Work Text:
When Morton had removed Culverton Smith, Holmes reached for a cigarette as though resurrected.
I struck the match, but did not offer it.
“You let me believe I was watching you die.”
“Three days without food or water,” said he. “Belladonna, rouge, and enough acting to deceive even you.”
“Why?”
Holmes’s smile faded. “Your distress had to be genuine, Watson. Smith would have seen through any pretence.”
He turned, yet I seized his dressing-gown and pulled him round. Anger shook me; through it ran wild relief that I scarcely knew whether I wished to embrace him or strike him.
“My dear fellow—”
“You trusted my grief more than you trusted me.”
For once, Sherlock Holmes had no answer. His gaunt face, rendered terrible by three days’ fasting, softened as he regarded me.
“I knew the depth of your loyalty,” he said quietly. “I feared what else I might discover.”
The confession robbed me of speech. I caught him at the waist, drew him against me, and kissed him with all the fury he had earned. For one startled instant he remained rigid; then his hands gripped my waist and his tongue moved eagerly against mine.
When we parted, Holmes looked almost feverish in earnest.
“Watson,” he murmured, “perhaps dinner at Simpson’s may be postponed.”
“Indefinitely,” said I, and kissed him again.