As a flash of lightning in the night shows up in an instant every detail of a wild landscape, so at one glance I seemed to see every possible result of such an action--the detection, the capture, the honoured career ending in irreparable failure and disgrace, my friend himself lying at the mercy of the odious Milverton.  --CHAS

The air still smelled of gunpowder after she had departed, and Watson stood for a moment frozen. Even Holmes had let go of him already and stepped away to quickly lock the other door. But Watson lingered behind the curtains, contemplating with awe the passionate hatred that the woman had displayed for Milverton. Watson had to steel his nerves to finally approach the body and confirm Milverton's demise, and even then he could not look upon the face that the murderess had crushed with her heel.

Meanwhile, Holmes's mind had worked faster than Watson's, and he had returned to the safe.

Once more, Watson detected the sound of distant doors opening--and footsteps approaching--a moment behind Holmes. It sounded as though the whole household was roused. Watson turned to Holmes with concern, not knowing what to do next.

Holmes merely pulled open the safe again and began to gather two armloads of the papers within. Then he fed the documents indiscriminately into the fire. Holmes went back for more.

Watson came forward to help him, for there still remained many packets of paper, and some were spilling out of Holmes's grasp as he hurried to empty the safe. Watson picked several up from the floor, but stopped as a name on one of the packets caught his eye. "Sherlock Holmes."

He paused. He recognised Milverton's handwriting from the calling card that Holmes had shown him at the beginning of the case. Watson stared, taking in the full inscription under the glaring electric light--"Sherlock Holmes to Dr. Watson, letter"--followed by the date "1891", and a question mark.

Holmes had meanwhile rapidly drained the contents of the safe, and he turned to take the last few packets from Watson's hands.

"No," he clutched them.

"Watson?" Holmes raised his eyebrow at Watson's refusal to give them up. He would have said more, but there came a pounding at the door then.

Someone tried to turn the handle outside, and several voices shouted for entry. Holmes leapt up, seeing one last letter upon Milverton's desk, mottled with blood, and tossed this into the fire too. He tried to take the letters from Watson again, but as the commotion grew beyond the door, he followed Watson to the other door and hurried out with him, locking it behind them.

They escaped through the passage and had not a moment to spare as the alarm quickly spread through the large house and grounds. For the moment, Holmes worried more about getting away unrecognised than about the unresolved papers in Watson's pocket. As they emerged from the veranda, several figures chased them at a dangerously close distance. They fled through the trees and to the garden wall, scaling it with some difficulty.

When Watson fell, Holmes pulled him to his feet and together they ran a further two miles through Hampstead Heath before stopping to catch their breaths and listen.

"All right?" Holmes panted, when he was certain they were alone.

Watson nodded, but looked at him strangely.

Holmes frowned, but could not yet form a complete sentence. Instead, he plucked off both their masks and pulled Watson along back to the main thoroughfare. Holmes hailed a hansom for them and ordered them home to Baker Street at last.

---

In their sitting-room, Holmes unloaded his burglary tools into his desk drawer and sighed to himself. He considered that it had been a most unexpected outcome to their evening, but fairly satisfactory in the end.

Except for Watson.

Holmes could understand Watson being in shock for a little bit, but he had never before reacted so oddly. It was puzzling behaviour.

Watson just stood silently now by the gasogene, consuming a drink to calm his nerves. Holmes came over to him and touched his shoulders. "How do you feel?" he murmured.

Watson did not reply verbally, just closing his eyes and exhaling. He put down his drink, and the tension slipped out of him as he allowed Holmes to massage him. It was intensely soothing, and they stood there together without speaking.

Holmes remembered the letters in Watson's pocket, but did not reach for them, knowing his limits. Instead he whispered, still caressing, "Shall you hand over the papers now, to burn them, as their rightful owners surely would wish us to?"

Watson took a long while to reply. "You can't," he said.

"What?"

Watson turned around to face Holmes and pulled himself back a pace from him. He glanced at the hearth and back, then shook his head. "You can't."

Holmes was about to laugh at what seemed to be the absurdity of Watson referring to the fact that the fire was unlit; however, Watson sharply turned from Holmes and departed for his bedroom, looking very exhausted.

Holmes frowned again, puzzled. He shook his head and went to his own room. This long, strange night would surely be less so in the morning.

---

The next morning, Lestrade came by to see them, reporting the violent murder in Hampstead the night before. Holmes kept his head, and his sense of humour, at Lestrade's misidentifying Milverton's killers as the two masked men seen escaping from the house that night. Holmes had no problem at all in declining the case.

As they both continued their breakfast after this dismissal, Holmes remained preoccupied by the question of identifying the true killer, if only for his own completeness of knowledge. Holmes forgot for the moment Watson's continued possession of the letters, instead searching in his thoughts for some recollection. Watson too remained silent for the rest of the morning, intently concentrating on those letters--or actually, on only one of them.

Over lunch, Holmes snapped out of his reverie at last and came up with the answer. He pulled Watson along to Oxford Street to see and recognise the woman from last night. Watson indeed was duly impressed by the identification, and Holmes walked with him back to Baker Street cheerfully.

"And if you do write this case up one day, you will exercise the utmost discretion for her sake, won't you?" he asked, smiling. Holmes ribbed him teasingly, "Unless you have forgotten how to exercise it, with those letters, my dear Watson?"

Watson did not respond in kind, muttering seriously as they walked, "We must talk about this at home."

Holmes frowned and stared at Watson with concentration, trying to discern what on earth had possessed him to retain the letters of complete strangers, let alone to behave this way.

They reached home at last, both very quiet as they ascended the stairs. In the sitting-room, Holmes sat down brusquely and folded his arms, waiting for some plausible and apologetic explanation to flow from Watson's lips.

After a moment of standing in hesitation, Watson went to his room and came back with the letters. He knelt on the floor by the fire, looking at Holmes nearby. Watson swallowed.

Holmes merely held out his hand for the letters.

Watson turned and tossed some of the packets into the fire.

Whatever strange mood had overtaken Watson, at least he was capable of doing the sensible thing at last, Holmes thought. He silently watched Watson continue to dispatch more packets to the fire. In fact, Watson burned all of them but one.

On the last packet Watson stopped, staring at it and fingering the strings that tied it. Finally, not looking up, he turned up the packet to let Holmes read the inscription.

The sharp involuntary gasp it elicited was all that Watson needed to hear. It was genuine.

Holmes sat up, pale and frowning. He looked as if he might soon be sick, so much was his prior composure thoroughly shaken. He could not even master his voice or the desperate desire to snatch the packet from Watson right then.

Still holding the letter, Watson raised his eyes to Holmes and observed his state in silence. Then he withdrew toward the fire with a look of pain in his eyes and turned, gazing into the flames. "What is this?" he whispered.

Holmes found his voice at last, albeit unsteadily. There was no use in denials. "A folly, a mistake--nothing more." Holmes came forward, kneeling beside Watson on the floor and imploring in a low tone, "You need only burn it, like all the others."

Watson shook his head, shutting his eyes. "What is this?" he repeated.

"Watson, I can't-- You don't--" Holmes shook his head, fighting for words that would not catch in his throat. "Nothing!" he insisted. "Nothing you'll want to know." He reached for Watson's arm, trying to urge him to release the document.

Watson shook Holmes off and stared at the letter in his lap.

After a time, Holmes tried again. "It ... doesn't belong to you," he spoke measuredly. "As a gentleman, you cannot deny my request to burn it." He pulled at Watson's sleeve. "You cannot keep it."

Watson concentrated stubbornly on the packet, fingering the ties and the seal. "It was addressed to me."

"It was never sent! It was not meant for your eyes, or for anyone's. I never even told Mycroft that he should expect to deliver a letter from me 'posthumously' to you. I changed my mind long before then. You cannot keep it," Holmes repeated.

Watson held it nearer to him, still shaking his head. He swallowed. "What does this mean? Why won't you let me read this letter, to me?"

"As you are a gentleman--" he pled.

Watson shut his eyes. "Why?!" he demanded. "Why? What have you kept from me? How long? What--" he spoke more to himself, really, "what on earth could this be?"

Holmes frowned, staring at the packet in Watson's hands. "It was only a draft," he murmured, touching the neat, crisp envelope curiously, "Something I'd crumpled up and thrown away, into the fire. Or so I thought. But there are blackmailers like Milverton everywhere, and perhaps some maid at that hotel was paid or coerced into regularly retrieving any possible incriminating articles from the rooms. Milverton told me that he'd bought the letter off of another blackmailer, another fellow who cautiously and jealously hoarded any opportunity for the right moment."

Holmes shook his head, sighing wearily."The opportunity was my false death, my dear Watson. Despite the two newspaper accounts of the events at Reichenbach, there remained a suspicion in many minds that I might be alive. This was further supported, my dear friend, by your habit of writing your tales of me as though I were alive. It was a habit that gave me pause each time I picked up a Strand magazine in those days."

Watson nodded, remembering that time when every month or so for two and a half years he would pen a tale for the public. Always Watson had had the eerie feeling of Holmes watching over him, so that he could not find it in his heart to speak of Holmes's death, even by casual reference.

Holmes continued. "In December of 1893, you at last confirmed my death to the public, but even then some underworld classes still relied on ... unofficial sources for the information that they believed. From the criminal gossip, a blackmailer could learn within a few months that I was alive and had returned--last spotted working with Scotland Yard again. But until my return made my suspected survival actually certain, this letter was only useful as a curiosity, a secret that you, Watson, might pay dearly to hush up if you were shown it, with a threat of its publication. In your grief, you might be desperate to save my name and memory from ruin. Of course, back then, your having a tempting enough cash flow for a blackmailer was not guaranteed, despite your success as an author, so the letter remained silently hoarded. Any reasonable blackmailer would anticipate more from the possibility of my mysterious brother Mycroft and his lofty position. Should some critical government decision come up, someone might pay to have an instrument with which to sway Mycroft's all-powerful decisions and recommendations. It would be political and somewhat risky, but any blackmailer has an eye for infinite possibilities."

Watson took all this in quietly, seeing the criminal mind once again through Holmes's eyes. He spoke with a dry throat. "But what, by heaven, is the secret in this letter? What dark thing would you keep from me all these years?"

Holmes remained unwilling to tell him, sitting back a bit from Watson. "Please," he shut his eyes. "It was so long ago; it makes no difference now. I'm back with you here, not dead at Reichenbach. In any case, my decision from then still stands; confession is pointless. It's wiser to leave it unsaid. It's no use--none. Please don't ask."

With hesitating silence, Watson still ran his fingers along the packet obsessively. "How does this fit into the case?" he asked finally. "Was there no Lady Eva?"

Holmes opened his eyes. "Of course there was! And hundreds more like her. You saw the anonymous woman whose own suffering drove her to come and kill him that night. You saw the sheer number of private documents in Milverton's safe. All number of guilty secrets holding countless people in fear. Did you or did you not agree with my action to burn every last one then, to free all those tormented souls?"

Watson nodded, with a measure of relief. "But Milverton was blackmailing you. When?"

A look of disgust crossed Holmes's face, not unlike that when he had compared Milverton to a reptile. "It was after our meeting in Baker Street. I was slowly formulating the method with which I would resolve Lady Eva's predicament. Milverton sent me another note, to meet him in private--specifically without you. I refused coming to his home in my own person, for my attentions toward Agatha had just begun then, so we finally found a neutral ground. Then, with his callous smile, Milverton revealed to me what he called 'a further incentive' for me to coax and help Lady Eva to find the money. He pulled a sheet from his pocket, read the first few lines to remind me, and then snatched it away, half drawing his pistol.

"He smiled at me. 'No, you'll not try the same thing on me twice, will you, Mr. Holmes? In any case, I am reading from a mere copy of the words. I have the original, in your handwriting, sealed and secured among my other papers.'

"Thereupon, Milverton smugly explained to me how he had obtained the letter and what his price for its retrieval might be--an incredible sum, or else my being 'available' for certain illegal services to him. That, I believe, was what he truly wanted--my grovelling to him. The entire interview was disgusting."

Watson sat shocked, absorbing this information with a frown.

Having won his sympathy, Holmes came nearer and tried softly again, "So you see, my dear Watson, it is only a private matter and a very unpleasant memory. Please, let us end the whole matter now--" He reached for the packet.

Watson reflexively held onto the letter and would not give in to Holmes's appeals for it.

"Please, my dear friend. You would not pain me by keeping it? Reading it? My dear--"

Watson shook his head, refusing Holmes's wounded glance with difficulty. He tried to explain, stammering, "But--but it's from your disappearance ... the days that I've longed to know about. When I wasn't with you--"

Neither of them could face the other then, each internally going back to that painful time that they had spent apart. Holmes was certain now that Watson did not really believe the story Holmes had told about his absence, nor the reasons he had given for it. Truthfully, Watson had every right not to believe any of it.

Holmes pulled again at Watson's arm, leaning close to whisper more softly. "Please. Please don't read it, my dear--" he struggled more and more with his voice. "I couldn't bear it--"

Watson half turned to Holmes, touching his hand in a comforting manner. He seemed for a moment inclined to give in to Holmes's request. Yet he looked at the packet again--the careful inscription and the seal. Watson shook his head, "I can't burn it--can't just destroy it!"

With a silent meeting of their eyes, they implored each other over the letter. Finally, Watson rose from the floor with the packet, going over to the desk by the wall. He opened a drawer and put the letter inside, locking it with a key.

Maybe, in time, one of them might change his mind. They walked away from it for the time being, Watson going into his bedroom and Holmes remaining in the sitting-room alone.

Holmes sat silently at the desk for several minutes. He knew that he could easily pick the lock; he knew that Watson probably knew that as well. Holmes shook his head at last and exited, to his own room.

Afterward, he and Watson did not speak of the packet or the case anymore, but Watson privately wrote and thought about both for several days.

---

One night, up late, Watson came back to the sitting-room and unlocked the drawer. He sat there, hesitating on opening the packet.

Holmes entered at the sound of his stirring and begged Watson not to, again. "Please."

Watson frowned and set his heart firmly against the pitiful look upon Holmes's face. Watson asked quietly, "What were you planning to happen that night that we burgled Milverton's house?" He held up the packet. "You deceived Agatha callously for this, to retrieve this? Would you have done the same, pursued the information so vigorously, had it been only for Lady Eva's sake?"

Holmes paled and sank into a chair, considerably wounded by the loss of Watson's trust. "I told you, I'd begun pursuing Aggie before Milverton brought this--"

"--But did it strengthen your resolve? Did it harden your heart against the thought that you might be wounding Aggie with your deception, that you might break her heart by disappearing after the burglary? If she had really preferred the other chap, she would have instantly got engaged to him, wouldn't she?"

"Watson--"

"Wouldn't she?"

There was only unanswerable silence.

Watson took a breath. "After all, haven't you been unkind to her, trampling her marital ambitions as callously as Milverton would have trampled Lady Eva's?" He bit his lip, "Surely Aggie knows that she's been deceived by now? The police have been looking for those two male suspects who got into the house on the 'fortuitous' occasion of Aggie locking up the dog for her fiancé's visit. A fiancé whom she'd known a surprisingly short time. They might have even accused her of not being an unknowing innocent in the affair!" Watson swallowed, his voice faint. "Have I let you compromise my conscience so much?"

Watson ran his hands over the packet again, remembering the letter mottled with blood. "And his killer--Milverton's executioner. Despite our not knowing that that woman would be there, was it really not criminal neglect for us not to stop her in the act, whatever our sympathies? I had thought of it as justice then, but now I can only think that you swayed me, while still thinking of your letter.... What would make you act this way? What would drive you to these lengths? Such callous disregard of feelings and even honour--"

Holmes closed his eyes and swallowed. His voice cracked. "--Callous?" Holmes focused on the one word, which he normally would not have resented from Watson. "I'm callous and murderously conspiring and corrupting you, and who knows what else you think I'm capable of? Callous, and not knowing the ramifications of my actions, and resulting heartaches and--?"

He did not continue, standing. Holmes went for a pad of paper and began writing. "Very well! Let me make restitution for one crime then... do aptly remorseful repair for my damages to one life!"

Holmes drafted a letter to Agatha, as Escott, reading it to Watson as he wrote:

Dearest Aggie,
My dearest, I'm sorry. I know I've no right to ask for your forgiveness, but as I'm a blessed fool, I'll try anyway. I can guess what you think of me, and I can tell you that it's true, in the main. But dammit, Aggie, I'm writing to you, ain't I, so doesn't that mean something? I know it looks like I cut out on you, and that I've been deceiving you from the start. Well, I was hired to come get some burgling information for a gent who said he wanted to get back something from Milverton--I didn't know how much! But I wasn't just merrily lying all the time to you, Aggie. I was awfully fond of you. I'm an idiot, but I wasn't an unfeeling git. Even dull old what's-his-name fell like a ruddy boulder for you from the start, and I'm no different. I didn't think you'd get me to do a daft thing like proposing to you, but you were so terribly tempting, and we had such talks those many nights! I never meant to hurt you, Aggie. I was thinking that when the burglary was over, that I'd come knock at your window and ask you to run away with me. I know, "That's fine to say now!" but it's still true. I didn't guess that things would turn violent, or I would have-- [he struck it out, repronouncing and rewriting] --of split before the gate. But before I knew it, there was the gent and old Milvie cornered, and the shots came, and I was running away like hell before you and all the rest came barging in to catch us! And I knew I'd get you in trouble if I tried to come back, and the gent was making damn well sure I wouldn't give him away. I'm still in hiding as you can see, Aggie. I'm going to wait for things to settle down with the police right now, or maybe they won't, and maybe you're still so angry that you'll show this to the police for them to sic their wild-eyed detectives on me to find me by my ink-stains or whatnot. Maybe I deserve getting sacked into gaol for how I treated you, and the bloody mess I've made of things. I don't know what will happen. But however this all turns out, I've just got to say it--I miss you terrible, Aggie.

Escott

Clearing his throat, Holmes then folded up the letter and put it away in his dressing-gown pocket. He muttered in his own voice again, "I'll copy it in a different hand and post it from some office in London tomorrow."

Coming near to Watson, Holmes knelt before his chair and tried to meet his eyes again. "Does that satisfy you? Does that mend anything?"

Watson sat silently. Holmes bit his lip in frustration at Watson's unyielding posture. There was something also in the weary way that Watson blinked open his eyes and glanced at Holmes, looking resigned and expectant to hear lies from him.

Holmes raised his voice resentfully. "Or will only the honest, brutal truth do? What do you want me to do? Go appear in my own person and tell her how she was a mere tool to me, and that I didn't think of sparing her heart, because it was for a greater cause? That I hurt her because I had a grievance with her employer? Should I have her slap me and curse me, and curse herself, for being a fool? Perhaps I should go confess to the police and take the blame for Milverton's murder, since you're convinced that's where the ultimate responsibility lies--"

Watson sat up and shook him. He grasped Holmes roughly and nearly slapped him, before regaining control over himself. Then Watson just looked at him sadly, frowning.

Holmes reached to take Watson's hands imploringly.

Watson relented enough to gently pat Holmes's hands in comfort, as he had the other night. Watson at last spoke, "I--I just don't know anymore ... how much I can trust you," he glanced at the letter in his lap, "if you must so strongly withhold this from me."

Holmes leaned closer against him, struggling. "Please, I need you to trust me. There are just some things that are better left unsaid, for the sake of peace, for discretion--" Holmes sat back, shrugging at his absurdity. Watson knew all this already; he continually practised this self-censorship in his writing. Holmes could have a victory in a rational argument, but that would be hollow if he did not have Watson's faith and trust. Holmes knelt silently, shaking his head.

Watson let go of Holmes and turned to the packet again. He took a breath, taking it up as he rose and went over toward the hearth. The fire was not lit this late at night, but that would be a small thing once he made his decision. Watson waited for Holmes to join him there. They stood together, hesitating. Not knowing if he could burn it or not, Watson sat upon the floor. Holmes followed suit.

Watson tried to explain to him. "There's a time period in your life that's a complete hole to me, a blank." He shivered involuntarily. "You told me that you went around the world, occupied with one thing after another. And all I could tell you in return was that I was here, in pain. Unable to stop thinking or writing of you. Convinced that at any moment it would stop, and it'd be just another ruse for a case, even though you had promised me that you'd never scare me like this again. When you came back I just celebrated your return and tried to forget how easy it seemed for you to just decide to walk away from me at a moment's notice. You told me that you'd tried to write me, but couldn't trust me to shield you--even though I'd been writing merry stories for two and a half years as if you were alive and well with me--and I ignored that too. Ignored it because you had read the depth of my pain in my last story of you; I'd broken down and could write no more merriness. You'd read it, and surely I could trust you to never, really never, do this to me again. But now..."

Watson shook his head, and found himself oddly laughing. "I'm happy. I'm happy because here I have proof that you tried to write me--you said you had, but as Escott states so eloquently, 'That's fine to say now!' I have proof that you paused in your travels and thought of me and needed to comfort me, to tell me some truth in exchange for the lie that you were dead. I have this and I wonder what it is you felt and had to say." Watson swallowed, the lightness dying in his voice. "I'm hurt that you won't let me have this. That you won't trust me with this secret of yours, alive or dead. I'm hurt because I don't know how much I can trust you back."

Holmes replied quietly, touching the letter in Watson's hand. "What do you want me to do? Hand it to you gladly? Eager to have you read what will only shock and dismay you? Rushing to horrify you, and ruin what little we have--"

Watson stopped him, pressing his hand. "Just tell me," he murmured. "If you'd have me burn it, I will. But tell me something of your secret. A crime? An indiscretion? A regrettable lapse of judgement? How is it that I don't know you as well as I thought I did? What is so terrible that Milverton's threat could be more than an empty boast against you, who's never had a regard for social or even legal approval? Give me some idea of what you meant to say."

Holmes looked at him in silence for some time. He remembered why it was that he had put it into writing--because he could not find the words to Watson's face. Holmes rose, pale. "I cannot stop you from reading it, if you wish," he said coldly, retreating behind the mask of offended dignity. "It's your choice. And it's my choice not to stay and watch the dissolution of our friendship." He paused, touching Watson's face as his voice softened. "Let me have one pleasant memory of you still, should the morning find that either you or I must leave here permanently before furious and painful words are exchanged." Holmes let go and returned to his bedroom.

Watson sat there, staring at the packet and mentally cursing Holmes for making him feel guilty. He was angry also that Holmes should assume that he knew Watson so well that he could predict his reaction as an inevitability. Watson sat arguing with his conscience about the invasion of privacy and with his heart about the lack of trust, still unable to open the letter. He paced around for a long time, wretched with indecision.

---

In his room, Holmes sat on his bed wearily. He was exhausted by the argument, but knew that he would not be able to sleep again. Thinking of Watson with his letter, Holmes was reminded of the one in his own pocket. Holmes looked at it, reading it again. He wondered if it would do any good, or only make the situation worse. Would the letter encourage Aggie to hold out futile hope for Escott's return, or fuel her anger with its confirmation of the fact that Escott deceived her? At the very least, could it comfort her by telling her that Escott had been partially sincere, and could it successfully free of her any police suspicion? Holmes decided that he did owe Agatha some attempt to mend her self-respect. She should be left in a strong and negotiable, rather than a jilted and vulnerable, position with respect to her other suitor--especially if, as Watson suggested, she did not really prefer him at all.

Holmes thought of that engagement. A stupid mistake if ever he'd made one! Too swift, and done haphazardly to suit the circumstances. He knew that Agatha had wanted it only partially to make her other fellow jealous; there had been some real feeling behind her insistence. Holmes could remember her surprise and enjoyment whenever his rakish flirtation seemed to sober up with his intense kisses.

Idiot. Holmes cursed himself again. There was a reason why he didn't tangle himself in romantic relationships, and he had no possible excuse for side-stepping his rationality this time, whatever the temptation. No excuse. No matter whom Agatha reminded him of, Holmes had no excuse for such equivocation and substitution. Not even her bright, familiar eyes, nor the way that she naughtily indulged in smoking his cigarettes. Holmes could still taste the impassioned kisses that he had given to Agatha, as he had struggled to pretend to her, and to himself, at the same time. He felt guilty for going as far as those kisses.

---

In the sitting-room, Watson stopped pacing and stared once more at the inscription on the packet. Watson still could not open it, but he finally felt that he could make a decision. He took a breath and put the letter in his dressing gown pocket, turning toward Holmes's room. Whatever Holmes would not yet willingly reveal to him, Watson was now resolved to tell him his own secret.

Knocking and opening the door, Watson found Holmes sitting up in bed, still awake. Looking unhappy and shaken. Expecting the worst.

Watson came to Holmes's bed slowly, sitting and leaning near him. "There's something I want to tell you."

"That you're leaving me?" he turned away.

"No. You're not the only one with something to confess." Watson reached over to make Holmes face him. "Look at me." He was startled to see the hunted, tired look in Holmes's eyes. Was there no way to comfort him? Or would this only make things more awkward and difficult? Frowning, Watson sought for where to begin. "I'm not so bad at keeping a secret myself, Holmes, even if you don't trust me to-- Look at me," he repeated, turning Holmes back once more. Watson took a breath, "You see, I love you."

Holmes closed his eyes. "As only a fr--" his words were cut off by Watson's kiss. Holmes froze. After a pause he finally moved again, but only enough to blink. The rest of him remained in shock.

How odd. Watson sat back and gazed at Holmes's stunned face, not certain if Holmes entirely comprehended what he had just done. "Holmes?"

Holmes backed away a bit, shaking his head and muttering to himself, "No. No, impossible--"

Watson came closer and touched him. "Do you understand what I'm saying?" He grasped Holmes by the shoulders and kissed him again, this time more firmly. Holmes gave a gasp, and Watson took the opportunity to penetrate his kiss deeper than the lips. Now there could be no mistaking him.

But Watson was surprised to feel what seemed to be a reciprocation from Holmes. An increasingly passionate, if breathless, response. Was he reading this right? Watson felt thin arms reaching to embrace him in return. Perhaps...

But then Holmes broke it off. He violently pushed Watson away and grimaced as though he felt disgusted and cheapened. Holmes retreated further against the headboard, closing his eyes and voicing fiercely, "No! I don't want this!"

Watson shut his eyes and swallowed. Well, that was clear enough. It served Watson right for getting caught up enough to believe that he had the slightest chance. "Very well," he whispered. "I just wanted you to know that no guilty revelation of yours could ever change my complete devotion to you." Watson shook his head, murmuring, "God knows I've tried changing it myself." He touched the space where his wedding band had been and bit his lip.

As Watson should have suspected that it would be, his decision had been entirely disastrous. Worst of all, Holmes didn't even begin to explain his own secret. Possibly he trusted Watson even less now, than before the kisses. After a difficult silence, Watson turned and pulled the letter from his pocket. He still had to know, and it could at least get his mind off of the mess that he'd just made of their friendship. With a heavy sigh, Watson began to open the packet.

Holmes turned at the sound, seeing him untie the packet. Holmes blinked with disbelief as Watson broke the seal. "You've--" he found his breath haltingly, "you've not read it?"

"No. Not yet." Watson paused and did not look up, frowning. "I really wanted to hear it from you."

"And--" Holmes continued in the same strange tone, "and your kiss--" He swallowed. "You meant it--you meant--"

"--I stupidly imagined for a moment that it might comfort you to hear my own confession, in return for yours! That it might make it easier for you to tell me whatever truth you hid, if you only knew..." Watson blinked his eyes clear of the tears, "how I feel."

Holmes sat up, coming across the bed quickly and touching Watson.

He shivered, pulling away and looking aside.

"Watson!"

"I won't be patronised!" He turned his attention with determination upon the letter again, clumsily ripping up the envelope in the process.

"But I--" Holmes shook his head. He shrugged and softly laughed, closing his eyes at the absurdity. "Read it, then. Gladly. Happily. Read it all, my dear Watson."

Watson stopped to look up and gaze at Holmes for a moment in bewilderment and uncertainty. Then he removed and unfolded the letter.

The sheets had been crumpled and partially burnt, but painstakingly smoothed out for legibility. The date at the top had been crossed out and replaced several times. It reminded Watson of how he himself changed the dates and references within his own manuscripts, prior to publication. He recalled Holmes speaking of sending it 'posthumously'. It appeared as if Holmes had been searching for an appropriate time setting prior to Reichenbach. The letter was written in an uncertain, much revised scrawl most unlike Holmes's usual handwriting. But it was undoubtedly his.

My dear Watson,
my dearest friend and companion, where are you now? I am trying to picture you as I write, not certain yet when I will ask Mycroft to send you this. Perhaps I shouldn't, and I have given you a great too many shocks already. Yet I wish so much to speak to you once more, and tell you the whole truth at last. I must somehow make you understand, you who knew me more than anyone did.
      This is irrational. I am striving for my life, treading the thin wire of safety afforded to any enemy of Moriarty and his network. I should be concentrating my energies there, but all I can think of at all is you, my dear Watson. How I miss you. How I need to see you again. Most confounding are the long nights, waking up and being unable to sleep again for recalling how you used to sleep next door to me. I know that you're at home with your wife almost continually now. And of course you should be. If she needs you there more, then what right have I to intrude again with my cases, which are merely your hobby?
      I laugh at myself now for having believed that you might stay with me. I am not usually one for blind optimism or wishful thinking. But then, you are the one person who makes me irrational, and so completely at a loss. I don't know how to explain why. I love your voice. I love your laughter. I love your amazingly romantic notions and opinions. I love your gentleness--your occasional anger is only a concern for my health or a rightful response to my abuse of your affection. I do regret any pain I have ever caused you; you did not deserve any of my frustration.
      When did it begin? There was a time that you wrestled me down to the floor, because I'd called you a dreamy-eyed author in need of some outside exercise; I realised then how very much I did not want to get up again from your arms. I never thought to find myself experiencing such an intensely unreasonable reaction. Nor thought that the memory of it would linger so stubbornly. I cannot shake this need for your touch, no matter how much I know that I cannot hope for it. Not from you, whose affection for me has always been innocent, seemly, and straightforward. Is it a mortal sin then, my dear Watson? A heinous crime, to wonder how your kiss would feel? I cannot argue this with you; I haven't been able to argue it with myself all these long years. I only know that I wake up nights and need you. Too much.
      When we were alone and bachelors together, I imagined that there might be a warmth between us which would develop in time. You might flirt with the occasional female, but you seemed devoted to me. When you married, I tried to be accepting and reasonable, but I could never be long in her company, no matter how much I had liked her before she was your wife. I have been selfish, demanding so much of your time since you came home to me. They are only brief visits, I know, but these rooms never feel complete without you here. I cannot stop thinking of you.

The letter was incomplete, and there was no signature. Watson set it down slowly.

He looked up at Holmes, turning to meet his gaze. "You thought that I was pretending, for your sake? Faking that kiss?"

Holmes sighed, blinking and nodding. "Or else I should have had to believe that you possessed amazing acting skills, to hide this from me all those years." Holmes shrugged with self-deprecating laughter. "It appears that I have been blind after all."

"And you call me unobservant!"

Holmes stroked Watson's arm softly, with a wistful smile. "Why not you intending to be comforting? You've been ... exceptionally kind to me before. And you thought that I was patronising you."

"Well, after your reaction--!" Watson shook his head and blushed. He backed Holmes up to the headboard again. "Misunderstandings can happen," he whispered, leaning close.

Holmes nodded, shutting his eyes. "I didn't want mere pretence, or your mercy." He caught his breath as Watson pressed against his cheek. "Only you."

Watson kissed him again, and slid into a most welcome embrace. "You must promise me two things," he murmured, smiling.

"What?" Holmes breathed back.

"You shall never withhold anything from me again."

"Gladly," he said a trifle too quickly for Watson to believe him. "At least my emotions." Holmes merely glossed over Watson's raised eyebrow with a mischievous grin. "And?"

"And," Watson laughed nonetheless, "instead of Norbury, I shall whisper to you Hampstead."

Holmes chuckled heartily, then silently, meeting Watson's kiss.