Hope died in the night in his cell; so no Thursday, no magistrates.

Because I was angrily sulking in my bed, with a chair jammed against my door so that Holmes could not sneak in again, I did not learn the news about Hope until late in the morning, when Holmes told me and also slid a copy of the Times beneath the door as confirmation of his words. Nevertheless, I did not let him in nor speak to him; he must suffer awhile too.

Later, Mrs. Hudson came to the door, hoping to make me well with some broth. I could hardly leave her standing there, what with the workmen installing the new window glass, so I let her in.

As she tried to mother me, I told her that my constitution had been ruined in Afghanistan, and that I just needed to lie still. She seems to think that Holmes's depressions have somehow become contagious. Perhaps he really is just sulking when he lies there so immobile and vacant; about what, I do not know. Mrs. Hudson could not persuade me to eat, so she left the tray for me and departed, looking worried.

I sipped some of the broth to relieve my hunger, but remained stubbornly within my room, even after the workmen had packed up and gone. I read through the Times and then perused the manuscript, which could no longer be of any use to the deceased prisoner. According to Hope's friend, Mormons were indeed involved in the doomed romance of Lucy Ferrier and Jefferson Hope, and in his subsequent revenge upon Drebber and Stangerson, who had left the protection of their Church some years later. The tale might make for a curious footnote on the mystery, or else a nice little novel or play, if it was reworked a bit.

With Mrs. Hudson's departure, I had left the chair aside as she wished, for she did not deem it healthy or wise that I should block the door, in my condition. So when Holmes soon took the opportunity to come in again, I was not surprised, but neither was I pleased. I turned away from him and pretended to be absorbed in the manuscript. I heard him lock the door behind him and in a moment more felt him climb upon my bed.

He reached over me and snatched the manuscript from my hands, throwing it on the floor. "Talk to me."

I did not.

He now lay close and slid his insistent arms around me, speaking softly behind my ear, "I was too abrupt in asking you to stop, but you have too much of a temper. Make up with me." He nuzzled the back of my neck and tried unbuttoning my shirt.

I pushed his hands away and shook my head. "It isn't that easy. You can't just have me at your beck and call, wanting me one minute, then refusing me--"

"I am inconstant," he said.

"How is that an apology?" I demanded, trying to free myself from his embrace.

He sighed, and took on his eminently reasonable tone. "You wish to hurt me, Watson? Make me suffer? Deny me your body all you want, but only you will suffer. I have made that sensual activity superfluous to me for five years, remember? You do tempt me, but I do not suffer as you do."

I scowled, frustrated that I had no way to spite him, but then Holmes continued.

"If you wish to hurt me, deny me your company. I suffer when you don't speak to me, when you shut me out. You made me suffer not just today, but yesterday too, and for what reason? I suggested that you take a lover, and suddenly you lock yourself away. You don't want to see me because I wish you to be satisfied?"

"Why not with you?" I finally turned round to face him. "Why push me from you to any stranger and make me feel unwanted?"

His face softened. "Is that what you thought?" He caressed my cheek and tried to kiss me, but I held him away.

He shrugged. "Why not me?" he spoke with a half smile. "How little did you see me when I was absorbed with my case these past few days? How unfair was I to you last night, in the heat of your lust? My work must always come first for me, Watson; no exceptions. How cold-blooded and inhuman am I? I see how you regard me at times, but I cannot be more warm, more tender, for emotions interfere with my work. How many secrets do I keep from you? Many, and I must keep them. If you really want to have that kind of a lover, Watson, you are more than welcome to try."

I blinked at him, feeling quite discouraged. "You mean, you won't tell me about your depressions?"

"No," he answered immediately.

"You won't trust me--?"

"No. I will not be open. I will not be kind. I will not be sentimental. If you can take me the way that I am, have me, gladly."

I watched his grey eyes. "I see."

He did not wait for me to think over his terms any further, but leaned down and kissed my throat with a smile. "I like you so much, Watson," he sighed against my shoulder, "and we came rather close last night, did we not?" He chuckled lightly, then shook his head. "So I cannot let you suffer more. Make up with me, and tonight, when Gregson and Lestrade have gone, I'll come and do something for you, hmm? If you wisely decide to keep looking for a lover better suited to you, I can still indulge you from time to time, should you need me to."

With that offer, he rose from my bed and straightened his rumpled clothes. Then he retrieved the tossed manuscript from the floor.

"Gregson and Lestrade?" I managed to ask. "They're still coming?"

"Yes, they sent word that they wished to see this, out of curiosity, if nothing else. We might also discuss the case a bit further, and I can discreetly give each of them my bill. If you wish to join us, Watson, please do. I should be glad of you company, and you leaving your room will keep Mrs. Hudson from worrying about your health. We can be alone more." He paused to unlock my door. "You are done reading?" he asked, indicating the manuscript.

I nodded, and he left with it. I have not locked the door again. Am I disgusting to be so weak for him?

---

I cleaned up and dressed, finally venturing forth into the sitting-room just in time for the tail-end of lunch. Holmes smiled at me and remarked to the maid that she should inform Mrs. Hudson that the illness has lifted. She turned around in surprise.

"Doctor, shall I have Mrs. Hudson warm yours up again?"

I nodded, and she cleared the table except for my place setting. "There's also a tray I left in my bedroom."

"I'll come back for it, sir." She bustled away with her arms full.

Holmes remained at the table with me and offered me some tobacco for my pipe. As we smoked, I glanced at the newly restored window.

"Excellent work," Holmes commented.

"You don't plan to give them any repeat business, do you?"

He chuckled. "No, I shall refrain from violent captures at home, for a while at least. I must get on the landlady's good side again, lest she be inclined to throw me out and keep charming old you at a reduced price."

"Have you read the manuscript yet?"

He nodded. "Interesting in its way, though whether any of its facts could be verified, I do not know. The account was obviously coloured by a bias against these Mormons; Hope's friend fully sympathises with him and condones his home-grown idea of justice. Unquestioning loyalty of this sort suggests to me that Hope's accomplice witnessed the original events in America, by being a close comrade or relative of Hope, or else of this Lucy Ferrier; thus he has a personal stake in Hope's vengeance. Yet these deaths occurred in 1860; any friend from that time surely would be middle-aged or older by now. How does this reconcile with the young, active man who disguised himself as 'Mrs. Sawyer'? It puzzles me."

"That does seem a difficulty indeed. "

The maid returned with my reheated lunch and then retrieved the tray of broth from my room. I dined quietly and read the afternoon editions while Holmes looked on me in that puzzling way of his. Sometimes I believe he thinks of me as a fond pet, whose companionship is soothing and comfortable to him. My conversation sometimes amuses and stimulates him, though, so we are more like friends in that regard.

"I like you so much," he had said. Not that I had expected him to love me; we are still just starting to know one another, and he is clearly no romantic. But I did expect him to desire me, to not be so casual and collected about "doing something for me." When I kissed him last night, I seemed to awaken in him the same fever, connexion, and frailty that we had shared five years ago. Even his later urgency to stop our embrace and retreat behind his door, with his arguments of caution and safety, had seemed emotional and human. From his voice, I thought he was afraid of me, or afraid of losing his careful control over his passions.

I do not want him to come to my bed as a courtesy to me, because he pities my suffering. I want him to suffer and ache, to come to me because he simply needs me, as when he was literally shaking at my touch last night. He has shared so much of his work and his life with me already, so surely I can make him share his bed frankly and without reserve.

"Don't come to my room tonight," I said to him.

He glanced at me sharply, and would have protested had I not interrupted.

"Don't come; just wait for me. I'll come to your room."

"Yes, if you prefer."

It was a small point, of course, wanting him to leave his door unlocked for me. Yet it opened up possibilities.

I changed the subject. "What did Gregson and Lestrade think of the news this morning?"

"Their message did not say much," Holmes remarked, "but I believe they were wild about the death. Where will their grand advertisement be now?"

"I don't see that they had very much to do with his capture."

"What you do in this world is a matter of no consequence. The question is, what can you make people believe that you have done?" Then he shrugged off his cynicism. "Never mind. I would not have missed the investigation for anything. There has been no better case within my recollection. Simple as it was, there were several most instructive points about it."

"Simple!"

Holmes smiled, then happily expounded upon the case, telling me how he reasoned backwards from the clues at hand. Most people, he observed, could reason forward from cause to effect, but few could reason from effect to cause like he could. He evidently enjoyed going over the case point by point again, filling in the gaps where he had not taken me completely into his confidence before.

I realised with pleasure that despite his denials in my bedroom, Holmes did already trust me in some things; I merely had to coax him to trust me in some more.

Scarcely had the maid removed the remains of my late lunch, when Gregson and Lestrade arrived together, shaking hands with us and remarking upon the unfortunate death of Jefferson Hope. "Good that you were with us, Doctor, to spot his heart trouble," Lestrade pointed out.

I dismissed it. "No doubt Hope would have informed you of it all the same, so that he could tell you his statement."

"Ah, but we might have thought it a ploy and not sent for a doctor in time to confirm it."

They sat down with us and quickly asked to examine the manuscript, along with the original parcel and introductory note that had come with it. Once they had inspected these items for clues, in a manner that attempted to imitate Holmes while being superior to him, they embarked upon reading the manuscript. We four alternated reading it out loud, and afterward the two detectives argued about the merits of trying to identify and arrest this accomplice of Jefferson Hope. How much had he aided in the murders? Would his capture bring forth a trial that would glorify both their names before the public and the Yard?

Holmes assured them that with Hope's death, the accomplice would cunningly disappear, and any pursuit of him would not be worth the trouble, since Hope's mission of vengeance was clearly finished.

So Lestrade cleared his throat and nudged Gregson to bring up a new topic.

The latter hesitated with what seemed like dread and then humbly asked Holmes just how he had solved the murders of Drebber and Stangerson. Holmes immediately began a detailed lecture on all the points that he had discussed already with me, so I excused myself to my room.

I can still hear Holmes's muffled voice from the other room, with little response from the other men; clearly his favourite subject is his method of detection. Hopefully, he will come to a conclusion at last, so that Gregson and Lestrade can leave. I imagine that the Yard detectives view Holmes's discourse as an inevitable bitter pill needing to be swallowed, in order to learn how to get good enough to trump Holmes someday.

---

When I heard them rise to go, I came out and shook their hands heartily, wishing them good luck in future investigations. They thanked me and took their leave of us. I was so pleased at being alone at last that I hurriedly closed the curtains and embraced Holmes. He laughed and kissed me awhile, sinking down with me onto our sofa. "So you've made your decision, then? You've definitely set your cap for me?"

I nodded. It cheered me that he actually appeared flattered that I wanted him as a lover, not just an occasional convenience. I am stubborn that way.

He cautioned that I should go lock the door if I wished to continue our pleasures.

Instead I behaved myself and returned to my armchair by the fire, leaving him lying upon the sofa. "You could have cut back the length of your speech, you know."

He smiled. "I am sorry. I did not know that it was so urgent for you to have a hold of me. Perhaps I'll abbreviate my lectures in future, no doubt to the detriment of Gregson's and Lestrade's education."

"Holmes, I know your profession is important, and no doubt they'll become better detectives if they know where they went wrong. --Even they must see that, for they sit through your speeches when they'd much rather wipe the superior smirk off your face. But you do go on, Holmes, more than necessary."

He raised an eyebrow at my honest opinion and finally looked sheepish. "Well, perhaps so," he shrugged. "It is my opportunity to have them acknowledge the true worth of my methods; I remember in the beginning that it took a great deal of work for me to even earn their attention, much less their patronage as my clients."

"Well you have that now, don't you? In fact, your merits should be publicly recognised. You should publish an account of the case. If you won't, I will for you."

Holmes laughed and shook his head. "You may do what you like, Doctor. You should be wary, however, lest Gregson and Lestrade want to take back their fees when they read such an account in print."

"Oh I can flatter them a bit, or something."

Holmes remained sceptical, but he enjoyed watching me make a list of documents and notes that I should need to refer to, in writing up the case. He tossed me over the manuscript, which had apparently not been confiscated as official police property.

When we perused the evening papers over our supper, Holmes found a paragraph in the Echo referring to the conclusion of the Brixton Mystery. It commented upon Jefferson Hope's death and alluded to the Mormon history, then gave credit for the unravelling of the mystery to Lestrade and Gregson, who would be receiving a testimonial. Scant mention was made of Holmes as an amateur detective hoping to someday attain the same degree of skill as the professionals.

Holmes laughed it off, but I thought he deserved better and repeated my intention to write up the case. "I have all the facts in my journal, and the public shall know them."

He eyed me keenly then and murmured, "I should like to know the facts in your journal. Fascinating facts, I'm sure. Have you... written of us?"

I averted my eyes and said nothing. His implied question was, would I write of our bedroom activities tonight? I do not know. Maybe. It shall never see the light of day in publication, whatever happens.

After our dishes were cleared, Holmes locked the sitting-room door and we embraced. For a while he indulged me passionately upon the sofa, though we were careful of the servants hearing us; we must wait until they have gone to bed before we can start in earnest. I so enjoy taking away his breath with my kisses.

In time I let him go and stretched my legs, pacing about the room with increasing impatience.

Holmes still lay where I left him, gazing into the fire with a kind of drowsy apathy, and I began to recognise the vacant look in his eyes.

"Holmes!" I said sharply.

He snapped out of it and focused his eyes again. "I am fine. Hand me my pipe and tobacco please." I did so, and stood watching him fixedly.

"If you are tense, go write awhile. It will soothe you."

"Will you go wait for me, please?" I did not want to find him comatose by the time I returned.

"Of course." He rose from the sofa and picked up his violin and bow. "I shall pass my time with an occupation, since it concerns you so much." He gave me a kiss, and then retired to his room.

It is safe now; the servants will be in bed at present, and Mrs. Hudson will not hear us downstairs. I have changed for the night and found my cream; I do not believe I have forgotten anything. He stopped playing his violin awhile ago, so I hope he is still waiting for me and has not succumbed to that vacancy again.