Long after midnight, Holmes sat awkwardly curled up in his armchair, meditating. Eyes vacant, he seemed an immobile statue except for his steady, slow puffing of his pipe. The smoke clouds around him were so thick in the dark sitting-room that the moonlight cast from the uncovered window gave Holmes a haloed, ghostly appearance. The stillness of the night was all-enveloping.
Watson had stood watching Holmes for several moments from the edge of the hallway before he at last came forward.
Holmes blinked at the sound of footsteps, but remained gazing into the distance.
Approaching Holmes's chair, Watson ventured quietly, "I do not think this can be healthy for you, Holmes."
Holmes minutely shrugged, but did not turn around. "Why is that, Watson?" he inquired without interest.
Watson stepped nearer, coughing a little, then passed by Holmes to open the window and clear the noxious tobacco fumes from the room.
Holmes reacted only a little to the cold night air, but continued to smoke.
Watson returned from the window and stood before Holmes's face. Deciding against his usual nagging doctor's plea, he adopted a more casual tone and shrugged, "You know that I enjoy a strong smoke myself, Holmes, but surely this is a little much?"
Holmes shrugged back dismissively. "It helps me to think."
Watson continued nonchalantly, not raising his voice, "Your violin helps you to think, yet you don't play it."
Holmes finally peered at Watson with less vacant eyes. Holmes raised an inquisitive eyebrow. "Do you pick and choose among my habits, doctor, to approve of the more salubrious?"
Watson gestured at Holmes's position. "The violin would at least require a range of movement, over this cramped assault upon your posture." He touched Holmes's free hand and repeated quietly, "You don't play it."
Lowering his pipe from his mouth, Holmes chuckled and shook his head at Watson's coaxing. "You show how little you understand me, Watson. The sweet, soft kinds of tunes that I play for your benefit on occasion do not help me to think at all. It is not the pleasant lullabies, but those rambling, unstructured, and often dissonant compositions of mine which I require, and which you and Mrs. Hudson barely tolerate during the day."
"On the contrary," Watson spoke more softly still, "I do understand, and I would enjoy hearing you play, even now."
Holmes arched his brow again. "You cannot mean that. My temperamental, fitful attacks upon my instrument, abuses hardly to be condoned by the Jewish pawnbroker, let alone by Stradivarius himself?"
Watson nodded. "I would gladly hear you play all the erratic moods out of you, at any time." As if to assure Holmes of his sincerity, Watson removed the pipe from Holmes's grasp and set it aside, taking hold of both of Holmes's hands. "Mrs. Hudson and the servants would object at this late hour, but I would not."
Holmes blinked, regarding Watson with curiosity and a bemused smile. "That is easy enough to say, when you do not have to prove it."
"I will prove it," Watson asserted somewhat breathlessly. "If you would bring your violin," he hesitated before continuing softly, "my bedroom is far enough from the general household that no one would hear."
That offer took Holmes by surprise. He sat forward, eyeing Watson with fascination. "A private audience? You do wish me out of this chair!" After a pause, Holmes at last began to rise.
Watson let go of Holmes, but hovered near while the detective stretched his tortured muscles and rummaged for his violin. Taking up the instrument and bow, Holmes then let Watson lead the way back to his bedroom.
They presently arrived, and Holmes shut the door, turning to Watson with a pondering gaze.
"Well, Watson, you shall have to prove yourself my wholehearted admirer."
"I already am," Watson spoke softly. He took a seat on the edge of his bed and waited.
Holmes suspected sarcasm in that remark, but could not be sure, so he merely stepped toward the centre of the room, taking his position and beginning to play. Holmes started with one of the popular melodies that Watson enjoyed so much when they attended concerts together. If the light, easy tune did not put Watson to sleep at this late hour, it would at least provide stark contrast to the rest of his performance.
Watson sat somewhat restlessly, looking expectant and almost impatient for something more.
Holmes observed Watson's reactions for a little longer, as he slowly drifted into freer and looser notes. His pensive, moody concentration complicated his melody and changed the whole tone of his instrument. Then his eyes closed and his face took on a serious expression. The actor in Holmes changed that expression into a hundred others, sliding with his bow through a myriad of emotions and thoughts and mysteries that could not be described in words.
Holmes could no longer be said to be playing a tune so much as a poem, a hymn of the soul.
Watson had made no sound of protest during the whole fitful performance, and Holmes had largely forgotten to take notice of his reactions, but now, as Holmes turned around and opened his eyes at last, he saw Watson sitting raptly still and choking down some powerful emotion in his throat. Holmes stopped playing.
Watson looked very much moved and affected by Holmes's performance. He averted his eyes quickly and frowned with embarrassment, blinking and clearing his throat. He furrowed his brow and his breath came heavily. "Bravo," he attempted quietly.
Holmes stared and put down his violin, coming forward. Holmes moved slowly, drained as always by a catharsis, but he wished to understand what sympathetic outpouring of emotion had seemed to occur in Watson.
Watson would not face Holmes's peering eyes, and he caught his breath as Holmes approached.
Holmes stood close and reached to touch Watson's cheek.
That contact made Watson tremble involuntarily and close his eyes. He shook his head and whispered softly, "Oh, Holmes..." Watson seemed unable to say anything more than this. "Holmes," he exhaled.
Holmes sat down on the bed next to Watson, watching his face. "You have heard me play like that before," he mused, trying to comprehend. "When you said nothing, when you would depart or turn away before I finished..."
Watson swallowed and nodded. "But-but I loved to hear you--" he explained. "I loved--" He would not continue further, frowning again.
Holmes endeavoured to raise Watson's face and open his eyes. He tried a casual tone, shrugging, "You love music too fondly to say that."
"No, it is music. It is," Watson protested, trying to collect himself. "Music about, about--" He blinked and shook his head, as though feeling guilty. "I know that the songs are for yourself, for your sake," Watson admitted, "but sometimes when you play, I can almost..."
Holmes sat closer, grasping Watson's shoulders and trying to read the well of emotions on Watson's face. "You were as sleepless as I tonight, for some reason of your own? Some..." he brushed Watson's cheek again.
Watson met Holmes's eyes at last, gazing deeper than he had ever yet dared. "Holmes," he repeated softly, drawing him closer and kissing him.
Holmes pulled back. "Watson--"
"Forgive me," he interrupted breathlessly, still holding Holmes close. "Forgive me." Watson kissed him again, more ardently.
Holmes let Watson continue to completion this time, taking note of his every facial expression and behaviour. After Watson released him, Holmes commented with a raised eyebrow, "So your invitation to your room was for ulterior motives?"
Watson shook his head, frowning. "Not like that. I wanted to hear you play. There are times when you play your violin," he murmured, "that I watch your face and believe that you almost feel real human emotions, feel as deeply as I feel..." He swallowed and looked away shamefully.
Holmes's countenance changed minutely when he heard this admission. Brushing Watson's arm briefly, he rose from the bed and turned, walking over to the window and sighing with neither accusation nor disapproval, "Watson..." Holmes slid his hands deep into his dressing-gown pockets and shook his head, laughing softly.
"Do you know, Watson, what I think of when I play? What sublime and profound emotions I give form to in my ... serenades?" He shrugged. "It is nothing but pure selfishness. Mere fodder for my conceit that I am all alone in the world, stricken without anyone of my equal to challenge me. That no one can feel the depth of my boredom, impatience, and exasperation. The tragedy of my living in an artless world. You see, what I long for most in my arrogant little life is a fellow game player, of all things. Someone to take crime to an art form and a science, as I have taken the solving of crime."
Holmes turned around and approached Watson again. "Aren't you afraid, Watson," he asked quietly, "to cherish a man whose idea of feeling human emotions is to ache to be a criminal himself, for the pleasure of solving the crime?"
Watson stared up into Holmes's humbled face and was surprised by the look of kindness in his eyes. He was uncertain of how to respond. Holmes stood there, not more than inches from Watson and slid his hand against Watson's jaw.
Holmes shook his head and whispered, "What a ridiculous person that you should feel such poetic feelings for, my dear Watson." He sat down beside Watson again, meeting his gaze and still faintly touching him. "How unfortunate that I should make a mockery of your heart."
Watson sighed and answered sadly, "It's my fault for wanting too much, for needing to believe that you felt--"
Holmes hushed him and took both of Watson's hands, pressing them apologetically. "I assure you, that you deserve--" Something in Holmes's face changed minutely again, as though he'd made a decision.
Holmes leaned nearer now and murmured gently, "Would you let me show you what you deserve? Allow me to commit a crime to make amends?" He kissed Watson and put his arms around him, paying back the passion that Watson had shown him previously.
Watson began to protest that Holmes did not truly feel these things, but Holmes insisted on persuading him. Apparently he would not take no for an answer, and his initial impulse of kindness gave way to his acting talents. Holmes could kiss too, too well, and he took away Watson's very breath with that skill.
Holmes soon pressed Watson back upon the bed and drew from him a detailed confession of his long-held desires, extracting every wishful dream that he might have had of Holmes in his arms. In his own way that night, Holmes endeavoured to fulfil them.
They still lay in the bed together early the next morning. Holmes woke first and shifted close to Watson again, sliding on top of him. He wrapped his arms around Watson and kissed him awake. "Shall we try again?" he suggested tenderly.
Watson touched Holmes's bare shoulder and peered into his eyes. "I do not think that we ought to even be here," he shook his head.
"Come now," Holmes breathed, drawing him closer. "You want to, and I want to." He kissed the edge of Watson's mouth. "I am no stranger to great risk, especially with you."
"But you don't even really requite my love--"
Holmes remained unconcerned. "What is love? An insoluble puzzle even to me. Can you be blamed if I am simply incapable of such nobler emotions? Can I deprive you of what I can so easily give?"
Watson did not find much comfort in that and tried to make Holmes understand.
Holmes still embraced Watson and kissed coaxingly at his neck. "Besides," he spoke with the devilish trace of a smile, "you could help me feel less alone in this world." He chuckled, "And more criminal. I am not entirely selfless."
He kissed Watson passionately again, and succeeded in making Watson respond at last. For the moment, doubts were put aside as they became lost in each other once more.