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My life as a consulting detective had always been dangerous, with frequent outbreaks of violence and attempted murder. I had never been particularly fond of physical contact even before the murder attempts started, but sometime after the third near-assassination, I set out to keep as much distance between myself and all others as possible.
Or rather, to keep as much distance between myself and all others except Watson, who had been my trusted friend and partner in my work for a great many years. With Watson, who had proved his loyalty countless times over and had never given me the slightest cause for alarm, I could comfortably enjoy touch. Yet at present, as we settled into a new kind of partnership, I found myself a little conflicted in such matters.
It was not that Watson ever acted as if what I had to offer was inadequate, or as if I was anything other than the most marvelous and admirable man in all the world. Perhaps the little worries that plagued me were merely a result of some residual insecurity on my part, a defense against rejection and loss. I had spent many years away from my dear Watson, and although it had now been over two years since I returned, I found myself far more sensitive to the fear of separation.
And thus, although I found myself increasingly aching for his touch, I hesitated to request it, or even to cuddle up to him on the sofa. To touch him for purposes of steering him through an empty house or to help him upstairs when his leg troubled him was one thing, yet I greatly feared that my desires, such as they are, might be taken as a promise of more.
It would have likely been wise of me to simply raise the matter on my own, but as I have very little skill in matters involving my own relations with people, I had spent some little time attempting to think of a way to phrase my concerns and my needs, to find some explanation that would not cause Watson distress. In the end, it was he who raised the topic, initiating discussion just after I had finished playing an array of his favorite songs one evening.
“Holmes, might I ask you something?” he said as I sat beside him, my violin still in hand.
I took up a cloth and began to wipe the rosin from my strings. With the current storm and intense humidity, the substance was even stickier than usual, and had caked on heavily. “Anything, my dear fellow, anything.”
“Have I been… crowding you?”
The concept was so very antithetical to my present concerns that I stopped and stared at him, the constant rhythms of my many thoughts coming to an abrupt halt. “Crowding me?”
“Yes, you… seem to be avoiding touching me, and I have noticed that you no longer sit so close to me on the sofa.” Watson sounded almost proud of himself for the observation, despite his clear pain at the idea that his most considerate respect for my sensitivities had still been inadequate. “I know I have been somewhat more affectionate in recent months, and I can think of no other explanation other than discomfort with my touch.”
“Dear me! Dear me! You have not yet eliminated all other explanations, and therefore your deduction is faulty.” Now was perhaps not an appropriate time for a lesson in deduction, but it was my nature to explain such flaws in reasoning whenever I encountered them. “On the contrary, Watson, I find your touch exceptionally pleasant. In fact, it is no exaggeration to say that I crave it to a far greater degree than our present exchange of affection, for you are the only person I trust to touch me at all.”
Such a clear admission of vulnerability could not help but make me a little uncomfortable, and so I turned my attention back to the cleaning of my violin strings. Indeed, that craving was most acute right now, my entire body aching for touch until it cause me an acute pain. Even my heart hurt, a relentless hollow melancholy that not even the thrill of recent cases had been able to fully cure. To have a case was always better than idleness, yet my sorrow and longing remained.
“I should be glad to share as much affection as you like,” Watson said softly, and I could feel his perceptive gaze upon me once again. For all his flaws in reasoning, Watson perceived much, and I had little doubt that he was aware of my present distress. “But my dear Holmes, can you explain why you’ve been avoiding touch if you crave it?”
I carefully set my violin aside, my heart racing. Conversations of an emotional nature were deeply difficult, and all the more so when I was so distracted by the hunger for contact. “I might perhaps find it easier if we cuddle while doing so.”
Tears stung my eyes as soon as I made the request, and I found myself trembling. Watson’s look of concern only grew, but he opened his arms.
I went to him, unable to prevent the escape of a few tears, and curled against his side. A wave of shivering rushed through me at the contact, and so great a storm of need that a sudden sob burst from me. I pressed against him, my precious control slipping away from me more every minute.
“My dear Holmes,” Watson murmured, gathering me close. He wrapped one arm around me, other hand coming up to cradle my head to his shoulder. He stroked my hair in a slow, steady rhythm, trailing his fingers between dark strands.
Each gentle brush of his hands sent tingling chills through me, and the ache for more spread throughout the whole of my body. Was this like the ache that he no doubt felt, and that I could never sate? How could I be so cruel as to withhold the sort of touch that he craved, that he needed?
“I fear I can never be an adequate partner, Watson.” The words escaped, unsteady, and all at once I felt terribly selfish for making my own request when I could only ever refuse a similar one. “Were I to ask for this, for your touch, would it not only worsen your own cravings? It seemed an utterly unfair thing to do, and I did not wish to raise your hopes that I shall ever be able to meet your needs.”
“I confess that my mind is much slower than yours,” Watson said with a gentle affection, “and perhaps that is why I do not understand why you would ever think I wish for more than to be with you.”
“You cannot be with me in the way that is necessary for most men.” Feeling still more selfish every moment, I withdrew from his embrace, and denied myself the comfort of his touch. It seemed only what I deserved, when I was unable to master my own odd nature. “You enjoy and need intercourse, as well as kissing and the full breadth of feeling. I can give none of these things to you, John, for they are utterly repellent to me. The very concept of joining with you in any way makes me wish to flee out that door into the night. How could this possibly…”
There were many more words queuing in my mind, for it does indeed move swiftly, and I had a great deal more I wished to say about the sort of relationship that Watson deserved. But at that moment, I found myself quite overcome with grief, and instead burst fully into tears.
Watson, without the slightest hesitation, put his arms around me and drew me close to his warmth again. Another shiver of need rushed through me, and I huddled close against him, still feeling very low for letting myself do so.
“My dear Sherlock,” he murmured, again stroking my hair. “I enjoy intercourse, and would gladly do so with you if it was something that you wished, but I do not need it. I may crave it on occasion, and I cannot deny that I find you very striking, but it is no hardship for me to forgo it.”
I snorted, shaking my head. “From the way people speak of intercourse, it is the pinnacle of all experience, and the only way to show love. Do you not feel unloved because I cannot force myself to meet your needs? Even the nature of my love of different, for it does not run hot with passion.”
“I have never felt unloved,” Watson said with such earnestness that I found it difficult to doubt him. “We experience such things differently, yes, but I knew such things before we grew this close. My needs are not unmet, and I feel no lack in our relationship.”
It seemed impossible given what I had observed of humanity, yet Watson was a terrible liar. The words he spoke now, so very earnest, were undoubtedly the truth.
And yet.
“Would you truly be content to forgo intercourse with me for the rest of our lives?” I asked, doubtful. “I do intend to spend the rest of my life with you, after all, and I should prefer to know now if we must alter the nature of that agreement.”
He smiled, gazing at me with the deepest affection. “Do you truly believe I would enjoy intercourse if you were forcing yourself to do it, if it was causing you to wish to flee from not only our bed but from our very rooms? Of course I will be perfectly content if we never have intercourse. I would never demand such a thing of you. Besides, there are many things we both enjoy.”
“Such as this most excellent cuddling,” I said, relaxing against him as my agitation passed. After a moment, I added in a lighter tone, “Or a most gruesome and stimulating murder.”
Watson laughed at my joke, as I had intended, and held me closer. “Yes, indeed. I shall be more than happy to spend the remainder of my life cuddling and solving gruesome murders with you.”
“As will I, my boy.” Smiling, I closed my eyes against tears and rested my head on his shoulder. It no longer felt selfish to do so, and I no longer had any fear of separation. All was well between us now, and we might cuddle as much as we wished—which I suspected would be a great deal from now on.