It
wasn't the sight
of Mrs. Hudson, staring up at her building in her nightdress with tears
in her
blue eyes, holding a little marmalade cat in her arms which was
desperate to
escape and tied with a piece of twine to her wrist, that finished
me. It
wasn't the smoke still seeping from our windows, nor the swarms of
firemen, nor
the stench of steam rising from charred wood. Any one of
those things
might have done it. Any single piece of it might have made up
my mind for
me, on an emotional level. But as it happens, logic prevailed
and went
something like this:
1. You love two people in the world and cannot be a foot away
from both
of them all of the time.
2. Moriarty has hundreds of professional criminals at his
beck and call
and you have Scotland Yard, Heaven bless them.
3. If he can arrange for a runaway carriage or a fire or
cyanide once, he
can do it again, or think of something new.
4. Either John Watson or Mycroft Holmes, more probably both,
will die if
you remain in
5. You cannot remain in
But I didn't quite register that I'd reached this particular conclusion
yet. I went to Mrs. Hudson and put a hand on her
arm. She turned to
me and suddenly she was flush against my waistcoat, gripping me, trying
to
retain the little cat at the same time. I'd only wanted to
tell her how
sorry I was, beg her forgiveness for wrecking her home. She
interrupted
me, though, tearful and shivery like I had never before seen her.
"When they woke me and brought me outside, I thought you were
upstairs. I thought you'd both come home. Oh, Mr.
Holmes, I thought
you were dead."
I hadn't even known she'd liked me, to be entirely honest.
"It's all right," I murmured. "We'll take you to a hotel
at once. I'll fix everything, I promise you.
Between me and the
insurance, you'll swear by fires for the rest of your life."
Watson, staring up at our window, was as blazingly angry as I suppose
is
possible for such a kindly man. But when I caught his eye, he
knew what I
wanted, and he came over, and he gently disentangled me from our
landlady and
then kept his grip on her himself.
"What shall I fetch out of the house for you?" I asked.
"Tell me. Anything you like, and I'll find it before we
leave."
Mrs. Hudson gave me a brief list and I headed for the door. A
fireman was
coming out of it, and I stopped him, making some polite but urgent
greetings.
"How bad is it?" I asked next.
"The damage is quite minimal," he assured me. "Some
scorched walls. Nothing more. I'm sorry to tell you
the smoke will
make it unlivable for the next two days, but the danger is
past. We're
still investigating, but you should know that it does look like arson,
sir. Go right in, if there's anything needs fetching."
I went in. It was the sitting room they'd torched, and a wall
was burnt
black as my mood. Shaking my head, quickly forming a plan, I
fetched a
trunk. I hadn't needed to ask Watson what to pack for him, I
know him too
well, so I swiftly located his current journal and manuscript, our
toiletries,
two changes of clothing, a pair of pipes and tobacco, the chequebook,
and put
my violin in its case. Running downstairs, I repeated the
process for
Mrs. Hudson and then found an old doctor's bag of Watson's in which I
could
house the cat. Opening my own personal bag, I made certain
that it
contained all I needed myself--recreational drugs topping the list, of
course--and then I hastened back outside.
"In you go," I said to the cat after setting the trunk down and
opening the medical bag. Mrs. Hudson actually
smiled. The cat went
in the leather case readily enough, and she wound the twine around the
handle
before half-closing it.
After offering to keep the cat and assuring Mrs. Hudson than the
building was
quite safe for her to change her dress before we departed, she readily
went
inside. I was left with wandering firemen, a cat in a case
resting on a
trunk, and John Watson, who seem to be thinking vaguely murderous
thoughts as
he regarded
"Thank God she's all right," he sighed. "Where shall we
go? There's a fine little hotel down
That would be fine, I said. I think I said that would be
fine. What
I was thinking about, though, was item five.
5. You cannot remain
in
I was thinking about it twenty minutes later when Watson engaged us one
double-bedded room and a single bedded one in the pleasant hotel
lobby. I
was thinking about it when Mrs. Hudson kissed us both on the cheek
before
taking her cat and her small carpeted traveling bag off to her
room. I
was thinking about it when I went into our chamber and set the trunk
down after
my friend unlocked the door. I was not thinking about it for
exactly
seven seconds whilst I was pulling aside the curtain to stare out the
window,
because I was thinking about how my brother was faring. But I
began
thinking about it again soon enough. I was boxed in,
trapped. There
was no way out. I would never find a way out of this, there
was no
escape, I would have to win it through alone.
I'd sooner put a gun to my own
head. I will do, just as soon as I can
nick one.
Watson came up behind me. His steps were very quiet.
"What are you thinking of?" he asked.
"Fires."
"Yes. Have you reached any conclusions?"
"Just one."
"What is it?"
"How happy you would be, how safe and how happy, if you had never met
me," I whispered.
"Don't say such things," Watson snapped. "Don't even think
them."
And God help me, I reacted in kind. I am generally very
composed, and so
is he, but I--the sentiment had been so heartfelt that to hear it
attacked felt
like a betrayal.
"How can I help but think them?" I lashed out in return.
"Do you suppose, apart from the danger to my own person, that it is
easy
knowing that Professor James Moriarty has as good as promised to take
away
everything I love in the world, with you at the top of the
list? I say
again--your safety and your happiness would be much better ensured if
you'd
never taken digs with me in the first place."
"You're insane," he snarled. "Better without you?
I'd be dead of a morphine overdose ten times over by now without
you. You
recall that business with the Crooked Man, I suppose? Well,
the title
referred to me, not to Henry Wood. My safety and happiness
are completely
irrelevant. I belong
to you. What
do I care about happiness, or about safety, by
comparison to you? They're utterly beside the point,
trivial. I am your
man.
I don't
give a damn about the rest of it."
That hurt me viciously. It was a clean sweep with a cutlass
through the
chest. That hurt like nothing is supposed to hurt when it's
said out of
love. Nothing. It hurt like a champagne glass had
been broken and
then thrust into flesh.
"I am delighted to know it," I said, very calm and very cold.
"Because it's my entire raison
d'etre,
you know--making you happy. And keeping you
safe. It's the only thing I think about. It guides
all my
actions. No, actually, there are two other things I think
about. I
think about where my next case is coming from, whether I'll be able to
flex
this sodding mind of mine and do some good, and I
think about whether
it'll be possible for me to go for another few days, or few hours, or
few
minutes, or few seconds sometimes, without sticking a needle in my
arm.
So this comes as news to me, you see. That you don't
care.
Thank
you for telling me. I'll be certain to remember, the
next time I
wonder why I should bother waking up again after falling asleep--and I
wonder
that frequently,
John, I have ever since I was a boy--that you find my twin
projects of
your happiness and safety completely
irrelevant."
Watson went very pale. I didn't much want to see
that. So I went
over to the small case of toiletries I'd packed and yanked my morocco
case out
of it. Finding the proper vial of cocaine took very little
time, so it
was only a few moments later that I was rolling up my sleeve and ready
to make
a good job of addiction if I couldn't make a good job of sobriety.
"Holmes," I heard from behind me. His voice was all wrong,
cottony and urgent. I ignored him. "Holmes, please
forgive me,
but don't--Holmes, your hands are shaking. They
are. Please
stop." I heard completely
irrelevant
in my head again and tightened my jaw.
"Sherlock, for God's sake, I tell you your hands aren't steady, you'll
make an air bubble and--"
He was referring to the fact that I hadn't bothered to tap the syringe
filled
with liquid and clear the needle point, which was all very
true. I've
done it before, but that's irrelevant. Watson was in front of
me an
instant later, grasping my forearm and very decisively taking the
syringe out
of my right hand. I let him do it, thinking that if he was
taking even
that cold chemical comfort away from me under such conditions, I'd
never
forgive him. He held it up to the light, I very pointedly not
looking at
him.
"What percent is this?"
Gritting my teeth as he sent a few drops spilling over the end of the
needle, I
said, "Nine."
In the corner of my eye, I saw him nod. He drew my left
forearm away from
the side of my body, examining it. Watson rubbed his thumb
over my
wrist. "Make a fist for me. Please, I'll never find
something
fast enough for your liking in all of this if you don't flex
your
arm."
What on
earth is wrong with
his voice?
I thought, and then did as he asked. And John
Watson is a very gifted physician, so he found a vein in the
pin-pricked white
paper skin very soon, and he slid the needle in and pressed down on the
piston,
and the dose was such that I quickly began feeling a great
deal better.
So I looked at him. There were tear tracks running
down his
face. Not just two or three of them, either.
Apparently it wasn't enough already that I had been witness to my
brother's
attempted assassination and the torching of
I reached out and set the syringe on the desk and drew him into my
arms.
By the way, you cannot make John Watson weep by hurting him.
Not by
wounding his body, because I've seen him through his share of
painful
fights and illnesses, and not by way of verbal slings and
arrows. I've
hurt him terribly hundreds of times, for example, and he is incapable
of being
driven to tears by it. That is because he is a very masculine
and stoic
sort of fellow, for one, who loathes not being the master of
himself. I
know how that feels. But the other reason is that he simply
isn't
important enough to himself to cry over hurts. If you want
tears out of
John Watson, which I apparently did, you must convince him that he has
very
badly wounded someone
else.
Namely--the only rare times I have ever seen it happen--me.
I held him very tightly for a few seconds. His breathing was
fiercely
ragged, his head buried in my neck. I needed a better gauge
of the
situation than that, though. Moving his face very slightly, I
shifted him
so that one temple was pressed to me and the other exposed,
fitting my
palm to his cheek with my lips in his hair. My thumb
ran right down
the side of his nose, my fingers very gentle, and now I could
tell how
badly it was going moment to moment. For instance, just then
it wasn't
going well at all, for my palm was wet instantly and there were more
tears
running through my fingers.
"I don't know how I could have said such a thing to you," he
whispered. "I can be so very stupid at times. I
meant to say
that just being near you makes me happy, but what I did say--I beg your
pardon. It was unforgivable."
"It clearly wasn't, because I already have." I
kissed the
top of his brow, for about the the tenth time, and left my nose in his
hair. "Do you know what we are going to do when all of this
is
over? When Moriarty is bested and we are back to our lives?"
He shook his head and held on tighter.
"We are going to have a great many more cases," I said
softly.
"Hundreds of them. But we'll get older eventually, and we'll
perhaps
tire of the strain of all that adventuring. So
I believe we are
going to buy a cottage far away from here with some of the
money I
have. I've thought about it, many times, and
I suspect it ought to
be true countryside if we're going to do it at all. No
half-measures.
And I know what you're thinking--I abhor the countryside.
You're thinking
that I love
The moisture was lessening, but it wasn't by any means stemmed.
Either he
truly knows how
deeply he just hurt you, or you've gotten to be very, very bad at this,
I
thought. Now, try
harder.
"It'll be difficult for me to keep my mind occupied, so if you'll
excuse
the time away from you, I'm going to need a new
hobby.
Chemistry is all very well, but I'll want another,
something foreign
enough that I have to learn
it. One that's intellectual and also uses my hands just the
way chemistry
does, and is suitably eccentric and absurd. We'll think about
it.
And when we live in
Good Christ, it had never taken me this long before.
"Don't, John," I whispered under my breath. "Je
He stopped, lifting his head. Better, I saw. Not
happy, but better.
"What I ought to have said was, I wish I could make you happy in
return," he told me softly. "And don't tell
me that
you are, not now, I'll know you're lying."
"Nothing can make me happy," I scoffed, pulling out a handkerchief
and setting it to good use. He took it away from me, resting
his other
hand on my shoulder when it had before been gripping my coat.
"An
edict of God on High couldn't do it. Seventy-seven virgins
certainly
couldn't. It is not a job for Man nor
Nature. Every day in daylight
wouldn't be enough for me. Morphine can't do it, nor cocaine,
nor the
violin. A hundred of you couldn't do it, not perpetually,
though you make
me better than I've ever been. You don't make me
happy, you make me
alive, you utterly ridiculous man."
"Well, that's something, then."
"Did you hear what I said, before? Did you understand?"
"Some of it." Watson sighed, shaking his head a
little. I suppose if I ever cried, I should detest
it as much as he
does. I can only imagine I would--but, as any number of
regrettable events
had not yet managed to do it, I could but surmise. "The
important
parts. I'm sorry for losing control of myself, but I--you
looked--"
"Half-cracked," I shrugged. "As I always
do.
Even when not being pursued by a villainous gang."
"Holmes, we need to do something about this at once. What
would you
have of me?"
"I want you to wire Lestrade and tell him to meet me in the queer
little
alley which connects
"Really?" His eyes narrowed. "Why? Shan't
I
come with you?"
"I very much need you here," I demurred. "I am doing
nothing dangerous. I need to settle a question in my mind as
to how they
set fire to our rooms, and I much prefer Mrs. Hudson to be where you
can reach
her should one of us be needed. She can't be expected to fend
for herself
as we can, and I'm wretchedly sorry that such had not occurred to me
earlier. And questions of arson are hardly ones in which I
require your
help. In any case, if you wire Lestrade now, he'll
join me within
half an hour."
"Of course," he sighed. His face was still pale, but he had
entirely calmed himself. "I'll send the telegram this
instant.
Be very careful. When shall you return?"
"After Lestrade has arrived and I've shown him any of my
findings.
An hour, perhaps."
Watson nodded, putting my handkerchief in his pocket. This
was wearing on
him, and hard. Not the danger itself, but the day we had
passed.
All he had to do was to look at me to see
how tautly I was strung
just then, and there was no swifter way to weary him. I set
my hat on my
head and opened the door, glancing back to be sure I wasn't leaving him
more
shaken than he could easily endure alone.
"John," I said, "the rain it raineth every day. But not in
Watson smiled at me, a warm one this time, fond and indulgent through
the
strain.
"Not in
I stood on the streetside corner of an open-ended but not very traveled
alleyway about twenty yards away from
I was waiting.
They knew where I was, they were coming to tell me something, I was
sure of it,
and so I was keeping quite still, smoking a cigarette and staring at my
polished black boots. I would be easily found, I
thought, a prize on
a street corner, and then I would hear what they had to say and I would
make my
final decision. And once I'd made it, I'd tell them about it,
so there
would be no mistakes and no loose ends. I didn't care a fig
about
arson. Sod arson, really, I cared to know whether I was going
to win the
fight to stay in
The sound of footsteps lifted my head. He'd arrived very
soon, as I had
thought he would, a black shape like a man in the mouth of the
alley.
Moriarty's emissary. Jed Green in the flesh, as it
happened. God,
how I hate to recall the sight of him. He was very broad in
the chest but
of medium height, with a hooked nose rather like mine only coarser,
with pock
marks my skin could never produce, and thick brown hair which curled
from
beneath his battered hat. His eyes were a pale, mad hazel
colour.
"Mr. Sherlock Holmes," he said, not unpleasantly.
"You have the advantage of me. But not for long," I replied.
"Is that so?" He grinned, revealing broken teeth, some of
which
were stuffed with gold. "Well, in that case, my name is Jed
Green. The Professor wants you to know something.
Your having
refused his earlier offer and all."
"Go on," I agreed, taking a small drag from my cigarette.
"Here's what the Professor's thinking," he expounded, spreading hands
with much-scarred knuckles. "He's thinking that he's glad
that your
brother lived. Because now maybe you'll see reason, and he's
got nothing yet against your brother personally. But
if you stay in
"I see."
We were eight feet from a gas lamp,
"I'm not sure that you do see, Mr. Holmes, and that's why the Professor
sent me. What I'm meant to tell you is, if you don't leave
"Do something for me," I requested in all sincerity.
Jed Green leered in my face from six inches below my eye
level.
"What's your pleasure, Mr. Holmes?"
"I want you to stop," I informed him. "I will
hurt you. I'll
hurt you very badly, Green, and may possibly kill you. I
don't want to
hurt you the way I'm going to if you keep talking, and that's why
I desire
you to hold your peace. You can tell the Professor that I
agree to leave
Green leaned further into me, his teeth glinting. "And I'll
have him
squealing like a stuck pig before the end if you aren't. He's
really very
pretty, you know, remarkably pretty--those eyes are a wonder.
The pretty
sort always like it rough. And my own tastes do run to
fair-haired
gents."
I crushed the cigarette against the wall.
Then I took that perverted runt's jacket collar in hand, and,
wheeling, I crushed him
against the wall, his face smeared upon the brick where my ash
was still
visible.
After I'd bashed his head into the building, I did it again.
And
again. One of his metallic teeth fell out at the
same time his nose
broke against flat red brick, and the evil lunatic was laughing
at me.
So
I dragged him off the wall and drove into him with my fists.
When he
fell, I pulled him up again, and when he staggered, I caught
him, helping
him stand so that I could break another of his ribs.
I could taste
blood even though he hadn't laid a finger on me, and within three
minutes, the
body into which my fists were hammering felt like rotting cabbages, and
he was
still laughing.
"Don't make me do this," I begged him hoarsely. "This
isn't who I am. Why are you making me do this?"
Then I remembered something about pain, and about men who are
hollow--men who
have done every perverse thing in the universe and cannot feel anything
but the
most vicious act. Men for whom depravity is natural as
breathing. I
was brutalizing him. But to all
appearances, the sick
smiling little monster enjoyed
it.
Jed Green blinked, his wet broken mouth curling up at one
side.
"I hope you do end up staying," he hissed. "I haven't had
an Army man tied over a table in years. Is that how you
generally go
about it? It is, I'm betting. But you're probably a
good deal more
careful."
I backhanded him, the sound echoing through the street like a
gunshot.
Dazed, dizzy with pain, he dragged his head back round to squint at me
through
a pair of blackening eyes, only still upright because I had him by the
lapels.
"Stop
making me do this,"
I pleaded through clenched teeth. "I can't do this, I
can't. I
can't."
He coughed messily, blood gushing over his chin.
"But it's my lot, you see. The Professor
had to punish me,
didn't he, for not quite killing your brother. So he
sent me to see
you. Wanted you to know that he appreciates your
doing him a good
turn, by giving me a lacing. So thank you."
"No, not my brother too, not that," I moaned, shaking him
severely. "Please stop. Please. Stop this
instant.
Don't make me hurt you any more than I have done."
"Queer request, isn't it? From a mary boy with a live-in
whore?"
"I'm begging you. I can't be the sort of man to do this, you
don't
understand, I can't."
"Well...since you're as good as working for the Professor just at
present...I suppose, for the time being, you're all right by me
too. And
I'm getting to like you. I can't stop just yet, the Professor
would do
worse by me, but tell you what I'll do for you instead. When
I've
buggered that pretty little soldier of yours, I'll kill him quick
afterward
instead of leaving him trussed up alone for hours and hours."
I screamed out don't make me
do this again, but I was already
doing
it. When I hurled him against the wall that time, he hit his
head rather
badly and fell like a stone. But I soon enough had him up
again, thinking stop
it, stop it, stop it
and not knowing if I meant him or me.
There are all kinds of men in the world. I have known many
varieties in
the most personal way. And I have hurt people before that
night, quite
willingly. For instance, there was an old lover of
Watson's who had
acted despicably, and almost immediately after loving Watson for the
first
time, I had been given the glowing opportunity to lay a crop over his
shoulders. I have never regretted it. And far more
frequently when
I was younger, I had gladly and tenderly hurt some of my more
deviant
beaus. There is a certain delicate beauty to punishing a man
artistically, giving as much happiness as pain. I thought for
an instant
of my birdlike, kindly, fragile friend Reggie, who had only wanted to
be safely
humiliated four times a week, and felt an aching rush
of tenderness
towards him.
But Jed Green was the man James Moriarty picked to break me, because
what that
twisted fuck wanted was pain without any love in it, in all of
his
encounters, taking it or giving it, and I was giving it to
him, and
Moriarty had not merely wanted to humiliate me by causing me to
complete a task
for him. No. That would have been too
simple. Moriarty
desired me to know that I was no better than he was. When
pushed far
enough, I would beat a man bloody with my bare hands, without any
elegance. Only ugliness and oily black hatred. He
wanted me reduced
to an animal. He wanted to me to admit that we were
the same man in
spirit, identical beings with sublime minds and dark hearts.
It wasn't
enough any longer to make me leave, because I had ignored him the first
time. Jed Green's body in my hands was beginning to feel more
meat than
man, and I saw my father standing before me every bit as tall as I am
now.
I don't
know why you make
me do this, Sherlock. I truly don't.
When Geoffrey Lestrade arrived, he met with a very strange
sight.
There was an unconscious bloodied mongrel splayed on the
ground on one
side of a narrow alleyway, his mouth gaping open and his clothing all
disheveled.
And I was sitting Hindu-style against the opposite wall--perfectly,
entirely still.
The Inspector was alone. He broke into an urgent run
when he spied
me, and then he dropped to one knee.
Lestrade didn't even look at Green, not after taking in the
obvious facts
of the event. What he did was to push his
fingers gently into
all my largest bones, anxious lines spreading at the sides of his
eyes.
Lestrade prodded me in a precautionary medical way I would have highly
objected
to under any other circumstances, but as it was I barely took them
in. I
didn't notice him squeezing my shins with careful fingers,
didn't mind
that he steadied my collarbone and then pulled my arm straight, all the
while
his impassive pinched face pale with apprehension. A
faraway part of
me knew he was feeling for broken bones because I was acting
so
very oddly, but in fact there wasn't a scratch on me except
for my
bloodied hands. To be fair to him, he couldn't tell that,
though.
Why should Sherlock Holmes prop himself up against a wall as if blown
apart?
"Have you ever been half beaten to death?" I asked in a normal voice.
Of course, I startled him. Lestrade's sharp brown eyes
narrowed as they
darted to my own, and his hands abruptly paused.
"Yes, I have," he responded at length. "There was a gang
of sorts in the fifth form, and...well. I've always
been.
I..."
We endured another pause of four or five seconds.
"That is to say, I'm not very big, Mr. Holmes."
I sucked in a strangled mouthful of air.
"So have I," I assured him. "And have you ever been in
love?"
I'd just cracked our world with a chisel, and I knew
it. Lestrade,
seeing that I wasn't physically hurt, took his hands away from
me entirely
and dropped to both knees, leaning his palms on his
thighs. His
pupils were wide, and glittering brightly. Not like his usual
plain
pensive look, not like the decent but obscenely dull
man he so often
appears to be. And is, to great
extent. This was
something much deeper. Lestrade thought about it before
answering.
He made sure to tell me the truth.
"No, I can't say that I have."
"Sometimes they feel similar," I whispered, my eyes shutting.
I'd just given away an enormous secret, the only
secret,
and I knew that too, but that didn't matter, because I was
clearly already going mad. After all, I was confiding the
most hallowed
of private affairs to the single most typical Englishman in the whole
of
Next, eyes still exhaustedly closed, I thought, We
may
possibly survive this. Lestrade might not
like me, but he likes my friend very much. He won't want to
see him hurt.
Everyone loves Watson who knows him.
Everyone. Just look at
him.
And then, I wonder
if Lestrade is more shocked, or more disgusted. But doubtless
it is a
mixture of both.
I opened my eyes. Geoffrey Lestrade, as it happened, did not
look surprised
in the slightest. Neither did he look in the smallest degree
repulsed. He did, however, have a strange--oddly soft,
queerly
slack--tilt to his generally pursed mouth. It looked rather
like what I
supposed clemency
resembled, I thought, insanely playing our synonym game with
myself. Or empathy.
No,
goodwill
was better, and
a portmanteau word at that. But with far more intensity than
the term implies.
"Christ, I just told you. I really did, I actually told you,
I... Heavenly God, what is the matter with me?" I
felt myself
laughing crazily. "I'm out of my mind, I must be.
Why did I
just tell you? Why? I don't even want you to know
about it. I
never did, not for a second. You're the last person I want
knowing
it. You're a sodding policeman.
Why in the name of the devil
should--"
"Because I'm your bloody friend, Mr. Holmes," Lestrade interrupted
fiercely.
That shut my mouth. I concentrated on breathing for a little
while,
because had I not, I'd have quite lost the knack. Then my
eyes lit on Jed
Green just behind the Inspector, nothing more than a skin sack of parts
I had
broken.
"Your taste in friends is every bit as appalling as your grasp of
logic. I'm going to be sick," I announced, turning my head
away from
him.
But there was nothing in my stomach, of course, so I only retched at
the
cobbles several times on my hands and knees, smelling horse
shit and wet
earth. A small hand landed on my back, and then shifted over
to my side,
supporting me. The spell ebbed a bit after
thirty or forty
seconds of me wondering why I felt as if, should Lestrade's grip
falter, I
would fall through the earth like a spectre.
"I can't fathom anyone ill-using you that way."
Lestrade hadn't known he was speaking aloud on the subject of being
severely
beaten. It was just a disbelieving, whispered
comment, no louder
than a leaf sliding down a street in the wind. He had me
firmly at the
base of my ribs with one hand, and the other had just moved to the
taught line
where my neck meets my shoulder, and the remark was almost inaudible,
even to
him. But I can hear exceptionally well, even when my guts are
trying to
escape out my mouth while crouched like a pack animal in an
alleyway. And
it was so important, so very important in that instant, for Lestrade to
understand me. So I answered him.
"I wasn't always this big, was I now."
There was a mark in the stones below me where a silver-tipped walking
stick had
passed, I noted absently as the world kept spinning, anchoring
my
eyes on the scratch, wondering if it had perhaps been made by
my
own cane months ago. Shuddering, I choked in a
futile dry fashion at
the pavement again. It had always been axiomatic for me to
assume that
Geoffrey Lestrade is a well-intentioned man with no insight whatsoever,
but I
will own the previous statement to have been equal parts
obvious and
cryptic. I didn't worry that he'd fail to understand,
however. I
knew that he would. And he did, too.
"No, of course you weren't," he said, as if that had never
occurred to him and I had just--as is the essence of our entire
relationship--solved a mystery at his behest. "Of course you
weren't. Christ, Mr. Holmes. Listen, I have
you. Just
breathe. You need to breathe a bit slower.
It'll all pass in a
moment, I promise. But you have to breathe."
I stilled a little. Astonishingly, he was right. I
took every
instinct of self-control I could muster and concentrated it all in my
lungs,
hoping that calm breath would calm all the rest of it. It
took a minute
or so, but after that the hateful churning began to fade back into the
more
muted sensation of being quite literally, and on behalf of several
people,
"sick with worry." But that I could manage. I drew
the
back of a bloodied, shaking hand over my mouth.
The Inspector cleared his throat.
"Mr. Holmes, is the bastard behind me dead, to your knowledge?"
"The bastard by the name of Jed Green?"
"By Jove, is it really?"
"Yes. And no," I managed, my vocal chords inflamed
and aching. "He's not yet quite dead. I at
least made
certain the bastard wouldn't suffocate on his own
tongue."
"Generous of you," he noted.
"It wasn't. Just look at that. I'm a savage."
"That's a damned lie," Lestrade said quietly.
I bit my lower lip. "Are you going to tell him?"
"I think we ought to, or he'll sure enough find out you've
been in a
fight some other way," Lestrade replied in a very gentle
voice.
"Don't you?"
"No, not about that," I said, passing my
palsied hands over
my wildly disarranged hair and sitting back on my heels, "not what I
just
did to Jed Green. Actually, will you please tell him about
that for
me? I shan't be able to, and...please, if you do it for me,
I'll be
eternally grateful and solve everything you like when once this is over
for the
rest of my life."
"Of course I will. Then tell him what?" Lestrade queried,
puzzled.
"I meant to say, I ruin enough of his secrets. I ruin every
one of
his secrets. Living with me is hell. I mean,
imagine it.
Don't tell him I said such a thing to you, that you know about the two
of us,
he'd hate me for good and all. You're my friend, but you're a
Yarder, for
the love of Heaven, and there are laws in this country. I
have his safety
to consider, and his freedom, even apart from his privacy, and I cannot
endure
the thought he might imagine me trivial with any one of them.
Please vow
never to tell him I ruined that secret too."
"I'm sorry," he replied after a moment, sounding improbably
firm. "I can't do that. I'll try my best not to
give the game
away, so long as that's what you want, but I can't promise I'll
succeed.
The Doctor knows me too well. So I swear I'll try to keep
mum, so long as
you truly wish me to."
"God save us. We'll try with all our hearts, then."
"Certainly."
"As for the rest of the Yard--"
"Don't you dare ask me not to tell Athelney Jones that you're an
invert,
Mr. Sherlock Holmes, I don't like to think there'll be another round of
fisticuffs in this alley tonight," Lestrade growled. "You
aren't generally this dense. What in hell can you be
thinking?"
"I'm not myself," I muttered bleakly. "I can't
think. I can't think at all. I would never beat a
man like that,
you know, never, I
would shoot him in self-defense, maybe even cold blood perhaps, but
not--and I
just did, didn't I? How can I know what any man is capable of
doing if I
am capable of that?
But as for you, you wouldn't...tell anyone, I take it."
"No," he said, softer. "No. I wouldn't
ever do
that."
"Not to the Doctor," I nodded, understanding him perfectly.
"Not to you."
I didn't quite know what to make of frank esteem
emanating from Lestrade,
of all people. So I reached out and pressed his forearm for a
few seconds
before dropping it, pulling out my kerchief and drying the sweat of
severe
nausea from my brow.
"By the way, Mr. Holmes, if the Doctor thinks living with you is hell,
he
has a very funny way of showing it."
"That's true," I owned. "But I have made a study of this
discrepancy, and determined the cause. People who have been
in
"Lucky thing for you, I suppose."
"Very lucky indeed."
Lestrade stood. "You're shaken up, but that's
passing. You
aren't actually hurt, are you? On your word?"
I shook my head.
He offered a hand. "What say we take this son of a bitch to
hospital? Or gaol. It's all one to me,
really. But I can't
carry him alone."
Inspector Lestrade grinned at me. "I'm not very big, you
understand."
We took Jed Green to hospital because being guilty of beating a man
half to
death is preferable to being guilty of beating a man all the way
there. I
stood at the end of the sterile corridor, not talking much, cleaning my
own
bloodied knuckles with a wet rag while people whispered things about
me. I
tried not to glare at them. That was easy enough, for I
wanted nothing
more than to be a good man during that wretched hour, to think myself
worthy of
having arrived on the planet in the first place. And then
Lestrade and I
shared a cab back to the hotel where Watson and Mrs. Hudson were
staying.
When we stepped out of the hansom, I said to Lestrade, "I'm getting
some
cigarettes."
"Sure thing, Mr. Holmes," he replied with a nod. "I'll
just have a word with Dr. Watson and be on my way."
I hesitated. I was becoming gradually aware of a
great
paradox. It ought to have been the case, I thought,
that Inspector
Lestrade's having witnessed the utterly debased scene in that corridor
would be
the most shame-inducing thing which had ever befallen
me. Or close
to it, perhaps. In the top five. However, I did not
find it
so. It did not even make the top ten, as a matter of
fact. My loss
of all control of myself, yes, of course that was disgraceful, but
Lestrade's
having been there...
"Lestrade," I said softly, "I am gladder than I can tell you
that Watson wasn't there to see that. But. I think
that...that is,
I... Had you not been there, I don't know what I
would have
done."
"You needn't mention it, Mr. Holmes," he smiled. "Go
on. You need cigarettes. This'll only take me a few
minutes."
I didn't need cigarettes, though, I had a case full of them, so I
walked around
a five-block radius twice, looking alternately up at the stars or down
at the
cobbles. I gave it fifteen minutes. By the time I
rounded the
proper corner again, I was eighteen or so yards away from Lestrade, and
he was
already stepping up into a cab. Pulling air in past my teeth,
I forced
myself to stride into the hotel lobby and ask the desk clerk for a key
to
Watson's double-bedded room, because I hadn't bothered to get one on my
way
out. He told me that wouldn't be a problem in the slightest,
as my name
was next to his on the ledger. He gave me a key. He
asked if I
needed anything else.
A miracle, I thought bitterly.
When I came back into the clean rented apartment, my
friend was
pacing the ghastly olive carpeting in harried
circles, his sweetly
delineated countenance tight and nakedly frightened. His eyes
snapped to
mine the instant he heard me enter.
"There you are," he sighed, running his hands over his face.
"Thank God, thank God. You bought cigarettes yesterday, you
know,
and I thought--"
He thought I'd left him. Two hours after the decision had
been made in my
own mind, and he already knew.
So that's
what that fight
was about,
I thought. Not
happiness at all. Not even safety. He knows.
"Are you all right?"
I shook my head, because no. I wasn't. I sat on the
settee in a
blind daze. Watson came over at once and knelt beside me,
perched with
his knees against my right thigh so we were that much closer to the
same
height.
"Jed Green is real, I take it from the Inspector."
I lifted the burst knuckles I had cleaned off for him to
view.
"He is no airy nothing, as you can see. Solid enough for me
to break
my hand over."
"What did he say to you, Holmes?"
"He..." I swallowed, struggling. "He was
explicating
for me the ways he planned to violate you before you
died. And I
rewarded him for it. For that, and for trying to kill my
brother, I gave
him exactly what he wanted most of
all. Brutality. If you have
never beaten a man to a pulp, John, I have discovered I cannot
recommend
it. Because now he's tarred me, I think. Now I'm no
better than he
is. Now I'm no better than anyone. I'm a beast, and
on top of that,
I'm a fool."
Watson's face, the same square and bold and perfect soldier's face that
bloody cur had called pretty,
twisted in profound sympathy. He reached out and
pulled me against
him. I was too sickened with myself to
protest as he settled us
back against the pillows, and I nestled up against his
collarbone with his
arms around me and his hand deep in my hair, grasping my head to his
chest as
if I had already flown away. I hadn't, though. Not
yet. I
could hear his heart thudding. I listened for anger in his
bloodstream. For repulsion. But they
weren't present, I
found. It was the same richly loving substance it had always
been,
flowing through him, fueling his every action. He drew his
fingers over
the hollows of my throat.
"You," my friend murmured like a psalm into the top of my
head,
"are neither a beast nor a fool. You're the best man I have
ever
known. As well as the wisest. The best, and the
wisest."
He kept saying it. Over and over again, changing the pattern,
but always
saying the same thing. The
best and wisest man whom I have ever known. Watson
must have
said it fifty times. Once I shifted, not believing him, but
he only
tightened his strong arms and said it yet again. Pulled me
down against
his breastbone, brooking no argument.
Finally, I breathed a little easier. I brushed my face
against his breast
and his neck, and moved my palm up onto his ribcage. But he
still kept
on.
He said it slower, but he didn't stop. Countless times he
said it to
me. More times than I could number, until I had no choice but
to listen.
Not only
the best, but the
wisest. The best man I've ever known. And the
wisest.
"Then you'll forgive me?" I dared to asked him at last.
"Hush," he answered thickly. "How dare you, my
heart. There is, on this occasion, nothing whatsoever to
forgive."
But there would be, I thought. And by Monday at the latest,
no
less. So I let him hold me, just as close as ever he could,
twining his
fingertips into my hair and tracing his thumb over my mouth, knowing
that in a
very short time, nothing was ever going to be the same for the rest of
our
lives.
The
day we returned to
Leaving his cigar in a dish at about eleven o'clock, Watson rose from
his armchair and turned away from me.
And then it all fell apart.
Part of me welcomed it. I had lived for too many
hours with my heart on a rack, ever since my brother had
nearly died simply for being associated with me. I'd watched
the Inquisitor's bulbous bicep, tightening the winch. I knew
that Watson was watching me--and I likewise knew that he could see my
mind. He was a presence like my own fingertips,
a nearness which lived in my pores.
A presence I would be doing without.
Watson stood staring out the window. I know every
set of his shoulders, and this was a new one. There was a
rigidity to it like a man flexing his muscles before an
anticipated blow lands on his flesh--and still more
specifically, it was the brittler tension of a man whose mind is
telling him from boundless experience that he knows
better. Hardened flesh bruises more easily. It was
a cold point of ice in the chest to recognize it in Watson.
When he turned back to me, his face a blank mask with the impossibly
blue eyes of a china doll painted onto it, I recognized his
apprehension for what it was.
Watson was about to ask me a question. And for the first time
in his utterly courageous life, in a life spent facing
down more fears than any single person should be forced to
confront, he was frightened of me.
"You're leaving me. Aren't you?"
The first was a statement of fact. In a bare instant, he'd
mastered the tension as only a soldier or a very brave man could,
calmly waiting for me to strike. I knew that posture
too. It was letting every instinct of tension flow out of
you, go limp, let it pass over
you, you'll only make it worse for yourself, it will never be as bad
again as it is right this moment,
I promise.
And the second was a dare.
Go on, he
was challenging me. See
if you can hurt me deeper than you already have.
"Yes, I am," I answered him.
Watson nodded. Just once, ever so quickly.
That was the very trick of it, I applauded with a strange detour of
fascination in my brain. How did Watson know how it was
done? Had he learned it abroad somehow? Had he
learned in the War? Stop counting them. Let it
happen. You'll be bruised for a week either way, but reeds
sway in the wind whereas mighty rigid
oaks topple over to leave their roots naked and raw and
permanently exposed. Reeds live to stand upright again.
"What do you mean to do with yourself, when you've gone?"
"Fight them. Fight them every way I know how. Fight
them until this is over. I will fight them one by one until
the end comes, and then I will come back."
"I don't suppose I need waste my breath, reminding you of my value in
dangerous situations."
"I am better than well aware of it, John. We're past that
point. We passed it days ago."
"And where are you going?"
"I don't know that it matters," I answered. "I like
"Will I know when?" he continued with a voice like sanded
stones. He was eroding, I thought madly. "Will I
know if you are alive or dead?"
"Yes," I said. My voice sounded all wrong in my own
ears. Was my voice always this distantly removed from my
skull? Or was someone else speaking? "Mycroft will
know, if something happens to me. I'll arrange it."
Watson shifted so that his feet were a little further apart.
The china doll expression was growing more disconcerting by the
instant. Watson is not meant to be pale, the way I
am. He claims to admire my ivory pallor, skims his fingers
over it as if I were made of cream, but Watson is designed by
Providence to be flushed with laughter or sex or sprinting or
sunburn. I am
the one with a face like a marble bust, and I
am the one lucky to warm to the hue of parchment paper, and I
am the one meant to be hurt in all of this, I thought to
myself.
"Your brother will know," he repeated. "Your brother Mycroft
will be trusted with knowing that information first. Your
elder sibling--I beg your pardon, let us be perfectly fair, your
beloved elder
sibling--shall hear word of your death before I shall, shall know
whether you were gunned down or left to bleed to death in a warehouse
or thrown into a river in Switzerland strapped to an iron
girder. Should any of those things befall you."
"That's right," I agreed.
I was tired, so tired. But I wanted this. If I
could not have him for much longer, the damage his tone of voice was
doing to me would soon be merely another memory to cherish in the long
watches. No more or less painful than any of the others,
because he was so much to me that all topography was flattened
utterly. I needed every piece of him, every broken edge that
cut me in ways he never saw. This conversation would be just
that, when I was without him: a scar in my skin I
could love the way I loved his.
"All right." He sounded as if he had been weeping for
hours. That wasn't the case, of course. His eyes
were whole oceans as they always were, but they were entirely
dry. Something had crawled up his throat and shoved in a
pitchfork. "I'm going to ask you. I've nothing much
left to lose beyond the loss of you, after all: why
will your brother know before I do, should the worst happen?"
"Because of the two of you, should the worst happen, I will not allow
you to be the one to hear of it alone."
Watson's head snapped up. Then his eyes narrowed into lapis
shards from an ancient ruin. "I could kill you myself, just
at the moment," he hissed at me.
"If I thought you didn't love me, I'd gladly hand you the
knife. It would instantly solve your problem and I would have
died for the best of reasons. I have ample
cause to believe that you do love me, however, so your
conscience would fret you were you to do me in. And we can't
have that. Believe me, if you did not love me, and I thought
it would save you, I should be bare-necked and at your
disposal."
I would have been, too. And it would not even have been
murder on his part, not if I asked him for it, only the loveliest
suicide ever to deface planet Earth.
The incontrovertible fact that I meant it shocked him, I
think. His hands started shaking. When he noticed,
Watson crossed his arms and continued to stare me down, now searching
for chinks in the armour. I am not invulnerable and he knows
it. He knows me to be very, very human. But I think
I was gouging him so deeply, he needed a suitably vivid distraction,
and I was the only one in the room.
"And you expect me to wait for you?" he shot back.
That did the trick.
It literally had not occurred to me. How I could have been so
very stupid I do not know--no, I do know. I know precisely
why I had grown so dull of wits by 1891.
It was because my every logical thought for years, all the well-ordered
patterns of hard reason I'd established before Baker Street, had been
interrupted mid-calculation for nearly a decade by look,
look, he's noticed Billy combing his hair straight back the way I do
and that's what produced that peculiar smile. Look at the way
his head ducks into the breeze when the wind is northwesterly in
I could probably have wept myself, just then. Look
at him.
Look at him.
Look at him while you still can.
Did I expect a man like that to wait for me?
Could I ask him to?
"Well?" Watson demanded coldly. "Do you expect me to wait for
two years? Without a word or a visit or a night's affection
while you run for your life from an angry mob? Do you expect
me to wait for ten?"
"No," I realized. "No. I don't."
I cannot imagine that any other man on the face of the earth possesses
eyes the caliber of pure blue of John Watson's. I
don't expect that anyone does, though I concede it is
possible. Perhaps his brother's were similar, when he was
alive. In a like vein, if you have never met John Watson and
grown to know him, you would have no way of realizing that his heart is
a comparably indescribable thing, a thing of symmetry
and velvet and boundlessness and coal-hardened worth.
But if you have never seen John
Watson's eyes, and you have never seen his heart, then I cannot attempt
to describe what it looks like when another man--a far lesser
one--breaks that heart in the middle of a very ordinary sitting room in
I will not attempt to document it further. I don't suppose
many Pompeiians stopped to record what the sky looked like while they
suffocated or bled to death or drowned.
"You don't
expect me to wait for you?" He was so stunned at first that I
fell into the unforgivable blunder of repeating myself.
"I would not ask it of you. I cannot suppose--"
"Have you mistaken me for one of the others, Holmes?" he demanded in a
furious, flayed voice. He was advancing on me like a tiger
from one of his own exotic adventure novels. "Have you grown
confused, and forgotten just who exactly you are speaking
with? Or have you always secretly believed that I am cut from
the same cloth as all the rest of your lovers? Your landlords?
Did it happen when I paid the
entirety of the rent years ago, and all the interim, this ludicrous
farce I had supposed a love affair, has been your way of
thanking me? Have you been waiting for the day, Sherlock
Holmes, when I would show my true colours and treat you like a common
whore?"
A very, very large string--a string I had not strictly known existed
and one made of riding leather--snapped and then lashed back to hit me
in the face. I must have looked as if he had backhanded
me. I'd have preferred the latter ad
infinitum.
I'm not a whore,
said the voice of a helpless child in my head.
I gritted my teeth. Don't say a word, I pleaded with
myself. With all the violence that lives inside of me, I
ordered myself quiet as the words bubbled and
hissed. I was physically holding them in, but they were
slippery as the devil and just as malevolent. They would come
out in torrents and they would sound like my father and this was not a
flattened plateau of suffering any longer, this was having your
entrails handed to you and being told to look forward to the carrion
crows. I clamped my jaw shut, and then I firmly
placed my fingers over my mouth. It would work, I
thought. If only I was given a few more moments, it would
work, and the previous generation of the Holmes family would
not make an appearance in our sitting room. There
was nothing on earth I hated more than hearing him again.
"Wouldn't it have been easier just to have gone about your own business
after you paid me back?" Watson asked casually.
"Easier for me, most assuredly, but far less enjoyable for you," I
replied in the hated honeyed voice, complete with the hated honeyed
smile. "Or at least, I assume so. None of them ever
complained they didn't get their money's worth."
Watson's lips curled into an animalistic snarl even as his face went
whiter. But before he could say anything, I dropped to my
knees in front of the settee.
If there is one thing in the world I am good at, it is activities
pursued in a kneeling position.
I was confused at first, looking back, as to why I would have done such
a thing, but it was very simple. I was not a whore, had never
been and seldom felt like one, and pretending to be one would make it
not true. Very basic logic. If I am faking an
illness, I am not ill. If I am playacting like a whore, then
by all that's sacred, I cannot be one in fact. Can
I? I palmed the front of his trousers and he
shivered. I stopped, throwing off my jacket, smiling up at
him all the while. Then my cravat was gone, and my cuffs, and
I was opening my shirtfront and all of it was carefully learned
self-defense.
Don't tense. It'll
bruise less.
"What if I lied to you all this time, Watson?" I purred at
him. Go
limp. Just take it, and when it's over, you'll thank yourself.
"What if in addition to living with all those men--I've admitted there
were a great many, I've never wished to put myself in a false light--I
used to look up at strangers in dark warehouse doorways, just exactly
like this, before taking them in my mouth for a shilling a
go? Would that disgust
you, if it were true?"
"You're not a whore," he whispered. I'd never heard a scream
lodged in a whisper before, but that's what it was.
"But what if I were?" I continued with words like sugar dripping from
my mouth as I breathed against the wool of his trousers. He
was half-hard by then, and that with me spinning rent boy fantasies for
him, which made me want to humiliate myself all the more. If
I acted like a whore, it was acting, and I was only myself.
I gripped him with both hands by the belt at his lower back and nuzzled
my face against the scratchy fabric.
"Don't you secretly want that of me, Doctor? For as long as
you made it worth my while, I could at least promise fidelity
from your paramour."
"Stop it."
"But you don't
want me to stop,"
I pointed out, throwing my shirt behind me. "I'd have noticed
by now, if you did."
I began to open his flies--deliberately, painstakingly, agonizingly
slow as he fought not to respond to my touch. How could he
fail to respond to it? I'd been on my knees for him
numberless times, and been inside him and astride him and through him
and surrounding him and if I had just shattered his heart, then I was
going to let him decimate mine, by God. He could not help but
respond to me, and what did it matter if I was a whore? What
did it matter if the man who loved him--and I loved him like my own
blood--what did it matter if that man was one step above a Seven Dials
streetwalker? I would be gone soon enough.
That thought brought some sort of salt water to my mouth that I dimly
realized was severely choked-back tears. It was working well
enough, thank Heaven, for my eyes were clear, but there were better
things to swallow in this world, and so I slowly drew my lips over the
crown of his cock as he bit the inside of his lip.
I had only tasted him for a few moments when he pulled away looking
absolutely stricken, running his thumb over my lips.
"You prefer virgins?" I mocked him. "I can use my teeth if
you like."
"I prefer you,"
he answered me.
"What if this is
me?" I continued ruthlessly. "How many sexual contracts have
I never told you about? How many have I told you about in
such an obscure fashion that you could not understand me? And
why did I make so very certain that you could not comprehend what I was
saying? What didn't I want you to know?"
Watson took me with both hands by the hair at my temples. "I
don't care who you were at all, though I care deeply what it made
you. I wouldn't care if you'd sold yourself for ninepence in
an alley off
"Do you no longer think me a whore at present, then? Let me
tell you for a moment about another fellow I had supposed thought me
rather more than a whore," I went on relentlessly, tugging with an
expert hand at his cock all the while, leaning my forehead against his
hip bone just so I could smell him. "I was once rather fond
of him. Of us. Not of him, though that doesn't...he
seemed attached to me, perhaps. So I was fond--I don't know,
not of him, but perhaps of what we were supposed to be. Yes,
that seems right. In any case, he liked to watch other men
fuck me."
Watson had my hand by the wrist in a vise grip a moment later.
"And while he was watching other men fuck me--"
Now he had jerked my other wrist away from where it was caressing his
hip and looked down at me with the sort of blue flame which melts steel.
"You don't like this story," I hissed up at him. "But it's
true, every word of it, I swear. I told you that you didn't
want to hear it. Can't you take it, then, John?
Would you prefer not to know who I am?"
John Watson by now had realized that I was going to tell this tale
whether it would break me in half or not. And so, holding my
wrists as if I were some wild beast, he knelt down in front of me so he
could look me in the eye. His own still looked as if they
could forge broadswords, but I reeled bluntly onward nevertheless.
"Fine, I'll make it very brief for you. Once he brought a man
home with him--young, dark brown hair, very striking hazel eyes as I
recall it. All I wanted was the man I lived with, and...do
you know, I can't recall why. He had a mind very unlike mine,
rather scattered and poetic, and he was--never mind, I only mean to say
that I didn't need the others. But that was beside the point
when he was in a decadent mood, and also beside the point when a
stranger was already sucking me off. And I later deduced,
with Harry inside me and me inside this other admittedly attractive
fellow, whatever his name was, that Harry had made a mistake.
He wanted, as a rule, young gadabouts to play with. But this
chap was
a whore. I don't recall how I inferred it.
Something to do with the cost of men's stockings, I think."
My friend by this time looked as if he rather badly wanted to beat
someone half to death, and was only refraining because that person was
not in the room. I pitied him, distantly. There is
a reason I tend to speak to him in French about certain
events. Did that stop me? Of course not.
I am a hurricane when once I get going, and I was long past the point
of no return.
"So. Harry liked youthful sophisticates, the sort of men who
mix with lords, because that's what Harry was. But this lad
only had fine clothing and cheap stockings and no fortune whatsoever,
and Harry was drunk, and had picked up a well-dressed rent boy by
accident, and Harry would be livid when the time came to pay
him. So do you know what I did? I found some money
in Harry's pocketbook and I paid
him. Secretly, when Harry was sleeping. Then he
left. And when Harry woke up, I told him I took the money
for brandy and he laughed and said not to be ridiculous, I
could take whatever I pleased whenever I desired it
without asking because he loved me and he always
would."
"Did he," Watson said with a voice like an ice pick.
"And on that morning, I thought, looking in the mirror, that I wasn't a
whore. I had made a mistake, you see: I thought that since I
was the one to pay the whore, that meant I was a rake, to be sure, but
the man who pays the rent boy is not a rent boy himself. But
while I had been amenable so far to sleeping with other society
gentlemen, for the sake of good health I rather drew the line--it's
quite senselessly snobbish to feel so, I know, medically
speaking, but I did nevertheless--to sleeping with whores simply
because Harry had ordered a sixth bottle of champagne that
night. And sheepskin isn't the sort of thing you bring up
with Harry, the man is an explosion of excess, I'd even admired that
about him. When I wasn't on my knees for some lovely creature
I'd never seen before nor would see again, but still. There
were principles. And mine
stopped at rent boys. I said I wouldn't any longer, not with
any of them, and that was the end of living with Harry within half an
hour. But then one day not very long afterward
another man--a considerably better one, one you would like, I think, if
you met him--bought me a new wardrobe. That's when I saw my
mistake."
"Sherlock Holmes, do not say it," he said, very softly. He
had been livid a moment before. How could I have made him so
sad so very quickly?
"I had nothing, do you hear me? Nothing.
No, that's wrong, I had three fine things: a fine body, and a fine
mind, and a fine set of togs. Luckily I wasn't even scarred
from--I didn't even have any scars, apart from my left arm.
But I was exactly the same as the hazel-eyed boy. We were
identical. Except that
Watson dropped my wrists--only incidentally, I am sure had he owned
spare hands, he should have retained them, I was not myself in that
moment--in favour of placing one hand at the back of my neck and one
palm very tenderly against my cheek. And as he leaned
forward, nothing but love in his face, what I said was:
"You don't get to kiss
the whore,
John."
Incredible. Almost laughable in its purity of
viciousness. A new gold standard--even for me--for
unforgivable remarks.
My life has had several miracles in it. I was about to
experience one of them. It was the sort of comment said in
the sort of tone that ended everything. It ought by rights to
have finished us. It would
have finished us, were John Watson not one of the most brilliant
students of the human heart in the Western hemisphere.
Because what he did next was genius unadulterated, a miracle of homo
sapiens puppeteering.
He played along with me.
"Turn around, then, stay on your knees, and bend over the seat of the
sofa," he said coolly.
And that
was right, that was
what I deserved, I knew as I tore my braces off and opened my trousers
and undid the string of my underclothes, that
would break my heart and then we would be even. Not precisely
even. Because his heart is a bottle of satiny
I felt him damp and stiff against me at once and thought for a startled
instant that he was going to do it without any preparation at all,
despite the fact that for me it must have been over five months, and that
was right too, bravo my dear
fellow, what an impeccable sense of the drama of the thing he had, for
I very much wanted it to hurt and I pictured curtains thrown wide and
peels curling away from apples, opening things and soft things so that
I wouldn't have to stifle a gasp. But it had only occurred to
him rather cleverly that there was more than one way of making
something wet. So he took what little time he needed to make
me ready, and I thought, get
it over with,
I cannot bear for your heart to be the only broken one on this floor
for an instant longer, and then
he spread his knees a little and he took me.
And then he stopped.
I was pinned absolutely still between the settee and John Watson's
solidly muscular frame, and could not move without regaining a measure
of self-determination, which was the very last thing I
wanted. And so I stayed perfectly motionless.
Watson just rubbed his fingertips over the knots at the very top of my
spine, waiting. What he was waiting for I had no idea at
first.
Then something changed. It was because he was so perfectly
still save for his hands stroking at me, I believe. He was
almost petting me, soothing the taut skin and carding his fingers
through my hair. For at least two or three minutes, as I
remember it. And of course, in that position and given some
time to think, I recalled the last time this sort of thing had
happened.
As I said, it had been just over five months since he had last
taken me instead of the reverse, and we had engaged a private box at
the opera. The entire string section of a headily brilliant
Mozart passage had been skittering over my skin, and he had drawn the
curtains and thrown my hands up against the wall and I had been
laughing soundlessly. Laughing,
as if we weren't acting outrageously enough without laughing
in the middle of La clemenza
di Tito. That was
what it was like with him. Free of care.
Then I recalled the first time it had ever happened.
It was two months after the Sarasate concert and there was still a tiny
piece of me which belonged to me.
I had been obsessed with him to the point of madness, recording every
particle which drifted my way in an effort to catalogue
the man, keeping him ever on the
edge of an erotic charge that--so I feared--would release him from my
spell the instant I let up. I will readily admit now that I
likely exhausted the poor soul. I was nothing short of a
supremely self-possessed lunatic. And then one evening I took
a bath at something other than my usual time. The entire room
was hot with steam and I was through and as clean as I would ever be
(which is the exact sensation I seek out when exiting a bath), and lo
and behold, there was someone in the doorway watching me.
I know what I look like. No decent lover can fail to
accomplish that much. I look like a boxer on a narcotics
binge, which is precisely what I am. I look like a regal
ghost who happens to be realer and more corporeal, more keen and more present,
than the living. And I look like a
cold-hearted hedonist with an intellect, which is also very close to
the truth. But I also looked like other things that night at
seven in the evening and not the time I would usually indulge in a
bath. I looked like something rather finer than I am in that
mist, something softer, and I smiled back at him staring at me, and I
caught my own reflection in the mirror.
The face was utterly strange to me. I could not recall the
last time I had smiled at anyone without wanting something.
Even at Watson. I had wanted things then too...things like
some variety of reassurance he would be there years later when I would
yet be revering him from whatever distance then lay between
us. A lightening of his mood. An answering smile in
return. At the very least, a shift in his expression which
proved that my smiling somehow affected him.
But that night at seven in the evening, it was just a faint tilt to my
lips because I had not expected him to be watching me and there he
was. Watching me.
My friend was kissing me an instant later, and then he wasn't kissing
me but devouring me instead, his lips dredging the hollows of my
throat. We were both tearing the clothes off his flesh within
seconds, needing them gone.
His brown skin tasted of burnt sugar and clean sand with a sheen of
salted caramel. And I asked myself when I was inexplicably
flat on my back in his lovely little upstairs bedroom with my knees
wrapped round his waist just how
it had all happened.
I do not mean to give the impression that I had not dreamed of enjoying
that particular enterprise. On the contrary. Before
we were together, I'd woken up from visions shocked that I had not
driven a hole through my own bedsheet, I had so thoroughly imagined him
erasing my badly penciled walls. I only mean to say that I
had been so busy loving him that I had forgotten what it felt like to
lose all control of myself. It's called taking, but I never
felt I was doing anything other than giving to him when we made
love. We never spoke of it, but from the beginning we
naturally matched that way. Part of that is my own absurdly
masterful nature, but there were other parts more specific and more
timely.
I knew he felt ugly. I knew he was in pain. I knew
he thought his body little better than a cart with a broken
axle. Every single day he disgusted himself and every single
day I watched him and every single time I eased into him he looked
happy and disbelieving and downright grateful. Grateful to me,
for sleeping with a war hero who resembles a warmer-natured cousin of
Apollo.
So when my friend had first reversed roles, he'd unwound me quick as a
ball of cotton rolling down a staircase. Ages had passed
since I'd been blessed with a partner who dared to take my breath away,
who knew loving roughness and eager pressure and greedy need.
And so I had forgotten the way rhythms throb through me, as they do
when my violin begins playing me and not the other way round.
But there I was entirely by accident, and on that very first occasion I
had known exactly why it was different with the Doctor than it was with
anyone else.
With the Doctor, I could not help but believe that--howsoever
improbable--I was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.
He actually wanted someone
who had been hollowed out and then replaced with a framework of barbed
wire. And when I was with him, in dim twilights or grey
dawns, I actually felt as if there were blood in my veins.
Then I recalled where I was in
fact.
I concluded (accurately, as it turned out) that, although I had handed
Watson my heart and explicitly instructed him to smash it on the
hardwood, he had absolutely no intention of complying.
Possibly, he was incapable of the act. At any rate, he had
reversed my entire momentum in the space of about three minutes.
"I'm not a whore," I whispered.
That flat declarative split my mind in two and I buried my face in my
arms.
Watson just sent a hand gently up my back, his other hand snaking round
to rest lovingly against my rather concave stomach, cradling me as we
both knelt bent onto a settee in the most intimate posture known to
man. He leaned down when his hand reached my hair and he
resumed stroking his fingers through it, dropping to rest his face
against the back of my neck.
"I know."
We were quiet for a little after that. He hadn't called me a
whore at all, I remembered. Only accused me of expecting him
to treat me like one. I ought to listen better, it crossed my
mind. While I was still in range of his voice.
"Some of them loved me, you know," I continued, addressing the sofa
cushion. "My landlords.
A few of them."
It had only been two, but I wasn't in the mood for even counting that
high.
"The ones who were not lunatics loved you," he mouthed against my
shoulder blade. "And so do I."
"But you aren't a landlord at all," I murmured. "I'm
sorry. I'm so sorry. I know you can't forgive
me. I don't think you ever will. But you're one of
the only good things I've ever had."
He knew that already. But it bore repeating from time to
time. And when would I be allowed to say it again?
He reached down and cupped his hand firmly around me and ran his thumb
over the tip of my cock. And as I gasped out something
addressed to a deity who would possibly not have appreciated it, I
registered that not only had Watson's passion failed to waver during
the bizarre preceding interlude, but I myself was by now--as had
certainly not been the case previously--achingly
aroused.
Which seems to be one of the direct results of ruminating over the best
sex of your life.
I shoved myself up with both my forearms. He was barely
moving at all, just rotating his hips in tiny circles, because when he
is in me to the hilt and commences doing that, it causes electrical
storms behind my eyelids and he knows it--and by pure coincidence,
kneeling on the carpet like a whore with your chest on a sofa cushion
is the ideal
position in which to most comfortably achieve this effect.
Barely a minute into the deed once we had incorporated actual motion
into our undertakings, I was a quivering piece of jelly which had lost
all sense of self save that it could not move its pelvis in either
direction without the most delectable shock charges pulsing through it,
and that the complementary being behind me was some sort of
deity. I was sure of only that much, I will swear to
it. Then I recalled who I was, as the lightning storm
gathered power and I felt gooseflesh all over my back from his tongue
on my spine and I heard a brief breathy keening sound which had almost
certainly come from me.
I wanted to say something. I was sure of it. I grew
distracted once more when Watson moved his left hand off my hip and
snaked it up my breast, curling it firmly over my shoulder from the
front and pressing down.
I cried out, I must have done, because I recall thinking, God
damn it all, that was not what I wanted to say, that had no words in
it, and he's only moving a radius of perhaps an inch but every time he
does he brushes up against God damn it God damn it God damn it, perhaps
if I looked at him I could remember words.
I let my head fall back and tried it. Luckily, it worked.
"Please wait for me," I begged him. "Please."
Maybe it would only be a few months, I thought wildly, feeling a slight
trickle of sweat run down my back where the curve of my spine bowed
ever so slightly away from him. Maybe it would be two months
and I would come home. Maybe the Yard would succeed in
capturing all of the gang at once and I wouldn't have to go.
Maybe God would notice that I had gotten a fairly raw deal previous to
meeting Watson and send James Moriarty to hell by way of a convenient
heart attack and I could stay at home in London with my fiddle and my
rainstorms and my newspapers and my seventeen steps and my boy, who was
sending waves of pure desert heat up my spine.
"I don't understand why we are saying these things to each
other at all," the Doctor told me raspily. "I can't
comprehend them, and I've always understood us perfectly.
Even when we weren't making sense. I've understood every
delirious word up until half an hour ago. But I would wait
for you until the day I died."
"You can't die. That's
the entire point. Why else would I leave you?"
I was hurtling towards another sort of death entirely, and so was my
friend if his breathing was any indication. And it was,
because I can tell by the sound of his breath alone whether he is sad
or wistful or grateful or angry or delighted or coming and I would keep
that breath alive and well even if it meant not hearing it for years.
It wouldn't be years, would it? It couldn't be. I
loved him too much.
A piece of Verlaine drifted through my head. Tout
suffocant et bleme... Without
him, I would be a falling leaf.
Votre ame est un paysage
choisi, I wanted
recite to him. In his case, it wouldn't have
been poetry. It was true. It had always
been true. His soul is the choicest of countries.
But I'd lost my languages, all of them, and so I said nothing.
He kissed the whore, with my mouth open, with my head on his shoulder,
and I was unstrung.
We fell asleep in my bed, as we are wont to do. He curled
himself up with his head on my shoulder and his knee between my legs,
as I had utterly worn him out, the poor perfect
creature. I am admittedly very tiring. When I woke
up the next morning, however, very early--five thirty, I believe, and
all the world grey as soot--I was alone.
I got out of bed and looked about me curiously. No
Watson.
Rising, I dressed. The floorboards were pleasantly cool under
my feet. There was something strange about my house, looming
and brittle. After the fight we'd had the night before, after
managing to fall asleep due to nothing save pure emotional
exhaustion, this was the moment, I thought. Or later tonight,
perhaps. I had to leave. But it had to be soon, and
where could he be? I wondered. Where was he when he knew I
was leaving him, when he knew we hadn't any time?
He wasn't in the sitting room either. Still barefoot, I
padded up his staircase. His door was open, and a pang of
fear shot through me. They had taken him away from me, I was
too late--they had spirited him away in the dark.
But when I entered the room, there John Watson was, sitting
cross-legged on his coverlet. He wore a dressing gown and
trousers, but his broad, scarred chest was quite
bare. He'd smoked a number of cigarettes. Five, as
a matter of fact. When I came through the door, my
friend's eyes met mine and he spoke a single word.
"So."
He was graver than I had ever seen him in my life. As grave
as I imagined he must have looked when staring down a semi-delirious
fellow solider with a hacksaw gripped in his tanned, calloused
hand. Approaching him warily, I kissed him, and his lips
moved gently beneath my own. I pulled back of my own accord
and gripped myself at the forearms, facing him.
"You've something to tell me," I said softly.
"Yes."
I didn't sit down. Whatever this was about to consist of, he
deserved the right to hold court. I was the accused, and I
knew it. Best to stand before him like a man whilst he
pronounced sentencing.
"You are going to mark me very carefully," Watson said
slowly. "You are not giving me a choice in this
matter. You are taking a decision which drastically affects
us both and you are making it entirely your own affair. You
are the one who makes the rules. I understand that about
you. There is very little about you which I do not know and
cherish, even when it recoils against me. However, you do not
make all
the rules, and so you must listen very carefully to what I am about to
say to you."
I waited. I held his eyes. There truly was a
surgical saw in his hand, so to speak. The only thing left
was to see what it would be amputating, precisely. He had no
intention of breaking my heart, or he hadn't the night before, so what
would it be? I could practically taste serrated metal on my
tongue. And eerily blue eyes ought not to look like a frozen
lake in the depths of January. Ninety percent of the time,
they look like June.
"You will not reconsider?" he asked once more. "No matter
what I say to you, what I do? There is nothing that will
convince you to stay near me?"
"No," I answered him.
"Then get out."
A thousand things happened just then that I failed to remember until
later, when I recalled the instant with the clarity of a million
mirrors shattering and every piece showing me the same image: there was
a thread coming loose in the collar of his nightshirt. A tiny
clump of the blond lashes of his right eye had tangled
together. There was only the single candle and yet he seemed
to cast thousands of shadows, a man lit from all sides and yet
none. He was trying to speak through a jaw that was clenching
terribly and all I could think was don't,
don't, it'll be the worse for you, you have to let me be the monster, I
am already a monster, oh please don't, it isn't in you.
But it was in him, and I had always seen it: that steely edge of
independence, the sort which would not allow me to shoulder sacrifices
against his will. To do anything that was truly against his
will. Nothing could be done against his will, and I had never
been stupid enough to attempt it before 1891. What a
brainless mistake. John Watson is a veteran and a doctor of
medicine and a hero and a man.
That was why I longed for him so in the first place.
"I am not going to wait for you to find the perfect moment," he
said. "We are not going to make love under a counterpane in
the pitch dark and then fall asleep twisted together and I wake to find
you've had your perfect memory and you are gone and I am
alone. I have no intention of indulging your penchant for
martyrdom an inch further. I will not wait for you to be ready.
I am not ready, and my consent is not given, and I think you're a
damned fool."
The way my mind unspools the scene back for me, his voice would have
broken on the next word. So he stopped, and took a breath,
and then kept at it.
"I think you're a coward, and you've decided it's easier to abandon a
family when it's too painful to suit you any longer than to allow that
family to fight by your side, even if it's to the death. I
think you've never seen a war in your life, and I have, I have
seen it, Holmes, and
you refuse to trust me on the subject. I believe you've
confused being selfless and honourable with simply being alone.
I have offered you my everything, you see, including entering a battle
in lockstep with you to the finish, but you don't care about
that. You don't want it. Ironic, because I am an
old campaigner as well as an old friend. So leave me, but I
am preserving the last vestiges of my dignity. I shall be
here when you return. Waiting. I cannot live
without you. But I can choose when you leave, as I cannot
choose when you come back. I don't know whether you've
packed, as I suspect you have done, but the subject is
irrelevant. Get out of my house."
The minuscule knot of his pale eyelashes had come apart when he brushed
his fingertips over his eyes. That speech was not an attack
of Watson's at-times-virulent temper. Neither were the words
purposefully calculated to wound me so very badly that I would not be
capable of dragging myself away.
That declaration was nothing more nor less than precisely the way he
felt. I had finally done it. I had at last found an
act for which John Watson could not forgive me, and apparently I had
taken it. So I parted my lips to say goodbye to him.
"No, you don't get any more words," he choked. "No goodbyes,
no apologies, no explanations, no endearments, no synonyms for any of
it. Not another syllable out of you, Sherlock Holmes, and
that's with the full knowledge that I would suffer hell to hear your
voice again. For the moment, you don't get to love me any
longer. That
is the bargain. You don't get to comfort me, and you don't
get to know how I manage in the ten hours after you walk out that door,
because you'll be gone, won't you? And in future, wherever
you are, you won't get to listen to yourself speaking tender words
before you abandon me. This is the rule. This is
what keeps me free-willed. Understood?"
I nodded. I could hardly have done otherwise. And
in any case, he was right.
"I live alone without despising you, praying you survive without me,
and you hold your bloody silver tongue," Watson whispered. "Get
out."
I have always been cursed with a disobedient streak, however.
And I thought it over carefully, how I would make use of it.
There had to be something I had not yet said to him.
Something which was simply true, and which I could say without any
guile or expectation of reward, because I frankly did not think he
could have stomached a hopeful sentiment from me in that
instant. Forgiveness is all very well, but there is something
to be said for an eye for an
eye, a tooth for a tooth.
He knew that throwing me to the kerb would be the burning which
cauterized his own wound. Watson's choice
was that simple: dip the raw flesh in alcohol or let it rot and spread
to the heart. He preferred to hurt than to hate me.
I understood it perfectly. And I could say nothing that
required a response, or all would fester again.
"I'll think of you until I can no longer think of anything at all," I
murmured, turning and walking down his stairs.
And get
out were the last words John
Watson said to me for over three years.