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When Killer Evans fired his revolver, the world around me dimmed. I froze, stone cold. My heart was as a lead weight, sinking, falling, and so was I as the room span. At least, I thought I was, but when my vision began to clear I was on my feet and I heard a groan and Watson was hurt-
For the first time in my life I didn’t think, as I lifted my pistol and fired in Evans’ direction. I didn’t stop to see whether my shot had landed, but all sounds of movement stopped rather abruptly, followed shortly by a heavy thud.
I turned and crouched to Watson’s level at a pace so fast I saw spots. He was barely conscious. I tried to calm myself, to steady my trembling hands. So many times I had encouraged him to apply my methods of deduction, and it was now my turn to channel his medical expertise.
I could scarcely make out the wound for the blood that gushed from his leg. Each pulse of his heart spewed forth a further torrent and soon my hands were scarlet. How many cases had we seen with victims so brutally injured? How many times had I looked upon their bodies with indifference, as variables in a case, feeling nothing but a vague morbid interest? I understood at once the agitation so many of our clients presented, the stuttering fright and absentmindedness that I am ashamed to admit triggered my impatience. A dreadful fear overcame me that my Watson truly may not survive. The sheer volume of blood indicated an injury to a blood vessel - were this the case, he had perhaps minutes before he succumbed to blood loss. I removed my belt and fashioned a rough tourniquet, thanking heaven my cocaine habit had had at least one useful impact upon me.
My hands clamped down hard over the wound on Watson’s leg, and the whine of pain he emitted nigh on broke my heart. In a futile attempt to restore him to lucidity, I began to speak to him, muttering frantically under my breath like a mad man.
‘Watson. Come back to me.’
I didn’t dare move him, so shaking him awake was quite out of question. I removed one hand from his leg, wiping the blood from it on my trouser leg, and instead placed it upon his cheek. I tapped my fingers against his face, but when this failed to rouse him, I simply began to stroke back and forth over his stubble. It surprised me to find tears welling in my eyes, and a few fell without my consent, leaving dark circles on Watson’s shirt.
‘Wake up, Watson. Please.’
I began to plead with him, begging, my usually unshakeable rationale long forgotten.
‘Please, John. You can’t die. You can’t. You must stay with me, my dear boy, for who else would have me?’
At this I laughed wetly. My tears were flowing freely now, and I confess I paid little mind to what I was actually saying. All of a sudden, his eyelids began to flutter, charging me with such a desperate hope as I had never felt before.
‘Yes, John, that’s it, wake up. Never have I known a man so brave, so kind. Never have I held one so dear. I can’t lose you, dear Watson, not before you even know how much I love you-’
For a moment, his eyes snapped open, and I was met with a gaze so intense I felt my heart falter. His hand jolted at his side, moving as if to lift up, but managing no more than a few inches before his body fell limp once more. My spirits sagged with him. I had little time to despair for Watson, though, before another realisation hit me with the force of a train.
Lestrade was standing beside me.
Though tears still streamed down my face, I steeled my expression. I moved my hand back to my dearest friend’s blood-soaked leg as I turned my head to look Lestrade in the eye. Any fear I had paled in comparison to the terror I had just experienced, but I admit my stoic mask concealed more than a little fright.
Of course he was there, I had notified him of Killer Evans’ presence for goodness’ sake. His men were likely there too, and what they must have borne witness to…
I was no stranger to my own nature. ‘Inverted’ was the term. Since youth, I had experienced no attraction to women in the usual way; I had thought myself destined to live alone, to work alone, to die alone, and in my solitude I grew to care little for the company of others. Since Watson, though, I had come to not only appreciate him but love him dearly. I loved Watson as most men would a wife, and was no less attracted to him for bearing the male form. I loved Watson as he had loved Miss Morstan, a time I looked back on with deep sorrow and admittedly a little jealousy.
I was not ashamed, though I knew Watson could never return my ardour. I saw no harm in my nature, not in a world I knew to have criminals far more harmful and depraved. The law, however, looked upon it differently. Lestrade was duty-bound to acknowledge what had just taken place, the declaration of unnatural love that had slipped from hysterical lips. My reputation, my life as I knew it, was in all likelihood over.
What did it matter, though? Who was Johnson without his Boswell?
Lestrade met my gaze with no small amount of shock, but upon seeing my emotional state his face quickly softened before taking on an authoritative look.
‘Erm…’ He quickly cleared his throat. ‘Right. A doctor is on his way, Mr Holmes, and I dare say you have a better medical knowledge than I. So…keep up the good work. My men will be up shortly to remove the body, as I presumed you would be better suited to fewer people in the room. I must say I am glad I did so, else I may have had to prosecute you, sir. I understand your concern for Dr Watson, truly I do, but were I anyone else…I dread to think what would happen to you.’
It was a day of firsts for me, for I was utterly dumbfounded.
‘You mean to say…you won’t be prosecuting?’
‘Mr Holmes, how could I? You are an asset to the force.’ Lestrade was looking at me with a small smile, though his eyes told of his own fear and upset. ‘Not only that, sir, but you and Dr Watson both are good friends to me. It would wound me greatly- oh, excuse the turn of phrase- to lose either one of you, simply because you care for one another more than most.’
As panic stricken as still I was, gratitude washed over me at Lestrade’s words and moved me deeply. He was a friend I too often took for granted, but his allyship had time and time again proven invaluable, never more so than now.
‘I thank you, Lestrade, from the bottom of my heart. Although, my…affections for Doctor Watson are certainly unreturned.’ I looked down at the man in question, who grew ever paler beneath my hands. I have never had much faith, but in that moment I prayed for his safety, his survival. In the same way he followed me everywhere on my adventures, I knew that I in turn would follow him to the grave, were he not to survive.
‘I wouldn’t be so sure about that, Mr Holmes.’ Lestrade gave me a look, then. I knew better than to consider it a childish smirk, but that is certainly how it appeared. He turned away, but upon recalling something else he had said, I called him back.
‘Lestrade, did you say your men would “remove the body”? Do you mean to say I killed Evans?’ I had had a subconscious awareness that the killer was no longer a threat to us, but had not truly comprehended the gravity of what had occurred. In truth, I could not be prevailed upon to feel sorrow. At once I came to realise that, had the man killed Watson, I would certainly have dealt him a far more agonising fate. The only remorse I felt, indeed, was making his demise such a quick affair.
‘Evans is dead, yes. Although, of course, I wasn’t here for the shooting. I can’t be sure exactly who shot who. After all, it is entirely possible that Evans believed you both dead, and turned his own gun upon himself, is it not?’
I made to protest, for in no way at all to anyone with eyes was that possible, but the look Lestrade gave me stopped me. I realised that he was giving me a way out. He meant it when he said he would not prosecute me, whether for my perversions or for murder. In spite of the dire situation, I was filled with affection for Lestrade. If When Watson was recovered, I decided, we ought to take tea with him and his wife.
-
The doctor arrived shortly afterwards. Though it felt like hours had passed between the shooting and the doctor’s arrival, in actuality it must have been less than five minutes. Never had five minutes been so charged with emotion.
I remember very little, following that. I noticed how the doctor’s eyes flashed with horror, just for a second, before he set about his work, assuring me that my ministrations had done Watson the world of good and had greatly improved his chances. He was a young man, new to practice, but with a zeal for the art of medicine. I discerned that he had chosen the career out of a genuine desire to do people good. He reminded me so of the young Watson I had met twenty years prior that I had to turn away.
Once it became clear that Watson was in good hands, Lestrade practically bundled me into a cab back to Baker Street, despite my protestations. I was loath to leave him, but that familiar exhaustion that so often follows a case was quick to wash over me.
‘I must say, Lestrade,’ mumbled I, half asleep, ‘I can’t seem to remember when last I slept.’
‘Best you do so then now, Mr Holmes,’ he returned, with a small smile, ‘else the good Dr Watson will chastise you no end!’
I huffed an agreement and fell asleep promptly, though not before hearing the Inspector mutter something under his breath. I could have sworn I caught the words ‘like an old married couple’ before I drifted off.
-
Watson was sent home to rest but a day later, his wound having been stitched and dressed and the blood loss deemed none too significant. Under normal circumstances, such a wait would have been a heavy burden upon my mind, but clearly I was more exhausted than I had anticipated for when next I awoke, my dear companion was slumped in his usual armchair a mere few feet from me. Lestrade and the cabman had evidently hauled me into our rooms at Baker Street, and at this notion I was torn between dismissal and some vague stirring of warmer sentiment.
Immediately, I took note of his breathing. His broad chest rose and fell steadily - with relief, I noted that his lungs were uncompromised. Next, his pulse. I had no desire to wake Watson, for he had always cajoled me that a body injured is a body in need of rest. I may have gone a little far in my stealth, admittedly, since I have always had a penchant for the dramatic; slowly, I lowered myself from my own chair to the floor, resting on my hands and knees like a four-legged beast. Slowly, I began to crawl towards him, traversing the rug at a pace that was a test to my patience. Angling myself at the side of his armchair, I gently pressed two fingers to his wrist. His pulse was steady, if a little elevated - not an immediate cause for concern, but something to be monitored.
From my angle on the rug, Watson for once towered over me. He was a king asleep in his throne; a god, radiant and peaceful; and I, humbler than ever in subjection to him. I not only loved him - I revered him. The lines around his eyes that told of years of cheerfulness, and his unwavering ability to see the world’s beauty in spite of its dangers. The greying hair on his head, mussed by sleep and strenuous activity, which looked impossibly soft and inviting to the touch. The strength of his limbs, even in sleep and injury, with clearly defined muscles that could strike or embrace with equal ferocity, Agnostic though I was in faith, Watson seemed to me to be evidence of the godly, the angelic, and I resolved in my mind that I would worship him til the end of my days.
More than anything, I wished to kiss him.
The thought terrified and excited me in equal parts.
-
Unfortunately, the raised pulse I had noticed quickened rapidly, as Watson was soon consumed by a raging fever.
His stitches had clearly become infected.
For the next few days (although it felt much longer), I kept vigil at his bedside, sleeping fitfully in a chair and applying a cold compress to his brow every so often. From time to time Mrs Hudson would enter, like clockwork, bringing with her a poultice that stank to no end, though my brother Mycroft (having extensive information available to him) assured me of its effectiveness.
Lestrade came to visit once or twice, and he acted much the same as ever, to my relief. The only difference in his manner of conduct was the softened edge to his tone, and the warmer gleam in his eyes. I supposed I was grateful that he knew, not least because it clearly altered his perception of me - most believe that I am an unfeeling man, and since I have never been keen on expressing otherwise, I knew that Lestrade had never before seen me as quite so human.
It was uncertain as to whether Watson would survive, for a time. I confess that, for me, that time was as dark as any I had ever seen. Unable to come to terms with the possibility of his death, I threw myself wholeheartedly into caring for Watson: wringing wet cloths from a bucket, opening windows to create a draught, sending the Irregulars to fetch all manner of medicine so as not to leave Watson unattended.
There were delusions, too, common among feverish patients. I knew them well, for more than once I had succumbed to them myself in the aftermath of a case. Watson suffered already with nightmares, and it seemed that his sickness only served to exacerbate them.
I woke, upon one occasion, to find him thrashing wildly in his sleep, entangled in his bedclothes. His skin shone with sweat, and he sobbed like a child. My heart broke for him, and all that stopped me from drawing him into my arms was the fear of worsening his already extremely high temperature.
I had determined memories of war as the cause of Watson’s distress, imagining his dreams to be scenes of gravely injured soldiers, those who could not be saved, and the oppressive heat of the Indian sun. I tried to recall him to Baker Street, to assure him of my presence and his safety.
‘Watson. Watson, you are safe,’ I told him, my voice growing from a whisper as he did not appear to hear me. ‘You are at home, in Baker Street, with me. It is Holmes, my dear fellow.’
However, at the mention of my own name, Watson’s face contorted painfully.
‘HOLMES!’ he cried. ‘He is dead- Holmes is dead- and you are but a ghost-’
He cut himself off with another choked sob. Oh. The poor man - I realised at once that his mind was not in India, as I had thought, but Switzerland. Indeed, the manner in which he called my name reminded me clearly and painfully of how he had shouted for me at Reichenbach, believing me dead. It was all I could do then not to call back to him and entirely blow my cover, and now I refused to hesitate in my bid to reassure him.
‘No, Watson, it is I. I came back to you, my dear man, do you remember? We have been sharing rooms again for some eight years now, here in Baker Street. I am real, I assure you.’ At this last remark, I laid a hand on his forearm and squeezed it tightly, allowing Watson to feel the tangibility of my presence.
‘Oh, Holmes, it- is it really you?’ Watson asked, eyes glassy. ‘Oh, how I grieved you- you and Mary both- for I loved the both of you so- and I was alone- no, no, you are a trick of the mind, you cannot be here-’
He continued in this manner, his thoughts tangential, overtaking and crowding around one another like a swarm of bees. I chose to ignore how Watson had compared my death to the loss of his wife, and repressed further yet the deep stirring of feeling that it caused me - a complex combination of intense guilt, sorrow, and affection. He did not- could not- share my nature, for I had seen firsthand his approach to the fairer sex, and he was every part the proper gentleman I was not.
I returned my thoughts, therefore, decidedly to the urgent matter at hand of reducing Watson’s fever, as the man himself returned to restless sleep.
-
The following morning, Watson’s fever broke. It was immediately noticeable to me, as his breathing evened out and on examining his leg wound, the surrounding skin had paled from the previously aggressive scarlet it had been.
At once, tension drained from me that I hadn’t known I had, replaced at once by relief. While he was not yet well, Watson would almost certainly survive, and I was no longer in danger of losing him.
I sent a telegram to Lestrade soon after.
Fever broken STOP Watson recovering STOP Welcome to visit 6pm STOP SH
The reply came a short few hours later.
Glad to hear it STOP I will visit STOP Tell him STOP Lestrade
I could not feign ignorance as to what Lestrade meant by this last comment. He seemed to imagine that confessing my feelings for Watson would alter things - that Watson would reciprocate my love, not just that of a friend, and that perhaps we would be able to carry out a sort of relationship.
I allowed myself to entertain the notion, and found it pleased me greatly. Overall, it was likely that not much would change. But a day would perhaps begin and end with him beside me. Maybe he would hold me through my dark moods, and I would bolster his criminally low self-esteem with praise. More than likely he would use my Christian name- and here, I had to cut off my train of thought, since imagining the way his mouth would curl beautifully around the word ‘Sherlock’, perhaps curved into his characteristic smirk; how it would sound in his rich, smooth baritone, in a caring tone that came so naturally to such a kind man; a shiver went up my spine, and I felt my cheeks heat up.
But Watson had been married. He had left before, and I was under no illusions that he was mine, no matter how I foolishly dared to hope.
I knew that Lestrade was right, and I really ought to tell him. But for now, all there was to do was to grasp at his hand as he slept, worn out from his illness, and wait.
-
6 o’clock could not come fast enough.
I spent the majority of the day dozing in my chair, idly noticing the way the shadows moved around the room as time passed. I estimated it to be mid afternoon, when I turned my head to check on Watson to find his eyes open, gazing back at me.
‘My dear fellow, you are finally returned to us!’ said I, not bothering to conceal my smile.
‘Holmes!’ he returned, his voice weak from disuse but cheerful as ever. He made an ‘oof’ sound as he moved to sit up, and I quickly rearranged his pillows to support him. ‘Thank you. Hmmph, I have quite the pain in my leg.’
‘I dare say you do, dear Watson. You were shot, do you remember, on the Garridebs case. The wound was quite serious and became infected; you have been abed with fever for some days. I- we-’ Against my will, I found a lump forming in my throat, despite my smile, and my words came out choked. Alarmed by the potency of my emotion, I pressed on. ‘I feared for your survival, Watson, for your illness was very nearly fatal. I beg you, do not- try to avoid such danger again- I could not bear it if you l-’
Here I cut myself off, for the risk of tears was fast becoming a certainly. I turned my head away as my face contorted, and two small droplets stole down my cheeks. I wiped them away hastily with the back of my hand, and steeled my expression before turning back round.
From the expression on Watson’s face, I could tell that the hypocritical words I had left unsaid had nonetheless reached him loud and clear. I could not bear it if you left me.
‘My dear Holmes,’ said he, quietly. ‘I have no intention of going anywhere, I assure you. I cannot regret my being injured if it meant you were spared- but I promise you that I will avoid any unnecessary risk, and urge you to do the same.’
His hand found mine where it rested atop the bedsheets, and squeezed it lightly.
‘I would be most grateful for that.’ I told him as my smile returned, pathetic and watery as it was.
We sat together in silence for some time. I took pleasure in the return of Watson’s companionship, for although I had spent many days at his side, for the most part at least one of us was unconscious or out of his wits. Eventually though, he broke the quietude with a small cough, one which usually preceded a conversation he found difficult. Not wishing him to fear my reception of whatever he had to say, I arranged my features as mildly as possible, and stroked my thumb over the back of his hand in a comforting gesture.
‘There is just one thing, Holmes,’ he began hesitantly, ‘and I cannot be quite sure whether it was all just a sort of dream or hallucination…’
I suspected I knew what he was about to bring up, and I tried not to let the shame overcome me as I considered the possibility of his having heard what I had spoken to him as he lay wounded. Of course, there were other possibilities - perhaps he had had some strange kind of dream that had left him out of sorts, or maybe he was referring to the particularly horrific episode where he had believed me dead just the night before. It was this uncertainty that drove me to encourage him to go on, with a simple incline of my head.
‘Well, when I was injured…’ Ah, so it was that. Damn. ‘I thought I heard you speaking to me. Saying all kinds of things. To wake up, mostly, and whether it was really you or not, Holmes, I confess it was a great motivation for me. But also… I thought, and I could be wrong, but… I thought that you had said you loved me.’
The truth must have been plainly written in my expression, for before I could even open my mouth in response, Watson’s questioning frown melted away in realisation. He was left with a stricken expression; his eyes were widened, and to my horror they began to well up with tears of his own as his mouth hung slightly open.
‘I… I think that it be best that I am honest with you, Watson. I confess that I did indeed say such things to you, believing you to be dying. I- I even killed Evans, though I had merely intended to incapacitate him, and I cannot feel remorse over it.’ Watson looked alarmed, but I tried as best I could with my facial expressions to convey that all was well, and this seemed to placate him. ‘I could not bear the thought of losing you without you knowing the great deal of regard I hold for you, and how vital you are to me. Indeed, I- I do not have the words-’ I shook my head, refusing to succumb once more to tears, and gently let go of his hand. ‘You informed me, early in our companionship, that the Earth orbits the Sun. I had written this information off as useless, but since you told it to me, it lodged itself stubbornly in my mind. The point I am trying to make, Watson, is that I am as drawn to you as the Earth is to the Sun, and I would happily live the rest of my days in orbit of you even without any kind of- I don’t know- romantic entanglement. But I- I understand if you find my nature shameful. It is something I have had to come to terms with myself, and I would never wish to make you uncomfortable nor incriminate you in the eyes of society.’
‘No! No, Holmes, I am not at all ashamed.’ The vigour with which he shook his head caused a few tears to spill, and I fought the urge to wipe them away. ‘I am simply… surprised… to learn that you care for me so… and that my own feelings are, apparently, reciprocated.’
‘Reciprocated?’
He made a low ‘hum’ in confirmation. ‘I had assumed it were obvious to you - I fear my subtlety slipped on numerous occasions.’ He chuckled. ‘But not once did I consider the possibility of my affections being returned, my dear Ho- my dear.’
I am embarrassed to admit that I blushed furiously at this endearment. I could feel my whole face heat up to the tips of my ears. This minor humiliation was well worth it, though, to hear the sound of Watson’s affectionate laughter.
‘It seems we have both been most short-sighted. True, I can usually decipher the thoughts of others in seconds, but I’m afraid, dear Watson, that I am blinded by your luminosity.’
He gave me a look, then, of such depth that my breathing hitched. I could see his fear of overstepping being outweighed by desire as he once again took my hand and whispered, ‘John.’
‘Yes,’ I returned, with uncharacteristic breathlessness, ‘dear John.’
I leaned forward in my chair and drew him into my arms, as I had ached to. His arms, in turn, were strong around me, and he smelled faintly of sweat and the washing powder Mrs Hudson used. His eyes were crinkled with joy and tenderness, and I had barely a second to ask, ‘May I?’ before his answering nod brought our lips together and my mind was entirely overrun by the sensation.
His lips were warm, and slightly chapped. I could feel his breath, gentle against my cheek, like another caress. I, meanwhile, had completely forgotten how to breathe, and was entirely flustered. I remained in his embrace as we drew back from the kiss, and slumped my head over his shoulder.
‘My dear Sherlock,’ I heard him utter, and I clutched him tighter yet in response as my heart raced.
After a while, though, I could tell that the position became uncomfortable for Watson- John- given his wound, so reluctantly I released him from my arms. I had the idea to send for some tea to calm our nerves, and on the promise of a swift return, I headed downstairs to ask Mrs Hudson myself.
I almost jumped out of my skin to find Lestrade on the stairs, having completely forgotten about his visit. Despite his really rather limited capacity for deduction, I could tell he knew exactly what to make of my dishevelled appearance, and that by no means would he spare us endless teasing.
‘I told you, Mr Holmes, not to be so sure about the doctor’s lack of reciprocity, and would you listen? Nooo. And here you are, happy as any man in love, and I shall waste no time in reminding you that I told you so-’
‘Yes, yes, thank you, Lestrade, if you would please bother Watson instead. I am about to send for tea and I should imagine that after your long journey you would rather have your drink in a cup and not on your lap, yes?’ My smirk told him that I spoke in jest only, and the friendly clap on the arm he gave me reassured me of his own good spirits. I almost skipped down the remaining steps to Mrs Hudson’s rooms, and returned to sit on the stairs, pondering my own good fortune.
-
Some months later, when John was suitably recuperated and one or two little problems laid to rest, I made true on my resolution to call upon Lestrade. John came with me, and it brought me great satisfaction to sit alongside him in the drawing room as his partner, in every sense of the word.
The time we had spent in this new facet of partnership had, thus far, succeeded all my hopes. John had either become much more finely attuned to my moods, or he was no longer holding back with regards to me, for he was at my side with a cup of tea, a filled pipe or arms around my shoulders sometimes before I myself knew of my own depression. I, in turn, found myself smiling more, and discovered the remarkable effects a simple loving word or caress could have on him.
I had never truly considered myself an enjoyer of physical contact - at most, I would tolerate an occasional embrace from someone dear to me, but having never had a lover, I had had no real reason to seek out more than this. And yet, it became second nature to me to reach out a hand for John to take; to place a kiss on his brow when he said something particularly illuminating; to hold out my arms in apology when I had said something careless, and let my embrace deliver the eloquent words my mind could not form. I had to be careful to avoid such habits in public, but such casual touch thrilled me beyond my expectations.
I digress.
We had arranged to take tea with Lestrade and his wife, a very agreeable woman with a robust sense of humour by the name of Judith. She and John got on handsomely, sharing anecdotes about their stubborn partners and laughing uproariously.
‘Oh, Dr Watson,’ said she, through chuckles, ‘you should have seen George a few nights ago when he attempted to bake a cake! My husband is a terrific cook, you know, but a truly awful baker. The pan couldn’t be saved!’
‘Sherlock is much the same in causing damage to our kitchen, Mrs Lestrade, I can sympathise indeed! Although, our rooms are privy to concoctions of the chemical, rather than the edible, nature, and I’m afraid the table is quite beyond repair.’
‘I’d hardly call my husband’s concoctions edible, either, in all honesty!’
And so it went on. Lestrade and I sipped at our tea, and only responded with occasional smirks and eye rolls at one another over the rims of our cups. Perhaps I should have been indignant to be so defamed, but I knew John spoke with the utmost love and fondness, and he would not tolerate any genuine ill-will towards me. The domesticity of such a scene was heartwarming, for rarely could we ever conduct ourselves so openly as a couple. I was at once profoundly grateful for the Lestrades and their open-mindedness.
We spent a wonderful afternoon in one another’s company, which culminated in a fantastic supper courtesy of Lestrade himself. Even I, with such irregular and particular habits, easily cleared my plate. John’s eyes shone with pride when he looked at me afterwards, and he squeezed my hand as if to say ‘well done’.
Our eventual departure was punctuated by warm goodbyes and handshakes, with a promise to visit at least monthly. I was forced to drop John’s hand as we stepped out into the street, but immediately picked it back up as soon as we were inside a cab. He had grown tired, and his head came to rest upon my shoulder as we drove home. I appreciated the warm, living weight of him, and gently placed a kiss atop his head.
I had not expected such love to come of the Garridebs case, whether my inconceivable good luck with John or the deepening of our friendship with Lestrade. I did not expect these events to streamline our liaisons with the police, as and when they came, but I minded not, for I rather enjoyed the banter.
I was simply glad to be alive, and to have John by my side was a greater joy to me than the solution of any case.