THE
SIGN
OF CHANGE
by
Katie
Chapter 3
"Cut out the poetry, my dear fellow. Tell them the whole business or nothing at all."
And so, because according to my notes Sherlock Holmes is right so very
often, I will this once follow his literary advice.
The Scotland Yarders had
arrived in Whitechapel by cab, but
they sent it on its way when Holmes informed them that our destination
lay but five minutes down the street from his lair. His shoulders
betrayed a stiffness as we walked which I set down initially as nerves,
but a glance at his face as he gazed at the officers in front of us
proved it to be a sort of thwarted annoyance. The expression warmed my
spirits, for it appeared to indicate that he had been as avid to speak
to me again as I to him. Merely striding down the grimy road side by
side seemed all at once an undeserved blessing.
"Holmes, how came you to discover that Steele had been embezzling
funds?" I asked softly, for we were well out of earshot of our
companions several yards ahead.
He shot a glance in my direction and replied, "It is not very
intriguing, I am afraid. They are hardly the sort of imbecilic roughs
over whom I'd normally spend any time. Burroughs hit upon the notion of
skillfully altering cheques drawn upon the bank to read as between ten
and fifty pounds more than they indicated when received. The
banker--who was Steele in many cases--then pocketed the difference as
notes, to be deposited in another establishment; they were instructed
only to do so when the client was a big enough rake, or cad, or
gambler, or any other sort of rogue that they often required large sums
and paid little mind to where such sums went."
"It seems a very risky undertaking."
"It was a preposterous undertaking, considering that Sir Nicholas
Grange is both a dedicated drunkard and a mathematical savant," he
smiled. "The only work in the business was in determining who precisely
was involved in the scheme. Three bankers, and Burroughs, who is a
violent little devil with aspirations of criminal empire-building. He
has exceeded his sphere. He is no more capable of reigning over hordes
of ne'er-do-wells than he is of colonizing Tibet."
I smiled at him, hoping only that Holmes took half the pleasure in
relating the case to me as I did in the hearing of it. "There was money
in it, no doubt?"
"I suppose there could have been. My rates do not vary without
significant cause. There," he added, pointing. "That is the tavern in
question."
"Who was your client?"
"Sir Nicholas himself. He has depleted half our brandy decanter."
Holmes reddened slightly at the outdated possessive pronoun and set his
lips stoically.
"Why on earth did you accept such a pedestrian affair?" I hastened to
ask.
"Because, my dear Doctor, I'd just ended a pedestrian affair of another
variety entirely which made me loath to pass my idle hours recumbent
upon my sofa. Perhaps you imagine I would have spent my time better
reflecting on the mysteries of existence, or composing melancholy
little airs on the violin."
"My dear fellow--" I began softly, but he stopped me with a cold eye.
"I have never heard of you questioning the wisdom of accepting a case
before. We both seem to be skirting the outer limits of our typical
behavior. However, as you will be gratified to learn, my dear Watson, I
appear possessed of some variety of failsafe mechanism which prevents
me from partaking of enough cocaine to damage a man. Although I fear a
rabbit, or even perhaps a small elephant would not be safe."
"Holmes--"
"I needed a case," he ended flatly, waving a hand to indicate the
conversation had reached it zenith. "What case I took on had less to do
with interest than with timing. The chemist was beginning to favor me
with questioning looks."
The idea that I had encouraged--nay, precipitated--the very habit which
I had deplored so long for its damaging effects upon the great friend
of my life rendered me entirely speechless. We strode the last few
yards to our destination in silence.
When we arrived at the threshold of an exceedingly disreputable pub
with the standard of a noble white stag emblazoned across its facade,
Holmes paused just within the heavy door of the tavern to glance back
at the three of us. The inspectors stood expectantly, while I listened
with eyes averted in a vain ploy to make the Yard men believe I had
heard their plans before.
"Burroughs is our only cause for concern, gentlemen, and should you
encounter him, I advise the utmost caution."
"You are certain he is here?"
"Entirely. I should be delighted if you, Bradstreet and Forsythe, see
to any other members of the gang who dare to show their faces in public
at so early a juncture." He paused, his gaze riveted to a burly fellow
with copious mutton-chops and cruel, squinting brown eyes. "You may
want to begin with Carter just there at the end of the bar. Of course,
Dr. Watson, you recognize him from our reconnaissance last Thursday."
"Of course, Holmes," I replied, annoyed he had realized so quickly what
I was doing.
"Well, then." He smiled briefly, clapping me upon the back in an ever
so slightly satirical show of esteem. "To business."
Holmes pulled me into a corner and lowered his face to my ear. "We must
act as quickly as possible," my friend said softly. "The longer we are
here, the greater chance that Burroughs will somehow be warned off.
There is an enclosed yard behind this bar, which I intend to search.
You go upstairs and ascertain that he is not in one of the first floor
rooms; he is a short fellow, blond, with a rather appalling scar
running from nose to mouth. I will see you in a few minutes."
I hastened up the stairs and tried the first door, which proved to be a
lumber room. The second was a bedroom, empty, and the third a storage
area for various bar supplies. When I put my hand to the final door,
which was marked as an office, I found it to be locked. I immediately
made an effort to force it, but it had been so securely barred that I
succeeded only in aggravating my shoulder. There was a small slot for
the insertion of correspondence, however, and kneeling down, I peered
through it.
I saw a man, fair-haired, also kneeling, with the butt of a rifle
against his shoulder and the muzzle trained out the window.
In an instant, I was flying down the stairs. I careened outside
heedless of caution, knowing only that Holmes was about to be ambushed
by a fiend who had no reason to hesitate once his quarry entered into
his sight. Once I
laid eyes on my friend's familiar form, I waited for no sign from our
enemy--I simply dove towards him with all my strength, knocking him to
the cobblestones just as I heard a retort from the rifle whiz past my
own ear.
Holding Holmes to the ground, I thought to drag us both back inside. I
thought to turn around and shoot Burroughs where he crouched. I thought
any number of things.
"Doctor."
The familiar term, almost one of endearment though once removed from
familiarity, brought me back to reality.
"Yes, Holmes?"
"While your weight upon my person is not unwelcome, I rather fear he
has hit me."
"How could he--oh, dear God, Holmes--" I saw that he was right. While
the bullet had narrowly missed my head, it had succeeded in clipping
Holmes in the arm.
"Watson, we are hardly safe in the open," Holmes rasped, then in an
instant he rolled the two of us behind some discarded wine casks,
though he could not avoid a sharp gasp when his arm hit the cold stones.
"Holmes, lie still."
"How the devil did you do that?" he demanded, the quirk of a smile at
the corner of his mouth.
"There is a mail slot in the door of the office from which he is
attempting to kill us," I replied, digging in the inner pocket of
Holmes's greatcoat and extracting his handkerchief. Using our combined
linens to form a compress, I put it gently to my friend's arm and
watched as the blood seeped through it in moments. I had nothing with
which to stem the tide but the two scraps of cloth and my own hand,
which I pressed over the wound. His blood flowed around my fingers,
warm and wet, and there was nothing I could do to stop it. "I couldn't
get the door down, but--"
"Doctor."
Something in his tone stopped me. It reflected a state of mind that I
do not believe Holmes had ever experienced before. If he had, I
certainly had not been witness to it. Yes, he had suffered frustrated
passions and dashed hopes, much to my bitter regret. Yes, the only
person he had seen fit to cherish had discarded him like so much
wastepaper: of interest once, but now no more. Yes, he was heartbroken.
But none of that accounted for the bewilderment obscuring his grey gaze.
"Doctor."
"What the devil do you want, Holmes? I am trying to--"
"Doctor, you are crying. I mean to say," he added, "Watson--please
don't. You needn't worry."
I cast a hand to my cheek, in an effort to deny Holmes's ridiculous
assertion. To my dismay, I found that he was not wrong. I could proffer
no reply.
"My dear Watson--"
Another shot rang out.
"This is growing intolerable," I stated through clenched teeth.
"I could not agree more," he assented. Whatever feelings he was
experiencing, he had buried them once more under his habitual
nonchalance. "However, the good inspectors have certainly divined the
problem by now. They are not over-bright, I fear, but they must surely
have sensed something amiss. Provided the two of them combined can get
the door open--"
At that moment, a muffled cry from the window arrested our attention.
Holmes rose to his feet cautiously, and I with him, my hand still
clutching his arm.
"Come, Watson," said he, his expression unreadable. He returned inside
the light and noise of the tavern, and I followed at his heels.
"I am afraid that is all I can tell you," Holmes said for perhaps the
third time.
Bradstreet sighed. "I know it is taxing, Mr. Holmes, but we must take a
complete statement in order to bring charges against Burroughs. We all
know how you ferreted him out, asked Forsythe and myself to accompany
you, and were attacked in the back mews. But how did--"
"Dr. Watson searched upstairs for the wretch, as I had taken the
anterior yard for his most likely hiding place," Holmes replied in
exceedingly terse language. "He saw Burroughs drawing aim through a
mail slot, and very charmingly determined to prevent my incipient
death. Dr. Watson is known for his bravery. He has a gallant streak of
which I fear I have not broken him, no matter what effort I expend."
I glared at him. Holmes, whose "gallant streak" I knew to be equal to
if not far worse than my own, spoke in such an inexplicably bitter tone
that the inspector merely nodded and closed his notebook.
"Well, all seems in order, Mr. Holmes. We are in your debt. I don't
think, scratched up as you are, we need keep you any--"
"You cannot possibly know how glad I am to hear it."
"If you would care to--"
"Thank you, Bradstreet," Holmes called cordially, already halfway out
the door.
I swiftly pursued him, nodding to the inspector on my way out. I caught
him up just as he was hailing a cab outside the Leman Street Police
Station.
"I will share your cab," I stated.
"With what object in mind, may I ask?" Holmes returned impatiently, and
then he all at once mastered his own cynicism. "Here, my dear fellow,
let me give thanks where thanks are extravagantly due: I am grateful
that you sought me out, informed me very affectionately of your
continuing regard, assisted in my commission, and saved my life.
However, the role which you are likely to play in my life henceforth
has certainly been discharged, at least for one evening."
I stared back at him stubbornly. I am never near as formidable as
Holmes under ordinary circumstances, but these were no ordinary
circumstances. My eyes drifting to where his arm still seeped blood
from beneath its hasty bandaging, I knew my role was nowhere near
discharged.
"I am going home with you.'
"I imagine you mean Baker Street. We ought not to tax Mrs. Watson's
sensibilities with fresh blood at so late an hour."
"You imagine correctly," I replied coldly, grateful that my anger could
so effectively mask my chagrin. "I intend to patch you up so that so
that none of your acquaintance need assume without cause that I have,
of late, been fleeing your company."
Holmes' answering glare was daunting, but he soon buried it beneath
weary neutrality. "I have little enough notion of what your wife will
think, as it is already one in the morning," he shrugged. "I am
returning to Baker Street. You are welcome to come along. In any event,
the movers neglected your tin dispatch-box. It was in my desk, after
all."
He alighted the hansom, and I, after a hesitant pause, followed suit.
"Stop it, Holmes."
He made as if to light a cigarette at his bedside oil lamp, leaning so
far over that my own work became quite impossible.
"Holmes, I appreciate your love of tobacco, but will you please let me
finish?"
"My apologies, Doctor," he replied. "One would think you had never
suffered a motile patient before."
"Oh, for God's sake," I retorted, then, abandoning all pretense at
kindness, drove the needle through its fifth stitch.
"I hardly know why you insisted on escorting me home."
"You need a doctor."
"You are not the only doctor in existence."
"No, but I am the only one who will suffer you without exacting a fee."
Holmes rolled his eyes up to the ceiling at this, but made no further
protest. For a few minutes, all was silence save the crackling fire in
his room.
"You have been running your head into danger, haven't you?" I queried
softly.
"Whatever do you mean?"
"You've a cut above your eye and a tremendous bruise on your left
shoulder."
"I had a couple of slightly perilous matters to attend to, yes."
"What on earth did you think you were--'
"My career did not cease simply because you ceased caring about it."
Only Sherlock Holmes could deliver a jab of icy pain so swiftly and
seemingly without effort.
"I do care about it," I said, pausing to position the needle more
carefully. "I certainly care about it when it threatens your life."
"My life is not so very precious to me as you might think."
"I can see that," I whispered. "But you must have a care nonetheless."
"You sound like my brother Mycroft."
"Small wonder. We both love you."
He sighed despondently. "Watson?"
"Yes?"
"What are you doing here?"
Holmes's mood, already distressing, had darkened considerably at the
sight of our old rooms, and he had commenced at once tormenting the
former flatmate who no longer saw fit to occupy them. Sitting there
upon his bed, whilst infamous faces stared down at me from his walls, I
had no ready answer for him. The reply, "I wish to be here," did not
appear to me to be adequate.
"Dr. John Hamish Watson."
"Yes?" I replied again, unable to deny so very many names at once.
"I asked you a question."
"So you did," I sighed.
"I wonder if you would mind very much taking the time to answer me. You
love your wife, you see. I'm afraid you told me so. So I will ask you
once more: what are you doing here?"
"I am here because I wish to see you well."
"Rather self-indulgent to assume your own presence will assure that
result, isn't it?" he asked coolly, blowing his smoke toward the
ceiling and away from my face as I finished the suture and tied a neat
knot.
"I had thought that you esteemed my presence as you did no other."
He smiled in spite of himself. "Perhaps I led you to that belief."
"Without a doubt, you gave me the distinct impression I was unique."
"Did I?" he asked casually. "You never heard me talk of Victor Trevor?"
I had been washing my instruments in the blood-spattered bowl when this
astonishingly incongruous comment reached my ears.
"Not in that manner."
"Never?" he mused, his hand draped languidly over the edge of the
bedclothes. "Perhaps I didn't. Still, you cannot blame me for
discretion."
"You had a relationship with him at university, then?"
"We certainly did pursue a very intriguing course of study together,
yes."
Something about Holmes's words caused my ears to burn inexplicably. I
dropped the tools of my trade in the shallow basin.
"Did you love him?" I cannot imagine the reason for, nor attempt to
excuse, the anger which had crept into my voice.
"I do not see that it is any of your business."
"I am your biographer," I retorted coldly. "I am meant to have an
interest in your life's more significant events."
"No," Holmes sighed, his thoughtful eyes on his cigarette. "No, I don't
suppose I did. But there were certain points about that fellow...he had
the most versatile tongue."
"Holmes," I protested. I was, I will freely confess, momentarily
shocked at not merely his salacious revelation, but his candor.
"No, really. It was a most remarkable appendage. Of course, there were
other parts of his anatomy which were no less admirable. I seem to
recall heaping praises on--"
"Holmes, I've no wish to hear this!" I growled, rising from where I had
been seated on his bed and consigning my instruments and the
bloodstained water to the floor.
"Of course you do not wish to hear it. You are not a fellow-sufferer of
my unfortunate affliction."
"I will not presume to argue with you, but surely you have not
forgotten what we--"
"Then is it truly so very difficult, Doctor?" he queried sardonically.
He took a sadistic relish in the question. "Surely you did not imagine
you were the first."
I believe my eyes closed involuntarily. "I have no notion of what I
thought."
"Even if I did not tell you, you could easily have deduced it from the
data I furnished you. I flatter myself that one does not grow so
accomplished at oral ministration without a deal of practice."
"On Victor Trevor?" I snarled in return. Without my consent, my mind
flew back to the night I had shared with Holmes, and a pleasurable ache
began to spread through my groin.
"On others as well, but often enough, yes, on Victor Trevor. Practicing
on Trevor never did grow tedious. Of course, we did not neglect other
areas of investigation. You and I, my dear Doctor, have never, nor are
we very likely to at this late lamented juncture, perform some of the
acts which Trevor and I worked out between us."
"You did absolutely everything, then?" I had a feeling as if something
very small and very sharp was burning a hole in my chest.
"I think it is safe to say that there is no act so repellent and
depraved that we did not give it due consideration, yes."
His eyes were gleaming wickedly at me, and a cruel smile tugged at his
thin-lipped, sensitive mouth. He wore nothing but his trousers, the arm
holding his cigarette draped over a drawn-up knee, and I was at once
seized with a passionate desire to divest him of those as well.
Through an inexplicably dry throat I ventured, "I am a married man now,
Holmes. Why are you telling me this?"
"I merely thought it would interest you," he shrugged. "After all, you
are an old friend, and you've only very recently learned my secret. I
am regaling you with tales of the life of an invert. Which for me began
just prior to, but ultimately peaked at, Victor Trevor."
"I advise you to stop reminiscing, Holmes," said I, quietly, but I fear
it did little good.
"We went about it quite scientifically, you see, though he was as hale
as any sportsman and I was obliged to curtail his enthusiasm on
occasion. The best technique, you see, is to begin with a single
finger, and slowly, with the application of other digits, eventually
work your way to--"
It astonished me as much as it did him, I am sure. One instant, he was
lecturing me with that clipped, easy tone he used to speak of cigar ash
and bicycle tires, and the next I had thrown him on his back and was
straddling him, pinioning his wrists together above his head and taking
an obscene delight in watching his face distort at the pain in his arm.
I had hurt him. I was glad of it.
"Go on with what you were saying."
He gasped as I swung to the side, keeping one hand still at his wrists,
the other beginning to tear off his trousers. Holmes is far stronger
than I am, but he made no effort to resist me. "One encounters
obstacles only initially, of course. Once the desired entry is
accomplished, there are various positions to consider."
"That is very interesting," I stated, spitting into my hand. Holmes's
beautiful eyes grew very large at this gesture and his lips parted
silently. "Pray continue."
He drew a deep, slow breath. "Where was I?"
"You were discoursing upon positioning."
"Of course. There are various postures which can afford a wide range of
sensations. But even beyond positioning there is the possibility of
variety. There is the wide arena of simultaneous techniques, such as
concurrent penetration and oral stimu--Jesus Christ, Watson," he gasped.
"Like this?"
"Yes, exactly like that," he moaned. "Watson, for the love of God stop
this."
"Why? I seem to be doing it correctly."
He gave a shuddering sigh and grasped me by the hair. "Watson, I was
trying to make you angry."
"Well, you have."
"Oh, God.... Watson.... This isn't what I want from you."
"That statement goes rather against the data you are furnishing."
"You know the way I--Christ!" His eyelids fluttered. "I don't want you
because you are angry. I am not twenty years old, damn you. I want more
from you than a roll in the hay.... No, no, no, no, no...."
"I adore you," I snapped, continuing my efforts. "I should have thought
you'd have worked that out by now. You are supposed to be an
intelligent man. Indeed, from what you tell me of university, you spent
your time in relentless study."
"Trevor--"
"If you say that name again, so help me God--" I growled at him,
flipping him over onto his stomach.
He gave a low moan at the sound of my belt unfastening. "He was nothing
compared to you. He was only an affair. We ended it, and I was
perfectly all right afterwards. I am afraid if, when taken as a sample,
you have just seen me at my best from these last few weeks. Watson,
when you left me, I--"
"Stop talking," I ordered, and then I rendered Sherlock Holmes
absolutely speechless.
I must confess, though at the time I was not knowledgeable enough to
know why Holmes was writhing in incoherent ecstasies beneath me,
gasping and cursing to himself, I had never experienced such an erotic
moment in my life. We were in such a heightened state that it was over
for both of us relatively quickly, though I think it was Holmes's
tremulous cry which sent me over the edge. I collapsed onto his back
and wrapped my arms entirely around his still-shaking form.
It may have been two or three minutes before a sound like a stifled sob
beneath me drew my attention to the fact that Holmes's tremors were
only increasing. I turned him around in utter astonishment.
He was laughing. Laughing freely, without any sign of
self-consciousness, trying not to move in any way which would
discomfort his arm.
"That is not the reaction for which I was hoping," I ventured at length.
"I am just pondering, Watson."
I was fast losing my patience. "Pondering what, Holmes?"
"I am just working out whether to tell you something," he confessed at
length, his laughter having lessened into manageable little gasps.
"You can tell me anything."
"Oh, yes?" he demanded, one eyebrow raised as it always was when he had
backed me into a logical corner from which I could imagine no escape.
"I am unsure whether it would disquiet you to know how very many times,
for very many years, I imagined that last event taking place."
It was my turn to laugh out loud. "So very many times, with the exact
same particulars?" I teased him.
"Well, of course, certain particulars, as well as the chronology of
said particulars, differed according to my whim," he smiled.
"Oh, Holmes," I returned.
"You don't object?" he asked. There was an urgent intensity in his
unsettled gaze which mystified me. I was momentarily surprised that
Sherlock Holmes would deign to ask a question to which he already knew
the answer. My response was obvious. If I had just done what I had done
without any sign of shame--
I at once stopped cold in my musings. For despite my best intentions, I
realized, I had expressed love to him before, and had acted abominably
thereafter. I also recognized, somewhat belatedly, that I had no wish
to lie to Sherlock Holmes ever again, no matter how trivial the
question. So I considered the matter--visibly, as I knew my most
stringent attempts at subtlety would be visible to Holmes.
"Not in the slightest," I answered. I had the additional satisfaction
of knowing it to be true.
Holmes smiled gently. He was running his hand over my arm in an absent,
careless rhythm.
"I cannot imagine it is very comfortable, though."
He looked at me quizzically for a moment, then his brow cleared. "No, I
should not call it comfortable. With you, I call it divine." He pulled
me closer into him. "You're welcome to try it, you know. I would never
dream of hurting you. But you're going to have to ask me. It is not the
sort of thing one generally springs on a gentlemen."
"Holmes, I am very sorry if--"
"Hush," he grinned. "I would not be exaggerating if I said you may have
me at any time, and however you like."
Peering into his smoky eyes, our limbs still entangled and our faces
flushed, a thought occurred to me. "It seems a little absurd,
considering what I have just done to you, to call you Holmes, but I
simply cannot see myself referring to you as Sherlock."
"Thank God. An unlooked-for blessing. I shall continue to only suffer
it from Mycroft, in that case."
I smiled. "His is every bit as unusual."
"Yes, but he is not nearly so sensitive to aesthetics," Holmes
chuckled. "What of you, then? Shall I call you John? John is a
wonderful name." He traced the line of my jaw with his finger.
"As you like," I shrugged.
"No, I don't think I shall," he murmured. "You have always been my dear
Watson, and my dear Watson you shall stay."
He stifled a yawn and sat up. His black hair was all disheveled, his
pale torso somehow both muscled and undernourished. He was breathtaking.
"Hadn't you better be getting back to your marital obligations?" he
asked, though without the despairing bitterness of before.
"She told me to stay if you needed me."
"Did she?" Holmes laughed. "How marvelous. Of course, she is a very
generous woman. I quite liked her before you--" He stopped himself. "So
you are to stay if I need you. That is most convenient, for I do need
you. In fact, I am very likely to need you tomorrow as well."
"Is that so?"
"Yes, it is."
"After tomorrow, are you at all likely to make further impositions upon
my calendar?"
"Never fear. I shall let you know when I can manage without you."
"Do you anticipate that date occurring anytime soon?" I queried
hesitantly.
"No. I do love nothing in the world so well as you," he said simply.
"Is not that strange?"
My eyes filled with tears and then I laughed again in spite of myself
as I recalled the lines following his sentiment. "As strange as the
thing I know not. I think--oh, it has been years--it were as possible
to say that I love nothing in the world as well as you."
"But you confess nothing," he finished.
"Nor I deny nothing."
"Do not swear, and eat it."
"Never fear for that," I replied, and then I kissed him harder and
sweeter than I had ever kissed any lover, male or female, in my
lifetime, and I flatter myself that I can express myself more deeply
with my tongue than with my pen.
"Watson," Holmes said at length when I at last allowed him to draw
breath, "I am afraid you really must leave."
I sat up, pained at his words though they were spoken kindly. "If you
do not want me here--"
"My dear boy," he said gently, running his fingers through my hair,
"you don't live here anymore."
I swallowed hard. "I do believe you delight in tormenting me. If you
are still determined to punish me, I cannot blame you, but--"
He shook his head at once. "Nothing of the kind, my dear fellow. But
this is a serious matter. Your wife is very good to you, but if she
ever suspected us, we could suffer exceedingly grave consequences."
I must have looked altogether stricken at this practical reminder of
the mess I had landed us in, for Holmes added hectoringly, "Besides,
though my brother imagines me rich, I am not a wealthy man, and my
rooms recently doubled in price. I cannot afford to share my bed
gratis. Now, get out of it."
"I've got a fiver in my pocket," I replied, kissing him again.
"Not good enough."
"I'll stop by the bank tomorrow."
"Watson, I am ejecting you from my private property. You are leaving.
Fetch your things."
I could only look at him. I felt like weeping, or breaking something,
or doing any manner of unmanly things, so deep was my frustration.
Holmes gazed back at me, and slowly his own eyes dimmed. "I must be
cruel only to be kind," he whispered. "Go have a wash, my dear Doctor.
And then out. I have a gun. And a riding crop."
"You are quite terrifying."
"I am aware of the fact. Now, get to it."
I did have a wash, and it took me far longer than usual. When I
returned to Holmes's room, he had thrown his purple dressing gown over
his shoulders, and his chiseled face in the flickering firelight was
almost more than I could stand.
"Ready?" he said cheerily. He took me by the hand and led me to the
door. Holmes was a fine actor. He always has been.
As we passed the little table to the right of his door, I stopped cold
at the sight of one of his syringes.
"Holmes," I said, grasping it, "there'll be no more of this, will
there?"
"I should say not," he smiled. Then slowly, he murmured, "Provided you
come back."
"What do I have to do to convince you I love you desperately?"
He was lounging in the doorframe with an open dressing gown, lean and
impossibly elegant. "I cannot tell you. I do not think there is any
empirical test."
I tilted my face up and kissed him.
"Now do you believe me?"
"That was too brief to provide sufficient data."
I leaned in again, but stopped when his finger touched my lips.
"Not today," he sighed. "Tomorrow. Convince me tomorrow."
"And if I can't convince you tomorrow?"
"Then you are just going to have to keep trying."
I shuddered briefly and steeled myself for the cold cab ride home.
"Goodnight, Holmes. You are quite certain about the cocaine?"
Holmes favored me with the look he had always bestowed on me when he
had imagined I would work something out on my own, and then was
pleasantly disappointed.
"I hardly think I shall need it," he smiled. "You are my cocaine, my
dear fellow." He turned back into his bedroom and shut the door behind
him.
I left Baker Street that night a changed man--for better or for worse,
I could not say. I have not the wisdom to pass judgment, nor the
effrontery to try. I was not a braver man, for I said nothing to my
wife when I arrived home, nor indeed did the noble lady ask me, save to
ascertain once more if my closest friend was safe and hale. But I will
say, though it can only be expressed by this admirable language in a
slightly awkward syntax: I left a truer man. After that night, I no
longer made any effort to hide my own character from myself, though the
simple sight of my face in the mirror was at times enough to bring a
stab of guilt to my breast at what I had done not only to Mary, not
only to Holmes, but to myself. I brought myself much pain admittedly,
and though I swore never to do so again, I likely visited some of that
pain upon Holmes. Indeed, though I loved him as I did my own flesh, my
self-candor at length led to remarkable consequences.
But that is a tale for another time.