I am not sure when Watson first began to go mad. He was quite sane for the longest time, and indeed was the most admirable and moral man I knew.

Therefore it shocked and distressed me when I began to see the signs of his madness. I fear it may have been my fault. He was a good friend to me, and even an able assistant on my cases, and yet I treated him quite ungratefully in return. I constantly strained his nerves with my untidy habits, my playing the violin at all hours, and my use of cocaine, which so offended his medical sensibilities no matter how much I tried to reason with him. Additionally, whenever I became frustrated with the criminal world, I often took out my bad moods on him, insulting his intelligence or his romanticism. Though he claimed to have a bull-pup temper, he always tolerated my ill behaviour more than I tolerated his. He also worried often about my health and safety, and risked himself as well during my dangerous cases. He felt hurt and angry whenever I did not share my plans with him or even had to deceive him sometimes. Indeed, I suppose my false death for three years may have been one of the major blows to his sanity. Perhaps another was the strain of losing his wife; despite his loneliness, he has denied himself any new feminine company.

I began to see his madness when he became uncomfortable in my presence, reacting sharply any time I touched him casually. He would stare at me, then turn away quickly when I looked at him, and he would blush. He also reacted oddly and nervously whenever reading the news of Oscar Wilde's scandal. I now had a clue to Watson's strange behaviour, and I recognised it as symptoms of what is termed Greek love. Still, I could hardly believe that Watson should succumb to such insanity and immorality. I decided to eavesdrop on him one night, and then I heard him in his bedroom, moaning softly and praying to God to banish his desire for me.

With this confirmation, I could no longer ignore his condition. I felt no outrage nor disgust, only profound pity for the wreck of such a noble man. So I resolved to tell him that I knew of his affliction, and to offer him my help and support in regaining his right mind. His literary agent after all had argued that such moral weakness should be treated as an illness, not a crime to be punished by prison. Therefore I would sympathetically encourage Watson to discreetly receive such treatment as was necessary, and I would promise to do my best to treat him well, so that he not have a relapse of madness.

So one night when Mrs. Hudson was away visiting, I came to Watson's room and began to tell him what I had deduced. He denied it strongly and feigned anger, telling me that I was quite mistaken. I did not let him throw me out, however, and I detailed each clue for him, though it pained me to say such things. Sinking to his bed in defeat, he broke down and wept, saying that he knew it was wrong, but he could not help it. He babbled about the pain of mourning me and how having me alive again made him cling to me indecently. Before he knew it, he was in love.

"I know," I said, "and I so deeply regret that I did this to you. Believe me, my dear Watson." I touched his shoulder, and he flinched, but I insisted, sitting on the bed with him.

He felt panic, asking me what I was doing.

I pulled him into a comforting embrace and patted his back to calm him. I told him that he was no monster to me, and that I was not afraid of him. He was still my very dear friend, and I would take care of him now.

"Take care of me?" He remained confused, but he had stopped crying.

I told him that I did not believe that this sin should be punished with prison, and that I would always protect him. I promised him that I would treat him much better now than I ever had before.

He looked quite touched, and then he held me close. "You mean--you are not upset, Holmes? You will not throw me out?"

"No, of course not, Watson." I raised his head so that I could brush away the tears from his face, and I said as tenderly as I could, "This is your home as much as mine, and I would do anything to keep you with me. I love you."

"Love me?" He looked quite stunned.

When I nodded and moved to kiss his cheek, he turned and kissed my lips instead, startling me.

"Watson!"

Seeing my face when I pulled back, he understood his error. "I'm sorry! I-I thought you said, that you meant..."

I shook my head and found myself blushing. "No, I--" I cleared my throat and whispered, "The misunderstanding appears to be my fault again. I had not stopped to consider that you could mistake my chaste love of your heart for a Greek love of your body."

"My heart?" He seemed quite moved and surprised, but he asked, "Why do you say it is your fault again?"

"Because it is so. The only reason you have succumbed to this illness and immorality is that I have treated you so badly. My false death, you know, and many other strains on your sanity besides. If I had only been kind to you, if I had told you that I love you before now, you surely would have known what I meant."

"Oh Holmes! I love you too." I moved to protest, but he insisted, "I do. I have loved your heart as well, cherished your friendship with all of my being. It was all there years before this, this other part began. It has only been lately that I've been corrupted. Forgive me."

He began to cry again and turn away, but I held onto him. "Forgive me too." I pressed him to my shoulder and stroked his hair gently. "If I had just spoken my love before, treated you well, you might have remained pure. My pure and noble friend. But I could not bring myself to say such things before; you know how cold and unemotional I had to be for my work. I had always to hold back, to say nothing tender to you. What a fool I was not to appreciate you."

He regained enough composure to speak again, and he clung to me. "I-I had no idea you were holding yourself back, Holmes. I was fooled into thinking that you did not feel such love for me. That I was a mere habit to you, or worse, a nuisance you tolerated."

"No, no." I found that I was near tears myself, at the tragedy. "Never. Oh my dear Watson."

He asked me, "How long have you loved me? When did you first feel it?"

So I told him of the first time I ever looked at him with a smile and caught myself before speaking my love. I told him of how precious he was to me, the best and most intimate friend I had ever had. He told me in turn of how long he has loved me, and we found ourselves babbling together, confessing years of our emotions. He told me also of his intense grief for me during my three years absence, and I was overcome with regret. I told him that I had greatly missed him too, and that I had longed to contact him. "But I feared that if you knew my secret, that Moran would try to harm you to learn my whereabouts. I told Mycroft to keep you safe, to--"

I broke off again, and he murmured, "I forgive you." It was odd how much relief I felt, and I noticed that he had relaxed considerably too, so glad to speak freely and know that his gentle feelings were requited.

He asked me about my deception during the Culverton Smith case, and I continued to confess more that night. But I found many times that words would not come easily to me, so I would press his hand tightly or stroke his hair again. I could not even help from kissing his cheek again, but this time thankfully he understood me. He kissed my cheek too and murmured in my ear, "I love you, I love you so."

I never wanted to let him go, and so I did not notice at first when his breath began to hitch and his skin began to flush hotly. His madness of course affected him still, and he tried valiantly not to react to my touch, but his weakness overcame him.

"Holmes, I--" he could not find the words to warn me properly, but his eyes looked feverish now. "You should go."

"Why?" Then I looked down at last and saw his arousal where his dressing-gown had opened loosely.

He looked embarrassed and turned away, closing his gown quickly. "I'm sorry."

I finally let go of him and stood up. "I-I understand," I said, though I did not and still do not understand this illicit desire of his. In truth I scarcely understand the normal physical desires between men and women. It is necessary for procreation of course, but I prefer not to think of the sordid, coarse endeavours of the flesh.

Still hiding his reaction, he lay down in the bed and turned away uncomfortably. "Goodnight, Holmes."

"Goodnight." And yet I still longed to say something more tender to him. "Do not worry," I told him. "In the morning we will look into treatments to cure you of this affliction. You will be yourself again, and I will cherish you this time, I promise."

He looked at me fondly and said, "Thank you."

"It is the least I could do." I went to his door and watched as he turned down the lights. "Sleep well, my dear one." Then I left and closed the door behind me.

I went back to my room, but stayed up thinking of him and still wishing that we could have shared our chaste love years ago. Even if we had said it while he was married, we could have been quite happy, and he could have relieved his libido with his wife. All would have been well, and perhaps his mind would have been strong enough to fight this subsequent madness. But what's past is past already, and cannot be undone. I only hope that his cure will be swift, and that he can at last be whole again. I wish only to enjoy our mutual love now, without fear of his insane desire intruding again.