In my years at Baker Street, I have seen the start of countless mysteries, from poisonings to hangings to stolen priceless jewelry. When I first sat down to pen my adventures with the ardent detective, I had sought to not only inform, but to entertain, as I had hoped that most if not all of our public cases might instill a sense of excitement. In this, a new series of insights into my life with Holmes, I am afraid not every chapter will be so thrilling. For I began this adventure, not with a plea of a client, a gunshot, or even a call from Inspector Lestrade. But of an early morning, and an energetic Sherlock Holmes, stirred to action.

​

The rustling initially roused me from my slumber, and I cracked my eyes in the dull glow of first light. Without thinking, my hand went to my left, only to find the bed empty. I lifted my drowsy head and saw Holmes scuttling about our bedroom, packing suitcases with a few shirts and trousers.

 

“Ah, you’re awake. Excellent. Our train leaves in an hour.”

 

I yawned and checked the time. “Holmes, it’s barely six o’clock.”

 

“Yes, I fear we’ve started quite late.”

 

I sat up, watching as he sloppily buried a bag of toiletries into my clothes. “Do we have a case?”

 

“We do not.”

 

I blinked, confused. “Then what’s all the ruckus?”

 

Holmes stood straight and clasped his hands together. “How does a holiday sound?”

 

“A holiday?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Well I—”

 

“Very good.” Holmes shut our suitcases, and strode from our bedroom with one in each hand. “Up you get, Watson! Time waits for no one!”

 

“Now wait just a—” My complaints fell on deaf ears, and I watched him scurry away and out of sight. Rolling out of bed, I threw on my dressing gown and shuffled into the parlor after him. Mrs. Hudson was also up at the ungodly hour, and was busy packing a lunch for us in the kitchen. Holmes had turned to his work desk, where he began sorting a few essential books for our trip. “Hold a moment, Holmes. We are to go on holiday? Today?”

 

“A reprieve is good for the body and soul, wouldn’t you agree, doctor?”

 

“Well yes, but I have appointments to keep. Why I’m meant to meet with Mr. Irving tomorrow night at the club.”

 

“Fret not. I’ve taken the liberty of canceling or rescheduling your social calendar for the foreseeable future.”

 

“You what?”

 

“How goes our luncheon, Mrs. Hudson? Nearly finished?”

 

“Just about, Mr. Holmes.”

 

“Well done.”

 

“Now wait just a moment!” Stirred by my friend’s fervor, I took his arm to stop him for more than half a second, so that I might get a straight answer. “How long will we even be away?”

 

“Oh a few days, perhaps.”

 

“Days?”

 

“Or a week. Or two. Now Watson, you don’t expect to travel like that, do you? For God’s sake, man, put some clothes on.”

 

“We’re to be gone for two weeks?”

 

“You’re right. A month might be better.”

 

“Now that is quite enough!” I did not make it a habit to raise my voice in front of Mrs. Hudson, but frankly, I was at a loss for any other course of action. “Holmes, what on earth is going on?”

 

“I told you. We’re going—”

 

“No, you have not told me. You have damn near pushed me out of bed at an unsightly hour and suddenly taken over my entire calendar without my knowledge nor permission. Tell me right now what is happening, Sherlock, or I will attend your precious holiday in total silence.” Rather than dance around the question, Holmes went quiet, and stared at his work desk in gloomy thought. For the mood had taken a sharp downward turn the moment I demanded answers. Even Mrs. Hudson would not meet my eyes, and I deduced that it was something serious indeed.

That’s when I noticed the newspaper on the sofa. It was the early edition, and opened to a story near the middle. I approached it. I could see Holmes jerk, to perhaps stop me, but I suppose he thought better of it, and remained silent. I picked up the paper and read the headline to myself.

​

MASS ARRESTS FOR SODOMITES ACROSS LONDON

 

I could feel a pressure on my chest. I tried reading the story beneath the headline, but could decipher no words beyond such a wretched lead-in. I was fully awake now, and was so rooted to my spot in the parlor that I could nearly feel the world spin beneath my feet. I turned to Holmes, who watched me with imploring eyes.

 

“Were you going to tell me?” I asked.

 

Holmes took his time to answer. “Yes.”

 

“When?”

 

“Eventually. When we were safe.”

 

Safe. The concept weighed heavy on my heart, and I put the paper down. We were unsafe. Unsafe in our own home, in our own city. So unsafe that we must run away for a time, like rats avoiding the kitchen cat. A bitter taste curdled on my tongue, and I glared at the newspaper. As if it alone was the cause for our misfortune. I chanced another look up, to see both Holmes and Mrs. Hudson watching me with great care. To see how I would handle the news. I realized then how deeply worried they both must have been for my welfare, and for their sakes, I put on a smile.

 

“A week, you said, Holmes? Two weeks at most? We cannot stay away forever.”

 

Holmes softened, slightly, and nodded. “Two weeks at most,” he agreed.

 

I rubbed my hands together. “I suppose it’s too late to have a shave?”

 

“We can’t afford to miss the train. You may shave when we arrive.”

 

“And where are we going?”

 

“The Isle of Wight. My family owns a small fishing cottage that is currently vacant. It’s quite secluded.”

 

“The Isle of Wight… Lovely this time of year.”

 

“Quite.”

 

I glanced at Mrs. Hudson, who had returned to quietly finishing our picnic basket. Approaching Holmes, I laid my hand upon his heart. He held it squarely, and I gave him a kiss. “Well then. I shall dress promptly, and we will be off.”

 

Holmes’ smile was apologetic. “Thank you, Watson. I shall call for a cab.”

 

The cabby arrived just moments after I’d finished dressing. Mrs. Hudson saw us off, quite understandably upset, but keeping herself poised for our sakes. We rode to the station in silence. Normally, in the privacy of a carriage, we might sit closer together than we would under the eyes of the public. But today, that morning, we did not think it wise, and so we sat on opposite ends of our respective seats, both of us staring wordlessly out the windows. The cabby dropped us off at a quarter to eight, and with a quick purchase of tickets, Holmes led us to a private carriage, where we stowed our bags and locked the door tightly. We sat, him facing forward, and myself, backward. The window was foggy with an early morning mist, and through the moisture, I could see the fractured figures of the station meander and scuttle, like so many bugs on an anthill. Though we had safely made our way onto the train, I was beset with melancholy, and in my sorrows, lay my forehead against the cool glass.

 

“Chin up, old boy,” said Holmes quietly. “We shall have a fine time on the island, just the two of us.”

 

It did nothing to stave off my ache. “What compels men to be cruel, Sherlock?” I looked at him. He had no answer. I spoke again. “Why must the world be so set against the happiness of others, simply because that happiness does not conform to the mold from which it springs?”

Holmes’ smile was somber. “As always, you have a way with words, doctor.”

 

I closed my eyes. “Will it ever be better for men like us?”

 

“I can’t say that I know either way.”

 

My thoughts plagued me, even when the train left the station. Even when Holmes sat beside me to hold me in his arms. Even when he sought to tell ungentlemanly jokes until he coaxed a smile from my face. Even when that smile led to a kiss, and that kiss led to a sigh, and that sigh led to sweet words and private whispers. Even after all of that, still, my mind was haunted with worry.

 

I had meant the question. Now in my old age, I still do not know the answer. My explicit instruction for these memoirs is to be released only well after my death, so I will have not an inkling as to the public attitudes regarding such queer fellows as Holmes and I. I wonder, my dear reader, if things are different in your time, in your world? I do hope that they are. Were Holmes and I together in your day, I should like to think that we may exist without scrutiny, though something tells me it may be an impossible dream. Man is, and has always been, a scared, angry animal. But true enough that he is also so very willing to change, if given the right circumstances. Perhaps I am moved as I recount this particular memory, but if there is one thing I may leave you with, my reader, it is a single request. To love and to be loved, to be and to have been, as honestly and earnestly as is possible.

 

But I have gotten away from my story. Let us rejoin Holmes and I as we arrived on the Isle of Wight.

 

Fitting to my mood, a storm had crested the horizon, and chased us all the way from Portsmouth to Fishbourne. Holmes’ familial cabin lay west in Porchfield. It was nestled in a small, wooded area, just along the bank of Rodge Brook. By the time we arrived in our carriage, the rain was pounding onto the earth as viciously as the rage of the Almighty. We paid our coachman and hurried inside, dragging our belongings behind us. Holmes had sent a telegram for the groundskeeper earlier that morning to prepare for our arrival. When we entered, we were pleased to find that the hearth had been stoked, and a kettle prepared for our afternoon tea. It was nearly noon, and Holmes and I shivered as we shed ourselves of our wet coats.

 

“Goodness gracious, I feel like a fish!” I proclaimed. Despite my low heart, it was easy to laugh at the sight of us both practically drowned.

 

“Do you?” said Holmes. He sloughed off his coat and tipped his hat. Water poured from the brim, and he chuckled. “Perhaps I shall batter you and serve you with a pint of ale?”

 

I laughed, shaking out my mop of wet hair. “I doubt I would taste very good.” I moved to the coat rack to deposit my own effects, only for Holmes to take my hand and kiss it, lovingly. Now we were entirely alone, and it was only then that the fact dawned on me. I could see a glitter in Holmes’ eyes, reflected by the light of the roaring fire.

 

“I dare say you would be delicious, my good fellow.”

 

My eyelashes fluttered. “Holmes, we are soaked.”

 

“Then let us dry by the fire.” We shed our boots and socks, as well as our waistcoats, and together, took our seats by the hearth. As we did, I took better stock of the cabin, though to call it so simply would be tantamount to insult. It was a spacious, three bedroom home, with a wide kitchen and comfortable drawing room. The seats by the fireplace consisted of two lush sofas and an armchair, though Holmes and I took up a singular of the three. Around us, the storm rattled the shutters, which encouraged us to further cling to one another for warmth and comfort. Before long, my concerns were back in London, where they belonged, as I focused only on the man at my side. Laying myself upon his breast, we kissed lovingly. I toyed with his long, agile fingers. Such wonders those hands had achieved. I admired so much of my Sherlock. Everything from his physicality to his temperament, as wild as it might have been, stoked my adoration and my love in all manner of ways, until I was nothing more than a lump of river clay, desperate to be molded to his design.

 

“You are beautiful.” The words came from me as if they were an extension of my tongue. That is to say, they appeared thoughtlessly, naturally, and with no caveats nor qualifiers that might lessen their impact.

 

I could see color rise to my friend’s face, and he smiled in a way that was uncharacteristically demure. “You are a biased man,” said he. “Observe that your heart rate has exceeded its standard rhythm, and your pupils have dilated. As such, like a strong brandy, your judgment of aesthetic beauty is contingent on your own physical considerations, and is not objective fact.”

 

My smile was wide. “For God’s sake, man, will you not simply take my compliment?”

Holmes tilted his gaze, so that he might be less shy about my words of affection. “Thank you,” he finally said. “And you, John, you are…” He sighed, deeply, and closed his eyes. I rested my chin on my hands, my smile having yet to leave me. “God, but you are a wonderful man. Handsome, compassionate… Lovely in every sense of the word.”

 

“Goodness me. Now who is subjective?”

 

Holmes opened his eyes. “Your character is an observable fact,” he said. “Often I am in silent awe at the ways in which you walk amongst your fellow men. In a way that I could never hope to dream.”

 

“Oh?”

 

Holmes ran his fingers through my hair. “You are a man who attracts many. Be it by your kindness or your charm. And it is by this measure that I can never compare. The ease by which you ingratiate yourself to the world is a skill that I lack in perpetuity. And so I find myself wondering what it is that makes you love me, when a man of your caliber should be spoiled for choice.”

 

I could feel my heart leap, and I turned to kiss his palm. “I have no need for choice,” I said. “For there is no one whom I hold in such high regard as you, my love.” A heat stirred in my belly, and I pushed forward, so that we might be nose to nose. “But if you are so in need of convincing, I shall illustrate in great detail all the ways in which you thrill me, Mr. Holmes.”

Holmes’ lips quivered, and he nestled closer to me. “And I shall endeavor to be your most devoted student, Dr. Watson.”

 

It is here that I must spare some detail, I’m afraid. While I am sure that by the time you are reading this I am very much dead, a man must still have his privacy, even in the afterlife. And I should like to think I have more scruples than to illustrate my affair in greater specifics to a score of strangers. But what I will tell you is how such intimacies made me feel.

​

To be held by Sherlock Holmes was to be seen. That is the simplest way to describe it. But we are not simple men, are we? Free from the scrutiny of the world, we were permitted to lay bare our desires, and act accordingly. There was no inch of myself that Holmes did not find, no hidden pleasure he did not seek to expose. Our kisses were endless. I was at the mercy of my darling’s lips, who kissed me to life, to death, and back again to the land of the living. The gasps of our breath were rivaled only by our laughter, and our honeyed words. Nothing was ever so sweet as the sound of Holmes, murmuring into my ear. I had always thought of the expression, “making love,” as a rather trite turn of phrase. For how does one make that which is intangible? Only when I fell into the arms of my man did I understand it wholeheartedly. 

 

By the end, we wound up in the master bedroom. Holmes had taken the effort to stoke a fire upstairs in between our dalliances. We had made good use of Mrs. Hudson’s packed lunch, and for supper, dined simply on wine and oranges that were lying about the kitchen. I made it a point that we must travel into town for groceries the next morning, and Holmes did not object. Laying naked together in the bed, we held one another close as we watched the flames flicker. The storm had not let up since that morning, but even so, its howling was softened by the crack of our fire, or the steady beat of our hearts.

 

I laid upon my back, and Holmes had found a comfortable position hooked under my arm while he read a book. As for myself, I enjoyed the pipe that Holmes had thought to pack for me. My hand, on its own volition, gently stroked the back of Holmes’ head.

 

“Good book?” I asked.

 

“Yes.”

 

“What is it?”

 

“A list of allergens, carcinogens and toxins, both artificial and naturalistic.”

 

“It sounds thrilling,” I teased.

 

“Quite.”

 

I tapped my pipe out and hunkered further down into the pillow. Holmes shifted to retain his spot on my left. “I am going to rest my eyes,” I said. “Goodnight, Sherlock.” Holmes looked up from his book. With a kind smile, he kissed me fondly, and then rolled over, so that I might sleep undisturbed. At some point in the night, however, he had returned to my side, and I awoke with his arms and legs wrapped securely around me.

 

I looked over my shoulder. It was rare that I woke up first. Usually, he was out of bed with wheels spinning before breakfast. But today, graced with a sunny morning to start our holiday, Holmes slept peacefully. He was nestled squarely into my back, his arms looped around my bare chest. His soft snore tickled the hairs of my nape. For a while I laid dormant, relaxed in the man’s arms. But eventually, I ached to move, and carefully pried myself from Sherlock’s grasp. He grumbled in his sleep, and I kissed his temple fondly.

 

“Watson…”

 

“Rest, Holmes. I’ll go out and fetch us some breakfast.”

 

“Mm… ham. Eggs.”

 

“Ham and eggs?”

 

“Please.”

 

“Very well then. I shall return with ham and eggs.” Eyes still shut, Holmes smiled, and burrowed deeper into the bedding. I dressed quickly, and took the time to shave my stubble. I had looked a horrible fright since yesterday morning, but now I had returned to my habits, and was better for it. As the skies were clear, I dressed lightly, and went downstairs to retrieve my purse and my boots.

 

“Good morning, Dr. Watson. Sleep well?”

 

I looked up. There, standing in the kitchen, was a man. A man I knew, though admittedly, only in passing. He was an auditor of considerable position in the government, and was as boisterous as he was large.

 

“Mr. Holmes!” I exclaimed. 

 

Mr. Mycroft Holmes smiled at me, and held up the kettle from the stove. “Tea?”