Watson hurried over to Baker Street one day, bringing with him a surprise for Holmes--that is, if Holmes ever could be surprised by anyone at all. Watson nevertheless hoped that he could accomplish that feat with his tickets to a concert this Friday night, and at the very least he might make Holmes feel less neglected as a friend. Ever since Watson had married, he had had little time to come see Holmes lately, and he hoped that a concert would make amends. How wonderful it would be to at last spend some time together again like old bachelors once more. Surely Holmes would be delighted too, that Watson remembered his favourite violinist.
So Watson let himself in with his old key and bounded up the familiar seventeen steps.
Yet he found their old door locked, strangely enough, and once he unlocked it and entered, he found the sitting-room quite empty. No Holmes, nor any indication of where he went. Why lock the door behind him, then, when the street door below had always been sufficient before?
Puzzled and disappointed, Watson thought about leaving a note, but felt that he would rather stay to see Holmes. But how long a wait would it be? Perhaps he ought to go downstairs and ask Mrs. Hudson if she knew when Holmes would return.
Just then, Watson noticed that Holmes's hat-stand still held his coat and hat. Indeed, there was another coat next to it that Watson did not recognise. One of Holmes's new disguises, perhaps? In any case, it seemed that Holmes was not out after all. Perhaps he was in his bedroom changing.
Encouraged, Watson went to Holmes's door. Before he could knock, he heard voices on the other side of the door. Muffled voices, Holmes and someone else it seemed. Whoever could that be? Hesitant to intrude, Watson listened for a moment longer, and now he heard what seemed to be the sound of Holmes laughing. Laughing? Clearly a friend, then, or more likely someone that Holmes was playing some prank on, for the laugh had a rich, rippling quality to it, suggestive of those moments when Holmes indulged in impish behaviour. And then something not really like laughter, something warm and naughty. A sigh, and a soft voice murmuring something in French, Watson thought. Yes, there was Holmes answering in French too, but breathlessly.
How odd. And then--no, that couldn't be--sounds that were clearly kisses, mingled with more laughter, low and seductive. Watson realised abruptly that he was hearing sounds of tumbling in bed, teasing, lovemaking. He would perhaps, after some initial shock, have celebrated such a realisation, if not for the unfortunate fact that he was also realising that the other voice in that bedroom was a man, not a woman. As if the extra coat on the hat-stand should not have told him so already.
Trying to force himself not to believe his ears, Watson started to back away. He should not be here, should get away before hearing anything more, and should certainly re-lock the sitting-room door behind him, lest Mrs. Hudson or the maid wander in on this as well.
Strangely, the intimate sounds seemed all the louder to him now. Holmes laughed again, with evident pleasure, and half moaned, "You wicked, wicked thing!" More kisses.
Watson shuddered in his tracks and wondered who on earth it could be that Holmes would so carelessly throw his career away with. Who could possibly succeed in corrupting and seducing Holmes this way? Against his better judgment, Watson came back and knelt down to peek through the keyhole. Something compelled him to confirm that he was not mistakenly imagining all of this, that Holmes was not just somehow playing a cruel prank on Watson.
So Watson knelt at the door, squinted at the tiny opening, and saw them. Two nude bodies on Holmes's bed, writhing passionately in the sheets, their mouths kissing and licking fingers and lips and ears and any other body part within reach. And yes, it was most definitely a man in Holmes's arms, in the grasp of his slender, strong hand.
Watson jerked back violently from the guilty scene he was witnessing. He stumbled over himself in getting to his feet and rushing back to the sitting-room. He realised that he must have been heard by Holmes, but could not care much about it really. He desperately needed a drink, and he headed over to the tantalus to pour himself a brandy, his hands shaking to a degree that would have been disastrous in any delicate medical procedure.
Presently, Holmes emerged from his bedroom with his dressing-gown hastily thrown on and a look of horror etched on his face. He soon spotted Watson by the tantalus and gasped, his worst fears confirmed. "Watson!"
Watson dropped his glass onto the table and cut his hand on a flying shard. "Ahh!" he gripped the injured hand.
Holmes rushed forward to him, his face anguished. "Watson! I'm sorry, so sorry."
"Holmes, I--" he was embarrassed and unable to face his old friend.
Though his touch made Watson anxious and uneasy, Holmes nevertheless led him by the arm away from the broken glass on the floor and over to the desk where he carefully staunched the wound with Watson's handkerchief. He knew that Watson had something else on his mind besides mere physical pain, of course, and Holmes strove to mend both traumas with his awkward display of remorse. He kept repeating softly, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry," and they both knew he meant two things by that.
Neither of them noticed that someone else had emerged from Holmes's bedroom now--a slim, fair-haired man wearing a dressing-gown that, like the extra coat on the hat-stand, was unfamiliar to Watson. Having disregarded Holmes's injunction to him to stay within, the fellow peeked out curiously to find out what commotion had occurred, and see whoever it was that had apparently discovered them. Noticing the broken glass, he stopped to retrieve a pair of slippers for himself and then silently observed Holmes and Watson from afar.
Holmes sat there with Watson on the floor, looking uncharacteristically apologetic and distressed. With anyone else besides Watson, surely, Holmes would be more concerned with preventing a disastrous public scandal, but with Watson, it was sympathetic care-taking that came first. "You're all right, aren't you? Here."
"You don't have to--" Watson still protested.
"No, let me, please," he insisted, still kneeling near to him. When the blood stopped flowing, he also gingerly cleaned and bandaged the cut.
Averting his eyes from Holmes, Watson shook his head guiltily. "I--I shouldn't have come today. I'm sorry, I--"
"No, Watson, don't blame yourself. I should not have been so culpably lax in my precautions. Believe me, I never wanted you to know. Never meant to give you such a shock."
"Holmes, I just--I didn't know." He blinked at Holmes with uncertainty about what he should feel, in light of his discovery. His dearest friend, the man he had trusted his life to and spent so many years with, was someone he did not really know after all. Holmes, still wearing only his dressing-gown even now, had just been in bed with another man. Watson had never imagined that Holmes could be capable of such things, and he could not understand it.
Watson swallowed and reproached himself again, "I--I shouldn't unlock doors that have been locked, that's all. I don't live here anymore. Why do I keep the key?"
"Watson," Holmes shook his head, searching for words to say.
At that moment, Holmes's fair-haired consort stepped forward to them and cleared his throat, startling them both. They turned around and saw him go to the sitting-room door and re-lock it, remarking something in French that Watson couldn't quite catch. Something like, "Lest you forget."
Watson became immediately uncomfortable in the presence of Holmes's lover, and he wanted to get up and leave for his home, but Holmes held onto him urgently. "Please, no. Let me explain."
Watson bit his lip unhappily.
Oblivious to the tension in the room, Holmes's lover strolled casually nearer, asking in his beautifully accented French, "Shall you not introduce me to your friend, Holmes? Your dear Dr. Watson, is he not?"
"Emile!" Holmes admonished him, also in French. "Go back to the room."
"Why should I? He knows of us now."
Then they exchanged argumentative French too fast for Watson too follow.
"Please, Holmes," he interrupted them, "I should go now."
Holmes turned back and held onto Watson. "Please, wait. Not yet."
"Holmes," he wished desperately to withdraw somewhere, to pretend that he had not seen or heard anything at all here.
"Watson, just--just listen to me," he held onto both of Watson's hands and spoke humbly. "If you can, after this, still think of me as your friend at all, please know that you are welcome and safe here at any time. We have only come here lately because your marriage has kept you so long away, and I foolishly did not expect you to drop by. But I promise you I shall not bring him here again, and you can come again without fear of another such incident." He squeezed Watson's hands reassuringly. "This is your home too, Watson. It always will be."
Emile raised an eyebrow at this heartfelt declaration, and he folded his arms, taking a seat where he could watch Holmes's intriguing behaviour with Watson.
Watson met Holmes's eyes hesitantly, and he ventured a question. "You--you have been with him long?"
Holmes nodded. "A number of years."
"I never suspected."
"I never intended you to." Then he swallowed and addressed another concern. "Tell me, do I disgust you now? Am I no longer worthy of your respect? Your admiration?"
Watson frowned. "I--I am not sure what to think or feel at the moment. I am still just trying to believe that it's true. (Although, I'd rather it was not true.) You have never seemed to want anything... sexual at all. It seems out of character for you."
"In a way, it is," Holmes agreed. "But there is also the side of me that cheerfully breaks the law, that rebels from stagnation, that delights in trespasses on propriety. You have seen that side of me often enough, surely?"
Watson nodded, reflecting on the subtle signs and clues that he should have seen before. He shrugged and laughed mirthlessly. "You know, I--" he explained lamely, "I only came today because I wanted to ask you to the concert this Friday."
Holmes blinked. "Did you?"
"I had tickets." He drew the pair from his pocket and shook his head at the absurdity of it all.
Holmes was touched, but regretful. "Actually, I had planned to attend with... Emile."
"Of course," Watson murmured. He sat back from Holmes and stared down at the floor, lost in thought.
Emile broke into the silence anew, speaking to Holmes again in French. "This is your Dr. Watson, then?"
"Yes, yes," Holmes sighed wearily, as if he had a headache.
"And for him, you have feelings? You love him, no?"
Both Holmes and Watson turned around at that remark.
"Why, surely it is evident? You have such concern for him, you grasp his hands and plead for his forgiveness. It is like a confession to a lover."
Holmes was starting to be angry. "Emile, do not frighten him with your wild speculations."
"Speculations? It is true. Very clear."
"It is not, Emile! Why you would even say this, I--!" He turned to Watson and quickly assured in English, "Do not pay attention to him. I have never had any intentions toward you but friendship, my dear Watson. You know that. You can trust me entirely."
Watson continued to be pale, as he contemplated whether it might be true. Whether, in all these years, Holmes had not only been keeping a secret lover, but had been in love with Watson as well. And all his touches, and all their time together, and all those late nights spent on cases...
Holmes prompted anxiously, "Watson, please, do you not believe me at all?"
Watson swallowed and nodded at last. "Of course, Holmes. I trust you." After all these years of Holmes's honourable behaviour, he could not really believe it. If Holmes truly harboured any "love" of that sort for him, he had had ample opportunity to reprehensibly take advantage of their time together long ago, but he had not done so. It could not be true, then.
Holmes smiled with relief to see that Watson did not doubt him. "See, you wrongly misinterpret us, Emile."
The Frenchman shrugged, but was not convinced. "As you like." He shook his head as though he pitied them. "You English. Your English laws and your terror of scandal," he tsked. "Only makes a blackmailer more happy and yourselves more miserable." He rose and walked over to the tantalus once more. Ignoring the broken glass all around him, he poured himself a drink. "You are not so Bohemian as I thought, Holmes."
Holmes ignored the criticism and helped Watson to his feet. "I must clean up. Are you--are you going home?"
"Yes, I must." Watson looked uncomfortable.
"You will come again, some other time?" Holmes implored.
"Yes. Another time." He glanced a final time at both Holmes and his lover, standing there in their dressing-gowns, and then hurriedly departed with averted eyes.
Watson did return to Baker Street after about a fortnight, deciding finally that he must face Holmes again. As promised, Holmes was there alone and was glad to greet Watson at last. He looked like his normal old self, but Watson distressingly found that he could easily remember the sight of Holmes wearing nothing but his dressing-gown, and he was unsure how to behave with him.
Perhaps he should not have come, should not sanction Holmes's guilty secret by accepting it? Certainly Watson would not dream of betraying Holmes to the police or publishing such a damaging scandal to the public, but did that mean he should feel obligated to still treat Holmes as his friend? Did that mean he should ignore the memory of what he had glimpsed of their bedroom activities?
Holmes invited Watson to sit in the armchair opposite him, but said nothing further, knowing that Watson must struggle with his turmoil of emotion and morals.
Watson finally broke the silence. "Where--where is he?"
"At his villa. He has a place in London."
Watson hesitated. "Do you still see him?"
Holmes weighed his words, then decided to be firm. "Yes, as I always do. I cannot change my habits for you, Watson."
"Of course not," Watson grimaced, recalling another habit he had unsuccessfully tried to dissuade Holmes from. "But he doesn't come here?"
"No, of course not," Holmes assured. "It was a mistake for me to bring him in the first place. My careless indolence about my precautions, ever since you married and left. We have gone back to what works best."
"I see." It was all that he said for several moments.
Holmes searched for something comforting to say. "He was never in your room. Never near your things. He was not some kind of replacement for you, Watson, as I told you. He is my helpful distraction, my escape from the dullness of existence. You are my dear friend."
Watson nodded, glancing down at the faded cut upon his hand. He finally changed the subject. "Have you had any interesting cases?"