I felt Watson calming in my arms as we rode in the carriage. His breathing slowed, and the tears dried on his face. He moved his head from my shoulder to my chest, pushing aside my coat so he could listen to my heartbeat without his stethoscope. I sighed and enjoyed his warmth. We were at peace.

After a while, Watson put his hand against my chest and murmured, "You love me, with all your heart?" There was a tone of disbelief and wonder in his voice, as if he had somehow forgotten all the things we had said to each other months ago. Perhaps the intervening time had made them seem distant and unreal to him.

I caressed his hair to renew the memory. "Of course, my dear." I tried to turn his head so I could kiss his temple, but he shifted away from me then.

Watson sat up to face me, and withdrew his hand from my chest. He frowned and said abruptly, "Dr. Klemperer thinks we are lovers now."

"What?"

He watched my eyes and nodded. "That's what he meant by 'You have made your choice.' He thinks we have chosen to abandon my treatment and to... to give in to my weakness."

"That's appalling!" I said, and took Watson's hand in mine. "If he could mistake us so wrongly, then how is he an expert on this subject?"

Watson looked unhappily at our hands for a moment, but he only bit his lip and shrugged.

I said, "He is an incompetent, horrible doctor, Watson. You should find a new doctor now, a better one." Hopefully, someone nearer to London.

Watson almost spoke then, but swallowed and changed his mind.

I tried to pull him into a soothing embrace again, but he pushed me away and retreated on the carriage seat.

"Watson?"

He shook his head and choked out, "No." He turned his back to me, then just sat at the window, staring out blindly. "Please."

I felt hurt by his rejection, but I realised that he was afraid of losing his self-control. Perhaps, due to his months of treatment by Dr. Klemperer, Watson has learned to be paranoid about our every touch. I longed to rid him of such disapproval, but since he was so upset, I tried to respect his wishes.

Moving apart from him, I held one of his bags on my lap and just rode in silence.

---

When we approached the station, he finally withdrew from the window and took out his handkerchief to clean his face. He had silently cried again.

I let go of his bag and said, "Let me."

He shook his head, but I insisted. "Please." It was upsetting enough not to be allowed an embrace, but nothing else? "You haven't a mirror."

He reluctantly acquiesced as I took his handkerchief and gently cleaned him. With my fingers, I also brushed back his hair that had become disordered when I held him before. "There you are." Then I reached for his sleeve and tucked the handkerchief back inside. He still retained that military habit, even fifteen years out of the army.

Watson stared at me oddly again and drew back his arm.

We finally stopped at the station then, and he grabbed one of his suitcases before exiting the carriage. I alighted as well and told the driver to bring the remaining bags. I briefly directed Watson toward our train and gave him his ticket, before I left to retrieve my own bags that I had checked at the station before. Soon I joined Watson on the train and put my fewer bags next to his. He paid the driver and then locked the door.

So we were standing alone again, and I sat down first, leaving room for him beside me.

However, he just took the opposite seat again.

I stared across at him and asked, "Why will you not let me near you?"

He asked me strangely, "Am I a pet to you, Holmes?"

"What?" I could not understand where this nonsense was coming from.

He continued, "Am I your stray dog? Some lost property you've come to retrieve?"

"No!" I feared that his madness really was destroying his mind. "No, Watson! You're my dearest friend. My partner. My love."

He winced at that. "You speak as if we were sweethearts."

"What? Watson, I have called you my intimate friend for years. My p--"

"But not your love," he insisted. "And you never romanced me before."

"Romanced you?"

"Ordering my favourite meals, playing my favourite music--"

"Watson, you are being irrational. I have done all those things before."

"But not all at once, not like this. With kisses and devoted words and--and touches."

"But I have touched you before, Watson." I often held his hand or arm when walking together, and casually brushed his shoulder or knee on cases. "Many times."

"You never held me close, or kissed me, or slept with me."

I remembered that night on May 4th. It felt like ages ago now. "I am sorry," I told him sincerely. "It was my mistake, to do that when you were weak. I shall take all precautions--"

"Are you aware, Holmes, that friends do not kiss?"

I blinked at him. "They do."

"No, they don't. Not like we do."

"It depends on the friends, the country. The French--"

"We are not French."

"On the contrary, I have French blood."

He veritably scowled at me, but after all, I have told him of my French grandmother before.

The train whistle blew, and we began moving.

Once we departed the station, Watson said, "You have been part French all your life, Holmes. But you never kissed me before you told me you loved me."

"I could not, Watson. I was trying to restrain my emotions and remain objective."

He looked startled. "Then you wanted to kiss me, all along?"

"Yes." I added, "I wanted to hold you also."

"And sleep with me?" His eyes were wide in disbelief.

I nodded. "I wish I had done so before your illness. It might have prevented it."

He merely stared at me and said nothing for a moment. Then he lay down on the seat and curled up miserably, shaking his head. "He was right."

"Who?"

"Dr. Klemperer."

"I highly doubt that he is right about anything."

"But he is." Watson laughed with a bitter irony. "It is you who are being irrational, Holmes. You do not see."

"See what?"

"You are blind. Blind with... love?" He spoke with a strange hope and wonder.

I sat closer, and he allowed me at last to take hold of his hand. "Of course I love you, Watson. I've said it so many times. Why do you still doubt me?"

"I don't," he said, but still frowned. "I just--what kind of love do you mean? It's not a brotherly love."

"No. I've told you--"

"I know." Still he went on, "And it is not merely a bemused affection? It's not a showman craving an audience? A genius needing a follower, an admirer?"

"No, certainly not!" I tried to make sense of his ramblings, and could only think he felt so insecure because of how badly I have treated him in the past. "We are equals, friends--"

"And it's not just something from your head or your brain? An intellectual connection? You feel this emotion, this... love from your heart?"

"Yes." I kissed his hand. "I love your precious, tender heart with all of mine."

Watson was much moved and looked like he might cry again.

I moved closer to kneel before him and caress his face. I hoped that he would let me hold him again, but instead he pulled my hand and pressed it against his own chest, his own heart. He felt so warm, and his heartbeat seemed somewhat fast.

"You remember?" he asked me. "You remember when you did that, that night? May 4th, when you lay in my bed. My bed." His voice choked, and he frowned.

I smiled. "Yes, Watson. I remember." I wondered whether he wished me to apologise for that night or not. He was stroking my hand and entwining our fingers.

I added my other hand to his heart. "My dear Watson."

His eyes watched me closely. "You crave intimacy, Holmes, but not... not a lover."

"No," I answered. "I would certainly not degrade you like that."

"But if I did not find it degrading, if..."

I couldn't understand him. "You are unwell."

He suddenly let go of my hand and turned away from me.

I started to caress him, but he covered his face and choked back tears.

"Watson."

"Don't." He pushed me further back and warned, "If you want me to have any self-control, stay back."

So I got up from the floor and returned to my seat. I heard him breathing raggedly and crying faintly too. It upset me, and I drew up my knees to my chin.

The conductor came to check our tickets, so I quickly retrieved Watson's for him. I only opened the door partway and said that Watson was sleeping so that the man would not disturb him. Once he left, I shut and locked the door again.

Then I sat down and resumed watching him helplessly.

Watson had quieted by now, and he turned to gaze at the ceiling. He said in a detached way, "I should not travel with you."

"What?"

"I should get different trains, different hotels--"

"No!" I was shocked. "No I've already bought--"

"I cannot just--I shall go mad! If I'm not already."

"But Watson, please. You said you would come home with me."

"I will, but separately. Not so close to you."

"You will not return to Germany, and Dr. Klemperer?" I feared that he wanted to resume his treatment.

"No. It's just--" He shook his head and sighed. "It's too much, Holmes. Being near you. I dreamed of you last night."

"I know. You told me."

"I did not tell you all. The dream was so damn real that I woke up this morning reaching for you. When you weren't in my bed, I was so miserable. I thought I'd dreamed everything--that you didn't come here from London, that you didn't beg me to kiss you, that I'd made the whole thing up."

So that was why he looked surprised. I asked, "You couldn't tell the difference? Had you been drinking last night?"

He shook his head. "No, that's just how vivid my dreams are lately. So many fantasies and wishes..."

I blushed in embarrassment.

He saw my discomfort, and he said simply, "They are too real. If I travel home with you so near, I shall dream more and not know what is true. I shall mistake your touches and try to kiss you."

"Then I can stop you," I said.

"You cannot even stop yourself from touching me."

I frowned. "I only wish to comfort you."

"And it won't comfort me. It will only torment me and break my heart."

I pleaded, "But this does not make sense. We always touched before you were ill. You always let me."

"I did not let you kiss me, or sleep in my bed."

"I did not try to, then."

Watson stared at me. After a moment, he said, "Murray kissed me once."

"Murray?"

"My orderly who saved my life in Afghanistan."

"He kissed you?!"

"Yes. You see, Murray had been at your funeral and at Mary's, wanting to comfort me. Then last year, when I wrote to him that I was moving back into Baker Street, he came to Kensington to ask me why, and to check that I was not still grieving. So I told him the truth about you coming back from the dead, and he got quite angry. He said he would go to Baker Street and thrash you for deceiving me for three years. I stopped him and told him not to, but he kept arguing that I should not forgive you. That you clearly did not care for me at all, and didn't deserve me. He said that he loved me, and then he kissed me."

I stared in shock. "You never told me this."

"It was a private matter, Holmes. Besides, I had no idea then how you felt for me, and I had not become ill for you yet. I felt pity for him, and sorrow. Murray explained that he had fallen for me during our two years together in the army, but he knew I only desired women, because I talked so often of my romances, and how I wanted to meet Indian women, only to be thwarted by the Afghan war. So he never tried to express himself to me, but he worried for me constantly once I was wounded and came down with fever. He was quite relieved when I was sent home and even felt glad to not be tempted by my presence anymore. Then he had tried to forget me over the years and consider me only a friend. But learning the truth of your death, and knowing how much I had grieved for you, he could not stand to see me return to you."

"What did you do?"

"I told him that I did not feel the same as he, and I suggested that he seek treatment for his unnatural feelings. He shook his head and said he could not change his nature after so many years. He apologised for kissing me and said he would leave. I made him promise not to attack you on my behalf, because it would upset me. He finally agreed and said, 'I hope he makes you happy.' Then he left."

I was appalled. "Did he think we were deviant, even still?"

Watson changed the subject. "He also wrote me a letter back in May."

"What? Oh." I recalled now that there had been a letter for Watson, shortly before he left for Germany.

Watson said, "Murray told me that he was leaving England for good because of the Wilde trial. He could tell already that the last trial would end badly. He said that I should not fear him bothering me, or you, anymore, and he would live with some other like-minded friends in Paris."

"Indeed?"

"I wrote him to say good luck."

"Good luck?" Watson's morals have been thoroughly corrupted by his madness.

Watson said, "If you had kissed me, Holmes, years ago, I would have refused you in the same way. I would not have allowed your kisses, or let you sleep with me. In fact, I probably would have moved out of Baker Street."

I was quite hurt. "You would?"

"Yes, Holmes, because friends do not allow such things. Not even French friends."

"But Watson, I do not kiss you in the same way that a deviant would, and I would not assault you in bed--"

"You considered my kisses an assault?" he said, looking quite offended.

"No, you did not go as far as--" Then I had a thought. "Watson, do you think--Murray kissing you then--do you think that caused your illness?"

"No, Holmes. I didn't feel any differently after his kiss. It was returning to Baker Street that did it. Being near you and being grateful every moment that you were alive. It was waking every morning to your presence. Your tobacco smoke and your violin. Your beautiful eyes and hands."

"Watson."

He fell silent and looked away again.

We did not speak any more until the next train stop. I contemplated this Murray fellow and wondered whether I ought to try locating him in Paris. I should confront him about what he did to my poor friend. Watson thinks he was not corrupted then, but I do not believe him. He is too blind to see.