​

There is no man—nor should I think there ever shall be—with a more peculiar viewpoint on matters of intimacy than my very own Sherlock Holmes. I suppose you might consider this obvious given his general demeanor, but when I say peculiar, I mean that he did not strictly adhere to what one might consider common politeness. He was not overly vulgar, yet he did not shy away from subjects of sex. Indeed, whenever speaking on it, he approached it with the same clinical precision as he did everything else. Take, for example, the first time he brought up the matter between us after we first became acquainted.

​

It was a quiet evening, as he and I decided to spend the hours after dinner lounging on the sofa by the fire. Holmes had stretched out along its length, with his feet upon my lap. I read the late edition paper, and he pondered over his favorite smoking pipe.

“Watson,” he said suddenly, his eyes never leaving the ceiling.

“Hm?”

“How long do you expect our romantic entanglement to last?”

I chuckled at the question. “Come, Holmes, say you have not grown bored after a mere two weeks.”

“Of course not.”

“Well then?”

“I’m merely curious if you consider this to be a long relationship, or a flight of fancy?”

I glanced up from my paper. “Surely you do not think me so vapid?”

​

“It is not a question of your character, my good man. Simply an assessment of our standing.”

“Our standing?”

“Were we to be courting openly, there would be expectations.”

“You mean marriage?”

“I do.”

“I suppose there would be.” I went back to the paper. “Are you suggesting I propose?”

“Don’t be preposterous.” I chuckled again, and Holmes gnawed at the end of his pipe. “I’m suggesting we consummate the relationship.” The suggestion, if I may be crass, felt like it slapped me across the face. Only when I looked up, horribly flushed, did Holmes meet my gaze. “Or not,” he said evenly. “I’m only suggesting that, if we cannot indulge in a proper courtship, we might as well take advantage of what physicality we can. This relationship is already damned in the eyes of God and the law, so what is another sin to add to the pile? Would you not agree?” I opened my mouth to answer, but found that I was speechless. Holmes nodded, curtly, and went back to smoking. “So be it. Whenever you are ready, Watson, we shall fornicate to your liking.”

And that was that, really.

In retrospect, after nearly a year of our partnership, I admit that I laugh about that conversation. He had always been so peacefully blunt, my Sherlock. Unless he found pleasure in being obtuse, of course. It was this habit of directness that might have given me the courage to pen these memoirs, so I encourage you, my faithful reader, to not begrudge Holmes of this behavior. His lack of tact was never meant to insult nor wound in any capacity. Believe me, my dears, if Sherlock Holmes meant to wound you, you would undoubtedly know it.

I do not mention this story for its own sake. For one to understand the mind of the clinician, one must first observe his process. A process that even I was occasionally baffled by.

It was a crisp morning in late January. Holmes, as was his wont, had left Baker Street with very little notice shortly after the new year, and remained absent for the better part of the month. It wasn’t unusual for the man to go gallivanting without me from time to time. While I understood that some cases might be better handled on his own, I cannot say I ever got used to the practice. Whenever Holmes was away from London, I will admit, I worried.

That particular January, I tried burying myself in work as a distraction. The colder months were often hosts to fever and other ailments, so idle time was in short supply. Eventually, there did come a day when I had the morning to myself. Waking up alone was far too depressing for my liking, and so I elected to take breakfast in a small café by Saint James, rather than remain holed up, pining for Holmes by the window. My breakfast that day consisted of hardy sausages, potatoes, toast and coffee. A fine, warm meal to thaw me from that day’s frost.

As I ate, I watched the outside world go about its business. Snow had formed a fine crust along the dingy streets of London. The joy of Christmas was gone from the air, leaving a dreary cloud that hung over every man of good will. I had brought a book along with me to read over breakfast. Just as I was beginning to crack the spine, I became distracted by the tingling feeling of being watched.

I looked up. There from across the way was a young woman and her mother. The young lady could not take her eyes from me, even when I caught her staring. Her mother tried to scold her for looking, but the girl answered with a smile and a string of excited speech which I could not hear. I thought perhaps I might have looked like someone they knew, and so I went back to reading. That was until—

“Excuse me, sir?” I looked up. The girl now stood at my table, cheeks red from both the chill and her boldness. “Am I correct in assuming that you are Dr. John Watson?”

I admit I was rather stunned, and set my book aside. “I am,” I said. “I beg your pardon, are you a patient of mine?”

She shook her head. “I am… oh goodness… You will forgive me, Dr. Watson, but I am quite a fanatic about your stories.”

“Ah!” I brightened considerably and straightened in my seat. “Are you now? How delightful.”

“My name is Merriweather. I know this is horribly improper of me but—oh goodness—I simply must ask, or I shall never forgive myself.”

“By all means, Miss Merriweather, ask.”

“May I join you?” She pointed across the way. “My mother, she can see us both just there! I promise my intention is not to compromise either of us, sir. I simply must speak to you at length or I will go mad.”

I laughed. “Yes, my dear, yes. Please, have a seat.” Miss Merriweather plopped down across from me in a great poof of crinoline. “Shall I order you a cup of tea?”

“That would be lovely!” I motioned to the waiter for my guest’s order, and the interview began. “Goodness, goodness! This is so unexpected. But I knew, I knew, Dr. Watson, that I recognized you from the newspaper. My father, he dislikes me reading anything too sensational, but I have been utterly enamored by your adventures with Mr. Holmes. Every time I see a new publication, I buy my copy and then rush home to read it before anyone else! I have a notebook I’ve been keeping, and I try to take detailed accounts of each so that I might figure out the mystery before the end.”

“I see.” I grinned as the waiter served Miss Merriweather. “And have you had any luck?”

“Some!” she said proudly.

“Which?”

“Let me see… Ah, yes, the Baskervilles case!”

“You knew that it was Mr. Stapleton behind the attacks?”

“Well, no, but I knew that it could not have been some demon hound!”

“Why not?”

“Why? Because such things do not exist.” Her face fell. “Do they…?”

Having far too much fun, I sipped my coffee. “One must wonder,” I said.

After a moment, Miss Merriweather giggled and stirred her tea. “I believe you are laughing at me, Dr. Watson.”

“Forgive me. I’m thrilled that you are so engaged with my work.”

“Oh yes! More than that.”

I wiped my mouth with my napkin. “May I ask, which story is your favorite?”

Miss Merriweather swooned. “I fear this is hardly a competition. The Bohemian scandal.”

“Ha! How perfectly marvelous. The one time Holmes was out-foxed.”

“Yes, indeed!”

“I must tell him about this. He shall hate it.”

“I do not mean to embarrass him!”

“Of course not, Miss Merriweather. But I do. In good fun, of course.”

She giggled. “Well, how can it not be the choice, Dr. Watson? It was so horribly romantic…”

The label rather startled me, and my smile strained with confusion. “Romantic?” I thought back. “Do you mean Ms. Adler’s devotion to her husband, perhaps?”

“What?”

“Her husband. Godfrey Norton? The same man she intended to protect by use of the king’s photograph?”

“Oh.” Miss Merriweather shook her head. “No, no, Dr. Watson. Or, rather… Well, yes, I do suppose that is romantic. I meant more with Mr. Holmes.”

At first, I was overwhelmed with panic. I had been so careful, so thoughtful in my writing of the public-facing adventures, it did not occur to me that the common eye could have seen through the polite comradery between Holmes and myself. But after a moment of thought, it struck me that Miss Merriweather was likely not the type to speak so casually about a romance between two men. Which meant that she was implying that Holmes held a romantic connection to someone other than me. With my mind suddenly blank, I asked: “Mr. Holmes? Romantic with whom?”

Miss Merriweather fluttered. “Why, with Ms. Irene Adler, of course!”

I put it to you now, kind reader, that if I was not so shocked, I might have burst out laughing.

“I see,” was the first thing I could manage. Clearing my throat, I straightened in my chair. “Might I ask what led you to such a conclusion?”

​

“Led me? I thought you intended it to be obvious, doctor!”

​

I most certainly did not. “Please, indulge me.”

“Well, he keeps her picture, for one. I can’t imagine Mr. Holmes is the type of man who keeps many beautiful women’s photographs, is he?”

I felt a slow sinking in my gut. The kind that was minimal, at first, but threatened to grow into a great chasm. I tried to shoo the feeling away, but was ultimately unsuccessful. “He will often keep tokens from our cases,” I said.

“Yes, but the way you describe her. ‘To Sherlock Holmes, she is always the Woman.’ The singular woman. Do you mean to say that this is insignificant?”

“I…” I faltered. “Irene Adler is quite significant. Though we have not spoken of her since the case.”

Miss Merriweather beamed in victory. “But he still has her photograph.”

“Yes, he still has…” I cleared my throat. “Miss Merriweather, I assure you, the admiration for Ms. Adler is a platonic one.”

“But is it?” Miss Merriweather goaded. “My mother says that most men do not spare a thought to women they are not fond of. He was so contemplative, so moved by Ms. Adler that I cannot help but wonder if he had fallen for her as so many before him had. You did say yourself that she was beautiful. Unless that was a lie?”

“No, she was quite beautiful…”

“Then I see no other answer. A beautiful woman, smart and quick enough to outwit the great Sherlock Holmes? A world-revered adventuress, so beguiling that she curtailed the affections of a king? How could he not fall in love with her?” Miss Merriweather sighed. “In truth, I feel quite bad for him. To love someone like that, only to live with the knowledge that he would never see her again… I cannot imagine the torture. Can you, doctor?”

My appetite soured. I stared at my half-eaten breakfast, overwhelmed with a sickness at the sight. I could see that Miss Merriweather was put off by my sudden change in mood, and I made to excuse myself quickly. “I beg your pardon,” I said, “I believe this food does not agree with me.” I could see the confusion in the poor dear’s eyes, and offered her a tepid smile in response. I simply could stomach no further questions about Sherlock Holmes and Irene Adler.

My walk to Baker Street was swift. I wanted nothing more than to leave such an unsavory subject behind at the café. I did not blame Miss Merriweather for her interpretation. After all, she had such sound reasoning, and what fan of Sherlock Holmes would she be if she did not give weight to such details? Such an explanation left me utterly reeling, and I hoped to console myself with a good stiff drink, not caring that it was barely ten o’clock in the morning. Looking back, I must attribute my distaste to my own insecurities.

Over the years, I had to remind myself that Holmes was at my side by choice. However, this was often difficult. When compared to the fairer sex, I found myself acutely aware that I would always come up lacking in so many aspects. No matter the circumstance, no matter the qualifications, polite society would frown upon my relationship with Sherlock Holmes. I could not change the fact that I was not a woman.

I arrived at 221B with an ache in my chest. So distracted was I that I did not even notice the extra coat hanging on the rack by the stairs. Only by the time I was at the top did I notice the shouting of Mrs. Hudson, and pieced together that something was wrong. Hurrying the last few steps, I threw open the door to find Mrs. Hudson shrieking at a figure whom I could only describe as made entirely out of soot.

“—have any idea how long this will take to clean!? Do you not even have the decency to wipe your shoes before dragging all of London into my property!? Or do you take pride in facilitating my heart failure, Mr. Holmes!?”

“Ah, Watson. It seems I’ve returned in good time.” Holmes was calm, smiling broadly as I entered the flat. Even his teeth were soot-stained. Only then did I notice the endless footprints that trailed all the way down from the front door. “Do be a dear and start me a bath, will you? I’d ask Mrs. Hudson to do it but she seems to be rather cross with me at the moment.”

“Cross? Cross!? Mr. Holmes, I have half a mind to have you arrested for such a crime against my rugs!”

“Be sure the water is hot, please. I have quite a few miles of road to scrub out from behind my ears.” Holmes then turned to Mrs. Hudson and took her hands in his soiled palms. “As for the mess, you are more than welcome to put the cleaning bill on my tab, as usual.” Mrs. Hudson barely had a chance to answer before Holmes spun around and headed for the bedroom, a whistle on his lips. Mrs. Hudson turned to me, as if to ask if I knew that Holmes would be returning in such a state. I could give her only a meager smile and a shrug before retiring to the bathroom to prepare Holmes’ tub.

One of our many luxuries living on Baker Street was a top of the line plumbing system, and a bathroom with all the amenities two bachelors could want at our fingertips. The tub was constructed from a thick wall of copper, with clawed feet and a wide basin for comfort. I had just begun to fill it with hot water when Holmes emerged, changed into his house robe. He was still filthy as a piglet, but he was, at the very least, no longer tracking a mess behind him.

“Ah, lovely.” Holmes added a splash of bath perfumes. “I would greet you properly, Watson, but I dare say you’d benefit from my bath as much as I would.”

I stayed seated on the stool beside the spigot. “So I would,” I agreed. I tested the water to be sure it wasn’t too hot. “Though I suppose a welcome home is in order at least.”

“Is it indeed?” When the bath was finished, Holmes disrobed, and slipped into the water. I stood to give him privacy, when he stopped me. “Wait a moment.” Holmes splashed his face with bath water and scrubbed frantically. Once he was satisfied, he leaned back in the tub. “There we are. Please, proceed.”

Although I was still rather disquieted from my conversation with Miss Merriweather, I knelt beside him and offered Holmes a tender kiss. He obliged, and with sincerity. I could feel a tightness in my chest loosen, though only just. When we broke apart, I was all but lost, swimming in his twinkling, dark eyes.

“Hello,” he said, quietly.

“Hello,” I replied. “Welcome home, Sherlock.”

“Did you miss me, my darling?”

My heart swelled. I pressed our noses together. “More than I can say.” Holmes took my hand in his and kissed it. “I do hate when you run off with no warning.”

“Apologies. It could not be helped in this scenario.”

​

“Which was?”

“I was contacted quite late a day after the New Year about a rather complicated murder involving a network of notorious chimney sweeps. The group was constantly on the move all throughout East London. I knew it would take me days to track them down. Days I knew you would need to tend to your patients. Further, in order to suss out the culprit, I had no choice but to join their ranks, meaning I had to quickly sever all contact so as to sell the illusion forthwith. Fortunately, once I cornered them on the edge of Upminster it was all very routine.”

“I see.” While I should have focused on my joy at Holmes’ return, I could not shake the worm in my gut, and said, “I do wish you would have left me a note, at the very least. I’m hardly at ease whenever I wake up to find you gone, old boy. It makes me worry.”

Holmes looked genuinely surprised. “It does?”

“It isn’t that I doubt your abilities,” I added. “Merely… well…” All sorts of contradictory thoughts clouded my judgment. Holmes, ever so sharply observant, could see every hesitation in my face. I tried smiling to distract him, but it didn’t work.

“You’re distressed.”

“I’m not.”

“You are. There is a twitch in your upper left brow—there it is again—that you only seem to get if you are unduly worried about something.”

“I’m not distressed, Holmes. I’m tired. I’ve had patients all week.”

“I have seen you tired. After a long day at the surgery, you are sluggish. Your shoulders are often slumped, and there is a fidget in your left hand, no doubt due to the stress of your war injury. Further, you walk with a slight limp, as the pressure on your feet necessitates a shifting of weight. Today, your shoulders are taut, and I see no strain in your hand. What I do see, however, is not only the aforementioned twitch in your brow—ah, a third time now, it must react when I point it out—and a click in your jaw. You are very clearly upset over something and are hesitant to share—”

“I am not distressed, Holmes.” I announced it far louder than I meant to, standing promptly over the tub. Holmes stared at me, shocked, but out of embarrassment I did not relent. “You must accept that in all your brilliance, sometimes you are merely wrong. If I say I am tired, then by God, man, I am tired. I see no use in diagnosing my slightest idiosyncrasies so that you may undermine my own feelings.”

The only sound between us was the gentle dripping of the faucet, and the soft popping of soap bubbles. While I considered apologizing for my outburst, I could not do so without addressing the truth behind it all. And so, I shied my eyes away, and cleared my throat. “I shall leave you to your bath.” Holmes didn’t try to stop me, and instead watched as I left the room in silence.

I retired to the parlor. Rather than sit and stew, I elected to help clean up Holmes’ mess just a bit. By the time Holmes re-emerged, I was bent over on my knees, scrubbing a most stubborn footprint out of the carpet.

“Come now, there’s no need for that,” said Holmes. “Mrs. Hudson will have it taken care of.”

“I should prefer the cleaning bill to not be astronomical, thank you, Holmes.”

“Watson—”

“Do you mean to tell me that I am cleaning incorrectly? Or doing it at such an angle that I am silently confessing to some mental disturbance that you simply must correct?”

“You’re being obstinate.”

“Oh, heaven forbid I am obstinate.”

​

“John, please.”

​

I stopped, and rested on my heels. Holmes went to the sofa, and I glanced his way.

“Come,” he said. “Sit.”

“Do you mean to train me?”

Holmes hesitated. “Will you please sit with me?” His voice was so docile, so soft, that I could not help but feel a twist in my gut. Defeated, I joined him on the cushions and stared at my hands. Holmes did not reach for them. “Will you speak honestly with me?”

“To what end?”

“So that I may know what troubles you?”

“Can you not simply deduce it?” My answer was bitter, and no doubt Holmes noticed. Silence passed between us. I felt foolish. Trapped in an endless cycle of indignation and humility, I kept my eyes averted. Finally, Holmes spoke again.

“I’m sorry.”

I looked up, surprised. Holmes, in his calm, cool demeanor, watched me from his spot on the far end. I realized then that he had not reached for me because he did not want to invade my space. “I’m sorry I left without telling you,” he continued. “You’re right. I should have left a note before my departure. I suppose I have taken your grace for granted, my love. I am here now. Will you allow me a chance to make it right?”

I could feel the iron vice relinquish my lungs. I breathed a deep sigh and curled forward. He held me as I laid my heavy head on his shoulder. There was still the embarrassment, the frustration due to my own insecurity. I was a man well into adulthood, and yet I admit that I felt like a child, cradled against my lover’s breast.

“Of course I will,” I finally said. “Oh Holmes, I am so sorry for being cross. I know your work is important.”

“It is,” Holmes agreed. “But it should not come at the cost of your peace.”

I chuckled, meekly. My brow found its place buried in the crux of Holmes’ neck. “I suppose,” I began. “I suppose, I… sometimes I just feel a bit—”

A knock came to the door, and Holmes and I both looked up. Mrs. Hudson stepped inside, an envelope in hand. “Mr. Holmes? You have a letter delivered just now.”

“Set it aside,” Holmes instructed, his arm still firmly around my shoulders. “I shall see to it momentarily.”

“I’m afraid I was informed that it was quite urgent.”

“Every letter becries urgency, Mrs. Hudson. I shall get to it when I have time.”

“Holmes. It’s all right.” I pat his chest and stood, turning to Mrs. Hudson. “Who is it from?” Mrs. Hudson looked ruffled, and I realized then that there was something quite significant about this letter indeed. “Mrs. Hudson?” I repeated. Mrs. Hudson swallowed, and turned her eyes to Holmes.

“The letter, it… It is from a Ms. Irene Adler.”

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