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“This question of motive, James. What do you make of it?”
James glanced over at Sherlock, who was sitting in an armchair on the opposite side of the fire. Sherlock had not even looked at James; he was staring moodily into the flames. Since they had returned from the constabulary that evening, Sherlock had done little else.
“I thought,” said James mildly, “that you were meant to be resting.”
“Never mind that,” Sherlock said impatiently. “My body is resting; is that not enough?”
“Not according to the doctor, no,” James reminded him. “Set your mind at rest, too.”
“Stagnation and decay,” said Sherlock. “That is what rest does for the mind. You might as well smash that poker” — he gestured at the fireplace — “into my head.”
“Is that an invitation?”
Sherlock turned to face James long enough to fix him with a querulous look, then directed his attention back to the fire. He had clearly sunk into one of his inflexible, disagreeable moods. “Motive, James,” he repeated, his arms crossed. “What do you make of it?”
James looked curiously at Sherlock again. “I had thought the motive quite obvious,” he said. “Flora Millar is hardly a criminal mastermind. Our murderer—” He broke off. “Is ‘murderess’ the proper name, or do you think Mrs Millar would take objection to that title?”
“It is certainly a title that she worked hard to earn,” said Sherlock dryly. “She might even be flattered.”
“Our murderess, then,” James continued, “committed the crime to shield her husband from scandal.”
“Inadvertently creating a worse scandal in the process,” Sherlock said. “She ought to have realised her husband would become the prime suspect in his mistress’ murder.”
James shrugged. “Mrs Millar loves her husband,” he said simply. “Her plan may have been ill-advised and poorly planned, but her intentions were fine.”
“I do enjoy your flexible morals, James,” said Sherlock. “You saw that young woman’s corpse; would you call that ‘fine’?”
“As we are both aware, there are far worse ways to die,” said James dismissively. “At least the poison worked quickly.”
Sherlock did not speak for some time. From Sherlock’s troubled expression as he stared into the fireplace, James suspected that he was recalling the poisoned woman’s body: her strangely contorted limbs, as if she had died mid-convulsion; her sunken eyes, hollow and empty; the haunting look of anguish frozen on her features. Neighbourhood gossip had long held out Mary Gerrard to be something of a local beauty, but death had robbed her of that virtue.
“You say Mrs Millar loves her husband,” Sherlock said after a long pause, his brow creased.
“And so she must,” said James, “to face the gallows for him. One almost feels bad for Mr Millar. He has received a gift he can never repay. A less generous wife might have allowed her husband to hang for the murder, rather than turning herself in to spare him.”
“Mr Millar betrayed her,” said Sherlock, still with that strange preoccupied air. “And still she loves him.”
“She must love him in spite of his defects,” said James. “Or perhaps for his defects. I hear that sort of thing is fashionable these days.”
“Carrying on with Mary Gerrard in that way, writing her all those compromising letters…”
“Idiocy indeed,” James agreed, “to put such indiscretion to paper. Think what might have been avoided had he simply treated his affair with proper care. Two women’s lives could have been spared.”
“Yet by all accounts,” continued Sherlock, “Mr Millar’s assignations with Miss Gerrard had ended. Mr Millar had returned to his wife, begged her forgiveness, and ceased all communication with his former mistress.”
James could not see Sherlock’s objective in this dull recital. It was quite unlike Sherlock to belabour the details once a mystery had been resolved. While there were still questions to answer, secrets to be uncovered, he was indefatigable. Yet the moment Sherlock closed the proverbial book on a problem, it was promptly forgotten in his race to the next challenge. Why, then, was he still so engrossed in the matter of Mrs Millar’s murderous affections?
“It was only when Miss Gerrard produced the old letters,” Sherlock pressed on, still addressing his words to the fireplace rather than to his friend, “threatening to expose Mr Millar as a scoundrel, that Mrs Millar leapt into action.”
“An accurate recital of events,” said James, wondering if he should summon the doctor again. Clearly, Sherlock had grown delirious from lack of sleep during their gruelling chase for Mary Gerrard’s killer. It would not be the first time that Sherlock had neglected his body’s demands while considering a problem.
“Yes,” said Sherlock coldly, as if James were the one acting oddly, “I know. If you’ll remember, I was there.”
James’ confusion increased. Adopting the sort of falsely cheerful tone one might use when visiting the deathly ill, he asked, “Are you writing your memoirs? Don’t tell me you plan on submitting your account to the papers.”
The withering expression that Sherlock shot at James in response to this comment demonstrated not only that Sherlock’s mind was still fully functional, but that he pitied James for his sense of humour.
“What, then?” James demanded. “I have rarely seen a murder less interesting than this one.”
At one time in his life, James reflected, any murder might have been considered noteworthy, but that had been prior to his acquaintance with Sherlock Holmes. The number of unnatural deaths to which he had been exposed had increased tenfold in the months since. Now that they were regularly investigating crimes together, James felt entirely inoculated to death. It was only one of the ways in which Sherlock had transformed James’ life.
“The method of killing, as I say, is nothing unusual,” said Sherlock, with a dismissive gesture. “But the motive, I admit, continues to elude me.”
James stared at him in bewilderment. “Sherlock,” he said, “I really don’t understand you. The motive was obvious from the first.”
“I could understand if Mrs Millar murdered her husband’s mistress immediately upon discovering the affair,” Sherlock said. “Sudden provocation enough, I should think.”
“A pity for her that she didn’t do so,” James said. “She might fare better in the dock.”
“It would at least give the defending counsel something to argue,” said Sherlock, nodding. “Manslaughter rather than murder proper, perhaps.”
“You agree, then, with the old dictum that adultery is the highest invasion of property?” teased James.
Sherlock’s lips pursed; he seemed suddenly irritable. “I believe it is considered poor manners,” he retorted, “to ask a man about property he has no prospect of ever possessing. Would you inquire of a beggar how he plans to decorate his castle?”
“A grand idea! Let us find the nearest beggar.”
Sherlock acted as if he had not heard James at all. “To commit a murder to protect her husband’s reputation?” he mused, returning to his subject. “Mr Millar betrays her, humiliates her, belittles her — and yet she kills for him.”
“People kill for far less.”
“And then,” persisted Sherlock, “she does this great favour for him. She turns herself in to clear his name.”
“A fortunate man,” James said, “to marry a woman whose affection is more constant than his own. But then that does seem to be one of the chief advantages of marriage: to obtain, through proximity, all the virtues that one does not personally possess.”
He was surprised to find himself defending the practice of marriage, even in jest — he generally disapproved of that hallowed institution — but there was something irresistible about quarrelling with Sherlock, no matter the topic. Sherlock had just revealed his desire to remain a bachelor; James would assume the opposite position.
“Really, James?” Sherlock asked sceptically. “Affection? As an incitement to murder?”
“What better incentive?” James asked, chuckling at the expression on Sherlock’s face. “Come now, Sherlock. Is it really such a foreign concept?”
“Murder? No,” said Sherlock. “I have grown rather accustomed to that concept of late. Affection, on the other hand…” He sighed, though he did not sound unhappy. “Something observed but not experienced.”
“You have affection for your family,” James pointed out.
“We are talking of two distinct categories of affection, as you are well aware,” said Sherlock impatiently. “Yes, I love my family.” He looked suddenly pained. “My life might have been easier if I did not, but…”
“Romantic love is unfamiliar to you.”
Sherlock shrugged his shoulders. “A matter of precedent, I expect,” he said. “I’m afraid I never had much of an example to follow.”
“But your mother—” began James, before falling silent at the forbidding look on Sherlock’s face. It was clear that Sherlock still viewed his mother’s capacity for emotion as an anomaly, a manifestation of her madness. Her decisions had, after all, indirectly damaged many lives, yet James could not begrudge Cordelia Holmes her choice of husband, not when Sherlock was the product of that union. The world was far more pleasant, far more interesting, with Sherlock alive in it.
“Loving one’s relations is dangerous enough,” Sherlock said, a tone of bitterness in his voice now. “To love beyond one’s kin…” He shook his head. “Why take that risk?”
This was the Sherlock that James adored: cold, unromantic, unflinchingly practical. To Sherlock, love was a choice. James knew only too well that love was what a man did when he had no other option.
“Look how he can,” James recited, “she cannot choose but love.”
“Don’t be tiresome, James,” snapped Sherlock, before James could continue. “Spare me the poetry. Lay out your theory in plain English, if you please.”
“Are you… Sherlock, are you truly asking me to explain to you the concept of love?” James asked, raising his eyebrows.
“It is one of my failings as a student of human behaviour,” said Sherlock, a little defensively. “I can understand most other motivations. There is money, of course—”
“A dull motive if ever there was one.”
“—and revenge—”
“Getting better.”
“—and sex.”
“That most noble of all motivations,” said James, with an affected sigh, “the pursuit of pleasure.” He looked at Sherlock, struck by a sudden thought. “You claim to understand sex, do you? You surprise me.”
“Sex,” said Sherlock with dignity, “is a necessary requirement for the advancement of our species.”
“You are talking of procreation,” James said, pointing an accusing finger at Sherlock, “and not sex. The two are quite different, though I accept that to the uninitiated, they may resemble one another.”
Sherlock frowned at James. “Uninitiated,” he repeated. “What do you—”
“Though perhaps,” said James, cutting off this line of discussion before the conversation could grow any more dangerous, “we ought to take up the topic of love first, before we delve into an exploration of that other human urge.” He grinned at Sherlock. “It would not do to overwhelm you with too much information all at once.”
“I can assure you, I am a quick study.”
“Nevertheless,” said James, pushing aside the alluring images that this comment brought to mind, “we must begin our lessons in the proper order. Love first, then sex.”
“Is that always the way you approach such matters?” Sherlock asked, the faintest smile on his lips now. “I had heard rumours to the contrary.”
“Sherlock,” cried James, in mock outrage, “you wound me. I am a perfect gentleman.”
“I doubt that very much,” muttered Sherlock. “But do go on. Enlighten me.”
“Very well,” said James, leaning back in his seat and adopting a magisterial tone. “Let us take Mrs Millar as an example.” He could not have explained, even to himself, why he was humouring Sherlock’s odd mood in this way, except that every glimpse into Sherlock’s curious mind delighted him. “I expect her love for her husband began in the usual way.”
“If this story ends with a joke about marriage — the distasteful sort one often finds in books,” warned Sherlock, “I will be most displeased.” Yet his expression showed he was listening attentively.
“Admiration, Sherlock,” said James. “Nothing so sordid as you are imagining. When Flora Millar — or Flora Stokes, as she was then known — first met Mr Millar, I expect she greatly admired him.” He looked at Sherlock. “You are familiar with that sentiment, at least?”
He was half-hoping that he would be rewarded by a compliment, but Sherlock merely said, “Of course. I admire intellect… when I see it.”
“And do you see it often?” James prompted hopefully.
“The sensation has, unfortunately, grown less frequent as I have gotten older,” Sherlock admitted, and James was reminded of Sherlock’s expression — beautiful, insolent, and a little dismayed — when he had interrupted Professor Thompson’s lecture back at Oxford, unable to remain silent when faced with an obvious error. “Most people are disappointing.” He was silent for a moment, then said, “There are, however, limited exceptions.”
“Exceptions!” exclaimed James. “I should dearly like to hear about these exceptions of yours.”
Sherlock ignored this, too. “And after that?” he asked. “What comes after admiration?”
“Attraction,” said James simply, his gaze involuntarily drawn to Sherlock’s lips. “The desire to be close, to kiss, to touch…” He cleared his throat and dragged his eyes away. “Attraction follows admiration.”
“Does it?” Sherlock asked, with an odd, faraway look. “Does it always?”
“The two feelings need not always coexist,” said James dismissively. “For instance, I have admiration for many people I find physically repulsive, and I have been attracted to several people whom I neither admired nor respected. But we are speaking of love, Sherlock, not mere appreciation or fleeting infatuation. The sort of love that leads to marriage — and to murder.”
“Reason enough to avoid both,” said Sherlock.
“Admiration and attraction?”
“No,” said Sherlock, smiling slightly, “marriage and murder.”
“Is that not the sort of sentiment you professed to abhor when you came across it in a book?” James asked in amusement. “Will I shortly see your name listed as the author of the latest Court Theatre comedy?” Not waiting for a response, he continued, “In any case, the best relationships seem to me to grow out of mutual admiration and attraction.”
“They seem to you?” Sherlock repeated, catching his emphasis.
James fidgeted in his chair. “I cannot claim to be an expert on the topic.”
“Then you have never been in love before?”
James hesitated. “I am not especially practiced in the area,” he said slowly, inwardly cursing himself for falling into this trap.
“That was not an answer to my question.”
“No,” said James, “it was not.” He took a deep breath, endeavouring to keep his voice steady as he said, “I have only loved another once. I may not do so again. In fact, I would prefer not to. Once… Once has been enough.”
“It is not a pleasant sensation, then, to be in love?”
Impossible to answer, James thought miserably. To love Sherlock Holmes was the most pleasurable torment, the most agonising bliss.
“James?”
“Not pleasant, no,” James admitted. “Though my experience is hardly universal. Much depends, I believe, on whether or not the feelings of affection are reciprocated.”
“And in your case,” Sherlock asked, shifting in his seat to better examine James’ countenance. “Do you know — were your feelings reciprocated?”
They were in very dangerous territory now. “Decidedly not,” said James, attempting a brave smile.
A pause, then: “Was it a long time ago?”
“Not — not very long ago,” James admitted, though Sherlock could have no idea how much it was costing James to speak these words aloud. “Fairly recently, in fact.”
“And have you recovered?”
James laughed; he could not help himself. “No,” he said. “No, and I doubt I ever shall.”
Sherlock was sitting upright in his chair now, as if ready to spring into action. “Tell me,” he demanded. “Tell me how it feels to be in love.”
James thought back to the first time he had set eyes on Sherlock, trying to turn his disorganised thoughts into something coherent. “Dizzying,” he said, remembering Sherlock’s bright eyes and his clever, challenging smile. “Overwhelming.” He thought of Sherlock’s many peculiarities, which James was, even now, carefully cataloguing in his mind. “Intoxicating,” he concluded, feeling his face grow hot. “It shook the very foundation of my existence.”
“In what way?”
“I have never been a devout man,” James said. “Even as a young boy, forced to go to church, I believed in little but myself. You can well imagine my surprise when, against my wishes, I found myself holding another person in such high regard.”
“Forced to trust another person,” remarked Sherlock. “It must have been very difficult for you.”
“It was rather like being hit over the head with that poker,” said James, forcing a dismissive laugh. Left unspoken, the words he could not say: that in Sherlock Holmes, James had found divinity.
“It does not sound altogether pleasant,” commented Sherlock.
“I did not choose it for myself,” said James. “I would not have chosen it at all, had I been offered the choice. Yet I find…” He sighed. “I find that I don’t regret it, either.”
Sherlock was silent for so long that James demanded to know what he was thinking.
“I was simply considering,” Sherlock said, shaking his head slightly like a man waking from a deep sleep, “this problem of affection.”
“Yes?”
Sherlock did not respond. For some time, he seemed to be on the verge of speaking. James wondered if Sherlock, too, was rearranging his thoughts, translating them into words. He had never seen Sherlock so preoccupied.
Then the moment passed; Sherlock’s body sank back against the chair, limp and relaxed, his head tipping onto his shoulder. There was a faint smile on his face.
James felt no irritation at Sherlock’s sudden departure into dreams. On the contrary, he felt pleased that Sherlock was, at last, allowing his body and mind to rest. And there was one other benefit: with Sherlock asleep, James could look his fill without worrying about being caught staring.
“The problem of affection,” James said inconsequentially, though he knew Sherlock was no longer listening. “Precisely.”