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i.
It was an early afternoon when I had called Sherlock Holmes by his given name for the first time. I was handing a letter addressed to my companion from his brother, Mycroft Holmes. As I did so, I saw written at the top of the page, a "Dear Sherlock" in a cursive hand.
Holmes took the paper from me, and said, "Thank you, Watson."
"You're quite welcome, Sherlock."
I had scarcely realised the depth of what I had said. Holmes paused momentarily and looked up at me with a steely gaze for several moments, saying nothing. I glanced back, equally confused. "I beg your pardon?" said he, anxiously.
"I was only expressing my gratitude, Sh--" I stopped, the truth of what I said dawning on me. "My apologies, Holmes. I've no clue how I referred to you as such."
"It's perfectly alright. Only I would like to keep this relationship professional, so 'Holmes' will suffice."
I already knew that, of course, and felt a twinge of annoyance at the fact that Holmes found me so inept to remind me of the functionality and boundaries of the meticulously woven friendship that had formed between us. "Yes, it won't occur again. I was looking at your name on the letter. Evidently it lingered in my thoughts, causing myself to address you as such."
Holmes hummed and glanced at the letter in question. It was a perfectly explainable mistake, yet I had the feeling we were both equally unnerved by it. "I see. It has been a while since anyone has called me that."
"Is that so?"
"Yes, it caught me off guard," he said thoughtfully, his brow furrowed. I made a noise of agreement and picked up my novel, and we remained in a companionable silence.
ii.
It was only a slip-up, an accident, an inadvertent stroke of familiarity that had possessed me, I had told myself. Surely such an event could not repeat itself.
Indeed, what an erroneous notion to have! Now that I had graced my tongue with Holmes' given name once, it seems I did not want to stop, despite my better judgment. Perhaps it was my desire to see that expression on Holmes' face again. I had never seen him so perplexed as when I addressed him as "Sherlock." He typically acted like a formidable force that knew what was to happen before it truly occurred, but as he so cleverly put, I had caught him "off guard." Something had stirred within me, be it consciously or unconsciously, after that moment, and I could not stop myself from uttering his given name again.
Several weeks after the first incident, where it was long forgotten between us, I had woken up and arrived into the sitting room only to see the tea table, sofa, and chairs turned upside down. Holmes stood a metre from the calamity that he must have imposed upon the furniture.
"Good God, Sherlock!" I cried. "What have you done?"
"Don't be absurd, Watson, for I'm quite certain you can see exactly what I have done to the room," said Holmes. He stepped towards his armchair (which, of course, remained untouched) and seated himself. "If I may impose another question. Why have you called me by my Christian name again?"
"I will answer your question, but you must at least have an explanation for this."
Holmes sighed. "My dear Watson, you possess an uncanny ability to quell my excitement. The good Inspector Lestrade has sent me a telegram about a potential case that has the police out of their depths, as expected of them. He told me that the furniture was turned upside down in the victim's home. I was attempting to replicate such conditions here to see if there is anything of interest that could be discerned."
I seemed to understand. "On the premise that you shall, at some point, restore this room to its former state?"
"Of course," affirmed Holmes. "But we have deviated from the topic at hand. Do tell me, Watson, do you truly want to refer to me by my given name so badly?"
"No, Holmes, you misunderstand. It just slipped out, really," I denied.
"It is quite interesting. No one has ever "slipped out" my name as you say, and for the second time at that." Holmes was clearly unconvinced.
"No one has ever turned my furniture upside down," I managed to quip. I began to exit the room, while Holmes launched into a discourse disputing the exclusive ownership of the furniture, and retreated to the solace of my chamber.
iii.
For the several weeks following the second incident, I watched my words carefully. Besides one offhanded witty remark about it, Holmes did not act any different, seeming to pay the matter no mind.
On one occasion, Holmes seemed to notice my extra caution to my words. "Watson, if you're truly so exhausted, you can venture to your bedchambers. We can continue this conversation tomorrow," he had said.
"Whatever do you mean? I'm perfectly at ease."
"But you're speaking so slowly. Either you would like to say something else and you are stopping yourself or you would merely like to retire."
"It is the former, in fact," I said. "I didn't -- I didn't want to mess up again."
Holmes knit his brow, then chuckled when he realised what I was referring to. "You mean my given name?"
I nodded.
"It is of no consequence, if you slip up again," said he. "Just speak at your normal pace or I will begin to suspect that you have been replaced by an imposter," Holmes finished, a mischievous glint in his eyes.
I couldn't help but let out a laugh, relieved by his lighthearted response. "Oh, the thought of an imposter Watson is a rather intriguing concept. Perhaps he would be a more efficient companion, never accidentally calling you by your given name."
Holmes raised an eyebrow, a playful smirk gracing his lips. "Efficiency may not be the only quality I seek in a companion, dear fellow. Our partnership is built on more than mere functionality."
His words carried a warmth that resonated deep within me, and I begun to relax the caution I had previously put upon my words. So, looking on it now, it did not come as a surprise this next instance when I had allowed the informality to escape my mouth.
A week or more after that conversation, Holmes and I had arrived home after a lengthy case, both of us weary as the sun began to set. He poured two glasses of brandy for us, and we quietly drank and made idle conversation.
"That would have been a most dreadful case had you not deduced the identity of that villain so easily," said I, smiling at my companion over the rim of my glass. "London is unknowing of your immense value."
"You overestimate me. I would have been nothing without my trusted biographer."
"Sherlock, you are too kind to me and too unkind to others," I remarked.
My friend suddenly straightened in his chair and hummed. "Watson, you have done it again."
"Done what?"
"You have addressed me as 'Sherlock,' my dear fellow. I'll say, this seems less of a slip of the tongue and more of an unconscious inspiration."
I had not noticed my mistake until he pointed it out. "Unconscious inspiration? I'll say that the drink has gone to your head."
"What other reason do you have for referring to me as such? Once or twice I could call a fluke, but three times seems telling of something more. After all, I have never called you by your Christian name."
If I am being honest I had no clue how to respond. "Holmes, if I knew why I kept doing this I would have told you."
"Sigmund Freud, for instance, would say that your continuous slips mean that you secretly desire to call me by my given name. You want a different type of relationship with -- "
"Holmes, cease," I cried. "That gentleman Freud has little to no proof for his inane theories. Perhaps we learned the same things in medical school, but that doesn't mean his ideas hold any truth. I assure you there was no underlying reason beside pure accident. Do not... read too much into it. This is not data from which deductions can be drawn."
Holmes had a distressed mien, like he was on the verge of discerning a groundbreaking truth. But I could not let him continue further with his inanities, and despite his obvious disagreement, he said, "Very well. I will chalk it up to mere happenstance."
iv.
Two days later, I still pondered what Holmes was going to say before I had stopped him. "You want a different type of relationship," he had said. Did he really think so? What other kind of relationship could exist between us beside friendship?
The question gnawed at my thoughts. Was there a depth to our connection that had eluded me? Holmes had a keen perception, and could often see nuances and complexities where others see only surface. Perhaps my constant addressing him informally had caused him to make this deduction about me, and from previous experience, he was often quite right in such conclusions. Did I yearn for a closer intimacy, one that transcended the boundaries of friendship and ventured into uncharted territories of the heart? Even if Holmes had an answer to that question, I did not.
Naturally I did not want to let Holmes on to my ruminations. He had been hunched over his microscope for most of the day's duration, examining different water samples from the Thames and the Grand Union Canal. I had attempted to distract myself earlier by finishing the novel I had been reading, and as afternoon approached, I had begun to ramble to Holmes about the novel. However, it became apparent that his attention was directed at his experiment, offering occasional nods and noncommittal noises as though feigning interest. My words flew effortlessly as I spoke. "And then, Sherlock, it turned out the protagonist had discovered the true essence of his being."
I faintly registered what I had said. My eyes widened, and the sound of Holmes adjusting his microscope had ceased. An expression I could not understand crossed his face.
"Watson... I do not think you understand the depth of my reaction when you refer to me as such," said Holmes deliberately. His voice held a hint of vulnerability that I had never witnessed before. He hadn't acted like this on all the other occasions of my slip-ups.
"What type of reaction?"
Holmes took a moment to compose himself, his gaze remaining unwavering. "Even if you dismiss it as mere accident, you address me as 'Sherlock' with a familiarity that surpasses our usual camaraderie. And if I may be completely honest, it stirs emotions within me that I have normally been able to ignore."
I hadn't completely realised before, but when I looked at him, it dawned that the slip of my tongue was not accidental. It was a reflection of my own growing affection, my own desire to be closer to him. A longing had settled in my heart, even if I dared not speak its name. "I must admit, that I too have felt a shift within me," I confessed. "But I was unsure whether it was mere folly or genuine longing."
Holmes did not respond, but instead rid himself of his protective glasses and moved away from his microscope, experiment put on hold, and then ushered me to the sofa. My heart raced as I seated myself, Holmes following and sitting next to me, our knees brushing.
"I have severely underestimated you. You have skillfully dismantled the wall of formality that I have erected, much like the legendary fall of Jericho, with your constant use of my Christian name. You must have planned this. Somehow, you knew of my weakness, these unspoken desires that have simmered beneath the surface for so long."
I was shocked at what he had surmised. But in the back of my head, what Holmes said seemed to hold some truth. Had I truly been testing the boundaries of our connecting by omitting our formalities? "I didn't plan this," I uttered at first. "But I wanted to -- wanted to deepen our connection, I suppose. It must have manifested itself in this way."
"You understood the complexities of our bond before I fully comprehended it myself. My dear Watson, I must congratulate you, for I believe you have been one step ahead of me this time. You have a remarkable ability to see the underlying truth sometimes." He placed his hand atop mine, a tender gesture that seemed so unlike my dear friend.
"To see that you are not as impervious to emotion as you claim is quite remarkable as well." I paused. "What lies between us is no accident, and if you would be amenable -- "
"I am. Amenable, that is," said he before I had even finished my thought. "We have danced around this truth for far too long." He raised his hand to my face, his thumb tracing my moustache.
I leaned closer, and before I knew it I was kissing Holmes, his warm palm still upon my cheek. The initial brush of lips soon gave way to a hunger that had been building for far too long, and I found that without my conscious effort my hands had made their way to my companion's shoulders, telling of his strong constitution.
Soon Holmes pulled away, breathing hard, and I began to fear that I had pushed him too much, that I desired him too strongly, that perhaps our minds were not on the same level of understanding that I had initially assumed they were. But these worries were alleviated when he glanced up at me and smiled shyly. "Was that quite alright?" I enquired.
"An unnecessary question. For my first kiss, I would say that it was rather excellent."
I stared at him. "First kiss?" I whispered in my astonishment.
"That is what I said, yes."
If I was at a loss for words earlier, I certainly had lost semblance of the English language now.
"You can forget about it if it troubles you so. I am glad that it is you I've shared my first kiss with, as opposed to a woman that I would take no interest in."
After a few moments of silence, I responded. "You have never wanted to kiss anyone?"
"Not really, no," he replied dismissively. "Not before you. It seemed completely unsanitary, and London is already rather sordid."
"How utterly mechanical of you," I laughed. "I had assumed -- but still, it's quite the shock."
Holmes laughed, then without another second of hesitation he leaned towards me and we kissed again.
I laid down on the sofa so that my head was on the armrest, and Holmes hesitantly embraced me, our bodies entwined. He rested his head on my chest and I wrapped my arms around him, our breathing the only sound in the room.
"Hmm," he hummed, and I could feel the vibrations of the sound right over my ribcage, where my heart was beating wildly. "Is this what you read about in those lowbrow books you peruse?"
I chuckled softly. "No, they don't capture the intricacies of reality. It is as if I asked you if solving a case was like reading about Poe's Dupin."
"You shan't mention that inferior fellow at present," said Holmes into my shirt.
"Alright." I ran my hand through his hair, trying to figure out how to explain my thoughts coherently. "Holmes, your intellect and passion have always captivated me, of course. But beyond your genius, I feel honoured to be trusted with the depths of your emotions, your vulnerability."
"Your sentimental language strikes again. I would even call it tinged with romance, as I did with your recount of the Jefferson Hope case."
I sighed in amusement. "Can you blame me?"
Holmes lifted his head from my chest, his eyes meeting mine. "I am only jesting, of course. You have an uncanny ability to unravel the layers of my being."
v.
As much as Holmes cherished me, he also cherished a successful experiment, and although his explanation on why he could not continue being nestled in my arms was not received well, he eventually removed himself from my embrace and returned to his microscope.
I rang for dinner that evening just as Holmes had finished recording data. There was a tense air between us as we ate, neither of us knowing how to acknowledge the passage of events that had occurred only hours ago. Something, of course, had changed between us and our relationship.
Holmes finished his meal, for he ate very little as it was, and announced, "I am off to my bedchamber. If you would be so kind, my dear Watson, to join me."
I observed him as he padded off to his room, appalled but not unhappy by his lack of subtlety, how forward his request was. I had assumed to myself, after Holmes left my embrace for his experiment, that such affairs would be few and far between, and my gratefulness of the prospect of any kind of engagement of the type with Holmes overshadowed any distress I would have felt. But now, the notion of this being a regular occurrence began to fester in my heart.
When I shortly joined Holmes in his room, I am afraid to admit that I had no idea what I was expecting. His room was always in disarray, and I normally took care to avoid entering it at all costs. As I approached it, I noticed his door was slightly ajar, as if to invite me inside. I slowly pushed it open, for I had been expecting the door to strike the stacks of books Holmes occasionally left on the floor.
But to my surprise, Holmes had tidied his room, it seemed, in the hopes of accommodating my presence, and the door swung open smoothly and with ease. On the bed was Holmes, in his bed clothes, where he was gazing right at me. "Excellent, Watson. You have arrived."
"Do you..." I coughed, unsure how to phrase my question. "Do you intend I stay here?"
"If you are willing, naturally."
I slowly climbed into his bed, the mattress dipping from our combined weight. Holmes smiled genially as he faced me on his side. I studied him, the moonlight from the window accentuating his features. Our bodies were close, but not touching, as if we were testing the boundaries of our intimacy.
"Are you comfortable?" I questioned, in a hushed tone, as if I was disturbing something very delicate if I spoke any louder.
Holmes nodded. "Yes. I never imagined bringing anyone in my bed like this, but this moment is an exception."
I stated my agreement, continuing to lie by Holmes' side. For a few moments, our breathing was the only sound in the room. I longed to bridge the gap between us and tentatively turned to drape my arm over Holmes' waist as he lay on his back, putting ourselves in a gentle embrace.
I breathed in Holmes' tobacco laden scent as he relaxed his head on my shoulder. Holmes hummed, delighted by the turn of events, no doubt. "Watson, may I ask a favour of you?"
"There's little I cannot do for you, good fellow," said I, tracing his back with my fingers.
He hesitated, eyes clearly revealing his uncertainty. "Since we are like this... do you mind calling me by my given name?"
I paused my ministrations and grinned. "Whatever happened to that 'professional relationship' you insisted on?"
"Circumstances have changed," he responded curtly, though I could feel his smile on my skin.
"Indeed they have," I agreed, then added, "my dear Sherlock."
I could feel my lodger's shudder at that simple phrase, his breath hitching ever so slightly. "Good God, man," he muttered against my collarbone.
Emboldened by his reaction, I pulled him closer to me. It was growing warm to a nearly insufferable degree, but I could not imagine leaving my dear detective's side, not when I had discovered this unexplored aspect of him.
"Tell me what you are thinking, Sherlock," I requested.
"Oh, I couldn't..." he trailed off. "It is rather -- rather difficult to articulate anything at the moment. Your hand on my back, the warmth of your body, that is all my thoughts are consumed with at present." He faltered for a moment, sighing deliberately and letting his eyes close.
"Go to sleep, Sherlock," I whispered, because I could tell he was growing drowsy.
"Yes, of course I will," said he. "You seemed to know of my exhaustion before I knew of it myself. But... if I could..." He seemed almost anxious to query me. "Could you kiss me again?"
"You've grown quite the fondness for kissing," I laughed, raising myself so I could align our lips and press them together.
"Only yours, my dear boy," said Sherlock. "Only yours."
+ 1
The next morning, I slowly awoke to the sounds of Holmes' murmurs. He was now behind me, his arms wrapped around my sides and holding me close. One of his hands had drifted to stroke my hair, and he pressed his lips against the back of my neck, soft and feather light kisses dotting the area. I kept my eyes closed, for I could not dare to disturb the forces at work that helped render such a singularly peaceful moment.
As Holmes' lips inched closer to my ears, I soon comprehended what he was saying.
"You are absolutely exquisite. My John, my lovely John," he muttered, in a hushed, affectionate tone. I had not been expecting such loving words, and shivered at the surprise. Holmes seemed to notice my shifting, for he suddenly fell silent.
Slowly stirring, I blinked my eyes to the morning sunlight and cleared my throat. "Holmes, did you just call me... your John?" I asked, trying to hide the smile from my words, though I have no doubt Holmes could deduce my expression even though I was faced away from him.
Holmes moved away from me slightly and his hand paused in my hair. "I... have no idea what you're talking about, Watson," he stammered, quick to deny his words.
I turned to face him with a grin, and saw his cheeks were flushed pink. "Don't play coy with me. I rather liked it, actually."
He averted my gaze, blush only deepening. "I used to criticise such sentimentality. Now I am caught using it myself. Look what you have done to me."
I chuckled. "I used to think your deductions were a load of rubbish and that you were as well. We have changed each other, my dear Holmes, and for the better, I might add." I slowly sat up. "I will be on my way, for I don't think I'll be living here much longer if we're found like this."
Holmes laughed awkwardly. "Yes, Watson. I too need to rouse." Before I left his bedchambers completely he kissed me one last time.
A few minutes later found us properly dressed and breakfasting together. Holmes breached the silence and suddenly asked, "Is this really what love feels like? Or is this unique to us?"
"Such a profound question for the morning!" I exclaimed. "I don't believe the answer is anything to dwell upon. There is nothing new under the sun. It has all been done before."
Holmes seemed to accept my statement, but then paused, swallowing his eggs. "Aren't those my words?"
I grinned, for I knew he would discern as such. "You know yourself so well. Indeed, it was one of the first things of note you said to me. Most other things you say I have learned to let fall upon deaf ears."
"Ha!" he cried. "You have not lived for years with Sherlock Holmes for nothing," said he, quoting another line in my writings.
"You know how to make me laugh," I said wholeheartedly.
Holmes reached over and brushed a strand away from my face. "And you, my dear John, know how to make my heart soar."