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A letter from Percy Phelps, an old friend of mine — friend, perhaps, was much too strong a word — from my times of school had brought us, Holmes and I, to his home, in order to investigate some missing documents. Of utmost importance to the government, he'd said with a sick tone; the shock of the whole affair was such that it had bedridden the poor fellow.
Now, Holmes paced in silence, having heard my old acquaintance’s detailed testimony of what had happened. The light coming from the window framed his silhouette in such a way that it made him look alluring, so like himself, head tilted slightly downwards as he gently plucked a rose from its small pot — a bush containing about half a dozen of them. I resisted the urge to get up, crossing my legs instead.
“Our highest assurance of the goodness of Providence seems, to me, to rest in the flowers.” Holmes started after a time of contemplative silence, rolling the flower’s stalk between his thumb and index finger.
“All other things, our powers, our desires, our food, are all really necessary for our existence in the first instance. But this rose is an extra. Its smell and its colour are an embellishment of life, not a condition of it. It is only goodness which gives extras, and so I say, again, that we have much to hope from the flowers.”
As much as the man in front of me was astute and logical, Holmes still had a way with the most various arts. The playing; the observing; the talking. But bear not in mind that Holmes is not aware of the latter, as he looks with expectation at me, every time, while he says the most beautiful of things. And I happily oblige, not with sole attention, no, but with stares — stares he knows the sense of, even though we have never discussed them — and sometimes words, which seem to caress the most inner of his senses, if I can judge by his sweet, sweet reactions, going from getting his nose and cheeks a tint of pink to fleeting touches.
Touches that’d render my body useless for more than it should; touches that’d only make me yearn for more.
I stared. In these moments, it always seems as if the world is distant, that the only thing that matters is what Holmes will do, what he’ll say, how will I, myself, react; the two of us, no one else. And isn’t that true? Don’t we make a complete thing, a set of two? Sherlock is my whole world, as he approaches me with the dainty rose, its colour a deep crimson, and his face, otherworldly. The room is empty, save for us both, as he pushes his hand forward, towards me, in an act of giving. Giving a rose, giving himself, to me.
I accepted it promptly, because why wouldn’t I?
I held that rose with my entire heart and hand, our fingers brushing past each other in a moment that seemed to last forever; heat flushed through my neck and cheeks, surely tinting my skin.
“So!” Holmes’ abrupt voice brought me back to the reality of the room. Our brief interaction had gained us, from the rest of the people in that sunny room, funny, confused looks. “Concerning your problem, Mr. Phelps…” He addressed my old friend before he turned towards him, leaving me and the rose to observe what he'd say next. “Now, it would be absurd to deny the complications of this very case,” Holmes started, head now facing the other way, eyes and words focused on his own train of thought. Like any of this had never happened.
The rest of the morning went in a blur. Holmes' dramatic revelations to the clients and their respective reactions were always interesting sights, and even better was participating in them. The rose’s load was obvious in my notebook — where I had, with the most care, put the flower in between two pages so it would be secure — even though it weighed close to nothing. I made notes regarding the case, but couldn’t resist sketching a couple of doodles. Portraits of our clients, impressions of poses Holmes would do from time to time; when his collar would slightly fall and leave part of his clavicle exposed. Lots of hands, too.
We’d resolved that we’d go back to the 221b, as to continue the investigation from there.
“Come, Watson!” Holmes took my hand and hooked it onto his arm, in a position we were both used to. As much as it was comfortable, it also felt intimate — the unending brushing of his side to my arm and the gentle gripping of my fingers on his coat; the way we’d be close so as to feel each others warmth and hear our breaths, felt like we were sharing a part of us that needn’t be, but was meant to. Our silhouettes matched and filled the space between us as we walked towards a train station that promised more errands to run. The sun was bright above us.
The train was directed to London. A contemplative silence filled our section, promising to be broken with a deeper analysis of what we had heard earlier, as routine went. I contented myself with the rather deprecating landscape that quickly passed through the window, thoughts mixed between the mystery that laid in front of us and the rose so obviously still in the notebook.
In a matter of seconds, my eyes were on it, again. Crimson and green, getting darker by the second; withering away as any other flower would. I didn't want to part with it, I realised.
I fell into a comfortable slumber, lulled by the sways of the train. Not a very smooth ride. When I woke up, I noticed something smooth beneath me — cloth — and a hand sitting on my shoulder. An earthy perfume. Opening my eyes, all I saw was black: black hair, black cloth. Holmes. I did not move, surely for the pleasantness of it all was rather appealing to my tired senses, overcoming the fact that it most definitely wasn't something that should happen.
A deep inhale from his end caught my attention. I quickly came back from that pleasant haze of sleep and into the world — in which my head was placed neatly onto Holmes' shoulders in an embarrassing but surprisingly cosy position. In which I had slept on Holmes. On a train.
I scrambled out of that position rather awkwardly. No word was spoken, until Holmes violently inhaled again.
“Even though you're essential to me, Watson, a necessary part of my living, you have much in common with this rose.” That was… not what I expected to hear; it sent my whole brain into short-circuiting itself in a mess of words and exclamations.
“...You too, Holmes, you too.” The words were coming out of my mouth unannounced, passing straight through any filters I previously had set.
“How come?” Sherlock's voice was quiet.
“Beauty, for one.” I looked to the window again, refusing to face Holmes in a sort of shame.
“Oh.” Holmes stared me, looked away, and then begun staring again. Like he was unsure of what to say. “I'd say the very same about you, Watson,” he finally said, tone breathless.
The train still rumbled with life, the landscape still passed through the window, and the sun still blared at our eyes. But, right then, the only thing I felt or saw was Holmes hand gently pressed against mine, where it laid relaxed on my thigh. My nerves lit up in confusion, not sure what they should feel, what I should do.
It was comfortable. As it always was, with Holmes. The rest of the ride was filled with a pleasant silence, one we could enjoy together.
When we got home, the first thing I did was to excuse myself and enter my room. I got the rose pressed and dried into a book I knew I wouldn't need for a while; having the flower preserved was comforting, knowing it would be safe, with me. In about four weeks, the rose was nicely hung into a portrait just above my nightstand.
This was love, then.