THE SIGN OF CHANGE

Chapter 2

Some two weeks after my marriage, I found myself sitting in front of a blazing fire, staring into the flames as I wondered precisely what I'd done with my life.

Looking back, I cannot fathom why my mind took so very long in catching up with what my body had already deemed natural and my heart knew to be a gift. Any reader must consider me a hopelessly obtuse blunderer as I reveal my actions as a newlywed, but though I am not blessed with Holmes's monstrous acumen, I have always credited myself with a good deal of emotional common sense and human empathy. A doctor's work requires nothing more; knowledge of the human character coupled with some small degree of practical skill will take one far in the medical profession. I confess I had considered myself a fair judge of human nature, especially my own. I was mistaken; I did not know myself. And in the case of my marriage, I was soon to learn just how very wrong I had been.

I must be careful not to give a false impression; Mary was an angel, and no detriment to her character must come of this account. I was not yet so insensible as to think ill of her, and I never remember her now but with the utmost tenderness and regard. She was cheery, sensitive, patient and affectionate to the last. She was, in short, everything Holmes was not--which only made me crave him all the more.

My feelings of disgust following my departure from Baker Street lingered throughout the remainder of that week, plagued the hours prior to my wedding, and haunted me long after the event. Oh yes, I married her. My anger at Holmes for what I perceived to be his devious fantasy propelled me toward Mary as much as it made the thought of him repugnant. I managed to bury any memory of that night deep enough to conceal my considerable guilt from my fiancée, who set down my erratic moods to nerves and pre-nuptial misgivings. I hid from her, and indeed, myself, avoiding any chance thought of Holmes, until one cold and blustery day when his all too familiar likeness on the very front page of the Star struck me as if with a dagger. A mere two blocks from my new domicile, I walked the remainder of the distance attempting to control an unexpected rush of pent-up emotions and forbidden memories.

That night with Mary proved more difficult than any ordeal my literary mind could have invented. I would touch her and in a sudden cool shock feel Holmes's hands upon me. Although I hid my feelings as best I could, Mary's intuitive sympathy caused her to look quizzically in my direction more times that night than I care to remember. It was some hour or two after dinner, resting quietly in our sitting room, when she decided to press the point.

"What is it, John?" she said finally, after I had, for perhaps the tenth time, glanced into her eyes only to quickly shift my vision to more neutral space. "You are not yourself tonight. You know you must grow used to telling me of your concerns." She smiled openly. "Tell me what's wrong, and you will begin to form the habit."

Ridiculous fabrications fluttered through my mind. A cold sweat began to wash over me when I realized the most expedient solution would be to simply tell her. How could I ever succeed in keeping such an event from her for the rest of our lives? Even supposing Mary had not known me well, Holmes had always laughingly remarked that my attempts at deception would be deemed unsubtle on the stage of a melodrama. As Holmes himself was a fine actor, I'd never doubted his word. I could not flee the house every time Holmes's striking visage appeared in the daily press. I concluded that, painful and degrading as it must be, I had to make a clean breast of it.

"It concerns Holmes," I began cautiously. Mary's brow quickly furrowed with worry. She'd been concerned about him ever since his non-appearance at our marriage ceremony, which I'd hastily attempted to explain away with reference to important cases and government assignments. As aloof as she had always found Holmes, he was kind to her and had, after all, solved her mystery. That he had also been the instrument of our first acquaintance was, I was beginning to think grimly, a slight blessing at best.

"My dear John," she said, smoothing a wisp of fair hair back from her forehead. "You must tell me all about it. Whatever has happened, we can set it right."

I inwardly doubted that remark. Indeed, I was not certain that anything in my life could ever be quite right again. I mused for a moment how much easier it would have been if Holmes had never accepted the case of the Agra treasure...or if I had not been so welcomed to participate in his intriguing little puzzles...or if he had never made his ghastly confession...or if we had never met....

But no. Even then, wracked with fear and uncertainty, I knew that, no matter how many other events in my life might be deemed regrettable, I could never regret meeting Sherlock Holmes.

"John?"

I started out of my reverie. "Yes, Mary."

"You know that, if I can be of any assistance, however slight, I would dearly love to help you. I know what Mr. Holmes means to you."

It was utterly intolerable that such an innocent phrase should have sent me spinning back into the dizzy realm of panic. No, I could not live this way. I had to tell her. I had simply to find the best way to tell her. How ought I to go about it? I very nearly laughed out loud at the first few phrases that drifted through my thoughts. My dearest, you must know that I have been unfaithful to you--and with a man. My dear wife, I have been seduced by Mr. Holmes. Mr. Holmes and I made love several weeks ago. Mary, Holmes has fallen in love with me. Fallen in love....

Speech was more impossible than the guilt. Selfish as I was in those days, I could not hurt her so. My instinct was to protect her, to shield her from my mistake, no matter what the cost to my own peace of mind. She loved me, and would be devastated by my confession. And apart from her anger at me, could she ever look at herself the same way again, knowing what she had done with me and what I had done with the world's first independent consulting detective?

"Mary, I fear that I cannot be aided by your assistance in this matter," I said carefully. I wanted to calm her fears, to convey to her that I could manage the affair myself. "But rest assured, my love, that I will rely on you should the need arise."

"I understand," she said, disappointed but still comforting. "If Mr. Holmes has a private problem and has confided in you, I would not ask you to betray his trust." I felt a flood of relief when I realized that she would never ask me to betray his confidence, and therein lay my safety.

She suddenly leaned in closer to me, saying, "I must only insist that you ease my mind on one matter."

I closed my eyes, certain I was ruined. Mary whispered intently, "Only please assure me--is Mr. Holmes all right?"

My eyes flew open again with a shock of dismay. No, Holmes was surely not, could not be, all right. I could see him in the bed, as if it were a photograph printed on my mind; the lines of care had been smoothed from his brow, his expression nearer to contentment than I had ever seen it. I'd left him there, sleeping peacefully. I'd sent no word. I'd married, never missing him at the ceremony, only relieved beyond words that he wasn't there.

"No," I murmured, stunned by my own callousness. "He is almost certainly not all right."

I made a decision. "In fact, my love, I must go to him, which is why I wanted to speak with you first." I rose determinedly and crossed to our front window seat, where I'd thrown my coat some few hours earlier. Putting it on, I added, "I shan't be gone long, my dear. I must only see whether there is anything to be done."

Mary followed me into the foyer and handed me my hat as I muffled a thick scarf around my neck. I kissed her gently on the top of her head and turned to go, but she caught my arm as I opened the door.

"You must not think me angry, John. I admire your devotion to Mr. Holmes. He is so isolated, so inaccessible...it is your duty to help him. You are permitted to go where he'd never dream of allowing others."

I swallowed. "I shan't be long."

She nodded. "Stay if he needs you." She shut the door.

I fled to Baker Street, little dreaming of what I would find there.

En route, I imagined Holmes prostrate on his bed, so deeply enmeshed in cocaine he would barely recognize me. I imagined him emaciated with apathy or in a frenzy of cathartic indoor target practice. I pictured my poor friend stricken with disease, wounded by felons, and helplessly calling my name while slowly dying. When I had reminded myself that his likeness in that day's newspaper had seemed healthy enough, I calmed somewhat.

In fact, I found nothing. After letting myself in and running up the stairs two at a time, I burst into an empty sitting room.

I felt exceedingly uneasy as I tread on the familiar rug, my eyes glancing around a room I'd tried for weeks to avoid even the thought of. I felt even more unsettled without Holmes being there, as if I'd stumbled into a sanctuary in the owner's absence.

That Holmes was out would have been perfectly reasonable, given the incessant demands on his time placed there by his ever-growing clientele. Even I could deduce from his picture in the Star that he had recently concluded a case of some import. But the room, though clean, felt neglected, as though it had not seen its occupant in some weeks.

I glanced up at the mantel. Holmes's pipe was where I'd put it out for him, the night before I left. The case in which he kept his syringe was gone. I felt suddenly cold.

"Holmes!" I shouted. There was no reply. I threw open the door to his room, again calling his name. His bed had not been slept in. Throwing open his wardrobe, I noted several oft-worn items of everyday apparel missing in addition to his makeup kit and dressing gown.

Hardly daring to hope, I ran up the stairs to my own room, but the sight of its barrenness only made me shudder with self-loathing, recalling the workers I'd hired to remove my belongings and deliver them to my new address. How Holmes must have felt when he laid eyes on those men removing my belongings from our home, I could not begin to fathom. I descended the stairs again, my tread heavy.

As my initial panic subsided, I attempted to chart my course of action. I wished to find Holmes; that much was certain. But how to do so? No man alive could hide better than he, assuming he had not simply gone to his brother's to avoid the loneliness of an empty Baker Street. I doubted that he had taken refuge in Mycroft. The Holmes brothers had never seemed close, and Holmes had at his disposal no less than five residences scattered throughout London, should he wish to make use of a haven. I wracked my brain in a fruitless attempt to recall their respective locales, drawing an utter blank. Holmes had seldom spoken of them, merely informing me occasionally of his intent to make use of one or the other for a night, knowing that I'd sit up waiting for his return to Baker Street if I thought him to be in any danger.

Standing there in the room we had shared in intimate comfort for so long, pangs of intense regret struck me at more and more frequent intervals. I looked at the chair I'd occupied in times of peace, in times of camaraderie, in times of worry when Holmes's chaotic schedule brought him home later than usual. How I'd chided him when he finally returned, weary and sometimes bloodied, from some dangerous surveillance mission. I recalled with heartbreaking intensity the look of gratitude hidden behind his bantering ways whenever I'd shown concern for his well-being.

It could not be borne. I had been wrong, I knew, to treat my friend so shabbily, and if I could not make amends, at the very least I could extend my apologies. At a loss as to where to go or what to do, I suddenly remembered the newspaper article. Without any other leads, the clearest course of action was to read about Holmes's latest exploits, and in this manner track his movements.

I briefly considered finding a newsboy, but the chances of encountering one on the streets at such an hour were slim. I then remembered, with a cry of joy, that Holmes had every major newspaper delivered to our rooms on a daily basis. I crossed quickly to his desk and looked under; there, to my delight, were stacks of unread newsprint. I dragged a goodly bundle to my armchair and searched for news of Holmes.

His face stared at me accusingly from the pages of many periodicals. Apparently the great detective had been investigating the exploits of a bank clerk by the name of Steele whose forgery skills had helped him and his cohorts to filch a great deal of cash from the King's Cross branch of a major banking firm. Impatiently skimming the grateful sentiments of the bank manager for the fifth time, which were repeated almost verbatim in nearly every paper I encountered, I stumbled across an undeservedly lucky footnote in the Globe.

Holmes, it seemed, had managed to capture all but two of the men responsible for the banking fraud. The remaining culprits were thought to be hiding in the outskirts of Whitechapel, if they had not already escaped so far as the Continent. I scanned the remainder of the article for useful information in vain, for the over-zealous reporter soon fell to conjecture tying the offenders to anarchists and other similar nonsense.

I smiled inwardly as I closed and folded the newspaper. Holmes maintained a suite of seedy rooms on the outskirts of Whitechapel, often using them to change costume from reputable to disreputable or vice versa when on the trail. He had pointed them out to me once, briefly. There seemed no better place to start my search. I would find them, if I could, I would assure myself that Holmes was not on the verge of another breakdown, and I would make what amends were possible.

I once again donned my hat, closed the door to our sitting room softly behind me, and set out into the chill of the clear, crisp night.

"Sherlock, you are behaving absurdly. I will not allow you to take your life into your own hands on such an alarmingly regular basis. If you do not desist from courting danger in its most virulent manifestations, I shall have you forcibly detained by those more powerful than yourself."

"Mycroft, be so kind as to explain to your less acute sibling what reasoning supports cherishing a life as worthless as my own."

Sherlock Holmes sat back, exhausted, in the Stranger's Room's most luxurious armchair.

Mycroft spoke as if angry at a wayward charge. "Have you entirely lost your wits? You have solved not less than four cases in the past few weeks, each of which could have been easily resolved without danger to life or limb, had you taken your time. The Carrington gang would have turned themselves in in another week, but your foolhardy notion of capturing them all within three days led to a knife fight that nearly cost you your eye."

"Indeed?" said Sherlock, brushing his long fingers against the short but livid scar that grazed his temple. "I hadn't realized."

"Not to mention your unnecessarily direct confrontation of Mackenzie not three weeks ago--"

"I enjoy wrestling trained guard dogs. It is a refreshingly uncomplicated pastime."

"--And your most recent blunder, the shootout which led to that bank clerk Steele's capture. I will not allow it, Sherlock, I simply will not."

"Are you challenging me, Mycroft? I have observed dueling pistols on display in this club, and if you truly desire a confrontation, I shan't hesitate to--"

"Silence!" Mycroft Holmes thundered. The sound reverberated through the otherwise noiseless club. Then, more quietly, "Your life is not a joke, Sherlock."

"On the contrary," hissed his brother, his teeth clenched.

"A tragedy, perhaps," Mycroft conceded. "We cannot be certain quite yet."

"A tragedy? All the better. We will have conclusive evidence supporting that hypothesis only when I am dead, so I would suggest you stay out of my affairs if you wish, as usual, to be proven right." Sherlock rose from the chair, striding to the rack on which he had left his coat.

"Confound it, Sherlock, I didn't send for you to be--"

"To be rebuffed in your attempt to save a madman from himself?" said Sherlock, slipping into coat and hat. He stopped as he picked up his walking stick. "I'm sorry, Mycroft," he said more softly, looking into his brother's eyes. "I have been betrayed with a kiss, and the concept of a swift crucifixion grows more and more appealing. Pray do not concern yourself with the notion of suicide," he added quickly, seeing the alarm in his sibling's watery grey eyes. "I am not so undignified. Yet as for safety and precautions and prudence..." He smiled briefly. "Other conundrums currently plague my thoughts."

Mycroft's brow furrowed. "Let us change the subject. Are you even now engaged in a new investigation?"

"The capture of the remaining members of the Steele gang currently occupies my weary, stale, flat and unprofitable hours."

"Do you plan to confront them in Whitechapel? You must have divined by now that the only possible place they could be hiding is the pub owned by Carter's brother. It was your haste that allowed our friend Carter to escape, I may remind you."

"You may, but it is of little importance. I have been keeping a close eye on 'The Stag' for several days now. I shall visit that establishment later this evening in the company of two hale if not overly discerning Yard inspectors."

"I suppose the endeavor will prove hazardous in the extreme."

Sherlock Holmes shrugged. "If, incidentally, I happen to be drawn into an altercation with Burroughs, the intellect behind the operation and an acclaimed sharpshooter in his day, the situation may indeed grow slightly tense. Carter, though good with a knife, is a tactical imbecile. In any event, you know as well as I that danger is part of my trade."

Mycroft rose sadly. "Must you have no regard for your life, valuable as it is to England, if not to you?"

Sherlock paused in the door, then returned simply, "My life was his. He has discarded it. I am afraid the choice was not mine to make."

By the time Mycroft had formulated a response, Sherlock was gone.

I took a cab to Whitechapel, descending somewhat apprehensively into the now-biting air. I had seen Holmes's residence through the window of a similar cab some three months previous, and I was not at all certain of the cross-street. The relative darkness of this part of London made me wish I had thought to bring my service revolver, for the streets of the Whitechapel district teemed with crime long before murderers like Leather Apron² made its name infamous.

Keeping as much as I could to the better-paved walkways, I set off in the most likely direction my memory could suggest. Every stoop I passed seemed to lead down dank stone steps to some dark alehouse or gaudy house of prostitution. Hoarse shouts and more piercing cries rang out in all directions as I passed knots of unfortunates huddled before makeshift fires. How Holmes managed to approach his residence unobtrusively yet still dressed as a gentleman was beyond my ken, for curious glances and idle glares accompanied my every step.

I paused before several nondescript doorways, none well-lit and all remarkably filthy, when the position of a dim street lamp several yards from me stirred the vague whispers of my memory. I stepped back into the street, nearly stumbling over a pile of rags which, indignant at my interruption of its sleep, proved to be a dog of some size which had buried itself in the debris. Staring up at the relative distance of the lamp from the door and the door from a dingy brick structure purporting to be an apothecary, I at last recognized Holmes's residence. Its low windows were closely shuttered, but a slight glow seemed to emanate from inside.

As I approached the door, I hesitated. Was this truly his room? Was Holmes in, and if so, would he be inclined to let me inside? I nearly turned away, but found I could not when I considered the horrible suspense of returning home without knowing Holmes's mental state, however grim. There was nothing for it. I rapped on the door gently, three times, and then listened intently. I repeated the procedure, still without eliciting a result.

Without any sort of warning, a flowerpot crashed into shards at my feet. I leapt back, looking up at the open window of the first floor. An old man with wispy grey hair, his features barely distinguishable in the darkness of the street, was shaking his fist at me.

"'Ere now! Spyin' on my 'umble abode, are we? Be off wi' you, or I'll come down there and finish the job..."

I attempted to interrupt this rough speech, saying, "I haven't the least intention of spying on you, sir. I seek a friend who, I have reason to believe, may be one of your boarders."

"And wot friend might that be, eh? A toff like yourself waltzes up to me door at this time of night and expects me to believe 'e's got a friend expectin' 'im? Speak your business, lad, and do it sharp."

I was at a loss. I had no way of knowing whether Holmes had made his identity known to his landlord, or whether one of his many aliases served in this case. Seeing my hesitation, the old man laughed unpleasantly.

"See now? I know your little game, I do. Shove off and I'll be off to bed."

"He is a tall man," I cried desperately, seeing him begin to shut the window. "Thin, clean-shaven, and speaks like a gentleman. Do you have such a tenant?"

The descent of the window stopped. Leaning further out, the old man said suspiciously, "The chap you seek may or may not be familiar to me. I've a good many tenants, I have." He paused. "Is it some sort of emergency?"

"The matter is of great--I should say, of the utmost importance, my good man."

His eyes narrowed. "I'm not your good man," he said coldly. "But I will come down." The window slammed against the sill, and I was left briefly alone on the cold street.

Before many seconds had passed, I heard the clashing of many keys unlocking the front entryway. When the door finally creaked open, I stepped inside and was able to obtain a clearer impression of my host.

His back was bent so badly that I suspected a childhood illness had caused a severe spinal deformity. One shoulder slanted up into a small hump, while the other appeared perfectly normal. His hair was, as I have mentioned, long and grey, and his hands were covered by thick gloves. His face was wrinkled about the eyes, and obscured by a long grey beard that touched his breast when his head bent down. He immediately turned his back to me after having opened the door and shuffled to the fireplace to stoke the coals, the source of the light I'd seen earlier.

"Sit," he grunted. I did as I was told, sitting on the narrow cot that provided the room's only furniture, fairly bursting with anticipation.

"Now," he said, when the fire blazed enough to provide a little warmth. He turned to face me, his back to the light. "You, sir, will state your name, relation to, and business wi' my tenant, Mr. Sherlock 'Olmes."

"You do know him, then?" I felt utterly relieved, knowing I had not lost the great detective after all.

"Oh, yes, guv. I know 'im. Wot I've yet to determine is whether you do."

I was taken aback. I'd expected the difficulty to be in finding Holmes, not in proving our acquaintance once I had.

"I can only say, sir, that I am an intimate friend of Mr. Holmes, and that, while he does not expect me, I have every reason to think he will receive me once he knows that I am here."

"I see. Well, guv, I don't know quite 'ow to tell you, but Mr. 'Olmes 'asn't been much inclined to socializin' of late. Been in summat of a black mood. I'm afraid you'll 'ave to be more specific."

I was swiftly growing angry at this presumptuous little man who stood in the way of my seeing Holmes again. My sense of urgency intensified, as I knew all too well that Holmes's "black moods" were often tortuous, not to mention self-destructive. "Now, look here," I said, arising from the cot. "The matter I wish to discuss with Mr. Holmes is of a very personal nature. I would greatly appreciate your cooperation."

"I'm paid to cooperate wi' Mr. 'Olmes, sir. Not you."

I strode over to where the man was standing. "Here is a guinea," I said, offering him the money. "I have more, if you like. You shall receive it when you tell me where I can find Holmes."

The old man laughed. "And wot if," he said menacingly. "Wot if 'e don't want to see the likes of you, no matter 'ow...personal your affair 'appens to be? Mr. 'Olmes is a busy man."

"I know perfectly well he is a busy man, as I lived with him for years. Despite that fact, I must insist--"

"Oh, that's 'ow it is? You insist, do y'now? You talk as if you're the best of friends. Wot if you're the last person 'e wants to see?" the old man taunted.

"He shall be glad I'm here if you'll only bring me to him," I cried.

"Y'don't fool me, guv. Mr. 'Olmes left strict instructions--"

"He wants to see me, I assure you!"

"Don't be so sure!" the old man fairly screamed. "Mr. 'Olmes is an important man. 'E can't be bothered every time some 'alf-crippled doctor drops by for a chat. So, for the last time, tell me your business and I'll--" He stopped, seemingly overcome.

I shook my head in wonder. My own obtuseness never ceases to amaze me.

"All right," I said softly. "I understand. I shall tell you my business, and you shall tell Holmes. Tell him..." I struggled for words. "Tell him that I cannot explain myself or my actions." I was up against almost insurmountable odds, I knew, but I fought for a way to express myself truly. "Tell him that I know a mere apology could never begin to atone for the hurt I have caused him, but I do not know what else to do. I wish desperately that there were some test, some event whereby I could prove myself to him again, but I know of no such challenge. Not a day has gone by that I haven't been tormented--not as he has, I know," I added swiftly. "But tormented all the same. Tell him I would take all his suffering on myself if only I could. You must make him understand that I would gladly choose never to have been born rather than to have hurt him so badly. And tell him..." I grew slowly aware that my eyes were filling with tears, but I did not attempt to stem the tide. "Tell him I do not regret what occurred. I did--it would be foolish to pretend otherwise--but I do not, cannot regret it any longer. He means far, far too much to me, and I..." I was lost.

A gloved hand gently brushed away the moisture from my face. The old man sighed and stood up to his natural height. "I concede that you at least have earned an audience," said Holmes in his natural tenor. He then slipped the gloves off his hands, removed the false hair, and looked down on me calmly as he unfastened the straps of the prosthetic hump. Only a slight tremor in his usually rock-steady hands betrayed his agitation.

I could not help but laugh through my tears. "What the devil would you have done had you been dressed as yourself when I arrived?"

Holmes smiled. "The most expedient measure available would have been to throw a sheet over my head and tell you I was an elderly woman. You would have been convinced, I believe."

He was teasing me. There was hope. I tried again, my voice still embarrassingly unsteady. "Holmes, you must know how desperately I--"

He waved a graceful hand in front of my lips. "You already told me," he said gently. "My hearing, as I have remarked before, is abnormally acute." He cleared his throat, seemingly grasping for some semblance of normalcy. "Indeed, all the substance that you related so poetically I had deduced already."

"How on earth--" I exclaimed.

"Simplicity itself." He crossed slowly to a small cupboard by the bed and poured two small glasses of what appeared to be whiskey, talking all the while. As I waited for him to elaborate, as he had done so many times in the past, it suddenly struck me how very much I had missed him, and I wondered vaguely whether I would ever be able to leave him again when the time came.

"You left me three weeks and two days ago without so much as a word of goodbye, from which I understood clearly that you regretted not only our actions but our acquaintance in general." I started to protest, stung by his reminder of my heartlessness, but he continued mercilessly. "Your belongings were removed from our lodgings by hired strangers, leading me to conclude that you had entirely severed our long association, wishing never to see me more. I confirmed this hypothesis when I read of your marriage banns in the Times. The case seemed closed. Now surely you must admit, Doctor, when a man who obviously loathes the very thought of me seeks me out in an obscure location, the visit must be one of some import. I rather quickly ruled out the idea that you wanted to kill me. The only supposition left was then verified entirely by your speech--which," he added, his voice growing slightly thicker, "while I'd anticipated its contents, I did not in the least mind hearing." He sat down on the cot. "I should like to hear it again, in fact, if you would be so kind," he suggested, smiling slightly. "While my auditory faculty is impeccable, my memory has been somewhat--distracted--of late."

"Gladly," I cried. I sat down next to him as he handed me the glass. "I shall repeat it for you every day, if you'll allow me."

"That may not prove necessary," Holmes said. He sipped his drink. "And then again, it may."

"I've treated you abominably, I know," I said, looking down at the floor. I knew I could not face those eyes. Not yet. I was already beginning to recall how I had longed for them that night, how they had drawn me into the very soul of the most complicated man of my extensive acquaintance. "I have made terrible mistakes in the past few weeks."

"Undoubtedly," said Holmes smoothly. The casual observer would have thought him unconcerned, but I knew him to be burying a veritable emotional avalanche beneath his suave demeanor. "And your sudden return was precipitated by...?"

"I stumbled across an article about you in the Star. I grew rather desperate to see you again."

"I must drop a note of thanks to the press offices."

I smiled. Then a thought occurred to me. "Holmes, you nearly killed me."

"The flowerpot? I have flawless aim. I assure you that if I'd meant to kill you, you would be dead."

I took a deep breath. "You...do not wish me dead, then?" I prodded. In the depths of my misery, I hardly dared to pose the question.

We looked at each other directly for the first time. Some trick of the firelight gave me the impression Holmes had tears in his eyes. "Not for the wide world," he said softly.

I fought the new lump that was swiftly rising in my throat. "So the flowerpot served some ulterior motive."

"I was rather startled to hear what I thought was your knock. I could not see you clearly unless you stepped back into the light of the street lamp."

"Ah. A simple device."

"Yet effective."

"Indeed."

"Now that you have returned," said Holmes after a brief pause. "I should be curious to learn your intentions."

"Curious?"

He smiled a little shyly. "Exceedingly curious."

"I am at a loss," I said. "I wished only to make it clear to you that I know now how very, very wrong I was to leave you in such a manner."

"And now that your perspective on this matter has altered," he pressed, "have you reached any sort of fresh conclusion?"

"I feel terrible for what has occurred," I said slowly. "And I feel even more wretched now that I cannot possibly...make it up to you, other than in words." I blushed slightly. It had to be said. While it was true that in his presence I was beginning to realize I wanted him dangerously, he had to take into account the ghastly mistake that waited for me at home even as we spoke.

"Ah, yes," he drawled, rising abruptly. "Mary Elizabeth Watson, nee Morstan. You must send my regards. An admirable woman, as I have always maintained, although I must take the liberty of reminding you that members of the fair sex have their shortcomings. Tell me, which of her charms convinced you to forsake me? Her wit? Her warmth? Her sweet gentility? Could it have been her gender? Femininity is an admirable quality in a spouse, I must concede."

He wanted to hurt me, but seeing that he had, he added, with a flourish indicating his own person, "My paltry assets must have paled in comparison, especially...packaged as they are."

"No, no," I hastened to assure him. "You were so beautiful, and I stupidly--" I stopped. I was revealing too much already. But he had to know. "It was only the shock of it, the initial idea that--"

"Repulsed you?" he chuckled. "I must confess that the thought of what you are nightly doing to your wife repulses me in no small measure."

"Not nightly."

"No?" His dark brows tilted suspiciously. I had expected him to be morbidly curious and not a little jealous, and he had not disappointed me. Not knowing what else to say, I told him the truth.

"No. Not nightly, and not like you and I. Never like that."

"I suppose it would be anatomically unlikely."

"Damn it, Holmes, you know what I meant."

"Yes," he said, his mocking tone doing very little to hide the pain. "You meant that your wife, though gentle and good, has not entirely satisfied you, and additionally that, while I, in fact, have satisfied you, you are determined never to be intimate with me again, either for the sake of propriety, or morals, or your dead father, or your army chaplain, or possibly the Queen."

"Holmes, I--"

"Don't," he snapped. "I should prefer to be spared the logical fallacies about to stream forth in your attempt to make sense out of utter nonsense."

"I cannot simply--"

"Spare me," he pleaded. "Please." And then, very sadly, "A pretty hash you have made of it, Watson."

We were silent for some moments. "I know," I said softly.

Again, silence. Holmes made a show of stoking the dying embers of the fire, then drew out his pocket watch and ascertained the time.

"I am afraid this engrossing interview must be postponed," he said, rather shakily I thought. I noted for the first time how very thin he looked, his back to the fire, the shadows on the wall amplifying the length of his figure. "My attentions have been engaged elsewhere this evening."

"A case?" I asked, genuinely curious. Holmes's cases would never cease to intrigue me.

"Of course," he said in a tone of mock gallantry. "What siren but a case could wrest me from your side?"

I ignored his attempt to make me appear ridiculous. "May I be of any assistance?" I asked.

"Oh, well done," he laughed, opening what appeared to be the door to a small chamber adjacent to the front room. He entered, emerging a moment later in his usual black attire, overcoat slung over his arm. "You really do improve all the time, my dear fellow. You very nearly convinced me for a moment that I was not in love with you, that you were not repulsed by me, and that your wife was not waiting for you at home." He gazed at me coldly, drawing on gloves of black leather.

He was right. I had overstepped my newly delineated bounds. I no longer could claim the privilege of joining Holmes in his cases, laughing with him over dinner or a play, taking his arm as we walked down the rainy and slick streets of London. Every intimate look, every friendly smile, would only hurt him, reminding him of what he could not have. In that moment of realization, I knew--no, I felt--that if Holmes could not have my body, I would make him understand he had my soul. The sickening falling sensation I had experienced upon finding Baker Street empty made my every worry of losing Mary appear trivial.

"I am, and always shall be, at your service," I said simply. He would not believe me, but I knew it to be true.

"Your hyperbolic sentiments are admirable but preposterous."

I rose, walked the length of the room to approach him, and took his face in my hands. "There is not a place on this earth I would rather be than at your side."

He searched my face. "I am not made of stone, Watson," he whispered, his voice nearly breaking.

"No more am I," I said. "For God's sake, do not shut me out."

I kissed him gently, just on the corner of his mouth. He seemed for an eternally long moment to melt into me, shifting slightly to kiss me in return, both of us abandoning for the moment the impossibilities which surrounded us. When I at length opened my eyes, I caught sight of the angry little scar near the corner of his eye. I touched it gently. "Holmes, what happened?"

"That? Oh, nothing, it--a trifle." He covered my hand with his own. "I was merely--"

There was a brief but insistent knock at the door. Holmes grasped my hands briefly, then strode to the door and flung it open.

"Ah, gentlemen. Your timing is as impeccable as your detective work. Please do come in."

Two hearty and well-built Yard men hurried in from the cold, shutting the door behind them. The shorter and altogether smaller of the two I had seen during many of our cases, though we had never been introduced; the stockier man was a stranger to me. Both were in uniform and looked at Holmes with only slightly less awe than they would if my friend were God incarnate.

"Good evening, Mr. Holmes. Good evening, sir," said the smaller man.

"Mr. Bradstreet, Mr. Forsythe, may I present to you Dr. John Watson, my tentative friend and erstwhile biographer."

Though I glared at Holmes, there seemed no need, for his words were lost on the two inspectors. Bradstreet, the smaller man, approached quickly to shake my hand. "I've read your work, sir. It's a pleasure indeed to be formally introduced."

"The pleasure is mine," I assured him.

I shook the hand of Forsythe. "At your service," he said cordially.

"Shall we be on our way?" Holmes suggested. He started for the door.

"Mr. Holmes," said Bradstreet, "will Dr. Watson be accompanying us this evening?"

Holmes paused. "Dr. Watson may not be inclined to join us, as he has many other pressing demands on his valuable time."

The barb was not lost on me, but I replied warmly, "Rubbish, Holmes. I should be delighted."

"The case presents some physical difficulties but few grotesque features of interest."

I smiled. A dangerous mission, then. "I assure you that I would be most intrigued."

"All the intellectual work is over and done with. It is a commonplace, taxing little crime, not at all worthy of your attention."

Very dangerous. "I can only reiterate my intense interest in the matter."

His eyes narrowed. I knew Holmes was too private a man to argue in front of two Scotland Yard inspectors, and he could not very well flatly refuse me without drawing undue attention either.

"Very well," he said, his face unreadable. "I shall fill you in on the way. After you, gentlemen." Without a backward glance at me, he followed the relieved inspectors out the door.

I did not know whether Holmes would ever trust me the way he once had. I did know, however, that his love for me had always been intertwined with his love of detective work. Unless I was there to share the danger, tease the inspector, listen to the solution and admire the skill, his work meant far, far less to him.

His cases would be my portal back into his life, I thought determinedly. If only I had known how nearly this case alone would miss costing us both our lives.

1. Jack the Ripper. During the Ripper murders in Whitechapel from August to November 1888, a leather apron was found near the second murder site. It served as an initial nickname for the Ripper until the "Dear Boss" letter appeared in newspapers, signed Jack the Ripper. [Cress]