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“I have a gift for you, dear boy,” Holmes said, blowing into the room in a gust of cold and damp. “To lift your spirits.”
“I have only sprained an ankle,” I protested. “Whilst I appreciate your kindness, I do not need gifts to cheer me up.” I watched him unwind several yards of tatty black scarf, pausing now and then to blow on his fingers. It was always a pleasure to watch the man emerge from his layers of clothing, although I tried to ensure I was not staring. “I am sorry I have let the fire burn so low.”
“Nonsense. You know that ankle needs rest.” Holmes finally emerged from many layers of knitwear and overcoat, heaping everything unceremoniously on the end of the couch on which I lay, foot propped up on a cushion. “First, let me ring for some tea and some coal.”
He seemed in a rare good humour, and it was little hardship to let him fuss around me. I watched him flit around the room, his movements animated and full of energy. I was well aware that I tended to watch Sherlock Holmes far too closely on occasion, but at that moment, he was wholly preoccupied. After stoking the fire up to a cheerful blaze, he poured me a cup of tea when the tray arrived and ensured my foot was still resting comfortably on its cushion before drawing the curtains against the early evening gloom.
It was a mild sprain, but being on my weaker side, I had decided that discretion was the better part of valour and reluctantly chosen to rest inside, out of the wind and the rain, rather than accompany Holmes on his latest case. A trifling one, he had assured me upon leaving, and judging by his current disposition, one that had been quite simple to resolve.
“I take it your case went well?” I asked him, once we had drunk our tea.
“I did.” He applied a match to the bowl of his pipe and puffed thoughtfully for a moment until a fragrant cloud of smoke wafted upwards. Tossing the spent match into the fire, he sat back with a smile. “Simple, but also, from my point of view at least, quite satisfying.”
“So the Major’s son has been found?”
“Oh no, no, I don’t think young Thomas intends on being found. But from what I saw, he is safe and happy, and long may he be so.” There was that smile again, oddly whimsical. Holmes’ smiles always had an effect on my equilibrium, and this one made me want to reach out and take his hand.
“How do you know he is safe when he hasn’t been found?” I asked instead. “The Major said the lad was headed for a fortnight in Paris, and hadn’t returned after almost a month.”
“Indeed, Watson, indeed. However, I informed the Major that I required a closer look at his son’s rooms. They have a rather nice house north of Regent’s Park, and Thomas occupied three rooms on the second floor.” Holmes puffed at his pipe for a moment. “The Major said that no one had been in there since Thomas had left for Paris, and as he still couldn’t bear to, he instructed a maid to escort me up.”
“Which means you had the opportunity for a jolly good look.”
Holmes’ smug little smile was confirmation enough, and I had to laugh.
“My dear chap, you are incorrigible.”
“I merely took the opportunity to find sufficient evidence to confirm what I already knew.” He placed his pipe down on the hearth and stood. I watched him hunt through the capacious pockets of his overcoat, smiling at his pleased little ‘a-ha!’ as he pulled a small, paper-wrapped object from an inside pocket. “And, as promised, I brought you a gift.”
“Did you steal that from the Major’s house?” I asked, although I knew my attempt at feigning shock would fail dismally.
“Not steal, dear boy, I would never take anything without permission.” He handed me the package and sat back down in his chair. “I asked the Major if he would mind if I took a few papers away to analyse, and he told me to do what I needed to do.” The tip of Holmes’ tongue flicked out across his top lip and I had to pull my eyes away, focusing on the hastily wrapped packet. “That book gave me all the answers I needed.”
Curious, now, I removed the string from around the book and carefully opened the paper.
“Good Lord, Holmes!” I exclaimed, feeling my cheeks flush. The title was printed in small gold letters on the faded green front cover, ‘The Sins of the Cities of the Plain.’ “You cannot walk the streets carrying something like this!”
Holmes’ smirk widened into a smug smile.
“I am most pleased to see your instant recognition, Watson. Such classic literature on a man’s shelf can tell one a great deal about him, don’t you think?”
My mind immediately flitted back to the battered copy which had accompanied me overseas on my first posting. Along the way I had shared it with a few close friends, advising them of the parts to skip and those to be savoured. I no longer had it, having left most of my possessions behind when I had been removed from the battlefield back to England after contracting enteric fever.
But Holmes was watching me closely, and I swallowed, trying to summon up an answer to his last question that wouldn’t betray everything I had tried to hide for years.
“Indeed it may,” I managed. “And what did you deduce about young Thomas?”
“He went to Paris with an old university friend, one George Allenby, whom he met whilst reading French at Cambridge. They correspond frequently, and the Major informs me that Thomas was in the habit of visiting his old friend once a month or so. They shared digs whilst at Cambridge, and Thomas had mentioned that George was contemplating a move to London from his parents’ farm near Saffron Walden.”
“And this book was on Thomas’ shelf?” I realised I still clasped the book and dropped it onto the small occasional table next to where I sat. “Good heavens.”
“There were a number of other publications, tucked away inside dust jackets with French titles, but I hid those again and only brought this one back with me.” He looked at the small book, his expression unreadable. “Thomas had left it in the middle of his bed.”
Who, I wondered, in their right mind, would leave a blatantly pornographic book such as Sins in full view? And it wasn’t just pornography of the most graphic kind, but it was purported to have been written by a homosexual man, published anonymously, and those who knew of it often speculated as to whether it was an entire work of fiction or if there were some elements of autobiography. Either way, anyone engaging in a fraction of what was written about in there would shortly find themselves in Wormwood Scrubs.
“He wanted it to be found,” I said, aloud.
“Yes, quite.”
I could feel my mind being pulled in several directions at once, but the logical thinking which Holmes had encouraged in me over the course of our friendship won out.
“And has the Major sent word to George Allenby’s parents to see if he has returned from Paris?”
“Very good, Watson,” Holmes said with a warm smile. It eased some of the uncertainty I felt. “Indeed he has, and it appears that George is still á Paris.”
“Did Thomas pack rather excessively for a two week trip?”
“Three trunks and a large portmanteau. To bring books and artwork home in, apparently.”
“He had no intention of returning, did he?” I had to look away from Holmes’ intense grey-eyed gaze, and found myself regarding the faded green cover of the book. “He and George have escaped to Paris to avoid being arrested.”
“My thoughts exactly.”
“What will you tell the Major?”
Holmes sighed so deeply that my eyes were drawn back to him. His smile had faded somewhat and his expression was more introspective than smug.
“To be quite candid, my dear, I do not know.” His moue of distaste clearly highlighted his dislike of having to admit as much. “I fear telling him the truth would be too harsh a burden for a man like the Major to bear. And yet what is worse - thinking his son is dead or kidnapped or lost on the continent somewhere?”
I had no answer either, if I was honest with myself. To think one’s son lost, or to know of his proclivities which, in England, were entirely illegal? I did not envy Holmes his conundrum.
“Exactly,” he answered my silence. “But, no doubt, the solution will come to me in good time. However,” His look was direct. “I would very much like to know how you recognised that book so quickly.”
It was as if the air had left my lungs in an instant. My mouth opened, but no sound would come out. How did I answer such a question? I… couldn’t.
“Watson?”
“I am not sure I can tell you,” I replied, troubled. What could I say that wouldn’t drive away my dearest friend? I had concealed my preferences and my affection for him for many years, but I felt suddenly as if I stood on a tipping point. One wrong step in either direction would spell disaster and the prospect of losing Holmes’ regard made me feel sick to my stomach. “I… I can’t.”
I do not know what must have shown in my face, because quick as a flash, Holmes was across the room and kneeling next to where I reclined on the couch.
“Watson? What is wrong?” he asked, a note of concern in his voice. “You look as if you are in pain, dear boy.”
I was in one sort of agony or another, but for a man who used words for a living, I was woefully short of them in that moment. It didn’t help that Holmes knelt by my side, his face far closer to mine than I could ever recall it being. I laced my fingers together to avoid reaching out to flick a stray lock of black hair back off his forehead, where it had escaped his pomade.
“In a way,” I admitted, after a long, long pause. “I am simply afraid to answer that question, Holmes, and would very much like it if we could forget that you ever asked it.”
A cool hand covered my clasped ones and I jumped.
“Then, maybe, I can answer it for you?” His other hand reached out and cupped my face with a delicate touch. I froze. “You recognised it because you have seen it before. Either you own a copy, or did once. As I, too, have a very battered edition tucked into the bottom of a trunk of papers under my bed.”
“You have a copy?” I stared at him in shock, but that feeling didn’t last long. It was overwhelmed by a heady rush of anticipation and relief, the combination of which very nearly stole my breath a second time. “Holmes!”
He chuckled, that soft warm sound which I heard so rarely.
“I wondered, dear boy, on dark nights and cold mornings, if the hints I had gathered really did mean what I thought they did, or if I was simply imagining them. Inventing what I wanted so desperately to see.” He brushed his thumb over my cheek and, impulsively, I turned my head and pressed a kiss to his palm.
It was his turn to catch his breath. His eyes widened, those unearthly grey irises which had captured my attention from the moment we had met.
“And oft I wondered that I had given away my true feelings,” I admitted, leaning into his touch, cat-like. “It was only my fear of losing your dear friendship which enabled me to maintain my façade.”
“Your true feelings?”
“My thoughts alone would put me in the dock,” I admitted, and that, it seemed, was as much as Holmes could take. He leaned in, pressed his lips to mine in a kiss which eclipsed every other I had experienced, on all three continents.
It was sublime. Holmes, it appeared, was as skilful at this as all other things he put his mind to, and I had to reach for him, wrap both arms around his lithe frame to pull him close.
Who knows where it would have ended up, had someone not dropped something at the bottom of the stairs. Holmes sprang back, and I immediately felt cold and bereft.
“Heaven forbid I be the cause of you ending up in the dock,” he exclaimed, although his voice was quiet. Then to my amazement, he laughed. “But for another of those kisses, I would risk the world.”
“Maybe you should help me to my room, then,” I suggested, pointing at my ankle. “I feel the need to lie down for a short while. To rest.”
“I think that is a splendid idea, and I would be most amenable to helping you, in any way you require.” He took my hands and, with considerable care, raised me to my feet. If I were honest, my ankle felt almost back to normal, but Holmes’ lips were far too close for me to be rational.
“I may require your assistance for some considerable time,” I told him, leaning on his arm as we headed towards my room. “I hope you are amenable to that also.”
“For as long as you need me, I am yours,” he promised, and in spite of the newness of this thing between us, I had known him for long enough to hear the truth in the words.
It seemed I had been given more than one gift that evening.