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Small explosions and the sounds of bubbling chemicals are not entirely unfamiliar in our rooms at Baker Street, and I have learned to take them in my stride, or at least not to jump too much. It is not usual, however, for such things to be followed by profanity, and certainly not the sort that Holmes gave voice to after shattering a test tube one evening in March.
I dropped my pen upon hearing him, and turned at once. He did not seem to be bleeding or in pain, and there was no sign of harmful effects from the chemicals he had been using. I tried to think of other occasions when I had heard Holmes swear; they were not extremely infrequent, but generally they were motivated by serious danger or shock. He was glaring at the tongs resting where he had dropped them, and, I was concerned to note, shaking slightly.
“Holmes?” I asked.
“What?” he snapped, whirling to rest his glare on me.
“You are not injured?”
“No.” He turned back, and began to clear away the broken glass with jerky, ungraceful motions. I waited a few minutes longer, but he did not speak further.
When the shards were disposed of he shoved the rest of his equipment away with little care or concern for the work he had already done, and strode across the room. I turned back to my writing, but my attention was focused on his presence in the room behind me, though he made no sound.
I was worried about him. We had been busy for some months now, and generally a long run of cases was beneficial to his mood, though not necessarily to his health. He had been enjoying himself, I had thought, up until a week or so previously. Since then he had been constantly a little on edge, and, I thought, paler than usual.
My greatest concern was that he was at his drugs again, but I hadn’t seen any sign of it, and he usually didn’t care if I did. I hadn’t seen them at all, in fact, since his return, and I was still uncertain if they were gone entirely. He had finished with several matters in the last few days, and was currently unoccupied; if they were to reappear it might well be now.
Holmes’ bedroom door slammed, and I turned to stare again. But the empty sitting room gave me no answers, and I have never made a habit of disturbing my friend’s privacy.
It was quite early still, but Holmes did not reappear that evening. I was accustomed enough to that, but still found myself unable to concentrate on anything in the next few hours. At last I retired as well, more to give myself new surroundings than because I was tired. As a result, I lay up rather late, absorbed in a novel and listening inattentively to the sound of the wind in the eaves. It was a late spring, that year.
I would not have heard the quiet noise had it not been for its utter unexpectedness. But because it was so unexpected, I put my book down and listened, and heard again a stifled, sobbing gasp through the wall.
I was out of bed in an instant, wrapping my dressing gown around myself and going to see what was happening. It had, I thought, come from the sitting room, which allowed for the possibility that it was not Holmes.
At a first glance the room was empty. My candle was the only light, apart from the banked and covered fire. As soon as I had left my bedroom the sounds had stopped, but the silence of the room was somehow expectant, as if someone was holding their breath.
The high back of the settee hid the seat, and I stepped around it to find that my most probable and simultaneously improbable theory had been right: it was my friend, alone, lying back against a cushion with one arm covering his eyes. “Holmes?”
“Go away, Watson,” he said. His voice was tight, with heavy pauses between the syllables, and I realized that something truly was wrong, impossibly wrong.
“Holmes,” I said again, walking forward and placing my candle on a side table. He clenched his jaw and turned his head away. “My dear Holmes, what is it?”
He said nothing. I stepped closer and gently turned his face to the light.
Lines of tears glistened on his cheeks. I was so shocked I nearly flinched backward. He was still covering his eyes.
I trailed my thumb slowly down the wet line on his cheek, and then pulled his arm away. His eyes were shut, and seemed dark and sunken in the low light. “Holmes,” I whispered.
I ran my hand gently over his face. He still did not move. “Holmes, what on earth is wrong?”
“Nothing,” he said, his voice breaking in the middle of the word. He did look at me for a second, at least.
“My dear Holmes.” I pulled him a little, and he rose to sit more or less upright. I sat next to him. “You needn’t tell me specifics,” I said. “But I have never seen you like this. And you must know how important you are to me. Please, at least tell me something.”
He shook his head. “It really is nothing,” he whispered. “Nothing important.” He gasped a little, then his breathing lengthened into harsh gasps again, and he tried to pull away from me. I held him closer, and at last he collapsed onto my shoulder and whispered, “Oh God, Watson, I haven’t slept in three days.”
“Oh, my dear,” I said, and Holmes sobbed, choked, and pressed his face against my shoulder. He would not let the tears escape him fully, and as a result his sobs sounded even more ruined and pathetic than they might have otherwise. “Oh my dear,” I whispered again, rubbing his back. The words came so naturally that I did not quite realize what I was saying. “My dear Holmes, that’s not nothing, not at all. My dear fellow. Oh, my darling. There, there, breathe.”
I held him for long minutes, rubbing his back and whispering nonsense as he tried to regain his composure. It went beyond anything accepted in our friendship before, but there was nothing else I could do when I saw him so distressed before me.
“Excuse me,” he managed to say eventually. He had no reason to request it, not truly. He had barely let go of the hold he always had on himself, keeping his tears unvoiced as much as he could.
“Not at all, my dear fellow. Holmes, my dear, why didn’t you tell me? Can you simply not sleep at all?”
He nodded. He was still leaning against my now damp shoulder, and his breathing still shook. “I could have prescribed you something,” I said. “For that matter, I hate to suggest it, but I’ve laudanum in my bag.”
“It won’t work,” Holmes muttered.
“Why not?”
“Why do you think? I’ve built up a hell of an immunity to opiates.”
“Ah.” I stroked his back again, and he struggled to pull away from me. I let him, and he looked away from me and pulled out his handkerchief. He started to stand, and I put a hand on his shoulder out of instinct, and then shoved him back down when he didn’t take the hint.
“Whiskey?” I asked.
“What?” He stopped moving and blinked at me.
“It works for some.”
“Ah. No. Not in small quantities, anyway.” He fell back against the cushions, his eyes closing. He looked horribly exhausted.
“Valerian?”
“Nothing but morphine and chloral has worked, Watson, and you have at least managed to stop me slowly poisoning myself.” He did not look at me or even open his eyes, and his voice was choked and brittle. It did not permit me to express the extent of my relief at this statement.
“Well, good.” I set myself to be logical, wishing I could simply touch him and give him sleep at once. “Are you in physical pain?”
“No. Watson -”
“There must be something for it. Is it that you can’t stop thinking?”
He nodded.
“What is it that you are thinking of?”
He shook his head – shook all over. “I don’t – it is unbearable.”
“Can you not speak of it at all?” I placed my hand on his shoulder, and he made a high-pitched, broken noise in his throat.
“Oh, God -” His voice broke off, and his head fell forward as he sobbed again.
“Come here, my darling,” I said. Holmes choked, and gasped, and then wept against my dressing gown as I wrapped my arms around him. He had lost the ability to hold himself in, and I held him and pressed his face against my shoulder.
I kept hold of him and gave what physical comfort I could, running my fingers through his fine dark hair and stroking his back. His horrible choked sobs were only barely muffled by my shoulder. He panted for breath and moaned quietly, his voice catching sharply in the middle and turning it into another sob. I hugged him close against me, and let him quiet himself. His sighs continued for a long time, and he leaned against me still.
His breathing at last grew softer and more natural, but he did not try to move away, and I kept him in my embrace. Now that he had stopped trembling, the hard heavy weight of him against my chest was reassuring, almost gratifying. He kept so much of himself back, tried so hard not to be human, but now I held proof of his materiality in my arms. His heart had slowed to the speed of mine, and his breath was deep and relaxed.
In fact – I turned his head gently. He appeared to be asleep. He did not object to my moving him, only turned a little to push his face into my hand.
I might have lowered him to the settee then, but instead I remained, I’m not sure for how long, supporting him against my own body as he slept. I stared at the faintly glowing coals in the fireplace and thought of nothing but his angular frame against mine.
When I felt myself beginning to fall asleep as well I did have to rise. I would do neither of us favours by attempting to sleep sitting up. I held Holmes carefully stable as I shifted from under him, but as I was adjusting his position his breath caught and his eyelids blinked open.
“Watson?” he murmured.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered. “I hoped I wouldn’t wake you.”
“Don’t concern yourself,” he said. His gaze was still unfocused and confused, though in the course of our investigations I had often seen him wake in seconds, coming instantly alert.
“If you are awake, we had best get you to a proper bed.” I offered him my arm, and he took it. He must have still been half-asleep, but he leaned willingly on me and I guided him to his bedroom.
“I shan’t sleep more, but thank you,” he said, but he slumped down onto the bed anyway, sighing and closing his eyes. I sat next to him and ran a hand through his hair without thinking, as I had done while holding him. He sighed, and I kept on.
In minutes he was asleep again, and I left the room, closing the door as quietly as possible.
He was quite late the next morning, but he walked to the breakfast table looking better than he had in a week, and I looked up from the paper and could not help smiling at my part in his good mood.
“Good morning, Watson,” he said, smiling back. But he picked up the sections of the paper that I had discarded and buried himself behind them almost at once.
The next morning I asked if he’d slept better, and he shrugged in a resigned sort of way and said, “A little. Thank you.”
“Does that happen often?”
He sighed. “It rarely affects my work.”
“But you – your mind -”
“It’s not a problem, Watson.”
***
April came, and Holmes dealt with cases presented by an American millionaire and an extremely persistent music teacher, and then dragged me to a university for research into another, rather involved investigation which I admit I never fully learned the details of. I watched him more closely than I usually did, but at least until our return to Baker Street at the end of May he seemed to be quite healthy. He did still stay up late into the night, but he always had.
When I ventured to ask him about it one evening, he said, “I work until I in fact am capable of sleeping. It generally does not interfere.”
“I am only concerned for your health,” I said – it was by now a common refrain. “You will tell me, if it seems to grow worse?”
His fingers tensed for a moment on the arm of his chair, but his voice was calm enough when he said, “I am sure it will, on occasion. It has been present for my entire adult life.”
“Holmes!” I said. “Really? Just as bad?”
“Of course. ”
“But that is intolerable! Surely there must be medical help – sulphonal, bromides – let me find you something, Holmes.”
“Watson, I have never been an addict, whatever you say, and I don’t intend to start. If I used one of those I would become dependent on it, and unable to sleep otherwise. They would not permit mere sporadic usage. Now, I have occasional relief; then I would have none. More importantly, I would be dead to the world once I took them and unable to wake again if necessary.”
“You get so little sleep as it is, though.”
“It suits me well enough. It is not truly a handicap; it allows me more time to work. And waking quickly is a habit that has saved my life before.”
“But your constitution -”
“My constitution can stand it, I think. I always fall asleep eventually, when I need it badly enough; before that there is no point interrupting my work to attempt it.” I remembered how often I had found him asleep on the settee in the middle of the day, or at his desk, more than once with his face spotted with ink.
“You mean you let yourself work until it is impossible for you to do anything but succumb,” I said.
“It is the only method that works.”
“Holmes,” I said, and paused. I was not certain how I wanted to finish, and there was something in the tone of my voice that I had not put there. “If you need anything, come and ask me. I don’t care if it’s the middle of the night – you’ve woken me up enough that I’m used to it.”
His mouth had twisted at the sentiment, but by the end of the sentence he was smiling a little. “It is very kind of you,” he said. It was not an agreement, but there was no reason for me to pull one from him, though I still felt obscurely that I should.
I think it is impossible for that conversation to have spurred it on, but I was sure that Holmes did not sleep soundly for the next two nights. But he did not seem to be suffering from it. He clearly had slept, at least a little; I never woke to find him in the same position at his chemical table as he had been when I had retired.
Whether or not it was harming him, I began to hear his violin at the oddest hours again, and worry. It never woke me – in fact it was quite pleasant to fall asleep to strains of melody, or to remember, in the vaguest of ways, drifting awake at some strange hour to hear what seemed, half-asleep, to be the music of the spheres. He never played his wails and discords at such times – never but once.
I had been only lightly sleeping, awake enough to hear him pacing around the sitting room, though it blended with vague dream-images. The violin cut through them with a high scream.
Generally when Holmes is playing to himself it is, while atonal and undoubtedly irritating, at least organic in its patterns. This was not. There was no sense that music might come from the same instrument as the one producing the caterwauls and snarls outside my room.
He ceased as suddenly as he began, and I thought in the silence I heard his bedroom door. I planned on returning to sleep, but there was a quiet thud from the next room, and then his voice, splintered and strangled but still his voice.
“Oh, Christ -!”
I rose at once, and was halfway to my door before I had thought what I was doing. I let the motivation propel me into the sitting room.
His door was shut, of course. I knocked; all I wanted to do was open it and walk straight in, but a lifetime’s habit was too hard to break, even if Holmes himself never cared about a closed door when waking me.
I had heard a gasp before I knocked, but as soon as I did there was silence. I waited a minute, then said, “Holmes?”
There was no answer. I ought to go back to bed and ask him in the morning, or forget it entirely. This was not like the last time, when he had been in the sitting room, and I had not, truly, been invading. I tried the door, and it opened for me.
Holmes lay quite still on his back, one arm covering his eyes. There was no light in the room except my candle, and all I could see was his long form on the bed, surrounded by shadows. He was still mostly clothed, though the blankets were tangled around his legs.
“Is it the insomnia again?” I asked.
He sighed. “Of course it is.”
“I am so sorry. You needn’t lie here alone, though.”
“I’d like to pretend I’ve a chance of falling asleep eventually,” he said, staring at the ceiling as if his eyes would never shut again.
“You must know that you can come to me when this happens. I asked you to; I won’t be upset.”
“Mm.” It was neither confirmation nor denial; barely even recognition.
“Should I leave?”
“No.” He said it quickly, and with more interest than his voice had held so far. Then, more calmly, “If you would be so kind.”
I sat on the bed at once. He was rarely emotional, and this openness of speech was unprecedented. I so often wanted some clear sign of his friendship, and what he had given me I had devoured.
He shifted to give me room, turning on his side to face me, and I reached to touch him, but it was awkward and too far. I lay down beside him and placed a hand on his shoulder. It was far too intimate, but comfortable. He calmed, a little, and I moved closer.
I hoped he would relax further, as he had the last time. Instead, he grew tense again.
“Shh,” I whispered, and I stroked my hand down his back and pulled him closer and -
- said, “Oh.”
Holmes jerked away from me, his face flushing dark with humiliation.
“Holmes, it doesn’t matter,” I said quickly. “I understand that it’s not – it’s a purely physiological reaction. Don’t be embarrassed.”
“Of course,” he muttered.
I tried to settle myself, to think of something else to say, another topic, but I was too stunned, even if I had managed to say something sensible in the moment.
‘Whatever is emotional is opposed to that true cold reason which I place above all things,’ said Holmes’ voice in my head. I had always thought ... I don’t know what I had thought. But he seemed so very divorced from all physical things, at least voluntary ones. He might be brought low by inanition, or addiction, or, I had now found, insomnia, but I had never imagined him affected by carnality. And here he was – here I was, in his bed, and he...
I must think of it as purely a medical matter.
“Have you -” I started.
“Watson, please don’t.” His breathing had sped up.
I focused on the ceiling. “Orgasm often leads to lethargy and somnolence,” I said. “Have you tried it?”
I thought, by the quality of the silence, that I had managed to shock him. It might have been a first.
“I can’t,” said Holmes, eventually. “Not when I’m this tired.”
“What do you mean you can’t?”
“Mentally. I can’t concentrate.”
“Concentrate?”
“Yes. On it or anything else.”
The idea of that act requiring intense concentration was foreign to me, but given the depth and breadth of Holmes’ mind I supposed it might for him.
“What about -” This should be an easier question – should be, but wasn’t. I nearly said ‘women’, but something stopped me. “Others? When you’re with someone?”
He was silent for so long that I thought he would not answer at all.
“I haven’t shared a bed with anyone in years. I suppose it might.”
I tried to imagine a way to suggest he try it. I tried to imagine whom he might have lain with before. I couldn’t, couldn’t imagine him with a gay girl or any other woman.
I let myself consider the idea of him with men. It seemed more likely, though still hard to believe. The belief, I knew, was that such desires were based on a fundamental femininity of the soul, and the connection of any sort of femininity with Holmes was ludicrous. And yet – and yet –
I had known the man for more than ten years, and I didn’t know whom he would take to bed, given the choice. I had been surprised by the idea that he might want to in the first place. It suddenly seemed absurd.
“With whom – men?” I asked. The room was so still that I could hear him inhale.
“On occasion,” he said. “Watson, why are you asking?”
“I don’t think less of you for it,” I said quickly.
“Ah.” His voice was sharp. “Of course not.”
“I don’t. It simply seems so strange that I didn’t know.”
He snorted. “It’s reasonable enough. I don’t want the matter publicized. And even were you a better observer, there has been very little to notice.”
“That is not a solution, then?”
“A what?”
“For your insomnia.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” said Holmes coldly. “If you are implying that immoderate libidinous affairs with sodomites would be an effective remedy for temporary sleeplessness, I think you had better reconsider your position as a medical professional. If you will be kind enough to leave, I should like the privacy of my room undisturbed for the rest of the night.”
“I am sorry,” I said at once. “I never meant to offend you. I didn’t mean that at all.” I sat up and swung my legs off the bed.
“Didn’t you,” said Holmes – his tone was not easy to understand, but it certainly was not a question. “Yes, I know you didn’t. Good night, Watson.”
“Good night,” I said, and retired to my room, cursing myself for a fool. I scrubbed my face and brushed my teeth and flipped through a book, but at last, lying alone in the dark, I was forced to confront the fact that I was experiencing a similar problem to Holmes’.
At least I could deal with it on my own. I thought of Holmes, lying awake and uncomfortable, his mind racing, no relief without fear of ruin, blackmail, imprisonment. I had never truly considered the matter, never had any such problems myself.
And yet here I was, the same.
It didn’t matter. I stroked myself and thought of women, of small slim hands and long black hair, and then inevitably of Mary, of her smile and the expression she had always had in bed, as if I was showing her something entirely new.
I don’t know if Holmes slept that night, but I did not see him at all the next day. Mrs. Hudson, braver than I and with less reason to be hesitant, knocked on his door at teatime and poked her head into his room, and retreated to tell me he was sleeping then.
The day after, he was seated at the breakfast table when I rose, just starting to look through his post. “Hopkins thinks he has found something for me,” he said, glancing up.
“Oh yes?” I asked. I did not want to refer to our last conversation any more than he seemed to.
“Yes.” He handed me two items – my own post, always less interesting than his. “I’ll need to go at this sideways, I think. Don’t be surprised by men calling here for a Captain Basil.” With that he scooped up the rest of his correspondence, affixed it to the mantelpiece in his usual unorthodox manner, and disappeared into his room. In five minutes he was out again, taking his hat and pattering down the stairs.
He was in and out at all hours for a week, and I did not learn anything more about the case until Inspector Hopkins showed up himself. But that was not so uncommon, and there seemed no further discord between us.
I had got into the habit of watching him for signs of ill health, and continued all that summer. He was quite busy at his work, but in between cases he would generally sleep well enough. Several times he simply collapsed on the sofa, and I would cover him with a blanket and be as silent as possible until I retreated to my room. Still, he sometimes woke merely from the sound of a door shutting. He would always twist his face with a little resignation when he looked at the time, and then go on with whatever he had been doing before as if it did not matter.
We dealt with a forgery case in Hampstead, and a murderous governess, and the disappearance of a young viscount. Holmes was called in on innumerable public and private cases, and – unlike before his disappearance – I saw all the details of them. He had asked me not to publish more stories, as his fame was already at a level inconvenient for his disguises, but I kept thorough notes on them all anyway. Someday he might give me leave to continue, and I had always loved writing about him.
As autumn approached, there came a run of days where I grew concerned over him again, but he said nothing and I did not ask. One night in September he retired unusually early, and I relaxed when he did not return to the sitting room.
As for myself, I had changed into my pyjamas and dressing gown, but I was caught in the grip of H. G. Wells’ new scientific romance, and stayed up far later than was my usual practice. I was nearly finished the book when Holmes’ door opened.
He entered wrapped in his dressing gown and running his fingers through his hair. He took a moment to realize I was in the sitting room, then started a little. “Good evening, Watson,” he said, his eyes flickering to the clock.
I had thought he had been sleeping, but the sheer exhaustion and defeat in his posture could only mean that he was instead still awake against his will. His eyes seemed deeper set than they should be.
“Holmes, how long has it been?” I asked, putting down my book. He looked slightly surprised.
“Only two days,” he said. “Or so.”
“Is there anything I can do?”
“You needn’t. Go back to bed.”
“I wasn’t sleeping.”
He sighed, and his shoulders dropped as if his head was immensely heavy. “You are far too kind, Watson,” he said. I crossed the room and placed a hand on his shoulder. “There isn’t anything, though.” He was still staring blankly at the wall, and it was chilling.
“Come back to bed,” I told him, and I steered him slowly back to his room.
“I was going to work,” he said. “I might as well. I wanted to observe the changes in -”
“Could you truly focus properly on your chemical studies now?”
He shook his head and leaned against me. I removed his dressing gown and lowered him into his bed, and he lay on his back, looking at me with almost an apologetic expression. I sat next to him and gently cupped his face.
I didn’t know quite what I was doing. I was not so exhausted as Holmes, but I am used to a regular schedule, and I would normally already have been asleep. I caught myself leaning too far forward and straightened, but he was holding my arm so I did not pull it away.
“What am I to do, then, if I can’t work and I can’t sleep?”
“Will it help if I stay here with you?”
Holmes’ eyes focused on mine. “You help immeasurably, Watson,” he said quietly. “You always do.”
“Then I shall.”
I thought of climbing into bed next to him – I wanted to, though I would probably fall asleep. But the last time I had done that we had both been embarrassed.
However, Holmes moved as far to the side as he could and pulled the blankets back slightly, and I shrugged off my dressing gown and took the invitation.
The bed was warmed a little from his body, and I found all my muscles relaxing at once as I lay down. I wanted to reach out for him, to hold him as I had that first night on the settee, and it was a narrow enough bed that it wouldn’t be difficult at all. But I would hate to ruin this by making him uncomfortable.
I stayed where I was, my hand falling on the mattress between us. He grasped it in his. My heart panged, as if he held that instead. I had always felt this for him, this intense need for his presence, but here it seemed to hold far more than that. But I pushed aside those thoughts; if he meant anything of the sort toward me he would have said so. There was nothing to worry about. And I simply wanted to be with him, next to him.
If he had reached for me, I could for him. I let myself, and he sighed and leaned against me.
I do not think he slept – he was never still, never quite relaxed. But he did not complain, or show any signs of the misery he so often had after too much wakefulness, or throw off the covers and attempt to go back to his work. So we lay together, holding on to each other, warm and comfortable. And slowly, very slowly, I began to feel his growing arousal at the situation.
I nearly pulled away, from the strangeness of it. But he was pulling away himself, and I would not, I would not let him be embarrassed by his own body again. I caught his hip to keep him from turning. “Will you let me do it?”
“What?” He was breathless.
“I’m sorry, never mind.” Had I truly just offered – yes. I had. And there was nothing wrong with it, if it would help. But this was Holmes – he would know what I had offered; I wouldn’t have to say anything more.
“Watson,” he said, “do you mean you want -”
“I want to help you,” I said.
“You mean with sleep.” His voice was quiet and forlorn. “I don’t think it will help.”
“It might, though.”
“If you want to try,” he whispered, the words coming separately as if he was pulling them over a cliff’s edge one by one, “I would not be averse to it.”
“Let me, then.”
Our hands tangled a little in his nightshirt. I did not let myself think of what precisely I was doing. I just bared his hips, and curved my hand around him.
He gasped, and made a soft noise in his throat. I stroked him hesitantly, and then set myself to caressing him as I would myself. It was not as easy as I had thought. His body was not mine, and the differences struck me immediately. I looked at his face; his eyes were pressed shut and he was biting his lip.
“Is this good?” I asked him. He blinked his eyes open for a second, then quickly closed them again.
“Yes,” he said. “Yes, it is.”
Apart from that he was entirely silent throughout, but his hips thrust against my hand involuntarily, and though the light was dim and he had closed his eyes he could not keep all that he was feeling from his face. He might have been embarrassed by it, but I was glad – the angle was awkward, and I found his quiet a little unnerving, and most of all I had no idea how to touch a man other than myself, and needed some idea of what I was doing right. It was deeply strange, I found, without the direct knowledge of what was pleasurable. And it was almost impossible to connect what my hand was doing with the man I saw in front of me. I had never imagined Holmes as a sexual being at all.
At the end, though, he broke his silence, just a little. His eyes opened, almost black, and met mine. He whispered, “Oh God,” and I felt him harden further in my hand. Then he clenched his eyes shut again and his body shook all over and he spent into the handkerchief I held to him.
I cleaned my hands and placed the cloth on the nightstand, having nowhere else for it. I took a breath before turning back, but if I waited too long Holmes would think I was disgusted. I rolled back to face him.
His eyes were still closed, his face relaxed. His breathing was slow and even, but he shifted a little. Then he threw a heavy arm over me and sighed, and seemed to go limp.
He was unconscious, or very nearly so. It had worked. He clutched me in his sleep, and I lay still for some time, staring at what little I could see of his face.
I should retire to my own bed.
If I moved, I might wake him.
I had never had any difficulty falling asleep in any circumstances, though sometimes I had not been able to stay asleep. There was no reason Holmes’ bed should be any different.
I closed my eyes, and tried to ignore my erection, and let myself drift.
I woke to find myself wrapped comfortably around someone, cradling another body with my own. I tightened my embrace instinctively, and my fingers slid over hard muscle where they had expected to find softness.
I pulled back with a gasp, and then remembered the circumstances and almost relaxed. But Holmes rolled over and smiled right at me, and I was still aroused, and he was so very close to me – I jerked farther away and sat up.
“I – it’s not -”
“No, I understand,” said Holmes. His face was now blank and emotionless. “It is a purely physiological response, of course.”
It had been exactly what I had been thinking. Why then was I – disappointed? I did not remember why the phrase sounded familiar. I sat there at loose ends for a moment, and Holmes smiled tightly at me.
“You’ll want to get back to your own room before anyone comes upstairs,” he said. I nodded and left.
Then I sat on my own bed for at least half an hour, uncertain of everything. For I had not realized until he had said that that I had done something illegal.
It had felt awkward, yes, entirely. Unnatural, a little, as it had been the first time. But not wrong. Not with Holmes.
‘The first time.’ Which implied there would be others.
Well, it had made him sleep, when little else would. In that case, there certainly ought to be. He needed it.
And it wasn’t wrong. I wasn’t exploiting him, or taking pleasure from it. There was nothing deviant on my part, and it was natural enough for him. The circumstances were entirely different from the assumptions of the law.
I believe neither of us quite met the other’s eyes at breakfast, but things grew normal again quickly. Holmes was busy still, and the cases were a welcome focus for, I think, both of us. He had never been anything but devoted to his work, but his industry was twice as noticeable that autumn.
He still tried to work through the nights without regard for his health. When he had an important case I did not try to dissuade him – would not have been able to if I had tried. But he was busy enough that he could not possibly work through the night for every case, and I did my best to chivvy him into his bedroom, if not into sleep.
And sometimes, he pulled me with him, and caught my hand in his, and the silence grew expectant, and I would ask. He never once refused. I did not know what anyone else would say of it, but I would never have to care, if we were lucky.
He was so clearly refreshed in his spirits afterwards, when he had slept properly. His work went more easily, and his brilliance at it was overwhelming, even more so than usual. His energy was directed, and when he had a case his focus was sharp and continually rewarded. The spark of genius that had always drawn me to him was more pronounced than ever. If he did not have a case, he smiled and played beautiful improvisations and his conversation was sparkling. So I kept on with it, when I noticed he had not been sleeping or saw him remaining at his work long past decent hours. I took him to his bed, and gave him release.
It was never more than my hand, working him quickly while I searched his face for signs of pleasure, evidence of what I was doing right. I wished every time that he would not hide his reactions, but he kept himself as inscrutable as possible. I wanted his breathing to lengthen into gasps, his voice to force itself into existence, if only for quiet inarticulate moans of pleasure, and the few vocalizations he could not hide to become truly words, appreciation, instructions, my name...
But even his orgasm was often reached with nothing more than a quiet grunt, his teeth clenched as if in pain, and I would not have known it had come without the evidence dripping over my fingers.
I only once tried to leave the bed after he had drifted off to sleep. He twitched a little as I stood, and, though I tried to keep my steps silent, before I had reached the door he mumbled, “Watson?”
“I am here,” I said.
“Come to bed.”
I don’t know if he would have said it if he had been entirely awake. But I returned, and lay next to him, and he wrapped his entirely body around me and seemed to fall immediately back into slumber.
I wished I could leave him without waking him up. The bed was narrow, and my body’s demands made it seem even smaller. And yet I did not truly want to abandon the warmth of his presence for my own solitary rest. I slept so well next to him, with an obscure sense of well-being and security.
I did not spend every night with him, chastely or otherwise. I could not have reconciled that with my conscience. Instead when I knew Holmes was overworking himself I tried to stop him earlier, before he did himself mental injury. He claimed that work did not tire him, and that his body would force him to sleep when it was necessary and not before, but I had eyes, and I could tell when he was exhausted.
In the middle of the afternoon when Holmes was at an impasse in the case of the Fleet Street typesetter, I at last looked up from my perusal of railway schedules and said, “Holmes, sit down. You’ve been pacing for two hours now.”
“I cannot see it!” he snapped, clenching one hand in his hair. “This should be so simple and clear, and it is not.”
“When did you last sleep?” I asked him before he could truly begin to rant.
“That’s immaterial.”
“Holmes.”
“The night before last. I am fine.”
“Come here.”
He ignored me and turned to stride across the room again. I stood and followed him, and steered him gently back. Keeping a hold of him, I pulled him to the settee until with a gasp he slumped in my arms.
“It should not affect me so,” he said.
“Of course it will affect you.” I held him against my chest and stroked his hair, and felt as he relaxed with it. He pressed his face against me like a trusting cat, then jerked back.
“My dear Holmes, calm down,” I said, holding him closer. After a moment he shifted to lie down properly. I kept my arms around him and touched his hair and his shoulders, and his breathing began to fall into an even rhythm. I slowly eased his head to my lap. He might have protested the action were he more himself, but instead he just sighed with his entire body and nestled his face against my leg.
I still had the railway timetables, and I paged through them, making occasional notes, so that when Holmes woke he should have the data he had asked for.
But I was not so skilled at reading him, or so persuasive when I did, that I could always catch him before he was desperate. I still found myself following him into his room and lying next to him, more and more frequently as the months went on.
And other nights, when I slept alone, I found myself troubled by dreams. Not nightmares, as I had had years before, but they were pervaded with a persistent feeling that something was missing. Or worse still were the dreams of presence, of someone with me, willingly and eagerly embracing me and touching me everywhere. I hadn’t been troubled by such things since school, and there were few things more embarrassing than facing Holmes across the breakfast table after a night of dreaming of a dark haired, grey eyed, unmistakably male paramour.
I could try to redirect my thoughts wherever I wished when I awoke, but they turned back with such certainty to their original object that I learned to simply ignore them, to thrust the entire subject from my brain and set myself to my routine as if it were any other morning. So it was that I arrived in the sitting room extremely early one morning, to find Holmes stretched out on the settee.
He was turned away from the room, face buried in a cushion. The only sign he was awake was his hand, clutching at his hair in what appeared at first to be frustration, but in a way which in fact held surprising tenderness.
“Could you not sleep again?” I asked, and his arm at once fell to his side.
“Clearly not,” he said. “It can’t be eight already; you’re never up before eight.”
“It’s quarter past six,” I said, glancing at the clock on the mantel. “Go to bed. Get a little sleep at least.”
“I was trying,” he said. He stood and went to his bedroom, however, and did not emerge until nearly noon.
I sat on the settee after he had left. I had wanted, so very desperately, to follow him. I wanted to go even then, to ask if he wanted -
- if he wanted me. Just me. As I was. Not just to help him sleep, not just for a night and never to be talked about in the morning – he clearly wanted something, he responded at once to my touch -
Because he wanted men, I thought. He had said it had been years for him; he would react so to anyone. There was no reason to think I was truly physically attractive to him. And I was not like that, I had been normal my entire life. Whatever was happening to me must surely be temporary, and then – then what would I have done to him, to offer something I would have to take away? Even if he wanted me, I could not fairly agree to something like this – surely I would not truly be able to go through with it.
He had never asked, anyway. He had only waited for me to offer. He was not seducing me, not behaving as if he cared either way about what we did. I did not fear that he did not want it – Holmes was certainly capable of making his opinions known – but if it was more than simple physical comfort he would have said something, surely.
***
But he did ask, a few weeks later. At the end of a case, we dined lavishly, then returned to Baker Street to talk together by the fire late into the night. Holmes rose when I did, and stopped me with a hand on my arm. “Watson,” he said when I turned to look at him, “if you would be so kind, I think -”
“You need – my help?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“Yes,” I said, realizing a moment later that it was far too quick. I was jumping at the chance, now, to touch him, as if he – as if I was -
But Holmes nodded in the direction of his bedroom, and I followed him.
We undressed in silence, not looking at each other, then I joined him in his bed. He did not reach for me, or lean closer to me, but he looked at me, and it was as if he’d touched me, as if he’d reached into my chest through my ribcage. I bit my lip and looked away. He wasn’t looking at my face, so much as the rest of me; he might not notice.
“Now?” I asked, my voice seeming sudden and loud in the darkness.
“Yes.”
I could not look at him that time. I tried, as I often did, so that I might know what he was feeling, but my gaze leapt away from his face. His eyes were closed. There was no reason for me to feel embarrassed, but looking at him agitated me, made me want to close the distance between us, change positions, make him force his eyes wide to look up at me, clasp him to me and -
He spent in my hand with a groan, and I pulled away faster than usual, turning away from him entirely, cleaning my hands and slowing my breathing if I couldn’t slow my mind.
When I turned back, probably several minutes later, he was asleep. I wanted to leave, and never wanted to leave. His eyelids fluttered a little, and I took a deep, silent breath, moved closer, and held him. He leaned against me.
One of my hands was trapped under his ribcage, and I felt the hard lines of his bones and the press and release of his muscles as he breathed. He was thin and strong in my arms and I had come to rejoice at the feeling of him there, pressed trustingly against me in his sleep.
But it was hard, ignoring my reaction to the situation. My body still responded at such times with envy of his release, or sympathetic passion, and pushing the heat away seemed to grow more difficult with time. But I could not deal with it in any other way – doing so in his bed, without his knowledge, seemed wrong.
So I lay in the dark room, holding my dearest friend, physically comfortable and mentally disturbed, or perhaps the other way around, until at last I reached sleep.
I woke to the sound of someone moving about the room. This was common enough that I didn’t recognize for a minute that I was in an unfamiliar bed. When I opened my eyes I was disoriented for a long moment by the placement of the window before I realized.
It hadn’t felt unfamiliar. It had felt right, this bed that was not so different from my own but still smelled like Holmes.
“Good morning,” I said, smiling at him. He smiled back, then turned to strop his razor.
I left quickly, as I always did on such mornings, wondering if his smile had not been a little tight. But it was a cold morning, and I focused quickly on dressing instead of such concerns.
When I returned to the sitting room Holmes was seated behind the newspaper, appearing to take no notice of my entrance. This was not particularly unusual, and I settled myself at the table and ate. I was always a little nervous on these mornings, and I never knew if he felt the same way or had already casually dismissed the previous night from his mind.
He said nothing at all until the pageboy came up the stairs with a telegram, and then he merely raised his eyebrows at it and handed it to me. The paper came back up in front of his face as I read the message. It was terse and brief, but no more so than many such summons he had received.
Your assistance needed if possible. Disappearance at 17 Scott Lane. - Lestrade.
“Will you accept it?” I asked.
“Yes, I suppose so.”
“Have you heard anything of it before now?”
“Nothing,” he said, not looking up.
He truly did not want to speak to me, then. I picked up one of the papers he had discarded and tried not to be hurt.
As soon as we arrived at the scene, however, any tension between us disappeared into Holmes’ focus. At least, it disappeared on his end, and I tried to slide into my accustomed role as his follower. Holmes examined the sitting room in minute detail, and I relaxed in watching him. I could as usual make nothing of the scene, but I wasn’t required to – only to look on as he did, finding significance in the smallest traces remaining.
He stood at last with a disdainful snort. “I doubt the man is in any danger,” he said.
Lestrade looked sceptical. “You know where he is, then?”
“Very shortly I will,” said Holmes calmly. “A rather basic case, but I suppose it’s something to fill the time. We’ll have to look at his papers. How were his finances?”
Lestrade glanced at the door, behind which was the rest of the house and Pratt’s wife and children. “Not so good, as I understand it. We’ve permission to look through his office, though.”
“Excellent. Watson, would you? I’ll ask the cook a few questions.” He gave me no more than a glance as I nodded.
It was not so strange of him, but I could not help but think that it was the previous night – the time when he had given in and asked for my hand, rather than taking what was offered – that had unnerved him that morning. And if that was the case – if there was any chance of harming our friendship by such things – then it had to stop. I shrank from the idea, though there was no reason I should. But nothing else could be done.
I did not have to say it out loud. I did not have to think about it now. I attempted to focus myself on Holmes’ instructions.
My friend appeared an hour or so later to see how I was getting on. He scanned the pages I handed him, showing Pratt’s clients and customers, and nodded.
“We may have to look in at his office,” he said, “but this will be a start.”
I had not expected us to visit every single one of the places mentioned. I exaggerate a little, perhaps, but Holmes took me halfway across London that day, mostly but unfortunately not entirely in cabs. He generally barely poked his head in the door of each place of business to ask a question before leaving again, but at last we reached a pub and he stayed long enough, talking quietly with the barmaid, that I availed myself of a seat. It was colder than it should be, and I rather wished I had let him go haring off across London on his own.
Holmes returned from the conversation rubbing his hands together with satisfaction, however, and said cheerfully that we were finished for the evening.
We dined quickly and took a cab home, and as soon as I had removed my coat I crossed the room to pour myself a nightcap. Holmes’ gaze suddenly focused on me. “Watson,” he said, “our day’s work has rather done you in, has it not?”
“No, I’m well enough,” I protested. “I will be turning in early, though.”
His head remained tilted in polite disbelief, an attitude he had far too much practice in from his work. “There’s really nothing wrong,” I added.
“My dear Watson, why should I believe that from you when you refuse to believe it from me?”
I shook my head in resignation.
“I asked,” said Holmes, “because I thought I might be able to be of assistance.”
My mind flashed immediately to the ways I had ‘been of assistance’ to him over the past months. I tried to keep it from showing on my face, but it might have, for Holmes continued, a little too quickly, “Your shoulder is not adjusting well to the weather. I would suggest the Turkish baths normally, but as an immediate solution I might be a serviceable substitute for a masseur.”
I paused. “Do you think you can help?”
“I can’t say; I might be able to.”
“All right, then.”
We adjourned to his bedroom, and I attempted not to stand there feeling as awkward as I had the night before. “Should I undress?”
“Your shirt, at least,” said Holmes, and I stripped above the waist. His gaze was entirely clinical, and I told myself I had only ever imagined anything else in it. “Lie down on your front.”
He knelt above me, and hesitated for a long moment. I was about to roll over when his hands landed solidly on my back.
He did not start slowly, after that; his fingers set upon my muscles with direction and purpose. His touch was firm and determined, and I was unprepared for its effects. My body gave into his manipulations at once, relaxing into his presence. He was precise and firm, but also reverent, lov– not without affection. He hadn’t been angry with me, and his touch was – he touched me as if – he must have felt -
His touch was incredibly distracting, and I was thankful for it.
Halfway through I asked, “How on earth are you doing that?”
“‘Knowledge of Anatomy,’” he said, and I could hear the smile in his voice, “‘accurate, but unsystematic.’”
“Holmes,” I groaned. “If I had known that I would never hear the end of that list I would never have published it.”
“I should far prefer if you hadn’t,” he said. His fingers dug under the edge of my scapula, finding and destroying a point of pain, and I moaned at the relief. Holmes shifted his position so that he sat to one side of me, and moved his hands to the other shoulder.
When he was finished I felt utterly inanimate. But as he picked up the candle in preparation to leave, I sat up and reached for him, saying, “Do stay.” I slept so well next to him, and I knew he did with me.
I expected him to refuse for the sake of the case, but instead I felt the mattress shift, and I fell back and leaned a little to feel him next to me.
I woke the next morning curled up in Holmes’ embrace. It was comfortable enough, but I pulled out of it carefully lest I wake him up. He had never made me feel awkward at such times, but I felt so nonetheless.
Upon rising I stretched my shoulders back and felt that the familiar stab of pain in the left one was entirely absent. I had far more good days than bad, even in winter, but never after such a night as the previous, and I could not help but smile at the lack of pain.
Holmes reached across the bed, feeling for me, and then blinked his eyes open. “Good morning,” I said, and he pushed himself up on one hand and smiled at me.
“Good morning,” he replied, and I grinned back at him. He shifted his legs, turning a little, and remained in bed, though I would have thought he would want to rise and get to work.
I left to dress, before Mrs. Hudson brought up breakfast. When it was on the table, however, Holmes stepped out of his bedroom fully dressed and heading for the door, before he paused to glance at me.
“Watson,” he said, annoyed, “come along, I want this case settled.”
“It can wait twenty minutes while you eat,” I told him.
“Nonsense.” He folded his long figure into a chair, however, and peered at the newspaper headlines, and pretended to be occupied while I hurriedly finished eating. As soon as I was done his foot stopped tapping, and he was out of his chair and tossing me my overcoat.
Holmes took us back to the neighbourhood of the last pub we had visited the night before, and then to a old house which had been split up into apartments. He was observing everything around him with his usual acumen, but I could not focus my attention on anything he said. I kept watching him, the direction of his eyes, the flourish of his hands, the precise grace of his footsteps. In the middle of a case, caught up in his own mind as it lay a path before him, he never noticed my distraction.
I couldn’t explain it. I had seen Holmes every single day for two years now, and for over half a decade at once some years before that, and I had looked at him as I had looked at anyone else. Now, every glimpse of him seemed new.
I let that be an excuse for my distraction. Normally I forgot most personal concerns as soon as we began on a case, but this one held, strengthening as we continued on our search. But with Holmes in front of me, demanding all my attention – usually Holmes’s work had been a refuge from my own troubles. Now -
I already knew dimly the conclusion that was hurtling upon me, but I tried to push it off, save it for some more convenient time.
The apartment Holmes had cajoled his way into was empty at the moment, though it showed signs of being occupied regularly. He examined it in detail, then shouted with triumph at some trifle and dragged me out of the building and into a cab to Scotland Yard.
I didn’t take any notes at all that day, uncertain what I would spring from my pen if I opened my notebook. I remember certain moments very clearly, with little in between them.
Holmes reached up a hand to help me down from the cab, as he’d done a thousand times, and his eyes seemed to draw me in, and his glove did nothing to hold back the heat passing between us. He glanced away casually and started into the building, having noticed nothing.
Holmes spoke with Lestrade about the case, while I tried and failed to listen. His eyes caught mine as Lestrade made a comment, one brow lifted in wordless commentary, and I bent my head to hide my smile.
Holmes paced around the room as Lestrade dealt with the formalities, and – I had never looked at his legs this way before.
But I had. He’d paced around our sitting room, he’d perched on his armchair with his legs drawn up, he’d leapt easily over furniture when excited, and I’d watched without thinking about why. Now I couldn’t stop thinking about it.
I know Holmes had some trouble narrowing down the possibilities, but all I remember is him examining minute details, and then lighting up with discovery. His face was but inches from mine, bright with excitement and confirmation, and I had been an idiot, an imbecile. I wanted him. Of course I wanted him. When had I ever not?
I doubt he noticed, for he was turning away and calling for Lestrade in an instant. I kept myself still and straight as the knowledge settled through me.
He pulled me out of the bar we were in then, and we were off to another, where we found Pratt. He’d run off with a barmaid from the pub we’d visited the night before, and this was the office of one of her friends, who’d offered him a job.
“Ridiculously simple,” said Holmes, as Lestrade arrested the man for fraud. “Come to dinner, Watson.”
We returned to Baker Street after dining at the Savoy, and I tried not to lean too close to Holmes in the taxi. He was his usual self, charming and smug now that the case was finished, talking of everything on earth, and it was dreadfully hard to keep myself behaving normally. But I also used the time to build up my courage, and it wasn’t hard when he was displaying his brilliance so clearly. When we arrived home I was almost twitching with anticipation.
I crossed to the sideboard, asking him if he wanted anything, and he grinned at me from the settee and agreed. I would normally have settled in my armchair to relax and interrogate him about his deductions, but tonight I went instead to the settee and sat next to him, handing him a glass. We sat for a few minutes in silence, drinking, but I could not maintain it for long. “Holmes,” I said, “I am even more of a fool than you have ever accused me of being.”
His brandy sloshed in the glass, and his face showed absolute shock for a moment. “No, you aren’t,” he said, then, restoring his composure, “You are actually of the utmost help to me, Watson, and I don’t -”
“I am the sort of fool,” I interrupted him, “who can make love to a man for six months without realizing that he is in fact in love with him.”
His glass trembled, and he reached automatically to hold it in both hands to steady it. Then he placed it on the carpet, and an instant later his hands were cradling my face. “John,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. His face took up the whole of my vision. It made heat rush through my body; it was familiar and new all together.
“Forgive me?” I asked.
Whatever else we had done, we had not yet kissed. His lips fit to mine at once, thin and warm and smooth. I could feel his stubble. I pulled him closer and felt his mouth open against mine.
Holmes kissed as if he had a determined goal in mind, and that goal was only to keep kissing me. His tongue played with mine, sliding past it and drawing me in, and his lips closed gently over my tongue, then my lower lip. He seemed to be experimenting – it must have been years since he had kissed anyone – my blood rose at the thought. I pulled my mouth reluctantly away from his to nip at the sharp corner of his jaw. He exhaled and tilted his head for me. One of his hands slipped into my hair; the other clawed at his cravat, tugging it loose so he could reach his collar. As soon as his neck was bare he pushed me down to where I could safely leave marks.
“John,” he breathed, leaning still farther to give me room to mouth at his skin.
“A fool,” I muttered into his neck. “A fool and a coward -”
“Never, Watson.”
He turned back to kiss me properly again, and we pulled each other closer, mouths pressing together still more passionately. He was all sharp awkward angles, nothing like what I had ever thought to want before, and I wanted him desperately. His fingers tangled in my hair and I pulled at his hips without thinking, trying to get him onto my lap.
“A bed,” he breathed, after one hard press against my thigh. “Let me take you to bed, properly.”
We stood, grasping each other still and never separating far. He was taller than me, and the novelty of it was only more arousing. I pressed myself fully against him, feeling all of his strong lean body and finally letting myself admit the attraction it held for me. I had no wish to pull away far enough to let either of us move.
“Watson,” he groaned after I’d kissed him hard enough that we nearly fell back on the sofa. “God, Watson, let me -”
He pulled me to his room, and then yanked my cravat off as he kicked the door shut. His hands fought my collar, my shirt buttons, my waistcoat when he realized he had gone at them in the wrong order. I had not expected this concerted effort, and I could only pull away what clothes of his could be removed without his hands leaving me.
Before I had quite realized where those hands were he had my trousers undone. I pulled his face down to mine and kissed his mouth open. He met me with as much passion as before, but refused to be distracted from his task. In a minute I was naked on my back in his bed, uncertain of how I had got there, and he was holding me down and kissing me. His bare chest pressed against mine, alien in its muscularity and yet not at all jarring.
When I pressed up against him I could feel how hard he was, and now that I did not have to try and hide my own arousal I rubbed against him meaningfully just because I could. His hips rocked back against mine.
“Let me,” he moaned in a pause for air. He tucked his face under my chin and mouthed at my neck. “God, John, let me.”
“Yes,” I said, though I didn’t know what he was asking. He groaned and pressed against my thigh, then moved to kiss my nipple. He raised onto his hands and knees and moved farther down, kissing all the skin he found, and realizing his destination I clenched the sheets in my fists and tried to keep myself from finishing at the thought.
“Let me,” he whispered, and then his mouth closed over me. I could do nothing but let him. He had turned me on like a gas jet, and I could feel the hot fuel rushing through me.
If he was out of practice, he was certainly not incapable. His tongue, his lips, all of his mouth – oh God, all of him. My prick was buried in the soft wet heat of his mouth, and I could not help but thrust against him. He moaned, and the sound was muffled by my length in his mouth, and it was the most intoxicating thing I had ever heard. “Sherlock,” I choked out. “Close...”
He clearly had no intention of stopping. I tried to hold back, tried at least to stop myself from shouting, and was only half-successful as I spent into his mouth. He still did not flinch back, and Christ, the idea of it...
At last the fit let go of me, and Holmes pulled away. He stretched up to kiss me, then buried his face against my shoulder. His arm flexed between us as he chased after his own release. I reached to join my hand around his, and he spent quickly, shaking and gasping with it. I turned his face to mine and kissed him again.
We lay together for a few minutes, Holmes sighing and, I thought, smiling against my neck. As the satisfaction wore off, however, I felt obscurely concerned.
“I wanted to do more for you,” I whispered.
“Tonight?” Holmes asked drowsily. “How?”
“That was nothing I have not done for you nearly a dozen times already. It was not -”
“It was everything,” said Holmes, starting up. “Do you know what it was to lie next to you, to have you touch me, and to think I would never – this was so much more, John.”
“You thought – of course you did. Oh, my dear Holmes. I am so sorry. Why didn’t you say – oh.”
“Yes, don’t ask stupid questions, Watson,” he said, nuzzling back against my neck. “Now will you let me sleep?”
***
“You didn’t realize?” Holmes asked the next day, over luncheon.
“Realize what?” I asked. I had a right to some confusion, given that he had sat in silence for twenty minutes before.
“Realize anything,” he said thoughtfully.
“Holmes!”
“I mean, you did not see that I – never mind.”
I put down my fork. “It’s about us, then,” I said. “Holmes, I know I was very slow, and I am so sorry if I caused you hurt by it. I did not expect you to want anything more, until recently.”
“That’s what I meant,” said Holmes. “I thought I was being shamefully obvious.”
I had to think about that comment for a while.
“You weren’t,” I said at last. “But I wish you had been.”
He winced a little. “I can’t imagine that. But, Watson – you have permission to ask me to be.”
“I didn’t mean you have to be,” I hastened to tell him. “I’m happy with you as you are.”
“Permission nonetheless,” he said, smiling slightly.