Holmes remained at Donnithorpe for some days, comforting Victor and waiting for further developments. But neither Hudson nor Beddoes were ever heard from again, and Holmes had no proof of his theory that Beddoes had killed Hudson and escaped to start a new life somewhere else.
Ashamed and disgraced by the whole affair, Victor decided to go to Terai, and not return to university in the coming term. Holmes tried to talk him out of it, but Victor said he needed to be alone with his thoughts. He promised to write and kissed Holmes good-bye, calling him "Sherlock" a final time.
It was with the passage of time, and the distance, that the feeling cooled between them, though in truth, Holmes had only warmed up a little in the first place.
Holmes stayed with his university studies awhile, before deciding to depart for his new profession as a detective; Old Trevor's suggestion had grown on him with time. For a few years Holmes concentrated solely on his work and did not enter another friendship, let alone a romantic one again. He knew that such an odd, tangled relationship could not be embarked upon lightly, and he thought he had learned plenty, anyhow.
Then came Watson, a quite unexpected friend. At first they had only been fellow lodgers, but Watson overcame Holmes's reticence and they now shared Holmes's cases as trusted partners. It surprised Holmes how much he enjoyed Watson's companionship, since their temperaments, too, were dissimilar. Watson was warm and empathetic where Holmes was aloof and logical.
One evening as they returned from an exhausting case, sitting opposite each other in a four-wheeler, Holmes looked up from his silent introspection to see Watson watching his face and leaning near to him.
Startled, Holmes involuntarily sat back from him, and Watson interpreted his slight frown as discouragement, instead of distraction, so he simply withdrew and sat back for the rest of the ride. No words were spoken.
Holmes almost convinced himself that he had imagined the incident, until later, when he lay in his bed alone, and wondered if Watson's unexplained movement might have possibly been an attempt at a kiss.
A kiss? Surely not? But then again, it need not be a sign of deviance on Watson's part. It might have been only the kiss of romantic friendship. Watson had shown already that he considered Holmes a good friend; perhaps a kiss was all that he meant, but having noticed Holmes's unnatural coldness to people, he was fully prepared to find his affection rebuffed.
Holmes turned over these possibilities in his mind, but could not come to a definite conclusion. If only Holmes had spoken then, asked for some explanation from Watson! Weary from these thoughts, Holmes fell uneasily asleep.
In the days following, Holmes examined their relationship minutely and saw that they were indeed growing more intimate day by day. It was like that first friendship with Victor Trevor, only they were not na�ve undergraduates.
Watson clearly took the incident in the cab in stride; he still felt there must be a human somewhere beneath Holmes's aloof exterior, and he believed the pursuit of that humanity to be worthwhile. He soon tried again to be affectionate to Holmes, and this time Holmes permitted the kiss, which was soft and chaste. Then Watson smiled at him with pure friendliness, and no more.
It relieved Holmes, and yet disappointed him somehow.
So theirs had become a romantic friendship too, with warm glances, light kisses, and clasped hands. They did not discuss the terms of it, simply letting it happen naturally. Watson did appreciate Holmes's strong need for privacy, however, and restrained his affections whenever they were not alone.
Yet dangerous feelings started to stir beneath the innocuous veneer. When by chance Watson saw the scar upon Holmes's ankle, the doctor examined it with curiosity and inquired about its origin. Holmes responded distractedly, realising with shock that he sorely wanted Watson's kiss there--in fact, everywhere. How strange that, after his frequent apprehension of deviance in other men, he had discovered such deviance in himself.
Did Watson never suspect? He mentioned to Holmes other friendships he had had, some of them devoted, but he seemed to take no notice of Holmes's behaviour as being at all different or out of the ordinary.
Risking a great deal, Holmes kissed him more often, and once even asked him back to his bedroom, to examine his injuries and scars. Watson readily accepted the invitation, being obsessed as ever with Holmes's health, and he casually undressed Holmes as if there were nothing unusual or dubious about combining friendship with a doctor-patient consultation. Watson paid the most attention to the needle marks on his arm and took the opportunity to discourage Holmes's cocaine use yet again. Holmes changed the subject by asking if he might in turn view Watson's war wound. After an initial hesitation, Watson consented and stripped so that Holmes could see and touch the old scar upon his shoulder. If Holmes had any remnant doubt about his hunger for Watson, it was erased by the sight of his naked chest and the feel of his warm skin.
Still Watson regarded their touches as innocent and made no untoward advances, frustrating Holmes desperately. He resolved that he must tell him, somehow, about his perverse desires.
So the next evening after dinner, as they smoked by the sitting-room fire, Holmes spoke quietly and unexpectedly, "Watson, would you like to hear about my first case?"
"Your first case?" Watson's eyes lit up with excitement. "I have often wondered about that, Holmes. Do you really mean it?"
"Yes," he answered. "I think it would be all right to tell you."
"Wonderful!" Watson beamed.
Holmes rose from his chair. "But I would prefer not to tell you here, Watson. There are... private aspects to this case. Would you come with me to my bedroom?"
Watson blinked, perhaps puzzled by the repetition of yesterday's visit, but then he accepted it with a shrug. "Oh, um, all right." He rose from his own chair, curious about what could be so private. "May I take notes? Just for myself; I won't publish if you don't--"
"Bring your notebook, then." While Watson retrieved his notebook from his desk, Holmes discreetly locked the door of their sitting-room.
Then he led the way to his bedroom and Watson followed without remark. Locking his bedroom door behind them, he gestured for Watson to sit on the edge of his bed. Holmes took up a little cylinder of paper that he had earlier left upon his night-stand, and he joined Watson on the bed.
"Is that from the case?" Watson asked with anticipation.
Holmes nodded and undid the tape so that he could unroll the half-sheet of grey notepaper. Showing it to Watson, he could not help a touch of the dramatic. "This is the message which struck Justice of the Peace Trevor dead with horror when he read it."
With such a preface, Watson eagerly read the note, only to be bewildered by the nonsensical message about 'the supply of game for London.' He frowned. "Fly-paper? Hen-pheasant? What in the world does it mean?"
"I shall explain that later, but let me tell you the story from the beginning." He cleared his throat. "I said before that there were certain private aspects to this case."
"Yes, Holmes. How private? More so than other cases we've shared?"
"In this case, the private aspects do not simply concern my client, but myself as well."
"Yourself?" he frowned. "How?"
"You never heard me talk of Victor Trevor?" he said slowly. "He was the only friend I made during the two years I was at college."
"Really?" Watson's interest was truly piqued now. Holmes had always avoided talking about his youth.
"I--I was never a very sociable fellow," he began, relating all he could remember of that first friendship, and its unexpected consequences.
Watson looked pensive and amazed when he had heard the whole story. The case itself paled in importance to the surrounding personal details that Holmes had revealed to him, and he had stopped taking notes already. "So," Watson spoke at last, "he kissed you sometimes as if he craved more, but it never led to more? I'm sure you were relieved."
"Has any of your friends ever wanted more from you?"
"My friends? Hmm, well there might have been one or two, or perhaps it was my imagination..."
Holmes kissed him suddenly, strongly. He opened Watson's mouth and made him breathless.
"Holmes," he said, blinking.
"Have I... judged you wrongly?" He looked worried and lonely, emotions that Watson had never seen upon his face before.
Watson leaned near, staring into Holmes's vulnerable eyes. "You really want this? It is not a mistaken feeling, a momentary...?"
"What is your answer?" he demanded anxiously.
Watson reached for his shoulder to soothe him, then kissed him slowly, carefully, exploring the taste and feel of his warm mouth. "Do I kiss as well as Victor?" he whispered.
"Better." He virtually purred in his arms, and sighed when Watson lay down with him on the bed.
And with that, their romantic friendship became something else entirely, to be hidden from others not merely for privacy's sake, but because it was unsanctioned by law and morality. They did not care, and let it happen naturally.