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Sherlock Holmes closed the book with a sigh, touched the cover with his fingertips and let a tear slip from his face onto the wood-green cover. It was the only sign of emotion that he let out, no word escaped from his lips as far as he could because he was alone in the apartment — he remained silent and motionless with a feeling of emptiness in his chest. The fireplace was lit and he was sheltered and warm from the winter cold that had enveloped all London. Still, his mind which always needed action to not fall into the most total idleness and therefore in the boredom that disturbed him, did not make him enjoy that torpor. So the detective approached his bookshelf and took a book, hidden at the bottom, which was considered scandalous certainly for the time in which he lived, like the esteemed Wilde. Still, Holmes was certainly not a conventional type.
However, when he reached the final words of that book, he had to admit that he was surprised; it was certainly not common to deal with such an argument without it ending in tragedy. On his side, Holmes had prepared for this, expecting the understanding that usually he only had by men considered inverted... But he wasn’t ready for this.
He opened the book again and the title Maurice was elegantly written but in a dull, insignificant black, without any gold or archaic writing, as if even owning such a book was a sin.
Some sentences resounded in his mind
He would not deceive himself so much. He would not – and this was the test – pretend to care about women when the only sex that attracted him was his own. He loved men and always loved them. He longed to embrace them.
He remembered exactly when he accepted who he was, in Cambridge exactly where the book was set, and exactly as the protagonist thanks to a platonic love, not Clive, but Victor. The first boy he could call friend, the friend that Maurice was looking for in the book — the impulse of body and desire that whispered in mind and shadow, ready to be seen and discovered.
For him it was not as upsetting as he would have been from a young man of that era, no, it was as natural as opening his eyes every morning. Sherlock Holmes had seen it in the blue eyes of Victor Trevor, in the exhausting desire to spend as much time with him as possible, or stolen hugs in their shared room, or moments of silence filled with laughter. Ambiguous caresses that had nothing malicious, but that were near at the concept of love instead of friendship.
The separation was such painful that convinced the detective to no longer want to deal with feelings, which would never be his competence or understanding. He would only have trust in logic and he had succeeded.
Until, until, until... blue eyes like the sky had caught his attention and destroyed that barrier of fear and loathing to feelings, with the same speed with which John Watson had entered his life.
He felt overwhelmed by the happy ending of Maurice, by the fact that love in some absurd and different universe, could win and maybe if he had the courage even he... Holmes snapped the book back to his chair as if he were a friend he did not want to talk to anymore.
Idiot!
And he closed his eyes with a sigh.
He realized that he had abandoned himself in the arms of Morpheus for a few moments because when he opened his eyes, he found a presence next to him. Even with half-closed eyes, he knew who he was. Holmes took a moment to snuggle up in the warm blanket that covered his shoulders — usual care between him and Watson.
Sherlock Holmes would have liked to watch him sitting there in his chair with the warm light of the fireplace caressing his face, enjoying a new book, and enjoying the expressions and emotions that he knew so well from his best friend... But when he saw what book he was reading, he clicked and sat up.
John Watson looked at him and that was enough for his Boswell to understand and speak before he did, with the advantage that still half asleep, Sherlock Holmes would not mask his expression.
“I remember this book so well.”
Watson closed the book without any embarrassment, it was quite obvious that his friend Watson as well as the female company, also preferred the male one — a rather elementary deduction to which the detective came to the conclusion years ago — but that not even a sign of annoyance did not touch his beautiful face even for the prohibition era in which they were, was admirable.
It was quite clear that John Watson had chosen to show himself so openly to him only, and Sherlock Holmes' heart did not fail to react in quick beats to this fact.
“I know in advance my dear Holmes, that you follow the logic and therefore what I shall say will be a cause of laughter by your, but you have read Maurice so I can tell my thoughts. Love always wins, in the end.”
Holmes thought for a moment before answering and stood up.
“I don’t find it ridiculous and I understand more than you can imagine.”
Their eyes met in silence and the detective held his breath, sewed his hands behind his back and looked at the fireplace, rather than continue to look at him. Because, in his eyes like the blue sky, he saw a spark, the message that his friend was sending him.
“Holmes...”
And his tone, his soft tone just confirmed. He had to stop him before it would be too late.
“Watson, you don’t know what you’re asking...”
“Oh, I think I know! And you know too... Sherlock.”
Watson stood up and tried to make contact, but the detective refused and turned his back to him.
“We don’t live in that book Watson, and I repeat it is not what wants...”
“I beg to disagree!”
The friend interrupted him with the fervent tone that Holmes knew so well, and so different from his analytical and calculating mind... and so attractive.
“You will be going against your dear England, my dear friend.”
“I know what the law says and I am a patriot in my being, I gave my life and I still do! But this land cannot command my heart and soul.”
John Watson stood before him and this time the detective did not avoid looking him in the eye... and did not want to do, not to the one who wanted more than the world.
“John...”
The confidential tone with which his friend had addressed to him, now came out of his lips and Watson smiled sweetly.
“I know you’re afraid, but I don’t think it’s right for you to stop what you are Sherlock, since I return what you want. So tell me, why do you want to be alone?”
For years they had been silent, hiding what was more than a friendship in their eyes as they were to do with the law by habit and fear. But that evening in the light of the fire in their apartment without warning, it burst out because silence could no longer be kept.
Sherlock Holmes never thought it could happen but suddenly being thrown into that situation was not as terrible as he had imagined — helpful was the fact that John Watson as always, was his conductor of light, who already knew of the situation among them without Holmes having to expose himself in feelings that he knew so little.
But there was something else in Holmes's eyes, the same thing that Watson had when he looked at him but never seen for his own: devotion.
Holmes gave him a sweet look before brooding again.
“I am used to loneliness, or at least I have been for a long time...”
He sighed before speaking again.
“John, you cannot want what I am now, no wait, make me say what my mind has to say. I’m not talking only about the will of the law, it’s not just an altruistic desire to keep you safe from all this that is holding me back...”
Holmes looked at him and found no criticism in the eyes of John Watson. He looked at him carefully and with understanding that never failed to see in the blue world of his pupils.
“I adore logic, you know that quite well, everything else in me is an appendix, feelings are incomprehensible to me...”
“That doesn’t mean you can’t feel them. We know that.”
Watson interrupted him with a whisper but full of determination, every micro-expression on his face as well as the adoration in his eyes, telling him how sincere was his devotion.
Did he deserve all of this?
Sherlock Holmes sat down on the red sofa in the corner of the room with his eyes low and John Watson joined him immediately, waiting in silence.
“I want to tell you something John, take it as a confession or act of confidence, because you deserve it. Only Mycroft knows, not because I wanted to but because it was inevitable, as he is my brother.”
He looked at him and Watson thanked him with a nod and a slight twinkle in his eyes — he not speaking not wanting to interrupt him because it was certainly not necessary with the most cunning investigator of London.
“Before I became as I am now, I was... different, more sensitive and I felt many feelings, don’t get me wrong, I’ve always been attracted more by reason than emotion but at one time I was subject to... I let myself go of such sentimentalisms. There was someone, Victor Trevor, remember? Well, he was my only friend at the time but it was also with him that I realized that my tastes would never be conventional.”
He twisted his hands and looked down, not ashamed of his preferences, but he was certainly not accustomed to exposing himself. He looked at John Watson who looked at him with patience, no judgment and only sweetness in his pupils and presence, and gave him the strength to continue.
“I always preferred the male company, as Maurice did, i understood as the book thanks to something platonic, nothing happened between us but an unusual closeness... but I had feelings for him. When Victor decided to end our relationship it was so devastating that Mycroft realized it, he told me feelings were weakness and I agreed with him in time. Logic saved me.”
Watson sighed and Holmes smiled as he imagined he disagreed with that last part, then looked at him to meet the soothing sky that dwelt in his eyes, just another moment.
“This is who I am now John, a mind above all else, who certainly has intelligence for the effort in the science of deduction, and when I have interesting cases. But if it is my heart that you seek, you will find it closed and broken, however, you, John, you can make it alive again but always a broken heart you will have... Are you ready for this? Especially you, John, that you deserve what is beyond my ability and already what may be between us will break the law... but even normality will not be part of our relationship and I would not condemn you to have less than what you...”
“Sherlock, don’t say it. Don’t you dare, I tell you!”
John Watson interrupted him angrily, his eyes became darker for a moment.
“You are the genius and deserve more, no listen to me, I know that’s so but maybe this is what unites us, my love, our difference? Because I will do everything for you, I will give all of myself if you want me, as I want you. Do you understand me, Sherlock? I want you.”
Holmes flinched and, meeting his eyes now softened and felt immense shivers.
“Oh Sherlock, do you think I love you for your brilliant mind? I don’t deny that it’s attractive and charming as you can deduce and observe, but it’s not what I love about you. It’s who you are here.”
He touched his chest where the heart was resting, beating ferociously.
“And here.” And he pointed to his person.
Then he took his hands, his touch was warm and reassuring.
“I love you, the man under the mask of indifference, the one who is here today with me, who decided to open up to me and honouring me to listen. You Sherlock, only you.”
Watson caresses Holmes's hand.
“To quote Maurice, be happy with me as he was with Alec. Let’s live our dream of love.”
Sherlock Holmes looked at him, then looked down at their hands still interviewed together. He left them just to jump into his arms, and John Watson hugged him with warmth.
“You’re a fool! All this is idiocy, ah, a madness!”
Holmes raised his face just to meet his eyes again, in which he read love without masks and lies, and was there alive for him, only for him.
The doctor caressed his face sweetly.
“It is, but always better to live in the truth than in lies or disappointment.”
The detective recognized those phrases as his own, which his Boswell promptly transcribed into one of the failed cases namely Norbury, and felt his cheeks became red.
Holmes looked at him again, watching for every detail in his face, for any sign of hesitation... How could this be real? How could a book not be fiction?
Rationally he had no answer to such questions, but in John’s eyes, it was.
“Oh, John.”
“Shhh, my beloved, I am here with you.”
He caressed his face again with sweetness and then drew it towards himself, and after having consent in his eyes, laid his lips on his own. Watson held him as Sherlock Holmes gave himself to those lips, to those arms, to that man as he never did to any other.
The detective found the courage in his heart and in his conductor of light: John Watson.
As the writer Forster said, a happy ending was imperative and love in their world could have won.