In subsequent days, she revelled in her new closeness to him and teased him about his weakness for her. He occasionally declined to embrace and kiss her during the day, though, warning with disapproval that two bachelors like themselves must not be caught in each other's arms by any policemen or clients who dropped by. She laughed and wondered to herself which sexual perversion would be considered more disturbing by the moralists of their day--the apparent buggery or the man in love with a woman living as a man?
In love. She sometimes lay in her bed at night sighing happily at the thought of Holmes being in love with her. He had not yet professed to her directly, "I love you." It remained part of the unsaid between them, and she willingly let that be, attempting instead to ascertain how long he had hidden such feelings from her. He characteristically avoided answering all her pointed questions, however. Watson thought of the great fun she might have in extracting such information from him in some future, deeply intimate moment together.
Intimate. It always gave her pause to contemplate a physical intimacy between themselves; she had not yet known him fully, and anticipated the prospect eagerly enough. Watson had once written that Holmes would be in a false position as a lover, referring both to his insincere, ingratiating behaviour with women from whom he wanted to obtain information and to his apparent disinterest in romance when he behaved as his normal cold self.
The unexpected heat and skill of his kisses now naturally made her question her old assessment. She had persuaded Holmes as far as coming to her bed and spending some late evenings in passionate embraces together, but so far he had always stopped them before too long and left for his own bedroom for the rest of the night. If she followed him, she would always find his door locked.
After some weeks of this frustrating pattern, Watson began to worry and doubt to a degree that she could no longer dismiss. Surely he could not be convinced that she had no interest in lovemaking due to her age? Surely he did not subscribe to the foolish notion that women were inherently frigid, only giving in to men's desire out of the need to procreate? With a turmoil inside her, she finally came to Holmes's desk one day as he was writing and asked him faintly, "You do desire me, don't you, Holmes?"
Taking a breath, he took her hand in his and replied softly with the words that he had rehearsed for this not unexpected question. "As I informed you before, my dear Watson, I do not want to change you with marriage or other conventions of society. I would not obligate you to me, or make you a mere possession of mine, as some men do with their wives and mistresses, even those to whom they have promised an equal partnership. I have found, in my observations of such romantic life, that physical intimacy is often entered upon too hastily and always leads to consequences that few anticipate." He hesitated, then met her eyes, "I should hate, my dear Watson, for our own relationship to be ruined by going too far."
She frowned slightly, not having expected this kind of response at all. "But Holmes," she replied, "I think that that should be a decision that we both make, based upon ourselves alone and not the flaws we see in others. We are all human, and I for one think that a further intimacy between us is not so great a risk to our relationship. We have already crossed a line from which we cannot retreat, surely?"
He conceded to that. "Perhaps so. Yet, may I ask you to consider ourselves, then? You, Watson, are a warm, selfless, and generous soul--as you always have been throughout our friendship. But I am no ideal lover, no great and gallant romantic. More than that," he shrugged and glanced down, "I am well aware that I would make a most unfit mate to you, in any sense; with my eccentricities and my temperament, you should promptly want to be rid of me. Indeed, I have always been wary of becoming too attached to you, Watson, and have prepared myself for years for your departure. Someday you would cease tolerating me so patiently, grow tired of me and my cases, and leave both for your practice and your feminine identity."
She narrowed her eyes at him with surprise. "But that was only a joke between us--"
"It was a very likely event," he insisted.
She found his assessment of her to be quite strange and puzzling, for despite over twenty exasperating years with him, she had never once moved from Baker Street, save at the time of his presumed death. In fact, it had been Holmes, not Watson, who had parted them first. What could prompt such apparent insecurity in him? She pressed his hand with both of hers, trying to dispel such unfounded fear. "Not anymore. Especially knowing that my love is requited, I would not leave you, Holmes."
He did not seem cheered by this assurance at all, and rather kept his eyes averted and his frown intact. He shook his head, "I would rather not trap you in a lasting relationship with such an aloof, self-absorbed creature. I would rather leave you free to go whenever you wish, without the ridiculous divorce laws or the scandalous gossip of society in your way." Holmes shrugged, his voice quiet. "I have done without your touch for years already, Watson, and I can continue to do so. Whether you choose to be blind to my faults or not, I know that I have no reasonable charms with which to hold you to me." He pressed her hands, insisting, "Should you find someone you like more than me, someone better for you--"
"Holmes!" she insisted, stopping him with her hand upon his mouth. She would stand for no more of this, making him face her again as she knelt on the floor by his chair. "There's something you should know."
He reluctantly waited in uneasy silence.
"There was--someone." She paused to reassure him with a tender expression on her face, then resumed in a confessing tone of voice, "When you were gone... dead, as I thought, I had to learn how to live without you somehow. At first, I was furious at your brother Mycroft for checking up on me, and I thrust my anger at you onto him. I determined not to be a weak female whose facade crumbled before his disapproving, disappointed frown. I would not tolerate Mycroft's condescension and patronising, or at least what I saw at the time as qualities that he had in common with you.
"Gradually, though, I grew to enjoy his company once I had calmed. If I visited Mycroft then, he would sometimes tell me some story about your youth that I did not know. Or if he were more reticent on that occasion, he would treat me instead to a demonstration of his observational powers upon the people passing by in the street. It was a soothing balm against my grief, to be reminded of such moments spent with you. I was glad that he was so much like you that, sometimes, I could close my eyes and pretend that his voice was yours."
Clearly Holmes had begun to see her point, looking pensive, and she went on with the tale. "I tried, of course, in my more sensible moments, to remember the differences between your brother and you. In numerous ways, Mycroft was more sweet, more domestic, more dependable than yourself. Whereas his severely restricted habits had once struck me as being comical in the extreme, after a time of his allowing me into his routine, I found such narrow regularity to be merely a charming, comfortable quirk of his good nature. Mycroft was mellow and easy, like you on your best days, and he possessed both great kindness and a healthy sense of humour. Indeed, he was all the things I ever loved about you, minus the things that could make me passionately resent you too."
She paused then and looked down, furrowing her brow a bit. "There was a night that he invited me to his home in Pall Mall to go over the plans for Baker Street. I knew that Mycroft had arranged to restore the rooms for Mrs. Hudson after the arson, but now he insisted that even the furnishings and personal effects be reproduced. Every detail must be just as when you lived in them. I could not at the time fathom his purpose, but I chose to humour him. So we spent hours trying to reconstruct these rooms from my old notes and stories, and we even re-enacted some old memories of you and me, that I might be sparked to recall the location of a particular lamp, or the exact angle of your armchair to mine.
"As the night grew late, Mycroft sent me to sleep in your old room, which he said you used to occupy in the days before you could afford your rooms in Montague Street, let alone Baker Street. Lying there," she drew a mournful breath, "with memories of you fresh in my mind, and with my head growing ever more certain that my heart had loved you, I could not bear it. I wished that I had died with you at Reichenbach."
Holmes had sat up and touched her cheek with anxious concern, but she pressed on. "Mycroft found me that night, sobbing in his parlour, upon the armchair that he'd told me you preferred whenever you visited. He gently consoled me and assured me that, wherever you might be now, he was certain that you missed me, just as dearly. Hmph!" she bit her lip and shook her head at herself. "I ought to have noticed the odd way that he phrased that."
Then she met Holmes's eyes without flinching, coming to the difficult part. "There was something about Mycroft's soothing embrace, about his being so willingly tender and warm to me, as you never were. Something about knowing that he was so much better for me, practically, than you. Well, I--kissed him then, rather... much. I embarrassed him of course, but he refrained from saying so. He only replied, 'Thank you, my dear, for showing me that I haven't lost the charms of my youth, before the delicacy of my government position necessitated my seclusion.' We parted for bed, and did not speak of it again.
"With that kiss I realised the truth, Holmes. I knew that, however much I genuinely liked him, however dear he was to me, Mycroft could not be you. I could not love him as I love you, for your brother is not you. He does not have our shared history--our vigils, our adventures, our arguments, our vices. One cannot reason oneself into loving someone, into choosing wisely; one just loves." She kissed his slender hands fondly and shook her head, whispering, "I only want you, my dear Holmes. No one else."
Holmes sat there and peered at her for some time, entirely at a loss for words. He blinked with surprise at this incident that his brother had failed to ever mention to him, but he could readily see the truthfulness in her declaration of unwavering love for him. Narrowing his eyes at her as he weighed all this, and finding himself unprepared for the emotions her revelations brought forth, he shifted suddenly in his chair and drew her into his arms, kissing her intensely. He murmured breathlessly against her cheek, "Watson, I do love you too."
Ah, so he said the words at last. She smiled beneath her false mustache.
He nodded and still clung to her, "Even should I have met someone... similar to you, it is still you whom I should love and share my life with. It is you, my dear."
She sighed happily at his uncharacteristic effusiveness, kissing him back as she traced her hands along his sleeves in contentment. "Then marry me," she said with playful laughter, "though it shall require me to wear a dress!"
However, a distressed frown returned to Holmes's face at that moment, and he opened his eyes. He pulled back from her arms and shook his head. "I--I do not think it wise."
"Why not?" she demanded. His persistent attitude of discouragement bewildered her.
He looked troubled and reluctant to explain. "If we should marry," he began, "you should expect certain things of me, Watson, certain words and deeds that come more easily to other men. As I said before, you would be unhappy with me, I know. Unsatisfied."
"Holmes, I know all about you already. It's been twenty-odd years."
"No, you don't. Not really. Not--" he faltered, then cleared his throat, trying another tack. "Watson, you have observed how detached, how unemotional I am on a daily basis, even to you; I am among the coldest of friends that one could ever possess. Likewise, I could not be as... affectionate, demonstrative of my love as a husband should."
She found all his protest absurd. "Holmes! I am not some fawning woman who needs constant romantic attention and indulgence with love poetry and flowers, or whatever you imagine that I would expect of you now."
Not getting through to her, he took a breath and finally admitted, "I mean passion in bed, Watson."
"Passion?" she blinked at him with disbelief. "You have been passionate enough in my arms. As far as we went--"
"As far as that," he pointed out, before averting his eyes. Her own eyes widened then, and he elaborated carefully, "Other than my... instructive youth, I have chosen to bury not only strong emotion but sexual passion for a long time, for the sake of my objectivity. Consequently, I am most likely not capable of touching you now." He implored her, trying to be tender, "You should have someone who could fulfil you--"
She pulled out of his arms abruptly, not wanting to hear more. She grimaced and was quite shaken by this confession, shaking her head with distress. "I want no one else but you. I--I told you already. I love you, Holmes. I could not settle for another."
He frowned to see her anguish, but persisted, "I do not want you to pledge yourself to me, when I cannot be what you require. We are unhealthy enough for each other as it is; it would be unfair of me to keep you near." He stroked her cheek with his fingertips.
She winced, still unable to fully understand or believe all that he told her. "But you love me?"
He nodded and caressed her again. "Yes."
"And you've kissed me like... like--" her voice broke. She gulped and found tears in her eyes now, some inner instinct of hers suspecting that there remained something further in this that Holmes did not tell her. "I'm--I'm not desirable to you, am I? I've lived as a man in your presence for so long, that you don't feel--"
"No!" he protested vehemently, making her face him again. "It is not your costume. It is not you. The problem is mine, entirely mine." He whispered with a strange sincerity, "You are... beautiful."
She stared at him for a moment, mesmerised by his gaze. But quickly becoming self-conscious again of her disguise and her false mustache, she withdrew from his touch. She stood and walked the length of the sitting-room in an agitated state. "I--I don't see how then--" She wrung her hands. "I just--"
He also rose to his feet and sought some way to be more comforting to her. "Watson, I did not think you would stay, that I should have to hurt you so with this." He spoke helplessly, "If I could be more than I am... Be able to love you as you love me..."
She could not bear another moment of this, and with a choking sound she turned and retreated into her bedroom.
He could not waver in the face of her agony, and followed her. "Watson?" Opening her door, he found her upon her bed in the darkness, sitting with her arms folded around herself and her head bowed. He did not turn on the light, letting her hide her tears with all the masculine pride that still remained in the midst of her feminine vulnerability. He closed the door behind him, then approached slowly in the dim room and sat down next to her. "Watson," he stroked her arm gently. "Can you forgive me?"
She kept her face turned toward the wall, and after a difficult breath she found her voice. "Why did you even tell me you loved me at all? Why kiss me, touch me that way, if you didn't mean, couldn't--?"
Feeling guilty and self-reproaching, he could only answer her inadequately, "I am--irrational when I think that I am in danger of losing you. I am selfish too, in wanting your belief in me, your trust and closeness. Your affection." Reaching for her hand, he drew it near to him, kissing it and brushing it close against his cheek.
His touch puzzled her, seemingly too tender and warm for someone who did not desire her, and it made her turn to him slightly. She soon withdrew from his grasp, though, and wrung her hands again, shaking her head with a lonely misery. "Just my luck! You finally love me now, but you don't want me," she lamented.
"I have loved you for years."
"Did you?" she blinked and frowned, wondering yet again how long he meant by that. After Reichenbach? Before? She asked him, not sure if he would answer, "And if you'd told me then? If you had not hidden your feelings from me and been cold, would I have had a chance? Would you have been capable of touching me then?"
He was some time in responding, and when he did, he was clearly uncomfortable. "Possibly."
Possibly! Must he always confound her? She thought of his maxim, "When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth." Yet he would give her no opportunity to eliminate anything, making her only the more mired in doubt. She turned at last to him, finding his face gripped by sorrow and guilt. Perhaps more emotions, too, which she could not recognise on his ever inscrutable features.
With a pang of emotion, she reached for him and kissed him then. He responded, returning her embrace and her kiss with his usual fire. They lingered, it seemed, for more than the sake of mere comfort, and as always he did not mind her mustache in his way. Still holding onto each other, they sank to the bed almost unthinkingly. Naturally.
Ending the kiss left her breathless and confused. Pulling somewhat back from his arms, she blinked at him uncertainly. "You seem--when you kiss me like that, you seem..."
Holmes gulped and looked away, realising his lack of wisdom and loss of control. He too was breathless and his pulse still raced.
She narrowed her eyes at him. "You said, 'possibly.' You said, 'most likely' you aren't capable." She held him near to her, stroking her fingers upon his sleeve. "Do you, do you think," she ventured, "that you might be capable after all?"
He frowned, deeply agitated. "I do not think so."
She caressed his face until he opened his eyes to her. "But you cannot know for certain, surely? Cannot know until you try to make love to me. Am I so undesirable that you do not want to just try?" she implored unhappily.
He shook his head, searching for words to reassure her. "No, I... no, my dear Watson, I..." He sighed and buried his face in her neck, closing his eyes again. "Perhaps, you are right," he finally answered, nodding. "It is nothing wrong with you, only myself, and logic would dictate that I should test myself thoroughly." He swallowed, "I should tell you only the very truth."
She felt a trace of hope then and stroked her fingers through his hair. "Do you mean that? You want to?"
He kissed her other hand tenderly. "I--I will try, for your sake."
She reached to kiss him with gratitude, but he would not shift from where he lay in her arms. He shook his head, breathing in the scent of her neck. "No, not--not yet. Could we do so tomorrow night, Watson? Can you permit me some time to be ready?"
She nodded. "Of course."
They remained silent and unmoving for a moment. Holmes finally raised his head to her and murmured hesitantly, "May I stay here with you tonight, Watson?"
She caught her breath. "Yes."
He sighed and lay down against her once more, sliding his arms around her with a fondness and warmth that she always hated to lose whenever he would depart her bed. Perhaps he missed it as well? Lying there, they kissed and talked a little longer in the darkness before they quietly fell asleep together.