This morning I was quite happy to greet him, but I found that he avoided my eye, and his voice was not as bright.
"Watson?" I came nearer to him.
He blushed and looked at the floor. Then he cleared his throat and whispered, "I-I dreamed of you."
I understood then that he was speaking of his madness again. "Oh. I see."
"I'm sorry." He took a seat at the breakfast table and said, "Thank you for the kindness you showed me last night. I shall certainly endeavour to cure myself."
"Very good. Let us have breakfast first." I rang for our meals, then patted his shoulder before taking my seat at the table.
As we ate, I tried to tell him stories to turn his mind to purer things, and eventually he was able to relax. He laughed at my jokes and even met my eyes again. I was pleased to see him so happy, so I reached across the table and touched his hand.
His smile softened, and he murmured, "I love you."
"I love you too." I even leaned over and kissed his cheek.
He squeezed my hand and then kissed it too.
When we heard the tread of the maid, we quickly let go of each other and looked to our newspapers again. She brought in the morning mail so I began to go through it, but before Watson would read aloud my letters to me, he told me that I should continue to eat.
"I wish to concentrate." It is why I often ask him to read to me; his voice is particularly easy to pay attention to, especially when my mind races too fast.
"Please, Holmes. You do not eat enough."
Seeing that he was concerned for my health, I merely sighed and obeyed him.
He smiled and at last read to me my letters. As it turned out, there were no interesting cases among the correspondence, only foolish inquiries from people who had seen my name in the newspapers recently, and so now wanted confirmation that I was not dead at Reichenbach after all.
Watson said, "If you would only let me publish a new case, they would stop wondering, and more new clients would come seek you. You must admit, relying on people to believe that a ghost is alive without explanation, is rather irrational."
"Scotland Yard accepted my return readily enough," I said, "although I suppose they only had to interview Moran to learn how I had escaped death. As to the public, I had hoped that they would merely think your story from before was fiction, a blind like in the Culverton Smith case."
"Oh, I have not published that one yet."
"You haven't?"
"No, my journal from then was full of unprintable expletives. I was quite mad at you."
"Oh." I blushed. "I'm sorry."
He touched my hand again. "Promise me you shall not do so again. Do not feign dying, or death, ever again."
I nodded and promised him. "Not to you, my love."
He looked quite touched to hear me call him that. "My dear Holmes." After a moment he let go of my hand and told me to finish eating.
So I finally finished my plate, but told him to finish his as well, and we laughed.
As soon as our trays were cleared from the table, I went to smoke my pipe, while he sat in his armchair with the newspaper. He had not been able to concentrate on it before.
I watched him reading, and then wondered aloud, "Which stories did you publish while I was gone?"
"You want to know?"
"Yes. I know of the first few, of course." He had written me in early April 1891, saying that he planned to publish six short stories in the Strand, but I had been in France on a case. I suppose he had wanted me to be unable to protest, after I had criticised his earlier two novels. Then of course I had returned to him with my Moriarty case on April 24th, and we had more important matters to discuss.
Regrettably, I left Watson on May 4th. As I understood it from Mycroft, the stories were published anyway beginning that July, but I had not read any of them. On my return in April 1894, Mycroft only showed me "The Final Problem" and informed me of Watson's bereavement. I had no other curiosity at the moment. It has now been over a year, and I am suddenly aware that we are approaching the fourth anniversary of my false death. The third anniversary was spent in uncomfortable silence.
As if remembering that day, Watson hesitated for a long time. He finally said, "I have old copies of the Strand, if you wish to read them."
"Yes, please."
He went to retrieve them, then he whispered anxiously, "Be kind."
"Oh Watson." I brushed his arm tenderly. "Of course."
I took the magazines from him, and he returned to his newspaper. I sat in my armchair, but could not help glancing at him worriedly. So I went to him and asked, "Perhaps we should read them together?"
"Really?"
"Yes, come sit here with me." We moved to the settee and began to read his account of the Irene Adler case. In the opening paragraph he spoke of my cold nature and how I was a perfect reasoning machine. Now at last I could be here to tell him that he was wrong. I did feel love, and for him only.
He doubted me. "Why surely your brother--"
"No. That is only familial, a mere fond tolerance caused by our being raised together. But notice that we do not see each other often, even though we live in the same city. I usually only consult Mycroft on cases where I am perplexed."
"And you did not tell me of him for seven years, either."
"Yes. I am sorry for that, Watson. I suppose I was trying to maintain a distance between us. To withhold my family from you was to withhold myself as well. My emotions."
He shrugged and tried to murmur with understanding, "I had trouble speaking of my brother as well."
I took his hand in mine and made him meet my eyes. "My point is that my love for my brother pales in comparison to my love for you. What I feel for you is quite distinct, quite rare in its... power. I am amazed by the way you affect me, the way you make me aware of my heart. I-I have no gift with words." I pulled him to me for another kiss, and he hugged me tightly.
His magazines fell to the floor, but we could not be bothered with them, only clinging to each other a while. I brushed away his tears again, and then he kissed my hand once more. He lingered, kissing each finger and then the palm as well. It was quite a new sensation, and pleasurably warm. With my right hand, I caressed his hair, and he moaned softly into my left hand.
I did not know how to describe it. "Watson."
"Do you like that?"
I nodded.
He pushed back the sleeve of my dressing-gown and began to kiss my wrist as well. Next he unbuttoned my shirtsleeve and pushed it back, exposing the old needle scars. I have not indulged in my habit lately, but I believe he fears that I shall be tempted again with the current lack of cases. "Please, please no more," he said.
"Watson, it is only when there are no cases."
He kissed my arm.
"It is only a seven-per-cent solution."
He kept kissing all over my skin, still saying nothing.
"Did I not already switch back from cocaine to morphine?" Since my return, he had lectured me with reports of deaths from what he considered the more dangerous drug. Would he not even allow me my original vice?
He reached now the very inside of my elbow, and I gasped. He then lingered there, beginning to nuzzle the soft skin and even breathe against it too.
My eyes widened and I finally managed, "Very well, but only if you do that, whenever I have the urge." It would be an effective substitute if he could distract me with such puzzling sensations.
"Yes, gladly," he said into my skin, and then continued in gratitude.
I should have stopped him then, since I did not actually feel an urge for any drug at that moment, but I was too fascinated by his touch, and I suppose he was too far gone to stop. His madness affects his ability to think clearly, so I must learn where to draw the boundaries.
He held my bare arm in both his hands, worshipping the whole length of it. I pulled him close to me with my free arm and kissed his cheek again.
He shivered and closed his eyes, then his kisses changed. He began to lick me now and even suck passionately.
"Watson?"
He bit me.
"Watson!" I finally stopped him.
He released my arm and shook himself with realisation. He was flushed as well, and quite evidently had become aroused. "I-I'm sorry. When you said you enjoyed it, I thought it was all right."
"I did not mean to lead you on," I told him. "I-I have not had other intimate friends. I cannot judge."
"I'm sorry." He got up from the settee, unfortunately stepping on his spilled magazines.
"Careful."
"Excuse me." He hurried away to his bedroom upstairs.
For a moment I feared that he would cry again, and I thought I should apologise, so I followed him. But when I burst into his room, he had his trousers open and was attending to his arousal. "Holmes!"
I quickly looked away. "I'm sorry. I'll... go." I quickly shut the door behind me and returned to the sitting-room. I tidied up the magazines and brushed off the dirt from the ones he had trampled. Then I paced the room, tidying up random bits of clutter. Eventually I sat down and tried to finish reading the story he had written. I tried to think of happier times, and focus on my noble friend of old, instead of the indecent wreck that I had made of him. I have been such a fool.
It seemed like an eternity before Watson came back. I suppose he did not spend all the time in sin, but also in cleaning himself up and recovering from his mortification. At the very least, he was quiet.
He finally returned at lunchtime, and I was glad, for I did not know what excuse to make for him. He busied himself with folding up the newspaper and avoiding my eye.
As soon as Mrs. Hudson had left us alone again, Watson went to the door and locked it. He stared at his feet and said, "Forgive me."
I dismissed it with a wave. "You must... do what you must, until you are cured."
He nodded and then came tentatively toward the table, to take his chair.
I avoided his eye carefully as well. "I should have known that you would... have to." I blushed. "I mean, I suppose that you did so last night as well?"
"Yes." He sank down heavily.
"And that was the cause of your dream about me?"
He answered unsteadily, "Yes."
"Then I shall be more on my guard in the future, and you shall seek treatment, as well, to channel your urges in a more natural direction."
He asked, "Do you wish me to get married again?"
I finally looked at him and frowned. "No. Then you'd have to leave here again. And after all the trouble I went through to get you to move back!"
He smiled slightly to be reminded of my cousin Dr. Verner who had purchased his practice. "Then what should I do?"
"Well, see a doctor, of course. Did your friend Doyle not speak of this as an illness? Can he recommend a specialist for you?"
Watson considered that, and seemed hesitant. "How can I risk telling him? He would guess that I feel it for you, and he'd certainly suggest that I move out."
"Can you not disguise the request? Pretend that you have a patient who is suffering from this malady, and you need to refer him, since you have no expertise."
"I am still not sure he won't see through it. You are always telling me that I cannot lie."
"Not in person," I said, patting his hand for just a moment. He still has such an honest, open face even though he is tainted by this strange madness.
"Let me consult some medical journals on the subject first. I may be able to find a specialist that way. Perhaps there could be one on the Continent who may be discreet."
"The Continent? You mean you could not remain here to be treated?"
"Surely it's wiser if I go?"
I reluctantly shrugged. "If you say so, Watson. But please, find the swiftest cure. I cannot do without you for long."
He looked quite flattered by this remark, yet he protested, "You were gone three years."
"And it was the worst mistake of my life! Our lives. I should have told you. I should have faced Moran before, begged Mycroft to lend me help from his agents--"
"His agents?"
I had forgotten. "My dear Watson, I lied to you before about Mycroft's profession. He is not some lowly clerk working with figures. His position in government is considerably more important and discreet."
Watson looked stunned and hurt.
I told him, "He insists that I not reveal this to anyone, even you. From the first moment that I mentioned to him that you were writing up the Jefferson Hope case, he warned that I should say nothing to compromise national security."
"I thought it was because--"
I clarified, "I did not reveal his profession because of security; I did not reveal his existence because I tried to not love you so completely. Even if I could not say so then, I showed you my love by finally telling you of Mycroft."
He no doubt weighed my words with his memory of our Greek Interpreter case. "I still wish you had said it then."
I nodded. "As do I."
For a moment we were silent, until I resumed the conversation. "Mycroft is of no importance now. I only wish that you would not leave me too long, Watson. I have told you that I shall cherish you now, and part of that is my desire that you be well very soon."
He said, "I shall do my very best."
"Good." We began to eat now, realising that our food was going cold.
He asked me a little more about Mycroft, though, and I told him the truth. I offered to take him to visit Mycroft again, but Watson suggested that Mycroft would swiftly deduce his condition.
"Oh. Well then, we'll certainly wait until you are better."
"Yes." He asked me then about my childhood with Mycroft, and our parents.
I told him all he wanted to know, even our wretched middle names, which our parents used on us in times of anger. Sherlock Wendell Holmes! Mycroft Oliver Holmes!
Watson seemed quite happy about these revelations, and in return told me of his youth. I found that I was quite interested in his childhood in Australia, and how his family had made money in the gold rush before his older brother squandered it all. It was a sad tale of ruin, though swifter than my own family's fall. It is funny that Watson doesn't have any accent at all, but he says that his father put him in that boarding school with Percy Phelps to knock all the Australian out of him. Watson's early adventures must be the reason why he was tempted into the army in his younger days, and why he enjoys sharing my cases with me.
After lunch he went out to get those medical journals, and I was able to finish reading his magazines. It was easier now that I could picture him normally, and not as that strange creature in his bedroom.