The world misconceives Holmes as an unemotional man, yet I cannot fault
the world for this. Sherlock Holmes is a master of
disguise
in matters not only physical, and he of all men is most keenly
cognisant of the blinders upon the tack of
humankind. What
he wants the world to see, it will. As for the rest, dear
readers, you must accept my word or go bereft.
The inner Holmes cannot be known through sight or voice; those protean
traits are under the strict rein of their master and comport themselves
entirely according to his fancy. The true Holmes is revealed
in
covert ways, to senses of much more subtle distinction. He
may be
felt as the taut lines of his body quiver beneath my touch or
soften to the silent behest of my patient tongue.
He may be sensed the hot flush of blood as it races to places beyond
even his volition to control and in the thrill of his pulse as his
heart finally eases back to its resting pace underneath the weight of
my sweaty cheek recovering upon his chest. I can taste that
Holmes in the air of our most private moments close together.
He
saturates my nose, my pores; he fills my mouth every bit as fully as he
fills my heart.
The world will never know the heady scent of him and how it thickens
after we make love, nor the senseless words that spew forth from him as
body unhinges from brain on the threshold of imminent
release.
The word will never know the sweet weight of him hard and eager in my
hand, nor the vestigial reflex by which the softest nibble of lips on
nape may render the great detective a great puddle of pliant flesh and
me a willing slave to do his bidding.
The world will never know these things, and so history will continue to
record only that of him which Holmes wishes it to perceive.
Should I become of a mind to do so, I suppose I could unmask this
dissemblance by way of my humble recordings--but I will not.
The world will never know Holmes as I do, and that suits me entirely
fine.