Watson still reads his journals, and has written to one German specialist to request a consultation. I am eager for him to be treated, and yet I cannot stand the thought that he shall have to leave for Germany for who knows how long?
I play my violin often for him and wait for a new case. Scotland Yard usually sends things my way, or else high people in government consult me, since they know through Mycroft that I am alive. Sometimes I think I should relent and allow Watson to publish my return. After all, he wishes to write of me, faults and all, and it would make him happy. Yet I also worry that it will cause him to print more tales and fixate on me too much.
I decided we should get out more, so I suggested that we go visit Wiggins at his new house, and Watson agreed.
The lad looks so grown up now, though of course we fondly remember him as a boy. He seems quite happy with his wife, and told us news of all the other former Irregulars. Since my return, they still do occasional jobs for me, but have their own lives to think of now. Watson was happy to reminisce, for he had looked after the lads while I was absent. It apparently helped him through his bereavement, when he would otherwise have felt too alone.
I thanked Wiggins for this, and then we said our goodbyes and went to have lunch.
Afterward, I started to hail a cab for home, but Watson asked me to walk with him. So we linked arms and rambled through the nearby park a while. It felt wonderful, and I was tempted to kiss him often. But we cannot risk such intimacies in public. Isn't it odd that a pure love as ours can be so easily mistaken for something criminal?
We finally went home for dinner, and he questioned me more about my family, including my French grandmother and my cousin Dr. Verner. Then we embraced a while by the fire, but Watson became too intoxicated from kissing me and I had to stop him.
He apologised, and to save him further embarrassment, I retired to my room. I suppose he is committing a sin in his own room, but I am trying not to think of that.
Watson had a reply from the German doctor, saying that he was welcome to consult, and recommending where he could stay.
So Watson began to make travel plans, and he told me he would need his chequebook from the drawer. I gave it to him, but felt sad as soon as he began to pack his bags.
"Perhaps I should come along with you?" I suggested. "I can help you speak German with the locals."
"I know enough to get by, Holmes."
"Yes, but--"
"Holmes, it would not be conducive to my recovery."
I knew he was right, of course. "What shall I do without you?"
"I shall write you letters, so long as I know that you are definitely here, and not lurking nearby as you were in the Baskerville case."
I sighed. "Very well. I won't deceive you."
"Good."
"Do not leave today," I said. "Put it off till tomorrow. Stay and have a farewell dinner with me."
"All right."
He went out to buy a few things for his trip, and meanwhile I made special arrangements with Simpson's to deliver a special meal to Baker Street. He was quite surprised and touched when he came home.
We had a veritable feast, with all of Watson's favourite treats. With a blanket, we made it a picnic on the floor so that we could sit close and embrace by the fire. I even put a record on the gramophone so that we could have his favourite music playing. The machine is useful in that way, if not entirely convincing.
I sat down with him again. "I know it does not sound that good--"
He interrupted me with a kiss, and said that he loved me.
"I love you, too."
Then he looked at me with tears in his eyes and whispered, "Do you know what day it is?"
I swallowed, for I had hoped that he did not notice. "May 4th."
He saw that I understood. "And you will never leave me again?"
"Never."
We held each other and cried. Just the memory of the waterfalls, his finding my cigarette case and note, and the anguish on his face--it made me wretched. I worried that he could not really forgive me. How could I have been such a fool?
I begged him, "Don't leave me."
"I must go, to be cured."
"I mean, if your doctor tells you that I am at fault, and that you should shun me--"
"I would not."
"I would do anything to make it up to you."
"Just love me like this." He caressed my hair. "Love me."
"Yes, Watson. Always."
With difficulty we composed ourselves. We finished our meal and parted, yet I could not sleep. I finally went to his room and asked if I could stay with him.
He said it was unwise, but I insisted, closing the door behind me.
"Please. Just tonight. While it is still May 4th."
So he allowed me into his bed, and we lay holding each other comfortingly. I could feel his breathing change and his body tense, but I said nothing this time. I stopped him from kissing or touching me too intimately, but I remained in his arms.
I do not know when we fell asleep together, but I woke early the next morning with him on top of me, clearly and indecently aroused. I woke him, and he apologised, releasing me. I slid out of bed and said it was my fault for imposing on him despite his illness. "I shall not do so again, I promise." Then I thanked him and hurried back to my bedroom.
When he recovered, he came down to breakfast, and then he said goodbye to me and got his bags. I wished him luck, and then he left me with a kiss.
So he is gone. He wrote me telegrams during his journey, and then letters once he arrived at the hotel in Germany. The specialist is very interested in Watson's case, since Watson has loved women in his past, and has not always felt indecent things for me.
At first Watson attempted to lie and use an alias, but soon gave it up and is relying on the doctor's professional confidentiality to shield us. So he told the doctor of my return and about our history. Dr. Klemperer was quite stunned by the news that I was alive, but soon recovered when he learned of our private confessions. He told Watson that we should not kiss anymore, much less share a bed. "You are turning him to sin as well."
Watson insisted that I was not ill and that we would not do dangerous things. He agreed that perhaps we should not go to the Turkish baths together anymore, but refused to move out of 221B, thankfully. "Is it not enough that I come here to be treated? This separation is so indefinite and difficult. Besides, we lived together years before quite innocently."
Dr. Klemperer scoffed at this, but moved on. He encouraged Watson to remember his late wife and other female lovers in his past, to try to revive his old desires. Watson was quite embarrassed to relate these memories in explicit detail, but the doctor insisted. It is quite shocking, and I can hardly stand to imagine these appalling sessions of theirs. This specialist seems quite ungentlemanly and unprofessional. Still, perhaps he's only unconventional. The man suggested plausibly enough that Watson's unnatural feelings are arising from his not marrying again. Watson insisted that he doesn't want to marry, for he loved Mary too much.
"And now you love your friend too much."
Watson tried to insist that there must be many other men who do not take second wives, and yet do not turn ill like this.
He and Dr. Klemperer argue often about various theories, including the claim that Watson's mother may have coddled him too much or his father may have not been a good masculine example for him. Watson denies these theories, and says that his only unhappiness in his youth was due to his elder brother. So Dr. Klemperer is now devising a theory that some form of sibling rivalry has damaged him! They keep debating whether Watson is a typical patient or not, and try out methods like hypnosis to banish his erotic dreams of me.
I blush sometimes at Watson's candour in his letters, and think of not reading them through. Yet it is my only contact with him, and I do need to know of his progress.
Most disturbingly, the doctor has advised Watson to have sex with a prostitute to make him normal again. Watson was quite reluctant to try this, but was eventually persuaded, since nothing else has worked. In any case, the attempt was unsuccessful. Watson says that he could not focus on the woman nor imagine his late wife. He found himself fantasizing about me instead, and gave up on it.
This is so discomforting to read.
Watson has argued with Dr. Klemperer on why the attempt failed. The specialist is of the opinion that I am too much on Watson's mind, and he should not write to me anymore. Watson says that he will only stop for a while, but reassures me that he will return to me in Baker Street when he is well. Still I worry.
Curious. I do not understand this craving.
With the lack of cases and with Watson gone so long, I found no interest in my chemical researches anymore and finally smashed a flask in frustration. I did not bother to clean it up, and just paced the room. I even wondered if I should not just contact the press and announce that I am indeed alive after all, so that clients will come to me. But I know that Watson would be very much hurt if I do that without him here, and would be angry also that I had not given him permission to publish a tale first. So I controlled myself.
I tried to play my violin but it only gave me a headache. I reread all his letters to me again, including the one saying that his doctor advised him to stop our correspondence for now. I cursed the doctor and his damned treatments. What kind of cure was this, taking so long? I cannot go on this way, without Watson. I miss his kisses, and his embrace. I miss his voice and his eyes and his smile. I cannot sleep at all.
In my desperate exhaustion, I was tempted to go to the chemist's for some morphine at least, but I remembered my promise to Watson. I could not betray him, even if he would not know. And then I remembered his promise to me. That he would affectionately kiss my hand and arm. How I ache for his touch. It is so strange. Even though I remember with vivid horror how quickly he went too far, I still crave the other part. The tickling of his moustache against my palm. The press of his lips on my skin. The tingling of his hot breath on the inside of my elbow. I crave him so, much more than I ever did my cocaine or morphine.
I remember also our many tears and confessions. I recall the night he let me sleep in his bed. The warmth of his skin, the smell of him. Even if I woke uncomfortably in the morning, it was worth it to be near him. I need Watson so much. I have even begun to smoke his Arcadia mixture lately, to have the scent of him around.
I cannot bear this. When will he come home?
I did not sleep the whole way here, and I was so relieved when I left the station and headed to Watson's hotel. I had to quickly check in before finding his room.
He was shocked to see me, and even muttered that he must be going mad, to hallucinate me there. I assured him I was real by pushing him back into his room and shutting the door behind me. I embraced him, but soon pulled away when I realized that he smelled of sex. Of some woman. "You've just--not on that bed?" I gasped and glanced at the disordered bed, which was empty at least.
He looked down in shame. "He told me that I had to try again."
"I see." But I remained unsteady, and went to find a chair. I sat down on it, while he hurried to straighten the bed.
"I didn't know you were coming. Holmes, what are you doing here?"
"I-I had a craving." I pushed back my sleeve to show him my arm.
"Holmes!" He rushed to me and examined me for needle marks before he calmed down.
"No, I resisted temptation," I told him. "But you had promised me, Watson, that you would distract me. Will you keep your promise now?"
He stared at me, then knelt down to meet my eyes. "What, kiss you? But after what happened before--"
"Please, Watson. I need it. I've missed you so."
He hesitated, then agreed, pulling me over to a couch so that he could sit with me.
I took off my coat to make it easier, and he bared my arm again. I sighed in relief at the first touch of his lips on my hand. "Oh, my dear Watson." I kissed his cheek and then lay my head on his shoulder while he kissed all along my fingers. It was so good, delighting all my senses. Even the smell of him didn't bother me anymore, because I pressed my coat against him and the strong tobacco odour helped. How I missed him so.
"Holmes." He gently moved down my wrist and arm again, and I trembled when he kissed the inside of my elbow. I listened every moment as his breathing grew deeper, and I reluctantly stopped him.
"Watson." I almost said, "That's enough," but it was not really enough. I wanted to stay with him, to even ask him to share my bed, but I knew that he would lose control if I did. "Thank you."
He pulled back hazily.
"Thank you, my dear, but I should go now. For your illness."
He was reluctant to stop as well. "Right now?"
I nodded.
"Let me come back to London with you."
"I--if you wish to. If your doctor will let you go. After all, you can find prostitutes in London as well. Will you tell him in the morning and then pack your bags?"
"Yes. Will you wait for me?"
"Of course." I think he had feared that I was leaving immediately for London. "I shall go to my hotel room now, and see you in the morning."
"Oh. Yes." He kissed my cheek eagerly, and had to be reminded to let me go again.
"Goodnight, Watson." I finally rose and took my coat.
I think he tried to say goodnight as well, but something caught in his throat. He just watched me go, and I closed the door.
With this promise of him coming home, I can finally rest. I know I should not relax completely, since he is not cured of his madness yet. But I can't help feeling happy and warm from his kisses. It is curious that I crave his touch so much, but that is the wonder of him, that he stirs my heart so. We shall go home tomorrow, and that is all I need. I shall not even unpack my bag.