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He was nervous. He should not be, but when your whole reputation (and relationship, though the latter concerned him far less) depends on this, it may be understandable to fret a little. So yes, he was anxious as he brought his hands to adjust the mask that covered the upper half of his face — a measure he took to protect himself; today he would be Count Von Kramm, nevertheless.
A plaque, in which was written “Baker Street, 221B”, came into his vision just before the brougham came to a halt. The modest brick facade was unassuming, though the name it bore was whispered in both awe and reverence across the continent. From what he was told, this apartment block — quite underwhelming, if he was to be truthful — was home to a brilliant, energetic man, one that would have (or find) the answer to any enigma given in a manner no one else could compare to. He hopes that’s true, for he had come from a long way, Germany, just for this.
“Come in!” A voice clamored from inside the door when he knocked it. A sweet old lady had escorted him inside the block. Once again, supposed Von Kramm adjusts the black mask, pushing its tails to tighten the hold — it was rather loose and annoying.
Upon opening the door, he was met not by the lone figure he had anticipated, but by two men: one standing tall and lanky, dark hair messy and looking quite in need of a trim; and the other, on a heavier build, in a much more neat fashion, sat and with a notebook in his hands. That defied his former expectations — the matter was of the most private sense, not meant to be shared to noone more than the detective. Both of them looked at him, expectantly.
“You had my note?” He didn’t really know which one was supposed to be Sherlock Holmes. Both of them seemed to feel at home. “I told you that I would call.”
“Pray take a seat. This is my good friend and colleague, Dr. Watson, who is occasionally good enough to help me in my cases,” the fair-haired gentleman brightened up to that, giving a lighthearted chuckle. “Whom have I the honor to address?” Funny, he thought, that he kind of expected to be the detective, the more preen one.
“You may address me as the Count Von Kramm, a Bohemian nobleman. I understand that this gentleman, your friend, is a man of honor and discretion, whom I may trust with a matter of the most extreme importance. If not, I should much prefer to communicate with you alone.” He would not let himself be vulnerable.
At that, Dr. Watson made it as if to stand up, but was quickly caught by the wrist by Mr. Holmes’ own hand. Although initially he looked a bit distraught, the doctor quickly looked at the other with… something tender in his eyes. With gentle yet firm pressure, the tall man guided his companion back into his seat, their proximity leaving Von Kramm distinctly uncomfortable.
It was a quiet exchange, nothing more than a fleeting gesture between the two men, but it left him unsettled, as though he had intruded upon a private understanding, one far deeper than he could comprehend. In their shared glance, he felt not merely a lack of privacy, but an absence of control. Like he shouldn't be there.
Mr. Holmes didn’t move, leaning towards and looking directly at the doctor, both his hands firmly keeping the wrists of the fair-haired gentleman on the armrest. “It is both, or none,” the consulting detective said, low and slowly. Not looking at Von Kramm, as he should, but at Dr. Watson, still — much like the words were directed to the latter, not the former.
With a swift movement, the detective was upright again. Dr. Watson shifted in his seat, tangling his legs so they were crossed — the notebook, long ago forgotten on his lap, was at his hands again. “You may say before this gentleman anything which you may say to me,” Mr. Holmes affirmed, as if he hadn't just done the strangest thing.
He shrugged his shoulders, “Then I must begin,” he started, “by binding you both to absolute secrecy for two years; at the end of that time the matter will be of no importance.” After this display, he's not sure it's possible to separate the pair, even though it would be far more preferable to deal with the detective alone.
“I promise.”
“And I,” Dr. Watson complied.
Once again, it felt much like the words weren't meant to him, but to one another.
The doctor scribbled something on the small notebook of his and, as Von Kramm made to look at it discreetly, the fair-haired gentleman slightly covered the paper.
“You will excuse this mask,” he tried to ignore the pair’s mannerisms and the implications that came through his mind. “The august person who employs me wishes his agent to be unknown to you, and I may confess at once that the title by which I have just called myself is not exactly my own.”
When he told mr. Holmes whom the detective had the honour of working for, he was met with the utmost disdain, raising annoyance upon himself. The man had dared to close his eyes and relax in the nearest armchair, striking a most dramatic pose. Dr. Watson stared at him out of the corner of his eye. “I was aware of it,” the detective said, and then, “I was also aware of that,” when Von Kramm tried to emphasize the absolute import of the ordeal.
Should this man be the best detective of Europe whole, he didn't wish to see what would be of the lesser ones. Von Kramm looked over to the fair-haired gentleman to express his indignation; he only had attention for the detective, however, legs still crossed. Upon studying Dr. Watson's expression for a second, the look he saw in his eyes was one of badly-contained longing. Von Kramm, then, avoided looking at the doctor again.
“If your Majesty would condescend to state your case,” the consulting detective remarked, “I should be better able to advise you,” as he slowly reopened his eyes, a look of impatience stamped on his arched eyebrows. Much like he was bored out of his mind; this man was getting onto his frail nerves.
Then, what mr. Sherlock had just said dawned on Von Kramm, drawing out a sharp inhale out of himself. He sprang up from his chair. It would do nothing now, to pretend his identity. This man knew it!
In a fit of rage, he — the King of Bohemia, had now been caught — tore off the mask that had irritated his face for the whole day, tossing it upon the floor. “You are right,” he raised his voice, “I am the King. Why should I attempt to conceal it?” The doctor appeared to be surprised too. And never did he seem to stop writing words in that notebook of his. “Why, indeed?” Mr. Holmes murmured, as if the king wasn't ready to yell and shout.
Forcing his temper to subside, the king proceeded to tell his story. Mr. Holmes listened in a calm manner, making the effort of opening his grey eyes every so often, only to remark something to Dr. Watson with a quiet smile on his lips and close them again. To that, the fair-haired gentleman always nodded in contempt or flatter the man's deduction abilities. Their dynamic seemed stable, comfortable. For the whole ordeal, the detective constantly yawned and feigned disinterest; but everytime the king convinced himself that the man wasn't listening, he was surprised with the clever wit of an observation that couldn't be made out of disattention.
Somehow, the king had grown quite accustomed to the way mr. Holmes worked. After they had discussed the money involved — Dr. Watson's face, when the detective opened the chamois bag full of gold he'd received, had been absolutely remarkable — he was quickly escorted down the stairs and out the door by both of them. The mask was almost forgotten, but the doctor gave it back to him at the last minute.
“Then, goodnight, your Majesty, and I trust that we shall soon have some good news for you.” Mr. Holmes said as he opened the door. The brougham stood patiently for him at the side of the road, as it should; the king entered it as agile as he could, not to raise any opinions from the passersby.
“And we must have a good night, Watson,” was the last thing he heard from the pair. As for sight, mr. Holmes’ lips appeared to form a small smile as he looked dr. Watson from head to toe, whose hands went somewhere near the detective's waist as the door was closed shut.
He could not help but bear the impression that the pair held a deeper meaning behind the gazes and touches they'd shared so earnestly. Looking out the window and to the repetitive London landscape, he decided not to venture further into his poderings; he certainly did not wish to murk the image he had of the detective — nor the doctor’s — with such assumptions. Soot and ash from the city filled his nose as he let sleep take over his mind; now, he could only hope.