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Among the many curious episodes which arose during my years in close association with my friend Mr. Sherlock Holmes, there are several I have long felt reluctant to commit to paper. Some involved circumstances whose disclosure might have caused needless embarrassment to persons still living. Others touched upon matters of a more private nature, where silence seemed the more honourable course. Time, however, alters the weight of such considerations. Looking back now across the years, I find myself inclined to record one small incident, purely for my own reflection, which bore no relation to any investigation, yet revealed to me a side of Holmes’s character which I had scarcely imagined possible.
***
It occurred one November evening when a dense yellow fog had settled over London, so that even the lamps along Baker Street glowed only faintly through the murk. I had remained at home that night, having been occupied with patients throughout the afternoon, while Holmes had departed shortly after luncheon upon what he described merely as “a matter requiring personal attention.”
It was close upon eleven when the door below opened with unusual force, followed by the slow tread of footsteps ascending the stairs.
Holmes entered our sitting room.
My book fell from my hand.
His tall figure swayed slightly in the doorway, one gloved hand braced against the frame. His coat was torn at the shoulder, his collar stained dark with blood, and a most uncharacteristic bruise had begun to bloom beneath one eye.
“Holmes!” I cried, springing to my feet.
“My dear Watson,” said he calmly, though his voice was somewhat strained, “I assure you the situation is far less dramatic than your expression suggests.”
He stepped forward and promptly sat down rather heavily upon the sofa.
I crossed the room in an instant.
“This will not do,” said I. “You are injured.”
“Superficially.”
“You are bleeding.”
“Temporarily.”
“You will sit still and permit me to examine you.”
Holmes gave a faint smile, which ended in a slight wince as I drew the lamp closer then fetched my bag.
“Really, Watson,” said he, “there is no necessity for the full apparatus of a field hospital.” He fidgeted as if to rise.
“Holmes,” I replied, in the tone I had learned was most effective with him, “if you do not remain still, I shall summon Mrs. Hudson to assist me.”
That settled the matter at once.
Holmes leaned back with a resigned air while I helped him remove his scarf and turned my attention to the injuries. There was a cut along the temple which would clearly require stitching, and several bruises which spoke eloquently of recent violence.
“I am afraid this will require more than a bandage,” said I. “You will need several stitches.”
Holmes sighed faintly.
“Very well. If you must.”
I opened my bag and measured a small quantity of laudanum into a glass of water.
“You will take this first.”
Holmes regarded the glass with mild suspicion.
“Is that entirely necessary?”
“If you prefer,” said I evenly, “I can perform the procedure without it.”
Holmes took the glass, swallowed its contents in one draught, and returned it to the table with a slight grimace.
“Your bedside manner, Watson, grows increasingly tyrannical.”
I made no reply, but set about cleaning the wound upon his brow. Holmes closed his eyes and remained unusually still while I worked.
When at last the cut was prepared and I reached for the needle, I regarded him sternly.
“You have been in a fight.”
“A brief disagreement.”
“With whom?”
Holmes did not open his eyes.
“With a gentleman whose powers of reasoning were regrettably inferior to his powers of insult.”
I paused.
“Insult directed at whom?”
Holmes did not answer immediately. The laudanum I had administered was already beginning to dull the keen alertness of his expression, and he lay staring at the ceiling with the abstracted air he so often assumed when considering some difficult problem.
“What precisely did this gentleman say?” I prodded.
Holmes’s mouth twitched faintly.
“I believe the phrase was, ‘that army doctor fellow of yours is hardly the paragon you make him out to be.’”
I stared at him.
“You fought a man for saying that?”
Holmes shifted slightly against the cushions.
“The gentleman proceeded to elaborate.”
“And?”
Holmes’s voice grew quiet.
“He questioned your honour.”
I confess the words startled me.
“My honour?”
“Indeed. He implied you lacked courage.”
The room fell silent.
I could scarcely credit what I was hearing.
“You are telling me,” I said slowly, “that you engaged in a street brawl because someone insulted me?”
Holmes gave a small shrug, which immediately caused him to wince again.
“It seemed an efficient method of correcting the error.”
I could not help laughing then.
“You are the most extraordinary fellow alive,” said I.
Holmes studied me through half-lidded eyes.
“I fail to see the humour.”
“I have known you for years, Holmes. You treat emotion as though it were a contagious disease. Yet tonight you are battered half senseless because someone spoke ill of me.”
Holmes considered this.
“You are an exception.”
I raised an eyebrow.
“To what rule?”
“To most.”
The laudanum was clearly having a stronger effect, for Holmes’s voice had grown softer and his gaze even less focused.
He watched me for a moment with unusual seriousness.
“John,” said he quietly.
It was rare enough to hear my given name from his lips that I looked up at once.
“Yes?”
“You must know,” said Holmes, “that only you can produce such feelings in me.”
Before I could reply, he leaned forward and pressed his lips briefly to mine.
It was over in an instant, as he drew back with visible alarm.
“Good heavens,” said he faintly. “That was most improper.”
I confess that for several seconds I could only stare at him.
Holmes touched his fingers to his lips with an expression of genuine distress.
“I fear the medication has impaired my judgment. Pray forget it occurred.”
I placed a hand upon his shoulder.
“My dear Holmes,” said I quietly, “I see no reason to forget it at all.”
He looked at me in astonishment.
“Indeed,” I continued, “I should be perfectly content to repeat the experiment when you are somewhat less injured.”
Holmes blinked several times, as though attempting to verify the reality of the moment.
Then, quite unexpectedly, he smiled.
Within minutes he had fallen asleep upon the sofa, one arm draped across the cushion, the faintest trace of that same smile still upon his face.
I sat beside him for some time afterward, reflecting that even after all the adventures we had shared, my remarkable friend was still capable of surprising me.
***
Having set down so much of this curious incident, I have now read over the passage and find myself seized with a certain hesitation. Prudence, which has guided my pen on many occasions before, suggests that I would do better to let the account rest where it stands - for if I were to proceed further and describe what followed in the days and years thereafter, the narrative would grow increasingly unsuitable for the printed page. Indeed, I have little doubt that the record would soon contain matters of so warm and personal a character that their preservation in writing might prove positively hazardous, should such pages fall into hands less sympathetic than my own. I therefore find myself compelled, though with genuine regret, to commit these few sheets to the fire, trusting that memory alone will guard what the written word must not.