I gasped when Holmes tumbled me onto my bed that night. He caught me entirely by surprise, with his usual aptitude for calculated manipulation. He smiled triumphantly at me, lying there and pressing me down with a knowing glance.

"Now," he challenged in a wicked whisper, "do you dare deny your feelings for me?"

I could not deny them, either with my words or my body. He lay so near.

Holmes chuckled, still feeling superior and amused. "You see, Mr. Decent Honourable Gentleman, you are not perfect after all. You simply hide your perversion."

I was mute with shame, and as if to answer my unasked question, he explained, "You are not a very good liar."

Finally I gave a wincing, half-hearted reply. "No, indeed," I admitted. "You are not the only queer one between the two of us."

Holmes found that remark highly entertaining and laughed out loud that I should compare his many eccentricities with my own deviant desire. He still had not moved from on top of me.

Indeed, I should never have tried to deny the truth either to myself or to Holmes. I had told myself that I had stopped courting women merely because I wished to save money first for a medical practice before I pursued any potential spouse. I had stubbornly convinced myself of this excuse, pretending that my decision had nothing to do with an unhealthy attachment I had formed to Holmes and to our life here as bachelors.

Holmes was still enjoying himself immensely at my expense, and I wondered how long he wished to torment me. He kept eyeing me with a close, analytical fascination. "And what do you expect of me, then?" he probed with a merciless hiss. "Sentiment? Submission?" He shook his head. "That may be how it works where you come from, with your public schools, and your army..."

I kissed him then. He was driving me mad, with his casual sprawl on top of me, his disregard for my aroused body pressed against him. I thought, if he was going demand that I leave him, that I would have a taste of his mouth first.

For once, he was left speechless, and his eyes looked faltering, rather than piercing. He did not even slap me, just blinking at me with something beyond mere disbelief at my impudence. I suppose only he was allowed to make sudden, theatrical moves.

He frowned and spoke hoarsely, "I--I am celibate, you know."

"I know."

"And I don't even have an interest in..." Something in his face belied his words. He cleared his throat, averting his eyes. "As you are my intimate friend, I permit you one chance to... persuade me."

He did not need to elaborate, for I kissed him anew and he responded completely. I took him into my arms and rolled him beneath me passionately. This he did not like as much, pulling back from me. "Persuade me, don't--"

I nodded, kissing his throat to hush him. "I know." My moustache tickled his skin, and he sighed with the pleasure, relaxing in my arms. His fingers wove themselves in my hair as I reassured him that I would not abuse the chance he was giving me. I intruded my own hands into the buttons of his clothes and did my best to "persuade" him that night.

For one so unpractised at the time, I believe I did very well, and certainly it was not a look of taunting in his eyes when I woke him with my caress in the morning. So my one chance had opened the door to other chances, and since then he came to my bed with no intention of mockery.

He seemed surprised some nights by his passion for me and his enjoyment of our experimental touches. His chosen celibacy, perhaps, had convinced him that he was immune to such sensual delights. He even permitted me to whisper to him fondly that I loved him, though he could not return the sentiment in kind. I understood his silence, he being so unaccustomed to both heated sex and heartfelt love.

It was enough that he yielded his body to me and eagerly sought to make me yield as well. The groaning breathlessness of our guilty embraces, whether in my bed or a convenient train carriage, made us indescribably intimate. Only then would he call me John.

Now that he has asked me to leave him, to find myself a conventional wife for the sake of our reputations, for the sake of his objectivity, and whatever rational reasons he wants to claim, I know it is because he is frightened of losing himself in me. He is afraid that if I am endangered or even harmed in the course of his criminal investigations that he will not be able to bear it, will be emotional and weak where once he was cold and strong. Does he not realise how much I have worried for his own life during our cases?

So I shall go, reluctantly. I shall find myself one of those damsel clients of his, some agreeable woman in need of rescue and gallantry. It will give me some independence, at least, and children too. Something like the pleasantly ordinary household that I once craved. If I choose carefully, she may even be grateful enough to Holmes for introducing us, that she will be easily persuaded to let me visit him, all too often and all too long.

Yet I know that Holmes is the one I must truly persuade, for he insists that I not return to him, that I live my own life without him. But I am not, and can never be, that Decent Honourable Gentleman.

I shall give him a respite from me, then, from our too forceful love, but I shall find my way back to him in time. One night, I shall be the one to surprise him in his bed, and I shall coax his confession of love for me. He shall see then that he cannot choose celibacy again; he cannot choose anything or anyone else but me.