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At two o’clock that morning I found Holmes in a disreputable house off the Haymarket, sunk among cushions, his pupils pin-points and a glassy smile upon his lips.
“Watson!” he cried, as though I were expected. “You have come at last.”
I paid the proprietor, drew his arm across my shoulders, and conveyed him to Baker Street. On the journey he spoke with the candour of intoxication.
“My dear fellow,” said he, pressing my hand, “I have loved you from the first, and concealed it because your happiness demanded my silence.”
I could not answer. He slept before we reached home.
At noon I found him robed and shaven, studying the agony column with composure.
“You spoke of me last night.”
“The incoherencies of a disordered brain deserve no record, Watson”
I crossed the hearthrug. Holmes retreated until the mantel checked him, though his eyes never left mine.
“Watson,” said he frightened, “this is most unlike you.”
“On the contrary, Holmes. It is overdue.”
I caught his lean face between my hands and kissed him fiercely, with all the anger, terror and tenderness that had tormented me since dawn. For one instant he stood rigid; then his long arms closed about me.
“So,” I murmured against his mouth, “your brain was not entirely disordered.”
His answer was to kiss me again.