I had been seated by the hearth smoking a last pipe and nodding over a novel. As the night grew late, I had risen from my seat and was knocking out the ashes of my pipe when I suddenly heard the clang of the bell.

I looked at the clock. It was a quarter to twelve. This could not be a visitor at so late an hour. A patient evidently, and possibly an all-night sitting. With a wry face I went out into the hall and opened the door. To my astonishment it was Sherlock Holmes who stood upon my step.

"Ah, Watson," he smiled. He paused and allowed the late night sounds out on the street to seep in. His voice carried clearly in the near stillness, "I hoped that I might not be too late to catch you."

I recovered from my surprise, stepping back. "My dear fellow, pray come in."

He did so, still smiling as I shut and locked the door behind him. His grey eyes brightly sparkled in the light of the gas lamps, and he stood near me in the hall, giving me an analytical gaze. It had been some time. "You look surprised," he remarked, "and no wonder!" He could read me like a book, as always, and did so at his leisure. "Relieved, too, I fancy! Hum!" he laughed inwardly.

I did not take my cue to either elaborate on why I was relieved, or to prompt him to explain his own deduction from my facial features. It was a little late at night for games.

Holmes, though, still seemed inclined to be playful. He ran his hand along my collar, then brushed and adjusted the lapel of my coat. "You still smoke the Arcadia mixture of your bachelor days, then!" he casually observed, dusting my coat front with a more than familiar touch. "There's no mistaking that fluffy ash upon your coat."

I did my best to read him, trying to be sure of the reason that he brought up my bachelor days with him in this manner.

Holmes smiled and watched my eyes watch him. "It's easy," he leaned back against the wall, pulling me very slightly by my waistcoat buttonhole, "to tell that you have been accustomed to wear a uniform, Watson." His finger lightly stroked across the top of my left sleeve. "You'll never pass as a pure-bred civilian," he continued quietly, "as long as you keep that habit of carrying your handkerchief in your sleeve." Having traced a circle at my cuff, he then slid two fingers inside deeper than necessary and pulled the handkerchief out, scraping me lightly with the back of a fingernail.

I merely cleared my throat. I knew that Holmes was simply pulling all my strings for a response. My senses prickled at his touch, but I was made of stronger stuff than that.

He leaned further back, slinking minutely down, in that way that he had of reducing his height so that he could peer up at me with a seductive, heavy-lidded gaze. He whispered. "Could you ... put me up tonight?"

I pulled his hand from my sleeve and took the handkerchief back to stop his teasing brushing of it against me. I cleared my throat again and spoke with polite formality. "With pleasure."

He laughed, greatly amused by my choice to play the gracious host, unaffected by him.

I merely put a finger to my lips to shush him. It was nearing midnight after all, and heaven forbid that he should wake Mary.

He nodded, subsiding into a softer chuckle. The spark in his eye told me that he had missed me too much to not attempt prolonging this game. Holmes chose his next words carefully.

"You," he buttonholed me again, "--you told me that you had bachelor quarters for one." Holmes grinned and shook his head at the stern look upon my face. He mocked me, sliding his slender arms around my neck, "And I see that you have no gentleman visitor at present. Your hat-stand proclaims as much."

Holmes knew perfectly well that I was not likely to have any 'gentleman visitor' staying, and that the bachelor quarters of my house had always been intended for him. And he certainly knew that I would be lending the rooms to him to-night in the capacity of a friend only, whatever he did.

I pulled his arms from me and took his hat from him, keeping my composure. "I shall be delighted if you will stay."

Holmes sighed, standing to his full height again and taking off his overcoat to hand to me. "Thank you. I'll fill the vacant peg then." He tapped me lightly with his shoe for emphasis.

As I duly hung up his things with studied decorum, he turned and glanced at something on the hall floor. "Sorry to see that you've had the British workman in the house," he actually spoke in a conversational tone at last. "He's a token of evil. Not the drains, I hope?"

"No, the gas."

"Ah! He has left two nail-marks from his boot upon your linoleum just where the light strikes it."

As he faced me again, I wondered if Holmes had entirely given up on games for the night, or if he were merely postponing. I asked him into the parlour and inquired if he wanted any refreshment.

"No, thank you, I had some supper at Waterloo," he took the chair that I offered (my own) and saw me looking for my cigarette case. He shook his head, shrugging, "...but I'll smoke a pipe with you with pleasure."

I then sat opposite him in Mary's chair by the fire. It was tacitly understood between us that he would not sit in her chair. Holmes drew his pipe from his pocket as I got out my tobacco pouch. I handed it to him, not feeling like another smoke myself.

He smoked and said nothing for some time, studying me in the firelight. Holmes also gave an all-encompassing glance at his immediate surroundings, noticing my novel and my pipe left on the table by my chair. He did not appear to know the book, opening it to peruse its first few pages. I knew that he liked keeping detailed mental catalogues on my every interest and activity. In a way it was flattering, that I still fascinated him so.

Holmes looked up again at me, considering, I supposed, how he would broach whatever topic he had come here to discuss. My own mental calculations weighed in favour of the topic not being about us. To have come here to particularly pursue us would be to let me gain an advantage over him. No, he always let every meeting of ours be due to my visit or to the outside agency of one of his cases. He would not admit that he missed my company, in a social or even sentimental capacity. The man never admitted to such an attachment to me even back when we were lovers!

There were times when I honestly believed that I had conjured up those memories of our affair out of a fevered imagination. Then Holmes would appear again like this and remind me of their reality.

"I see that you are professionally rather busy just now," he began quietly, peering at me through the pipe-smoke.

"Yes, I've had a busy day." After a long silence, I finally took my cue, bothering to vary the incredulous 'how did you know?' line just a bit. "It may seem very foolish in your eyes," I murmured, "but really I don't know how you deduced it."

He chuckled softly at the modification. "I have the advantage of knowing your habits, my dear Watson." He lingered on the endearment in a soft tone of voice and smiled faintly.

I fancied that he was tempted to add something impertinent. "I know you better than your wife does," Holmes has remarked before.

He merely continued matter-of-factly, "When your round is a short one you walk and when it is a long one you use a hansom. As I perceive that your boots, although used, are by no means dirty, I cannot doubt that you are at present busy enough to justify the hansom." He set aside the pipe and folded his hands.

"Excellent!" I admitted. He was in top form tonight. I watched his eyes shift then from their inspection of my boots, up to my face. He made me blush from the intensity of his regard.

Holmes pursed his lips, gratified. "Elementary," he proceeded onto his accustomed response, picking up his pipe again. He shrugged. "It is one of those instances where the reasoner can produce an effect which seems remarkable to his neighbour, because the latter has missed the one little point which is the basis of the deduction." He puffed once more on the pipe, clearly and cosily in his element. "The same may be said, my dear fellow, for the effect of some of these little sketches of yours," he rambled onto the familiar lecture, "which is entirely ... meretricious"--my blush was all the hotter for being caught unawares, and his smirk all the more devilish for the inspired choice-- "depending as it does upon your retaining in your own hands some factors in the problem which are never imparted to the reader." He had coolly finished the sentence as though there had never been any pause, much less a pointedly deliberate one, but he watched me regain my composure with pleasure. When in the proper mood, gaining a point against me could give him deep satisfaction.

Thereupon Holmes seemed satisfied enough to let the insinuations drop. Indeed, he settled back pensively in the chair and talked at last about his case.

"Now, at present I am in the position of these same readers, for I hold in this hand several threads of one of the strangest cases which ever perplexed a man's brain, and yet I lack the one or two which are needful to complete my theory," he frowned momentarily with annoyance. Then he cheered up, smacking the chair's arm with that old thrill for a challenge. "But I'll have them, Watson, I'll have them!"

Relaxing again, Holmes propped up his feet on the ottoman, looking at me reflectively. "The problem presents features of interest. I may even say exceptional features of interest. I have already looked into the matter, and have come, as I think, within sight of my solution." He raised an eyebrow, "If you could accompany me in that last step you might be of considerable service to me."

Ah, so finally he arrived at why he had come. "I should be delighted," I answered, not entirely out of habit. He could be very pleasant company when he wanted to be.

Holmes smiled to find me pliable. "Could you go as far as Aldershot to-morrow?"

I shrugged. "I have no doubt Jackson would take my practice."

"Very good. I want to start by the 11:10 from Waterloo."

"That would give me time," I nodded. He never had to say much or argue me into following him on a case; whatever Holmes wanted of me, Holmes would have. At that particular moment I resented neither myself nor him for that fact.

We were comfortable now, and quiet, both staring into the fire. At a certain point in any of our encounters, pettiness or tension always gave way to the simple warmth that our mere closeness could bring. We knew each other so well and had shared so much that being together inevitably brought about a cosy benevolence and calm out of each of us. I think that I made him feel more wholly at ease than anyone else he knew, even his brother Mycroft.

Holmes had a gleam in his eye and a slight smile at the corner of his mouth as he looked into fire. I wondered what memory of us he might be recalling. When he felt my gaze upon him, he turned back to me and betrayed the slightest blush.

Shifting in the chair, he cleared his throat and returned to the case. "Then," he glanced down almost shyly, "if you are not too sleepy, I will give you a sketch of what has happened, and of what remains to be done."

I found myself smiling at him. "I was sleepy before you came," I confessed. Apology and, I thought, concern crossed his features, and I reached out to touch his hand. "I am quite wakeful now."

Pleasantly surprised, Holmes sat forward and softly squeezed my hand in return. Then he let go and sank back, becoming businesslike again. "I will compress the story as far as may be done without omitting anything vital to the case."

---

In his characteristically precise manner, he told me the details of Colonel Barclay's death in his Aldershot villa, which I recorded in my notebook. He watched me with interest as I did so, no doubt contemplating how I might present this tale in a story, if ever I were to publish it. Due to the lateness of the hour and his presumption upon me, perhaps, he did not articulate any acrimonious injunctions against romanticism.

Indeed, as Holmes caught me yawning part way through, he did not comment with asperity, but just stopped his tale quite courteously. He sat up and considered me keenly again, looking truly concerned for me. "--But really, Watson, I am keeping you up, and I might just as well tell you all this on our way to Aldershot to-morrow."

Something about his glance kept me from leaving. If I rose then and escorted him upstairs to the bachelor quarters, we would not be alone again until our late morning train. Our times together lately were so intermittent and hurried; this night felt like one of our lingering conversations at the fireplace in 221B. A part of me wanted to stretch our encounter for every possible moment.

I shook my head, and answered, "Thank you, you have gone rather too far to stop."

Holmes hesitated a moment, then plunged on.

---

"So now, my dear fellow," he finished, "you see exactly how we stand and why it is I want you."

We. Though he had never admitted to there being an 'us' romantically speaking, preferring to keep his emotional distance however physically intimate we became, he retained the habit, which I always considered unwarranted and undeserved, of speaking inclusively when it came to his detective cases.

He appeared pleased to draw my embarrassed smile from me and only gave me the familiar, protesting nod as he puffed his pipe. His silent gaze lingered, then shied away, reminding me of all the facets that there had ever been to our partnership.

Knocking out the last ashes and placing his pipe aside, next to mine, Holmes continued. "It is perfectly plain that after the ladies parted from this man he followed them at a distance, that he saw the quarrel between husband and wife through the window, that he rushed in, and that the creature which he carried in his box got loose. That is all very certain. But he is the only person in this world who can tell us exactly what happened in that room."

A vagueness in his statement, not presuming that the mysterious man, rather than Mrs. Barclay, was the murderer. Or perhaps Holmes wanted to gloss over the danger in his proposed meeting with Henry Wood? "And you intend to ask him?" I sat up.

"Most certainly--but in the presence of a witness."

I was relieved. "And I am the witness?"

"If you will be so good," he smiled at my concern. "If he can clear the matter up, well and good. If he refuses, we have no alternative but to apply for a warrant."

I found his calm shrug deviously calculated. 'Safe enough for us both together, but the possibility of danger should he and his carnivorous creature prove resisting.' Holmes enjoyed appealing to my sense of adventure. A good hunt and an intriguing mystery were prized gifts both from, and to, him. Did Holmes relish how very much like him I was in that respect? I preferred that idea to that of him only returning because he found me sensible and reliable, like a loyal dog.

He watched me with folded hands.

"But how do you know he'll be there when we return?" I asked.

He smiled. "You may be sure that I took some precautions. I have one of my Baker Street boys mounting guard over him who would stick to him like a burr, go where he might." Holmes always was as proud as a father over the capabilities of his street urchins. "We shall find him in Hudson Street to-morrow, Watson," he assured me contentedly. I found his affection and pride ironic, for a man who would never have children of his own. I intended to make him godparent to my own children, should Mary and I ever have any ourselves--though I wondered if he would protest.

Holmes pondered me silently now that he had told all of his case. Could he possibly be reading my thoughts from my face as he had claimed he could? "You have expressive eyes," he has remarked. Then at last Holmes came forward out of the chair and took both my hands, his voice softer, "And meanwhile I should be the criminal myself if I kept you out of bed any longer."

There was something about the touch of his hands, the sweetness of his voice, and the hush of the late hour.

Instead of letting him pull me to my feet, I drew him closer to me until he knelt before me. I should have been thinking of Mary, whose chair I even sat in then, but looking at him in the firelight and stroking his sleek fingers over and over, the drowsy haze of memories came to me. "My bed?" I asked him. Heaven help me, I could not bear the thought of giving him up to return to my wife's side. His nearness gave me longings that I should have felt guilty for, but could not. I sighed, pressing close against his cheek. "Or your bed?"

Holmes pulled back sharply, frowning and seeming to be weak, too, at the thought of us. His knees gave way a little beneath him, and his breath was shaky, though he swiftly strove to calm it. He met my eyes, weighing what I might or might not be offering. He averted his glance. "I should be even more of a criminal," he whispered, "to have you in my bed."

Still I leaned nearer, courting peril and knowing it. I touched his tempting lips and closed my eyes, brushing him with the back of my hand. My wedding ring against his skin, and still I ached for him! "It was criminal even when I wasn't married," I kissed his throat. "That never stopped you then."

When he sighed I took hold of Holmes and kissed him passionately, feeling him give way after his initial resistance. No, his responsive mouth had not changed, nor forgotten me, in all these years. Deeper and deeper I was lost in him. His hands gripped me as tightly as ever when we had made love.

Oh yes, I was still his desire, and I was thrilled rather than ashamed of such a guilty thing.

He leaned against me breathlessly when we broke it off, blinking against my neck. I think he realised that what he had teased and toyed about in the front hall was a distinct possibility now, and it troubled him.

It should have troubled me too, but all I could think of was the memory of him in my bed and those heavy-lidded eyes in the context of his shuddering climax. And mine.

"No," he swallowed, "it never stopped either of us. It seems then that we have always been damned." He traced his finger along my jaw, closing his eyes. "Always guilty."

I felt him shiver when I caressed his neck. His every movement and sigh spoke his strong temptation to surrender to me.

He claimed me closer in his arms breathlessly. "Why fight? Why pretend? Or atone? We are already meant for ... far different realms than your virtuous wife." He licked the rim of my ear. "You and I. Condemned together."

I kissed his wandering fingers and felt them penetrate my lips.

He pulled me to him and kissed me fiercely.

I trembled, barely breathing. He began sliding his fingers along my collar, as he had done in the hall. I gasped. "You oughtn't to come into people's homes and flirt with married men."

He bit my lip. "Married men oughtn't to keep coming to Baker Street to flirt with me."

How true. How shall I ever get him out of my mind, and my desires, if I keep arriving on his doorstep over and over? Whatever I told myself about visiting as a friend, showing him simple human companionship, there always remained our past underneath everything. I was more guilty perhaps, for this persistence, than he, for seducing me in the first place and for attempting to remind me of it when the mood struck him.

I think that he finds me frustratingly blind, and stubbornly refusing to acknowlege the truth, sometimes.

Holmes pulled back from me and searched my eyes, at last noticing my strange silence. He saw that my guilty conscience was catching up to me, and he frowned, nodding.

I still clung to him when Holmes began to let go of me. The thought of losing him made me achingly lonely.

He held me a moment longer and kissed me softly.

I choked as he slid from my arms again. "How can I sleep," I begged, "with you next door to my bed?"

He smirked somewhat sourly and sighed, "Now you know how I feel in Baker Street."

I raised his face to mine. "Do you think that I've never felt this way when I've stayed over in Baker Street?"

Holmes blinked with damp eyes, unable to speak for once, and he swallowed. His sadness intensely touched me. Perhaps he does love me after all.

I looked down at my hands and found my voice with difficulty. "You shouldn't come here again."

"I know."

"And I shouldn't--"

He covered my mouth with his hand. Holmes raised my eyes to him again, shaking his head. He did not have to speak for me to hear his "No."

I kissed him again ... for a long time.

It was very late when we finally went separately upstairs to bed. It took all my strength of will for me to not follow him into his room, and even then I lingered outside the door. I saw his shadow stand there on the other side for a time too, before he moved and turned out the lamplight.

I returned to our room then. All I could do as I looked on Mary sleeping in her half of our bed, was sit at my desk and write this.