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It was not until the police departed with their prisoner that Holmes allowed his reserve to fail him. He knelt beside my chair and examined the furrow which Evans’s bullet had ploughed across my thigh.
“A mere scratch,” said I.
His fingers closed upon my wrist. “You may consider it amusing, Watson. I assure you that I do not.”
It was worth a wound—it was worth many wounds—to know the depth of loyalty and love which lay behind that cold mask.
For a moment I was silent; Holmes seemed equally bereft of words.
He rose and turned towards the window. Yet, when I attempted to stand, the pain betrayed me, and in an instant his arm was about my shoulders. We remained thus, close, while the mantelpiece clock measured our silence.
“You have borne danger for me too often,” he said. “Today I discovered the limit of my philosophy.”
I knew, but pressed him nonetheless. “And what lies beyond it?”
Holmes looked at me. In all our years together, I had never seen his expression so unguarded.
“This,” he answered.
His mouth met mine with a tenderness that astonished me. I caught at his coat, fearing he might retreat, but Holmes only drew me nearer.
The case of the Three Garridebs was closed. Another, more intimate adventure had begun.