They laughed like naughty schoolboys, driving on through the night. Watson kept teasing him about his ridiculous goatee and his accent. Holmes raised his eyebrows at the way that Watson sped the car, but nevertheless complimented him on his able control of the vehicle as they drove toward London. All the while, Von Bork scowled from the backseat of the Ford and endured their patriotic boasting about England and their earlier adventures in her service.
If Mrs. Hudson could have seen them now, she would swear them not to be men of about sixty, but college lads, fresh and overconfident with adolescent virility.
It had been a good night. The solemn and tense anticipation had preoccupied them for most of the evening, but the taste of good wine and the wind flying by their open windows had brightened the previously sombre mood of their conversation. They were now carefree and exhilarated by their triumph. Watson, quite against his usual modesty, even enjoyed showing off a bit with the car since Holmes fully appreciated his skill, through his cover as a motor expert and spy.
They rolled into London and brought their prisoner to Scotland Yard. Upstairs in the offices, Holmes had some consultation with the inspectors, and then made a phone call. Soon some dour-looking agents of His Majesty's government arrived to take official custody of Von Bork's papers. These agents were quite mysterious, talking in low voices and showing their identifications only to the necessary officials. The last of the Tokay was discreetly shared with the Yard inspectors, who toasted Holmes's excursion out of retirement, but these humourless agents declined the offer.
As they left, Watson began to ask Holmes who the sombre agents were, but then his old discretion kicked in and he said nothing, starting the engine.
Holmes, yawning and smiling at him, spoke easily to Watson's thoughts nonetheless, "Truly no one illustrious for your tales, my dear Watson. Exalted, but dull as hell. I'd introduce you, if they were anything more than glorified pencil-pushers."
He laughed, "Wouldn't that be a breach of protocol?"
"I am now quite through with any protocol that excludes you."
Watson blushed at the odd compliment. He recalled Holmes's earlier complaints about how the British government had dared to express reservations about Holmes's instinct to send for Watson in the end. Reservations that Holmes had got around, though, without endangering the mission. Holmes could pull off anything, it seemed.
They drove leisurely through town, careful to manoeuvre amongst the odd mix of horses and automobiles. Finally Watson found a place to park, pulling up slowly. "Cox and Co., you said?"
"Yes, Watson. If you'll just wait here, I shan't be but a moment, my dear." Holmes popped out of the Ford so quickly that Watson never heard him murmur his name afterward, although of course he surely must have. For all Holmes's strident tones, he could be quite faint sometimes.
Watson felt an itch at his ear and gave an involuntary shiver. He realised that it was a fragment of memory. That night in Stoke Moran as they had slipped into the darkness of the room, Holmes had cupped Watson's ear to speak with the slightest of breaths. Strange how such tiny memories could persist. It must be the vividness of their chilling expedition in that death-trap of a room. It had been their first vigil in all of Holmes's cases.
Holmes returned from cashing his cheque then, smiling and popping back into the car beside him. Watson couldn't help brushing his goatee again; it just looked so silly. Holmes chuckled and seemed to blush just a fraction. "I'm tempted to keep it. You can't seem to keep your hands off me." He brushed his hand across Watson's shoulder in return. "Come now, we've got to get going before people stare. Onward."
Watson duly headed the car back out into the traffic, not bothering to notice the lingering of Holmes's touch. "Baker Street?" he asked.
Holmes nodded, laughing. It was an instinct to them both. They drove on and then parked before Camden House, sitting and gazing fondly at their old rooms for some time.
When they had done recalling the capture of Moran inside Camden House, Watson noticed the time. "We should hurry on," Watson said, starting the engine again. "To think that it took a war in Europe to get you to finally come spend the night at my home!" he shook his head.
"Yet I should hate to rouse your household at this hour, Watson. I've kept you out quite late."
"It's fine. There's not much household left since my wife passed, as you know."
Holmes nodded, then sat up a bit. "I do have an appointment to keep with Mycroft, though, and if you wouldn't object, we might both linger in London for the night."
"At Mycroft's?"
"Yes, we'll find most pleasant accommodations there. I hope you'll enjoy them, too. You're getting most particular about your bed. I can see it in your back."
"My back?"
"Yes, the rheumatism isn't striking only me, apparently." He rubbed Watson's shoulders and found just the right place.
Watson laughed with surprise. To think that Holmes could tell just by his back, and that he could find the right places so easily!
They continued toward Pall Mall, when Holmes abruptly spoke up, "Stop here a moment, Watson."
He pulled up the car again. "What's this?"
Holmes patted him reassuringly, "I'll be right back." Again he popped out of the car and entered some building.
Watson thought about asking Holmes whether he'd mind spending any of that cashed cheque on petrol. This was certainly a very roundabout night. They had whiled away a few hours, and Holmes had yet to explain what he'd said to Watson's earlier query, on the terrace, "And are you back permanently? Fully retired to your bees now?"
"That ... depends. On our talks, later." Holmes's eyes had narrowed, and he'd repeated in his puzzling manner, "This may be the last quiet talk we shall have."
Watson suspected that Holmes meant to go again in service to England, depending on how the war fared. Or would he seclude himself back in Sussex, with the rarest word or contact for Watson again? In speaking of the future, Holmes would only talk of England in general, not himself in particular. It worried Watson.
Watson was especially saddened since they had so easily become close again. Holmes had even got this silly, suggestive banter going again. Funny, it had been so long that Watson had forgotten this nuance to their relations, yet Holmes could bring it back as though he had never retired in the first place and the years had not passed.
What was the last thing Holmes had said to Watson back then? "I'm for Sussex, then. No, no, don't worry for me. It's entirely voluntary. Be off with you back to your wife, before she begins to wonder about you." The tone of his voice had made Watson blush guiltily--as if they had done anything at all.
(These were the sorts of things that Watson couldn't write in his tales, lest they be taken the wrong way in print. Their occasional letters to each other had been quite chaste as well. Only contact in person seemed to bring about this teasing.)
Evidently, Holmes was intent on saying something beyond all these odd hints tonight, yet also intent on postponing it.
Holmes finally returned, carrying some parcel. Getting in, he revealed it to be a wine bottle. "We shall endeavour to rouse Mycroft to share a toast with us. The occasion is certainly worthy, is it not? The greatest service ever performed for England!" he smiled. He tapped Watson lightly. "Come, let's hurry to Pall Mall, the faster to let you collapse exhausted into bed, my dear chauffeur."
Watson chuckled. "We've dawdled quite a bit. Will we be welcome at this time of night?"
"Whom am I to impose upon if not family? Besides, I wish to indulge you with the particularly satisfying and familiar accommodations we'll find there."
"Familiar?"
"Oh yes, they'll be quite familiar. You wondered how and why Mycroft restored my rooms so well after the arson? He had a complete replica already. Not, of course, as a sentimental shrine to myself, but as per my instructions for emergencies. You can sleep in a false bed for one night, can't you, Watson? If I'm there to make it less false?"
"Certainly." Watson realised that he hadn't asked about petrol, but they were near their destination anyway. There were so many things that Watson never did ask, always waiting for Holmes's prompting.
They drew up to Mycroft's residence and Holmes led the way up to the door, knocking.
The butler answered. "Hello? Why," he squinted, "Mr. Sherlock, is it you?"
Holmes grinned and presented Watson behind him.
"Come in, sirs, come in!" He nodded to them both. He took their coats apologetically. "You are expected and your room is ready, sir, but we need a few minutes for Dr. Watson--"
Holmes interrupted, "Never mind that. We are not in the mood for sleep yet." He raised the wine bottle. "Is my brother up for a toast to a well-concluded adventure? Ah, no of course, we both know Mycroft's railroad-straight habits." He handed over the bottle, "Will you be so good as to chill this and show Watson to the parlour to wait? I shall go up and personally see about rousing Mycroft off his tracks tonight."
He jauntily headed upstairs before either of them could respond.
Mycroft sat awake in bed by the time that his brother knocked and entered. He frowned in surprise. "Sherlock? I informed you to go straight to bed if you arrived very late. Was there some mishap?"
"No, everything went quite smoothly."
"Excellent. The mission is successfully concluded."
He chuckled, bowing mock-arrogantly. "Two years of my life that His Majesty's government should be grateful for."
Mycroft caught the barb meant for him and responded in kind. "We do appreciate your services, if not your impositions upon us at late hours."
Sherlock ambled up and leaned at the bedpost. "Always obliging," he smiled.
Mycroft shifted. "But come now. I perceive you have something else to tell me. Yet I asked for no extensive report from you tonight. Your recovered papers are now securely locked at the required office, and will be minutely examined tomorrow. What can matter tonight?" He soon answered his own question. "You've brought him, haven't you?"
Sherlock nodded. "I'd not do otherwise," he said quietly.
Mycroft abandoned attempting to imply once again Watson's security risks; they both knew it was not really Watson's discretion that they questioned.
Sherlock continued. "Shall you come downstairs and have a toast with us? Welcome the chap who's cheerfully driven all night, without question, also in England's service?"
"You may give him my appreciation for his services, but I can really only be disrupted so far in one night." Mycroft eyed his brother carefully. "And as for what you have not broached yet, where do you mean him to be sleeping tonight?"
"In a bed of course. You are in no shortage of guest rooms."
"Yet the pair you want," Mycroft continued in the guarded tone, "may be beyond my conscience to give to you. I don't think you want to relinquish his company for some time yet."
"What I relinquish is his choice, not mine," he murmured. He laughed dismissively, "Really, all I want is to give him the second-best comfort to sleeping in Baker Street. Come, will you tolerate two boarders under your roof for one night, or shall we move on at his undeserved inconvenience?"
Mycroft slid back under his bedcovers with a sigh, rolling over. "Tell your doctor that I shall be prepared to hear him tell of Von Bork's capture over breakfast tomorrow, but not now."
Thus was he dismissed.
Holmes came downstairs again, entering the parlour as Watson thanked the butler for the ice bucket and glasses.
"You can forget the third glass," he called out. "Despite the occasion, my brother does not deign to descend tonight, and only shoos us to my usual rooms. You need not trouble yourself further, my good man."
The butler bowed to retire, but Watson spoke up anxiously. "Is he annoyed at our intrusiveness? Perhaps we ought to have found rooms at a hotel."
Holmes chuckled. "Can you imagine our reception at a hotel in the middle of the night without any bags, Watson? We received questioning looks in Stoke Moran in broad daylight, even with the excuse of being builders unexpectedly detained to see to repairs!"
This good-natured ribbing drew a smile even from the butler who hesitated in the doorway.
"No, Watson," Holmes continued, "this is one of my 'five small refuges in London', as you put it, unknown at least until you informed the public that I had a brother in Pall Mall. All the more reason to use it now unexpectedly after years of disuse!"
Taking up the bucket and glasses, he steered Watson out the door. "Let me show you to your chambers, my dear doctor."
With that, the butler closed the parlour door after them and parted ways from them, toward the servants' quarters again. Really, that Mr. Sherlock had a daring sense of humour!
Holmes led Watson up the stairs with all the manner and command as if it were his own house.
The butler shook his head, smiling. Secure and confident bravado!
Holmes explained, as he handed the glasses over for a moment to find his keys, "They are a replica of my bedroom and our sitting-room. Adjoining. They are periodically aired out and dusted, but otherwise undisturbed by anyone but myself." He opened the door and gestured Watson in ahead of him. "There you are, my first visitor to my private sanctuary," he smiled.
Watson stepped in and took in the full detail of the reproduction, amazed. He virtually tiptoed about, as though touring a museum exhibit. He walked all around the sitting-room in awe, lingering here and there to gaze at the ingenuity of its approximations for unique items.
Holmes shut the door and set down the bucket upon a table as he went to light the fire in the hearth. "You may have the bed, my dear doctor," he commented, "and we'll see what I may do for your rheumatism."
"Hmm?" Watson merely nodded, wandering into the bedroom still in a distracted state. He as yet held the glasses absently. "Marvellous," he muttered under his breath.
Holmes smiled and followed him in with the bucket. "May I conclude that you like the rooms?"
"Oh yes!" Watson chuckled, stopping at the bed to look at the space behind the head, where he'd hidden years ago in the affair of Culverton Smith. The duplication was quite thorough!
Holmes took the glasses back from Watson and set them down on the table with the bucket. He then took some spare pillows and blankets from a closet. "I'll just make my bed out upon the sofa, and then we'll have some toasts with the wine before we get too sleepy tonight."
Watson nodded and examined an old dressing gown, which he'd thought had disappeared, but instead lingered here upon a chair. "Like going back in time," he said to himself. He absently sat down, opening and pouring the wine.
Holmes returned and took up a glass, raising an eyebrow. "Are you all right, my dear fellow?"
Watson sighed and smiled. "A bit overwhelmed, I suppose," he sipped, sinking back into the cushions.
"Perhaps I've worn you out, old man, and you're too sleepy?" Holmes tapped the dressing-gown. "You may have that tonight; I'm afraid I have no better sleeping clothes for you, having never bothered to equip this place with items other than for myself," he shrugged, turning away.
Watson stopped him from withdrawing, and touched his hand. "Ah no, stay awhile more. Let me see you here." He gazed at Holmes in the surroundings with a happy satisfaction. "All these years, and you look the same as ever, save for the grey--and that ridiculous goatee!" he laughed.
He blushed. "I would shave it now if I trusted myself to a razor in this intoxicated state!"
Watson nodded. "We're both a little light-headed since that drive, I think. --But I'm exhilarated by this wonderful night!" he voiced with enthusiasm. He played his fingers upon Holmes's wrist and grinned. "Tell me, I am welcome in this house, aren't I? You seemed somehow presumptuous in your manner, but I can never tell about your relations with your brother."
"My dear fellow, he says he shall hear your account of our adventure at breakfast," Holmes assured, smiling. "He's only irritable without sleep." After a pause, he released Watson's grasp finally to take up his wine glass again, sipping it.
Watson also drank and began playing with the folds of the dressing-gown, thinking to himself that he had meant to ask Holmes about something, but could not remember it. With a sigh he set down his glass a moment and sat up, rubbing at his shoulder.
"Your rheumatism?"
Watson nodded.
"Here, let me." He also set down his drink, and Watson shifted around in the chair. Holmes knelt somewhat awkwardly to level himself with Watson, and his touch was more successful at tickling than at relieving Watson.
Watson giggled, shaking his head as he pulled away. "Isn't it grand, how relentlessly our age does catch up to us and make our every movement awkward!" He rose from the chair, sighing. "Our enfeebled selves could do with some room, I think."
Watson strolled over to the bed and sat down upon it, feeling its mattress curiously with his hands. "Hmm. Might as well try it out." He slipped off his shoes and then leaned back upon propped pillows against the headboard. "Ah, that's nice." He looked about him and smiled at Holmes. "How odd a view one gets from here, the heart of the room. I feel I've usurped your place!"
Holmes perched on the arm of the chair, looking wistful. "So long as you're comfortable," he answered warmly.
Watson smiled back even more brightly, sitting up to say something inspired by that look, but a yawn caught him.
"You're weary," Holmes rose to go. "I'll leave you till morning."
Watson frowned, postponing again the naughty line which began, "I'd be more comfortable if--", and said instead, "Ah, and with the morning we shall only wake up old men again! No, stay, give me my drink. Let's prolong the night, and our youth."
Holmes brought over their glasses, gazing at Watson questioningly, "A toast?"
"Oh yes!" he remembered, taking his drink. "Why do you not tell me when I'm dawdling with my old age? Why do I enjoy being with you again, if your discipline doesn't keep me young?"
"You are always young, truly," Holmes murmured, blinking. Then they raised their glasses together.
"To England."
"To England."
"To dear friends."
"Indeed."
They drank and smiled, savouring both the wine and each other's glance. At Holmes's continued standing, Watson patted the bed beside him, insisting, "Don't the joints bend any more?"
Holmes sat and smiled. "What is wine for, if not the loosening of joints?"
Watson sighed, enjoying himself. "Well, shall you recount to me Altamont's history in detail, or is that bearded gentleman still classified information?" He couldn't help brushing Holmes's goatee again as he spoke.
"I thought you preferred me clean-shaven," he blushed.
"I do. I'm thinking about how I shall shave it off you tomorrow. You'll permit me, won't you?"
"Certainly." It took a moment before they recalled the thread of the conversation. Holmes rose to pace and gesture. "Well, where shall I begin? You're the storyteller after all. Perhaps the visit of the Foreign Secretary?"
Watson chuckled. "If it's government secrets, you'll have to whisper, lest you be heard." He pulled Holmes down beside him again.
Holmes whispered, leaning near, "If I whisper, shall you still hear me? Are the old man's ears what they used to be?" He laughed.
Watson leaned closer too, whispering back into his ear. "Are yours?"
Holmes caught his breath for a moment and nearly spilled his drink. He withdrew a bit and set down his glass on the night-stand.
Watson sat near Holmes still, watching him. With another itch of the ear, Watson recalled another snatch of memory. Lying in bed in Birlstone, and waking to the sound of Holmes, strangely smelling of moat water, whispering to him, "Are you afraid to sleep in the same room as a madman...?"
Holmes had been a bit giddy then, as they were both now.
Now. "Holmes?" he said softly.
"A spasm of my rheumatism, I think," he murmured, flexing his joints. "How's yours?"
"Fine." Watson put down his own glass and grasped Holmes's hand with his own, to stop him. He couldn't come up with a light-hearted quip to add, though. He frowned in the strange silence, forming yet another question that he wasn't sure he would actually ask.
Clearing his throat, Holmes rose and went to the mantle for his pipe. "Feel like a smoke, Watson?" He reached for his matches.
"No." He watched Holmes for a moment, then looked down at his hands, still thinking of that question. Watson fingered the empty place on his finger that his wedding ring had occupied.
Holmes drew on his pipe, frowning. "You're tired? It's been a long night. I should go and let you get to bed."
Watson swallowed, watching Holmes blow out a cloud of smoke and walk over to re-cork the wine. "I am in bed," Watson answered.
"Yes," he said. "And would you like the dressing-gown as well?" Holmes went to retrieve it.
"Your dressing-gown," he took a breath. "Your bed."
"Very--very observant," Holmes shrugged slowly. He cracked a smile, "You're not superstitious, are you? If you won't take the bed, there's the sofa, or we may even see what other guestrooms Mycroft has free. They won't be familiar, but I'll accommodate you any way you wish."
Watson did not respond, and Holmes merely lay the dressing-gown on the bed and turned to go. "Good-night, then."
"You said--" Watson interrupted as Holmes came to the door, "you said, familiar."
Holmes stood hesitating.
Watson met Holmes's eyes, his brows drawn together. "My bed would be familiar, but yours--" Watson shook his head. Abruptly, he laughed at recalling the phrase, "I'm very particular about my bed!" His smile remained as he continued, "You said I'd sleep in a false bed if you were there to make it less false. If you were there--how?"
Holmes blinked, blushing distinctly. "Why, having a drink of course. Just now." His glance wavered and he turned his pipe in his hand.
"Nothing more?" he pressed.
"No," Holmes said quietly. "What else could you think I'd do?"
Watson hesitated, looking down at his hands again. He shrugged. "Perhaps you'd ... help me with my ... rheumatism."
Holmes looked up. "Rheumatism?"
Watson did not see Holmes's concerned frown, preoccupied with his own blush at his words. "If--I mean, if you'd stay..."
Holmes came back from the door and put aside his pipe. "Yes, of course, if you want. Is it ... right here?" He'd sat down by Watson again and began to rub his shoulder as before.
Watson smiled, seeing that he'd been taken literally. He chuckled. "Yes, just the right spot!" Watson sat back into his touch, wondering a little if Holmes in fact was taking him altogether literally. He formed his next question carefully, "And, your rheumatism--wouldn't the sofa be unfair to you?" He remembered the many nights they had shared a bedroom before, always taking care that there were two beds. "Surely for tonight there'd be no harm ... in sharing this bed?"
Holmes didn't speak for some moments. They both were at the disadvantage of not being face to face to judge each other's glance. "It ... has room," he said tentatively. His voice dropped lower, "I won't do more than you ask."
Watson turned and advanced towards Holmes a moment, but finally chickened out, feeling unsteady and dizzy. He looked away instead and lay down on his side, frowning and staring at nothing. He bit his lip and asked, "What did you mean--'our last quiet talk'? Are you leaving me again?"
"No," Holmes shook his head. "No, not at all. I meant--" He sat back against the headboard and took a breath, then plunged in. "We've had this flirtation for years," Holmes stated flatly. "You've been aware, very aware all this time. Although at some points I've had trouble believing how you could be aware and just--"
Turning to watch him, Watson could detect the momentary tremor in Holmes's breath. Watson felt distinctly guilty about that awareness part.
Holmes continued, looking aside, "I've made you perfectly aware, and it's always been your choice what you wanted of us. I've respected that you let things be. Flirtation was one thing, but your traditional sense of morality might not handle much more without difficulty." He shook his head, "Questions of sin aside, we would have had little practical opportunity to start anything, in the constant company of so many police inspectors. It was entirely rational to let things be then, but--" His eyes closed. "These years--feeling myself age ... without you," he sighed wistfully. Then he resumed, "If I changed my mind and wanted you to settle us after all, to hear you say plainly that you would never ever let me..." He shook his head, "If I demanded this, and you only refused me of course--and worse still, could not speak again casually of this, could not see me again or be near me--I would lose all that I had left of you. Lose all for nothing--just what I really knew already."
Watson lay there, watching Holmes and catching his own breath.
Holmes swallowed and opened his eyes slowly, blinking and looking elsewhere. He shook his head and forced an unconvincing laugh. "Ridiculous, isn't it?" He took a breath, rising. "I'll go, then."
Watson stopped him, holding him to the bed. Moving nearer, touching his face, he turned Holmes to meet his eyes at last. "I ... haven't refused you yet."
In the long, silent pause, Watson pulled Holmes down to lay beside him. "What was it you said, about letting me collapse exhausted into bed?" he whispered.
Holmes finally answered. "This isn't about rheumatism, is it?"
Watson replied with a kiss.