He surveyed my state of domestic dishabille with a wry grin. 

“‘Tis no way to start the new year, nephew,” he clucked in his good-natured way, “with the fireplace full of ash.”

And before I could stop him, he was bent over, sweeping out the ashes and cleaning the grate. When he was satisfied, he built a new fire and laid juniper branches on it. Next he proceeded to open the windows, letting in the cold winter air.

“For saining the house,” he said by way of explanation. “And a wee nip for luck,” he added with a wink. 

He pulled a flask from his pocket and took a swig before handing it to me. I took a reluctant drink. Oh, but it was fine whisky, smooth and smoky. 

“Uncle Hamish,” I started, but he cut me off.

His voice was kind and light, “Nay, I’ll not stay. A fine lad like yourself must have plans for ringing in the new year.”

“I don’t.”

“Oh Johnny! Still, I oughtn’t be first-footing you--you’ll be wantin’ a dark-haired man for that--”

“Damn the first-footing!” I yelled. “There’s no one coming to see me and no sane person wanting my company!” If I’d been a different man, I’d have grabbed him by the collar and shoved him out my door.

Suddenly he was too close, standing nose-to-nose with me. His eyes sparked a fiery blue and colour rose in his fair cheeks. 

“Don’t you dare jut your chin at me, John Hamish,” he growled. “It dinnae work for your father and it’ll no work for you. Sit down in that chair and explain yourself. Now.”

I couldn’t not sit. Despite everything--my grief, my anger, my shame--I couldn’t bring myself to disrespect my uncle further. He took the chair opposite and sat for a moment, studying me. The room was full of juniper smoke; how I wished it could cleanse me, too.

“Now then, tell me what’s wrong, mo cuisle,” His pulse. The pulse of his heart. I didn’t deserve his love. “Johnny?”

It all came out then. No, not all of it; some things were too terrible to put into words. But Sherlock, the letter, my loss. We sat there for a long time as the December air cleared the juniper smoke from my rooms. Finally, as dark settled in, Uncle Hamish closed the windows and stoked the fire. 

“Johnny,” he said, “ ‘tis a terrible thing to have your heart broken and you’ve had yours broken twice. But ye cannae let this be the end of you, too. You’re a young man still, with years of life ahead. What would your friend say, to see you like this? Not sleeping, not eating? And as for the other--”

I started in my seat. I hadn’t said a word about my encounter on Christmas Day. Or the one since then.

“I’m no fool, my boy. But ‘tis a crime--right or no--and what good would you be to anyone locked up? I’m serious, John. You’ve no father to tell you to mind how ye go, so I’m telling you. Be careful. ‘Twould kill your mother and you know it. There are better ways to scratch that itch.” He held up his hand. “That’s enough said about that.” He took my face in his hands then and kissed my forehead. “I wish you every happiness in the new year, my boy. Mo cridhe.” His heart.

How I wish I could say that I took his words to my own heart, that I started 1939 as I meant to go on. But I did not. It was all too much. The best I could hope for was to feel nothing, to move as an automaton through my days, not caring, not seeing.

I hid myself from Stamford, no small feat working, as we did, in the same building. Of course he was rarely on the wards, which kept us apart most of the time, but I must admit to ducking around corners when I heard his eternally cheerful voice. On the rare occasions that I found myself unable to avoid him, I mumbled my apologies and excused myself as quickly as possible. Was he concerned by my withdrawal from his life? I don’t know; he never said. And because he was lost in the Blitz, I will never know. So many regrets.

I hate to consider what kind of care I gave my patients during those bleak months. I don’t doubt that it was textbook-perfect, but I know that it lacked compassion. Whilst I did no harm, as Hippocrates commands, I failed to follow Maimonides’s admonition that “delicate and indefinite are the bounds of the great art of caring for the lives and health” of my patients. 

My uncle, of course, was persistent. He came round at Easter and again at my birthday and many times in between. I could hardly face him, for I had not heeded his advice. By August, I knew every cottage, underpass, or secluded copse between Bart’s and my flat. I swore that every assignation would be the last. And yet. And yet I would crave the touch of another, the physical release, the opportunity to feel anything. 

By autumn, I had lost all interest in my own well-being and was reckless with my freedom. Nothing mattered. War was declared, yet I feared that any attempt by England and France to vanquish the enemy was doomed to fail.

And so, as I was escorted into a black sedan one September afternoon, I assumed that I was being arrested for my crimes. A fitting end to a wasted life. That my companion wore a suit instead of a bobby’s tunic meant nothing to me. Having just exited the public toilet nearest my flat I was sure my guilt was written across my face.

“Come with me, Dr Watson,” said the grim-faced man. 

No handcuffs, no baton, no charge; I should have known. We drove to the outer limits of London, away from Scotland Yard. And still I was sure I had finally been caught. Penal service, incarceration--what did it matter? Surely the world would end soon anyway. Resigned, I watched as the buildings of the city faded away. The car turned down a country lane, towards a modest house. I was confused. 

“Where are we?” I asked.

My companion said simply, “They are waiting for you inside, Dr Watson,” as he held the sedan’s door open for me. 

I could feel my heart pounding in my chest. What had my carelessness wrought? What had I done? 

13 April 1935

Stresa, Italy

Mycroft Holmes opened the connecting door between his room and his brother’s at the Grand Hôtel des Illes Borromées. Sherlock glanced at him whilst continuing to knot his white tie.

“Clever of you, booking us rooms with a secret door, brother mine.” Sherlock said.

“Don’t be smart, Sherlock.”

Sherlock sniffed. “Why not? Because you’re the smart one?”

Mycroft made himself comfortable in the gilded Berègre Marquise chair nearest the window.  “No, because it’s unbecoming. Although I am the smart one.”

Sherlock finished tying his tie and inspected himself in the mirror before turning to his brother. “Do I pass muster?”

Mycroft studied his brother for a long moment before answering. “You’ll do. I’m glad your hair is back to its natural colour. Artifice doesn’t suit you.”

“Doesn’t suit me?” Sherlock barked out a laugh. “Little late for that particular observation, don’t you think? I am nothing but artifice these days. Are you suggesting I try a different tack?”

Mycroft shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “I only meant--oh, never mind. Should I inspect your arms or have you resorted to injecting yourself in the foot?”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and wrinkled his nose. “I am clean , Mycroft. As I’ve told you.” He held his arms out, indicating the space around them. “Care to search the premises for contraband?”

Mycroft held up a hand. “Pace, frater mi. I’m afraid we’re wrong-footed. Let’s start over. Are you ready for this evening?”

“Of course. I’ve already established myself as a lesser member of the French delegation who speaks no Italian and even less English. Of course, Flandin and Laval assume I am a wealthy countryman here on holiday. Everything is under control, mon frere, as promised.”

Sherlock turned to the linen-draped bar cart, picking up a crystal decanter and pouring himself a finger of amber-colored liquor. He held the decanter up, asking the question with his eyes.

Mycroft shook his head. “Dulls the senses.”

“Yes,” Sherlock drawled. “That is rather the point, isn’t it?” He drank the liquor down in two elegant swallows. “I’m out after this, Mycroft.”

“Sherlock--”

“No. I mean it. I’ve done your bidding for two years. I had a life, Mycroft. I would quite like to return to it.”

“Sherlock,” Mycroft cajoled, “it hasn’t been my bidding. King and country. England needed you.” He paused. “Needs you.”

Sherlock turned away from his brother, studying the decanter. Finally he slammed the empty glass onto the cart. “Fine,” he growled. “King and country. I’m only your brother. No one worth your concern.” 

“Sherlock–-”

Sherlock strode across the room, stopping with his hand on the glass doorknob. “I will give you a full report after dinner, Mycroft. Time for cocktails,” he said without turning around. 

Mycroft sighed as Sherlock let himself out. How could he explain that there was no one in all of the Foreign Office that he trusted as he did his brother? Even intoxicated with liquor or cocaine, Sherlock was head and shoulders above every other agent at Mycroft’s disposal. If they were to have the faintest chance--a chance growing fainter every day--of avoiding war, it wasn’t just England that needed Sherlock Holmes. It was Europe.

Chapter Text

He will hold me fast

I'll be home at last

Not a loser anymore

Like the last time

And the time before

London

Cautiously, I walked across the gravel drive and up the stone steps to the front door. Once there, I lifted the heavy brass knocker and rapped twice. I’d only just let go when the door opened to reveal a pretty woman in a smart suit. She was focused on the clipboard nestled in the crook of her arm and scarcely looked up to address me.

“Dr. Watson? They are expecting you,” she said, turning and walking further into the house.

I stood on the stoop, unsure how to proceed. After a few steps, the woman stopped and looked over her shoulder.

“Come along, then.”

I followed her and the efficient click of her heels on the polished wooden floor until she paused at a panelled door in the dim recesses of the long hallway. A quick knock announced our presence before she opened the door, stepping aside to let me enter. When I hesitated, she lifted an eyebrow in exasperation. I pulled myself together and stepped into the room. The closing door very nearly pushed me across the threshold.

I had entered some kind of library. The panelling on the walls was dark, made darker by the heavy curtains and wooden shutters over the floor-to-ceiling windows. Grey light from the fading afternoon sun filtered in from the scant spaces between the top of the shutters and the valances. I took stock of my surroundings to see bookcases, leather club chairs, and two lit lamps on two end tables. 

“Welcome Dr Watson,” said a voice.

I scanned the room again, locating the speaker standing at the unlit fireplace as he turned to face me. He stood tall in a well-tailored suit. Thinning auburn hair was neatly styled above a high forehead. Dark eyes studied me down a rather beaky nose.

“I trust your journey was pleasant,” he said in a voice dripping with public school poshness. “We have met before--”

“Yes.” My hands were clenched so tightly that I could feel the sharp curve of each fingernail embedded in my palms.

“Oh good. You remember. That’s good, isn’t it?” he smiled as he spoke but the smile was restrained to the lower half of his face.

I was too stunned to be confused. Sherlock’s brother. The man from the limousine the year before. Delivering a letter. The letter. What the hell did the Foreign Office have to do with indecency cases?

“You said we wouldn’t meet again, Mr Holmes,” I managed through clenched teeth. “What am I doing here?”

“I asked him to send for you,” said a second voice, female this time.

I wheeled around to see a woman stepping from a dark corner of the room. She looked familiar but her accent was American. I didn’t know any Americans. She crossed towards me, into the dim light. Tiny and birdlike, she wore a simple tweed skirt suit and her dark hair was swept up in an elaborate configuration of rolls and twists. Lively eyes betrayed her amusement.

“Vanya, darling! Don’t you recognize me?” she asked.

The voice was wrong, the hair, too, but only one person had ever called me Vanya.

“Countess?” I stuttered.

She laughed a rich melodic laugh. With a bow she said, “You do recognize me!” She looked to Sherlock’s brother. “I told you he was clever!”

Mycroft Holmes did not look impressed.

“What,” I asked, “am I doing here?”

Sherlock’s brother cleared his throat. “When we met last year, I, erm,” he cleared his throat again. I resisted the cheeky urge to ask if he were coming down with something. “I spoke in error,” he continued. “Although, to my credit, I was speaking what I understood to be the truth.”

Every muscle in my body tensed. I couldn’t breathe.

“Oh Mr Holmes,” trilled the woman I knew as the Countess Irina Eldorovna, “you are going about this all wrong! Vanya, darling, do sit down.” She gestured to a leather club chair.

“I prefer to stand, thank you.”

“A drink is called for, don’t you agree, Mr Holmes?” asked the countess. 

I didn’t give Holmes the opportunity to ask. “I don’t need a drink. I need to know what the hell is happening. Why am I here?”

Mycroft Holmes bit his lips together. He inhaled through his rather prodigious nose. “My brother, Sherlock, was not killed at a customs house in Czechoslovakia last year. In fact, he never reached that customs house. Miss Adler helped him escape to a safe house that night.”

I wished I had taken a seat. Suddenly the room seemed very loud. I dug my fingernails further into my palms and stretched my neck forward, desperate to regain my equilibrium.

“Where,” I asked, “is Sher--he now?”

Mycroft Holmes cleared his throat again. Quite frankly I was tempted to examine him for pharyngitis. “Camp Vernet, in the French Pyrenees. Near Ariège. He has been deemed ‘dangerous to the national defence or public safety’ of France and, as such, has been detained there indefinitely.”

This made no sense to me. I squeezed my eyes shut and opened them again, hoping, I suppose, for clarity.

“But he’s a British citizen. France is our ally in the war. I don’t understand.”

“It seems that my brother neglected to retain his British passport. Without proof, the French government is not willing to release him. Not even through extradition.”

“Can’t you prove his British citizenship? How hard can it be? Just go in there and get him!” I demanded.

“Such faith,” he remarked with a mirthless grin. “No, I cannot ‘just go in there and get him,’ as you so eloquently phrase it. But you and Miss Adler can.”

“What?”

Miss Adler, the countess, laid a hand on my arm. “I asked specifically for you, Vanya dear. We will go to France as representatives of the International Red Cross and bring Vovochka home.”

I was struck dumb by the cascade of new information. Sherlock was alive. Interned in France. The Countess Irina Eldorovna was not a Russian émigré, but an American. I was not being detained for gross indecency.

Le camp de concentration du Vernet d'Ariège

Camp Vernet proved to be exactly what I’d feared. Long wooden barracks and barbed wire in a sea of dirt and mud. Even on this bright autumn day, with the sky so blue, the camp was grey and bleak, shadowed by a dark cloud of corruption.

Miss Adler, “please, Vanya, call me Irene!” and I presented ourselves to the commander as representatives of the International Red Cross. When I protested that I was not prepared to travel, my medical bag had appeared, along with a Swiss passport and a new valise, already packed with clothes and toiletries. 

“How the hell,” I began but Holmes silenced me with an arched eyebrow. I persisted, “How will anyone believe that I am Swiss for Christ’s sake?” 

“You speak French, don’t you?” asked Holmes with a sniff.

“Passably,” I replied, “for a schoolboy.”

He sighed. “German?”

“Quite well. Five years ago.”

Thus it was agreed that Irene would do most of the talking. Which she did with a great deal of flirting and artifice. She leant forward in her chair, opening her eyes round and wide. 

“S’il vous plaît, Monsieur Commandant, this is an urgent matter. I am sure you understand. As representatives of the Red Cross, it is our duty to–-"

The commander cut her off, unimpressed with her plea, “There are nearly one thousand men here. How am I to find this needle in a haystack for you? You cannot even tell me his name!”

Frustration roiled inside of me. I looked at Irene and said in German, “We know his name--”

She held up a hand to silence me. Smiling sweetly at the commander she said in French, “But we do know his name. As we have explained, he was in grave danger and may not have used his own name at the time of his arrest. We are looking for Sherlock Holmes, a British citizen. His brother has received two letters from him, surely if he has sent letters--”

“I do not have time for this,” muttered the commander. “Go see for yourself. He is either in District B with the political detainees or with the rabble in District C.”

And so our search began. We were assigned an escort who, like all the guards, carried a rifle with a bayonet at the ready. I tried not to think of the uses for a bayonet in a place like this. We started with the nineteen buildings that made up District B. Each windowless building contained two levels of platforms separated by a long, narrow aisle.  Men huddled together in groups of four or five, watching us with a combination of suspicion and curiosity.

We moved from group to group asking for “l'homme britannique” and “gizon britainiarra” or occasionally, “der Brite.” We shared the only photograph Sherlock’s brother was able to give us. I thought perhaps it had been taken shortly before he’d left for Berlin. Sherlock looked so young in a white tie and formal jacket with his curls nominally tamed and a bemused smirk on his lips. 

Looking at the men interned here, I wondered how many of them would be recognised  by friends and family. Most sported untended beards and their heads had been shaved. They were, to a man, filthy, wearing clothes that had been clean weeks, if not months, ago. 

Our search was slow, tedious work. The inmates were recalcitrant and suspicious. Evidence of their mistreatment was everywhere—from bruises on their hands and faces to the remnants of excrement in the straw that lined the floor of each hut. We only made it through half of District B before darkness and our own fatigue stopped us. 

Irene and I stayed at the only inn in Pamiers. It was a cheerful, homey place with clean beds and wholesome food. We chatted quietly over a dinner I could barely stomach despite my hunger.

“Do you truly think this will work?” I asked her. “That they will simply hand over a--what did his brother say-- a danger to French society ? Bien sûr que oui, take any prisoner you like today, in fact have two!”

“Oh, we’ll think of something! We’re both so clever. Where’s the Vanya I knew in Berlin? He had an adventurous spirit!”

I did not bother to explain that I was far from the “adventurous” boy I’d been in Berlin, revelling in a grand adventure and intoxicated by the companionship of Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock. Alive. Not dead. Despite my doubts, I would move heaven and earth to bring him home. Of course I would.

The next morning, I was both surprised and pleased to find that my travel bag contained a pair of plus-fours with a matching jacket and sturdy boots. I’d worn a suit the day before and, after hours of walking through mud and straw mingled with human waste, my trousers and shoes were very much the worse for wear. Irene, too, appeared at breakfast dressed in more suitable clothing--jodhpurs, boots, and a dark jumper. 

We decided to investigate District C before continuing with District B. What the commander had dismissed as rabble turned out to be a mix of journalists, artists, and political activists. Irene’s command of Russian came in handy as did her facility with Yiddish. She laughed at me when I gave her an inquiring look.

“My dear Vanya, I spoke Russian and Yiddish before I spoke English!”

In our third barracks of the day we found the unofficial Comintern of the camp. This motley group of communist writers and leaders ran the camp’s network of information and goods.  They agreed to help us, for a price. I was so naïve; I had very little on my person worth trading for information. Fortunately, Irene was better prepared.  Managing to be both thrifty and generous, she made her supplies of cigarettes, chocolate, and francs last until she had the information we sought. Sherlock was at the camp, in fact had been assigned to this very hut until he’d been taken to the infirmary.

I couldn’t help myself. “Was ist passiert?” I demanded. “Is he ill?”

Yes. Sherlock was ill. Dysentery was so rampant amongst the prisoners that it no longer warranted a stay in the infirmary. But Sherlock had angered one of the guards who then stabbed Sherlock with his bayonet. 

“He was alright at first,” explained a Hungarian journalist in heavily accented English. 

Several of the men had combat experience and knew how to field dress wounds. They’d cleaned and bandaged him as best they could under the circumstances, but within days the wound was festering and inflamed. Sherlock, delirious with fever, then came down with dysentery. When he could no longer control his bowels, the guards had relented and taken him to the infirmary.

“At least there have been no deaths at the infirmary since then,” shrugged the Hungarian. 

“How long?” I growled, “How long has he been there?”

The Comintern quibbled over that; some said four days, some were sure it had been five or six. One man kept repeating “Une semaine” like a mantra.

I was ready to charge through the camp without knowing how to reach the infirmary, so great was my need to find my friend. Irene laid a gently restraining hand on my arm. She thanked the men and asked our handler to take us to the infirmary. It took all the self-control I possessed to walk calmly by her side.

The infirmary hut was much more hut than infirmary. There were cots, each with something resembling a blanket, but not much else. Despite the presence of windows here, conditions were as deplorable as throughout the rest of the camp. A basin and pitcher informed me that there was no running water available for basic sanitation. The chamber pots under the beds let me know the same about toilet facilities. When Irene asked the  guard stationed at the door where the doctor was, he shrugged. The men in the beds lay deathly still–-only the sickest were sent here. Still, supplies or not, a hospital ward is much the same the world over and I was able to regain some of my composure. This was my home turf.

I moved from bed to bed, looking for Sherlock. Behind me, the door crashed open followed by a stream of distressed French.The doctor had arrived. I hoped that he was embarrassed by the state of his facility. I strode towards him with my hand outstretched.

“Dr John Watson, St Bartholomew's Hospital, London,” I said, too outraged to keep up any pretence about the Red Cross. “I am looking for Sherlock Holmes.”

“But you cannot be here!” exclaimed the doctor.

“Oh, but I am,” I began.

Irene inserted herself between the doctor and myself, speaking rapidly in French. I caught Comité international de la Croix-Rouge and stopped listening after that. One of the patients was stirring. 

I moved closer. “Sherlock? Is that you? Sherlock Holmes?”

The doctor walked around Irene obviously meaning to herd me away from the patient.

“I-I-I will call the commandant,” he stuttered. 

“No,” I answered, seething. “You won’t.

The doctor stepped away aware, perhaps, that I was quite willing to punch him if necessary. I bent over the patient.

“Sherlock, it’s John,” I said. “John Watson.” 

The ghostly pale man in the bed forced his eyes open. Even they were colourless, yet I would have known those eyes anywhere. His dry, chapped lips moved without sound. Dehydrated. From dysentery, of course.

He tried to wet his lips. “John?” he asked, his creaking voice no more than a whisper. “Where are we?”

“The arse-end of the universe with the scum of the earth,” I growled.

Blinking back hot tears, I lifted him into my arms. He was so light he might have floated away. He stank of sick and infection, but I didn’t care. For just a moment, I lay my cheek against the stubble on his head. 

“But we are going home, my boy, I am taking you home.”

Le camp de concentration du Vernet d'Ariège

Something fluttered in Irene’s chest when John Watson pulled himself up to his full height. His hands were clenched into two tight fists. Just when she thought he couldn’t stand any taller, his neck seemed to grow another inch as he jutted out his chin.

“Step away from that man,” he said to the camp’s doctor.

The doctor trembled but tried to hold his ground. “I-I-I will call the commandant,” he stuttered. 

“No,” John answered with an incongruous smile. “You won’t. Now step aside.”

Never in her life had she been so thrilled to see a man defend what he considered his. Irene Adler did not have much use for men. In her experience, they were too consumed by their own desires to be of utility. Generally men only wanted to invade and possess, rather like Hitler. 

John stepped forward, his diminutive frame somehow taking up all the available space. The camp doctor easily had half a foot in height and a stone in weight over Vanya but he shuffled aside, worrying his hands together as John approached the bed. John leant forward to examine his patient, peering into his eyes and touching Sherlock’s cheeks and forehead with the back of his hand. 

Irene did not desire men--whilst one might appreciate Michelangelo’s David or the Barberini Faun aesthetically, the male form did not excite her. Of course, she’d learnt early on how to imitate attraction, how to flirt with men. It wasn’t an art, it was survival. Generally when one flirted with men they didn’t kill you. On the occasions when flirting was insufficient and she was forced to engage in other…activities, it was easy enough to let her mind drift. While the man in question was pumping away with his ridiculous appendage, Irene would contemplate whether she preferred sapphires to emeralds or if her new frock truly suited her. But there was no need to work her feminine wiles here; Dr Watson had it well in hand. 

“Sherlock,” he said, “Sherlock, can you hear me? The countess and I are here. We’ve come to take you home.”

Irene wondered what it would have been like to have someone like John Watson on her side back in New York. Who would little Miriam Irene Rosenthal of Brownsville, Brooklyn have become with such a defender? Tender but strong; terrified but stalwart. Yes, John Watson was terrified. His lips were pale despite the flush in his cheeks and his eyes--his eyes burned with a fire that reminded her of the witch in Bubbe’s fairy tales. He was both scared and irate, a volatile combination. 

In one movement, he lifted Sherlock into his arms. Sherlock stirred and John bent close to soothe him. The camp doctor stepped forward, arms extended in protest.

“You can’t,” he whined. “You can’t simply take a prisoner--“

But John cut him off, without interrupting his progress to the door, “Oh, I can. I am, in fact.” His voice grew deeper, more dangerous, “I won’t ask again. Get. Out. Of. My. Way.” He glanced at Irene. “Irene,” he said and his voice changed once more. Now it was steady and measured. “Open the door for us and then go start the car.”

Irene would have climaxed there and then if she’d been that sort of girl. She nodded quickly and followed directions. She had survived Brownsville and Berlin and Danzig by using her uncanny ability to read people to its full advantage. As she turned the car’s ignition, she smiled to herself. She’d been right about her Vanya, John Watson. She’d read it in his face all those years ago at the Moka Efti. Just one thing. And, as it turned out, the only thing she needed to know about him: he would do anything for Sherlock Holmes.

 It didn’t matter if she were the Countess Irina Eldarovna Yuryeskaya or Irene Adler or simply The Woman. She’d only ever trusted one man in her entire life. And now she trusted two. 

Chapter Text

When you haven't any shoes

On your feet

And your coat's thin as paper

And you look thirty pounds

Underweight.

Sussex

I hadn’t slept in days. I’d been caring for Sherlock around the clock since the moment I carried him out of that French hellhole. When I could, I dozed in an ancient wing chair next to his bed. We had a whole cottage to ourselves, somewhere in Sussex. 

Irene had driven us from the camp straight to the airfield near Pamiers; within an hour we were on our way home. I held the feverish, trembling Sherlock the entire journey, certain he would expire before we landed. I asked the pilot to radio ahead for an ambulance. Sherlock’s brother was waiting for us where we’d begun our mission, an RAF base just outside of London. 

“We need to head straight to hospital,” I said as Sherlock was carried out on a stretcher. “Bart’s will do quite nicely.”

“No,” Mycroft Holmes said as if speaking to a child. “That isn’t possible, Dr Watson. But he will be well cared for, I can assure you.”

I was puzzled and more than a little irritated. “Your brother could die, Mr Holmes,” I said. “He has a raging infection and dysentery. He's dehydrated and blood poisoning is a definite possibility. He needs fluids, a course of sulfa drugs, ‘round the clock care….”

“Yes, yes,” Holmes reassured me. “It’s all been arranged. If you would join my brother in the ambulance, you can be on your way.”

Irene stepped forward then, placing a chaste kiss on my cheek. “You were marvellous, Vanya, a real mensch. Take care of our Vovochka, won’t you?” 

Stunned, I climbed into the ambulance next to Sherlock and took his hand. Someone had started a saline infusion and wrapped him in several layers of blankets. Although I often accompanied my uncle to church, I did not consider myself a religious man. But that dark night I offered up prayers as I rode beside the only man I’d ever loved. Please God, if You’re there, don’t take him away again. Please. Let me keep him, please. I wanted to bargain, to somehow prove that I deserved the gift of Sherlock Holmes. But I knew I had gambled away my earnings; if one were to tot up any good I’d done as a son, nephew or doctor against my grievous sins, I was in the red. I could have promised to change my ways, never to trespass again, but surely an omniscient God would see through that deception. Because if Sherlock could ever forgive my indiscretions, I intended to satisfy him every day for the rest of our lives.

Five days had passed since that night. The ambulance and its driver had long since departed, but not before the driver handed me a wooden case. 

“What’s this?” I asked.

The driver shrugged. “From Mr ‘olmes, sir. ‘E said to give it to you.”

Once Sherlock was settled in the bed, I opened the box. It contained a hypodermic needle and several vials with “penicillin” hand-written on labels stamped St. Mary’s Hospital London. There was a note, as well, on a piece of folded paper. 

For the treatment of infection. Dosage unknown. Use your best judgement.

Best, A. Fleming, FRCS

Now I sat in that wing chair with an unread magazine across my lap. Sherlock was sleeping peacefully at last, but I could not bring myself to lay down. Someone--Sherlock’s brother, perhaps--had placed a cot in this bedroom. I had yet to use it for anything other than a place to set my clothes. Those had appeared as if by magic--trousers, shirts, jumpers--my own clothes. From my own flat.

I felt as if I’d stepped into Harriet’s favourite childhood story. Everything we needed was here--clothing, food, bandages, the precious vials of penicillin. No elderly gentleman lived next door, no Indian servant snuck into the cottage under cover of night, yet the insinuation of storybook magic was present. Of course it was the doing of Sherlock’s brother and his Foreign Office connections, any idiot could see that, but I am a fanciful man, prone to fanciful musings.

The magazine across my lap was a copy of The Strand from 1932 with one of my stories published therein. Was that Mycroft’s doing as well? He didn’t seem to be one to concern himself with such frivolities. Perhaps the cottage’s former occupant had subscribed? Of course, the source hardly mattered. As I waited for my next round of doctoring, I tortured myself by reading of our days in Berlin. The truth of our relationship was veiled, but I knew where to look to pull the curtain aside. Had we truly been that happy? That carefree? With Hitler’s shadow creeping across Germany had we been so oblivious to danger? 

I took a sip of my tea; it had gone cold. As Sherlock seemed to be sleeping soundly, I felt comfortable slipping to the kitchen. The penicillin was a wonder drug; I had titrated the dosages carefully to optimise healing; I was pleased that the angry wound stopped oozing pus after only two days and granulation had begun. I was not sure if the medicine had had any effect on the dysentery, but, regardless, Sherlock seemed to be over the worst of that as well. When his fever had raged unabated those first twenty-four hours, I managed to get a dose of aspirin into him, but feared it had been excreted soon after with an episode of horrific diarrhoea. Therefore, I resorted to the age-old fever treatment of cold compresses across his naked body. 

The intimacy between a patient and doctor is very different from the intimacy of lovers. Once I had known Sherlock’s body as his paramour; had known the places to kiss, to stroke, to caress, eliciting pleasure for us both. Now I needed to learn the mechanics of his body and his condition; what eased his pain, what caused discomfort. I could not be distracted by the allure he had once held for me.  He was thinner, malnourished–-I wondered how long he had been without proper nutrition. Longer than his internment? There were new scars on his back and legs, perhaps from a lash or whip. His left forearm was marred by scarred veins. Injections? By whom? For what reason? It worried me that they were only present on one arm. Were they self-inflicted?

I contemplated all this as I set the kettle on the hob. Was it possible for us to resume our relationship from six years ago? I was not the same wide-eyed boy I’d been in Berlin and had no way of knowing who Sherlock had become. I sat at the table toying with my cup and saucer as I waited for the water to boil. What was I doing here? Playing doctor? Playing house? 

I looked around the spotless kitchen. Yes, the storybook magic extended even to the household chores. A girl from the village had appeared that first morning and every morning thereafter. Marianne cleaned the kitchen, raked out the fireplaces, and scrubbed the linens Sherlock soiled. But even I, who had considered himself a writer, knew the difference between reality and fiction. Happy endings were the stuff of fairy tales and storybooks, not real life. I had received my fondest wish--Sherlock, alive and with me--but would that be enough? What did the future hold? I was grateful, truly I was; still my heart was heavy. Would Sherlock even pull through? I’d seen it before, patients who rallied only to take a turn for the worst. I could lose him again.

I sighed as I filled the teapot and thought of Uncle Hamish. What would he tell me? I tried to conjure him in my mind; his deep blue eyes, his shock of white hair, his cheeky grin. I imagined him looking at me over his cup of tea, “Johnny, lad, you’ve a big heart and a sharp mind. But no one can see the future, not even you. All any of us can do is follow our heart, moment by moment.”

September 1939

Le camp de concentration du Vernet d'Ariège

“Didn’t I say to give smart-arse a wide berth?,” asked the John in his head. “You just had to show off.”

“I am a show-off,” Sherlock answered. “That’s what we do. Show off.”

But John wasn’t here. 

That spot, just under his ribs on the left side, was hot and sore. The pain radiated throughout his body from the place where the bayonet point had entered.The rest of him was cold, so cold. Where was his coat? Where was John? He’d been beside him a moment ago--it was snowing and they were walking through Schöneberg. New Year’s Eve, under the stars.

 He’d meant to say, “I love you, John.”

 Always. 

He’d meant to say it that first day in Berlin as he slipped his own bare hand into John’s coat pocket. He’d taken John’s hand--that glorious hand. Warm. Sturdy. Solid. Grounding him. Tethering Sherlock to the world. His mind, whirring, out of control, so many thoughts--but with John at his side he could focus, focus like he hadn’t since Tink and he… 

“Pan! Pan!” Tink shouted. She ran across the beach near Grand-mère’s villa in Trouville-sur-Mer, curls refusing to be captured in her plaits, legs long and bare under her romper. She was dragging him along now, showing him the tidal pool and the creatures there. The sun was so hot; how could she stand it? Sweat coated every inch of his body, dripped from his forehead, stinging his eyes. 

When they were small, Tink had called him her owl. His exemplary ability to see in the dark had allowed them to access the kitchen pantry and Father’s library after the rest of the household was asleep. They’d had the best parties with stolen sweets and barred books. Sherlock lay motionless, trying to ignore his transport and relive sitting on the floor with Tink nibbling ginger nuts and exploring the world in Father’s large leather-bound atlas. He was not an owl now; more like a mole. 

Patients were locked into the infirmary when the doctor left for the day and a guard posted outside. That’s what the chamber pots were for; no trips to the latrine overnight. Not that Sherlock would have made it to the latrine on his own. Not in the dark. There was no electricity in the infirmary and few lights outside. Night was now an interminable limbo where his observations were limited to sounds and smells. He certainly wasn’t eager to investigate the infirmary with his hands. Some nights he didn’t even try to find the chamber pot, choosing instead to lay perfectly still, willing his bowels into dormancy. It was only transport. His brain was the bit that mattered. As long as he kept his brain untouched, it wouldn’t matter what happened to his body. In the infirmary, they received food twice a day; after morning and evening head counts. He stopped eating the evening meal. If nothing went in, nothing could come out overnight. In any case, dysentery either cleared up or you died. What was the point of living if he couldn’t go home?

He’d been trying to get home for so long; not only since Czechoslovakia. Before that. In Berlin. In France. Italy. He’d tried so hard in Italy. Finally, after Spain, he’d been close. Until Mycroft had wheedled and implored him to go to Czechoslovakia. That’s when it all fell apart. He’d made it to Prague, where he’d been stuck for weeks. By the time he reached Warsaw, Mycroft’s men were long gone. 

In Poland he joined the hundreds seeking visas, exit papers, passage, passage anywhere. He’d taken advantage of any opportunity that suggested a route back to England. To John. When his money ran out he did odd jobs; anything he could find—bartending, typing, translating, entertaining. It hadn’t meant anything, the entertaining; he’d crossed that particular barrier in Berlin. Mycroft would have told him to lie back and think of England. Idiot. Much more effective to engage his mind, silently reciting the periodic table or the Fibonacci sequence as the partner of the moment did what they wanted. Once Sherlock had tried working through the Leibniz formula for pi whilst performing fellatio on a particularly odiferous Viennese banker but the convergence was too slow and he kept losing his place. 

“You have to play the game, Vovochka,” the Countess Irina told him. 

She was sitting on her stool at Moka Efti, tracing his face with her finger. “Just play the game and you can go home.”

He was tired of playing the game. So tired. 

People were arguing in French. Strasbourg. They’d arrested him in Strasbourg. 

Where had they taken him? He couldn’t remember. 

If he could just fall asleep…but someone was angry. Their voice was menacing. Commanding.

“Dr John Watson, St Bartholomew's Hospital, London,” they said. “I am looking for Sherlock Holmes.”

John. Watson. His John? Here? He tried to move but his body wouldn’t respond properly. Everything hurt. Damn transport. Unreliable. A hand on his face. Warm, sturdy, gentle.

He tried to wet his lips. “John?” he asked, unsure whether or not he was speaking aloud. “Where are we?”

The voice answered. John’s voice. “The arse-end of the universe with the scum of the earth. But I’m taking you home.”

Chapter Text

Maybe this time, I'll be lucky

Maybe this time, he'll stay

Maybe this time

For the first time

Love won't hurry away

Sussex

The sound of breaking glass followed by a crisp “Damn!” woke me. After many nights in the wing chair next to the bed, I had at last acquiesced to sleeping on the cot by the window.

I sat up, rubbing my eyes and peering into the dim room. 

“Sherlock?” I asked

He stood by the bed, facing away from me and quite still. His cotton pyjamas glowed faintly in the dark, like the reflection of the moon on a dark lake.

“Sherlock, are you alright?”

He cleared his throat before speaking slowly and precisely. “I seem to have broken a glass.”

“No worries,” I said, trying to keep my voice light. “Move out of the way and I’ll clean it up.”

I was walking across the room on my way to the kitchen for a broom and dustpan when his next words stopped me in my tracks.

“I,” he began, faltered and tried again, “I, erm, I seemed to have stepped on it and, erm,” he cleared his throat again.

“Sherlock?” I was growing concerned and moved quickly to the wall switch, giving the area around the bed a wide berth.

He blinked rapidly in the light, holding his arm up to shade his eyes. With the light on, I was able to avoid the glass and guide him backwards onto the bed where I could sit beside him. He leant back and eased his legs onto my lap. A large shard of glass had punctured the ball of his foot.

“I’m going to grab my bag before I pull this out,” I said.

His face was pale against the white bed linens, his eyes hidden by his arm. He nodded weakly.

Once I had my bag, I pulled the glass from his foot. It hadn’t gone in far, no need for stitches. As I cleansed and dressed the wound I asked, “What happened, exactly?”

“I needed the w.c.” he replied. “I. I lost…missed. I misstepped and knocked the glass from the table onto the floor.”

“Why didn’t you wake me? I’d have helped you.”

He huffed. “Because I didn’t want help. Because needing help is boring. Tedious. All of this,” here he waved his hands in the air but kept his eyes closed, “is inane.”

I set his leg with its bandaged foot down gently and made my way across the bed. Kneeling beside him, I turned his face towards me.

“Sherlock, open your eyes, look at me.”

He did as he was told, blinking in the light. I fumbled for my medical bag, retrieving the small torch I kept there. I did a quick examination of his eyes before sitting back on my haunches.

“Night blindness?” I asked.

He managed a terse, “Yes,” before turning his face away.

“How long? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“What for?” he pouted.

“What for?” I was incredulous. “Oh, I don’t know, because I’m your doctor?”

“Is that what you are? Lovely. Nice to meet you, doctor.”

He curled onto his side then, tightly furled away from me like a pillbug. I fought the anger rising in my gorge and scrambled from the bed.

“I’m going to get the broom. Stay where you are,” I commanded.

Once the glass was swept away, I inquired whether he’d like help to the loo.

“I think I can manage,” he spat at me.

I sat on bed, waiting for him to return. Drops of his blood were drying on my pyjamas but I was too frustrated to care. We’d been ensconced in this Sussex cottage, his grandmother’s apparently, for nearly a fortnight. Sherlock was still so fragile; his skin translucent, his glorious curls shorn. The worst of his illness was past, but recovery was slow. He ate very little, but I was insistent, feeding him spoonfuls of broth or porridge throughout the day. The night blindness worried me. I knew it was caused by a vitamin deficiency and I made a mental note to make some changes to his diet.

He shuffled into the bedroom with none of his former grace; clearly the evening’s events had tired him. He arranged himself under the covers as far from me as possible.

“Shall I turn out the light or do you, erm, prefer that I leave it on?” I asked.

“Whatever you like. Doesn’t matter to me.”

“Sherlock--” I reached out to touch him. “It matters to me.”

He looked at my hand on his arm. “Does it? I couldn’t tell.”

He couldn’t tell? Hadn’t I travelled to hell and back to fetch him? Hadn’t I nursed him through dysentery? Cleaned and dressed his festering wound? Dear God above, what more did he need? I bit my lower lip. I knew perfectly well what he needed; what I had yet to give him. After that first night, carrying him out of the camp infirmary and into the car, I had done my very best not to embrace him. I had touched him only as necessary to care for him--changing his dressing, feeding him, helping him to the w.c. But I had not held his hand or stroked his back. I had not even kissed his cheek.

Slowly he rose from the bed and shuffled across the room to the light switch. I am ashamed that I let him. Go ahead, I thought, play the martyr, it’s what you’re good at, isn’t it? But I relented when I heard his feet stop shuffling on his way back to the bed.

“John, I--. Please,” the word caught in his throat, “I can’t. I need--”

I didn’t let him finish. My eyes had adjusted and I was off the bed and across in the room in a heartbeat.  I guided his hand to my elbow.

“It’s about four, well, three for you, steps to the bed,” I said. “That’s it. There.”

He swung his feet onto the bed and I smoothed the covers over him. I turned to go, but he grabbed my wrist.

“Stay,” he pleaded.

Before my anger had a chance to get the better of me, I lifted his hand to my lips.

“Of course,” I said. “Budge over.”

We nestled together in a poor facsimile of our previous life. He laid his head on my shoulder and I wrapped an arm loosely around him. He could not see me in the darkness and I kept my eyes fixed on the ceiling. Somehow, that made it easier. 

“I thought,” I started.

“That I didn’t want you,” he finished. “I am sorry. I was wrong. So very wrong to let you leave thinking that you meant nothing to me.”

I rubbed my cheek against the velvety stubble on his head. 

“It will grow back,” he reassured me. “At least there was nowhere for the lice to hide this way.”

“I wanted to die, when I thought--” I couldn’t finish the sentence.

He moved closer to me then, his head on my chest, one long arm around my torso. I breathed deeply, letting the rise and fall of my body rock him. 

“Hush, mo cuisle,” I whispered. “A cuisle mo cridhe.”

“Gaelic?” he asked.

“Scottish Gaelic,” I replied. “It means the pulse of my heart.”

The next morning, I left Sherlock asleep in the bed. I wanted to believe that something had broken like a fever in the night, that the heat of my anger had cooled. Wishful thinking.

I was beating eggs for an omelette when he appeared in the kitchen doorway. He wore a wool flannel dressing gown over his pyjamas and had wrapped a rather large scarf around his neck and shoulders. 

“You’re angry with me,” he stated.

“Am I?”

“Yes. And you’re taking it out on the eggs.”

He was leaning against the doorframe with the tiniest smile on his face. I set the bowl of eggs and the whisk down as if they were made of molten lava. I crossed my arms and tucked my hands into my armpits.

“That’s quite the deduction.”

He moved across the room to sit at the kitchen table. There he picked up the jar of marmalade I’d put out for breakfast, unscrewed the cap, and dipped a finger in. He sucked the marmalade off his finger before replying.

“It’s simple really. You were betrayed. Betrayed by someone close to you. Of course you’re angry.” He dipped his finger back into the marmalade, crooking it to fish out a larger glob. “Mmmmm. I am sorry, John. More than I know how to express.”

I picked up the bowl and turned to the pan of butter sizzling on the hob. I busied myself with the mechanics of omelette-making all the while listening to the sounds of my friend eating marmalade with his finger. The satisfied hums filled my heart as nothing had since we’d been together in Berlin. My eyes watched the omelette cook but my mind saw Sherlock swimming in the Müggelsee. 

This cottage was very like my daydream of a shared London flat; it wasn’t shabby, of course, nor dusty, but the floors were covered with a delightful assortment of ancient Persian carpets and braided rugs. Nearly every room had at least one bookcase and the general populace included all my oldest friends--David Copperfield, Oliver Twist, John Jarndyce, Davey Balfour, Long John Silver, Edmund Dantes, Phileas Fogg. The bed we had shared the night before was indeed an ancient but sturdy four-poster.

When I could no longer delay the inevitable, I slid the finished omelette onto a plate and turned back to the table. 

“I forgot to make toast,” I said as I sat down.

He grinned. “Hardly matters since I seem to have eaten all the marmalade.”

I handed him a fork and we set to eating the omelette off the same dish. I was glad to see his appetite returning and stopped eating to watch him. He was still the most beautiful creature I had ever seen. I could feel something shifting inside myself. I had been keeping myself distant, protecting my heart against losing him again. I still didn’t know how to put it all into words, but I knew I had to try.

“Sherlock,” I began, “these, erm, I’m…I’m not good at this kind of thing--”

He reached out then, weaving his fingers amongst my own. “The words don’t matter, John. You came for me. Thank you.”

1952

London

Sherlock sat propped up in bed with the thick chemistry tome open against his knees. Every so often he scribbled in the small notebook nestled at his side, scarcely turning his gaze from the dense text. It was early, barely sunrise, and he’d had to turn on his bedside lamp. The light wouldn’t wake John; after years of army medical service, both in the field and at Orpington, the man could sleep anywhere and at any time. Just now he lay curled away from Sherlock in a tight ball. His grey-blond hair stuck up in soft spikes and he made little snuffling sounds that were not quite snores. Sherlock smiled fondly as he forced his attention back to his research. At times like these John resembled nothing so much as a woodland creature--a hedgehog, perhaps--wary, solitary, protective of his soft bits. Yes, that was his John. And yet, once he’d bestowed his trust upon you…that was the greatest gift, the highest honour one might achieve.

A siren broke the early morning quiet, racing down Baker Street. John stirred and Sherlock ran his finger down the page to find where he’d left off. John stirred again, rolling onto his back. The snuffling sounds became quick breaths as he struggled to speak. Under their lids, John’s eyes darted back and forth. Sherlock tucked his notebook and pencil into his book, setting them carefully on the floor. 

“No!” John yelled although he was still asleep. “No! Wait! Sherlock!”

He sat upright, keening. Sherlock touched his hand gently before resting his other hand on John’s back. 

“John,” he said softly. “John, I’m here. John, it’s Sherlock. You’re safe, I’m safe.”

John’s eyes flew open and he stared at Sherlock without comprehension. His breath was quick and shallow as he blinked over and over.

“John,” Sherlock said again. “I’m here, John. We’re safe at home on Baker Street.”

John flopped back onto the bed, covering his eyes with his arm. “I…I’m sorry. I. I couldn’t find you and I needed to tell you—”

Sherlock curled around him protectively and rested a hand on John’s chest.

“There was a siren in the street. Are you alright?”

“Of course I’m alright,” John groused. “Embarrassed.”

“No need. You didn’t wake me.”

John dropped his arm and turned so that he and Sherlock were lying face to face. Sherlock studied him whilst he waited for John’s equilibrium to return. His eyes were like the sea; a deep blue most of the time, but prone to looking brackish in certain light. This morning, in this light, they were the vibrant blue of the English Channel set against the white cliffs at Dover. A sight that meant home and safety.

“What did you need to tell me?” Sherlock asked. “In your dream?”

A faint pink blush bloomed in John’s cheeks. “That I loved you. That I’ve always loved you.” 

John’s fingers traced Sherlock’s face.

“Still?” Sherlock asked.

“Always.”

Chapter Text

Maybe I'll someday be lonely again.

But why should I wake up till then?

Sussex

As the calendar turned from autumn to winter, my friend and I resumed our past relationship in fits and starts. 

The first order of business, of course, was to address his malnutrition and night blindness. Much to his disgust, I instituted a daily dose of cod liver oil. A call to the village chemist delivered a clever lad with a large bottle of the stuff to our door. I ignored Sherlock’s protests in the name of science, pointing out that the newest studies concluded that cod liver oil was rich in the vitamins and nutrients that had been sorely lacking in his diet since before Camp Vernet and that he would do well to pinch his nose and swallow the foul stuff down.

As expected, histrionics ensued. The man pinched his nose between elegant fingers with his smallest finger extended like a toff in a Chaplin film. He tilted his head back, opening his mouth as wide as possible. Holding the spoon as if it held hydrochloric acid instead of cod liver oil, he poured the contents down his throat without letting the spoon touch his tongue or lips. As one might imagine, this resulted in fits of sputtering and coughing. However, once he learnt that he would earn a second dose when more oil ended up outside his body than inside, he managed to swallow all of it.

I continued to join him in his bed at night, although we were not physically intimate. Instead, we lay side by side in the ancient four-poster, dressed in our night clothes and bundled under quilts and an eiderdown. There was safety in the knowledge that he could not see me in the dark; hidden and invisible, I began to bare my soul to him.

“I’d never kissed a boy–-a man--before you,” I said. “Girls, yes, but, it never–-I couldn’t understand–-”

“What all the fuss was about?” he asked.

“Yes,” I breathed. He knew; of course he knew. Even my uncle had known. “I tried. I wanted, I mean I thought I should--”

My friend started to reply but I cut him off, gently, with a hand on his shoulder. “Hush, please, mo cuisle.” Fearing an interruption would lock the words inside me forever, I soldiered on, “Until that first night in Berlin, with you in that dress and singing and I didn’t know--I’d never--not for anyone, not like that.”

I could feel his scepticism in the dark. If I could have seen his face, if he could have looked me in the eye just then, I would have seen silver-blue eyes narrow and wrinkles appear between his eyebrows.

“John,” he drawled.

I sighed. “No. Yes. I mean you’re right, I had wanted to; mates at school, the butcher’s boy--”

Sherlock growled, “I hate him.”

“Who?”

“The butcher’s boy.”

“Don’t bother,” I chuckled. “He married the baker’s youngest daughter.”

I rolled onto my side to face him. It was odd, his eyes unseeing in the dark. When I brushed fingers against his cheek he clasped my hand tightly, bringing it to his lips.

“I’m glad,” he murmured.

I rolled again, curving my back against his chest, letting him envelope me in his arms. I was both hidden from him and tethered to him, the warmth of his body giving me the strength I needed to continue.

“You were the first one–-I ached with the wanting of you--you were the first one who wanted me back.” 

I held my breath then, afraid that I’d said too much despite knowing I should say more. He responded with soft, dry kisses at the nape of my neck as we drifted off to sleep. I had spoken the truth, opened myself to him. But I had not shared all; not yet. How could I tell him about the anonymous men, the ones I hadn’t counted, the ones I hadn’t desired, the ones who were not him? Recklessly, I cast them aside and clung to Sherlock instead.

Every day brought renewed vigour to my friend. His wound healed completely, leaving only a sickle-shaped scar on his abdomen. The colour returned to his cheeks and his eyes regained their brilliant sparkle. With the help of Marianne’s mother, I was able to provide Sherlock with an array of hearty vegetable dishes. Parsnips were a definite no, as were cauliflower and cooked cabbage. Carrots and beetroot were barely tolerated. Baked winter squash with honey was, however, a favourite. (Favourite, in this instance, should be understood as not abhorrent.) Despite his protestations, the cod-liver oil and vegetables did the trick and Sherlock’s night vision and overall general health improved.

When he was well enough, we walked around the cottage and, eventually, down the lane. I watched him carefully, worried that he would overtax himself. The man I knew in Berlin had been oblivious to his body’s needs, forgetting to eat, foregoing sleep until he collapsed in a dreamless sleep to awaken ravenously hungry. Whilst a young man might get away with such behaviour without ruining his health, Sherlock could not take such chances. As the days passed, he grew bored and irritable.

“For God’s sake, John, stop mollycoddling me! I am not an invalid!” he yelled.

I pressed my lips together, holding back my reply. I wanted to remind him that he’d very nearly died. That he’d only just regained the ability to see in the dark, that an untested miracle drug had saved him from blood poisoning and organ failure.  But I knew better than to argue with him. I might have bullied him, used the advantage of my strength to muscle him into the house, into a chair by the fire, but that was not our way. Instead I walked beside him, ready to take his arm when he grew fatigued, and to tuck him into bed when, exhausted at last, he became as docile as a lamb. I played countless games of chess with him, swallowing my pride when he won every round. I listened to him quibble as we assembled the jigsaw puzzles we found on a shelf in the parlour and consented to putting several of them together with the picture turned towards the table--for the challenge, of course.

Finally, I wrote to his brother, explaining that whilst the boredom was a sign of healing, I feared that Sherlock would overexert himself into a relapse if he were not given something mentally challenging but not too physically taxing. Mycroft’s reply came in the form of several packages to be opened on Christmas Day.

And so we sat together, next to the  small tree that Marianne and her mother had decorated for us, unwrapping the packages. I received, much to my surprise, a thick wool jumper in a Guernsey pattern and several mystery novels by Harriet Vane. When I expressed my dismay, Sherlock sniffed and reminded me that I was not the only one capable of writing a letter.

There was only one package for Sherlock, one that proved to be the preservation of our collective sanity: a violin. He ran his fingers over it gently, plucking at the strings and adjusting the knobs.

“I had to leave mine behind,” he said, “in Berlin.”

He brought the instrument to his chin and played an arpeggio. The sound was pleasant enough, but I knew that he was disappointed.

“Was that the last time you played?” I asked. “In Berlin?”

He adjusted the bow, avoiding my eyes. “I played sometimes in Czechoslovakia, when I could borrow a violin. And in Spain.” 

He took up the instrument again, playing a little phrase, slowly and carefully, repeating it again and again until he was satisfied.

“I saw you,” he said at last, “on the Habana. We could have, I was meant to--” his voice cracked.

“Yes. I know.”

I wanted to reach for him then, to press him to my body, to  whisper the words I’d never said to him, not here, not in Berlin: I love you. But I held back. It was not so simple; I was a different man–-older, more educated perhaps, but also more foolish. I had given up my personal war against fascism and, rather than fighting, had allowed myself to live as a common sneakthief, stealing release in washrooms and alleyways. I was not worthy of Sherlock’s love.

Ferndell

Christmas Day

Mycroft was spending Christmas with his mother at Ferndell. He’d arrived Christmas Eve day and was counting the hours until he could return to Town. The house was quiet with just the two of them. Cook had prepared sumptuous meals on Christmas Eve and for the holiday itself. There were cold platters ready for  the morrow when she and the Bates’s would celebrate with their own families.

He and Mummy sat in the small parlour, sipping sherry. The curtains were tightly drawn and the fire burned brightly, reflecting on the shiny baubles hanging on the Christmas tree.

“Oh do say you’ll come for the New Year, My darling,” his mother said. “Honoria’s invited us to Duke’s Denver for a long weekend party. The duke will be there and that smart woman Lord Peter married--what’s her name? She’s a writer.”

“Harriet Vane,” Mycroft answered in a monotone. “Helen will be there with the duke?”

“She is his wife, dearest.”

It was bad enough he had to deal with Helen Wimsey in London; Mycroft did not fancy spending a weekend with her. 

His mother read him like a book. “My, you shan’t have to say more than two words to that tiresome woman, not with Lady Peter and Honoria and all those lovely children to entertain us.”

Oh dear God! Children.  

“I’m rather looking forward to it. With Tink in France and Pan--I still don’t understand why I can’t go see Pan whilst he recovers. That would be better than any weekend party.”

Mycroft took a mouthful of sherry, letting it sit in his mouth a moment before swallowing. “I don’t know why you insist on those ridiculous nicknames. Sherlock and Enola are perfectly acceptable Christian names. They have the weight of family and tradition rather than the airiness created in the fanciful imagination of a weaver’s son from Edinburgh. Furthermore, I was christened Mycroft by your choice, if you could manage to stumble through to the end.”

His mother beamed at him.

“And no, I will not be joining you at Duke’s Denver for the New Year.”

Why was she smiling at him? He simply could not understand the female mind. He checked his watch; half-eight. Another hour at least until he could gracefully excuse himself for the evening and after that, another twelve until his train back to Town. This was quite possibly the most tedious holiday he had ever endured.

“Backgammon or cards, Mycroft ?” asked his mother.

“Backgammon.”

Mycroft studied his mother as she arranged the backgammon board between them. Mummy had taken a fancy to three-piece Chanel suits; long skirts, belted cardigans, and knit blouses. She had several, all in shades of lavender or grey. Old habits die hard; born during Victoria’s reign, Mummy couldn’t bring herself to dress in anything less than half-mourning despite the fact that Father had been dead for longer than they’d been married. 

She’d been young and beautiful after the War–-she was still attractive--wearing her dark auburn hair swept up to show off her graceful neck decorated with the strand of pearls Father had given her on their wedding day. When he was a child, Mummy had gone to Paris twice a year–-except during the war years, of course--for new clothes. His clothes, like Father’s and Sherlock’s, had come from a tailor on Savile Row. When Enola was old enough, she’d gone with Mummy to be outfitted at the house of Lanvin although simple cotton dresses would have been more appropriate for a child who insisted on tearing through the park after Sherlock.

Now Eudoria Vernet Holmes wore her silver hair in a fashionable bob, her elegant neck still adorned with Father’s pearls. She was far too old, of course, but she would have been quite the catch after Father died. Married at 20, she had been a young widow. Mycroft wondered once why his mother had never remarried. He’d been more than a bit embarrassed to find that he’d spoken aloud. 

Nonplussed, Mummy had answered with her rich, melodic laugh, “Oh darling, we were rather a lot to take on, don’t you think?”

When Mycroft had spluttered, unable to think of an acceptable reply, Mummy stepped forward and kissed his cheek. “Ferndell belongs to your father’s family. I couldn’t uproot you like that; not unless the perfect man came along. Turns out he already had.”

She meant Father. “Rather good of you,” he’d said, “to think of the Littles like that, put them ahead of, erm, your own desires.”

His mother had laughed again. “No, darling, not for the Littles. They’d have adapted eventually; I was worried about you. It was the right thing to do; you’ve turned out so well.”

His mother was winning the game. She was a shrewd player, a ruthless risk-taker, whilst he was more cautious. Damn. He detested losing.

“I don’t understand how you could allow Enola to go off with the Expeditionary Forces. It’s ridiculous. What were you thinking?”

His mother shook dice onto the board and moved her checkers with confidence. “Your sister is a woman grown, she doesn’t need my permission or yours to live her life. She is quite passionate about being useful.” She handed him the dice cup. “What I don’t understand, darling, is why I can’t visit Pan. You say he’s well, and in the next breath you tell me he isn’t strong enough for visitors. I’m his mother, My, not some idiot off the street. It makes no sense.”

He fumbled the dice, shaking them onto the floor instead of the board. “Bugger all!” he swore under his breath. Retrieving the dice, he reshook them before answering. “Things are so tentative just now, Mummy. You know I’m not at liberty to divulge too much, but it really is better for you not to travel at present. When the time is…right….I will arrange a visit for you with Sherlock.” 

But not his doctor, Mycroft thought. A son risen from the dead and a daughter on the Maginot Line; at least he could spare his mother the shock of Sherlock’s inversion.

Chapter Text

You have to understand the way I am, mein herr

A tiger is a tiger, not a lamb, mein herr

You'll never turn the vinegar to jam, mein herr

30 December 1939

Sussex

The violin was a godsend. In that liminal space between Christmas and the new year, Sherlock’s music transported us to those earlier, happier days of our relationship.

The cottage boasted two parlours, one formal and one that had clearly been well-loved. Here the furniture was shabbier and more worn but somehow more comfortable. The walls were insulated with shelves of books and the windows looked out towards the downs. A small grand piano held pride of place, discretely draped with a paisley shawl.

In my mind’s eye the room is always flooded with the bright morning sun of a December morning--cold, sharp, and fleeting. A fire crackles under a mantle hung with greens and my friend stands at the window wearing his woollen dressing gown over his trousers, shirt, and the gaily patterned vest Marianne’s mother knit for him. 

On that particular December morning, when many still believed that Hitler could be stopped without surpassing the carnage of The Great War, Sherlock brought his violin to his shoulder. He ignored the music resting its stand, beginning with arpeggios and bowing patterns as was his habit. I sat in the armchair I had already begun to think of as my own, reading one of my new novels and dozing despite the early hour. 

As Sherlock began to play with more vigour, finding his stride, I roused myself to watch him. His curls had begun to grow in with a surprising auburn glow into which I ached to weave my fingers. He was still too thin--his elbows and knuckles too prominent for my liking. And yet there was an observable resilience, an inner core of strength that filled his body and his music. His movements were graceful and elegant, reminiscent of the first time I saw him onstage at the Kit Kat Klub. 

The piece he played was familiar; a lively tune that I recognized from an opera. As the notes washed over me, my mind wandered to Spain. I could feel the hot summer sun, see the snow-capped Pyrenees, hear the slap of the waves against the sides of the Habana. When he finished, he turned to me, his cheeks flushed with exertion. My own body mirrored his excitement; I always desired this version of my friend, Sherlock the performer, the artist, his music an irresistible aphrodisiac. But I did not go to him then, did not surrender to my urge to press my hips against his. 

Instead, I smiled and said, “Bizet?”

“Sarasate. His Carmen Fantasy ,” he replied. “It is better with piano accompaniment. Do you play?”

I followed his gaze to the modest piano and laughed. “I can probably still manage Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star.”

“Mozart! Perfect!” he exclaimed, twirling to the piano, opening the fallboard, and pulling out the bench.  “Let’s hear it, then!”

With more confidence than I felt, I sat at the piano. I flexed my fingers dramatically before letting them hover over the keyboard whilst I located middle C. Then, with a deliberation that would have delighted my boyhood choirmaster and piano teacher, I tapped out the notes C-C-G-G-A-A-G, hesitating only a moment before continuing F-F-E-E-D-D-C. 

“Yes!” my friend exclaimed as he brought his instrument to his shoulder. “Again!”

Dutifully I continued my simple march on the piano whilst Sherlock wove trilling variations above and around my notes.

When I finished the little phrase he ordered, “Again!”  and then, “Don’t stop! Now take it up the octave!” His fingers flew over the notes--light eighth and sixteenth notes that elevated my plodding tune into something ethereal. “Yes!” he cried, “that’s it, yes! Both hands now!”

Carried along by his enthusiasm, my hands played in unison an octave apart. We played and moved as one; despite the simple tune, I held myself like a virtuoso, leaning and weaving with the music. My friend danced around me, throwing his entire body into the intricate variations.

“Oh John! Yes! Faster! Faster!”

Time condensed itself in that moment. It was as if we had never parted, my friend and I. We were in complete accord; I followed him and he followed me–-neither of us leading our private orchestra. 

“Faster, John, faster! Don’t stop! Don’t ever stop!”

I raced on, pushing myself until finally my fingers, unused to such effort, fumbled and I finished with a simple chord meant to hide my clumsiness. 

Sherlock bent to kiss the top of my head before nuzzling his nose into my neck. He smelt of woodsmoke and resin and minty toothpaste.  I felt him shift his bow to the hand holding his violin, freeing long fingers to find their way to my chest. 

“You are so clever, John Hamish; nearly as clever as me,” he breathed into my ear as he pressed against me.

I leant back against him, savouring his praise and his solid presence. He worked his fingers under my collar to caress the base of my throat and my suprasternal notch. Ten pints of blood rushed to my lap, a warm surge that tented my trousers. I could feel his own swelling against my back as he drew me closer. Shutting my eyes, I flung my head back, elongating my neck and silently inviting him to kiss me there. He brushed his lips against mine. Of its own accord, my tongue darted out to taste him.

“Oh John,” he exhaled, “my John.”

“Sherlock,” I answered, “my lo-–”

“Hallloooooo!” called a voice from the hall. “Sherlock? Darling, it’s Mummy! Pan dearest, are you here? Halllllllllloooooooooo!”

We froze in place before Sherlock reluctantly drew his fingers out of my shirt and stepped away from me. I ran my tongue over my lips and smoothed a hand over my hair. 

Sherlock stood stiffly beside the piano, holding his instrument strategically in front of his flies. “In here, Mummy!” he called out with more composure than I felt.

Heels clicked along the wooden floor and a face peered through the doorway. I remained seated at the piano, turning only my upper body towards our visitor. 

It should go without saying that this was not the introduction I had imagined for myself and my friend’s surviving parent. Indeed I do not think I had contemplated our meeting prior to that exact minute. Sherlock’s mother was an elegant creature, the kind of woman one sees in Mayfair or Harrods, with her fur-collared coat and smart hat. She gently tugged off her gloves finger by finger as she stepped into the room.

“Oh my darling! You are too thin!” she exclaimed, crossing the room to Sherlock.

He took one long step forward, intercepting her before she reached the piano. She patted his cheek before pulling him down for a kiss. 

“I would’ve come sooner, Pan dear, but your brother has been so secretive. I rather thought you might be living in the bowels of Whitehall.”

“It’s lovely to see you Mummy, but how did you get here? Is Mycroft with you?”

Mrs Holmes’s laugh rang out like chimes, “Oh no, darling! My doesn’t know I’m here.” She turned for him to help her off with her coat. “It’s just that I’m on my way to see Honoria at Duke’s Denver and I had the brilliant idea to check on the cottage, you know--”

She let Sherlock hold her coat whilst she wandered about the room, peering out the window, looking at the books I’d left piled on the end table, and inspecting the chess game we’d abandoned.

“Mummy,” remonstrated my friend, “you’ve gone rather out of your way for a journey to Denver, seeing as it’s one hundred and twenty miles from Ferndell in the opposite direction.”

His mother, having finished her circuit of the room, stood in front of Sherlock. “Is it really one hundred and twenty miles? Oh dear, poor Bates, I’ll have lengthened his journey by half! Is that right? Do you want to check my arithmetic? Thirty miles from home and then another thirty back before we’re on route to Honoria’s? Unless you know a more direct route from here to Norfolk?” When she grinned at her son her silver-blue eyes twinkled with mischief.

Sherlock blushed. “Mummy….”

“And who is this, darling?” she said as she turned to me. I stood quickly and awkwardly, grateful that my trousers were once again lying properly across my hips. “Eudoria Holmes,” she said, extending a graceful hand to me.

I took it carefully, unsure whether I should shake it or kiss it. “Erm, John, erm, John Hamish Watson,” I managed to spit out.

She clasped my hand firmly and I gratefully returned her handshake in kind.

“Doctor John H. Watson,” Sherlock emphasised.

Mrs Holmes held in my hand in both of hers. “Ah! A doctor! How lovely! Your own personal physician! But you knew Dr Watson in Berlin, didn’t you, darling? You’re the author of those lovely stories from The Strand, aren’t you?”

I couldn’t find my tongue and stumbled about for an answer. “Erm, yes, yes I was. But that was, I mean, well…”

“John is a successful doctor in London, Mummy, at St Bart’s.”

“Hmmmm,” she mused. “Aren’t you going to offer me a seat, Pan?”

Sherlock, who was still holding his mother’s coat, was flummoxed. “Yes, of course, and erm, tea, erm, or refreshment? Please, Mummy, have a seat--”

I jumped to, offering to hang the coat in the hall and set the kettle to boil.

Sherlock stood worrying his fingers until his mother perched on the settee.

“Thank you, Dr Watson. I set Bates to putting together a tray for us in the kitchen. Cook prepared a lovely hamper for me this morning with scones and jam and those gingernuts you love so much, Pan.”

“I’ll just, erm, fetch the tray, then, shall I?” I offered, moving towards the door.

Mrs Holmes replied with a warm smile, “That would be lovely, dear. Thank you.”

Bates was a bear of a man with the soft voice and gentle demeanour that men whose size protects them often have. Later, my friend would tell me that Bates had been his father’s batman during the war and was fiercely protective of Mrs Holmes and indeed the entire family.

“Well timed. Kettle’s just boiled,” Bates said, his quiet voice hinting at the north of England. 

He poured himself a cup before setting the teapot in its faded cosy on the tray prepared with three cups, sugar, milk, scones, jam, and the fragrant gingernuts.

Indicating the newspaper lying open on the table he said, “I’ve made myself comfortable, I hope you don’t mind. As Mrs Holmes has been rather worried about Mr Sherlock, I expect it might be a while.”

“No, no, please,” I replied. “Did you have a scone? Gingernuts?”

“I’m well taken care of, to be sure,” he said with a smile.

When I returned to the parlour, Sherlock and his mother were deep in conversation but both looked up when I set the tray on the table. The family resemblance was strong--two faces with high foreheads and sharp cheekbones, although Mrs Holmes’s were softened by age and gender, and two sets of silver-blue eyes reflecting the agile minds behind them. Sherlock nodded and indicated with a glance that I should take the chair next to him, allowing his mother to preside over the tea tray from her perch on the settee.

“Mummy was just saying that Tink’s joined the Nursing Service. She’s in France.”

I looked between their matching faces, trying to determine if this was welcome news.

“No one can stop any of my children when they’ve set their mind to something,” Sherlock’s mother said. “Tink so wants to be of use.”

Proud resignation, then, I decided. 

“But enough talk of war,” she continued. “Tell me about your writing, Dr Watson.”

“John, please,” I said, hoping I was not overstepping any unseen societal boundaries. “I haven’t written anything worth publishing in years. It seems rather frivolous in light of current events.”

“Oh no, John!” she exclaimed in her rich, melodious voice. “Telling the truth is never frivolous. You created such vivid pictures of Berlin, one felt as if one were there with you.”

I didn’t know what to do with her praise but replied, “I simply described what I saw.”

“Any idiot can describe what they see,” she said, “an artist, with a camera or a brush or a pen, instinctively knows where to focus, how to draw attention to what is significant, no matter how trivial it seems to more pedestrian folk.”

Our time with Mrs Holmes was filled with joy and laughter. Her deep and abiding affection for Sherlock and indeed for all her children was evident in the way she spoke of them; she related childhood tales and more recent exploits with a combination of humour and awe. I saw Sherlock’s brother Mycroft through her eyes; the solemn boy who strove to please his elders even before becoming the man of the house at thirteen. I considered that similarity between us carefully; all children are changed by the loss of a father, but Mycroft and I had struggled to fill a father’s role before growing whiskers. Sherlock, too, had lost a father, but like my Hattie and his Tink had not had his childhood interrupted by adult concerns. My musings did not change my opinion of my friend; he was still the best man I had ever known, the unspoken love of my life, but I reconsidered the suspicion and disdain I felt for his elder brother.

The skies were growing dim by the time Mrs Holmes and Bates drove away. I reckoned that they would not travel to Norfolk until the next day.

“Your mother is lovely,” I said to Sherlock as we watched the black automobile make its way down the lane.

He squeezed my hand. 

“She thinks you are lovely, too,”

I turned, filled with shock and dread. “Sherlock, does she…suspect?”

“Mummy knows exactly who I am, John.”

31 December 1939

I have always been subject to vivid, life-like dreams. On that last night of 1939 I dreamt of Berlin. I dreamt of our Berlin, Sherlock’s and mine, rather than the Berlin of newsreels and newspapers. There were no swastikas in my dream Berlin, only lights and music and dancing. 

Sherlock and I were at the Dorian Gray, dancing to the piano trio. We held each other so close that our hips seemed fused together, causing us both to swell with want. Reluctantly, I excused myself for the loo with a whispered, “Don’t move.”

In the loo, I heard the door open and close behind me; I focused on my business. But before I could fasten my trousers, a lithe body was behind me, reaching for my stiffening member. The intruder was aroused as well, I could feel him pressed against my buttocks.

“Sherlock,” I laughed, “have some self-control, my boy.”

He was insistent, rolling his hips against me, moaning into my ear as graceful fingers stroked me firmly yet tenderly.

“Yes,” I breathed, “my darling, yes.”

We moved together, rocking our hips in a quickening rhythm. As my excitement grew, I needed to see my beautiful boy, to kiss his Cupid’s bow lips. I turned to face him, reaching for his silky curls as I pressed myself against him. Strangely, as happens in dreams, he wore a cap that had not been there before. I knocked it to the ground, my fingers greedy for their prize. But the hair I felt was coarse and dry, not my darling’s hair at all. He did not smell of greasepaint or his favourite hair tonic but of strong lye soap. Panicked, I held this man’s face and stared into his eyes. They were a dull dark brown that saw me not at all. Still our rhythm continued relentlessly.

No, no, I thought. This is wrong.  

I saw that I was no longer in the toilet at the Dorian Gray but in a tunnel along the Embankment, rutting against a perfect stranger, who, like I, sought release from anyone at all. 

No, I don’t want you , I thought as I pushed my hands against his chest. No. No. I am done with this, this evil selfish sordidness.  

My heart stuttered in my chest--was this my reality and the last weeks only a dream? Had I dreamt the camp? Irene? Sherlock alive and mine at last?

“No!” I yelled as I struggled to get away from the stranger, “Get off!” I pushed with all my might, “Get off, I say!” 

I thrust myself away so forcibly that I landed on my backside. I sat, stunned, on the floor of Sherlock’s bedroom next to our shared bed.

“John,” Sherlock said, peering down at me, white-faced, “John, I am so sorry, I shouldn’t have, I wasn’t truly awake, I understand--” and in one motion he was out of the bed and out of the room.

I should have called out, run after him, grabbed him by the wrist and pulled him to myself. But I was ashamed, reminded of my trespasses and knowing that the time had come to confess.

Orpington Hospital

Sevenoaks Road, Kent

February 1, 1943

My dear one,

I have returned to service at Orpington. Although I will never again be a surgeon, I can be of use. So many boys wounded. So many lives forever changed.

I have been thinking of our first meeting. In those days I hadn’t realised how dreadful and violent the world could be, but I suspect you were born knowing. The Kit Kat Klub seems like a dream now-–the dancing, the singing, the ridiculous telephones on the tables. Sometimes I wonder if Fräulein Schneider still has rooms to let and what happened to Herr Schultz, if he is still alive. The world was collapsing around us and yet we were happy. Weren't we?

Each new patient with dark hair catches my eye. I hope and fear that it is you. It has been so long since your last letter that of course I fear the worst. All my trust is with M–that he is somehow able to get my letters to you. Perhaps you do not have my latest address. You need only send your letters to me in care of the hospital. Someone will get them to me.

One of the Sisters set up a Victrola in the ward for the patients to enjoy. During the day they want to hear lively music--jazz and popular songs. God help us, one Yank begs for the Andrews Sisters every chance he gets. But at night Matron insists on the classics. I was on the wards late yesterday, checking on a lad from Canada, when she put on that Brahms piece you play so well. I ached then for our time at the cottage when you played for me. I stayed long after my patient had settled just to hear it.

I remember those glorious days at the cottage–-walking through the orchard, sitting by the fire in the evening. The war had barely begun and we had been apart longer than we had been together. Perhaps one day this cursed war will end and we will find ourselves together in London. A shabby flat in Bloomsbury still sounds like heaven. 

Our paths seemed fated to cross. What was it you said about coincidence? That the universe is rarely so lazy? Well, I do wish it would get off its lazy arse and bring us together again soon.

In the meantime, I will cease boring you with my fanciful romantic scribblings. It seems I am more storyteller than doctor today. 

May this letter find you well, my dearest friend.

Sincerely yours,

JHW

Chapter Text

If I like that you're here

(And I like that you're here)

Happy New Year, my dear

Sussex

When my father returned from the Great War angry and broken, I learnt to be ever vigilant, to always listen for clues to his mood. I did the same thing sitting on the floor of Sherlock’s room as the last morning of 1939 dawned cold and clear.

A careful listener knew what to expect; shouts were a warning and laughter a respite. Silence was tricky; often it was more dangerous than noise. Silence could mean anything--sleep, illness, or disaster. The cottage was shrouded in silence; not even the sounds of the ancient structure creaking in the winter chill were audible. 

Cautiously, I donned my slippers and dressing gown and went in search of my friend. 

I found Sherlock in the parlour where, only hours before, we had played together in such harmony.  We had banked the fire before retiring for the night and the air was chill. Sherlock sat cross-legged at the low table with my medical bag open at his side.  Like sacraments on an altar, a hypodermic syringe and glass vial were centred in front of him. Sherlock was their reverent supplicant with his head bowed and his hands clasped meekly in his lap. The shallow rise and fall of his chest were the only signs of life. 

Quietly, I took the shawl from the piano and draped it across his shoulders before crouching before the hearth to open the flue and uncover the embers before adding logs.

“I haven’t,” he said quietly.

“Haven’t what?” I asked without turning.

“The morphine. I haven’t taken any yet.”

“But you are planning to?” I asked, working to keep my voice even.

His answer tore at my heart. This was my fault. My sins had brought my friend to this.

“I don’t know. Perhaps.”

“Sherlock--” I started, but he interrupted me.

“I understand, John. I betrayed your trust; I am not the man you knew…before,” he said quietly.

I turned to face him. Kneeling on the hearth, I felt the warmth of the fire licking the soles of my feet.

“No, Sherlock, darling, no,” I said. “This is my fault. I am the one who transgressed. I…I am…the one…I am not worthy.”

He raised his head to meet my gaze. His eyes were wet and red-rimmed, his brow wrinkled in confusion.

The time was now; best to start the new year with a clean slate even if it meant I started it alone.

I filled my lungs with air, expelling it through my nose before I began. “When I thought you were…dead, I lost all hope. Before that, when I thought there was a chance that I would find you, meet you again, I tried. I wanted to do some good in the world, so you could be proud of me.”

He opened his mouth to speak but I held up my hand. This had to be done before I lost my nerve..

“As long as you were in the world, there was hope. Even after Spain; I couldn’t fight fascism, but I could still practise medicine. Could heal others. Have utility. But after I read your letter—oh Sherlock, you were so brave. You fought the enemy every day after we parted and…and…” I stopped to compose myself before continuing, “Without you in the world, even knowing that you had loved me, I was--am still--so ashamed, Sherlock. I should have been the man you believed I was, the man I wanted to be, but I was too weak.” My shoulders were shaking, my chest heaving.

He was on me in a flash, sitting with his knees touching mine, lacing his fingers between my own.

“You read the letter?” 

I lifted my head to look him in the eye--hadn’t I mentioned before this? “Yes, of course I read it.”

“But when?”

“Last fall. Your brother found me. Said you’d told him to give it to me--”

“Oh John!” He gathered me into his arms, “Mycroft thought I was dead! That’s why no one--”

I couldn’t speak; once the tears started I could not find my voice.

My friend stilled against me. I could feel the pins and gears falling into place within his marvellous brain.

“A year! John! You thought I was dead--”

“Yes,” I nodded against him. “I thought you were dead until the day Mycroft told me you were in France.”

At times of high emotion, it is not unusual for the human mind to get its wires crossed, for an unexpected reaction to surface. We laugh until we cry and, very occasionally, we cry until we laugh. Sherlock started it; a tiny chuckle bubbling through his lips. 

“Mycroft never said. Nor Mummy. Did?”

I found myself giggling, too. “Yes. We all--” I knocked my head against his. “It’s not funny, you git! People grieved!”

He clasped my face and drew me into a kiss. His lips were soft and warm, parted in invitation. I cupped the back of his head as i leant into him. New tears welled in my eyes at the familiar sensation. This. This is what I had missed for six interminable years: the silky spring of his curls as they wound around my fingers, the hint of stubble on his cheek, the way our mouths fit together like the last pieces in a jigsaw puzzle. 

Every cell in my body cried out, Yes! At last! We are home at last!

But my conscience, raised with tales of eternal damnation, dissented. This is not right, your sins are too great, you have been judged and found wanting.

Reluctantly, I broke our embrace, scrubbing a hand over my face to clear away any trace of him lingering on my skin. “Sherlock, I. When you were dead, I. Other men, my darling, I am sorry. I didn’t know and I was so alone….”

A long finger tipped my chin up, forcing me to meet his eyes. In the warm reflected firelight they were the colour of a perfect summer sky. He brushed a hand against my cheek and I foolishly, undeservedly, rested against his palm.

“We had no agreement, John,” he said. “I cannot hold it against you. If you are attached to someone now--“

“No, no. You misunderstand me. I frequented cottages, public places, for,” how could I admit aloud what I could hardly acknowledge to myself? “Crude, anonymous acts. No better than the rent boys we saw in Berlin.”

I waited for him to recoil, to remove himself from my presence, to send me packing. Whilst he had risked his life to halt Hitler, I had sought pleasure in the most depraved ways possible. Of course he would not forgive me. 

But my dear boy, the sweetest and wisest man I will ever know, did not recoil. No. If our love were a bridge between purgatory and heaven, we stood together at the midpoint. Shrugging off the piano shawl, he rolled up his sleeve to bare his forearm. I’d noticed the marks there when we first arrived at the cottage. The needle tracks were old but visible, his veins ropy and scarred beneath his pale skin.

“I was not brave or honourable, John. I used my body to get close to Röhm and those like him. I let Nazis touch me and use me. I danced and I fawned and I wanted to die so many times….But you saved me. Yes, you. The thought that I could thwart them, help my brother and his people vanquish the enemy and return to you kept me alive. That, and--“ he indicated his arm.

“They drugged you?” I asked, confused. 

He smiled crookedly. “No. I took the drugs myself. Cocaine, mostly. I hated the way it felt up my nose, but an injected solution, I discovered, was tolerable, more than tolerable. A poor substitute for the courage I felt when you were by my side, but I had foolishly sent you away. Other times, when I was alone, I could see you, feel you, in my mind palace, and your absence was too much to bear. Then the morphine would allow me to sleep and forget. Forget that I had squandered the very thing that gave my life meaning. You, John Hamish Watson, you keep me right.” Here he paused to study me, to search my countenance for understanding. His eyes were damp with tears and his cheeks flushed with the effort of confession. “I should say you kept me right. I have strayed far from the path of righteousness and I would understand if you wanted nothing more to do with me.”

I should have been angry; should have shouted my revulsion loud enough to be heard in Brighton. Instead I remembered Sherlock’s assertion that Max could have, would have, assaulted him when we’d first met in Berlin. The thought of Ernst Röhm or any Nazi brute laying a hand on my beautiful boy broke my heart.

“My dearest love,” I said, “you are on the side of the angels--I can hardly imagine what you endured in the name of--”

He laid a long finger against my lips. “I may be on the side of the angels, but don't for one second think that I am one of them. I did what I did for purely selfish reasons.”

I smiled. “That’s bollocks. You didn’t do it for glory or notoriety; you did it because it needed to be done.”

“But--”

“And because you didn’t think anyone else was clever enough to do it.”

He laughed at that. “Oh John, you know me too well.”

I swallowed. “Sherlock Holmes, I know you because I love you. Or I love you because I know you. But I never said so. And I will regret that forever. My darling, darling boy. I should have told you every day.”  

We sat on the hearth, speaking endearments and sweet nothings to each other as the sun came up. The guilty burden that I had carried with me did not disappear, although it was lighter. Rather than recoiling in disgust, Sherlock loved me. Somehow, to him, I was as beautiful as he. My eyes, he said, were like the ocean--fierce, changeable, and majestic. He extolled my golden hair, my strong fingers, and my brave heart. Words do not spill from my tongue as easily as they do from my fingers, so I adored my friend with caresses and kisses, repeating as often as I could those three words I had refused to speak for so long: I love you.  

We might have spent all day there on the hearth, feasting on love alone, had Marianne not arrived to set the house to rights. We stood in the little parlour, still in our wrinkled nightclothes, our lips swollen from osculation and our hair tousled. If she was anything other than surprised to find us up so early, she did not say, but I felt like a schoolboy caught red-handed. My friend and I hurriedly excused ourselves to dress before setting out towards the downs.

“A hike to greet the new year, John?” laughed my friend.

“I do actually have a new year’s quest for us,” I replied, defending myself. “We need to find juniper.”

“To distil our own gin?”

“Oh don’t be daft! You don’t even like gin. We’re going to start this new year out properly by saining the house.”

And so we did. We returned to a tidy, empty cottage and set about opening the windows and burning juniper branches in every fireplace. It is a tradition we continue to this day. Later, we rang in 1940 tucked into our bed, toasting each other and the new year with some fine whisky. Sherlock held my watch, counting down the final seconds, and, as the hall clock chimed midnight, we kissed. 

New Year’s Day 1941

Egypt

Captain John Watson sat on his bunk, weary and bone tired. After eight hours in surgery, he could hardly straighten his fingers. He’d rung in the new year stitching together the broken bodies of British soldiers with Enola Holmes at his side. She was his favourite assistant in the operating theatre, anticipating his needs so well that he never had to break his concentration to speak aloud. Sister Morstan was jealous and convinced that Enola received preferential treatment, but John couldn’t be bothered by such petty concerns. His job was to save as many lives as possible, a task best accomplished with Sherlock’s little sister attending him. It comforted him to see those silver-blue eyes, so like his lover’s, focused on the task at hand. Although her surgical mask hid most of her face, Enola’s eyes told John everything he needed to know. A raised eyebrow asked a question, a mischievous twinkle served as a smile, a lowered narrowing showed concentration.

But now, alone in his tent, his heart yearned for the real thing, for Sherlock. Had it only been a year ago that he and Sherlock had truly reunited? They’d sained the house, blessing it for the new year in the Scottish way, burning juniper branches gathered on the South Downs. John had thought to send Sherlock outside just before midnight so that he might, as a dark-haired man, bring luck as the first-foot, but they couldn’t bear to be parted for even a few minutes. They had celebrated the new year with glasses of whisky, his father’s watch, and the chiming of the hall clock. Afterwards, they had burrowed under the covers to make tender, gentle love to one another. 

He ought to write, fill his leather notebook with musings on his lonely service in the desert. Lonely but not alone. This casualty clearing station serving the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers was at least one hundred persons strong--doctors, nurses, orderlies, drivers, and patients. He was never alone. Not physically. Through the tent walls he could hear the grinding of trucks and jeeps, the rustling of bodies and voices, but they were not the sounds he longed for. He ached to hear a violin being tuned and a rich baritone laughing, singing, swearing, exclaiming, whispering. Hollow memories of the words he ached to hear echoed in head: I love you, John. My John.

John paged through his notebook, stopping occasionally to read a passage. At the entry marked May 20, 1940, he stopped to caress the flower tucked between the pages. John had pressed the pink and white apple blossom in a copy of Bleak House before securing it within the pages of his notebook, protected by a bit of tissue. He supposed he ought to save it behind glass, but that could wait until he was back home. He stroked the tissue paper gently, not daring to touch the actual petals.

They’d gone for a walk in the orchard, he and Sherlock, that fine spring day. The trees were laden with blossoms and the ground was carpeted with pale pink petals. Reasonably sure they would not be seen, they felt comfortable walking hand in hand. 

“You must go, of course you must,” John had said with more conviction than he felt.

Sherlock’s voice was low, very nearly petulant, “I don’t want to leave you.”

Stopping between two trees, John reached up to cradle Sherlock’s face in his hands. He worked to keep his tone light, “Listen to me, my love, you know it’s the right thing. Off you pop to this mysterious Section D; I’ll enlist as a doctor. We will both save as many lives as we can and then we’ll meet back here when Hitler’s been sent running with his tail between his legs.”

“London,” Sherlock replied.

“What?”

“Not Sussex, not yet. Someday, of course, but London first. We’ve never been there together; in our city. I want to breathe it in and walk its streets with you by my side.”

“Oh yes!” breathed John. He could see it in his mind’s eye--the shabby flat, the city at their feet, never being alone again.

Suddenly Sherlock was kneeling before John with an apple blossom cradled in his outstretched hands.

“It’s not a ring, John, but please accept it as a token of my love and esteem. And, if you will have me, I will pledge myself to you for the rest of our lives.”

John hadn’t hesitated. “Yes. Yes.” 

He’d smiled so broadly that his face hurt. They could never formalise their union in a church, never proclaim to the world that they were married, but John could accept this proposal. Sherlock laid the fragrant blossom in John’s palm before rising to kiss him.

“Yes?” Sherlock asked.

“Of course yes, idiot. Yes!” 

John wanted to climb an apple tree and shout his acceptance to the world. Instead, he plucked a blossom from a low-hanging branch and wove it into Sherlock’s curls.

“If you’re sure you want me,” John added.

“Now who’s an idiot?” Sherlock replied. “I asked, didn’t I? I’ve never wanted, will never want, anyone else.”

John had taken Sherlock then, lying on that carpet of apple blossoms. It wasn’t the last time they’d made love before parting, but it was the memory John revisited the most. Giddy with the thrill of being chosen, John kissed Sherlock, exploring every inch of his face and neck with lips and tongue. Eagerly he unfastened Sherlock’s belt and flies, pulling his trousers down to expose creamy thighs and thickening member, nestled amongst Sherlock’s other curls. 

When Sherlock reached up to undo John’s trousers his pale eyes locked on John’s darker ones. Even in his memory, John could smell the grass and wood of the orchard, the lingering scent of apple blossoms, and the heady fragrance that was Sherlock’s alone. John buried his nose between Sherlock’s legs, breathing in his warm scent.

“I love you, Sherlock,” he said, lifting his head. “I want …inside…may--”

Sherlock’s answer was quick and quiet, “Yes,” he breathed with a tight nod.

Colour bloomed in Sherlock’s pale cheeks. John knew that if he stripped Sherlock of his jumper and shirt, his chest would be flushed as well. When he leant forward to kiss Sherlock’s lips, John’s own cock rubbed against Sherlock’s and the lovers moaned as one.

“Please, John, please….”

John took one of Sherlock’s fingers into his mouth, laving and sucking it until Sherlock’s eyes rolled back and he bucked his hips toward John. 

“Go on then,” John said, “let me watch whilst you prepare yourself.”

John stroked Sherlock’s cock as Sherlock used his spit-slickened finger to loosen and open himself. John let out a satisfied huff when his ministrations disrupted his partner’s concentration. His fingers were shorter and thicker than Sherlock’s but just as graceful in their own way. The blush in Sherlock’s cheeks grew darker and his half-closed eyelids fluttered.

“J-j-j-j-ohn,” he stuttered, “now, please. Please!”

John smiled to himself, stilling his hand and easing himself in. “Like this, darling?”

Sherlock’s answer was more gasp than speech, “Yes!” He shifted his hips, accepting John fully. “Oh yes!”

They rocked in unison with John leaning forward to trap Sherlock’s cock between their bodies. He kept his eyes focused on Sherlock, wanting to sear the vision of his lover, undone and laid bare, in his memory.

“That’s it, my beautiful, beautiful boy,” John said, his voice rough with desire. 

He was nearly there--he could sense the fireworks in his brain and his groin about to explode. “Come with me, darling, my darling--!”

Sherlock’s cry joined John’s as they rode the waves of release together. John cherished the memory of pink and white petals stuck to Sherlock’s curls, calling to mind a faun or satyr drunk on love.

John closed his notebook and replaced it under his pillow. Too tired to undress, he swung his legs onto his bunk and nestled under his blanket. As he turned down the lamp on the tiny camp table he whispered into the cool desert night, “Happy New Year, a cuisle mo cridhe.”

Chapter Text

Don't I adore you?

And aren't you mine?

Maybe I'll someday be lonely again.

But why should I wake up till then?

May 1940

Sussex

We revelled in the isolation of our cottage. We might walk into the village for a pint or to refresh our stores, but we were sated by our own company. Walking in the orchard, playing cards, even silently reading in the same room was bliss. I found myself glancing up a thousand times an hour to reassure myself that I was not dreaming; that my friend was truly lounging on the settee or flopped across an armchair. When such a glance was met by one of Sherlock’s, we would both smile sheepishly and return to whatever task we had interrupted. 

We were not oblivious to the war; we read the papers and listened to the radio. Rationing had begun after the first of the year; the restrictions on sugar were keenly felt but the local farmers kept us in butter, if not always in bacon. Although we never said the words aloud, we knew our idyll was coming to an end. 

By March Sherlock was well enough to travel to Ferndell to visit his mother. Since petrol was rationed, we took the train, meeting Bates and the family automobile at the station. Ferndell was both grander and homier than I’d imagined. The stately house was surrounded by a rolling park and woods. So early in the spring, few blossoms were evident in the flower beds, but I could see that in season, the garden would overflow with roses. Mrs Holmes took particular pleasure in her roses and invited me to return when her treasures would be in full bloom. The house’s interior, whilst more spacious than the Sussex cottage, was furnished with the same mix of shabby comfort and ancient grandeur. It was not hard to imagine the Sherlock and Enola I’d seen in the photograph tearing down the halls or sneaking into the kitchen for a treat.

With most of the fighting taking place in the Atlantic, Mrs Holmes was confident that Enola was safe with her casualty clearing unit in France. The Bore War gave too many people a sense that it would all be over soon. Of course, we were about to be disabused of that notion.

In April, the Germans invaded Norway and Denmark. The Allies had expended little effort in freeing Poland and Hitler was boldly increasing his European holdings. Then, on 10 May 1940, Germany invaded France. The war suddenly felt quite real.  

Sherlock took to keeping the radio on at all hours. He, and I in solidarity, listened attentively to each news bulletin, committing every detail to memory. We may have hoped to receive intel from Sherlock’s brother, but understood that was unlikely. We were as fretful as the rest of the country. Sherlock and his mother each received a letter from Enola during this time; cheerful missives designed to put the family at ease. My friend read his with suspicious eyes, trying to read between the lines for hidden meaning.

Our life continued in this uneasy stasis until the day a jet black Daimler pulled up in front of the cottage. Sherlock was out the door in two bounds to greet the driver, a slender man with straw-coloured hair and a beaky nose, who removed his driving gloves to shake Sherlock’s hand.

“You are looking well, Pan. Your mother must be so pleased.”

Sherlock smiled warily, “She is, Lord Peter, as pleased as one might be with a child swallowed up by Whitehall and another standing guard at the Maginot Line.”

“Quite so, quite so,” answered Lord Peter, “These are difficult times for us all.” 

I stood beside Sherlock, resisting the urge to lay a protective hand on his arm.

“Oh, hallo!” said our guest.

As our visitor screwed a monocle onto his eye, Sherlock said, “Lord Peter Wimsey, Dr John Watson.”

I bowed my head. “My lord.”

Lord Peter held out his hand in greeting. His grip was surprisingly firm. “Let us dispense with the formalities and cease with the ‘your lordship this and my lord that.’ Gets a bit tedious, truth be told. The only one who enjoys it is Helen.”

Sherlock chuckled, in on the joke. Later I learnt that Helen, the Duchess of Denver and Wimsey’s sister-in-law, was inordinately fond of the title she had received by virtue of marriage.

Readers of a certain age will have heard of Lord Peter Wimsey, dilettante, man-about-town, and erstwhile detective. By this time, he was happily married to the novelist Harriet Vane and father of three boys.

“A double-six, then?” asked Sherlock, admiring the Daimler.

I am loath to admit that I knew only enough to distinguish a Rolls from a Daimler from a Morris. I allowed myself to bask in my friend’s automotive prowess and nodded in sage agreement.

Wimsey clapped Sherlock on the back. “Good eye! Good eye!” he exclaimed. “Got it in one! I do love a Daimler double-six. Good ol’ Mrs Merdle, splendid lady. Purrs like a contented tabby.”

“But you haven’t driven from Hertfordshire to show off Mrs Merdle, have you?” asked my friend with a grave look on his face.

Wimsey looked around cautiously and answered quietly, “No. Might I impose on your hospitality for a spot of tea?”

“Of course,” Sherlock murmured and led us back into the cottage.

We gathered ‘round the well-scrubbed kitchen table in the sunny kitchen. Over tea and biscuits that were not yet a delicacy, Wimsey explained the reason for his visit

“See here, old man, we won’t be playing by Queensbury’s rules. To defeat ol’ Brush ‘tache we’ve got to play dirty; to be a running sore in the Nazis’ side. Infect ‘em, exhaust ‘em, defeat ‘em. I prefer to play fair--Eton and Balliol, you know--but that kind of gentlemanly behaviour won’t get us anywhere this time,” he paused to sip his tea. “Your brother recommended you, Pan, as someone willin’ to bend the rules and get the job done.”

My heart stuttered in my chest. This was a request from the Foreign Office. Sherlock was being pressed into service once more but Mycroft was too cowardly to do the asking. Who knew what dangers Sherlock would face–-I could lose him forever. Under the table, long fingers squeezed my thigh.

“I have done this kind of thing before,” Sherlock said. “I’m sure my brother was quite thorough in his explanation of my…skills and experience.”

Lord Peter nodded gravely. “Listen, Pan, I’m not askin’ this lightly; I am well aware of the risks involved. You mustn’t think that I, erm, that I in any way find you…dispensable. For one thing, the mater would never forgive me if anythin’ I did, or suggested you do, hurt your dear mother.”

Sherlock smiled his crooked smile, tugging at my heartstrings. “The Dowager Duchess and Mummy are girlhood friends,” he said, directing the comment to me. “And Wimsey is correct, the duchess would have his head–-or anyone’s frankly--on a silver platter for upsetting her darling Eudoria.”

Our guest laughed, a hollow, bitter sound. “Indeed. Listen, Pan, I wouldn’t ask if we didn’t need your talents. There’s a group meeting at Caxton Street, in London. I’m sure you realise that with the Germans in France England is in line to be Hitler’s next target. Operation Sea Lion, I’m told he calls it. We’re a strong match against his navy, but--”

“That can’t be our only defence. Of course not.” Sherlock’s voice was quiet. “What’re we talking about? Espionage? Sabotage? Misinformation?”

Lord Peter looked at his hands splayed on the table. His long elegant fingers were very like my friend’s. “All of it. A couple of clever chaps have created bombs that can be attached to most anythin’--even a U-boat--that detonate only after the saboteur has had time to get away. Damned ingenious.” He looked up then, removing his monocle to meet Sherlock’s eye. “Pan, I don’t want to ask you–-or anyone–-to risk their lives in this way. My wife--Harriet--is not best pleased with me either. I truly wish ‘tweren’t down to this. But unless everyone--man, woman, child--”

Sherlock cut him off, “Unless everyone on this island does their part, the results could be much worse. And no, I won’t take that chance either. If there is anything that I–-that we-–could do…”

I spoke up then, though it broke my heart to do so. “I’m not fluent in anything other than the King’s English, Sherlock. My French is worse than a schoolboy’s and I could never pass as German…”

My friend turned to me, his eyes soft and liquid. If we’d been alone, he would have kissed me. “No, John, you aren’t made for espionage, are you?” His hand floated up as if to caress my cheek, but landed on the table instead. “My brave doctor, you would rather strike down seven in one blow.”

Of course! Doctors would be needed at the front. That’s where I belonged. Saving men like my father and Sherlock’s--sending them home to their families rather than burying them in foreign fields. That was where my utility lay.

By the end of May, Sherlock was in London and I had enlisted at Alton, after visiting my mother. Sherlock and I said our farewells at the Ditchling train station one rainy spring morning.

“I could,” I fumbled, “in London…I’m sure there will be a delay between enlisting and shipping out…”

“No, John,” was the reply. “I don’t want to remember one of us leaving the other alone in London. When we are there together, it will be to stay.”

Tears pricked at my eyes. “Yes, yes. You’re right of course.” 

I willed myself to smile at him. I ached to hold him as I had that morning in the cottage kitchen, to inhale the scent of smoke and hair tonic that melded with his own peculiar essence to create the most intoxicating perfume I knew. Other men kissed their sweethearts at train stations throughout England that morning. They tenderly pressed lip to lip, savouring embraces that would need to last them for months, if not years. We could not; that was not our right. Instead we shook hands and clapped each other on the shoulder.

“We shall meet again, dear heart,” Sherlock said, sotto voce. 

“Yes,” I nodded and fixed him with a look that I hoped conveyed how very much I loved and adored him.

“I know,” he said, “as I do you.”

The evacuation of Dunkirk began whilst I was in Alton. I knew my friend would be worried about his Tink but I had no means of contacting him–-I wasn’t even sure he was still in the country. I attended to every news bulletin and newspaper during those terrifying and tense days, hoping for a scrap that would ease the pain in my heart. 

On June 2, the day before I left Alton, I received a telegram at my mother’s house. 

The clapping stopped suddenly; as if countless mothers had rushed to their nurseries to see what on earth was happening; but already Tink was saved.   WSSH

My beloved’s sister was safe. As I boarded the bus that would take me to my regiment, I prayed that both she and he would remain so.

Dover

1 June 1940

He stood removed from everyone else on the quay. Despite the warm day, he wore a three-piece suit, his burgundy tie firmly knotted in place, the only sign of submission to the weather being the handkerchief he used to mop his high forehead. He considered opening his umbrella to provide some relief from the afternoon sun but decided not to make a spectacle of himself. Again.

He daren’t return to Dover Castle, the location of his most recent loss of decorum. No, it would be a long time before he could face Ramsay or any of his staff. 

Mycroft had lost his temper, yelling and slamming his hand on the table, “Where. Is. The. Third. Casualty. Clearing. Station. Surely not even the British Navy can lose a unit one hundred persons strong?” 

A junior officer had approached him. “Mr Holmes, sir, we are in the process of evacuating 225,000 British citizens from Dunkirk. I am afraid that the Vice-Admiral is simply not able to report specifics on any given unit at this time. Perhaps you would be more comfortable--”

Ramsay hadn’t deigned to look up from the report he was reading. Mycroft could not allow himself to be escorted away in humiliation and cut the young officer off mid-sentence. “I understand, of course. Please excuse my outburst. If you will excuse me.”

And now he stood alone on the quay…praying.

Please , he thought, please let her be on the next ship . 

He’d been bargaining all day:

If there is orange marmalade at breakfast, she will arrive before luncheon. 

I will never take orange marmalade on my toast again if only she arrives before luncheon. 

If I see three birds on my walk to Dover Castle, she will arrive by tea. 

I will feed the pigeons in St James’s Square every afternoon for the rest of my life if only she arrives by tea. 

Mycroft Holmes considered himself above pedestrian and provincial fantasies such as a Creator or Godhead and yet…

He had made a sacred promise to his father twenty-five years ago. A promise he had nearly broken with Sherlock. He would be forever grateful that the universe had conspired to make him the fool in that instance. How could he have allowed Enola to volunteer her services? No, that was not the proper question. How could he have prevented it? Of course he couldn’t have. No one had ever denied his sister anything. Ever. Sharing a room with Sherlock. A pony. A course of study at Oxford. A flat of her own in London. A place in the Imperial Nursing Service. 

“But My!” she had argued, “you are serving. Pan served. Father served. I cannot be expected to sit home and knit socks!”

One of her many governesses had endeavoured to teach her to knit whilst Mycroft was a student at Cambridge. For Christmas that year, his sister had presented him with a bright red and vaguely quadrilateral scarf full of gaps and dropped stitches. She was so proud of her dubious accomplishment that he had bestowed a dry kiss on her forehead in thanks. Unbeknownst to nearly everyone, he had worn the scarf wrapped around his neck all that winter whilst studying in his chilly digs. Of course he made sure the wretched thing never left his rooms, but he cherished it nonetheless. Lately it made a fine wrapper for his beloved hot water bottle. So, no, sock knitting was not a contribution Enola was qualified to make. 

Mycroft had suggested secretarial work with the Foreign Office or perhaps code-breaking at Bletchley Park but his sister turned her very pert nose up at such sedate suggestions.

Enola was equal to her brothers in every way but one; she had, perhaps because of her sex, an irrepressible vitality, a charm that surpassed anything he or Sherlock could muster. Like her brothers, she had no peers, being as superior in intellect as they, but Enola made friends wherever she went. Mycroft had no doubt that she was an exemplary nurse; calm during crisis, strict when necessary, kind always.

“Mr Holmes, sir,” said a timid voice. “Might you want to step inside for some refreshment?”

“No thank you.”

“Sir, we’ll--”

Mycroft cut the speaker off sharply, “I said no thank you.”

The late afternoon sun sparkled on the channel. How dare the water look so lovely when the fate of Enola Eudoria Hadassah Holmes was yet unknown? He’d been nearly eight when she was born; of course he could conceive of a world without his sister. It was just that, at that particular moment, or, truth be told, at any moment since her arrival on the planet, that he didn’t care to conceive of such a world. He would admit to no one that she remained the greatest mystery in his life. Her passions were often incomprehensible to him. But he loved her. Fiercely. She brought something to the world that neither he nor Sherlock could. Mycroft could not define it or explain it, which irritated him no end, but the bare fact was that if she perished in France, part of him would perish, too.

Another ship had docked and a long line of personnel were making their way onto shore. Mycroft noted several stretchers. Perhaps this was a medical unit? He daren’t hope. Not now. Yes, he could see the medical red cross on several uniforms. Still he daren’t hope. There were women in this bunch, chattering away despite their obvious exhaustion. Hope fluttered in his chest, but he did his best to ignore it.

Suddenly, a cry rang above the din of humanity, “My! My!”

Mycroft looked around to find the source. He saw her then--auburn plaits wrapped around her head, escaped curls framing her high forehead. She dropped her pack and began to run along the quay.

“My! Mycroft Holmes!”

And then she was on him, her arms tight around his neck. She smelt of the ocean and dirt and sweat and it was the most wonderful odour Mycroft could imagine. He dropped his umbrella to wrap both arms around his sister. He leant backwards, lifting her from the ground and pressing her to him. She was real. She was solid. She was here.

She pulled back, releasing herself from his embrace. “Oh My! Your suit! I’m so sorry!” she said, trying to smooth grime and wrinkles from his bespoke suit.

He clasped her hands. “It doesn’t matter, Enola. Truly. Are you, erm, well?” 

Of course she wasn’t well. What an inane thing to say. Her fair cheeks were windburnt–-she’d stood on deck for the voyage home. Naturally. Of course she had. She was grimy and exhausted; she’d just been evacuated from enemy territory. Was she well? Jesus wept. He was an idiot.

She stood on her tiptoes to kiss his cheek. “Yes, My darling, I’m as well as I can be, considering,” she said, gesturing towards France, hidden beyond the horizon. “And I’m famished. I think I’m meant to check in with someone but I’m a bit, erm….”

Just then a young soldier brought her pack up and set it on the ground beside her.

“There ya go, Sister. Don’ wanna be losing your things, now. Cheers!”

“Cheers!” Enola called after him.

Mycroft picked up his umbrella and settled the pack on his own shoulder.

“Now then,” he said, “shall we get you squared away with whoever might be in command of this fiasco before or after you have some food and a bath?”

Chapter Text

You can tell my brother,

That ain't grim

'Cause if he squeals on me

I'll squeal on him

Egyptian-Libyan border

There are two rules in war: 

Rule #1: Young men die. 

Rule #2: Doctors can’t change Rule #1.

Serving king and country with the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers in North Africa was the most difficult medical posting of my life. Everyday I tended to men teetering on the edge of death. As a casualty clearing station our task was to get the patients stable enough to be shipped to the nearest military hospital if they couldn’t return to their regiment. For many we were only the first stop on the long journey to recovery. We never knew our patients’ fates unless they came to us again for treatment or died in our care. Neither situation seemed satisfactory.

A soldier’s stay with us began in triage. Transports would arrive with alarming regularity and each man was assigned a priority status. The other doctors and I assessed who warranted immediate treatment, who could wait, and, occasionally, who would be best served with palliative care as life slipped away. The nursing sisters were instrumental in this process, checking on the dressings applied in the field and changing them as needed. On this particular August morning, one of the senior sisters, Morstan, was walking me through the boys who’d just arrived from Libya.

The fighting had been flipping back and forth over the border for weeks. This morning’s batch was mostly heat stroke and sunburn except for a soldier who had expired in transit. The dressing around his torso was blood-soaked, his skin pale underneath his desert tan. Sister Morstan seemed unmoved by the death, but my heart broke a little. It always did. If the transport had made it here sooner, if the station were closer to the frontline…. I steeled my resolve with my new mantra: Caring is not always an advantage.

“Anything else here, Captain Watson?” asked Sister Morstan.

“No, thank you, Sister.”

“Sir! Captain, sir!”

I turned to see one of the junior sisters bending over the man on the stretcher.

“He’s still breathing, sir!”

I spun on my heels and knelt by the stretcher. Sure enough, there was a weak, thready pulse. Looking more closely, I could see that blood was soaking the bandage in spurts. Pressure, the wound needed pressure.

“Sister, press here! “

Without hesitating, two hands with long, graceful fingers pressed down on the wound. 

“Morstan!” I shouted, “I need a suture kit and bandages. Now!” Turning back to the owner of the hands expertly applying pressure to the wound I asked, “Do we know his name?”

“Yes, sir. He’s called Stephen. I rode in with him on the transport.”

I patted the soldier’s face, “Stephen, Stephen, stay with us.”

His eyelids fluttered, but did not open.

Morstan returned with the suture kit. 

“I’ll take it from here, Sister,” she said.

Something in her tone irritated me. Morstan was a good nurse; efficient, brokering no nonsense. I doubted that she ever struggled with caring too much. 

“She’s fine, Sister Morstan. We’ve got this.”

“But Captain,” she replied.

“I said we’re fine, Sister. Dismissed.”

With a huff, she handed over the tray of supplies and stalked away.

I turned to the woman beside me. Her now blood-soaked hands were still applying pressure but she returned my gaze with a smile. There was something about her--I  took in as much as I could with a glance; auburn hair, plaited and wrapped around her head rather than the elaborate rolls that many of the nurses wore. Her face was long with high cheekbones and an aristocratic nose. Her eyes, though, were what caught my attention. They were a bright silver-blue that sparkled with--with what? Jesus Christ, Watson.

“Sir?” she asked. “How can I help?”

Her voice was plummy, posh, but then so many of the sister’s voices were. I shook my head to clear my thoughts.

“Right. We’ve got to stitch him up whilst we keep the bleeding under control, yeah? For starters, let’s see what’s under that dressing.”

It wasn’t an easy task, but, between the two of us, we managed. The sister seemed to read my thoughts, handing me instruments and supplies a split second before I asked for them. When finally our patient was stitched and bandaged and on his way to the ward tent, I turned to my assistant.

“I’m sorry, Sister, I don’t think we’ve met.”

She grinned, an expression that not only turned up the corners of her mouth, but the corners of her eyes as well. That unique shade of blue caught me off guard a second time. She held out her hand.

“Holmes, sir” she replied and then looked down at her bloody hand. She laughed and took it back. “Perhaps not,” she laughed some more, a pleasant, melodic sound.

Holmes, but no, that couldn’t be right. Surely after Dunkirk Mycroft had found Enola a safe placement well away from any fighting. She couldn’t be here, not behind the lines in Egypt.

“Watson," I said.

“If it wouldn’t be presumptuous, sir, might I ask a personal question?”

I hesitated. It really wasn’t the done thing, allowing oneself to become intimate with the nurses. Of course everyone flirted, but…

“It’s just that I think we might have an…acquaintance in common, sir.”

“Oh?” I felt uneasy. There was something about this girl. 

“Were you ever in Berlin, sir?”

“Yes, about ten years ago.”

She broke into a mischievous grin. That grin. I saw it now. The little girl from the photograph. 

“Enola Eudoria Hadassah Holmes. I believe you know my brother. Pleased to make your acquaintance, Captain Watson. Officially.”

I couldn’t help but smile back. “Officially, It’s John Hamish Watson. The pleasure is mine. Shall we wash up?”

I had so many questions for her: What was she doing in the desert? How long had she been here? I’d only had one letter from Sherlock since leaving England--had she heard from him?

But we had hardly finished washing our hands before another transport rolled in. My questions would have to wait.

5 August 1940

My dearest most darling Pan,

We’ve made it to Africa. I suppose the continent is big enough that I haven’t broken any rules by mentioning it. No loose lips for me! We’re a casualty clearing station, obviously, and it’s beastly hot. I don’t think I’m made for desert life. I’ve got sand in my hair and sand between my toes and sand in my knickers!  I long for something green.

I’ve been drawing on real paper when I can get it and everything ends up looking like the park at home. I miss Ferndell, I miss Mummy, and I miss you. Swear you won’t breathe a word of this to M; he will never stop lording it over me if he finds out I am homesick. Of course the great git is probably reading this before sending it on to you, so Hello My! I’m perfectly fine, not lonely or homesick at all. Now go poke your enormous nose in someone else’s business.

I am glad to be here. It feels good to be useful. The boys are all homesick, too, in addition to their injuries. So I talk about London or Oxford or rain or what have you with them. As such I’m forever being scolded for spending too much time chatting; I’m supposed to focus on my duties according to the Senior Sisters. There is one Sen. Sis. who loves threatening me with a trip to see Matron. HA! As if that would scare me. My, do be a darling and send Matron a letter extolling my virtues; she said she knows you. I know she’s Oxford rather than Cambridge, but you can hardly fault her for that although she is St. Hilda’s not Shrewsbury. Stop sniffing, My, it’s unbecoming a man of your stature. 

But I digress. This is a missive for you, dear Pan, not our guardian angel. (xx My) 

Pan, darling, you will never guess who is here with me! Go on, guess! No fair peeking ahead. You must be as brave as your namesake clapping for his fairy and say the name out loud before reading on. Have you said it? Go on, say it one more time, for me. You could whisper it if you’re frightened. Although Pan is never frightened, is he?

Have you guessed? I’ll give you a hint. His initials are JHW. Yes! Can you believe it? Halfway around the world, fine, yes, hyperbole, don’t be so stuffy, I’ve met your doctor. I quite like him. He’s everything you said and more, Pan. He’s damn smart, of course he is, you could never put up with an idiot, could you? He doesn’t suffer fools, which I like for you; you need someone to tell you when you’ve gone too far. And the icing on the cake, he’s kind. There are always little ones gathering at the edges of camp or following us in the market. He gives them coins and treats whenever he can. He’s been in-country longer than I and is brown as a nut. He makes a rather dashing figure with that crop of blond hair bleached by the sun and those ocean blue eyes peering out from his golden face. I ought to sketch him for you. I’ll see if I can find some decent paper. You’ll have to make do with coloured pencils; I gave up on my pastels after they melted to puddles in this inferno.

One warning before I sign off, brother dearest, that awful Senior Sister has set her cap for your boy. Rest assured that his head hasn’t been turned, but she is relentless. If I thought it would help, I would offer her my dowry and send her packing. (Still got your nose in Pan’s business, My? Hope you are taking notes.) I shan’t give away your secrets, my love, but shall remind your doctor at every turn how wonderful I am and thereby how wonderful you are by association.

Write back soon, either of you. I am quite surrounded by goldfish save for the handsome doctor and I am languishing. Languishing. But keeping calm and doing my duty as always.

Much love, Pan (and you, too, My)

Your dearest, most darlingest,

Tink 

Chapter Text

Deutsche Grenzkontrolle. Ihren passe bitte.
Sie waren geschäftlich in Paris?

25 December 1940

Western Desert

The first Christmas in the desert was as festive as possible. There was, of course, no chance of snow, but some of the nurses and orderlies decorated the canteen with paper snowflakes and stars crafted from empty food tins. The kitchen staff were miracle workers. I won’t pretend to know how they managed it, but our midday meal included roast beef, potatoes, and a Christmas pudding with rum sauce. 

Enola, with festive red and green ribbons woven into her plaits, waved to me from across the room. She ate with the other nurses, laughing and chatting merrily. After dinner she joined some of the others in our company as they wandered through the ward tent, serenading the patients with Christmas carols. Under the smiles and cheerful songs we were all more than a little homesick and yearning to be with loved ones.

I thought of Christmas in Sussex the year before and our tenuous journey back to life. For truly, in my own way, I had been as close to death as Sherlock. In my mind’s eye, I could see his pale cheeks flushed with excitement as he danced around playing his new violin. I remembered the maternal affection in Mrs Holmes’s eyes as she poured tea for her son and handed him a plate of gingernuts. I yearned for the sensation of waking beside my friend in the pale winter light to find him watching me with silver-blue eyes the way small boys yearn to find slingshots or train sets under the tree.

We ate our evening repast of cold roast with pickles and toast and fresh fruit and biscuits huddled around the radio, listening to the Royal Christmas Message. Silence reigned as King George’s measured words made their way to us over the airwaves, tiny particles of familiarity.

War brings, among other sorrows, the sadness of separation. There are many in the Forces away from their homes today because they must stand ready and alert to resist the invader should he dare to come, or because they are guarding the dark seas or pursuing the beaten foe in the Libyan Desert.

We cheered at the mention of the beaten foe in the desert, not realising that our supremacy would be short-lived. The Italians had been held at bay, but Rommel and his Afrika Korps were on their way. The Desert Fox would give the British forces a run for their money.

Finally, there was music from a Victrola and dancing. I managed to avoid the man-hungry Sister Morstan by partnering myself with Enola. The songs we danced to are long lost to time, although my dear friend assures me that I’ll be Home for Christmas was definitely not amongst them. Regardless, Enola--I had not yet learned to call her Tink--felt familiar in my arms.

“You realise that you are leading,” I teased.

She grinned. “Pan always ends up letting me lead. Says I’m untamable.” 

“He and I never seemed to have that problem,” I countered. “We neither of us lead, but then we don’t exactly follow, either.”

She leant close to whisper in my ear, “And that’s why you are perfect together.”

Enola was a daring partner, leading us to dance like ice skaters, facing the same direction, before spinning herself back to face me. 

“I could dip you, if you like,” she said with a mischievous twinkle in her ice-blue eyes.

“People might talk.”

She turned under my arm. “People do little else.”

“Thank you,” I said quietly.

“You’re welcome, I’m sure, but for what?”

Embarrassment surged within me. “I…I mean. Your brother….”

“Of course you miss him. And he misses you.”

“And you, Enola?” I asked. “Who do you miss? Is someone missing you?”

Her cheeks grew pink. “Not really,” she said, turning her face away from me.

“Enola,” I chuckled, “there is someone!”

Her blush deepened. With the grace and skill one would expect of a practised coquette she kept her face turned away from me, looking right and left in accord with the dance.

“Give over,” I cajoled.

She met my gaze for just a moment before looking down and peering at me through her lashes.

“A complete and utter nincompoop,” she muttered. “Tewks. Tewksbury. Louis Tewksbury.”

“Isn’t he--”

She nodded. “A marquess? Yes. Viscount Tewskbury, Marquess of Basilwether. And lieutenant with the 3rd Hussars.”

“He’s in Africa, then?”

“Mmmmm. Egypt. We met at Oxford, before. He didn’t attend Sandhurst or anything. Wants to be a botanist.”

“That’s lovely--the botanist bit, not, erm, Egypt.”

Her crooked smile reminded me so much of her brother. “Yes, ‘tis rather, isn’t it? Basilwether has the loveliest gardens. And he’s not just about orchids or something silly like that; he wants to propagate hearty grains and vegetables, things that can withstand drought and disease to, erm,” her voice faltered, “to feed the world.”

I kissed her forehead. “I would expect nothing less of a man who managed to capture your heart.”

10 May 1940

South of Sedan, French Ardennes

Smashing bottles ought to be fun, Enola mused as she threw three bottles of antiseptic onto a rock in quick succession. She should have that frisson that always accompanied going on naughty adventures with Pan, but this felt all wrong. A maternal voice from within chastised her for wasting precious supplies whilst a cold calculating voice in her head retorted that leaving them for the enemy was worse.

The distant boom of artillery urged her to work faster. The hospital camp that had been her home these last few months was in a state of dishabille. Dishabille. She could be so pompous, just like My. The tents had been dismantled and packed--those that wouldn’t fit on the transports had been slashed to ribbons. Behind her, other nurses were burning bandages in a large metal drum. Someone else was smashing syringes with a rock and bending the needles in half. Whatever they couldn’t take with them had to be destroyed.

“Excuse me, Sister,” said a public school voice, tentative, but lovely.

She turned to see a young lieutenant with eyes like chocolate drops.

He started. “Tink? I mean…Enola,” he stammered, “I mean, Holmes? What are you doing here?”

Enola smiled. “Destroying anything the enemy might find useful. Nincompoop. I might ask you the same thing, Tewky.”

Tewksbury took off his hat and ran his fingers through his hair, causing the silky brown locks to flop over his forehead. Why is he so…so…dammit, this is not the time or the place. Get it together, Tink, she thought.

“I’m, erm, a lieutenant, with the, erm, 3rd Hussars, we’re your transport out of here.”

“Yes, I can see your rank, Tewky. Always on about the obvious, just like at school. If you’ve come to urge me to hurry, you could do something useful, you know. Here.” She handed him a bottle. “Like this,” she said, dashing another on the large rock at her feet.

Later, squashed amongst her fellow nurses on a lorry heading south, Enola couldn’t stop thinking about Tewksbury’s shimmering brown eyes and the way his hair refused to stay put until he tamed it under his hat. He looked rather smart in his uniform despite the fact he’d obviously been wearing it for days. And he’d been useless at smashing things; but then he would be, wouldn’t he? He was better at tending to things like new cuttings in the greenhouses at Oxford or the orchids he’d nurtured in his cluttered digs.

She’d only been to Basilwether twice, but each time she’d been fascinated by both the beauty and the practicality of the gardens that were his pride and joy. Flowers and vegetables grew side by side, equally worthy in his way of thinking. “Bread and roses,” he’d said. “Mankind needs both.”

Bread and roses. Sustenance and beauty. Enola wondered what it would be like to kiss the boy. Would his lips be as soft and warm as his hands had been when he helped her onto the lorry? She’d danced with many boys in her life thus far, but her hand had never fit into anyone’s hand the way it had fit into his. And the hand gently supporting the small of her back--she’d wanted to lean against it forever. 

Viscount Tewksbury, Marquess of Basilwether, might well provide her with the sustenance and beauty she needed. She felt better knowing that he was riding somewhere in this line of lorries with her; maybe once this silly war was over…But that was ridiculous. Surely he had a girl somewhere—Lady Nose-in-the-Air or the Honourable Stick Up Her Arse. But he’d not hung with that crowd at uni, had he? His bags had always been grass-stained and dusty, his fingers callused. No, Louis Tewksbury was a viscount by birth, not manner. 

Only time would tell. In the meantime, they both had work to do.

Chapter Text

I was in a little fight last night. Didn’t you hear about it? You should see the other three guys. Not a mark on them.

January 1942

Cairo

It is said that doctors make the worst patients and I cannot disagree. We know too much. We understand the risk of a systemic infection or a collapsed lung. Death and disability are a currency in which we trade all too frequently. We know all the dangers and forget about the miracles. For truly the human body is miraculously imbued with a fighting spirit, a will to survive at all costs.

In a hospital setting, the treatment for a collapsed lung is not risky. Painful, perhaps; exacting, always, but not dangerous in the hands of a competent practitioner. A simple needle aspiration draws excess air from the pleural cavity allowing the lung to expand fully. Of course, the attending surgeon has a sterile field to reduce the chance of contamination and analgesics to reduce discomfort. Bill Murray, my orderly and a fine medic, had no such advantages that November afternoon in 1941. I was his patient, lying in a lorry in the blistering heat on the outskirts of Tobruk, gasping for breath. Murray had already dressed the bullet wound in my shoulder with a liberal dose of sulfa powder and a dressing to halt the bleeding. The bullet’s impact had caused a traumatic pneumothorax, a situation that, if left untreated, would surely lead to cardiac arrest before we reached the relative safety of our casualty clearing station.

Murray held me down with his knee on my good shoulder. “It’s gonna hurt like hell, Doc,” he said, “You ready?”

I was in too much distress to answer with anything more than a grim nod.

Some sensations one never forgets: a parent’s protective embrace, the whisper-soft brush of your lover’s lips against your cheek, the warmth of his body against your own. Fortunately, other sensations fade over time:  the cramp of appendicitis, the throb of an abscessed tooth, the struggle to breathe when your lung cannot expand. While I can no longer recall exactly how it felt to gasp for each breath, only that I did, I will never forget the incredible relief of feeling both lungs expand at last. To this day, the second most beautiful face in the world is the grimy, sweat-streaked face of Bill Murray leaning over me to say, “That’s it Doc, nice and slow. Just breathe.”

I remember little of the ride back to our outpost. The pain from my wounded shoulder was too great, jostled as I was by every bump and dip in the primitive desert road. It was easier to release my grasp on consciousness and hold myself apart from it all.

Back at the station, my brother surgeons worked to remove the bullet, reconstruct my shattered humerus, and repair the damaged subclavian artery. While painful, my injuries were not life-threatening. I expected a comfortable convalescence in the army hospital in Cairo before returning to duty.

But that was not to be.

Soon after my arrival in Cairo, my body was wracked with chills and fever. I could not get comfortable; my shoulder and arm were bandaged tightly to my chest but now my leg and knee grew hot and swollen. Within twenty-four hours, I was unable to bend my knee, so great was the inflammation. As my fever increased, I was delirious, calling out for Sherlock, my mother, Uncle Hamish; anyone who might relieve my suffering.

The diagnosis was osteomyelitis, a bone infection that had spread to my left femur and patella. Once aspirin and cool compresses had reduced both my fever and my delirium I longed for the little vials of penicillin that had once saved my friend. Of course, however, that miracle cure would not be available to the masses for another year. Instead I was treated with sulfa, a perfectly serviceable antibacterial agent that left me listless and tired. The infection was stubborn, simmering for weeks. And so I lay in my bed, too ill to move, too weak to read or play cards to pass the time.

For the second time in my life, I considered the possibility that I would be better off dead. For hours on end I knew nothing but agony. My world constricted to my bed and the pain radiating from both my shoulder and my leg. I struggled to feed myself one-handed, not that I had much appetite. Previously simple acts such as washing, shaving, or relieving myself were no longer possible on my own. The nurses were capable and kind; it was I who was the insufferable boor. I spoke no more than necessary, let my beard grow in, and spent much of my time feigning sleep. If it had been physically possible, I would have curled myself into a tight ball as I waited for my suffering to end.

Morphine became my closest friend. Under its grand spell, I slept and when I slept, I dreamt. For the first time I understood the pull of an opium den. To defend against the pain and despair, I longed, like  Coleridge and Berlioz, to join my beloved in Xanadu. My pleasure dome was neither London nor Berlin nor the cottage in Sussex. Rather it was a wonderful mixture of all three, better than each one individually. Here my friend was ever with me, his bright eyes flashing, his voice ringing musically.

“My darling,” dream Sherlock said, “take my hand.”

And with his touch I was transported to a brilliant dance hall, resplendent with glass and chrome, to dance to the sounds of a humble trio accompanied by an old upright piano. Sherlock held me close and I breathed in his scent--tobacco and tea, cinnamon and coffee. When the tempo quickened, we danced a joyous two-step side-by-side, still holding hands. We walked through streets where Herr Schultz’s shop stood next to my uncle’s warehouse, where we could purchase flaky German pastries after dining on fish and chips. Although I did not think so at the time, it is fortunate that I was not in control of the morphine for I would surely have overdosed myself in an attempt to live in my dreams full-time.

By the new year, I had graduated to a sling for my left arm and was able to walk short distances with the aid of a stick. Matron was as observant and clever as my dear friend and would brook no “shenanigans” from the men in her care.

“Up you get, Captain Watson,” she commanded each morning in a quiet brogue. Like my Uncle Hamish, she was more threatening sotto voce than she could ever be with a shout. “That’s fine then. A walk will do ye a world of good.”

Another man might have begged to differ with her, but I knew better. There would be no winning that argument. Gripping my cane tightly in my right hand, I shuffled towards the lounge where my fellow soldiers gathered to entertain themselves with books and games and conversation.

I avoided everyone, however, choosing a chair removed from the hubbub. It faced the window and I sat, unseeing, in the morning sun. My curiosity was not piqued by the world outside the hospital, nor could anything within its walls sustain my interest. I stared straight ahead and thought only of my ruined life.

“Here’s a cuppa for you, Captain,” said a voice at my shoulder. Blinking, I looked up to see one of the sisters setting a cup on the table beside my chair. I’ve noticed that the nurses in war movies are always young and pretty, as if those were necessary traits for providing care. I can assure my readers that not all of the sisters were young nor were all pretty. However, each one residing in my memory was hard-working and attentive. “Just as you like it--no sugar--best drink it while it’s still hot. Oh! And Matron says to remind you this ‘twould be a grand time to do your hand exercises. Plenty of time before luncheon.”

Hand exercises. What a bunch of rot. I did warn you that doctors make the worst patients. Clench the fingers into a fist, being sure that all three joints are bent. Straighten fingers completely. Repeat five times. Rotate thumb in complete circles, both clockwise and anticlockwise. Move hand up and down at the wrist ten times. Keeping arm in sling, rotate palm to the ceiling and then to the floor five times. Would this stop my left hand from shaking whenever I removed the sling? Or allow that hand to manage a teacup or soup spoon without dumping the contents down my shirt? Of course it would. Eventually.

If I had been my doctor, I would have looked myself in the eye and stated sagely, “If you want to regain function in that hand, in that arm, you have to start small. Every journey starts with a single step, Captain Watson.”

Doctors, you see, talk rubbish when it is easier than speaking the truth. No one would tell me, “Captain Watson, you’ve a long road ahead and you must work every day to strengthen your muscles and retrain your nerves. If you want to be a cripple for the rest of your life, by all means sit there and do nothing. Your recovery is in your hands.”

We doctors can only do so much. We can fasten a patient’s bones back together with pins and plates; we can stitch a body together and administer medicine to fight infection, but we cannot work the muscles and joints for a person. In the end, each patient must fight their own battle.

I reached across my useless arm for the tea. I let the sharp, warm liquid rest on my tongue a moment before swallowing. The amount of effort required by even the smallest task seemed insurmountable to me. Slowly, I clenched and unclenched my left fist, noticing that the action stretched stiff ligaments and muscles. I counted repetitions reflexively. At five, the click of heels on the hard floor rang out through the suddenly still room.

My friend would have been proud of my thought process as I listened without looking over my shoulder. The staccato beats were sharp and rhythmic, not the duller clop of a nurse’s sensible oxfords or a doctor’s Chukkas. The step was light--a woman, then, or possibly a younger person. However, it was unlikely to be a British or European child and most of the Egyptians I’d seen preferred softer footwear. The hush settling over the room was telling as well; the buzz of male voices had ceased until I heard a low whistle followed by shushing and stifled laughter. Definitely a woman. A civilian woman. For the first time in weeks, I was curious. But before I could set down my teacup and turn around, a familiar voice called out.

“John! John darling! At last!”

And Enola Holmes stood before me, a vision in a gossamer dress with fluttering sleeves. Her hair, freed from workaday plaits, was brushed into lush ringlets gathered at her nape. The large hat framing her angular face  kept her eyes in shadow. Still, her smile was as bright as the desert sun.

“John Darling!” she repeated with a sense of revelation. “How did I not realise? You are John Darling, faithful companion to Peter Pan! How marvellous!” I half expected her to crow at her own cleverness.

“Enola?” I asked. “But how?”

“It seems I have been a very good fairy and have been granted a week’s leave. Oh, and I’ve an appointment at the embassy this afternoon.”

She pulled a chair close as I asked, “The British Embassy?”

Carefully working her gloves off her fingers, she replied, “Well, yes, of course. Bit tedious. Didn’t suppose I’d don a hat and gloves just for you, did you?” Her smile was mischievous. “I daren’t take the hat off before my appointment--do you know how hard it is to manage both a hairstyle and a hat? Dreadful things, hats. Make my head itch.”

I laughed. When had I last laughed? My lungs expanded and my belly shook. “I have missed you, Enola.”

“And I you,” she replied, stroking a gentle finger down my bearded cheek. “We are past formalities, aren’t we? You’ve called me Enola for far too long. My friends call me Tink, John Darling.”

Perhaps it is trite to say that Enola’s, or rather Tink’s, visit was a breath of fresh air, but it was. She listened without judgment and asked pertinent questions about my injury, my health, and my course for recovery.

“They’re sending me home,” I grumbled, humiliated that I had lasted little more than a year in the fight. “Soon as I’m fit to travel.”

Tink took my good hand between her own. Her auburn curls and summery frock made her look soft, but her hands told the truth. They were strong hands, the nails sensibly short. Tanned skin, roughened by constant washing and the arid climate, felt as welcome as a silk comforter. She squeezed my hand as she spoke.

“Listen to me, John Darling. You are as brave and as good as any man I know. There is much you can do, must do, before this hateful war is over and we can all be home again. So field surgeon is not it--so what? Your mission, Captain, is to get well and soldier on. Do you hear me? If you can’t do it for yourself, do it for Pan and me.”

That was the moment I first loved Enola “Tink” Holmes. Yes, I had counted her as a friend and compatriot almost from the moment I met her; yes had I adored her for keeping my beloved Sherlock close, but in that moment, when she said the words I desperately needed to hear, I loved her.

Her visit was all too short. The bell rang for luncheon and she looked at her watch.

“I’ve got to dash, John Darling, mustn’t be late for the embassy. May I call on you tomorrow?”

And she was off with a sisterly peck on my cheek, tugging on her gloves as she hurried through the lounge. When she reached the doorway, she turned to call over her shoulder, “See you tomorrow, Captain!”

I like to think that my steps were steadier when I made my way back to my bed that afternoon. Certainly my heart was lighter.

True to her word, Tink returned the next day, floating into the lounge sans hat, but with a delicate scarf draped across her bare shoulders. With a flourish and a curtsy, she laid a white box in my lap. Divested of her prize, she pulled a chair so close that our knees were touching. She brought with her a hint of the exotic--a light fragrance of oud and spices.

“Open it!” she insisted, as excited as a child on Christmas morning.

She held the box whilst I untied the string and opened the lid with my good hand. Inside were delicacies glistening with sugar syrup and honey—baklava, stuffed dates, and little semolina cakes.

“Enola--Tink, what--”

“You are far too thin, John Darling. Matron says you pick at your plate--when I was at the souk I thought I could reawaken your appetite with some sweets. You’ll never get out of here if you don’t build yourself back up!”

The pastries were delectable and I ate happily as we chatted.

“No hat today?”

“No, thank heavens, no need, although I have gloves in my bag, should I need to prove that I am, indeed, a lady.”

I chuckled. “How was the embassy?”

She wrinkled her nose. “Fine. Dull. Mission accomplished.”

I waited for more information, but none was forthcoming. One became used to things that couldn’t be said in those days. Instead she filled me in on everything I’d missed at our casualty clearing station.

“Morstan’s whinging and tattling has rather gotten her in hot water with Matron,” she reported. “No one likes a snitch—it is very poor form, you know.”

“Tink!’ I admonished, “you’ve been enjoying it!”

“Why wouldn’t I enjoy it?” she asked with eyebrows raised. “After all she did to get me on the outs with Matron, I reckon she rather deserves it. She was absolutely livid when she found out I was headed here.”

Tink came every day during her leave, chasing away the storm clouds that had darkened my thoughts. Like Scheherazade, she entertained me with stories of growing up at Ferndell with Sherlock. The images of the two of them racing about the grounds, playing pirates or collecting “specimens” to study gave me happy thoughts for many of the hard days ahead.

With her assistance, I dictated a letter to my friend, describing my injuries and imminent journey home.

“However did you make it through school so determinedly left-handed?” she asked, pen in hand.

“Pure stubbornness,” I laughed. “I’m sure the schoolmaster was quite undone by my efforts. Ruined a good many shirts with ink stains on my cuffs, to be sure.”

All too soon, her leave drew to an end. She sat perched on my bed, digging through her bag. I’d had a sleepless night, full of pain and nightmares. When she looked up, there were tears forming in her eyes.

“Oh, John Darling, I would drink the nasty medicine for you if I could, but I can’t. You must work hard and get well, do you hear me?”

She opened her hand to reveal a small rosewood box, inlaid with mother-of-pearl.

“My dear girl, you are going to miss the souk when you are back in the desert.”

“That I am.”

When she opened the little box, I saw that it contained a scarab carved from blue stone.

“A blue scarab represents renewal, John Darling. Renewal and resurrection.” She placed the stone beetle in my hand. “Your life is not over, it’s just at a crossroads. Whichever path you choose, make it worth your while.”

A lump was forming in my throat; once again a Holmes was saving me. “You’re awfully wise for a fairy, Tink,” I managed.

She handed me her handkerchief even as she wiped her face with the back of her hand. “That’s the thing about fairies,” she said, “no one expects much from us, so we always seem terribly wise we when make the effort.”

“Thank you,” I whispered as my voice seemed to have disappeared, “for making the effort.”

“Always, John Darling. Remember that. Always.”

She stood, although she was as reluctant to leave as I was to have her go. I held her handkerchief out to her.

She smiled, that tiny crooked smile that so reminded me of her brother. “You keep it. I have scads. Between Grand-mère and My, I shall never be without one.”

After she was gone, I laid my treasures on my bedside table; the blue scarab, the rosewood box, and a fine white cotton handkerchief with a scrolled H worked over an oval of lace in white thread.

12 April 1944

My dear Watson,

I am in receipt of your letter from February. It took a rather circuitous route to find me, but find me it has.

I believe a letter of mine may have crossed paths with yours and may still be waiting for you at your London address. Perhaps the universe will smile upon us and it will find you.

I would never want you to think that I find your letters any less than rare treasure. I will gladly read whatever you have to write, be it florid exaggerations, romantic drivel, or your shopping list. Please do not censor yourself on my account.

It has been so long (once again) since I had access to a violin. I do look forward to sitting in a cosy room and playing for you–-Brahms, Bach, Mendelssohn, whatever you wish. We will have to rely on my fingers to remember what perhaps my brain cannot. My situation is ever-changing and I find that I am constantly pruning at my memories to retain those that are most vital to The Work.

I am glad you are finding ways to be useful. Work is the best antidote to sorrow and I know you are grieving all that you have lost. Although Orpington is not Africa, the work you are doing is important. Perhaps this time  England will not lose so many sons. If you save only one man who might have otherwise perished, that is one more father, husband, or brother who returns home.

I must end here lest I lose the chance to post this letter. This war shall end, it must end, and when it does, I will see you in London.

Ever yours,

WSSH

Chapter Text

I used to love pretending I was someone else–-someone quite mysterious and fascinating.

Until one day I grew up and realised I was mysterious and fascinating.

Hampshire

March 1942

When I was was finally well enough to travel, I flew from Cairo to Lisbon where I boarded a military ship and sailed to Southampton. I enjoyed neither leg of the trip. Truth be told, I have never been fond of travelling. Whilst I adore exploring new places, the tedium of sitting still compounded by the stress of schedules and delays is something I can only endure. The twin constants of discomfort and danger earned this journey the distinction of being the worst of my life. At least the flight to Lisbon was only a matter of hours; our days at sea were rough and the threat of attack by the Kriegsmarine ever present. 

I returned to England a changed man. Despite walking with a stick my leg throbbed and burned at the end of each day. The bones in my shoulder had knit together well enough that a sling was no longer required, but I was left with an uncontrollable tremor that made me clumsy and embarrassed. Practicing medicine was out of the question; my army career was finished.

Southampton was changed, too. Evidence of the Luftwaffe’s destruction was everywhere but especially in Woolton near the Spitfire factory and around the Civic Centre. Fortunately, our little village near Alton was thus far unscathed. My mother still lived in my childhood home, tending her victory garden and making jam for the WI. Uncle Hamish, whose warehouse had been badly damaged in the Blitz, had taken up residence in my sister’s old room. He and my mother also cared for my niece and nephews whilst Hattie ran the village shop. Hattie’s husband, Tom was stationed in Wales as a mechanic for the RAF.

Each morning, I broke my fast with my mother and uncle before taking my place behind the counter in my sister’s shop. In my current state I was unable to stock shelves or sweep up, but I could manage to work the register and sort out ration cards. It was far more exhausting to make conversation than change. The villagers meant well, of course, asking about my life in the army and telling me about the eligible young women they knew. 

I thought I might go mad until I joined the Royal Observation Corps in Alton. I was happiest in the solitary shed that served as an observation post. Only there was I free from prying eyes wondering why I wasn’t at the front, at least until I limped down the street or smeared their ration books with my trembling hand. Alone with my binoculars and hand-cranked telephone, I was liberated from suggestive comments about settling down “with a nice girl.” 

No one save Uncle Hamish came close to understanding my situation. Whenever possible, he took me on daily walks, down the lane and across the meadow. He and I walked at the same pace, although my uncle did not depend on a stick to keep his balance as I did; he was as fit and spry as when I’d last seen him in London, just a bit slower. 

“Take care o’your knees, Johnny lad, no one knows how important they are until it’s too late.”

Uncle Hamish knew to ask about my friend, but never in others’ hearing. He listened to me wax on about Sherlock’s intellect, his brittle humour and quick wit, his bravery and his bravado. 

“But that isn’t all that attracts you, is it mo cuisle?” he winked.

I blushed, thinking of Sherlock’s many smiles, his wayward curls, and his graceful neck.

“But what about you, Uncle?” I asked, hoping to change the subject. “Was there, or is there, someone--a man, I mean--for you?”

“Aye,” he sighed. “There was. And he were a braw lad, my Charlie.”

“Charlie?” I encouraged.

“Charles Stewart, though he was bonnier than any pampered prince. Did ye never wonder about the Stewart in Watson and Stewart?”

Watson and Stewart, of course—my uncle’s business. “I never really thought about it—”

“Charlie came from Edinburgh with me, we were business partners, and more. You met him once, ye ken.”

“I—”

“Aye, your daddy brought you to London—’twere before the war, ’tother one—you were just a wee thing. Your mum was carrying Hattie and you wore her out with all your adventurin’, so Harry brought you t’London for a visit. You couldna cared less about the palaces and parks--you loved the warehouse. Charlie chased after you, playing hide-and-go-seek, carrying you on his shoulders. ’Twas a grand time,” he said.

“But I don’t remember….What happened to him?”

“Charlie was younger than me; when the war came, he joined up. He might have thought he was invincible; he could load a cart or a truck faster than any of our men. When we started out, it was just the two of us. I kept the books and he kept the warehouse. Tall and broad and strong was our Charlie. But that couldna stop the Hun’s bullet, could it?”

I felt my heart crack. 

Sorrow must have shown on my face, for my uncle went on, “Of course, people grieved with me; he’d been my partner and like a brother, as far as they knew. And I was so grateful when your daddy came home. I don’t know what I’d done if I’d lost them at the same time.”

We stopped along a stone wall surrounding a pasture dotted with sheep. My uncle took my hand and patted it. 

“You listen to me, John Hamish,” he said, “don’t you go borrowing trouble. Not every soldier is killed in battle, nor do all  that return come home broken like our Harry. You must have hope, mo cuisle, and you must continue on as if your Sherlock will walk through the door tomorrow. But,” he continued, “if the worst does happen, you mustn’t let it break you. Find a way to keep the good memories close and let them guide you forward.”

I am pleased to report that this time I did follow my uncle’s advice. Alone at my post, I relived my happiest moments with Sherlock. While I watched the sky, my heart was dancing in Berlin and strolling on the beach in Sussex. I could smell the apple blossoms in the orchard and Fräulein Schneider’s apfelstreudel fresh from the oven. But the memory I returned to most often was the newest: the surprise of hearing his voice far from home.

My discharge from hospital was imminent, delayed only by travel arrangements. I had started dressing in uniform each morning rather than wearing my pyjamas and dressing gown all day. I still could not manage a razor on my own but had resigned myself to allowing one of the nurses to shave my face. Still, these simple ablutions were tiring and I was on my way to the lounge with a book when one of the orderlies stopped me.

“Captain Watson,” he said. “The major has asked to see you, sir.”

The major? I followed the orderly to the head’s office where I was instructed to sit and wait. I perched on a chair in front of the major’s empty desk. Was there a problem with my discharge? Bad news from home? I was anxious and my left hand shook until I clenched it tightly in my lap. When telephone rang loud and shrill, an efficient-looking junior officer darted into the office to answer it.

“Yes, he’s here. Yes, of course.”

He handed me the telephone receiver and left the room, closing the door behind him.

“Hello?” I said.

“Hello,” answered a velvety baritone I had not expected to hear.

“Sh--”

“No names. Please. It isn’t safe. But yes. Look, I haven’t much time. A little fairy let me know you are in a bad way and I pulled some strings--”

Tears sprang to my eyes. “It’s really you?”

I could hear the wistful smile in his voice. “Yes, it’s me. Are you all right? Of course you aren’t, what I meant to say is--”

“I’m better now for hearing your voice. They’re, they’re sending me home.”

“Yes.”

“Dear God,” I said, my voice breaking, “I miss you.”

“I miss you. If you need anything, anything at all, you know who to ask? In town? I’ve given strict instructions--”

My dear friend. Trying to look after me from wherever he might be. I thought my heart would burst. “Thank you,” was all I could think to say.

“This can’t go on forever,” he said, putting a brave face on things. “We will be together again.”

“Yes,” I answered. I wished I could pull him through the receiver--to touch him, to hold him.

“Darling, look, I’ve got to go, I’m sorry. This will all work out. It has to.”

Tears were streaming down my face. “Yes. It will all work out. I believe, I do. If I could manage it, I would clap my hands to prove it.”

He laughed at that, a melodic rumble I would hear in my dreams for many nights to come. “Good man. My good man.”

“I am. Don’t go just yet; I…I…” Why was it hard to say those words aloud? “I love you.”

“And I love you.”

“Stay safe,” I commanded.

“I will. And you.  A bientôt, mon amour.”

See you soon. My brilliant boy. “ A bientôt, chéri.”

Four years would pass before I heard my friend’s voice again. In the meantime, I clung to the memory of this conversation as a shipwrecked sailor clings to a rock. 

Hampshire

September 1940

“Sir, you wanted to see me?”

“Ah, Holmes! Yes.”

This was the first time Sherlock had entered the Beaulieu House library. He had a room on the estate, of course, cell-like, boasting only a bed, a dresser, and a chair. He’d attended lectures in the ballroom, eaten in the dining room, learnt to operate the wireless transmitter in the morning room and practiced transmissions on the grounds.  Finishing School, they called it. 

The room was dark and manly; wood-panelled walls were hung with landscapes and architectural fantasies. Leather-bound books filled the floor to ceiling shelves. A well-bred middle-aged man occupied the large mahogany desk in the middle of the room. He was elegantly dressed, his dark hair glossy with brilliantine, but his face was haggard and pale. Exhaustion, Sherlock thought as he reached for the slim green book the gentleman offered him. 

“Thank you, Sir Frank,” he said, turning it over in his hands. A plain little book, bound in buckram with American Poems of the 19th Century stamped across the cover in gilt letters. Sherlock read the title aloud. “Seems odd that so few poems were written in America in the span of a century,” he mused.

“Don’t be impudent, brother mine,” admonished a voice from across the room. “It doesn’t matter about the poems.”

He hadn’t noticed Mycroft hiding in the corner. It annoyed him. Why did it annoy him? Because Sherlock didn’t like his brother’s surprises. What was the great git doing here, anyway? They’d discussed all this in London. For God’s sake, Mycroft had given Wimsey his name in the first place. 

“Hadn’t expected to see you so far from town,” Sherlock said. “I would have thought that Hampshire was a bit further from Whitehall than you are permitted to travel.”

Mycroft crossed the room to address Sir Frank. “Please excuse my brother. The mater spoilt him terribly, but I can assure you that he does know how to behave when he deems it convenient.”

“Quite all right, Mycroft. I’m sure it’s simply a case of nerves; heading into the field can put a man on edge.”

Sherlock shut his eyes and tipped his chin to his chest. He inhaled deeply, raising his head and rolling his shoulders back on the exhale. He refrained from tossing his curls off his forehead. “Apologies, brother dear. How kind of you to see me off.”

That had gotten Mycroft. He sniffed and was suddenly quite interested in an Italian architectural fantasy hanging on the wall. Mycroft loathed Italian art. “I drove Sir Frank from London myself, if you must know. Perhaps I should, erm, let you get on, Sir,” he said, nodding to the director of the Special Operations Executive. “If you could spare me a moment before you leave, Sherlock?”

Sherlock felt the slightest pang when his brother pulled the heavy wooden door shut upon exiting the library.  Yes, they’d done this before, but that didn’t mean that Mycroft actually wanted him to go. Four months ago Mycroft had surprised him by declaring, “Please, brother mine, if you insist on doing this, be careful: the loss of you would break my heart.”

Sherlock had choked on a mouthful of smoke. “What am I supposed to say to that?”

Mycroft smiled sadly. “Don’t say anything; just come home when it’s done.”

“When what’s done? It won’t be a single mission, Mycroft.”

“The war, Sherlock. Come home when you’ve vanquished the dragons.”

Sir Frank was speaking to him; Sherlock focused on the director’s carefully knotted tie before lifting his gaze to the man’s face.

“That book will be your lifeline. Your team has a copy as well; each keyword will come from that text. The first item in any transmission–-yours or ours—-will be a numeric pair indicating the page and word to use.” Sherlock nodded; he knew all this. The Playfair cipher, tried and true. As long as the enemy didn’t have his keyword, his messages would be a challenge to decrypt. American poetry--how droll! He smiled inwardly; Tink would’ve chosen Peter Pan or The Railway Children. 

***

“I asked to deliver your identification papers personally,” his brother said, handing him a brown envelope. “Guillame Vernet from Trouville-sur-Mer? Not particularly original. Did you consider Grand-mère?”

The brothers stood in an windowed alcove overlooking the grounds. The day had started out fine, but clouds were rolling in and turning the sky grey. 

“Firstly, Grand-mère is dead, as you well know. Secondly, Calvados is crawling with Vernets, all distantly related to each other and to us, what’s one more? Thirdly, the SOE instructs us to live as truthfully as possible within our masquerade.” Sherlock narrowed his eyes as he continued, “Who  said one is forced to invent twenty more lies to maintain the first?”

His brother heaved a beleaguered sigh. “Pope. Alexander Pope. Why did Mummy bother sending you to school? You never attend to anything worthwhile.”

“As I recall, it was Uncle Rudy who insisted on sending me away; Tink and I would have managed quite splendidly with Father’s library.”

“Yes, well,” agreed Mycroft, “you have always chafed under structure.”

Sherlock was growing tired of this petty nit-picking; still, if Mycroft had held him to his breast or worse, started weeping, he couldn’t have borne it. Had he been with Tink or Mummy or John, he could spoken the truth. He wanted to do this, was eager for the thrill of the chase, to find danger behind every corner, as long as he could come home for tea. There was the rub: he would have no home, no respite, no peace, until the war was over or he was--but that would not happen. He would simply refuse to be caught or betrayed. Of course he would miss the people and things he loved, even Mycroft, desperately. But sentiment was a chemical defect found on the losing side. That would be Hitler’s downfall in the end; his inability to separate emotion from action. Stiff upper lip, fortitude, keeping calm and carrying on--British sensibility would win this war. It had to--it was their only advantage.

“I have never chafed under meaningful structure,” spat Sherlock, “What are you still doing here? Aren’t there agreements to broker? Propaganda to create?”

“Sherlock,” his brother cajoled, “please. Be careful. Prends soin de toi, mon frère. Revenez sains et saufs.”

Perhaps sentiment was easier en français. Sherlock held out his hand, “Bien sûr,  toi aussi.”

Mycroft surprised him by grasping not only his hand but his elbow as well, drawing him into an awkward embrace. “Je t'aime, petit frère. Bonne chance,” his brother spoke low, hardly more than a whisper.

Sherlock felt a lump grow in his throat and just managed to choke out, “Merci, cher frère. Moi aussi.”

***

Alone in his room, Sherlock paged through the book. Longfellow, Poe, Whitman, Dickinson, Bryant…he wondered how he’d feel about these poems after using their words to decode messages. O Captain! My Captain! caught his attention. John. His captain, saving lives in Africa. Mycroft had delivered a letter from Tink--she was in the desert with John. Brown as a nut she’d written; hair bleached by the sun. He read the poem expecting it to bring John closer.

O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done,
The ship has weather’d every rack, the prize we sought is won,
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,

Yes, that was right. When the war was won, they’d meet in London, bells ringing…

 Where on the deck my Captain lies,
                                  Fallen cold and dead.

No, no, no. That wasn’t right. 

Stupid.

Sentiment. 

Trying to find meaning in a scrap of poetry. What had he been thinking? Ridiculous. John would not, could not die in this tedious war. He would not entertain the thought. John would fight the war by saving soldiers in surgery and he, like his namesake, would fly to the Continent and vanquish the enemy by deducing their every weakness. Yes. 

That was right. 

Good.

Sherlock snapped the little book shut and tucked it into his rucksack. He swung his legs onto the bed and lay back against the pillow. He was scheduled to meet his plane at 2100. Six hours--he should sleep; who knew when he would next have the chance. France. By tomorrow morning he’d be on the ground in France.

Chapter Text

“ Some day, all this will have to be developed, carefully printed, fixed.” Christopher Isherwood

November 1942

London

I returned to London in the autumn of 1942. Not that I hadn’t been happy with my family; I was as happy as I could be in Hampshire. I hadn’t been happy in Africa either, but there I had purpose, I had drive. As an army surgeon I did my part as Sherlock did his with Section D, God-knew-where. The bond between us was strong--I could feel his presence every time I picked up a scalpel.

In Alton, I was unmoored. Who was I? A shopkeeper who scanned the skies for enemy aircraft? Not even a shopkeeper--only a clerk. A cripple. An invert. A nobody. But I had returned home when others were not so lucky. Every family we knew lived in fear of receiving a telegram with calamitous news. I cursed myself for my self-pity before raging once again at my circumstances. I was an ouroboros, the mythological serpent eating its own tail. Until I found a way to resurrect myself, I was caught in an eternal cycle of creation and destruction.

As a student, I fancied myself a writer and took to carrying a notebook everywhere. I would no more have left my rooms without my notebook than my shoes or my trousers. In Berlin, those gloriously heady days when I paid the rent with my words, I was never without one.

Sherlock teased me for keeping it under my pillow, “I didn’t think you were that kind of writer, John!”

I found him once sprawled prone and naked across our bed, paging through my latest volume.

“What are you doing?”

“Reading,” he drawled.

“Reading?”

“Why do you never mention me?” he pouted.

“Why do I never--”

I dove across the bed to wrest my notebook from his hands, but he evaded me and began reciting “He is grace personified, as sleek and lithe as a jungle cat, his skin a smooth alabaster reminiscent of the Classical statuary in the,” here he broke off to snicker, “really, John? The British Museum? Am I the Westmacott athlete or the Townley Venus?”

I burrowed my face in his belly, licking and kissing him until he collapsed around me, laughing.

“A right git is what you are--a complete tosser!”

“I know what I would like to toss,” he replied.

As the weeks turned to months, reliving my time with my friend in my mind was not enough and I returned to my note-taking habit. My written words had always carried more weight for me than mere memory. My shaking hand made the act of writing difficult, but I found that, with enough concentration, I could control the tremor long enough to scrawl a few lines at a time. The cost was dear; an afternoon of writing left me exhausted and trembling. So I rooted around in my mother’s closets until I found my faithful typewriter, abandoned and dusty. After a thorough going over with a soft brush, a judicious application of machine oil, and a new ribbon, my old companion was back in working order.

Whilst typing took less effort than writing by hand, the ensuing racket alerted all and sundry to my activity. Soon my mother was begging to read my pages--You’ve such a way with words, Johnny--and could not be persuaded otherwise. I thought of Jane Austen, hiding her pages whenever visitors came calling. I wanted to write the true story of my life with Sherlock, stating things plainly for my own eyes. I had no intention of writing a salacious or lewd book to be snickered at in back rooms or sold under counters. I was writing not to pay my rent but to safeguard my soul.

To assuage my mother and my own sensibilities, I dashed off a sentimental piece about returning to England followed by a stirring piece about my lonely hours with the Royal Observation Corps. To my mind, they were both the worst Romantic claptrap, maudlin and sensationalist. My mother adored them. When she threatened to send them off to a local rag, I submitted them to The Strand instead, confident that they would be lost on some beleaguered editor’s desk. Much to my surprise, they were accepted for publication with a request for more.

With money to supplement my army pension, I bought a ticket to London. The promise of selling more stories gave me the perfect excuse for moving to town; I could hand-deliver my manuscripts to The Strand instead of depending on the Royal Mail. Hattie and Mother were sad to see me go, but they accepted the change gracefully. Only Uncle Hamish suspected the truth; I could not bear to live half a life any longer. Although I would not have friends or family in London, neither would I have to keep my self and my love hidden.

I rented a small bedsit in an undamaged block of flats in a quiet street and set up shop. My rooms were on the first floor; I chose to struggle up the stairs rather than listen to the front door open and close at all hours. My grimy window looked out onto an unfamiliar landscape; barrage balloons floated over broken buildings and sandbags were stacked everywhere. People hustled by with cardboard gas mask boxes slung over their shoulders; the only thing missing were children. I had never given much thought to the children of London, but the streets and parks were so quiet without them.

Army life had impressed the benefits of a schedule upon me; I kept myself in check by adhering to a strict and productive one. Upon waking each morning, I took my tea and toast with my typewritten pages, editing the most recent. Breakfast finished, I washed my plate, refreshed my cup, and worked on my latest piece for The Strand. Lunch was simple and light--a bit of cheese, a slice of bread. My afternoons might include a trip to the shops to replenish my rations or to The Strand’s offices to deliver a manuscript. Only when those necessities had been attended to did I allow myself to work on my true passion: the book you are currently reading, one I never expected to publish. It was conceived in 1942 at a wobbly table in a furnished flat behind blackout curtains, coaxed from my typewriter with two fingers and an occasional dram of whisky.

There was a cabaret, and there was a master of ceremonies... and there was a city called Berlin, in a country called Germany...and it was the end of the world, and I was dancing with Sherlock Holmes, and we were both fast asleep.

Spring 1955

London

Sherlock kept the little scrap in his book of American poetry. The letter it had come from was long gone, the fragile aerogram paper unable to withstand the stress of being folded and unfolded along the same creases countless times. Even now, many years later, when he was reasonably assured that he and John would never again be parted, Sherlock would open the book to read the words again.

If it will help, I can hold the memories of Berlin, of our flat on the Nollendorfstraße, of dancing at the Dorian Gray for you. My deepest desire is for you to complete your work and return

His steadfast tin soldier, his captain--O Captain! my Captain!--so generous and brave. He could hear him now, puttering in the kitchen, filling the kettle and setting it on the hob.

“Cake or bread-and-butter with your tea, love?” John called. He paused less than a moment before answering his own question with a chuckle, “Never mind. You’ll want cake.  Ready in a tick!”

Sherlock smiled and resisted the urge to kiss the tiny scrap of paper and its lines of tight, cramped writing. He would kiss the author when John brought their tea into the sitting room. He tucked the precious remnant into its place between two poems by Whitman and replaced the book on the shelf.

Chapter Text

All the odds are in my favour
Something's bound to begin
It's got to happen, happen sometime
Maybe this time I'll win

January 1943 

I was struggling home from the air raid shelter as the sun rose over the eighteenth of January 1943. Everything hurt--my shoulder, my leg, my back. I’d spent a tortuous night sharing close quarters with several hundred of my neighbours and my head was pounding. No amount of lukewarm tea or stale biscuits could assuage the pain caused by sitting on a wooden chair for hours on end. I might have commandeered a cot for myself, waving my cane about to demonstrate my status as a cripple, but neither my pride nor my heart would allow it. How could I, a confirmed bachelor, take up space that might allow an entire family to huddle together? 

One saw one’s fellows at their most vulnerable in the shelters; everyone in various states of dishabille--coats thrown over night clothes, trousers worn with bedroom slippers, feet jammed into galoshes, women’s hair set with rags or pins and secured with kerchiefs. Some of the children had returned to London by then, if they had gone in the first place, pale, wide-eyed urchins clutching stuffed bears and tough, scrappy wretches, believing themselves invincible. 

Nowadays one hears of the jolly bravery of my countrymen, singing through the night, keeping calm and carrying on, but of course that is mostly nostalgia. Babies fussed, women--and men--cried. Some railed against Hitler, shaking their fists towards the heavens. Women clung to each other, praying for husbands far afield or patrolling the darkened streets above. The truth was grim and no amount of bravado or temerity would change it.

The morning light brought a kind of terrible Christmas writ large; surprises lurked around every corner. New destruction forever changed the landscape of my ancient city. Glass from blown-out windows littered the pavement, sparkling like tinsel; walls crumbled to reveal dollhouse-like interiors for a race of giant children. Entire buildings were reduced to piles of bricks and beams as if those  same enormous children had been knocking down toy castles.

As I limped through the rubble, willing my leg to bear the weight it would, I hid my shaking hand in my pocket. Searing pain roared down my arm, a cataract falling from the crest of scar tissue that was my African souvenir. I distracted myself with the memory of another early morning walk in another city with my friend by my side.

He was always, and in fact still is, composed of a nervous energy that invades his sleep and sends it mercilessly fleeing. I, by contrast, am wont to lie in bed till an hour deemed conventionally acceptable. However, in my younger days, I was more easily encouraged to accompany him in his wakefulness. As I remembered it, we’d spent the better part of the night wandering the streets of Berlin and the sun was just peeking over the horizon that early spring morning. The air was cold and clear, forming our words into mist. Sherlock’s hand was tucked into the crook of my arm, anchoring him to the earth as his thoughts soared above us. Belonging to a less ethereal being, my stomach rumbled, and my only desire was to find an open bakery. After only a few weeks in that shining city, I had grown quite fond of German pastry.

Upon hearing my belly release a particularly loud grumble, Sherlock turned to me with open amusement. The twist of his neck gave me a glimpse of the love bite I had placed there only days before. You are mine…Only mine, I’d growled, holding him captive against the Kit Kat Klub’s dressing table with its mirrors and pots of make-up.

Had I begun to love him, even then? I certainly adored him, was held in thrall by his energy and intelligence--but love? It seems to me that came later, perhaps when he shared the picture of himself and his sister as children; a moment of vulnerability that allowed me to see his true self. A fatherless child, neither protective elder brother nor baby sister needing protection, but a fiercely independent spirit who required the same safeguarding as much as he desired bestowing it on others. How might my life have been altered had I dared to speak the truth of my love for him in Berlin?

It was a deadly game, imagining the times I might have told him I loved him and the consequences of such a confession. I had played it many times sitting at my typewriter, hidden behind blackout curtains. Sometimes, such as the night before, I brought out my bottle of spirits, hoping to drown my regret in drink. You should not imagine, however, that I was as despondent as I had been that terrible year when everyone who mattered believed Sherlock Holmes to have perished in Czechoslovakia. In those days there was no hope. Every thought of reuniting with him had been dashed and I expected nothing more from life. As unbearable as our present separation was, I knew that he was in the world, loving me and fighting to return. His letters, dependent as they were on couriers secreted into occupied territories, tethered me to him as a rope connects a man clutching a life ring to a ship at sea. Without his letters, I might well have drowned in an ocean of drink and regret.

Still, I often fell asleep, as I had that night, considering what could have been. I do not remember hearing the warning sirens that January night. I’d sat at my typewriter, working to recreate the beauty of our Berlin days until I could no longer force my hand to cease its trembling nor keep my eyes open. At last I succumbed to my physical needs and took myself to bed, pausing only long enough to kick off my shoes. I dreamt, as I often did, of my friend. These dreams transported me to happier times, both real and imagined. We might dance or make love or simply sit together in some shared space my mind concocted. But this time my friend was urgently trying to rouse me. John, he said, John, you must wake up. John! Wake up! Alarmed, I sat upright. So intense was the dream that I expected to find him next to me on the narrow bed, shaking me by the shoulder. But of course I was alone. Only then could I hear the siren calling through the night.

And so, as I limped home next morning, lost in memories of my friend, I did not at first believe that the voice I heard was real.

“Help!” came the cry, so muffled that one would forgive my thinking it came from my own vivid imagination.

It was a real human voice but it was also my soul crying out. Looking back, that voice was to be my salvation--how many times would I need to be rescued? 

I located the voice emanating from the remains of a terraced house. As was the way of bombs, the house on the left was entirely intact whilst everything to the right had been decimated.

“Please!” called the voice again. “Help! Is anyone there?”

“I’m here!” I replied. “Keep calling--I’ll find you!”

I followed the cries until I located my companion under the wreckage of what might have  been a kitchen.

“My name is John--I’m going to try to dig you out.”

“God bless you, John! I’m Terrence and Flossie is here, too.”

I dropped to my knees and began pulling bricks from the pile. The rough bricks and chunks of mortar tore at my hands, leaving the skin cracked and bleeding. Muscles I had not used in months protested as I forced them to their very limits. It was back-breaking work and yet the aches and pains of my night faded away as I dug through the rubble. 

I thought to keep Terrence talking as I dug, peppering him with questions about his life in this narrow street.

“I’m just a…a...clerk,” he said, “too old to fight. I was meant to be working tonight--I’m a warden--but Flossie, she run back into the cellar like and…well here we are.”

“It’s all fine,” I assured him. “Let’s dig the two of you out, shall we?”

The streets were awake now, busy with people returning home from the shelters and those headed out to work. Other hands joined mine.

“Hey there, Terry, it’s Davy. Flossie with ya?”

“Davy! Yes! Floss is here, a bit put out, truth be told--”

Davy laughed. “That’s our girl. We’re all a bit put out, ain’t we?”

My heart sank. I wondered if Flossie were injured. I hadn’t heard a peep from her. Was she Terrence’s wife? A child? An image of Terrence holding Flossie’s lifeless body flashed through my mind. I dug faster.

Quite a motley crew had assembled by now: my assistants included a fireman and an ambulance driver, both on their way home after a long night, a switchboard operator heading to her morning shift done up in lipstick and heels, and a teenage messenger boy whose bag lay on the ground next to my cane. 

At last we unearthed the heavy wooden door that had collapsed across the stairwell entrance. As we pushed it aside, a dust-covered man in his forties appeared, thin as a rake and peering at us through round spectacles. A fat ginger tabby cat was clutched in his arms. She hissed at her rescuers and struggled to free herself.

“Hssht, Flossie,” soothed Terrence, “you mustn’t run off again.”

The switchboard operator managed to locate an lidded basket in the wrecked kitchen to hold Flossie and the ambulance driver offered to guide Terrence to a shelter. Calls of Cheers! Ta! and Keep safe! drifted over the dusty street as we went our separate ways.

I walked the rest of the way home with a spring in my step. I was more tired than I’d been since returning from Africa and yet--I had done some good that morning. My body, wrecked though it was, was still useful. I bounded up the stairs to my flat, wanting more than anything to tell Sherlock of my adventure.

Shutting the door behind myself, I leant against it.

“What,” I asked my rooms, chuckling with nervy adrenaline, “was that?”

I reckon you’ve proven a point, answered the voice in my mind, as posh and self-assured and real as if its owner were lounging on the bed.

“To whom?”

To yourself, of course. Not a cripple.

Not a cripple.

And it was only then I realised that I’d left my walking stick behind.

23 July 1944

Watson–

There is a courier headed back to England tonight and I want this letter in his pouch. M will see that you get it post haste.

My dear man, whilst I thank you for your generous offer, you must know that those memories are ones that I visit in my darkest hours. The cottage in Sussex, the club, our rooms, all reside in my mind palace. I would rather, and have, rubbed the solar system from my brain in order to make room for the sound of your laugh and the set of your shoulders. When I find my resolve flagging, I need only think of your fierce, brave heart to bolster my spirit.

The events of 7 June were so successful, dear boy, that I dare hope to be home soon. Surely this damned war is approaching its end at last.

I am told I must end here if this letter is to go with the courier–

Je t’aime, mon ami,

WSSH

Chapter Text

Mama

Thinks I'm living in a convent,

A secluded little convent

In the southern part of France.

March 1944

I have shared, in as much detail as I am able, my own adventures and challenges during the war. But what of Sherlock Holmes? What had he been doing since the spring of 1940? Alas, there is much I cannot tell you; indeed there is much I myself do not know. Perhaps one day the veil of the Official Secrets Act will lift, but until then, know that Sherlock spent most of the war in France creating chaos for the enemy.

I am only able to reference Sherlock’s experience in Occupied Europe, for while I know little of his activities, I know far less of the other brave agents and saboteurs stationed there. Sherlock is well-known for his ability to disappear into a disguise; indeed he has fooled me more times than I care to admit. But I do believe that his ability to completely disappear behind a façade kept him alive when so many others perished.

Having read this far, you may recall his days in Berlin, dressed in an evening gown or a scandalously short schoolgirl skirt. In the years before the war, when we were lost to one other, circumstances dictated that he bleach his hair Aryan blond and straighten his curls. Even as children, with the run of the Ferndell attic for costumes, Sherlock and his sister took dressing up to new heights. They might spend the day roaming the estate dressed as pirates or arrive at dinner in tails and tiara. “Twinnies,” was a favourite game that required raiding each other’s closet to arrive at the breakfast or luncheon table in identical dress.

In the months leading up to the liberation of Paris, Sherlock was instrumental in bringing to justice another master of hiding in plain sight, a man my friend has described as the epitome of evil: the one known as the Butcher of Paris, the Scalper of the Ètoile, the Monster of rue Le Sueur--Dr Marcel Petiot. As the horrific case is part of the public record and was reported in newspapers around the world, I am able to recount the tale for you here.

“It began on an ordinary evening in March of 1944,” my friend told me. “I had occasion to be in the 16^th arrondissement and was intrigued by a commotion happening on a street of elegant houses. The air was heavy with the foulest combination of odours; burning rubber mixed with hints of charred caramel and scorched hair, a combination no perfumier would ever choose.

“Looking up, I could see the source of the stench--thick, inky smoke pouring from the chimney at 21 rue Le Sueur.  I joined the gathered onlookers and police officers, eavesdropping on the conversations floating around me. I learnt that the smoke and odour had been infiltrating the neighbourhood for the last two days; when the residents of number 22 could stand it no longer they notified the authorities. By the time I arrived, the officers had summoned the fire brigade, having been unable to rouse anyone inside the house.

“A man on a bicycle approached the officer in charge, one Georges-Victor Massu, someone I would come to know and respect, although I did not know his name at the time. I worked my way closer in order to hear the conversation.

“Are you true French patriots?” the man asked.

“What kind of question is that?” the commissaire retorted.

“Attendez-vous! Inside this house you will find the bodies of Germans and traitors to our country. You have not yet contacted the Gestapo, I hope?  That would be a serious mistake,” the man continued. “My life is at stake, as are the the lives of several of my friends who serve our cause."

“A Resistance operation? Individual cells were isolated out of necessity, but still, I had no knowledge of any systematic disposal of oppressors or collaborators within the city. I turned to study the house. When I looked back, the man on the bicycle had disappeared.

“By this time the fire brigade had broken in through an upstairs window and completed their tour of the house.  Deeming the residence safe to enter, they invited the commissaire and his men in.

“As you know, John, I am quite adept at making myself invisible and was therefore able to integrate myself with the men entering the house. I will refrain from drawing any conclusions for you and tell you only what I was able to observe.

“The rooms inside number 21 rue Le Sueur resembled nothing so much as the storerooms of Sotheby’s or at least one of the finer antique shops in the Portobello Road.  Furniture was scattered in no meaningful arrangement, draped with dust covers.  I was able to attach myself to the group of officers who plumbed the depths of the house, finding several coal stoves roaring away in the cellar along with a charred human hand and other skeletal debris.

“I had been exposed to many horrific scenes in my service to the Crown and Justice, but John, I must tell you that the blood in my veins froze despite the roaring fires. I was aware of the camps in the East, the ones the Nazis used to exterminate their fellow man. But there, in Paris, a person or persons--for could such crimes be achieved unassisted--had created a private crematorium in one of the best districts. I did not for a moment believe the bicyclist’s assertion that the dead were Germans and traitors; a basement cupboard was found to contain twenty-some toothbrushes and bottles of perfume, thirty-six tubes of makeup, lipsticks, fingernail files, hand mirrors, seven pairs of eyeglasses, two umbrellas, a walking cane, and a women’s bathing suit. The victims were neither German soldiers nor collaborators; these were items belonging to people expecting to travel. My deductions were confirmed when we discovered a room full of suitcases.

“I worked my way back through the house, as I was expected elsewhere, looking for the chief detective.

“When I found him, I spoke quietly, ‘Pardonnez-moi, je pense pouvoir vous aider. Where may I find you tomorrow afternoon s’il vous plaît?’

“The chief detective was a plain man--physically unremarkable in every way. Small shrewd eyes studied me from a jowly face with a characteristically Gallic nose.

“‘Pourquoi? Qui êtes-vous?’ he asked.

“Only a friend.”

“The French have such expressive faces; he studied me with a furrowed brow and pursed lips. Finally he gave a Gallic shrug and said, ‘D’accord. Tomorrow at two o’clock. Le Jardin des Tuileries. I will meet you at Le Bon Samaritain.’

“You will understand that I was delighted to have met a kindred spirit amongst the Paris police. He understood me completely. ‘Très bien,’ I replied. ‘À demain.’

“And so I made the acquaintance of Commissaire Massu, a superb detective with a mastery of police procedure that would be an asset to any police force. I arrived at the Tuileries just before the appointed time, still marvelling at his choice of meeting place. Having known me for only a moment, Massu understood that I was indeed acting as a good Samaritan.”

I snorted. My friend narrowed his eyes at me.

“Come, come,” I said, “you were not acting the Samaritan; you were intrigued by a puzzle and wanted to show off your skills.”

Sherlock huffed with indignation. “John,” he said patiently, “we had stumbled onto the crimes of a diabolical killer; it behooved me to offer my services before any more innocents were slaughtered.”

“Of course,” I replied, schooling my features into an appropriately serious expression.

“I was only showing off a bit,” he mumbled over his cup.

“Please, do go on,” I encouraged.

“Massu arrived shortly after two, completely unruffled, showing no sign of having hurried to meet me.

“‘Georges-Victor Massu,’ he said.

“‘You many call me Guillaume,’ I replied, shaking his proffered hand.

“Quite sensibly, he did not ask for more identification than that. The French police walked a thin line between the Gestapo and the French people during the Occupation, you see. Commissaire Massu knew that what he did not know would not have to be denied to the Gestapo.

“As we strolled along the garden paths, I shared my deductions with him. ‘The murderer, or murderers, are not killing Germans or collaborators. The suitcases and personal items indicate victims who anticipated travelling.’

He nodded in assent. ‘After you left,’ he said, ‘there were other features of…interest.’

“I could hardly contain my excitement. Clearly these features only strengthened my hypothesis.

“‘In the courtyard behind the house,’ said Massu, ‘there is a pit. A pit filled with quicklime and…’

“I was moved to see that even an experienced officer such as Massu was overcome by the discoveries of the night before. ‘Bodies. You found decomposing bodies in the quicklime,’ I interjected.

“He was pale under his olive complexion, but his voice did not waver as he continued, ‘In one of the out-buildings we found a peculiar chamber. Quite triangular. The walls are equipped with iron hooks. No windows or furniture. And, curiously, or perhaps not so curiously, a peephole.’

“‘The murderer observes his victims?’ I asked.

“’So it seems. The house is registered to a doctor, one Marcel Petiot, but we cannot find him. He resides in the rue Caumartin, number 66. We have questioned his wife, naturellement, but she knows very little.’

“‘You believe her?’ I asked.

“‘Alas, I do. She says the house on the rue Le Sueur is merely an investment, a project that the doctor has taken on in his spare time.’”

“I thought of you then, John,” Sherlock said. “Of your letters and how little time you had outside of your duties.”

“Ah, but I was an army doctor during a war, my dear, not a general practitioner.”

Sherlock hummed thoughtfully and continued his tale. “Nevertheless, it seemed a queer set of circumstances; a doctor, quite well-known in certain circles, with a house in one the best districts that he did not occupy, not even as an office, filled with furniture and art and decomposing bodies. This strange house was also fitted with both a chambre de torture and lime pit. What use would a doctor--one who has taken an oath to do no harm--have for either?

“This is the question I posed to Massu, although I already knew the answer.

“We stopped at one of the fountains where he pulled out a pack of Gauloises and offered one to me. Oh John, they are heaven.

“‘It seems to me, Guillaume, that this Petiot has been luring his victims to the rue Le Sueur with the promise of helping them leave Paris. But somehow he is able to kill them without struggle, his only challenge being  to dispose of the bodies.’

“I had been in France too long--my first instinct was to kiss my new acquaintance on both cheeks. It was so refreshing to be in the presence of someone nearly as brilliant as myself. Instead I drew in a deep drag--you really should try them, John, such fine, dark tobacco, available even under occupation--and asked, ‘Did you find any money at the house?’

“‘Money?’ Massu was perplexed. ‘Jewellry, fine silver candlesticks, but not a sou. Why--payment. Payment for false papers and--’’

“‘Tickets. Fees for the smugglers to get them to Lisbon or Marseille.’

“‘Ah! Mon ami, you are clever! Perhaps you are this Petiot and are laughing at me behind my back?’

“‘I assure you that I am not a doctor, Commissaire. Simply a man who enjoys solving puzzles. What will you do next?’

“‘I will send someone to Villeneuve-sur-Yonne. Petiot and his wife lived there until ’32. Perhaps we will find him there.’

“‘I suspect you will not, unless the good doctor is not as clever as I think he is.’

“Massu nodded and crushed the end of his Gauloise under his heel. ‘You have been helpful, Guillaume. It is good to have someone with whom to discuss such things. Perhaps you will let me know if you hear anything of our man? How may I contact you?’

“‘It will be easier for me to come to you, but, if you should need me, place an ad in La Résistance. It should say that GV will meet l'apiculteur. I will meet you the next day at Le Bon Samaritain. D’accord?’

“‘D’accord.’ Massu shook my hand and smiled, ‘Au revoir, l'apiculteur.’

“I did not hear from Massu until July. Of course, Petiot was not the only criminal in Paris. I am sure that Massu, and indeed the entire Brigade Criminelle, had their hands full keeping the peace and keeping the Gestapo out of French affairs.

“After the Allied landing in June, the chaotic excitement of the Parisians grew daily. Despite German orders to the contrary, the Paris police did nothing when the people gathered in the streets for a raucous celebration on Bastille Day. Knowing that the Allied Forces were working their way from Normandy to Cherbourg to Paris gave many the courage to openly resist the oppressor. La Crim were content to stand by as resistance increased.

“‘We met again on the twentieth of July. The investigation had stalled. Petiot had been arrested and released by the Gestapo in 1943, but the Germans had no record of him after his release. Massu suspected that he was hiding in plain sight within the city; frightened collaborators often accomplished this by joining the FFI--Forces françaises de l'Intérieur--why not a murderer? It would be easy enough, if Petiot had the connections we thought he did, to obtain false papers and slap on an FFI armband.

“‘If only we could draw him out,’ Massu said. ‘Draw him out and at the same time prove that he is the murderer. If he murdered Nazis and collaborators, then, c’est la guerre, n'est-ce pas? But if he murdered innocents…’

“‘You know he was not murdering the enemy,’ I said. ‘Think. Who would do anything to get out of Paris? Who would trust a stranger with their lives?’

“Massu bowed his head. The word hung between us unspoken. Les Juifs. Jews. Two years earlier, thirteen thousand men, women, and children--Jewish foreign nationals--had been rounded up and held in the Vel’ d’Hiv before being deported to the camps in the East. After the occupation of Vichy, arrests and deportations had increased to include French citizens.

“‘Then we must find him and bring him to justice.’

“‘Clairement, Commissaire,’ I answered. ‘May I suggest placing an article in the paper, accusing him of collaboration? If Petiot is who I believe he is, his vanity will get the better of him and he will be compelled to set the record straight. One thing I understand about men like the good doctor is that they cannot bear to be misrepresented. If any deceit is to be perpetrated, they will be the ones doing it.’

“‘Ah, mais oui, mon ami! Very clever!’ Massu tapped a finger to his forehead.

“In September, La Résistance published an article--Petiot: Soldier of the Reich--accusing him drug trafficking, prostitution, and collaboration.

“But why did Massu wait until September to send the article?” I asked.

“Really, John. And you call yourself a writer! The article was published in September; I am sure that Massu submitted it much earlier. He was arrested for collaboration at the end of August. A regrettable circumstance to be sure; through his job with the Brigade Criminelle, Massu sought to protect the citizens of Paris as much as possible from their occupiers and the Gestapo, but his choices were considered criminal by those in charge after liberation.”

“And did Petiot respond?”

Sherlock grinned. “Bien sûr! It took weeks, but at last La Résistance received a handwritten letter renouncing the allegations.

All accused persons should be considered innocent until proven guilty. Because of law and justice I have the right to defend myself and to ask you to print my answer.

“It was the vanity of writing his answer longhand that was his downfall. With a sample of his handwriting, la Crim were able to trace him to the FFI where Petiot was masquerading as Dr Henri Valéry wearing an armband and the rank of captain as a disguise. He was arrested, quite appropriately, on All Hallow’s Eve 1944.”

“But Sherlock,” I said, captivated by this tale of terror, “By October you were no longer in Paris!”

He crossed the room to perch on the arm of my chair. “No,” he said, “I wasn’t was I? But it was in all the papers, even here in London, if one knew what to look for. I suspect that you were rather occupied at the time.”

I rested my head against him. October 1944. Orpington, like the rest of England, was tormented by V2 bombs, the notorious doodlebugs. The fighting across Europe meant more patients for British hospitals. And my heart; I prayed every night for the safe return of Sherlock and his sister. The only news that reached me were the snippets of the BBC I heard on the wards.

“And Petiot? What happened?”

Sherlock wrapped an arm around me, holding me close. “He was tried and convicted in the spring of 1946. Had a date with Madame la Guillotine.”

“Ahhh,” I shuddered involuntarily. “A just end.”

“A just end.”

The tale was, as you can see, quite disturbing. I was still mulling it over hours later when I remembered the strange triangular chamber at the house in the 16^th arrondissement.

“Sherlock?”

My friend was sitting at the only table in our flat surrounded by graduated cylinders and beakers, using a pipette to dispense a clear liquid. Without taking his eyes from his work, he answered with a distracted hum.

“I was wondering about Petiot, about the chamber with the peephole. Did the authorities ever figure out its purpose? And why does it smell like almonds in here?” I studied his workspace. “Are those cherry pits?”

“Mmm. I am studying the amount of cyanide present in various fruit pits. Do you prefer apricots or peaches?”

“Peaches. Wait. What? Are you going to poison someone?”

“Oh don’t be ridiculous. It’s a simple study of naturally occurring toxins. Any potassium cyanide I create is quickly quenched with hydrogen peroxide.”

I was befuddled. “But why are you studying--”

“Because one never knows when it might prove useful. It wasn’t raining when Noah built the ark, after all. Suppose a country wife sets out to poison the vicar with cherry preserves…”

“Why would…? Never mind. What about Petiot and that room with the iron hooks?”

Sherlock looked up. “Oh, he poisoned his victims. I assume he administered a light sedative, possibly under the pretence of a required vaccine, to insure compliance long enough to move them to his observation chamber. Once the victim was secured, he dropped pellets of potassium cyanide into a solution of sulphuric acid and distilled water. Massu told me the room had a small heater, so it would have been easy to maintain the needed 75º Fahrenheit for vaporisation.”

I was astounded.  Cyanide gas is a lethal poison that attacks a person’s very cells by halting respiration. It is not an attractive death: first the victim gasps for breath, then foams at the mouth, writhing in spasms of pain before finally succumbing in a flurry of convulsions as each individual cell in the body suffocates.

“You mean to tell me this…ma…monster, who dared call himself a DOCTOR, not only administered poison gas but watched his prey expire?! And how was he not exposed to the gas?”

Sherlock’s grinned wryly. “Hanging outside the door to the chamber, which, by the way, had no knob on the inside and could only be secured from the exterior, was a gas mask.”

4 September 1944

John had taken to carrying the little blue scarab in his trouser pocket. Countless times each day he reached in to roll the stone beetle between his fingers. Sherlock, he prayed as he clutched his talisman, Sherlock, come home to me, love.

Paris had been liberated at the end of August; although he had no concrete reason to believe it, he was sure that Sherlock was in Paris. Still, there’d been no word from him since July. He knew he was being ridiculous; there were any number of reasons why Sherlock had yet to contact him. But yesterday British forces had liberated Brussels; surely by now it was safe for Sherlock, if not to come home, at least to get word to John that all was well.

He’d worked hard to be be hopeful; he wrote new letters every few days, sending them off in care of Sherlock’s brother. Sometimes, after a long day, his hand was too stiff and cramped to write much. He supposed he could’ve typed his letters, but handwritten, no matter how difficult, seemed more intimate. He could imagine that his hand holding the pen was tracing Sherlock’s jaw while his other hand rested on the page as it might have rested on his lover’s hip. When he’d had a second glass of whisky, he would press his lips to the page and allow himself to believe that Sherlock would know; that when he read John’s letter, wherever he might be, Sherlock would sense the kisses planted there. Perhaps Sherlock would hold the page to his own lips to complete the kiss.

Damn it all to hell! a drop of what--whisky?--was rinsing away a word. No, the paper didn’t smell of alcohol…then what? It was only then that John realised he was crying. A fat, childish, cowardly tear had landed on the page, diluting the ink to a burst of blue with a vacant centre.

Chapter Text

Alone, alone

You shouldn't sit alone like that

5 February 1945

Orpington, Kent

Three hundred thirty-six days from the Allied invasion of Normandy to the surrender of Berlin. I didn’t start counting until day seventy-nine, the liberation of Paris. Of course, I had no real idea where Sherlock was, but I assumed him to be--quite correctly it turned out--in France.

It was unreasonable to even entertain the thought that my friend would return from the Continent by the end of August, and yet, I hoped. I took to marking an X through each square on my calendar before retiring for the night, my last thought always, Tomorrow. He will be here tomorrow.

I did not have time to wallow each time my hopes were proven wrong; the deadly barrage of flying bombs, the doodlebugs, began that summer. Naturally most fell in London, reaching the city within five minutes of launching from Holland or Germany. It has been said that of the five V2 bombs that landed in England every day after Normandy, three fell on London. Thousands were injured or killed. At our hospital in Orpington, I worked ceaselessly in the wards, tending to soldiers and pilots. There was no time to run for shelter when a doodlebug hit--we protected ourselves and our patients as best we could and carried on.

I took to carrying my little blue scarab in my pocket at all times, even falling asleep with it clutched it my hand. Renewal and resurrection, Tink had said. She was in Italy, the field hospital moving ever northward. I hoped there would be no need for resurrection, but asked the beetle to keep the Littles safe until they returned home.

When we were in Africa, Enola shared stories of childhood holidays spent at their French grandmother’s estate near Trouville-sur-Mer, of trips to the showrooms of Chanel and Lanvin in Paris with her mother for frocks.

“Pan is such a wonderful mimic,” said Enola. “It’s not just his accent that makes someone believe he’s a native--it’s the way his holds his body, changes the set of his mouth, his brow. He’s much better at it than I.”

I smiled, remembering my friend on the stage of the Kit Kat Klub in a short skirt and a beret, looking over his shoulder at the audience with an insouciant grin. “Mama,” he sang, “thinks I’m living in a convent. A secluded little convent in the southern part of France.” Beyond the lyrics, beyond the costume, he had become a young woman gleefully exploring her sexual power.

“My, on the other hand, is proud of his Parisian accent,” she continued, “no countrified landed-gentry French for him--but no one would ever believe that he was actually Parisian. He can’t be bothered to alter himself in any way. He always holds himself just so--“ Here Enola demonstrated by sitting up straighter, tilting her chin up and looking down her nose at me. “My is brilliant, of course he is, but he is always himself, you see. A fabulously educated Englishman with a flair for languages and politics, the epitome of Empire, having his tea the same way every day and writing corrections in the margins of the Encyclopaedia Britannica.”

The days grew colder and nights grew longer and still there was no word from Sherlock. No news is good news, I told myself. I had no reason to believe him dead, ergo, he must still live and would return home as soon as he was able.

At the hospital, there was no shortage of patients.  Americans, Canadians, even some Poles and Czechs filled the beds next to our own boys. I saw it all--burns, amputations, festering bullet wounds, and concussive injuries caused by explosives. My brother surgeons mended them in the operating theatre and I met our patients on the wards, changing dressings, removing stitches, peering in eyes that no longer detected light. I celebrated with those who would return home whole and mourned with those who would not.

I had taken a sparsely furnished room above a pub near the railroad station. The publican provided beer and simple food and refrained from watering down the stronger spirits too much. For a few shillings more, my sheets were washed and the floor swept. After a long day on the wards I was tired and ready for my tea. A pint with some bangers and mash, I thought, will set things to rights. It wouldn’t of course, but after a bite to eat I could retire to my room and lose myself in dreams.

One hundred and sixty-three days after the liberation of Paris; 196 days since Sherlock’s last letter.  January had been bitterly cold but the new month had brought unseasonably mild temperatures; I walked down the high street with my coat unbuttoned and my head down. My mind was full of news from my family; my uncle was recovering from a nasty case of bronchitis and my sister was expecting her third child, conceived during her husband’s last visit from Wales. I was ashamed that I had not been home since the spring of ’42 and yet I couldn’t see how my presence would make any difference in their lives.

“Watson!” a voice called. “Watson! Dr Watson! Captain! Sir!”

The smooth baritone broke through my revery and I turned to see a tall man in a leather overcoat hurrying towards me.

“Watson!”

“Sher--Is it you?” I stammered.

As he drew closer I recognised the dark curls, the sharp cheekbones, and finally those brilliant blue eyes. Standing less than an arm’s length apart, I reached for him, clasping his elbows as he held mine. I thought my heart had stopped until it began drumming in my chest like a rabbit’s feet.

“Are you--”

“Yes.”

I swallowed. I wanted nothing more than to hold my beloved in my arms, to breathe in his very essence, to bring him into myself. But not on the high street, not even in the fading daylight.

“I--” I started.

“Yes.”

He threw his arms around me then, thumping my back in the manliest of embraces before pulling back and dropping his arms. I felt their loss immediately.

“You look…well,” he stuttered, his eyes filling with tears.

“Yes. Yes, I am. Better just now, I think.”

“Yes.”

“But where are my manners,” I said, indicating the pub ahead of us, “I was about to have my tea, if you would join me.”

His face relaxed into the beautiful smile that had so often graced my dreams. “I would like that very much.”

What did we dine on that evening? Sausage? Woolton pie? I have no recollection; I do know that neither the tenderest roast nor the sweetest pudding would have been more memorable. I do remember the brightness of Sherlock’s eyes, the play of light across the angular planes of his face, the touch of his foot against mine under the table.

“You’ve been in France, then?”

“Oui,” he said with a wink.

“Paris?”

“Most of the time.” He gestured across the table to indicate the breadth of the country.

Be like Dad, keep Mum, I thought.

“But you are well?”

With a mischievous grin he repeated my words back to me, “Better just now I think.”

I smiled. “Yes. Indeed.”

We ate slowly, stopping between each bite to gaze at one another in wonder.

Finally I said, “When I didn’t hear from you,” and immediately regretted it, “I mean that…”

“I am sorry to have worried you; I had the luxury of knowing you were here and relatively safe.”  He looked down at his plate, pushing at the remains of his meal with his fork. The minute stretched to an infinity before he laid the utensil down and slid his hand across the table. His eyes glistened as he spoke, “I wanted to come home--in July I--but I was needed in the north….”

My hand rested on the table, our fingers all but touching.

My throat was closing and I swallowed hard before saying, “I spoke out of turn, of course you had good reasons, important reasons, I only meant--”

His fingers reached for mine but dropped back to the table.

“John,” he said, “you are the important reason, everything…is meaningless except fighting for a world worth sharing with you.”

Did the girl come just then to clear the table? Bring us another pint? Time has erased the memory. I wanted, with all my being, to take him by the hand and lead him to my room, to my narrow bed, to begin sharing the world we had both fought to have; but of course, that particular world did not exist.

Instead I said, “Are you staying nearby? I have a room upstairs…”

He glanced at his watch before answering, “I am returning to London tonight, on the last train; I’m expected at Whitehall in the morning and then on to Beaulieu. But if you are able, that is, if you see fit--”

“Anywhere,” I said quickly. “Tell me where and when.”

“At the weekend? My grandmother’s cottage? I could meet you at the station in Ditchling--”

“Yes, oh God yes.”

A light mist dampened the air as we walked to the station. With a furtive glance, my friend grabbed my wrist, pulling me into the shadows of the underpass. He loomed over me with his hands in my hair, under my chin, cupping my cheeks to tilt my face up for a kiss.

He tasted of potatoes and beer and that exquisite flavour that only he possesses. Using the stone wall for support, I raised myself onto my toes, submitting to the kiss even as I clutched at his curls, his shoulders, his face. We were pressed tightly against one another, our desires making themselves known through layers of fabric.

At last he broke the embrace, pulling back only enough to reduce the flames to embers. “John Watson,” he murmured, “you are marvellous.”

I traced the sharp angles of his face with my thumb. “As are you, Sherlock Holmes.”

He blushed at that, the pink evident despite the gloom.

The approaching train’s whistle pierced the night.

“That’s my cue, I’m afraid,” he said. “Might you get away as early as Friday evening?”

“If I have to go without leave,” I declared. “I will meet you Friday evening. In Ditchling.”

With a last tender brush of lips, he was gone.

I stood in the underpass until the train pulled away, too cowardly to watch it carry him to town. Back in my room, I found that his scent lingered on my coat—tobacco, shaving soap, and an indescribable note that was his alone. When I crawled into bed I took the coat with me, cradling it like a lover.

14 July 1944

Paris

The city was abuzz with activity; despite German prohibitions Parisians were taking to the streets to celebrate la Fête nationale française, Bastille Day. Everywhere he went, Sherlock was hemmed in by sweating celebrants. He should’ve stayed in his rooms; he felt sick. His head was pounding from the assault on his senses—the stench of bodies, the din of hundreds--thousands--of voices raised in jubilation, and worst of all, the closeness of those bodies, brushing up against him and breathing his air. He’d thought to avoid the heat by running his errands in the morning but hadn’t anticipated the hopeful defiance of the French. Twice he’d been startled by German soldiers firing into the air as they attempted to disperse the crowds while the French police on patrol stood by in silent resistance. He couldn’t focus--couldn’t hold a thought for more than a moment. To escape from the throng of cheering Parisians he needed a touchstone, an anchor, before he lost himself in the chaos.

Trouville-sur-Mer. There was nothing left for him in the city; surely he could get to Trouville-sur-Mer. He could take a fishing boat to Portsmouth or anywhere along the coast; the location wouldn’t matter. Once on British soil he could walk to Kent if needs must. To John. His sun. Not the blistering sun of July, not the sparkling sun on La Manche, but the only sun Sherlock would ever require. Golden hair, golden skin, ocean-blue eyes. Strong arms to anchor him to the earth; to steady Sherlock when his thoughts threatened to launch him into the stratosphere. Since the invasion at Normandy, apparitions of John appeared daily. A glimpse of blond hair, a particular set of shoulders, a barking laugh, and Sherlock would have to force himself to ignore the aspirations of sentiment. John was in England. Kent. Orpington. At the military hospital, saving lives.

As the Allied forces drew closer life in Paris grew more disordered. Les Boches were the worst, simultaneously laissez-faire whilst grasping for control. Resistance was fashionable; the FFI were being infiltrated by former collaborators hoping to erase their past. Indeed, Sherlock suspected that Marcel Petiot was hiding within their ranks. Freedom was coming and righteous anger would lead to the humiliation and death of those who had cooperated with the oppressor--no matter the reason--by those who had resisted. His utility here was finished, time to go home.

“Bourdon!”

“Bourdon!”

Sherlock scanned the crowd.

“Ici! Bourdon!”

A boy, hardly out of short pants, waved at him, jostling his way through the crowd. He was too thin—they all were these days—wearing a threadbare shirt too short to stay tucked into trousers which were too long. He’d cuffed them around his ankles to keep from tripping.

“C’est merveilleux, non?” the boy asked with a grin that promised to split his face from ear to ear, just like—but no; the boy’s hair was sandy brown, his eyes grey-green.

“You have something for me?” Sherlock asked quietly.

“Oui, la voici.” The boy reached into the bag slung across his chest and handed Sherlock a small brown envelope. “Bonjour!” the boy called over his shoulder as he disappeared into the crowd, “Vive la France!”

Sherlock tucked the envelope into his jacket pocket and did not open it until he had returned to his rooms. The message inside was brief, hardly a complete sentence:

14 July will be a fine evening for Beethoven. M.

The evening broadcasts from the BBC included the opening bars of Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony; the first four notes corresponded to the Morse code for the letter V. V for Victory. This would be followed by a series of “personal messages;” tonight there would be one for him.

“Pan, the window is not yet unbarred.”

Not home. Sherlock sighed deeply; there would be more to follow--a message, an assignment. Still, he hung to hope: someday soon he would fly home.

Chapter Text

Komm, leg dich zu mir!

Alles ist dir so schön, so wunderschön..

Come lay next to me!

Everything about you is beautiful, so lovely…

February 1945

Sussex

I have always been prone to vivid dreams and nightmares and am, to this day, wakened by images of blood and bombs. Each time my friend brings me back with a steady touch, softly calling my name, “John,” he says, “John, you’re safe. We’re home.”

Sherlock is better at compartmentalising his thoughts and memories, arranging them into a tidy labyrinth of rooms and boxes all carefully sealed away until needed. I believe it to be rather like my uncle’s warehouse near the docks; shelves and pallets full of crates that hide their contents. Whenever he disappears into silent musing, I imagine that he is exploring his vast memory until he finds the exact item desired and examines it in relative safety.

He does not wake in the night, as I do, wild-eyed with terror, nor does he mention any dreams in the morning. Instead he ponders his memories in semi-consciousness, not quite sleeping, to keep chaos at bay. But in those early days, his exhausted body gave his psyche free reign. That first night in Sussex, his thrashing startled me awake.

In the moonlight shining through the cottage window, I could see his face contorted with distress.

“Sherlock,” I said, shaking his shoulder, “Sherlock, it’s all right. It’s me, it’s John.”

“Non! En français! En français!” He sat up quickly, his eyes wide with panic. He clutched my arms, digging his fingers into my biceps. “Les Boches!” he hissed.

I wracked my brain for the French words to soothe him, to bring him home. “Oui, mon chou, oui,” I managed. “Je regrette. J’oublie. Mais nous sommes en Angleterre. C’est moi—John. Tu es home.”

I cupped his cheek with my hand. His skin was hot and damp with both sweat and tears. “S’il vous plaît, cheri, regardez-moi.”

I wanted to pull him into an embrace, to let the feel and smell of my body return him to the present, but his arms were locked tight, holding me at a distance. Slowly, gradually, he leant into my hand and closed his eyes. His fingers loosened their grip on my arms and finally, like a marionette with cut strings, he collapsed against me.

“I’m here,” I soothed. “We’re here, together. You’re safe, I promise. I’m here.”

His body shook with silent sobs as I held him, patiently waiting for him to weave his way back through his maze of memories.

My darling boy met me on the platform in Ditchling a week after our reunion in Orpington. I’d arranged three days of leave and wasn’t expected at the hospital until Monday morning. Unable to wait until evening, I boarded the first train to Ditchling after breakfast.

In his leather overcoat with the collar raised against the drizzle, a deep blue scarf knotted around his neck, and hands buried in his pockets, he looked like the boy I’d met in Berlin so long ago. A tangle of dark curls spilled out from under his fedora, just behind his ears. My fingers itched at the sight of them.

He greeted me with a hearty “Captain Watson!” and extended his hand.

I clasped it in my own, revelling in the strength of his long fingers.

“Holmes,” I drawled, “I hope you’ve not been waiting long.”

“Of course not,” he assured me as we walked along the platform. “Assuming you were not planning to be absent without leave and knowing your penchant for a hearty breakfast, I deduced the time of your arrival based on the earliest departure possible after you’d broken your fast, which I assumed would happen at the pub rather than the hospital mess given the proximity of your room to the train station.” He paused for a moment before adding softly, “And then I arrived two hours earlier.”

I laughed, a full-bellied chortle the like of which I had not experienced since leaving him at this very station four years earlier.

“My good man,” I said, wiping tears from my eyes, “I have missed you.”

We walked to his grandmother’s cottage, keeping a respectable distance between us until we turned down the lane marking the final leg of our journey. Safe in the seclusion afforded by a meadow and a hedgerow, we allowed first our shoulders and then our arms to brush against each other before finally entwining our fingers.

“You look, erm, I mean to, rather, erm, you-look-very-well-in-that-hat,” he managed with a blush.

I laughed again, feeling my heart grow in my chest. “I am rather fond of your scarf myself,” I said softly.

“Yes. I find that deep blue has become rather a favourite of mine.”

Upon entering the cottage, I thought he had come down the evening or perhaps even the afternoon before as the curtains were open and rooms had obviously been swept and aired. Sherlock carried no luggage and a cheery fire burned upon the hearth in the front room.

“I came down last evening,” he said, reading my thoughts as ever. “But my brother contracted with Marianne and her mother to prepare for our arrival. There are provisions in the kitchen if you are--”

I dropped my rucksack to the floor and unbuttoned my coat. “The only thing that I am hungry for,” I said as I knocked his fedora aside and wove my fingers into his overlong hair, “is you.”

Our first kiss was no more than a dry brush of lips, as if we had forgotten how to proceed. I unknotted his scarf before we tried again, peppering his throat and jaw with tiny pecks as I worked my way back to his mouth.

He leant into me this time, tracing the lines of my captain’s uniform with both hands. I pulled back to smile at his fascination with my clothes and wetted my lips with my tongue. Silver-blue eyes studied my mouth and his own tongue darted out, mirroring me. Sherlock shed his coat in a fluid motion before pulling me close. To say he loomed over me, while physically accurate, does not adequately describe his posture; he enveloped me. Long arms cradled my back, my shoulders, my head as he worked my lips apart with his tongue. Having met mine, his tongue coaxed it into his own mouth.

How can something be both familiar and brand-new? If I live one hundred years I shall not have the words to explain it. I can only describe the feeling of coming home after a long journey to a place you have never been. My heart, indeed my soul, knew this man, my Sherlock, even as I explored new planes with my hands and mouth. He was no longer the lithe boy I’d known in Berlin nor was he the wounded man I’d rescued from Camp Vernet. This was a new Sherlock, harder and older than the others; one who I would gladly spend the rest of my life getting to know.

I caught him studying me as one might concentrate on an unfamiliar text or a specimen under a microscope.

“What is it?” I asked.

His fingers feathered over my face as he answered, “These lines here…and here…were not there before.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No, no,” he assured me, “I like them. They have gravitas.”

“Gravitas,” I giggled. Would my life from this moment forward consist of laughter and love? I could imagine nothing more delightful.

He took my hand, pulling me upstairs. Here, too, a merry fire burned in the grate and the linens on the four-poster bed had been turned down invitingly. We undressed one other in silence, each slowly savouring the other’s body. He paused to investigate the scar left by the sniper’s bullet, turning me slightly to look for an exit wound. Satisfied, he christened the knotted skin with his tongue, drawing ever larger circles before kissing the whole of it, staking his claim on that piece of my history.

“Sherl--”

“Shhhh,” he commanded, guiding me onto the bed.

We lay with legs intertwined, hip bones and cocks touching. He held himself above me on muscular arms, gazing at me with curiosity and awe and, yes, affection. I studied him as well; his skin was as pale and creamy as I remembered, his chest decorated with a dusting of fine hair that was more auburn than black. My brain flashed an image of Tink’s auburn curls and plaits. I thanked her for existing before quickly banishing her to a dark corner of my memory. Now was not the time. I caressed the muscles of his biceps, luxuriating in his strength.

“How I missed you,” I breathed.

“And I you.”

My cock twitched against him, reminding me that there would be plenty of time for sweet nothings later and asking if we might get down to business. I agreed by setting aside words and grabbing his buttocks to pull him against me. Reflexively, I thrust upwards and moaned at the sensation of his warmth, his smoothness, his own self. He lowered himself onto me in response, breathing out a low-pitched sound before kissing me, deeply and firmly.

He kissed me, wet and sloppy, until my mouth ached and yet, when he started to nip at my neck, my lips were lonely. Not that I minded for more than a second; soon I was thrusting against him in response to his ministrations. He continued his nips and kisses down my body, dragging fingernails behind. I thought to draw him back up, to feel his whole body against mine again, but when he took me into his mouth, those thoughts fled. I buried my fingers in his hair, overcome by the sensation of his lips and tongue bringing me close to climax.

“Yes,” I gasped, “Oh, Sherlock, yeee…”

The power of speech left me and there was nothing but Sherlock and me and physical release.

As I lay panting, he crept up beside me, entangling his limbs with mine.

“Good?” he asked, grinning like a fox who has made off with the farmer’s prize chanticleer.

When my brain once again connected with my tongue, I nodded and whispered, “Yes. Quite good. Very good.”

I reached my hand between us to stroke him gently. “So good,” I murmured.

“Don’t worry about that just now, John,” he said. “Aren’t you starving? I thought perhaps a picnic on the bed before we continue?”

Before I could muster a coherent answer, he was up and pulling a dressing gown across his sinewy body.

“There’s one for you, too, if you’re chilly,” he said, pointing to the forest green dressing gown draped over a chair by the fire, “and a flannel next to the basin.” He was nearly out the bedroom door before adding, “and you might look for the jar of petrolatum while I’m gone.”

I found the lubricant and placed it on the nightstand.

When Sherlock returned with a tray, I sat cross-legged on the bed, wrapped in the green cashmere dressing gown.

“I thought that would bring out the green in your eyes,” he said approvingly. “Harrod’s,” he added in reply to my unanswered question.

“Thank you,” I said, both pleased and embarrassed that he’d gone shopping for me during his day in London. The dressing gown in my rucksack was a plaid flannel affair, older than my niece and threadbare at the elbows.

Our picnic was simple: bread, butter, jam, and cheese eaten off a shared tray. I imagined that the Spode tea service had once belonged to Sherlock’s grandmother. (“But it originally belonged to my great grand-aunt,” he reminds me now, peering over my shoulder.) Regardless of its origins, the pink camilla teapot resides in our kitchen to this day.

When our bellies were full, I set the tray on the low table near the fireplace and returned to the bed.

“Oh dear,” I said, “you’ve a bit of jam, just there.”

“Here?”

“No, allow me,” I replied, licking at his chin.

“Your fingers are sticky,” he said before taking one into his mouth and sucking.

I crawled astride his lap to slide his dressing gown from his shoulders.

“I found the petrolatum,” I said into his neck.

“Well done,” he replied as I ground myself into his lap to make my interest perfectly clear. “Very well done indeed.”

His voice was husky with desire when he told me, “I shall take you facing me--I want to see your eyes when--”

“God, yes,” I said, reaching for the small jar without separating myself from his embrace.

I began to prepare us both with the ointment. “And I shall watch you come undone as you fill me--I have ached for you, my love.”

It is a most private thing, watching one’s lover lose themselves to sensation and connection, and I shall not describe it except to say that no Botticelli or Michelangelo in the world is as beautiful as Sherlock Holmes at the moment of physical release.

Afterwards, we fell asleep, naked and sated, in each other’s arms. I slept as I had not slept since the last time we shared this bed, completely at peace until my friend’s nightmare woke us both. When he was finally released from his terror, I drew gentle circles on his back as he lay boneless against me. The fire had gone out, but the eiderdown that covered us combined with our shared bodily warmth made for a cozy bower. I must have fallen asleep, for the pale glow of a winter dawn was peeking under the curtains when Sherlock next spoke.

“Apples,” he murmured.

Sherlock was curled into tight ball with his bony knees pressed into my hip and his head on my chest. He clung to my shoulder, anchoring himself with long fingers that dug, not unpleasantly, into my trapezius muscle.

“Apples?” I replied.

“Thought of you. Eating apples. Every time.”

I smiled. “Yeah. I kept my apple blossom tucked in my notebook. You looked so beautiful that day, all those pink petals stuck in your hair. Queen of the May. Or prince. King. King of my heart,” I mused as I fingered his silken curls.

He shifted under my arm, unfurling his body to lie across the bed with his chin on my chest. My hip was both relieved and lonely as the sharp sensation of bone moved to my pectoral muscle. Two blue eyes peered up at me.

“We, I, hid in an orchard near--never mind where--doesn’t matter--I hid in that orchard for days. Had some cheese in my pack but otherwise lived on apples.”

“Quite the combination,” I chuckled. “So alternating between having the shits and being stopped up makes you think of me. Not sure what to say to that.”

But I’d misstepped. His eyes filled and darkened. I reached a gentle hand to him.

“I’m sorry, love. I’ve spent too much time with soldiers lately. I can’t imagine what you went through; I wish I could’ve been with you.” To protect him. The fierce need to defend this gorgeous, sensitive, rare creature has been with me from our first days together. Of course I know he doesn’t need me to be his defender, never has, but the urge is ever-present. This man is mine, roars my soul, harm him at your peril.

“But don’t you see,” he was saying, “you were with me--with every bite of apple, every glimpse of the twilight sky I felt you near me. Just knowing you were in the world…”

I closed my eyes but kept my fingers twined in his hair.

“You were with me, too,” I whispered. “In London. You spoke to me, called to me. There were bombs, the sirens going off, but I was asleep. You woke me. And then, the next morning, I. I…” It was too ridiculous. Fanciful. I stopped.

“Go on,” he urged. “The next morning…”

“There was a man. A man with a cat. His house had been hit and he was trapped in his cellar. I, well, not just me—we dug him out and afterwards I left my walking cane behind; I’d been using it since the infection in Cairo, but I walked the rest of the way home without it. Never missed it. And when I got home, you were there, smugly telling me that you’d proved a point.”

“That you didn’t need it. That you weren’t--”

“Yes. That I wasn’t the cripple I thought I was. And of course you were right. I reenlisted the next day, went to Orpington.”

Sherlock crept further up the bed then, draping himself over me as he had when we were boys in Berlin, wrapping his arms and legs around me. I smoothed the blankets over the two of us before wrapping my own arms around him and drifting back to sleep.

October 1954

London

Lord Basilwether smiled at his wife across the breakfast table although she took no notice from behind the morning newspaper. She sighed deeply as the clatter of feet announced the arrival of their children.

“Mummy! Mummy! Mummy!” that was Wee John--they really must find a better appellation for him--running at full speed and crashing into her chair.

Tink set the paper aside and lifted the little boy over the chair’s arm and into her lap.

“Good morning, darling!” she said brightly.

She buried her nose in John’s strawberry blond curls and squeezed.

The little boy wriggled free and took his mother’s face in his hands, peering at her with the intensity particular to those not yet three years old, “But Mummy, Wills took it and won’t give it back!”

“Took what, John darling?”

“Wills had it first, Mummy; don’t tattle, Weejun, it’s poor form. Can I have your toast, Daddy?”

Lady Penelope “Poppy” Tewksbury was regal in her new school uniform, auburn ringlets restrained into two tight plaits that surely tugged at her scalp and made her more cross than usual.

“Of course, dearest,” answered her father, handing her the toast and placing a kiss on the perfectly straight part bisecting her head. “But what has Wills got?”

“I’m so sorry, Lady Basilwether, Lord Basilwether,” said a breathless voice from the doorway, “Children!” she began.

“It’s alright, Nanny, no harm done,” the pater familias soothed. “We just have to get to the bottom of this little mystery.”

“‘Scuse me,” said a distracted voice.

William, the Viscount Tewksbury, nose in a book, ducked under his nanny’s arm, walked across the room, and seated himself at the table. Without taking his eyes from the page, he squatted in his chair and reached across to grab a piece of toast.

“My book! Wills, my book!” screeched Weejun.

“He can’t even read it,” snarked Poppy, chewing.

“I can too,” Wills retorted.

“Cannot!”

“I can!”

“You haven’t been to school yet, you cannot!”

“‘No, no,’ Mr. Darling always said, ‘I am responsible for it all. I, George Darling, did it. MEA CULPA, MEA CULPA.’ He had had a classical education.” Wills read.

“Well done, Wills,” said his father, “but it’s pronounced may-a culpa.”

“T’isnt spelt that way.”

“Well, no, I guess it isn’t, but it’s Latin, you know.”

“Hmph. Silly.”

Tink stifled a giggle. “Yes, Wills, Latin is quite silly, actually, and of course you will learn it one day,” she added, responding to a sharp look from her husband. “But really, John darling, the book isn’t only yours, Uncle John gave it to all three of you.”

“But I’m in the story! It’s mine!”

Poppy rolled her eyes. “Weejun, it isn’t about you. There are loads of people named John. It’s not about Uncle John either.”

“But ’tis! ’Tis about me ’n’ Uncle John!” Weejun hopped off his mother’s lap and rushed at his brother.

“Give it back, Wills! Give it back!”

Lord Basilwether sighed and set down his cup before rising to scoop up his youngest child.

“We are a family, Weejun, er, John darling, we share.”

“I’m John Darling! I’m in the book! It’s mine!”

Nanny cleared her throat, opened her mouth, and shut it again.

“I will hold onto the book today. Since I’ve been meaning to read it again,” said Tink. “In the meantime, Poppy needs to get to school and you two need to walk with your sister and Nanny. Eh! Book! March!”

Enola held out her hand for the book and pointed to the door. Lord Basilwether kissed the top of Weejun’s head before releasing the little boy. He managed to kiss the heads of the other two children as they made their way to the door.

“Come along,” Nanny said, “we need to wash our faces before we leave. Again.”

With wry smiles, Lord and Lady Basilwether resumed their quickly cooling breakfast.

“Let me refresh your coffee, dearest, mine has gone quite cold,” Tink said as moved to the sideboard to retrieve the carafe.

“Oh, thank you!”

Back in her seat, Tink smoothed the newspaper folded beside her plate. “Tewky?”

“Hmmm?”

“What about this committee, then?”

“Which committee would that be?” Lord Basilwether had picked up the copy of Peter Pan and was paging through it. “These illustrations are really quite engaging.”

“With Wolfenden. About—”

“Not really my area,” he interjected.

“Not your area!” Tink replied, putting down her cup with such force that it clattered in its saucer. “Don’t be a nincompoop! Of course it’s your area! You must know someone--Peter Kerr or the Home Secretary--”

“Enola, darling, there’s talk of combining the Ministry of Food with Agriculture and Fisheries—that’s more up my street, don’t you think? A cabinet position—”

“Up your street? What about Pan? What about John? Your own family? Isn’t that up your street?”

Lord Basilwether hesitated. He knew his wife well enough to know that he was heading into dangerous waters. His reply would colour their domestic life for days, if not weeks, to come.

“This all started with the Montagu case, didn’t it? And Wildeblood? Letters, Tewky, the damning evidence was letters. Do you honestly believe that John and Pan haven’t exchanged letters?”

“But dearest, Wildeblood copped to being a…a…homosexual in court.”

That was not the proper response; Tink’s face was an incandescent pink. “He was under oath! He swore to tell the truth! He’s the bravest of the lot. What if it were Wills or Weejun? Would you want them remanded to The Scrubs for telling the truth?”

Oh dear. “I hardly think Wi--”

“Mummy?” asked a timid voice at the door. “Mummy, my head itches.”

Poppy stood at the door with her boater in her hand. She’d added her school blazer and book bag to her uniform.

Tink rearranged her face. “I imagine it does, Poppy. Nanny was a little enthusiastic this morning, wasn’t she?” She beckoned her daughter closer. “Come, I’ll sort it for you.”

With deft fingers, Tink undid one plait, combed through the curls with her fingers, and plaited it again, more loosely but just as tidily.

“Poppy!” Nanny called.

“Quick, turn! She’ll never know.”

The little girl turned and her mother reworked the remaining plait. Tink planted a fat kiss on Poppy’s forehead and pushed her gently towards the door. “Off you go, dearest, have a good day and learn lots.”

“Second star to the right and straight on til, erm…school!” cheered her father.

Poppy rolled her eyes. “Oh, Daddy,” she said. “Coming Nanny!”

As the patter of Poppy’s shoes on the polished wooden floors faded away, Tink turned to her husband.

“I agree, the public lav thing is a bit…well, it’s not sanitary to say the least,” she shivered, “and I certainly wouldn’t want a child to walk in on…anything, but I wouldn’t want the children to see a…a…a normal couple in flagrante delicto either. But in private, Tewky--why should it be anyone’s business?”

He couldn’t argue with her, he never could. And of course she was probably right; no, of course she was. Tink was the most level-headed--well, excitable and level-headed--person he knew.

Lord Basilwether took a sip of coffee and smiled at his wife over the edge of his cup. “I’ll see what I can do; Kerr was at Christ Church and Wolfenden was a don at Magdalen--I’m sure we know some of the same people.”

He hadn’t really expected her to throw her arms around him in delight and was therefore content when she smiled like the Cheshire Cat and began to work on the cryptic crossword

Chapter Text

See a palace rise
From a two room flat
Due to one little word:
Married

October 1946-February 1947

London

Our first flat in London was everything I dreamt of as we lay on the sunny shore of the Müggelsee that July afternoon in 1932. Bloomsbury, yes; shabby, yes; but ‘round the corner from the British Museum on Montague Street rather than Gordon Square. It was frightfully tiny--two cramped bedrooms and a sitting room with a only a hot plate and a sink for our kitchen--and absolutely perfect. 

Of course it wasn’t perfect; very little of post-war London was perfect. Everywhere one went, one saw boarded windows and empty foundations. Rebuilding had begun, of course, but there was much to be done. The Luftwaffe had been both thorough and random; the British Museum had lost an entire wing, but our building and its four flats remained structurally sound, if a bit worse for wear.

Sherlock’s mother supplied the worn Persian carpets, albeit moth-eaten after years in Ferndell’s lumber room. Still, they made our little rooms feel like a palace. With a warm fire in the grate and two comfortable chairs that came with the flat, we were content. And, when there were no coals to burn that long, cold winter, we bundled ourselves into our bed and kept each other warm under layers of jumpers and blankets.

I cycled to work along Charing Cross Road most days, having transferred to the Queen Alexandra Military Hospital just after VE Day. Sherlock consulted with the Foreign Office, although he put his well-shod foot down and refused to travel outside England on “business.”

“I might reconsider if I were allowed a traveling companion,” he said to Lord Peter Wimsey over dinner at the Bellona Club one evening. 

Lord Peter nodded. “Understood, old man. The missus isn’t too keen on me flying off to foreign lands either. I’m in town tonight only because she’s having dinner with her editor as we speak.”

“And yet Mummy tells me that you and Lady Peter have a modern marriage!” Sherlock chided.

“'Tis quite modern, that’s the thing--no more separate lives as in days gone by; Harriet quite expects to spend more time with me than without me.”

I smiled and tapped Sherlock’s foot under the table. “It’s universal; my sister reports that she will be hard-pressed to let her husband wander farther afield than the post office now she’s got him back home.”

“A Labour government, a national health service, and spouses who crave living under the same roof--what a strange new world this is!” Wimsey exclaimed.

Sherlock and I opted to walk home that fall evening. The weather was mild and the coming winter an unknown peril. I should’ve liked to walk with our arms linked, as we had in Berlin, but knew better than to risk it.  One read of the arrest and detention of suspected homosexuals by a police force that seemed to have a vendetta against men desiring other men on an almost daily basis.

Still, we fell into step with one other, moving in concert.

“Wimsey’s retreating to Hertfordshire soon,” Sherlock said.

“So I gathered.”

Sherlock cleared his throat before continuing, “He has, over the years, been of use to Scotland Yard, through the connections of his brother-in-law and…others.”

I hummed in vague agreement.

“Both he and Chief Inspector Parker--his brother-in-law--are ready to retire from public life and he, Wimsey, that is, thought perhaps I might--”

“Take over? Put your skills to use here in London?” 

I could feel Sherlock’s smile as continued to walk side-by-side. “Yes. There’s a newly promoted detective, home from service and quite talented apparently--Lestrade is his name--Wimsey suggested that I meet him…”

“Joining the Met, then?” I asked.

“Good heavens, no! Wouldn’t Mycroft enjoy that?! No, the idea is that I might consult on an as-needed basis, expanding on what I did in Berlin and get out of the spy business for good this time.” He turned to me, uncertainty written on his face. “What do you think?”

“Do you have to ask? Yes. I can see how much you want it. Of course.”

By February we were weary of frigid temperatures, drifting snow, and boiled potatoes. Our tiny flat had become a prison, our shared bed a cell. What was romantic in January was tiresome by Valentine’s Day. Although we dreamt of absconding to Sussex or Ferndell, we were impeded by both the abundance of snow and the deficit of petrol. Therefore I was surprised to return, quite frozen, from a shift at the hospital, to Sherlock dancing around the flat in his sock feet.

“Are you mad?” I asked, laying my damp gloves on the cold hearth and setting the kettle on the hot plate. “Do you think we might light the fire for just an hour?” I asked as I traded my uniform shirt for a jumper and a cardigan.

“What? Yes, yes, of course, in a moment--listen to this, John!”

Sherlock was a sight to behold with a turtlenecked jumper under his dressing gown, a pair of flannel trousers that I knew he wore over long woollen underwear, two pairs of socks, and old-fashioned mitts on his hands. He was so excited that he could not hold still; he pranced about the flat, first retrieving a cup for my tea but leaving it precariously balanced on a stack of books to add coal to the fire, then searching the cupboard for the tea tin only to give that up when he found the matches and remembered that he had yet to light the fire.

Finally I took pity on him and lit the fire myself before rescuing my teacup from its perch. I warmed the teapot, added tea, and filled it with water from the kettle. I settled myself in my chair with a blanket and my cup before reminding him that he was going to read something to me.

“Oh! Yes! A letter from Marianne arrived today. It is most exciting, John! Most exciting!”

I shook my head. “Darling boy, whilst I do enjoy a good mystery novel, I am not looking for this suspense to last--what has you so riled?”

“A flat, John!”

“We do have one of those already, dearest.”

“No! You aren’t listening! A flat! In Marylebone! With a houseke--well, a landlady anyway, on-site!”

“I didn’t know we were looking for new digs.”

“We aren’t, weren’t, but this is too good to pass up. Marianne’s aunt has a building in Westminster, off the Marylebone Road, Baker Street, to be exact. A flat with two bedrooms, a kitchen, private water closet, sitting room…. Marianne writes that her aunt is looking for 'trustworthy tenants.' Seems she had a bit of trouble during the war; her husband was incarcerated as a spiv and then killed when Pentonville was hit during the Blitz. Apparently the sod was quite successful in his trade and she was left with prime real estate and a large bank account. Her last set of tenants have moved out and Marianne has recommended us to her!”

“It wouldn’t hurt to at least look at the place,” I mused. “What is this amazing woman’s name?”

“Hudson,” Sherlock replied. “Mrs Martha Hudson.”

Spring 1947

Baker Street, Marylebone 

Martha Hudson was sweeping her stoop when Mr Speedwell stepped out of his cafe to do the same. She was not fond of the proprietor; the sandwiches and tea cakes must be tasty enough--the cafe did a good business--but Speedwell himself was a boor.

“Mornin’ Missus!” he called out.

“Mr Speedwell,” she answered.

He strode closer to her and stood leaning on his broom. The apron tied across his massive belly was stained; a few greasy strands of hair were plastered to his balding pate. Unappetising to say the least.

He leered up at her. “See you’ve rented your upstairs flat.” The light spring breeze carrying the sour stench of his breath ruffled Martha’s carefully coifed waves.

“Yes.” Maybe if she concentrated on sweeping he’d take the hint.
 
“Two blokes, innit?” No such luck.

“Two decorated war veterans, in fact. A doctor even.”

“Brothers, are they? Cousins?”

For heaven’s sake! “No.”

“Mates, are they then? Bit queer, innit, two blokes sharing digs? I mean, livin’ ‘ere, they must have good money ’n all…”

Insufferable. Where was that nice Mr Chatterjee who waited tables and worked in the kitchen? She thought he’d been a sapper during the war. Now she wasn’t one to wish ill on anyone, but after Frank, Martha truly believed that the universe eventually worked itself out. Like her mother always said, What goes around comes around. Even that awful Hitler had gotten what he deserved in the end.  If Mr Speedwell were to kick off, perhaps Mr Chatterjee could take over the cafe. Yes, that would suit Martha Hudson just fine. 

“I’m sure that’s none of my business, nor any of yours, Mr Speedwell. Live and let live, that’s my motto.”

Chapter Text

And the old despair

That was often there

Suddenly ceases to be

For you wake one day,

Look around and say:

Somebody wonderful married me.

Sussex

1970

Of course the wedding of 1947 was Her Majesty’s November nuptials. With the world watching, the Princess Royal married her distant cousin, the newly styled Phillip Mountbatten, Duke of Edinburgh. To Sherlock and myself, however, the only wedding that mattered was that of Tink and Tewks. It was in all the London papers, and, I imagine, those rags local to Basilwether and Ferndell.  Young Lord Basilwether was making a name for himself in Parliament with his progressive views and handsome looks. He was just what the doctor ordered after the long years of war and privation—a dashing war hero supporting the new social programs that promised to restore our war-weary island to glory.  With Tink at his side, they were an unbeatable pair.

Tink was resplendent in her mother’s wedding gown, its high Edwardian collar and long sleeves having been lovingly restored. For “something borrowed,” she wore the pearl necklace that her father had given Eudoria on their wedding day. Sherlock found her “something blue” in a dusty stall in the Portobello Road one sunny Saturday in May. The silver brooch depicted a fanciful flower set with glass gems in varying shades of blue.  Tink proudly pinned it to the handkerchief wrapped around the bouquet of freshly cut roses that were driven in from the Tewksbury estate bright and early on the wedding day.

“I don’t understand, dearest,” queried Eudoria. “Are my roses sub-par?”

Tink laughed, “No, Mummy. It’s just that Basilwether brides always carry Alfred de Dalmas roses from the estate. Tewky was so worried that they wouldn’t bloom in time or it would rain too hard and spoil the blossoms--I rather thought he would kill the poor things with kindness!”

A picture of the adorable couple outside the little church near Ferndell appeared in the London society pages the following weekend along with a quote from Tink, already rising to her new status as lady of the manor.

“Lord Basilwether and I very much believe in the concept of ‘mend and make do,’ particularly when so many have gone without for so long and are continuing to do so. I am so pleased to wear the dress my mother wore when she married my father.  It is the closest we can come to having him with us on our very special day.”

The ancient country church was cool, lit only by the dappled sunlight passing through the stained glass windows; white satin bows adorned the end of each pew. Sherlock and I sat behind his mother, who had traded in her customary Chanel for a New Look ensemble in the palest lavender. The jacket nipped in at her still slender waist although I knew that the indomitable matron had insisted that the width of the skirt be reduced by half.

“One simply does not flaunt one’s good fortune in the face of national austerity,” she’d declared to the befuddled couturier before threatening to alter the skirt herself.

Across the aisle, the Dowager Marchioness, as was noted in The Times, wore a floating floral dress from Jean Lanvin’s 1938 collection.  Lord Basilwether, Tewky, stood bravely at the altar as if awaiting a firing squad. He had not yet been discharged from military service and wore the dress uniform of his regiment.

The organist played through and around Pachelbel’s Canon for several minutes before switching to Clarke’s Prince of Denmark March. As we rose to face the processing bride, Sherlock reached back to give my fingers a quick squeeze.

“Steady on,” I whispered, squeezing back. “She’ll be alright.”

“It’s not Tink I’m worried about,” was the reply.

Enola, escorted by her brother Mycroft,  was a vision in her white cotton and lace gown, the sheer veil held in place by a simple tiara on loan from Tewky’s mother. Mycroft, on the other hand, looked exceedingly uncomfortable in his dove grey morning coat. He had forgone a tie, choosing a black and grey cravat instead. He wore traditional striped trousers and carried grey gloves in his free hand, the only colour on his person being a small lavender pocket square that matched his mother’s suit.

Beside me, Sherlock sniffed.

“Throwback,” he murmured.

Meanwhile poor brother Mycroft had gone quite pale and large wet tears glistened in his eyes and on his cheek.

“Is your brother…,” I leant forward to whisper in Sherlock’s ear.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he huffed. “The British government simply does not,” he continued as we turned to face the altar, “cry. Ever.”

“That’s odd,” I said with a smile, “because I definitely saw--”

“Best not to mention it,” he replied.

“Best not.”

Vows were exchanged, passages from scripture were read. The happy couple signed the register and recessed to Handel’s Arrival of the Queen of Sheba.

The wedding breakfast was held at Ferndell, in the large formal ballroom and the terrace overlooking the garden. The gathering at the church was small in contrast to the crowd that filled the ballroom and flowed across the lawn in the summer twilight.

A cake was cut and champagne-flavoured speeches were made roasting both the bride and groom. A lively quintet provided music for the lord and lady’s first dance and the many dances that followed. Tewky danced with both his mother and Enola’s; Tink danced with each of her brothers and with me. And then, as the floor filled with the invited guests--members of the peerage, neighbours, cousins, and army friends--my own dear friend slipped out of the room for a smoke.

Plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose. Once upon a time, two boys met in the heady days of the Weimar Republic. They danced and laughed and kissed without worrying who knew or saw. But the dream did not last; fascism and war brought shame and violence, not only to the inverted and transsexual, but to all who did not conform the Aryan ideal. So many lives wasted, so many ideas and traditions lost forever.

And now, more than a decade later, although peace had been restored at last, it seemed little had changed. I could not hold my lover’s hand as we walked through Regent’s Park and I could not ask him for a dance at his sister’s wedding. Would I have chosen a different path, a different partner, had I know it might always be thus? Would I have silenced my heart to choose a good-enough wife, hoping for child instead of a life of secrecy?

In a word, no.

I do not believe our fight was in vain. It would take twenty more years for Britain to allow my friend and I the right to privacy in our home, to remove the threat of imprisonment for loving each other. Perhaps one day, in another twenty years, men like us might have a wedding of their own, exchanging vows in front of friends and family before joyously dancing the night away.

In the meantime, our lives have been full. It is no little thing to be discreet, but we have managed it. Our rooms on Baker Street have been both haven and home for many years. It is there, surrounded by books and papers and scientific experiments, that my friend became famous as the world’s first and only consulting detective. Detective Inspector Lestrade, now retired, often sought Sherlock’s expertise and wisdom in solving mysteries that puzzled the great minds of the Metropolitan Police. (“Great minds,” scoffs my friend, “don’t exaggerate, John. Serviceable, perhaps. Ordinary. Pedestrian. Not great.”)

Nevertheless, my friend has been a boon to Scotland Yard as well as the common man. Many a person has walked up the seventeen steps to our sitting room and prevailed upon us to solve the conundrums that weigh on their minds and disrupt their lives. I, his Boswell, have chronicled most of them in the pages of The Strand; cases such as a gigantic hound terrorising Devonshire, the Bohemian Scandal, the mystery of the Speckled Band, the strange case of the Red-Headed League, and heists such as the Blue Carbuncle and the Beryl Coronet.

You will recall that Sherlock and I met in a cabaret, in a city called Berlin, in a country called Germany. I wrote once that it was the end of the world and, although I was dancing with Sherlock Holmes, we were both fast asleep. Fortunately for us, we awoke and recognised the terrible writing on the walls of a city we both loved. That city, and many cities, were forever changed by a great evil, as were Sherlock and I. We are not the boys we once were but neither are we the weary and broken men who found refuge in a cottage on the edge of the South Downs.

We were parted twice; the second parting did not break us because an invisible and unbreakable bond connected us across the vast miles of land and ocean. We each had both an inward and an outward purpose; to do our parts in the war against fascism and to return to one another, never again to part.

After the war, as Sherlock sought to bring forth justice, I continued my quest to heal the sick. Upon my discharge from military service, I took my place in the new National Health Service, working in the ruined East End. My uncle’s warehouse was flattened in the Blitz and he never returned to London, living the rest of his days with my sister’s family in Hampshire, revered and loved by many. It is my fancy that he has been reunited with his Charlie and that I have made him proud by serving the people of the East End, people he considered to be the salt of the earth.

English does not provide many words to describe the relationship between Sherlock and myself. Husbands? We are denied that title by both civil and religious law. Partners? In business or life? Friends? Lovers? None of these captures the entirety of what Sherlock is to me. It is the language of my ancestors that provides a name to fully encompass him: a cuisle mo cridhe, the very beating of my heart. And I? He tells me that I am his North Star, his conductor of light and the lamp unto his feet.

Sherlock and I are now nearly as old as my beloved Uncle Hamish was when the Blitz sent him to his country retirement. And now we, too, have left London. We have retired to his grandmother’s cottage on the edge of the South Downs. It is here, amidst salty breezes and  buzzing bees, that I have written this, the true chronicle of our days together and apart.

Ferndell

June 1947

John grabbed Sherlock by the wrist and pulled him into the little anteroom.

“What are you doing?” Sherlock asked.

“Dancing with you.”

“John--”

“Stop. Just stop. Everyone else is dancing and I want to dance with you.”

John’s hand was at Sherlock’s waist pulling him close; he wove his sturdy fingers between Sherlock’s own and held their clasped hands between their chests.

John crooned softly, that slightly nasal tenor that always left Sherlock’s heart in a puddle on the floor, “Let me live 'neath your spell/ Do do that voodoo—”

“John, the press--”

“Are busy taking pictures of Tewky and the other peers of the realm; no one is missing us.”

“Mummy--”

“Your mother doesn’t give a fig what we get up to.”

“She might miss--”

“And if she does, she’ll grin that wicked grin of hers, hoping and praying that this is what we are doing.” John held Sherlock tighter, his arousal evident through their morning suits. “You spent too long hiding in the shadows, love. You didn’t used to care what others thought.”

Sherlock chuckled darkly. “And you always did.”

“I still do, just not at this particular moment,” John replied. He continued humming softly as they swayed together in rhythm. He raised his face to Sherlock, brushing soft lips against Sherlock’s jaw. “How much longer are we obligated to stay?”

Sherlock bent to kiss his lover fully. “We really ought to see the adorable couple off, don’t you think? Tink and--”

“You’re right,” John growled. “If it were anyone else, though, I’d be dragging you into one of those Humbers or Rolls parked on the lawn and absconding to Sussex to have my way with you as soon as we were safely at the cottage.”

Sherlock could feel the warmth creeping up his neck and into his cheeks. He stepped back but let his hand linger on John’s face. He smoothed his thumb along John’s cheekbone and nose while his fingers cradled John’s head, ruffling the fine hairs at his nape.

“We’d best stop now, then,” Sherlock managed, “lest I have you against this wall until you beg for mercy twice."

John’s tongue darted out to wet his lips as he considered his options. “Best not, I suppose, wouldn’t want to embarrass your sister,” he leant closer to Sherlock, “But you shall have me tonight, as many ways as you desire and I shan’t beg for mercy, but more.”

Chapter Text

... Start by admitting from cradle to tomb
Isn't that long a stay
Life is a cabaret, old chum
Only a cabaret, old chum
And I love a cabaret!

Brighton 1971

Car doors slam in a seaside car park.

Mycroft is there, reluctantly holding onto both his walking stick and his oldest nephew. “I’m fine!” he protests despite wobbling as the gravel shifts beneath his feet.

“Of course, Uncle My,” murmurs the Viscount Tewksbury. “It’s just that Mum insists; please don’t get me in hot water,” he adds conspiratorially.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Mycroft assures him. Ruffled feathers smoothed, the British government leans heavily on his nephew’s arm. “Your mother tells me you took a first in History and Politics.”

“Yes sir.”

“We should talk; I know some people--”

“Uncle John! Uncle John!” Enola’s baby-faced youngest runs to meet his favourite uncle. “I got in! I’ll be training at Bart’s next term!”

John’s grin is wide. Weejun goes by Jack these days, but John has often considered this clever and cheerful young man to be the son he and Sherlock could not have.

“Aaaarrrhhh!” Enola’s daughter exclaims as she races across the car park to catch up a toddler with copper curls. “Dorie! Naughty! Stay with Mummy!”

“Or Granny! Come here, darling!” Enola scoops the wriggling girl into her arms. “I’ve got her Poppy, you and Christopher can bring the picnic.” She rubs her nose into the copper curls. “Look at the sea, darling! Isn’t it beautiful! After pictures, we’ll make a castle!”

Lord Basilwether, carrying a beach chair under each arm, walks next to Sherlock. “I say, Pan, Tink says you’ve taken up beekeeping.”

Sherlock, despite never taking his eyes off John, walking just ahead with Tink’s Jack, answers with singular enthusiasm, “Yes! I’m writing a monograph on the segregation of the queen; I may expand it into a practical handbook on beekeeping. The communal life of an apiary is fascinating--”

Feet crunch on the gravel path as the family makes its way to the shore.

If we were a camera, panning to a wide shot of this reunion, what would we capture?

A boisterous family gathers on the beach with a photographer in tow, hired to take a family portrait. He is infinitely patient as the family arranges and rearranges itself on and around a set of three beach chairs.

Finally they reach consensus; a frail elderly gentleman claims the middle chair. He is nearly bald, the hair he does have so white it is translucent. His clothes are rather formal for the beach–-a linen suit pressed within inches of existence, nary a wrinkle in sight. He uses a stick to steady himself and one of the boys has taken his other arm to ease him into the chair.

A woman with luxurious white curls sits beside the man in the suit. She is in better health than he, with sun-kissed cheeks and a merry grin. A little girl with bright copper hair sits on the woman’s ample lap. Behind them stands a tall, distinguished gentleman with gentle hands on the woman’s shoulders. His greying hair is slicked back from his forehead in a swoop that was fashionable just after the war. His bearing, not his attire, distinguishes him; like the woman, he is dressed for a day at the seashore in casual, comfortable clothes.

A third man sits opposite. He, too, is tall and elegant. Long white curls are pushed away from his face, falling to his collar. He has tied a jaunty scarf around his graceful neck, a deep blue that compliments his paisley shirt. The jeans he wears with sandals cling to his slender hips. He holds out his hand, welcoming a fourth man to their party. This man is a tad shorter than the woman, but he holds himself as if he were much taller. His hair is cropped and silvery, crowning a face that is boyish despite the lines of age.  His close-fitting Breton jumper coordinates with the blues in his partner’s paisley print and his own linen trousers. The two men clasp hands briefly. As the photographer calls for the younger family members to fill in the gaps, the shorter man reaches for his friend’s hand again, weaving their fingers together. He bends slightly to speak into the other man’s ear, bringing smiles to both faces. If you glanced away, you would miss the light kiss he places against the white curls.

“That’s lovely, everyone!” calls the photographer. He holds his hand over his head, “Look here, that’s it—and everyone SMILE!”

FIN

SOURCE MATERIAL

Books

Beachy, Robert M. Gay Berlin: Birthplace of a Modern Identity

Cook, Matt. Queer Domesticities: Homosexuality and Home Life in Twentieth-Century London

Hochschild, Adam. Spain in Our Hearts

Imperial War Museum. Make Do and Mend

Isherwood, Christopher. Christopher and His Kind

King, David. Death in the City of Light

Koestler, Arthur. Scum of the Earth

Richter, Hans Peter. I Was There

Sayers, Dorothy. Lord Peter Wimsey books

Van Druten, John. I Am a Camera

The National Archives. SOE Manual: How to be an Agent in Occupied Europe

Media

Babylon Berlin (2017—)

BBC. Christopher and His Kind (2011)

Conspiracy (2001)

Curtiz, Michael. Casablanca (1942)

Dr Petiot (1990)

Fosse, Bob. Cabaret (1972)

ITV. Foyle’s War (2002-2015)

Kander and Ebb (book by Joe Masteroff) Cabaret (1966)

La Rafle (2010)

Mendes, Sam. Cabaret (1993 Donmar Warehouse revival)

Malle, Louis. Au Revoir Les Enfants (1987)

Rossellini, Roberto. Germany Year Zero (1948)

The Sinking of the Laconia (2011)

Transatlantic (2023)

Tobruk (2008)

Truffaut, François. The Last Metro (1980)

Discussion of John Watson's war injuries by Wellington Goose

And of course I made a Spotify playlist