Watson duly came home with a stack of medical journals, which were wrapped discreetly in brown paper and tied together.

"Your researches were fruitful?" I said, rising to greet him.

He nodded and put down the journals on the table. "I shall have to read them carefully, though. My knowledge of German is not so extensive."

"Perhaps I can help you?"

"Not necessarily. I mean that the writers have invented their own particular jargon for this field. I shall have to understand fine nuances of meaning."

"I see. And there are no English translations of these articles?"

"No. In fact most of the work on the subject seems to be done in Germany." He began taking off his coat, so I went to help him, and he looked surprised by my courtesy. "Thank you, Holmes."

"No trouble, my dear." I hung up his coat while he took off his hat and shut the door.

Safe now to truly greet him, I turned him to me and kissed his cheek. But he was oddly startled by this and dropped his hat.

"Are you all right, Watson?"

"Um, y-yes," he stammered. "I just--well, I hadn't expected that."

"Why not?" I asked him. "We've kissed many times now."

"I know, b-but I thought you'd not want to, especially so soon after what happened this morning."

I patted his arm. "Never mind that, Watson."

"Are you sure, Holmes? Even though you walked in on--"

"Let us not speak of it," I said firmly, then turned away to resume my armchair. I really did not want to discuss that incident any further, as it brought back such disturbing images.

Watson stood watching me a moment, then retrieved his hat from the floor and hung it up. "Yes," he said. "Yes, there. That--that distance is what I expected. The apprehension and disgust--"

"I am not disgusted by you," I hurried to assure him. "It is not you; it is the sickness."

He nodded. "And yet you do not fear to kiss me?"

"No." I began to light my pipe. "I told you, I shall observe you more carefully now and stop you if you go too far. You shall be well again soon, and we can be natural together instead of guarded."

He shrugged. "I suppose so." Then he took his journals to his desk so that he could read them. As he unwrapped them, he asked me if there had been any news while he had been gone, especially about the Wilde trial.

I told him, "Do not concern yourself with that, Watson. You have not committed any offences like he did. Nor are you as arrogant as he, charging libel against the Marquess of Queensbury when he should have left it alone."

Watson said, "But I still worry, Holmes. I-I can empathise with Wilde. He is an author like me, and he once met Doyle. Our circles have crossed."

"Yes, but he has committed gross indecency repeatedly."

"I could have done the same," he told me, shockingly. "After I first began to feel... inappropriate things for you--well, many times I have been tempted to relieve my desire in some sinful back alley."

"No!"

He nodded in shame.

Abruptly I had a distressing image of him in his bedroom again. Even worse, I imagined him holding some other man's sex in his hand. At night in a dark alley, or within some horrid brothel... I had to stand up and pour myself a drink.

Watson blushed, but continued. "So you see, Holmes, his fate could so easily be my own. There but for the grace of God, go I."

"Never! You must never--" I swallowed more of my drink. "Watson, if you ever do succumb to an indecency, you must tell me, and I shall find a way to protect you. I should never let you be blackmailed by some scoundrel, or charged by the police."

"That is very kind of you, Holmes." He seemed much moved. "If only poor Wilde had such protection."

"Poor Wilde!"

"He still has feelings, Holmes; he is still a man of great wit and talent, despite his illness. As for his arrogance--perhaps his love for his young man made him unwise and irrational."

"I suppose so," I conceded, and sat at the table. "If the man had any common sense, he certainly should have fled the country instead of allowing himself to be arrested."

Watson nodded. "If he had done so, he could have resumed his life elsewhere, in a country with more permissible laws. Or if he had not pressed the charge of libel in the first place, then he could now be enjoying the success of his most recent play."

I wondered that Watson kept thinking of ways for Wilde to continue his sinful life; Watson's madness must be affecting his morality. So I said, "Perhaps the man should have sought treatment long ago, and cured himself of his perversions."

"Perhaps that was what he was doing by getting married?"

"And yet according to the evidence from his trial, he still did not curtail his offences."

Watson looked pensive and speculated, "Maybe he could not help himself."

I thought of replying that morals are never easy, but Watson asked again about the progress of the trial.

I reluctantly tossed him the latest newspapers, and he read them while I finished my drink and tried to push the disturbing images from my mind. I also played my violin, but it did not help.

So I retreated to my room and sat on my bed anxiously. I glanced at all the pictures on my walls of criminals, and imagined with horror the idea of Watson being in Wilde's place. Accused and exposed in public, with suspicion thrown on every word he had ever written about me. Our innocent friendship being confused with something sordid. It is not that I worry about the scandal falsely implicating me as well. What does my reputation matter, when I already have plenty of money with which to retire from society? No, I worry for Watson, especially since his illness is my own fault. I cannot let him be arrested. If there is ever the slightest hint of scandal, then we shall not dawdle, and should leave the country immediately. I do not know where we should eventually settle. Perhaps in Germany if that is where he must be treated? I do not care so long as my dear friend is safe with me.

---

At dinner time I composed myself and returned to the sitting-room to join him at the table. Once the maid departed, Watson said something or other about the Wilde trial, expecting me to know what he meant.

"What? I'm afraid I didn't read the afternoon editions yet, Watson." I gestured to the stack of his Strand magazines by my armchair. "I finished reading all your stories instead."

He looked surprised. "Really?"

"Yes, and I thank you for showing them to me. They are quite good. Much better than your novels. Though you've fictionalised some of the facts--"

"I had to, for your clients," he said defensively.

"I know that, my dear," I said gently. "You've made quite a proper mess of the dates indeed, and changed other names and details where necessary. Thank you for exercising so much discretion."

He relaxed now. "Oh, well I had to, of course. Even though Mary complained that it looked as if I'd forgotten when we were married."

"And where your wound was!"

We laughed and recalled that it was his agent's fault in editing the manuscript. Doyle had misremembered the other novel and mistaken Watson's injured Achilles tendon for his war wound. Watson did not see the error until after it was published, and had even chosen to go along with the fiction in his later "Noble Bachelor" story. He wrote that his jezail was in one of his limbs; his shoulder is not his limb!

"Why did you not correct him?" I asked.

"Oh, I didn't want to embarrass him, after all the help he has given me. Besides, I don't think that anyone will really notice. I'm hardly important."

"How can you say such a thing?"

"The stories are about you, not me."

"And that is a great pity, Watson! You should not make yourself into such a minor character, in your quest to praise me. Why, you have not even told your readers your eye colour or your hair colour. You have not described the fine cut of your figure or the sweet sound of your voice."

He blushed with his usual modesty. "Oh, they would not care about ordinary old me."

"Then they are fools! I care about you, Watson. I love you in fact."

He grinned, but only sipped his drink.

I insisted, "You are my biographer, but you shirk your duty by not writing about yourself as well. After all, you are a large portion of my life, and the world should see all your admirable qualities as I do. In fact, why do you not write a biography of yourself? Tell everyone about your youth in Australia, your medical training with Stamford, or your war service."

"I've written plenty about myself." He smiled and echoed my words, "I write about you, and you are a large portion of my life."

"I do not want you to keep writing of me, Watson. You should write about the rest of your life."

"I have. I wrote about Mary in Sign of the Four."

"Oh, that." I should have disguised my reaction, but I could not help my distaste for that novel.

He became offended. "She is important to my life!"

"Yes! Yes, of course she is, Watson. I have no objection to you writing of your wife. Especially now that she has passed, it might be fitting to memorialise her in some way. Perhaps you should write of your home life with her and any little adventures in your medical practice when you were not on cases with me."

"Then what do you object to in my novel?"

I tried to explain it. "Well, I-I did not like the emphasis on your romance, taking up almost half the story. It was the same reason I disliked your other novel, with Doyle inventing that romance for Jefferson Hope."

"He based it on Hope's confession, and what we found out about the victims being ex-Mormons. Doyle is very interested in historical fiction."

I snorted disdainfully.

He shrugged it off. "I still don't understand, Holmes. I did not invent my romance with Mary. It truly happened that way."

"Yes, but those were the earliest days of your wooing, Watson, when you were more infatuated than in love."

"Infatuated?"

"Yes. You were enthralled by her beauty and intoxicated by the case."

"It was more than that."

"Yes, some of it was emotional too."

"Holmes, I hardly think it's your place to pass judgement on my own feelings!"

"I am not judging you, Watson, merely stating the facts. You must admit, I have been able to accurately read you many times."

"Yes, but--"

"Come now, Watson. You could not possibly love a woman that you had only just met! By the time of your engagement, you still had only known her four days."

"Some people do fall in love quickly."

"So I observed. Still, you remember that Mrs. Cecil Forrester advised you to have a long engagement in order to get to know each other better? She wished you both to grow into your love, and be sure that it was not a temporary infatuation born of the thrill of the case."

"I remember." He looked at me inquisitively. "So you agree with her that we were not properly in love then?"

"Yes," I said, lighting my pipe. "Really, Watson. Even as charming as you are, I did not love you until almost a year into our acquaintance, as I've told you."

"And I loved you quite soon after our first case. There is something quite stimulating about a mystery, and it makes everything quite intense and focused. That is why I loved Mary so quickly."

"Then surely you should have loved any of our other previous female clients, Watson."

He smiled. "But I did not, Holmes, because Mary in particular was meant for me. Our love was not superficial and based only on the case after all." He took my hand. "Just as my love for you is quite particular and real."

"As is my love for you," I said. "It has only deepened with time."

"Holmes." He looked tempted to kiss me again, but restrained himself and let go of me, perhaps out of fear that he could not control himself. To change the subject, he said, "I still don't understand why you objected to my Sign of the Four novel. Even if you don't believe I fully loved her then, I only wrote what really happened."

"Yes, but your romance did not show you in the best light, Watson. When you were not assisting me on the case, you were often in a fog over Miss Morstan. Remember how you were in the cab, telling that absurd story of the double-barrelled tiger cub? You later recommended strychnine for Thaddeus Sholto."

"Yes, but thankfully he did not take me seriously." Watson laughed. "I am not embarrassed about those things, Holmes. In fact they are charming memories to me."

"But I would much prefer that you write about yourself when you are not in such a fevered state, Watson. You are not normally so distracted and daydreaming. In your short stories, you still dramatise the varied romances of my clients, but you yourself are a different man. You are competent and stalwart and wonderful again, as I love."

"Well, just as I write about you, faults and all, I should write about myself, faults and all." He seemed much amused. "If my fault is being mentally impaired by love, then I am gladly guilty of it."

"Do not say such things! If you are too impaired by love for me, then you might..." I suddenly blushed uncomfortably, and could only manage, "Like Wilde..."

He looked more sober now. "I shall not indulge my desires, Holmes. I promise you. I would not put you at risk, especially given Wilde's trial; this uproar shall probably last for quite some time." He took my hand again. "Besides, I felt all those temptations before I knew that you love me, Holmes. Having your love lends me strength."

"I am glad." I squeezed his hand.

He met my eyes, but soon let go and cleared his throat. He resumed his meal, and told me to eat mine as well.

I did so, but still glanced at him.

---

After dinner we sat smoking again and talked a little of his stories. I made sure to praise his writings further, since it so cheered him up. The more we reminisced, the closer I sat to him, until I hugged him warmly.

He reacted somewhat nervously to my embrace, but I reassured him that I would watch him closely. I lay my head upon his wounded shoulder and felt him slowly relax.

"I shall be so happy when you are cured, Watson."

"So will I." He sighed and caressed my arm gently. "I have been struggling with these feelings for some months, you know, and will be glad to be rid of them."

"Have you read those journals yet?"

"Yes, some of them."

"And how soon can you be cured?"

Watson hesitated. "I don't know, Holmes. It depends on the specialist and the treatment. There are differing medical opinions and differing case studies. I am trying to find something that applies to me, but it appears that most of the patients have always had unnatural yearnings for men, whereas I have only felt these things for you, and only after all these years."

I frowned with guilt. "Perhaps because no other sane, healthy man was ever treated so shabbily by his friend."

"Oh, Holmes. Do not blame yourself for this. I do not."

"But how I abused you--"

"It did not help, certainly, but I tolerated your awful behaviour, after all. I could have protested more. I could have moved out years earlier, or not visited you so often after my marriage. You said and did many hurtful things to me, Holmes, and yet I remained your friend. I could not help loving you, despite my occasional anger."

"I am so sorry."

"I know. And I am sorry for this--this illness of mine."

"It is not your fault."

"I don't know, Holmes. Perhaps I should not have moved back here so soon. Perhaps I should have kept my practice so that I could not fixate on you alone."

"I needed you here, Watson. I missed you so."

"And I missed you, far too much."

"My dear." I kissed his cheek and held him close to me. I told him again that he ought to write about his wife and the rest of his life, so that he would not fixate on me anymore.

He still seemed reluctant, saying that he should at least publish the tale of my return, to properly inform the public.

I said that I did not want him to write of my shameful deception. Of how cruel and heartless I had been to him.

He whispered his forgiveness to me again, and we remained together on the settee for quite some time. Finally we retired for bed. I wonder if he notices now that it is May already, nearing our unhappy anniversary.