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At the Englischer Hof, Holmes dismissed our host and locked the door. Outside, the Alps stood black beneath the stars.
“Moriarty has followed us,” said I. “We should keep watch.”
Holmes turned from the window. I mistook the stillness in his face for fatigue until he crossed the room and took my head between his hands.
“Tonight,” he said, “I would rather look at you.”
He kissed me before astonishment could summon a question. Our long restraint broke under the pressure of his mouth. If he knew that I had known men before, he did not say. His coat carried the mountain cold, while his body burned against mine as he drove me towards the narrow bed.
“Holmes, what has happened?”
“Only what was always going to happen.”
He removed my collar, then pressed his lips to the pulse in my throat. There was hunger in him, but grief also, and each kiss possessed the terrible concentration he brought to a final problem.
I drew him down beside me. “Whatever awaits us, we meet it together.”
His eyes closed. “My dear Watson, you have always deserved a better promise than that.”
I silenced him with my mouth. We loved each other fiercely, desperately, and without sleep.
At dawn, Holmes dressed before me.
On the table lay a letter bearing my name.