When I arrived in the dining room, Watson was seated at a table and reading a newspaper. He had already ordered a simple, almost Spartan breakfast for us, as if to scold me for my previous indulgences with regard to our meals.
"Holmes," he greeted me somewhat stiffly, looking at his toast and coffee rather than at me. No doubt he was trying not to kiss me as he had upstairs.
"Watson," I said just as formally and took my seat. "Did you sleep well?"
He frowned a moment as if tempted to reply that he had dreamed of me last night again, obviously. Instead he waved away the question and ordered, "Eat. It will make you feel less ill on our journey."
For a moment I did not know what he meant, until he added, "Please, Holmes. It will distract you from your craving." Ah, he meant morphine then. He wished to focus on nagging me medically to get his mind off his own illness.
I let him have his detachment. "Very well, doctor." I began to eat my meal, while Watson drank his coffee and read.
Soon, however, Watson could not help glancing up at me. He watched me eat, as he has often done in the past when I have been ill, but this time he could not keep up the stern demeanour of a concerned doctor. I found that his eyes kept watching my hands and also my mouth.
I tried not to comment nor blush from his scrutiny, but eventually he became aware of what he was doing.
"I'm--I'm sorry." He coughed and looked away in embarrassment.
"No, no, it's all right. You are still ill--"
He frowned and raised a hand in protest. "No, don't." He cleared his throat a few times and glanced around the room nervously. Finally he said, "Holmes, tell me about your trip to India and Afghanistan."
"What, now?"
"Yes, um, tell me what you saw of the countryside, the people. Did you study the languages and the religions? Were you in disguise? What did you learn about Moran? Did you visit your old friend Victor at Terai?" He kept babbling like that, and I knew that he wanted to do anything to not discuss his illness.
So I acquiesced and told him stories of my sojourn in the East. We have not really discussed such events in detail before, for I had thought it would distress him to be reminded of my false death. If I cannot erase the mistake, I suppose at least I can comfort him with knowing how much he was in my thoughts during my travels.
"It was during this time, following in your footsteps, that I most longed to write to you, Watson. But then I would recall Moran's implacable hunting skill, and I could not risk it, even if Mycroft had promised to watch over you."
Watson looked tenderly at me, but remained quiet.
In such strange fashion, we finished our breakfast. As we checked out of the hotel together, he insisted on paying his own bill, so I went to get our luggage from the bellhop. Watson became rather possessive about one particular bag, though, and hastily took it from me. I was puzzled, and he nervously avoided my eye as we walked outside. We hailed a cab and soon we began our journey back to the train station. Watson finally looked at me contritely and apologized for his behaviour. "I-I know you wish to treat me well, but I prefer to do things for myself."
"I apologise, Watson. I am trying not to 'romance' you as you say. Certainly I know you are not a delicate woman."
He managed a small laugh, but then held the bag closer on his lap and looked out the window. We remained quiet the rest of the way to the train station.
After shutting the door of our compartment, Watson tucked the bag overhead with the others, then he drew his newspaper out of his pocket. I sat down with a sigh and watched him again sit opposite me and bury himself in his paper. Granted, it was a French paper from the hotel, which might excuse some slow reading in his distracted state. If only he would read it out loud so I could enjoy his voice!
Still he went on silently, and the train began to move.
As the countryside slipped past, I pensively considered how soon we would be in Paris. Perhaps I could feign another morphine craving and get him to touch me again.
Watson suddenly said, "Your admirer has solved another crime." He was frowning at the newspaper intently.
"My admirer?"
"Oh, him." I could see now that Watson was looking at an article in the criminal news. "Yes, as a detective, he has certainly learned to apply my methods with far more success than poor Hopkins."
"Well, he had all those years to study, since he was translating your monographs into French." Watson scornfully tossed aside the paper.
To my surprise, I recognised Watson's jealous reaction. Ten years ago we had many arguments about le Villard because Watson resented my praising the man's writings, when I so often criticised his own writings. I logically pointed out the difference between le Villard's accurate translation of my scientific papers and Watson's romanticised novel that emphasized the sensational elements of the Jefferson Hope case. Watson would not accept this rationale, saying that I was an expert on sensational literature, after all. He claimed that I enjoyed the monographs and the letters because the Frenchman was a "cloying sycophant" who stroked my ego. I did not see how le Villard flattered me any more than Watson did, but he only took offence at that and stormed out.
Back then I was foolish enough to not go after him. To go after him and to reveal my deep love for him would be to lose my careful objectivity, I feared. So I chose not to comfort him then, to my profound regret. Instead we coped by silence and avoidance.
Our arguments lessened when I learned to speak of le Villard less, and when Watson took up work as a locum for other doctors in town. He spent more time with casual friends at his club, to prove that he could enjoy other company besides mine. I endured his absences without protest, though I felt the loss each time I left for a case alone.
In that train carriage, I wondered if Watson could really still feel jealous of le Villard even now? After we had settled into a passive neutrality years ago? After I had confessed my love at last?
"Watson," I began, but he interrupted.
"Never mind. Here." He tossed the paper to me in case I wished to read of le Villard's latest success.
I ignored it and sat forward, taking his hand and not letting him draw away. I whispered intently, "I love you, you know that. Only you, my friend. He cannot compare to you at all. He never could."
Watson stared at our hands and asked, "He was only a colleague? Nothing more?"
"Yes, my dear. Only an associate. Only..." I thought of Watson's words the other day, "...an admirer for my genius. An audience for my performance. A mere follower that I regarded with bemused affection and pride. I gave him no more special attention than I give to Inspector Hopkins now, and you look on him fondly enough."
"He is only a young, wayward student." Watson shrugged, but he finally met my eyes and squeezed back on my hand. "You mean, you were only le Villard's mentor?"
"Of course. He was never my intimate friend. Never touched my heart like you." Not letting go of his hand, I knelt on the floor before him and explained, "I simply needed a follower of my methods. In those days Lestrade and Gregson were still disdainful of me, and few other Yard officials would work with me. Consulting with the French police gave me more legitimacy, and le Villard's career benefited as well. That was all it was. Believe me, my dear." I moved to kiss Watson's hand, and he let me. I savoured the feel and the smell of his skin.
He trembled and sighed, before clearing his throat warningly.
I reluctantly let go and stared at him, still not returning to my seat.
Watson bit his lip and looked apologetic now. "It's just, you always went alone, whenever he asked you to come to France. For months, sometimes."
"Because I did not want you to be hostile to him, and his superiors only gave him permission to consult me on his cases, not anyone else. Then of course you began to take locum work to avoid me."
"You wrote him so many letters, when you almost always prefer to telegram--"
"That was merely because my monographs would not fit within a telegram."
"I know," he nodded, "but it seemed--it seemed like you would rather he write your cases for you. That you didn't need me for that."
"I don't need you as my chronicler, Watson. Or my doctor, or my colleague on cases. I need you."
Watson looked touched and reached for my wrist again, rubbing it meaningfully. "I think you do still need me as your doctor."
"Perhaps." I moved closer and started to rise, hoping that he would let me join him on the seat.
He hesitated a moment, then nodded and allowed me to sit beside him. I took off my coat and he again rubbed my arm soothingly through the sleeve. He let me lay my head against his shoulder, and he asked me softly if I felt well.
"Now that I am with you." I closed my eyes and sighed pleasantly against him. He undid my cuffs and slid back the sleeve, letting me feel his fingers on my skin. It was so lovely to be at peace with him again.
After a moment, he asked me softly, "You never kissed him, did you?"
"What?" I raised my head to face him. "Le Villard?"
"Yes. You said that French friends kiss each other. Did you kiss him?"
I tried to make him understand. "I did not love him."
"But did you kiss him? Embrace him? Hold his hand? Or play your violin for him?"
"My dear, it was not like that. Yes, he kissed my cheek occasionally in greeting or farewell, but it was as chaste as the kisses my French grandmother gave me."
"What about when you were ill? Collapsed after the Baron Maupertuis case?"
I shrugged. "Well, he and other S�ret� officers helped me back to my hotel room. They wished to take me to hospital, but I insisted I only needed rest and you. I asked them to telegram you to come to Lyons."
"Yes, I remember." He frowned unhappily. "You mustn't make yourself so unwell."
"I worked tirelessly, the sooner to be done with the case and return to you."
"Oh Holmes." He kissed my cheek and pulled me close to him, half in his lap.
I kissed him back and put my arms around him. "I missed you so. I always miss you."
He kept kissing me, and slid his fingers in my hair. "Let me..." he kissed my lips again, as if needing to claim again what I had not given to le Villard.
I whispered against his lips, "I love you," and he echoed it, his soft lips opening and closing against mine. His moustache tickled me again, like a fond caress. I half closed my eyes and pressed our noses together to inhale his scent. Without warning, he forgot himself and kissed me more deeply, delving into my mouth. To my surprise, I did not find his tongue disgusting or frightening, for he was gradual and mild in his exploration. I could taste not only his breakfast that morning, but his tobacco and the traces of his tooth powder. Warm and wet sensations flooded all my senses and blended deliciously into an intense experience of him. Why have I never discovered this method of knowing him before?
He pulled away, panting, and stared at me. With a smile, he looked surprised and tentatively hopeful. "Do you like it?"
I nodded and wanted to share his breath again. He boldly returned to kissing me, and half laughed in his delight. "Oh, Holmes." He sighed my name many times between possessive kisses.
I answered him and added, "Only you," to assure him that now he had done more than even Agatha the maid had. Not that I had been eager to give such kisses away in my disguise as the plumber. Even the intimacy of having to hold her hand and walk with her all those nights, speaking romantic drivel, had been distasteful.
I wanted to say these things, but was distracted with trying to imitate the intriguing things he did with his mouth. I think he did understand me, though, and caressed my hair. Then he pressed me back against the seat, and I began to worry. I could feel that his pulse was racing and that he was becoming aroused. I did not want to make him unhappy by stopping him, but I did not think I could continue.
I caught my breath as he moved to kiss my neck instead, and I tried to think what to say. "Watson."
I think he heard the anxiety in my voice and he started to face me. Before he could speak, there was a knock on the door, and he leapt back from me.
He cleared his throat and turned to the door. "Yes?"
We heard the French conductor speak outside and I hurried to repair my appearance. I returned to the opposite seat for the blanket Watson had given me out of concern for my morphine cravings. Meanwhile Watson answered, "A moment please," while he rummaged for our tickets and passports.
At last he opened the door for the conductor and we both attempted to look innocent. The man checked our documents, apparently ignoring our state, but when he had returned the documents to Watson, he did say quietly, "It is legal in private spaces, but I warn you that not all officials agree on whether a train compartment is private."
"Oh, um," Watson flushed and stammered.
The conductor said, "Merely a warning to be careful, gentleman." He raised his hat and then left, closing the door behind him.
Watson looked at me in relief and embarrassment. "Lucky to only be warned, I suppose."
"Yes," I said. I hoped that he would be content to not resume our kissing, if only due to the conductor's warning. I was not sure he was aware of my discomfort.
Watson surprised me, though, when he spoke, with some regret, "It was too much for you."
I swallowed and said, "I do not mean to tease--"
"I know. Don't apologise. That was quite unexpected for me as well. Perhaps, when we get to Paris, we might try it again in private?" He raised an inquiring eyebrow.
I believe he was suggesting that we be intimate in a hotel room. I did so long to have him share a room with me, and yet I feared what he would do. "I-I don't know."
"We can go slow," he said. "I can be patient and gentle. We can stop whenever you like."
I considered that, and calmed somewhat. "Yes, if you will stop."
"Yes." He smiled at me, then murmured wickedly, "If you will give me a moment in private first." He shifted his legs, and I realised that he was concealing his fading arousal. He closed his eyes and breathed more calming breaths.
I glanced away and went back to fastening my cuffs.
He noticed that I had left my coat on his seat, and he handed it back to me, saying, "I love you" again.
"I love you," I said, with all my feeling, hoping he would understand me and believe me, even if I could not give him what he wanted in that hotel room.
He merely smiled at me and closed his eyes again.