Archive of Our Own

When one of my patients asks me about my relationship with Sherlock Holmes, the great detective, I answer this: I am his chronicler, his assistant in solving crimes, his confidant and friend. Of course, all these terms hold true, now as then, at the beginning of our shared history. But just as in a family portrait you can only see the put-on smiles and never the real faces of the people, they were only part of what made up my true relationship with Holmes. I know him, I then add; I know him well.

In truth, I knew him better than just well, but I only ever told two persons about it, one of them being my dear Mary, and I certainly never wrote about it in my detective stories. I am overcome with nostalgic horror when I think of the great uncertainty in which we lived at that time; the slightest imprudence would have brought us public disgrace and imprisonment. Even many years later, writing this down is a danger, because I give proof of that period of my life which I had very carefully left in the shadow of silence. But I have to do it; I want to do it. I have never been much of a writer. I write down what I find in front of my nose, and only when I see the letters and words on the paper, when I see that the blue ink has dried, I can make peace with a matter. I can't help but write. So I'll stash the sheets in the bottom drawer of my dresser, the one I lock with a small, gold key, which I in turn hide in the false bottom of Mary's jewelry box. Of course, Holmes would have found a far better hiding place.

Why today of all days, why not yesterday, tomorrow, ten years from now? This afternoon I met Holmes for tea at the Café Cheval, which is located not far from my practice; I wanted to see him again after months of silence between us. He was wearing that suit, the crimson one, which he had worn very often in the past because I liked him in it. His jacket and trousers still fit him like a glove. I completely lost my appetite after that. I ate the scones with marmelade, which I hadn’t wanted in the first place, and drank the tea with milk without showing any sign of it, and yet I'm sure he saw how offended I was. He also pretended that nothing was wrong, but I knew that he had chosen that suit on purpose. At the same time, he realized that I saw through his intentions. That's how it always goes with us. From the beginning he had left me the choice whether I wanted to accompany him on his risky adventures, and when a situation became life-threatening, he threw himself in front of me; he did not want me to come to harm through others at his responsibility; only because of him was I allowed to suffer. To the same extent that he sometimes had to suffer from himself.

The day Stamford introduced me to Holmes, which was also the day he discovered the solution to the precipitation of hemoglobin, I was immediately struck by the mysteriousness about Holmes that inevitably captivated everyone who met him. He shook my hand - his elegant hand covered with chemical scars - and I smelled on him the musty clothes of someone who rarely left the house. But his demeanor and the firmness of his handshake gave the impression of an energetic man who was not at all unfamiliar with the outside world. Holmes spoke calmly and quietly like someone who was used to being listened to. At first I thought he was a university professor. As I settled into the new apartment, I told him about my life and my time in the military because he asked a lot of questions, but he didn't talk about himself. In return, when I inquired what he did for a living, he smiled mysteriously and gave answers like "I work with people's worries and fears." It is not surprising that I eventually believed he was a criminal mastermind. Since the siege of Kabul, I had become paranoid. So I played the detective myself, got carried away with conspiracy theories, and challenged Holmes to a boxing duel, at the end of which I went down in shame. I described this story in The Speckled Band as I have summarized it here, but I toned down somewhat how obsessed I had been with Holmes. After the first three months at Baker Street, the spark of an idea arose in my mind, a spark that was soon to start a conflagration within me. I asked Mrs. Hudson as unobtrusively as possible if Holmes had ever been married, or if he sometimes received private lady visitors, and when she replied snidely that Holmes did not socialize with ladies outside of his work, and anyway he was married to his profession, my heart leapt with excitement. I was in a strange frame of mind then, any little thing could upset me for days and weeks; perhaps the irrationality of youth, as I was only twenty-six when I returned from Afghanistan. Holmes was a young man himself, thirty years old, and out of shyness I would never have dared to approach him had it not been for the long and furtive glances he gave me.

I grew up in a nice large brick house in a quiet part of Reading, close to the Kennet bank and the Coley meadows, which the river flooded every winter. My brother and I had mud fights while our parents thought we were helping the local farmer mend fences, and I remember constant drizzle, crusty hair that my mother had to cut off with scissors afterwards, freezing feet and the helpless panic when my brother pushed my face into the mud. I was shy in the company of strangers, hiding behind my parents' legs and biting my fingernails, but among the neighbours and teachers who knew me, I was considered cheeky, supportive and kind-hearted. I did poorly at school at first because I didn't try very hard (I loved sports, especially relay running across the endless English country lanes, but hated having to sit still for maths or science), and later, with the prospect of a place at the University of London, I managed to graduate reasonably well.

My father forced me to sit at my desk in my room for two hours every day and read books for school. The desk was right next to a large, double-glazed window, and every time I thought my father was busy with his own work or with my brother, I pressed my cheek against the window pane and gave secret hand signals to the neighbourhood boys who were playing cops and robbers outside in the street. We had developed our own sign language with which we could communicate without the danger of being overheard by the adults. They told me about Timothy, who had been caught stealing sweets again and had to work off the value of the stolen food at the counter; or about James, who had kissed Agatha and received a slap in the face from her in return. As soon as I heard my father's heavy footsteps on the floor, I quickly ducked over my book. My father came in and frowned when he saw that I was still stuck on the same page.

On my favourite days, two of the poorer boys would fight in the street and the rest of the children would stand at a respectful distance in a semicircle around them, sometimes cheering one, sometimes the other. My father had taken me aside and said, while tapping the knuckles of his big hand against the window, "Watch, my boy, and remember that those are not real men. A real man does not fight with fists, but with words, with deeds. A real man gives to those who have less than him, takes care of his family, and never raises a hand against his wife. One word from his mouth should be enough, and everyone does their duty."

I nodded and tore my gaze away from the fighting boys. I felt a rueful pride because I sat dutifully in my room and didn't fight in the street dirt, just as my father wanted me to, although I would have loved to join the other children. I continued to sit in front of the books and pretended to read. Now and then my mother would secretly bring me bisquits wrapped in napkins, but when I asked if I could finally go and play, she would only shrug her shoulders, smiling helplessly. She did not dare to disobey her husband's orders either.

Of course, my father's doctrines did not stop the children of the poor workers' and farmers' families from attacking me during breaks and on the way home from school. The scrapes and bruises on my skin were silently acknowledged by my father. In his eyes, a man was never the first to strike, but if he was actively attacked, he should know how to defend himself. My initial poor grades made me feel that I had lost his interest forever, and no matter how hard I tried in school, I could never surpass my elder brother, who won first prize in a debating competition and, according to his teachers, had a good chance of becoming a locally influential politician. As a teenager, I was sad day and night, bad-tempered and despised everything and everyone, but my restless energy stayed with me. This energy took me to St Bartholomew's and later to Netley Hospital, where, in addition to being an assistant surgeon, I played the trumpet in the military band and read poetry by Lord Byron to the elderly patients every Friday. At this time I also joined the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers and eventually followed the British troops to India. I imagined I would return home a highly decorated war hero and hang my medals in our house above the fireplace. My mother would cry with relief and horror because I had lost a finger during the battle, and my father would look at me, say nothing, but his eyes would shine with pride.

On the North-West Frontier between British India and Afghanistan, I encountered a barren, rocky yellow landscape overgrown with tough bushes, British cloth tent camps and daily sunburn on my forehead and nose. Like a freshly grown puppy eager to be recognised as an adult member of society, I wore the proudly swollen chest of a sergeant, although I held only the position of military doctor and commanded a small ten-man unit of Indian hospital orderlies whose members - serious, sarcastic-looking young men - silently took my orders and spoke to me as rarely as possible. Everything seemed new and exciting to me, and I was spurred on by the thought that the British were doing nothing but good for the Indian and Afghan civilians, protecting them from the threat of brutal Russian rule. I slept in a tent with two foot soldiers, Wesley and Alcott, on low cots; on the folding table in the middle was a gas-powered storm lantern which illuminated the room. Homesick and fearful of the second Anglo-Afghan war that was to break out in a few weeks, we passed our free time by playing dice and cards, using Indian coins and utensils bought in markets or stolen from our subordinates as stakes. The days dragged on endlessly, with little to do and plenty of time to imagine glorious military careers.

When the invasions began, half of all the troops were mobilised first; for us this meant that Wesley left our tent for three days. We were hardly dismayed by this. Wesley was unbearably arrogant even in the face of the fact that a military uniform doubles any young man's self-confidence. The small, sly eyes in his freckled face narrowed even further when he recounted how he had resolved the dispute between an Indian hawker and a British soldier in the good, English way, that is, diplomatically, and had been rewarded with a double ration of food. He also constantly won at our card games by shoving the aces up his sleeve, which he defiantly denied when we asked him about it. In short, we didn't miss him.

On the night of the third day, when we had put out the lantern and were already lying on our cots, we heard the thunder of rifle shots in the distance. It was quiet around our tents; only the cool desert wind made the eyelets of the cloth walls beat against the metal poles. I was so tense that I could not fall asleep. In my daydreams I had been looking forward to this moment, the evening before the great battle, and now I didn't understand why I would have preferred to get on the next horse and make off at a fleeing gallop. I was not a coward, I said to myself in my mind. Out of the darkness I heard a rustling as if Alcott had sat up. "Do you have a girl waiting for you at home?" he asked quietly.

I propped myself up on my elbow. "There was a nurse in London that I liked, and I'm sure she liked me too, but I didn't dare approach her…"

"Just wait till you get back. The prettiest girls in town will be queuing up at your door." Alcott said it so seriously and urgently that my laughter caught in my throat. When I imagined him looking at me in the dark, a warm shiver ran through my limbs.

"My Theresa is sleeping peacefully in her bed now,“ Alcott said. "She writes me not to worry because she prays for my safety every night. Nothing at all can happen to me, she says. Dear Lord, I hope she's right."

I noticed that his voice was trembling. Alcott remained silent until I thought he had fallen asleep before me. But then his cot creaked as he got up and walked over to me. I made room for him willingly. It was all very easy: the way we hugged and kissed and tried to forget reality for a few minutes. His warm skin that tasted of sand and salt; his tense whimpering in the dark. In the morning we had no more chance to talk about it because the staff sergeant woke us up and divided us into different regiments. I caught one last glimpse of Alcott (actually it was just the back of his head with the shiny, dark hair) outside the walls of Kabul; after that I never saw him again. After the days in the field hospital, which I spent almost entirely in delirium, I returned to London and searched the lists of war dead in the newspapers for Alcott's name. He did not appear in them; I told myself he must have been transferred. A guilty stomach ache, as if from a prune in my gut, was all I had left of Alcott.

By the time I moved into Baker Street, the bullet wound in my thigh had healed and I no longer needed crutches to climb stairs. Some nights I would dream that my leg suddenly and inexplicably rotted, fell off, bled from a thousand cuts or stuck out at grotesque angles, and I would wake up sweating and determined to stay up the next night. Holmes and I each treated the other with the polite restraint that was good manners for British gentlemen. At first glance, Holmes was just that: a gentleman, always perfectly dressed, always concerned with meticulous hygiene; I smelled only bitter tonic on him, his fingernails were always clipped short and clean, his hair immaculately combed back. He had studied chemistry; he spoke and moved like a man from the intellectual upper class. His lifestyle and profession were in stark contrast to his appearance. He didn't seem to mind leaving newspapers, torn open letters, notes, chemical instruments, even his violin case and violin lying around on tables and chairs; when I carefully and reproachfully said he had forgotten to tidy up some things, he looked at me as if he didn't understand me. I had never met anyone like him before. What other people thought of him didn't interest him, and a respectable job at the university or at least the founding of a family seemed equally undesirable to him. He got up and went to sleep when it suited him, willingly receiving the poorest beggar as a client after the richest nobleman. Needless to say, my thoughts revolved solely around Sherlock Holmes in those early months. I accompanied him daily on his investigations because I had nothing else to do. It seemed too early for me to start working in my own practice; first my leg had to recover completely.

The second case after the Speckled Band that I assisted Holmes on was the case of the Bloody Inscription. In the course of it I got to know Inspector Lestrade and his constables. The short man, whom Holmes had called a "fox terrier", was at first sight unappealing to me because of his arrogant way of strutting around, scolding his men for trifles and generally thinking himself the most intelligent person in the room. Gregson, on the other hand, who had secretly summoned Holmes to the deserted Brixton Road estate, made quite a solid impression on me. I stayed by Holmes' side, kept quiet and watched as Holmes, with that energy that sometimes overtook him in a flash, dashed from left to right across the crime scene, suddenly threw himself on the floor, pocketed something, then jumped up again and presented the murderer's ring to Lestrade. First Lestrade ordered Gregson to note that the murderer had small hands, and then Holmes dictated another description, which later turned out to be the correct one. I saw how the eyes of all the constables were fixed not on the Inspector but on Holmes, just as my eyes were fixed on Holmes. As if a cold fire were burning in the man.

During these observations, which I scribbled down in my notebook that evening as if in a fever, I thought: now I have travelled all the way to Afghanistan and fought in a battle, but it was only here in London that I found what I was looking for. Holmes gave orders to the police officers, and they obeyed them without grumbling, even without questioning, even though Holmes was not a policeman and held no other military office. Without family or honourable profession, he was a complete outsider, but was admired by every man, and, as was not hard to see, envied by Inspector Lestrade, simply because of his intelligence and his vigour. I want to be like him, I thought, and then: I want to be his best friend. Holmes and I left the scene of the crime as quickly as we had arrived, and on our way out Lestrade hissed to me that Holmes didn't usually show him up like that. It was because I hadn't known him long and he was still trying to impress me. I was flattered beyond measure. As we walked towards the gate, I turned once more and threw a mischievous little smile at the inspector, who was looking sourly at us.

In the newspapers I sometimes read articles about men who met secretly in smoky clubs, dressed in women's clothes and put on make-up, and like any decent British citizen I despised them for it. The thing with Alcott and me had been something entirely different, I thought, so brief, so floaty and relieving; it could not have been shameful like the actions of those particular gentlemen. Still, I was careful not to tell anyone about it; I didn’t even mention it to Stamford, my old study mate, to whom I had otherwise reported every successful or less successful adventure with the girls.

On that evening in the autumn of 1887, I kissed Holmes for the first time. We were sitting in the parlour in front of the cold fireplace, for the day had been unusually warm for the time and smelled of damp cellar vaults. Holmes had been watching me across the table for five minutes while I read the Times and he smoked a pipe in his wing chair. Young ladies in the street also looked at me in this way. I had been said to have a mischievous beauty since I was a child, and after my tour of duty in Afghanistan, my skin was tanned and my hair bleached, I was slim and agile and in my prime, so to speak. But no one had ever looked at me as openly and penetratingly as Holmes. I suspected he would deduce me, as he kept telling me; would read from every lint on my jacket and every stain on my shirt what I had done from morning till night and where I had gone. I didn't like being at his mercy like that. Finally, I couldn't stand it any longer and irritably asked if he had run out of deductive objects, because there were certainly not too interesting things to observe about me. "Excuse me, Watson," Holmes said after taking the pipe out of his mouth, "my mind was elsewhere." He flashed me a broad smile and immediately became serious again. Much too serious, it seemed to me. I hid behind my newspaper. For months I had been wondering whether those looks Holmes gave me could be covetous looks, or whether I was imagining things again, like before, when I thought Holmes was a criminal genius. But Holmes is a bachelor, I thought, thirty years old and still a bachelor. As I put the newspaper aside and rose from the chair, my limbs burned with excitement. It was as if I were jumping into a well in which I could not see the bottom. But back then, I did not hesitate for a second before jumping into such a well, just as I had not hesitated when I went to Afghanistan. A life beyond thrills and adventure seemed bland and practically not worth living. Holmes had finished smoking his pipe and placed it beside him on the side table. He raised his eyebrows slightly as I sat down on his armrest and leaned towards him. I kissed him gently with my lips closed. He felt very soft, not unlike a woman, and tasted of tobacco.

After a few seconds, I became acutely aware that Holmes didn’t return my kisses. He sat there frozen, with his eyes open. In a sudden burst of panic, I jumped up, ran into my room and slammed the door behind me. Although it had become dark outside, I didn't turn on any lamps, but sat straight down on my bed, and remained in that position for the next ten minutes. It was a kind of rigor mortis, I suppose, like animals who think they are in danger. I heard Holmes descend the stairs and slam the front door. Since the first viewing of the flat I had wished to be with Holmes as I had been with Alcott. In the same bed by night, but not talking about it by day. Of course, that only worked in my imagination. I would have to talk to Holmes eventually. Worse, I would have to explain to him why I had kissed him, if Holmes came back at all. He would call the police, I thought, and I would be thrown out of the flat and locked up in the penitentiary; I would forever ruin my reputation in London. And all because of one tiny, inconsiderate second. This is unfair, I thought, I'm not one of those homosexuals. I didn't deserve this. The moon outside my window was just a pale green speck in the mist. I heard a lone cab drive by. The thick woollen suit I was wearing was far too warm. I was sweating and a horrible nausea gripped me. Finally I could stand it no longer and went back into the empty, dark parlour, where I sat down at the dining table and continued to wait motionlessly. I listened to the time ticking away in the grandfather clock.

Holmes returned half an hour after midnight. In the meantime I had fallen asleep briefly on the tabletop and was startled again, thinking the police were coming up to arrest me, but it had only been the crackling of the floorboards. Then, as Holmes stood in the flesh in the stairwell, all the words I had been thinking of slipped my mind again. The terrible nausea had subsided and I felt empty and indifferent. Holmes did not come to me immediately, but first hung up his damp coat on the rack and took off his shoes, because he had apparently stepped in puddles. He did not light the gas lamps either. I only saw his shadow quietly approach me, move a chair next to mine and sit down so that our knees touched. Up close I saw his face, as he must have seen mine, and suddenly he laughed.

"My God," Holmes said. "You are beautiful."

I must have looked terrible; pale as a ghost and covered in cold sweat. This time it was Holmes who leaned over and kissed me. We continued for a few seconds, gently and shyly like two schoolchildren, and I remember thinking, whether it's a man or a woman, the disconcertment before the first kiss is always the same. Holmes gently put his hand on my leg, but I said I was tired and wanted to go to bed. Without another word I went back to my room. The last few hours had exhausted me so much that I couldn't really be happy. My only consolation was that I thought I had felt a tremor in Holmes' fingers, so he must have been nervous, too.

In the first months of our secret union, we kissed fleetingly in the morning after Mrs. Hudson had brought breakfast and left the room, and more passionately after dinner before disappearing, each alone, to our rooms. It stayed that way for several days. When Holmes looked at me, I no longer avoided his gaze, but withstood it. And then he laughed more lovingly than I would ever have thought possible.

We played chess when Holmes was not busy with a case. He beat me every time, although my tactics slowly but surely improved. It was becoming summer, which in London meant the week had five rainy days instead of six, and I didn't always have to put on the heavy winter coat when I went out. Once the sun showed itself, Holmes and I would walk along the Thames in the evening light. This meant that I wanted to walk along the Thames because the light of the late sun glided so beautifully over the water, and Holmes said why not, whether by the Thames or by the market place, I don't care. Holmes always walked close to me, or hooked his arm into mine. On such fine days, the population of all London was out and about: errand boys on bicycles; thundering hackney coaches; modest worker couples leading small, obedient children by the hand; rich young ladies in the finest gowns and pearls, accompanied by their fiancés. I didn't realise it then, but I looked at them all with arrogance. I am the luckiest person in the world, I thought while the sun tickled my nose and Holmes told me about his current case. To Holmes, these people were just clients or criminals, but I was closer to him than any of them. I felt elevated above all people, floating high in the blue sky, as close to the sun as Icarus, where the heat was bound to burn my wings.

Now that I knew that Holmes' interest in me went beyond the mere science of deduction, I savoured every reaction I could elicit in him. How intoxicating it is to possess power over another human being; especially when that human being allows no one else to control him. After the first few weeks, Holmes began to ask me carefully on which evenings I had time to go out with him. He invited me to dinner in fine restaurants or gave me theatre tickets. Every now and then I allowed myself to make a vague promise, only to announce to Holmes at the last moment that I would go to my billiards evening or to a pub with Stamford after all. Most of the time Holmes smiled respectfully, nodded briefly to give me his agreement, and then turned to the pile of unread newspapers in front of his desk, the height of which was growing daily. No doubt he knew I was just teasing him; besides, I couldn't stand being away from Holmes for long and invited him to dinner myself the following evening. Sometimes, however, I pushed it so far that Holmes' smile evaporated and he narrowed his eyes, as he always did when facing a thief, blackmailer or murderer. Then I quickly apologised with a lowered gaze and said that of course I would come with him, because our billiards round wasn't even meeting tonight.

I don't remember the first time I slept in Holmes' bed or he in mine (it might have been August, since I remember we fell asleep before sunset). From then on we regularly changed rooms. I discovered a new side to Holmes, or Sherry, as I playfully called him, after my favourite drink. He called me John. Our rooms seemed to me like bubbles in reality where time stood still and nothing and no one could intrude; no duties, no everyday worries, no cold, no sounds from outside. I found it all the more difficult to get up again in the morning and leave the warmth of Holmes body. Holmes was my whole world in those moments. I think it was the first time in my life that I was really in love, that is, completely and utterly devoted to a person, and also the first time I understood what that meant.

I am almost ashamed to think of it, but I also wrote poetry during that time. As a teenager, I read in a book that only women and girls sing about their lover in a poem out of sentimentalism, and that true love poems are about love as a principle, expressed in descriptions of nature. So I tried to put all the fullness of my feelings into a few words and wrote something like, the sky so blue, there are the swallows rejoicing far above, and so on and so forth. A few years later I stuffed the written sheets into a box which I stowed away in the far corner of the attic, intending never to look at them again. Fortunately I didn't throw them away, and when I read the poems again many years later, I like them for their force and expressiveness (even though they sound quite naïve). One more thing comes to my mind: I always had to wait in bed because Holmes locked the room from the inside when we were planning to make love.

In late summer, when the residents of the neighbouring street were fighting the construction of a factory building with posters, leaflets and petitions, Holmes was busy with the case of a high government official. Mycroft had referred his colleague to his younger brother. Since Holmes had been instructed to keep his investigation secret from everyone at all costs, I stayed in Bakerstreet and passed the time by reading my handwritten detective stories over and over again without revising them, looking into my medical textbooks without reading them, chatting with Mrs Hudson about her late husband, and playing chess against myself. After Holmes didn't come home for three days in a row, I began to miss him sorely. I also wrote some poems about longing, but immediately burned them over a candle flame. While I watched the paper burn, Mrs Hudson brought me tea and biscuits. Mr Watson, she said in her usual gruff way, it's no use sitting around all day. You must go out or you'll dry up in the heart and become a cranky fellow; there are enough of them in this house already. She tapped me on the chest and pinched my cheek. I laughed a little at that. On particularly dark days, I allowed myself to imagine Mrs Hudson had been my mother, but immediately felt guilty about it. My actual dear, weak mother had supported me to the best of her ability, even if she never dared to stand up to my father.

Holmes, of course, solved the case to the last detail (he later told me that his client had been blackmailed by a Russian diplomat). The government official invited him to tea in the office building because of his victory. Holmes told him he would only come if he was allowed to bring me, his closest friend and colleague, as I had already not attended the investigation. So on the first Friday in September, dressed in our best evening suits, we took a cab to the Government Office. In the drawing room with its gleaming dark parquet floor and high arched windows, two heavy chandeliers hung from the ceiling, and below them were sofas and armchairs upholstered in light leather around an oak table, on which servants placed golden pots, cups and pie plates full of sandwiches and cakes. Dozens of old men sat at the table or chatted in front of the windows. They were all smoking cigars, so the air in the room was hard to breathe. He has once again saved the whole of England from war, I thought, as I nodded politely to the men, although they ignored me, and Holmes shook hands with everyone present. I saw at once that the client, a gaunt man with a pockmarked face and a fringe of white hair, did not like Holmes, and that Holmes in turn did not like the client. They smiled at each other but kept a few metres apart. The client had probably only invited Holmes because his employers expected him to, and Holmes, on the other hand, had only come because Mycroft had persuaded him. We sat at the table for about two hours (me on the sofa, Holmes opposite me in an armchair), smoking the cigars offered to us, drinking several cups of black tea and pretending to join in the political discussions. The man sitting next to me told me that his son had also been stationed in Afghanistan. I kept nodding and only listened with half an ear. Even I felt uncomfortable in this company, and I hardly dared to imagine how much Holmes suffered. It was actually Mycroft who was supposed to engage with these people, who sat in their chairs all day, rolled political theories in their heads and hadn't seen a real tree for twenty years. Nevertheless, Holmes kept a neutral face and a very polite tone; he sat bolt upright with his legs crossed while talking to the person sitting next to him.

Suddenly I felt Holmes brush the toe of his shoe up the inside of my leg under the table. Our eyes met briefly and I saw a small, mischievous smile on his lips. My face certainly turned bright red, so much was the blood rushing in my ears, and I cleared my throat. Excuse me, I said to the man next to me, could you repeat that last sentence? He repeated what he had said, but again I didn't listen.

As I sat back on the sofa, dainty teacup in hand, and let my gaze wander around the room, I thought of how much I loathed all these people. My brother, before he died of his drunkenness, had been about to become one of them. My father had harboured similar plans for me. They are all so shallow and fake, I thought, sipping my tea, thinking they are the kings of the world, but are only boring old men. I sought eye contact with Holmes again, but he was back in conversation and didn't see me. These small gestures from Holmes, like the touch on the leg, were my lifeblood back then; I couldn't have lasted a day on the streets of London without them. You could even say I was addicted. I threw myself into this addiction without regard for my own well-being.

Our first, inevitable quarrel took place in the castle of the Baskervilles. I described the case in detail in The Hound of the Baskervilles. I went to Dartmoor with the new heir, Sir Henry, after the death of Sir Charles, to look after him and to investigate the strange warning and rumours about the hound. Despite the grim circumstances, I felt very much at home there. The many cloudless days, and the flat landscape with its shrubs and crooked, low trees made me feel like I could finally breathe again after the narrow London lanes had cut off my oxygen. Even the best doctors emphasise the convalescent and refreshing effect of the English countryside atmosphere. After a few days, it also occurred to me that it did me good to be away from Holmes for a while. You don’t notice that the presence of a loved one – with whom you are together day and night – slowly but surely suffocates your connections to the outside world. You don’t notice it because of your love for that person. So I enjoyed the days when I thought Holmes was in London (actually he was hiding on the moor in an old ruin) without thinking too much about why I was enjoying them.

Sir Henry, though already 27 years old, reminded me of my young fellow students when I was just 20. We would get drunk in Henry's room on the brandy stored in the cupboard that Barrymore kept locking. Soon however, Henry, this man of childish exuberance, grew tired of the dark, cold walls of the castle. When he met Miss Stapleton, who we thought was the sister of Mr. Stapleton, the archaeologist, it was only with threats and horror stories about the dog that I managed to keep Sir Henry from sneaking out onto the moor to meet his new sweetheart. But at the same time I was aware that, not so many years ago, I had been an adventurous young lad myself (and imagined I had already overcome all the naivety of youth). When I found the ruin on the hill in the course of my investigations, and subsequently found Holmes in his brown travelling suit, I felt great relief. So I would no longer have to look after Sir Henry like a wet nurse looks after a squeamish, lovesick boy.

Sitting on the cold stones, we spent 10 Minutes kissing and lying in each other's arms. Finally it was Holmes who stood up and urged me to do likewise. „In London we will have time to ourselves, John, I won't run away from you," Holmes said with a smile that warmed my heart. I was glad to hear his voice; scratchy like an old but beloved woollen jumper that fitted me better than any other garment. Later that evening, when I had already put on my night clothes and was washing my face in the guest room before going to bed, Holmes knocked on the door. I opened it for him; he wanted to discuss with me the further course of action in the Baskerville case. I sat down on the bed and said, "Very well, if it doesn't take too long, because I'm freezing."

Other than the master’s rooms, the guest rooms were not connected to the fireplace in the dining room by small tunnels in the walls, so it was always icy cold; especially the stone floor, which seemed to absorb the cold from the earth ground and conduct it inside. Holmes nodded and summarised his plans concisely. Finally he said, "Remember not to tell Sir Henry anything, will you Watson?"

I nodded just as curtly. He had called me "Watson", as he usually did only when other people were present in the room, or outside in the street. So that no suspicion falls on us, Holmes had implored me. I saw that special, slightly glazed expression in his eyes that meant he was concentrating all his senses and thoughts on the case. He didn't seem to notice his confusion.

"Are you joining me in bed?", I asked, just as Holmes turned towards the door. "It's always so cold at night."

Holmes paused in his movement but did not withdraw the hand he had already extended to the handle. "Why don't you tell Mrs. Barrymore to bring you a hot brick?"

"There's one under the blanket already. It doesn't help much."

Holmes lowered his gaze so I couldn't look him in the eye. "I'm sorry, John. We shouldn't risk it. The Barrymores are very suspicious."

He wished me a good night and left. I said nothing. I lay down, blew out the candle and stared into the darkness, which seemed much gloomier than in London. I hadn't been able to get used to it the nights before. Five minutes would have been enough, I thought as I lay awake. It's not like Barrymore is standing outside our door listening, and even if he was listening, he wouldn't have heard anything because we would have just been lying next to each other. But even five minutes is probably too long for him, I thought before I fell asleep.

The next day, until we had shot the dog, arrested „Mr. Stapleton“ and taken the train back to London, I spoke only the most necessary things to Holmes. Even that he didn’t seem to notice. It was only when we were carrying our luggage upstairs to the flat that Holmes tapped me on the shoulder and said with a laugh, "Why the sour expression, my dear John, the case is closed and you have done a good job.“ „I'm glad you noticed,“ I said dryly. „While you hardly look at me.“ I took my bag and left Holmes in front of the stairs. In my room I opened the wardrobe and put in my shirts and trousers, neatly, one garment after the other. I already suspected that I had overreacted, but I didn't want to give up so quickly. I wanted to show Holmes that he had hurt me. Over the next few days I even forbade him to enter my room. Holmes gave me a strange look, which didn't suit him at all and goaded me even further, because I thought he was suppressing a pitying laugh. He bore my sulking with dignity and acted as if nothing had happened, and when one evening he leaned out of his wing chair and touched my shoulder, I gave in and kissed him, the first time in seven days.

Sir Henry sent us a telegram with the news of his upcoming marriage to Beryl and thanked us profusely for our help in solving the case. Only now that he was fully aware of the implications of Stapleton's arrest did it occur to him to thank Holmes. Typical of Sir Henry as I had come to know him; he was a kind soul, but his attention was like that of a nervous bee, already setting its sights on the next flower when it settled into a calyx. I was pleased to hear the news and suggested to Holmes that he send back a telegram with best wishes for the couple. Holmes, however, smiled indignantly and said that Sir Henry would have to come up with more interesting news to get a reply from him, a new case for example. He was in a very bad mood, as not a single client had visited him for a fortnight. Since early morning, Holmes had been sitting in his wing chair in his black velvet dressing gown in which he reminded me of an exhibit from the museum, and smoked one pipe after another.

Whenever Holmes got bored, the concentrated weight of his intellect crashed on me and weighed me down. I hated those days and found excuses as often as possible to go for a walk, run errands, read textbooks; anything to take me away from Holmes. He paced up and down the parlour, pulling letters, papers, notes out of all the drawers, skimming them and, if there was nothing interesting in them, scattered them on the tables and the floor. I watched him with the greatest displeasure and remained quiet, for I knew that when he found nothing else to do he would tell me made-up stories and drive me crazy with fear over a missing letter and dark forces watching over us, even though the postman had only forgotten the letter in his pocket. Only then, when his attention was focused solely on me, did I realise the full extent of Holmes' mental mechanisms. Every second of the day his mind tools needed a whetstone to keep them sharp and not rot from one moment to the next. I had always believed that Holmes drew his conclusions effortlessly, the way others took a walk, but in fact it demanded constant, supreme effort from him. When he had a case, these mechanisms took place in the background, like the gears in a pocket watch, but without a specific goal they rattled idle. I thought of ravenous rats, but immediately tried to suppress this image.

After reading Sir Henry's telegram, Holmes swung himself up the stairs and surveyed the parlour from there like a hawk in search of prey. The time has come, I thought, he will make a mess again, although he knows how much I love cleanliness and order. For this reason, a biting remark slipped out of my mouth: "Luckily, it's Sir Henry's wedding and not ours."

"I can only agree with you, John," said Holmes, unimpressed, as he blew out a puff of smoke, "you know that I disapprove of marital union. In my opinion, no one should marry, then there would be less infamy in the world. Most of the time it is the spouses who commit the murder."

I didn't want to get into a discussion which I would loose one way or the other, so I kept silent. I had got up to do something, but I couldn't remember what it was that I had been thinking about. Holmes was standing at the top of the stairs, I at the bottom, looking up at him. He was wearing his crimson jacket, but that didn't reconcile me in the least. If we had been standing next to each other, I would have seen once again that he was around one inch shorter than me. He was slender in stature, pale as the moon, but naturally strong, which was not apparent at first glance. After a year of working with Holmes, I had learned that it was useful, if not the most useful and important quality, to be underestimated by one's enemies. From time to time, however, I wondered if I myself had not misjudged him, when the half-starved beast of his mind once again pounced on me and, without regard for my well-being, tore me apart out of sheer boredom. Everyone, I believe, hides a part of their selves from even the closest of friends, for whatever reason, but after a long time of living together, gaps inevitably open up in the concealment, and the closest person gets a glimpse of what is not meant for foreign eyes. It got worst when I wondered if Holmes had ever loved me at all, or if he merely tolerated me because I was useful to him and relieved his boredom. That night we slept in separate rooms and I didn't even wish him sweet dreams, as I usually did.

The next day Inspector Lestrade bustled in. He smoothed out his moustache, adjusted his cap and asked Holmes if he could hope for his assistance on a case, with his usual suppressed excitement revealing his wounded pride. Lestrade grinned with relief when Holmes accepted and agreed to go with him to the scene of the crime immediately. I was so glad that our quarrels, our admittedly futile and childish arguments that had been tugging at my nerves for weeks, had come to an end that I made a terrible mistake. I wonder to this day if things would have turned out differently had I held myself back. By the time Lestrade was down in the street talking to the cab driver and we had put on our coats, I touched Holmes on the shoulder and said, "you know I love you." Holmes turned his head slightly in my direction, but without looking at me, and indicated a nod. Then he walked out the door. I had to follow him, for better or worse.

I put on a carefree face in front of Lestrade and kept silent during the drive while the inspector told us about the case. Never before had I told Holmes that I loved him, and never before had he said to me that he loved me; I had taken it for granted. Perhaps I had subconsciously felt that this subject was taboo, that I should be content with the everyday little proofs of our love and rather not dig too deeply into Holmes' inner world. Why had I said that sentence out loud today of all days? It had been pure sentimentality. I wanted us to get along, after all he was the only person really close to me at the moment, but I should have known that Holmes was repulsed by sentimentality more than by anything else. But wasn't it very easy to say those three words? Couldn't he have repeated them quite easily? I told myself emphatically not to think about it. It would lead nowhere. Lestrade had just finished his report by saying, "Actually, we have already found the prime suspect. Your assessment is a mere formality." He looked at Holmes and then at me, and I nodded, smiling a little thanks to Lestrade's incorrigibility; after all, he would never realise that he always arrested the wrong man without Holmes' help. The cab drove through a hole in the road. We were jolted so hard that Lestrade's cap flew off.

Although I had resolved to ask Holmes about my worries, we didn't talk about it that evening, or the following ones. As cunning as Holmes was in solving crimes, he was equally adept at avoiding an unpleasant situation. Instead of telling me he loved me, he told stories of his student days, when he uncovered other students' cheating in exams and was given snails under the duvet in return. He told them in such a funny way that I laughed tears of happiness and relief. Holmes kissed me on the forehead and paid me so much attention that it didn't even occur to me to reproach him. I don't forgive myself for having been so soft. I would rather have got up, left Baker Street and never returned, then I would have been spared some pain; but so it was autumn once again, the beeches paved the alees with their foliage, and I stayed with Holmes, in this strange, multifaceted relationship that was friendship, love and family to me at the same time.

The days went by. Cloud shadows glided over the city, smoke and fog billowed in the streets. I shut myself off from the world in the rooms of Baker Street; pitched my tents on the banks of the sometimes gently flowing, sometimes raging river that was Holmes' life. I was not particularly happy at this time. I was missing something that I could not name. But I felt calm; being close to Holmes, after the initial excitement, calmed me. I would even say I learned from him what true tranquillity meant. A wet, cold wind cut through the streets of London, and I was content to simply linger in the warm parlour, watching through the windows as the wind lifted the withered beech leaves from the drains and threw them against the walls of the houses.

We sat in our armchairs in the evening and warmed our legs by the fire. Holmes had been gone all day, as he often did, without telling me where or why. His weary posture made it clear to me that he wished to remain silent. I should tell him about my everyday life, he said; so I told him about my plans to open a practice soon, about my visits to the office of the newspaper that had recently started publishing my detective stories, and about the fact that the window in my bedroom had been broken because someone had thrown a stone into it. I therefore had stretched a bedsheet in front of it until the new pane could be put in. Holmes stared into the fire while he listened.

I liked to watch Holmes when he was so exhausted and lost in thought. His gaze was then heavy with musings and worries that he would never share with me. They remained hidden beneath his smooth, dull surface. In turn, the clouds above me cleared and I could contemplate the past, the future and the present bustling rattle and clatter of the city like a gallery visitor contemplated a painting. The company of someone like Holmes, who was so extraordinarily clever and saw through everything to its innermost mechanisms, had a cooling effect on my muddled thoughts. But I never stayed in this even temper for more than an hour or two. There was a point at which Holmes seemed to drift further and further away from me, and that was when I began to feel lonely beside him. I looked at his pale face, at once rigid and vivid in the glow of the fire; his beautiful dark eyes, which seemed to me like stone walls, enclosing his innermost being. I knew that I was being terribly arrogant, believing that I loved or even knew this person. Ordinary emotions like affection and tenderness had to roll off him; he did not know them. He was completely removed from this world. So my love for him could only be an imaginary love, and my life at his side only an imaginary life. I was not truly living like other people, but in a kind of half-sleep. This state seemed to me a necessary evil. I loved him after all, and would stay with him even in melancholy.

A few mud splashes speckled his right trouser hem up to his knee. So he must have taken a cab in a muddy area; but it had rained that morning and all day yesterday. I could not deduce from the splashes where he had been. Even after so long a time of studying and describing Holmes' methods of work, I still could not distinguish the different kinds of tobacco and earth. Only the medical parts and functions of the human body I could remember, which had already been studied, classified and presented in an appealing way in books. I resigned myself to the thought that I would never come close to Holmes' genius. At such moments I wished Holmes would wake up from his stupor, come to me and put his arm around me comfortingly. Sometimes he did; but never at the right moment. He was as bad at interpreting my moods as I was at logical reasoning.

At the end of November, I put on thick woollen pants under my regular trousers, wrapped a scarf around my neck and went out to look at some vacant premises that might be considered as a dwelling for my new practice. On the way from one address to the next, I walked past the Diogenes Club, where Holmes' brother Mycroft happened to be leaning out of the window cleaning pigeon droppings from the ledge, and so it came about that I had a cup of tea with Mycroft in his office.

I had met Mycroft at a time when my relationship with Holmes was only just blossoming. At that time, Mycroft seemed to me another manifestation of the natural wonder that Holmes was to me, and like his brother, Mycroft's almost superhuman intelligence enchanted me. I felt honoured to enjoy his presence and behaved accordingly. Mycroft always seemed a little uncomfortable with my admiration. He pretended not to notice, frantically skimming and signing some documents, frowning at a tear in the sumptuous brocade of his ottoman. He was probably flattered, but didn't want to admit it. Unlike Holmes, he found it very difficult to deal with other people on a personal level. He had a stern, intimidating appearance, with his sharply cut face and broad, perpetually black-clad body, but then he also seemed uncertain, awkward, clearing his throat before he said anything and getting muddled in his sentences. He was a purely theoretical and strategic thinker, sharpening his mind not, like his brother, on everyday observations but on tiny printed international law texts (although he was equally a master at observing, which certainly made him dangerous as a politician). When we conversed, he talked either about the regulations of British trade agreements with the Far East, or about the leaf diseases of his peace lily. Since I could only relate to the second subject, I asked him at every opportunity how his plants were doing. Just like Holmes, he had no real friends apart from me, only professional acquaintances. Therefore, when he saw me, it was with pleasure that he stopped me for a short chat, or invited me to tea, as he had just done on that November day.

Since our first meeting, I wondered if he knew about the close relationship between Holmes and me. I always took great pains not to get too close to Holmes in the presence of other people, not to look at him too affectionately or to call him by his first name. All this was part of our agreement to keep our connection secret from the outside world at all costs. Not even Mrs. Hudon was to know about it. Holmes gave me very precise instructions in this regard. I had not thought that far in my infatuation and would have loved to tell every stranger in the street about my happiness, but it made sense to me that we had to be careful. Physical love between men was considered a disease in public, or at best a grave offence against good manners. I fervently hoped that Mycroft would disagree, should he have discovered our secret. He had not yet made any remarks to that effect.

That very day, I was tormented by a feeling that I did not understand and that I could not control. Every step I took I did as if I were blind; a blindness not of the eyes, but of the body. I felt like a knife that hadn't been sharpened for a long time and therefore had to strain myself in order to get anywhere at all. My arms and legs weighed heavily and felt numb. I put my condition down to the fact that I had locked myself up in Baker Street for too long and hadn't spoken to anyone, except Holmes, of course.

I sat opposite Mycroft at his desk and sipped from the blue patterned Chinese porcelain cup while Mycroft leaned forward in his upholstered chair and read some letters. Drinking tea and talking to me probably didn't stimulate him enough, and he had to keep his spirits up that way. He could read and talk to me at the same time without faltering or losing the thread. I looked at Mycroft's neatly combed crown.

The moment I put the cup back on the coaster, I realised where my strange mood came from. I no longer cared. All those people with their judgments about me and my life, even Holmes and his impeccable reasoning, suddenly didn't interest me anymore. Everything seemed very far away, and I felt no fear. My tongue loosened; there was nothing I could do about it.

"It was a year and a half ago that I first kissed Sherlock," I said. And then, as Mycroft paused over his letter, "Did you know about this?"

Mycroft cleared his throat. He turned his head towards the window, and I saw blush rise to his face. This seemed silly to me, because I was supposed to be the one who was embarrassed. But I felt nothing of the sort. I was completely calm and collected and waited patiently for an answer.

"I didn't know," Mycroft said, still looking out the window at the grey winter sky. "But I suspected."

I nodded; glanced down at my hands folded in my lap so as not to disconcert Mycroft. "So he didn't tell you."

"No. Of course not."

I wasn't surprised that Holmes hadn't let his brother in on it either. The two of them often talked business or measured their powers of deduction, but their brotherly banter seemed superficial and routine; I never saw them talk about their family or their shared past, and they kept their respective private lives secret from each other.

Mycroft scuffed his foot on the Persian rug and tugged at his sleeve. It looked like he was desperate to change the subject, but I didn't want to let it go just yet. I still wasn't afraid, rather the opposite: the tension was draining from my body and I felt a weight being lifted from my chest.

"He made me wait a long time after that first kiss," I said. "He left the house and didn't come back for two hours. I didn't know the whole time if he was going to accept or reject me."

Mycroft, after clearing his throat again, asked in a strained voice: "And what did he decide?"

"Well, he accepted me. Otherwise I would have looked for a new place."

Mycroft nodded. In the way he pressed his lips together, he seemed determined not to say another word. I in turn wondered why I had remembered that particular detail after our first kiss, and why I had felt the need to tell Mycroft. Actually, I wanted to tell him much more, but I held back. I finished my tea, got up and said I had two more offices to inspect for my practice. Mycroft was so relieved that he shook my hand and smiled - a very rare sight.

Over the next few days, I felt better than I had in months. Whenever I was in a good mood, I was overcome by an urgent need to shower Holmes with affection. I touched him on the shoulder whenever I came near him; even scratched his head, which made him laugh. I felt all was right with the world. A week later it all came to an end. Sure enough, Mycroft had said something to Holmes. I had told someone else about our connection, which was against their innermost laws. Holmes must have thought something along those lines. But I don't know, of course; I never really understood what Holmes was thinking. In any case, Holmes began to treat me rather distantly and coldly. In itself, this was nothing new, and at first I didn't worry about it. It often happened that for days, even weeks, we behaved like two mere roommates; Holmes talked to me about his cases, explained his thought processes, read and criticised the stories I had written, and we drank whisky by the fireplace, had dinner together and went to bed separately. I was actually very content with this, and I was especially surprised when Holmes suddenly kissed me gently on the mouth. He was a person who liked to joke around but took his bond with me extraordinarily seriously. Normally I felt this seriousness between us even on the days we didn't get close. This time, however, it was different. Holmes radiated a coldness and strangeness that got under my skin. He looked at me less often than before; in fact, he avoided my glances. After about a month I understood: we would never return to our old familiarity.

In the meantime, it had become warmer; spring was announcing itself in the form of leaf buds on the trees and hedges, but the skies remained overcast and the streets dark and muddy. Despite the bad weather, I once again couldn't bear to stay in Bakerstreet and went for a walk. There were quite a few people on the streets; probably, like me, they were fed up with winter and being locked inside all the time. I walked slowly, leisurely along the pavement to give the impression of calm. In truth, my knees were so soft that my legs threatened to give way with every step. I saw myself as Icarus lying on the cobblestones with burnt wings and shattered bones, already overrun by several carriages. I couldn't look the oncoming passers-bys in the eye; months before I had thought I was better than all of them. Better because Sherlock Holmes loved me. In truth, I was just the dreamy, good-for-nothing rascal my father had taken me for. I walked all the way down to Trafalgar Square and indulged in self-deprecation until I felt better. I craved proof of my worthlessness and felt satisfaction when, for example, I saw a man my age who was taller than me lead a lady by the arm. Why I did this, I can hardly explain. Perhaps it was comparable to the compulsive touching of a freshly inflicted wound. Absentmindedly, I bought the daily newspaper on a street corner, although I had already read it.

At the same time, I had to admit to myself that the end of our love did not surprise me, but this fact could not ease my pain in the least. Whereever house facades and street lamps rose into the sky, I saw only piles of rubble and shards. What a sad relief it is to realise that one has to start all over again. In case I’m still able to fall in love, I will not build facades but foundations, I thought. I left the newspaper on the nearest park bench and returned to Baker Street.

Holmes was sitting in front of the fireplace, thinking. Not about a case; I could see it in his relaxed, almost fatigued posture. If he had been busy with a case, I should not have disturbed him, but I knew from our conversations that he was currently unemployed. I took off my coat and was about to go to my room when he asked, "Where have you been, John?"

There was no reproach in his voice. He sounded as if he just wanted to talk to me. "Went for a walk," I said. "I wanted to see the first crocuses bloom in the park."

"I've never understood people's fondness for flowers," Holmes replied. "I enjoy drawings of flowers much more than their actual sight, so seeing them must always disappoint me." He hesitated for a moment, smiling at me. "Would you be so kind as to pass me my pipe? It's on the ledge."

I stepped forward and handed him the pipe. Holmes nodded his thanks and began to stuff it with tobacco. He could be so circumspect, so considerate. His good humour tugged at my nerves. This new day and the colourful crocuses, whether in the park or on paper, did not change the fact that the time of our happiness together was over. Yet he did not seem to want to cast me out of his life altogether. But what did he want then? And what did I want? I remained frozen in front of the fireplace; unspoken thoughts and feelings rumbled around inside me. I wanted to reproach Holmes, but the words died before my mouth could form them. Then I wanted to beg his forgiveness and ask what I could do to regain his trust, but also those words got stuck in my throat. There was too much I wanted to say, so I said nothing at all. During the entire time we had known each other, we had not had a single clarifying conversation about our relationship. There wouldn't be any more either, I had to accept that. Finally, I managed to tear myself away from Holmes and retreated to my bedroom.

At the same time the following year I was running a reasonably good medical practice in Webber Street, was married to Mary Morstan and already lived with her in a small ground floor flat near Mint Street Park. I had come to the realisation that if not like this, my relationship with Holmes would have come to an end in some other way. A ripe apple will fall from the tree regardless of whether you wish it would hang on its branch forever.

About three months after the unspoken break-up with Holmes, I met Mycroft again in the street outside the post office. He opened the front door, spotted me on the pavement and gestured hastily for me to wait for him. He hurried to catch up with me and, somewhat short of breath and pale in the face, tapped me on the shoulder. He pressed a bottle of sinfully expensive Pinot Blanc into my hand. I understood that he wanted to apologise to me. Even years later, I sometimes caught worried glances from him; apparently he was tormented by the idea that he had destroyed my and Holmes' relationship. I didn't know how to make him understand that he had not been the cause of our break-up, but only the trigger, and that I held no grudge against him. I accepted the Pinot Blanc, of course, because it was a very good vintage. I thanked him with a smile and said I had met a lady.

I am not exaggerating when I say that Mary saved my life back then. Without question, it is unwise, even unfair, to cling to someone out of fear of one's own downfall, but Mary was one of those rare people who offered the beloved a firm anchor throughout their lives. She was infinitely gentle and wore her heart on her sleeve. Unlike Holmes, she always spoke out what she thought and felt, and did not hide behind iron self-control.

At our first meeting in Baker Street, when she consulted Holmes about her father's inheritance, I took an instant liking to her, and by the end of the case my liking had grown into infatuation. New ideas formed in my mind: a little house in the country, Mary in a pretty blue dress at the window. Perhaps a little daughter in her arms. I couldn't stop my face from getting hot whenever I spoke to her. She politely lowered her eyes when I did so, and knew all the other behavioural dictates of a young English lady, but every now and then her eyes flashed up at me, a smile appeared on her lips, and her little teeth shone like pearls in her mouth. After I had wooed her almost desperately for weeks, we kissed for the first time in the reception room at her grandmother's house and became engaged the next day.

I then moved out of Baker Street, but my collaboration with Holmes and my hobby of turning his adventures into detective stories remained. In addition, from time to time, but no more than once a month, we met for dinner at the restaurant where we used to eat regularly. Because of her great sensitivity, Mary was aware of the tensions between me and Holmes, although I tried to hide them from her as thoroughly as possible. Once in early summer, when I came home from dinner with Holmes, still incited by the rainy weather, and uttered some curses about his inconsideration, Mary took me by the arm and implored me to tell her what was bothering me. I had already decided to confess everything to her. We settled down on the sofa; outside the window crows were squabbling in the rose bushes. I half-turned to her and, with carefully chosen words, told her about my past with Holmes. Unlike Mycroft, my heart was up to my neck and I anxiously watched the reactions on Mary's face. She remained serious the whole time, did not take her eyes off me and kept her hand on my arm.

"He's a terrible egoist, isn't he?" Mary exclaimed suddenly after I had finished. She took my hand and squeezed it tightly. "I never liked him very much."

"That’s not true. He's not an egoist."

Although I realised I didn't really believe it myself, it felt right to say it. He was not a selfish person. Maybe there were no egoists at all, just different people with different interests. Or maybe there were, but Holmes was not what was commonly understood by an egoist. I could be sure of that.

Mary, looking at me in alarm, said quietly, "Do you still love him?"

I hesitated. "No," I said. "I love you, and no one else."

The uncertainty in my voice must have hurt Mary terribly. I saw her retreat inwardly from me; she raised her shoulders and clawed her hands into the fabric of her apron dress. Today I think I'm stupid for doing that, but at the time I actually believed she thought badly of me for getting involved with a man. I leaned over to Mary and grabbed her by the shoulder. It was only because of Holmes' great personality that I had been infatuated with him for a while, I explained; there was no love to speak of. "I, well... I'm not one of those perverts," I said. "I don't help myself to your make-up, if that's what you're thinking…"

My explanations only made Mary angrier. She withdrew from my grasp and crossed her arms in front of her chest. "Don't be silly, John," she snapped at me. "These people just want to be happy, too. I don’t care what you do or don’t do with my make-up. But does my love mean as little to you as his does?"

I cringed at her words. I had last seen her this upset when I had broken a plate of her mother's wedding dinnerware. I quickly mumbled an apology and said that both Holmes and she meant a lot to me, but that I loved only her and would never leave her.

After the confrontation with Mary, I wanted to put the matter with Holmes, which had been bothering me for years, to rest once and for all. We arranged to meet the following Sunday at the Café Cheval, where the meeting was to take place that prompted me to put this story down on paper. After weeks of being continuously cloudy, the sky cleared for the first time that morning. The wadded remnants of cloud cover hung like alien formations in the cool blue sky, but they were enough to brighten my mood somewhat. With all the courage I could muster, I waited for Holmes at our regular spot by the window. He was fifteen minutes late. At first it had bothered me a lot that he and Mary didn't get along. I had tried to persuade Holmes that Mary was a very intelligent, delicate woman, and that she didn't affect my thinking negatively at all. But he would not treat her more kindly than the situation and mere decency demanded. When he saw her, she was like air to him. I knew that he disliked women who were not brash and almost sexless like Mrs. Hudson; he said that their inability to distinguish facts from emotions clouded men's judgment. As examples, he cited numerous instances where a respectable man allowed his newly-wed wife to lead him into reckless stock speculations that eventually bankrupted him. I vehemently disagreed, saying that being in love included recklessness, regardless of the woman's influence. To back this up, I reminded him of my own reckless decision to kiss him before I was aware of his disposition. But he smiled half-heartedly and said I was just a bit gullible. His disappointment, which I had to endure the first time I told him about my engagement, I got to feel again each time we came together. For our meeting at Café Cheval, I had resolved to avoid the subject. I wanted to talk about our past relationship and not let him lead me astray.

I saw him coming towards me from a distance in his crimson jacket. Contrary to my intentions, I became nervous. I kneaded the cloth napkin on my plate and bobbed my right leg as he opened the glazed door, nodded to the waiter and sat down opposite me. The Cheval had been remodelled last year and furnished in the latest fashion with elegantly curved wood panelling and floral iron decorations on tables and chairs. Holmes had told me that he detested this new "art nouveau" and that he only visited the Cheval with me for old times' sake. "What did you want to talk about so urgently?" he said without mincing words and studied the leather-bound menu, although he ordered the same thing every time: black tea with milk and scones.

Once again, I lost the courage to straight out ask the question that had always been burning on my tongue - did he really love me? So I began evasively: "What did you think about me when we first met? You know, I was looking at the flat and you were busy with your chemical experiments…"

Holmes put the menu aside and propped his chin in his hand. "For a split second I took you for a nobleman. You were strutting around with your back stretched out, looking down on everything as if you were sitting on a throne. Then I saw your complexion and the limp leg, and understood that you were a soldier. I was not surprised. All young soldiers think they are kings and emperors."

His bluntness made me laugh, and that laughter in turn infected Holmes. I looked at his face, which showed laugh lines on his forehead and nose. May it be because of the harsh, cold daylight to which my eyes were no longer accustomed, but I thought he looked aged. He was constantly worrying about something, and those worries were now etched on his face. I, on the other hand, was suffering as usual from the many conflicting feelings that were tugging at me from within. So everyone had their cross to bear.

"I wanted to ask you something," I said, but before I could finish the sentence, Holmes leaned over and grabbed my hand under the short café table. I had to force myself not to pull it away immediately. Panicked, I looked around, but the other patrons took no notice of us, nor did the waiters, hurrying from the kitchen to the tables and back as before.

"John," Holmes whispered, "don't forget our time together, and stay loyal to me in your heart. Will you promise me that?"

I swallowed. There was a gleam in Holmes' eyes that I hadn't seen in them for a long time. "I can't," I said. "I only love Mary, do you understand? I love her. But we'll stay friends, if you don't mind."

Possibly I had misunderstood him. Holmes let go of my hand. The waiter came to our table and asked for our orders. Holmes took the usual; I just nodded, which the waiter took to mean the same thing twice. I had wanted to order cake, but I didn't trust my mouth to form an intelligible word at that moment. I watched Holmes with great suspicion. To my surprise, he did not treat me coldly and dismissively after my answer, but joked about the waiter's Irish accent, which he tried to cover up with exaggerated British pronunciation. The waiter brought tea and pastries. Gradually I relaxed again and we chatted about Holmes' work, about my patients and the weather. I couldn't understand why Holmes seemed so content, almost relieved. Then there was his jacket; that bright red jacket. Did I really expect to make heads or tails of him, I thought later as I left the café. I stepped out into the mild evening after Holmes. And once again I hadn't managed to ask that one nagging question; at the same time I had the feeling that Holmes had already said everything.

I am sitting at my desk, the sky is hazy with the breath of London's factories, and the glowing piece of sun that can be seen through it is approaching the horizon. I have already lit the candles. One last time I want to write his name as I once uttered it. Sherlock, Sherry. The letters fit together elegantly and the blue ink dries quickly. The contents of the inkwell are nearing their end, and the rest dries solid at the bottom of the glass. Fortunately I have come to an end with my story in time. Mary is just calling me to dinner. I will enjoy the last sight of the sun, put the fountain pen back in the holder and blow out the candles. Lastly, as I have written, I will hide the sheets - by now they form a thick pile - in the cupboard, for the brightness of the beautiful blue ink will last longest if the paper is tucked away in a drawer, in the dark.