"What do you think of sodomy, Watson?"
Holmes was seated in his armchair as I entered, draped obliquely with one leg curled beneath him and a book resting broken-backed over one of the chair's arms. The neatly-combed back of his dark head was toward me, and he did not look up to speak. That he had not broken his fast was evident from the pristine table. He had been restless and reticent for several days, and I assumed that he had a case in hand--this was fairly early in our relationship, before Holmes considered me a partner in the enterprise. I had shared only the more remarkable exploits, while he saw to the lesser ones without my interference.
"I scarcely think about it at all, Holmes," I answered cautiously as I took my seat and poured my coffee. Considering topics he had introduced in the past at the breakfast table, I was not particularly surprised by this one.
"But as a medical man. You must have some opinion on unnatural crime as a disorder."
I considered. "Well then--I rather doubt that the more obvious cases--those revolting, affected exhibitionists like your journalist friend who slithers up here upon occasion--are the majority of those afflicted, if that is the word. I've met a few stout fellows in the army who later aroused pretty fierce scandals--good soldiers, too--and one must assume much goes undetected. But I suppose in either case it does indicate a weakness or flaw of character, if not an organic or acquired defect of the brain."
With a sigh he turned so that he faced me and frowned at me contemplatively. His face was tired and pinched crossly about the eyes. "It is the illogic of the thing that irks me," he said irritably.
I waited expectantly, munching toast.
"I am not much given to religion," he continued after a moment, in a sudden rush, "in the absence of reliable data one way or the other--though of course it is rather beyond my jurisdiction to rule on the existence of God in any case. But it would seem to me that the greatest argument in favour of His existence is that a great deal of the material plane is given over to things which are not absolutely necessary to brute life, and that we are given senses and faculties to appreciate them." He spoke very rapidly. "I mean music, Watson, or the scent and colour of a rose--or even the sympathy that can exist between two relative strangers in a moment of trouble. These are extras, things not vital to nourishment or the procreation of life. They can be considered gifts.
"And--love. Love, they say, is the greatest of all gifts granted to us by a beneficent Creator--or at least an ambiguous one. Does a dog chasing a bitch feel love, Watson? Or the birds bursting with song in the spring? I doubt it. It is a special token of favour in the eyes of a supreme being--if any."
I had begun to listen with increasing attention and dawning apprehension. Holmes speaking of love and religion was enough of an oddity in itself to arouse concern without his singularly nervous and agitated manner. He was almost stammering.
"And yet," he continued, springing up and beginning to pace across the room and back, "if one being loves another for the pure sake of that being--for the sake of love itself and having nothing to do with bestial, primitive procreation--it becomes not a thing of exceptional beauty--though the ancient Greeks valued it as such--but an unspeakable sin and a reviled crime, at least in our homeland. Where is the logic in that? Where is the progress?"
I tried not to show any particular interest, and treated it as a general subject for discussion. "Surely you can't call the fall of Rome and the Dark Ages 'progress,' Holmes? It is far from a stable incline. And beauty is not so far removed from crime, certainly--appreciating too freely the beauty of another man's wife is also a sin and a crime--even picking another man's roses is theft."
"Oh God," he moaned softly. "Yes. Yes, you're right."
My feint, as it was intended to do, precipitated an answering action. For a moment he stood at a loss, defeated, and then with sudden resolution he leaned over me and planted his hands on my shoulders, staring into my eyes, like a master with an erring youth. "You ought to begin to guess by now," he said with a sort of strained severity.
"'I never guess,'" I replied sharply. "Especially in medical matters. And I begin to think I am speaking as your physician."
A remarkable series of emotions passed across my friend's face; his hands tightened for a moment and then fell away. "I had hoped," he said bitterly, as he turned from me, "that you were still speaking as my friend."
"Of course I am, Holmes. You misjudge me," I said gently. "And for you, of all men, to begin to jump to conclusions suggests to me the strain under which you have placed yourself. I wish you would calm down and speak rationally; be assured that my friendship is not something I lightly rescind."
He stood with his back toward me, stock still. I watched gravely as he collected himself, as the tautness went out of the sloping shoulders with each slowing breath. Then he turned again and looked at me, shamefaced and grey. "Good old Watson," he whispered. "Of course I can trust you. But you must understand, it is not an easy thing to discuss."
"I can see that."
He threw himself back into his chair and sat limply, with closed eyes. "I had thought about initiating this conversation for months," he went on in a very low voice. "And now I wish to God I never had."
"It is yourself, of course."
"It is myself. Have you suspected all along?"
"It never even entered my mind, Holmes."
"That's some reassurance, then. Night follows day after all."
I waited for a few moments, but no more was forthcoming. "I suppose there is some reason that you feel it necessary to speak to me now," I prompted, "despite the fact that it causes you obvious distress to do so."
"Ah. That's the crux, isn't it?" He smiled wanly and glanced at me sidelong. "I might have gone on for years as I have done, and never breathed a word, never told another soul. It should have been enough," he gestured dismissively. "It should have been enough. And had I succeeded in cultivating my mind as I wished, it would have been enough--but in that I have failed--and so I have forced my own hand, so to speak."
His voice broke on the last words, and I was appalled to see those clear eyes brimmed with tears. I went to him and laid my hand on his shoulder in concern, and he flinched away from me.
"It's you, of course," Holmes gasped in a breathless voice, like one who makes a confession against the will of all his being. "It's you, Watson."
I heard him, and I understood his meaning, but at the moment I was occupied more with the fact that he seemed to be falling to pieces before my eyes than with my own reaction to any mere words, which was a good thing for our friendship, for I might have responded with anger or disgust--or worse, disbelief--under other circumstances. I had seen just such a look and such a tremor too often while I was in Afghanistan, and it alarmed me--more, I realize now, because it reawakened my own unpleasant memories than because it heralded any certain disaster.
I took him by the shoulders again, and held him fast when he tried to pull away. "Steady," I said firmly. "Get hold of yourself, man."
He had covered his face with shaking hands, retreating as far as he could from me as I stood before him. From behind this barricade he said something unintelligible.
"I can't understand you," I told him. "Pull yourself together, and speak up."
"Tell me now--what I've lost," he choked.
"Your self-possession," said I flatly, and he made a sound between a laugh and a sob.
I drew away then to fetch some brandy, and give Holmes a moment to collect himself. I dimly understood what it had cost him to speak even those few perilous words to me, although as yet I had no clear reaction to them save a sort of undifferentiated alertness.
He had recovered somewhat by the time I returned to his chair. "Your bedside manner is excellent," he remarked drily as I handed him the glass. He did not drink but held it tightly with both hands. "I have no idea what you're thinking."
"Nor have I, at the moment," I admitted and dropped into my seat again.
"You have no verdict for me?"
"Verdict, Holmes? I scarcely have all the evidence. This isn't--an overreaction, I suppose? Could it be just a--I mean, there couldn't be some mistake?"
"Some horrendous mistake, yes. But it seems to have occurred when I was an infant, if not in utero."
"All your life...?" I could not keep the pity out of my voice.
"Watson..." Holmes frowned down at his hands. "When were you first aware that--you were attracted to women?"
I pondered. "When I was thirteen or fourteen, I suppose."
He glanced up at me without lifting his head. "No," he said. "It would have been far earlier than that. If it had not been the ordinary thing to do, you would have noticed. You'll have to take my word, I suppose. But I was much younger than that when I knew something was amiss. We needn't go into its permanency."
"Well then--well--this doesn't involve children in any way--does it?"
"My God, Watson!"
"I'm sorry--I was bound to ask, Holmes. I know very little about this sort of thing."
A little colour had come into Holmes' pale cheeks, but he took it well enough. "It involves no one at all, save myself," he said with a visible effort. "You might as well know it. I've lived a very abstemious life, Watson."
I looked at him, sitting tense and apprehensive, with that proud head bowed, and my heart went out to him. "Well then, here is my verdict: You have given me some startling information, but in spite of that you appear to be the same amazing man I have known and trusted for some time now."
He looked at me unreadably for a moment, then put his hand out toward me. I leaned forward to take it. "Not a very thorough cross-examination, Watson," he said humbly, "but I thank you."
His fingers felt very warm, and there was a hard pulse in them. I gave his hand a squeeze. "I heard you rambling about all night. When did you last sleep?"
He let go my hand deliberately and rubbed his eyes. "Well, several nights ago. It's been trying, Watson."
"Listen," said I. "It will do you no good to work yourself into a fever. Why don't you go try to get some rest now?" I suggested.
"It may be possible--since you have handed down a verdict." Holmes sighed.
"I believe I have some chloral, if it would help."
"Thank you, no." He gave me a self-conscious smile as he rose. "Nasty stuff. I will let Nature try her wiles on me first." He stood hesitating a moment.
"Go on," I urged. "Anything else will keep."
At that moment I think I wanted to get rid of him as much as anything, so I could have a period to myself to digest matters, but soon enough I regretted my solitude. The afternoon passed unpleasantly. As the reality of events set in, I found I still had no distinct reaction, and yet I was decidedly rattled--I was also darkly certain I had not heard the end of the matter. My errands of the day had lost their interest, and I found myself unable to concentrate on anything, and yet also unable to focus clearly on the upsetting revelations my friend had made. Some of Holmes's restlessness seemed to have passed to me; I paced and fidgeted, and the several times I tried to school myself to sit down and read a newspaper or answer correspondence were quick failures.
I even wandered into his room, which under ordinary circumstances I would never have done. I probably hoped I would wake him and put an end to the waiting. Holmes was generally an uncannily light sleeper, but for once he lay full fathoms five, prone on the coverlet in a dead slumber, in his braces and shirt-sleeves. Apparently he had paused only long enough to divest himself of boots and collar before tumbling onto the bed.
That he trusted me I could no longer doubt--he had made himself so vulnerable to me with his confession that I felt a decided solicitude, and not a little pity. I did not dare go back in my mind to what he had implied about his feelings for me--that was to come later.
As I stood looking down at that slender, athletic figure I found myself trying to imagine it wrapped in a carnal embrace with another man. It was not so difficult as I had expected. I felt no revulsion, just a sense of amazement and somewhat of incredulity.
I remembered the heated grip of his hand in mine.
Even now, when I have nothing to hide from myself, I cannot remember thinking anything more damning than that.