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I once wrote that, in turning his talents to the pursuit of criminals, Sherlock Holmes had deprived the stage of a remarkable actor. Not only did his expertise lie in prosthesis and make-up, with applications so seamless that even I, having lived with the man for nearly five years, occasionally failed to recognise him, but also in the soul of his roles. In each character, whether that be naval captain or kindly clergyman, he embodied the entirety of the disguise.
As such, when circumstance (and a series of bizarre robberies) found us in the Mayfair parlour of a Parisian singer on a warm July evening, I entreated my traitorous heart not to marvel at the uncharacteristic attentions that my dearest friend was lavishing upon me, for I knew they were only an act. He had slipped into the guise of Pierre Vernet, a singularly languid artist with a shock of penny-red hair and a penchant for the romantic. He was draped over a chaise lounge, long limbs melting into the folds of the cushions like a stream over eroded rocks. I struggled from where I sat on the armrest to keep my eyes from straying to the slim extension of his ankle as it hung loosely over the edge of the velvet seat.
I am hardly an actor and a particularly terrible liar, but it was no difficulty to play my own given role at his side, for it was nearly identical to our true partnership. I, under the assumed name of Dr. Hamish Dawson, was Pierre Vernet’s good friend and personal doctor. The only difference, Holmes instructed me, was that I was in love with him.
I had gaped for some moments when he asked this of me. I certainly hesitated long enough for him to shift somewhat nervously and begin reexplaining our particular mission, which was to infiltrate an evening party and ingratiate ourselves to the unique company which made up its guestlist. I had already been made aware that such an event was likely to attract a more… bohemian crowd, but had not realised we might ourselves have to take on such a role, and certainly not in such an overt manner. It was not even that we simply had to act the part of a couple; by establishing an unrequited relationship between his character and my own, Holmes was hoping to draw the sympathies (and gossiping tongue) of our host, one Henri Dumont. According to Holmes’ mysteriously-sourced intel, Dumont’s gentleman friend was so infatuated with the singer that he would do whatever the man bid, no matter the legality, even though Dumont did not return his interest.
I did suddenly feel a keen sense of sympathy already, alongside the distinct swell of nauseating dread that arose in me.
And so we found ourselves in that parlour, I in my nicest suit and Holmes in a rich velvet smoking jacket that I had never seen on him before. The deep colour complimented his pale skin rather than washing it out, and the loose sweep of his hair gave the impression of a Byronic hero as his languid eyes drifted lazily across the room. It was only due to our long acquaintance that I recognised the spark in his eyes, belying the air of romantic mystery he was intending to portray and revealing his close scrutiny of each guest.
I sat at his side with a snifter of much-needed whisky in my hands, apparently playing my role to perfection. It was, indeed, very easy to pretend to be in love with Sherlock Holmes when one was in love with Sherlock Holmes.
In some strange sense, it was almost freeing. In such a space and in such a role, I did not have to restrain my glances so intensely and was free to admire the sleek curve of his jaw or the soft drumming of his long fingers as they padded against the leg of the chaise. The quick aversion of my eyes which came naturally when he turned to face me could easily be misconstrued by the party guests as the bashfulness of a pining lover and by Holmes as part of my act. It was odd to think that it was not Holmes, but those who did not know me, who might truly understand my actions.
I sipped my whisky and relished in the burning warmth that spread through my chest and eased my lungs. I could only hope the evening would not drag into night, for then I would have to restrain myself from the relief of the drink. The last thing I wished was for my inhibitions to become clouded and for my mind to accidentally conflate the faux-adoration of Hamish Dawson with the all too real love of John Watson.
“Hamish, dear,” Holmes suddenly spoke, drawing me from my heartsick reverie. The affectionate term ached and I took another casual but quick sip of my drink to try and quell my twisted heartstrings. His voice had taken on a lower affectation, tinged with a hint of French that implied a childhood in Paris, and the sound of it nearly made me flush all on its own. I wondered if I, too, might be induced to a criminal life if he only continued speaking to me in such a way. “Would you be so kind as to fetch me another glass?”
He reached up to dangle his empty champagne flute before me, his thin fingers cradling the glass precariously. I quickly took it up so it wouldn't fall, and a slow smile stretched across his face. He patted me on the thigh in a show of affectionate thanks. I was suddenly grateful for the given task as it offered me a means of escape upon which I readily fled.
I took a moment to myself by an open window, breathing in the warm air of dusk and willing away the heat that seemed to have taken permanent residence upon my cheeks. I did not notice my company until the man held out a lit cigarette to me and the smell of smoke drew my senses back from the calm London street beyond. It was Dumont’s young man, I realised with a start—a Major James Tredwell, of Her Majesty’s Army, just as I had once been.
“I envy you,” he said lightly, coming to perch on the windowsill at my side as he took another cigarette from his silver case and lit it. He was a well-groomed man. I recognised the steadfast and consistent shave of a soldier, his flaxen hair neatly combed. He did not seem the criminal type, either in burglary or inversion, but I had been around enough to know that such impressions were often deceiving.
“Whatever for?” I asked, trying desperately to shift into some character role, if only to ease my own nerves. I succeeded in making my voice somewhat deeper, but that was all.
Major Tredwell smiled, then glanced through the large doors to the parlour. I followed his gaze, my eyes instinctively seeking out Holmes. He was still stretched lazily on the chaise, eyes half-lidded and pale neck exposed as he tipped his head back. Henri Dumont had now taken up my spot on the armrest as the two men chatted in low voices. Hopefully, Holmes’ conversation would prove more insightful than my own was almost certain to be. “Your Vernet is a handsome man.”
I half-coughed into the cigarette, much to Major Tredwell’s apparent amusement. “He is hardly mine.”
A raised brow. “He could be. That is where I envy you most.”
A hint of grief rose in the man’s dark eyes. I swallowed thickly, my bleeding heart (as Holmes would describe it) softening. “I am afraid we are both out of luck there.”
Major Tredwell’s smile returned, though it failed to reach his eyes as it had before. “I assure you, Dr. Dawson, your affections are returned. I am a bit of an expert in the unrequited, you see. It is unfortunate that you have no eyes on the back of your head, as that is when he watches you. It is so difficult to read him at any other moment, but when his gaze finds you…Why, you would have to be blind not to see the adoration within it.”
I felt the flush I had worked so hard to rid myself of rise once more to my face and I forcibly reminded myself that Holmes was ever the actor. This performance was hardly for my benefit, so it made perfect sense for the man to continue the charade even when my back was turned. It meant nothing that my traitorous heart so desperately wished it would.
I was not given a chance to respond to Major Tredwell’s erroneous declaration, as Holmes appeared in the doorway with a grin. I only just managed to stifle my surprise. “Hamish, dear, forget the champagne. I’m afraid we must be taking our leave. Pleasure, Major Tredwell. Pass on my apologies to our host.”
And with that, he swept from the hall and rapidly descended the steps to the front door. I blinked as I heard it shut and stood with an apologetic glance to the major. “Excuse him. He… has his moods.”
Major Tredwell waved me off as he puffed at his cigarette. “Artists. I understand. Best you run after him so he doesn’t land himself in any trouble. And think about what I said, hm? I’d like to see at least one happy ending in my life, and you seem to have the best shot at it.”
With another rising flush, I nodded to him and followed after Holmes at a much more reasonable pace. I found him some distance from the house in the process of stripping off his red wig. He shook out his hair, looking distinctly relieved to have removed the thing, and I found myself once again struck breathless by the sight of his dark hair hanging over his forehead. It looked far softer than it ought to have been, tucked beneath the wig as it was. I longed to brush my fingers through it, then quickly shook my head to dismiss such a dangerous thought.
Holmes’ pale eyes were sparkling as he caught sight of me. “Ah, Watson! What wonderful bait you make. Thank you, my dear fellow. You were quite the natural, I hear.”
I forced myself not to shift, though each muscle in my body ached with the urge to tense at Holmes’ casual statement. A cold feeling washed over me. Had Henri Dumont spoken to Holmes in the same way that Major Tredwell had with me? I knew the major was mistaken, but perhaps Dumont was more insightful than I had given him credit for. I swallowed past a dry throat, ignoring the painful sensation.
“You found what you needed, I take it?” I asked, eagerly diverting the conversation back to the case rather than my behaviour. I sighed minutely in relief as Holmes took the bait, looping his arm in mine as we began the walk back to Baker Street. Evening had officially come and passed into night, the gaslamps that lined the street flickering in the moonlight. Holmes was nearly thrumming with the thrill of a case near conclusion, his fingers drumming at the crook of my elbow.
“Fortunately, Henri Dumont’s desire to hear his own voice supersedes any reservations about the secrets he divulges. I am glad to say I made an error in judgement; it was Dumont himself committing the burglaries, not Major Tredwell. He was setting up the poor man to take the fall. A single message to Lestrade and we shall have our man,” he said, distinctly pleased with himself.
While Holmes’ contentment at the success of his case was almost contagious, I still felt some unease. My voice was nearly a whisper when I spoke. “Holmes, do you mean to expose Dumont’s… other proclivities?"
Holmes regarded me with some confusion, before his grey eyes cleared with comprehension and a faint anger reddened his cheeks. “Of course not, Watson.”
“Forgive me,” I said quickly. “I meant no offense, only…”
Holmes sighed and pressed my arm gently. “I know. We need not speak of it anymore.”
His answer did little to mollify my unease. I wished to speak of it more. I wanted to know how he felt about the sort of men we had spent our evening with. How he might feel about me, should I reveal that most hidden secret of my soul. He seemed peaceable enough, but was that only due the impersonal nature of the case? Was that, too, part of the role he had played?
We walked in silence for some time following that awkward exchange. It was not altogether uncomfortable, for it was difficult for me to feel ill at ease when strolling arm-in-arm with him, but there was a lingering sense that all was not right. I knew Holmes felt it as well, for he fidgeted and tapped his fingers far more than his usual.
“Major Tredwell was rather taken in by your performance tonight,” I said after some time. Though he would never admit to it, I knew praise and compliments always levied his spirits, and hoped to do so now.
“Oh?” He said, and I was glad to see that my intentions were effective. A glimmer had already returned to his eyes as he glanced sidelong at me.
I nodded. “He tried to convince me that you—that is, Pierre Vernet—returned my—Dawson’s—affections.”
Holmes’ face grew suddenly blank, and he turned his face to the empty road ahead of us. “I see.”
Disconcerted by his reaction, I tried for some humour. “I thought the plan was for the poor doctor’s love to remain unrequited?”
My pitiful attempt at levity fell flat, and as silence stretched between us, filled only by the sounds of our shoes on the cobbles, I grew increasingly nervous. Had I given myself away in some fashion? Or was Holmes truly so uncomfortable with the idea of even pretending to be in love with me? My own thoughts began to spiral so rapidly that I did not immediately notice Holmes guiding me by the arm onto the empty pathways of Regent’s Park.
“Holmes—” I began, intending to apologise, but he lifted a hand. He paused briefly, turning to face me. He studied me with such intensity that I felt warm beneath his scrutinising gaze, but I found I could not look away. I did not know what he was searching for, or if he found it, but after sometime he turned sharply and continued walking. Silence stretched once more between us. My heart thrummed rapidly. I was grateful for the arm still looped around mine, as that surely meant he had not found something within my eyes that he found too offensive to continue walking at my side.
“It was the most difficult part I have ever played, my dear Watson,” Holmes said finally. His voice was quiet and strained, and I drew up short at the sound of it. He had gone unnaturally pale, his grey eyes darting listlessly, and he unlinked his arm from mine as we stopped. I felt cold at the loss.
“Whatever do you mean?” I asked, concerned. He did not answer. “Holmes? What is the matter? You’re trembling.”
“Pretending I do not love you is an impossible task,” he said. Each word was careful and soft, but they cut me, nonetheless, to the quick. I felt my heart stutter and leap as I blinked at him, inhaling sharply. He shifted nervously back and forth on the heels of his boots, gaslight dancing warmly on the raven of his hair. I always found him beautiful, and that evening was no exception.
He would not meet my gaze, staring resolutely at some point just beyond my shoulder. I could scarcely think. My mind flashed to the conversation I had shared with Major Tredwell: He is hardly mine. He could be.
Surely it was not so simple?
“Holmes,” I began, my voice airy and awed even to my ears. Holmes’ gaze flashed to meet mine with wide-eyed anticipation before flickering away once more. His hands were curled into fists so tight his knuckles were bleached white. I longed to take them in my own and ease each long finger, pressing a kiss to those boney knuckles. “What are you saying?”
“Surely that is obvious, even to you, Watson,” he said sharply, but I was far too elated to feel the sting of his self-conscious barbs. I believe I grinned like a madman, for Holmes’ worried expression shifted to one of fear for my reaction to fear for my state of mind. I had perhaps drunk more whisky than I realised, for the loosened inhibitions I had so feared spurred my next actions with a bravery I did not truly feel.
I took one of his tightly clenched fists in my own trembling hands and did as I had imagined. Almost reverently, I unfolded each thin finger, marvelling at the opportunity. Holmes’ hand shook faintly. I glanced up, as the last thing I wished to do was push him, but found him gazing at me with nothing but wide-eyed adoration, his cheeks tinged pink. My smile grew as I realised I recognised the expression, for it was one he wore often. Major Tredwell was right. I surely was blind not to have recognised the love that swam in those eyes.
I bent down to press a gentle kiss to his knuckles, scarred and knobby from experiments and boxing alike. I heard a short inhale, and then suddenly I was being gripped by the lapels and tugged into the most wonderfully imperfect kiss of my life. Thinking back on the moment later, I recognised the clumsiness in both of our techniques; it had been sometime since I had kissed anyone, man or woman, and I have since learned the same was true for Holmes. Our noses bumped and my hands fluttered awkwardly before settling around his neck and jaw, but, in the moment, it was wonderfully beyond anything I had ever imagined.
His lips were chapped but soft, tasting faintly of champagne. I could still smell the waxy scent of his makeup, but such ruminations were beyond me in that moment. All I could think of was Sherlock Holmes and the feeling of his mouth moving insistently against mine. My eyes remained closed even as we parted for air, my mind intent on savouring the moment. I heard a soft chuckle as a hand brushed its thumb over my cheekbone, and I finally came back to earth to find Holmes watching me with such fondness in his typically careful expression that I found no other course but to pull him in for another kiss.
“Watson,” he murmured against my lips, his voice rumbling with a laugh, and what a delightful sound and sensation that was! “Watson. John.”
I pulled back at that, if only to catch the breath I had lost hearing my Christian name on his lips. He was smiling, too, though his was far more self-contained than my own grin. He glanced around us, and I very suddenly came back to earth with a start. “Good God. We are in public.”
Holmes arched a brow. “Indeed. It might be best if we continue this very…enlightening discussion back in the confines of Baker Street.”
I felt warm, and not only because of the pleasant summer weather. I nodded and linked our arms. “Home, then?”
Holmes’ eyes were bright in the gaslight and his lips kissed red. I marveled once more at the evening’s denouement. There was sure to be a long discussion upon our return, but, for a moment, I allowed myself to feel like a schoolboy in the moonlight.
“Home,” he agreed, smiling.