Early the next morning, Holmes had gone already by the time she woke. She had only the impression of his body in her bed and his lingering scent as evidence of his presence. Quickly conscious of her dishevelled disguise, she rose and changed out of her wrinkled clothes, then washed her face clean of any trace of her tears.
Holmes came in, at his usual time, to help reapply her makeup and false mustache for the day. Nothing seemed to upset this ritual, apparently, though she had learned long ago how to do this by herself. Holmes had changed his clothes too, and he looked at her with tenderness, kissing her lightly. "When do you wish to meet tonight?" he whispered.
She met his eyes. "Whenever you are ready."
He smiled and nodded, then kissed her again. He resumed making her up, and they did not speak any further of the things they had said the night before. Then he departed, as usual, and she finished making her bed before leaving.
They met again at the breakfast table and acted as normally as they could. Masculine reserve returned to her with an effort, but she kept her thoughts to herself, lest there be an unexpected client this morning. In the end, though, none came.
So they read The Times and then parted for the day, Watson going to her desk to write, and Holmes going out to complete some errands. He did not return for lunch, merely sending home a telegram that asked for any messages to be forwarded to the Diogenes Club while he was out.
Too distracted to concentrate for long, Watson walked over to Holmes's desk and glanced instead at the papers on which he had been working last night. An unfinished monograph, it seemed, about the breeding habits of honeybees. Why Holmes had lately developed an interest in the topic, she had no idea, other than the fact that Holmes sometimes referred to criminals as having societies and rigid behaviours reminiscent of insect colonies. However, these esoteric breeding habits, including the segregation of the queen, did not have any obvious application to criminals, in her opinion.
Watson pondered, not for the first time, the many-sidedness of Holmes's mind, wondering how likely it was that Holmes could, in one part of him, be consumed with love for her, and yet in another part of him, could devote all his energy to detecting his cases and living his life as usual, without dropping the slightest hint to Watson. How long could that have gone on, and why?
She rose and stood at the window, looking down among the people passing by in the street below. If she did not feel obligated to remain at Baker Street to receive visitors and send messages to Holmes, she thought that she might wish to go to Diogenes herself and see Mycroft. Surely he could provide some insight into the unique workings of his brother's mind? However, perhaps broaching the topic of their problems in intimacy would be too indelicate and too embarrassing to either Holmes brother.
Sighing, Watson sat down in her armchair again. Remembering Mycroft's words on the night of their kiss, she realised that he, too, had apparently decided to not allow himself indulgence in the normal, healthy passions of a man, for the sake of his profession. Why did this strange willingness for dutiful self-sacrifice seem to run in their family? Did they find retreating from life easier than living it?
And yet, she knew that Holmes had lived life, very fully indeed. He had boxed with rough prize-fighters, associated with criminals of every class, apprenticed himself to theatre actors, and done who knew what else that he had kept from Watson. Indeed, Watson had never yet learned where Holmes had been and what he had done during the three years of his presumed death. Certainly, he had explained that Moriarty had fallen into the Reichenbach and that he had been in the process of faking his own death when Colonel Moran began taking shots at him. Holmes had escaped and shaken Moran from his trail by fleeing Switzerland.
There, however, Holmes's story broke off, not resuming until his return to England to capture Moran in 1894. The gaping hole in this tale had stayed empty until Watson filled it with some convenient nonsense for her "Empty House" account. Holmes had never volunteered the missing information, nor responded in nine years to her attempts to nonchalantly inquire about it. Even now that he had read her "Empty House" story, he did not even protest to correct her obvious factual inaccuracies. Perhaps the truth of where he had been was so much worse than the fiction she had cobbled together.
There, too, remained the mystery of Holmes's "instructive youth" in which he had apparently acquired his skill and passion in kisses and perhaps more. Why had he given up such Bohemian indulgence for his stoic bachelorhood, and why did he express even a portion of that old passion to Watson now, after all this time? She could only guess.
She sighed uneasily and waited for Holmes to return.
Holmes arrived in time for dinner, surprising Watson with a fine meal that he had ordered to be delivered to their rooms from Simpson's. When they were alone and seated at the table, Holmes poured the wine and asked her how far she had got in her writing.
"I confess that I did not get beyond the Milverton case. Also, I am sorry to have interrupted your own writings."
He looked up. "My monograph?"
"Yes. Can you tell me what relevance that bees have to your profession?"
"None, Watson. But I have learned from you that I cannot live only for my profession. Not all my life can be devoted to crime alone. I made that mistake with Moriarty."
"Indeed?"
He looked at her over his wine glass. "Indeed."
They talked quietly and casually as they dined, and though Holmes touched her hand now and then, he did not really overtly romance her, treating her still like the same old Watson. She knew, of course, that any actual wooing would ring false in him, and would only serve to remind her of the many women whom he had insincerely charmed in his pursuit of information. They certainly did not need reminders of that.
As their meal drew to a close and they rang to have the dishes cleared, Holmes rose and took a seat in his armchair by the hearth. He sipped his drink and waited for Watson to join him. When she did so, Holmes said without preamble, "You must not be shy tonight, Watson. You are a grown woman and a doctor, and nothing disgusts me more than a coquettish and mannered innocent."
She did not know how to respond to this, and the maid arrived just then for the dishes. So they sat silently looking into the fire together until the dishes were cleared entirely and the maid had closed the door behind her.
Watson turned to Holmes then. "Did you have much experience with such females in your youth?"
He grimaced with disguist. "I have seen enough men who choose to keep feeble-minded pets for wives, mere children raising their children. That kind of stupidity has been evident to me all my life, but," he hesitated, "yes, such observations did turn me away from wanting any kind of conventional domestic life." He reached for her hand and held it warmly, whispering, "You and I are the farthest I can imagine from any convention. Even my own."
She frowned, but he did not explain what he meant by that last remark.
He let go of her hand and returned to sipping his drink. "Watson," he said, "you must tell me anything in particular you want of me tonight. We must have no embarrassments between ourselves, having been through so much already."
"Yes, Holmes."
He was silent for a time, before setting down his glass and rising from his chair. She rose with him, wondering if this was the moment that he was ready at last. His eyes were so difficult to read. Holmes stood near her and then frowned pensively. "Watson? Do you wish me to call you Helena tonight?"
She blinked. "Helena? No one but my brother James has called me that in years."
"Yes, but I wondered if you would might prefer it, tonight."
She considered this, but shook her head. "You have not called me that on other nights. Such familiarity is not in your nature," she reached for his hand. "And I am not a fawning female, in need of such endearments."
He pressed back upon her hand and then kissed her lightly.
She smiled at him, and then he drew her by the hand toward her bedroom.
As on their other nights together, they sat upon her bed and kissed ardently for some time before advancing their embraces and sinking into each other's arms. Watson began to detach Holmes's collar and undo his cravat, intent on making him sigh her name. He did so, half closing his eyes and allowing her to continue undressing him without pause.
Watson had noticed that, except for assisting in the removal of her outermost garments, Holmes had often hesitated on these nights to undress her very far. Perhaps, she considered, her resemblance to a man at this point turned him off, necessitating her to leave off of him eventually and undress herself. Holmes watched her tonight through his half open eyes, but with new initiative he sat up and interrupted her, sliding his hands beneath her unbuttoned shirt and beginning to unwrap her bindings.
Encouraged by this, she kissed him ardently and traced her hands along his warm, exposed skin. However, she felt him frown, and his hands stopped prior to finally detaching her bindings from her bosom. She realised that it must be her false mustache, with its jarring incongruity. Upset, she shrank away from him and rushed to her mirror, sitting at her dressing-table and promptly removing the mustache. However much Holmes had always insisted that it did not bother him, she would have no more of the damn thing. As she also washed her face clean of all her makeup, she could see Holmes's face in the mirror, still with that hesitant frown.
She returned finally, feeling unsure of herself. He held out his arms to her, though, and drew her close again. "I am sorry," he murmured, kissing her cheek. "I'm sorry."
They resumed their lovemaking and undressing, and he tried to make her feel entirely welcome. In time, she felt more at ease and could be more responsive to him. He joked with her briefly, "So where is your infamous war wound, Watson?" and she managed a smile.
Curiously, Holmes was at first awkward with his kisses now that she had discarded her familiar mustache, but he gradually accustomed himself to a smooth-faced Watson. So they grew ever more breathless and intimate. Holmes was by no means cold to Watson's touch, and he was insatiable for her kisses, but he increasingly had difficulty the further they went. Having shed all of her 'John Watson' disguise at last, she fought to combat his hesitations, with some moderate success. Indeed, he adored her neck and abdomen, and she could draw out such soft, aching sounds of pleasure and desire from him.
Eventually, though, Holmes found that he could not continue any further, pulling from her and turning away with an uneasy frown. She crawled near him again, but could not coax him back into her arms. He sighed and stared at the ceiling. "I don't think-- I can't--" He closed his eyes and shook his head, swallowing. "I'm sorry."
She sighed and bit her lip, disappointed and not sure what to say. Holmes had warned her, after all, that he did not think he was capable. Who better to assess himself than the man who did not believe in either underestimating or overestimating one's abilities? What an idiot she was to think that she could overturn his desires at such a late date!
She sunk upon the bed and moaned unhappily into her pillow.
Later that night, in the tense and awkward silence, Watson felt him touch her shoulder briefly, and then Holmes exited without a word. Even with him gone, she barely slept at all that night, and when morning finally arrived, she remained in bed, not sure if she wished to get up at all today, perhaps not ever again.
She still sat there miserably when the door opened and Holmes entered in his dressing-gown. She glanced at the clock and realised that it was his usual time. It was so absurd, she could have laughed, were she not already on the verge of tears.
Holmes came near her slowly, looking grave and understandably uncomfortable to face her again. He sat down on the edge of the bed and could not help but avert his eyes. "I am sorry, Watson."
She shook her head. "You do not need to keep apologising."
"I should," he frowned. "I almost thought that I could--"
She interrupted. "It was my fault as well, Holmes. I asked too much of you. I realise that." She closed her eyes and shook her head. "Believe me, I realise that."
Facing her at last, he brushed her cheek tenderly. "I never wished to cause you pain."
"Holmes, don't!" she cringed. "Don't go on."
He reluctantly removed his hand, not understanding her resistance. But then, women were always so inscrutable. He had wrongly believed that this particular woman was clear to him, and Holmes reproached himself for that error in judgment. He had much to blame himself for, indeed.
He remained there in silence while she stared at her hands. Sitting there undressed and vulnerable, she looked more like an ordinary woman than she had ever done before, and he found the sight was both unfamiliar and disconcerting. Yet somewhere in there, he knew, was his Watson. So he tried again. "Watson?" he touched her hand.
She shook her head and shrank away from him. "Please go, Holmes."
He implored her, "Can you not bear even the sight of me any more, Watson?"
"I just--I need to be alone now," she struggled. "I just, I--" She wept, against her will. "I just can't bear feeling so disgusting to you, so unwanted--"
Horrified by such a sentiment, and by her tears, Holmes pulled her into his arms, shaking his head. "No, my dear," he held onto her stubbornly. "No, don't think that. I have never wanted so unreasonably--wanted what I couldn't have..." He drew a faltering breath and grimaced as if in agony, unable to say more for some time.
When her tears did not end, he continued, wounded, "Why don't you believe me? There is nothing wrong with you. It is my deficiency, Watson. Mine. Worse yet was that I misled you, I convinced you that I was more than I am, and for that you must forgive me. Forgive me." He laid his head sorrowfully against her shoulder. "Or at least, say that you don't hate me."
She was blind with her tears now, and did not know if she wanted more for him to leave or to stay. He still gripped her forcefully, bruising her with his insistence that she not push him away again. She could only fight her own tears and, after she could not, she yielded to his embrace and sobbed into the shoulder of his dressing-gown. He held her and made her feel loved, if not wanted.
In the following days, they recovered slowly and privately. She had cried herself numb and now he knew not what to say to her. Ever since she had finally dismissed him from her room, she would not emerge from it nor even dress as John Watson again, only pacing and pacing around in her dressing-gown. When Holmes brought her meals to her door with concern, she remained thoroughly unresponsive to anything he said and would not unlock the door until he had gone.
He was thus forced to brood alone in his room or in the sitting-room, and to awkwardly excuse Watson's absence to others as an illness. Holmes wondered if she intended to remain as Helena Watson permanently, and perhaps leave Baker Street as well. If he had wounded her so deeply, perhaps it would be for the best, but he did not want to lose her. It was true what he had said before, 'There is no safe distance.' Holmes would need her just the same as he ever did when he had been gone, dead to the world. Indeed, he might need her more now that he had grown accustomed to her warm touch, her loving kisses.
Watson also pondered their kisses and wondered what to make of them. If Holmes did not desire her, what was the point of their kisses and professions of love? What were they but a farce, an artificiality like the proverbial married couple who kept separate bedrooms and were as cold as strangers? Most of all, she did not understand why Holmes's desire for her seemed to fluctuate during their lovemaking; at times she could arouse him to a heated, even growling passion, and at other times he seemed to withdraw from her with the same frustrating inability that he had claimed to have. Dual nature or not, this conflict did not make sense to her, and it left her with a feeling of insecurity.
But perhaps she missed the point altogether. Remembering that unhappy morning after, she realised how truly astonishing Holmes's behaviour had been. He had remained with her remarkably long, even though she knew well that he could not bear such emotional displays, especially from women. That he should withstand her sobs and want so desperately to end them spoke surely of his love for her, or else of some heretofore unknown ability to stomach hysteria from irrational women. But no, such tolerance was not in him; in their cases Holmes had always designated Watson for the job of comforting any over-anxious female they encountered, and if Watson were ever upset, Holmes chose to either argue it out or ignore the emotional excess altogether.
Yet somehow, that particular morning, he had abandoned his usual instinct to be cold and awkward toward unleashed emotion; instead he accepted her irrational, feminine display with attempts to be tender and comforting. It seemed that Holmes was capable of departing from habit and expectation on occasion, and perhaps that might explain his frustrating conflicts while in her arms. Perhaps.
Holmes stood alone in the sitting-room, unable to eat his breakfast, nor concentrate on the case that Inspector Lestrade had brought to him an hour ago. Lestrade had expressed his sympathies to hear that Dr. Watson was ill, but he still could not understand Holmes's refusal to come investigate his case. Only by finally promising to join him later could Holmes manage to send the inspector away. He did not think he could keep the promise. Some sinking feeling in his stomach made Holmes feel that he might be losing all his rationality, to refuse his only livelihood, his only life outside of Watson.
She entered then. He heard her footsteps belatedly and looked up to see her standing there, dressed in her masculine clothes but lacking her mustache and makeup to complete her costume. Her face wore a softened, merely inquisitive smile, and she was holding her breakfast tray in her hands.
"Watson!" he came toward her, greatly relieved to see her.
She handed him the tray and spoke quietly, "I thought I should thank you for your concern, and your care." She watched his eyes intently.
He stood blinking at her in return, still stunned. "How glad I am to see you."
She smiled and steered him with the tray toward the breakfast table. "I think we should leave the dishes for Mrs. Hudson." She set her tray down next to his, and seeing that his own meal was uneaten, she tsked. "Holmes, must I always remind you to nourish yourself? This cannot be healthy."
He said nothing, waiting tensely to know what she felt now, of them.
Turning from the table, she reached for his hands and met his eyes. "I wondered," she whispered, "if you would come help me apply my makeup this morning?" When he nodded, she leaned nearer and kissed him lightly. "Then perhaps you could eat your meal and we might walk through the park, or sit at home and talk today?"
He responded by kissing her back very warmly. They then returned to her bedroom together, leisurely resuming their old habits as he asked her softly why she had kept him away so long, and what exactly she wanted now, of herself, and of him. It was more than an hour later before he remembered to mention Lestrade's case, which they belatedly hurried off to join.