Epilogue, by Dr John H Watson

"Affection is responsible for nine-tenths of whatever solid and durable happiness there is in our natural lives."

(C.S. Lewis - The Four Loves)

~x~

Several months later

Several minutes past four in the morning

East End of London

An alleyway

Running, blindly; driving rain across my face (hat lost some time ago), feet pounding without care or falter through mud, water, London filth.

Dimly I see Holmes` coat billowing ahead of me, whilst behind I faintly hear Lestrade`s whistle, summonsing aid from wherever it may come. As I take another tight, dark corner, I am yanked like a rag-doll, momentum bringing me to my knees and next to the crouching form of my friend. His face is as filthy as I imagine mine to be, and he holds a long, gloved finger to his lips and gestures ahead to a low-timbered building from whence dim lamplight and faint music can be heard.

"Anonymity in a crowd," he whispers, breathing hard, hot bursts, evidence of his exertions. "We wait here, since I know of no exit to this place and he shall have expected us to have long given up by now. Or an hour from now."

I glance grimly into the steel grey of the sky and the slanting needles of rainwater driving down like stair-rods. Holmes then pulls me by the sleeve into a tiny lean-to shed which has no door, but offers some shelter and a clear view of the tavern.

"Lestrade?"

"Taken a wrong turn several alleyways back. Luckily, his thundering footfalls shall not announce us to all and sundry, and by all and sundry, I mean Mr Moran (gesturing towards the building opposite) who shall be meeting with us forthwith."

In the dimness of the early dawn, I see the outline of his pale face and the faint glimmer of his smile and I realise, with a jolt, how happy he is. We are soaked to the skin, sitting in the dirt, awaiting the emergence of a potential murderer from a squalid flop house, and Sherlock Holmes is intoxicated with glee.

"Should I suppose, Holmes, that we are to be here overlong?"

He smirks, his honesty dark around its edges.

"Most unlikely Watson. What say you we while away our time in some useful manner? I could elucidate my recent deductions concerning the changing fit of your waistcoat, or the altered habits of Mrs Mary Watson?"

Though I am startled by this, I give him no sign, since I decide I should like to share a few observations of my own at this proffered juncture, as opportunities such as this these days are rather thin upon the ground.

"No, my dear fellow," I return, a hint of mischief colouring my tone.

"I should like to talk of love."

~x~

There are four kinds of love, and Sherlock Holmes is a man lucky enough to have experience of them all.

A man famed for his cerebral machinations and clear-headed scientific approach to the world may have (in times past) deemed himself to be above the emotional tumult that loving another person can bring. It had made perfect sense to Mr Holmes to place himself above the thousand natural shocks that flesh is heir to and to retreat from the complexities of human emotion that map out the lives of most of us. Finding distraction an impossible burden to bear when a distillation is to be analysed, or a series of events are to be placed beneath his pansophical gaze, he had chosen to withdraw, to remove all distraction until the thinker becomes the mind alone, with the body and heart a mere appendix to the whole; redundant and, occasionally, an irritant.

What Mr Holmes has oftentimes failed to recall, however, is the elemental idea that he is (as are we all) human, and therefore subject to those frailties, despite an iron will and (unbelievably) stubborn countenance.

Dear reader, it must now be noted nearing the end of this tale, that the largest failing of Mr Sherlock Holmes was his inability to heed one of the most obvious and influential facts ever to be paraded before him. In his ardent desire to be an automaton, he completely failed to note the signs, and realise how very much he himself, is loved.

Storge

Mycroft Holmes would do all in his power to protect his younger brother. Filial squabbling and competitive idiocy do not hide the protective love Mycroft retains for my friend. He would have shielded him from any harm, imagined or otherwise (even from the attentions of Miss Molly Hooper, before the truth dawned, bold and clear). Holmes` parents, although limited in their understanding of their two, brilliant and undefinable boys, also exhibit a love that is real and worthy.

Philia

In his attitude to friendship, Holmes always alludes to myself as being his one and only comrade ("I do not have friends, Watson, I have but one.") but upon my entry into his fascinating and unpredictable world, I noted the presence of another had had served that role upon many an occasion, without demur or complaint regarding the frequent thoughtless and, frankly, shoddy treatment he received. Gregory Lestrade had believed in Sherlock Holmes when so many at Great Scotland Yard had reviled his unorthodox genius and mocked the methods they could do little to grasp or interpret. Even now, despite widespread recognition and accolade, there are many at the Yard who will not tolerate the influence of my friend upon traditional policing, and deign to refute and repudiate his help. From the very beginning, Lestrade has kept his faith and even risked his own career and aggrandizement to support a man he both admires and cares for. I knew how the Detective Inspector cared greatly for Molly Hooper, yet stood back the very moment he realised the love that existed between her and Sherlock Holmes. His love comes from the admiration of a brilliant mind and is given through friendship, loyalty and support.

Eros

It must be noted that, despite the fact that Holmes had been oblivious to the dangerous, fiery, and irrational lure of sexual desire, usually failing to notice raw attraction in any guise (exempting the effects it had upon the proclivities of his clients) this did not dissuade others from being desirous of him. Ms Irene Adler had caught many in her solicitations during her time upon the stage (myself included) and cut an alluring and seductive swathe through a society covetous of her charms. The day she visited Mr Sherlock Holmes, her intent had been to entice and seduce him; to discern a weakness and make free with it. She had not accounted for genuine attraction and fulsome desire. A woman of sophisticated and complex requirements, she discarded admirers as easily as shrugging off a winter coat, but upon meeting an intellectual equal, she found herself unable to resist. My wife also informs me that Holmes is a man whose physical attributes do not always go unnoticed by those amorous of such things (some notion regarding his eyes?) and therefore, Ms Adler found herself impoverished when her desire was not returned. Holmes himself has had little to comment upon this matter, excepting her smoking ("I would have found a thousand husbands for one cigarette from that case") and her love of chess ("despicable"). Such desire comes from the body, but what good is a body that is naked when the personality is cloaked in disguise and dishonesty? Love that is real will not be given without truth, and Ms Adler (beautiful, intelligent, skilfull in her execution) could not capture the attentions of Mr Sherlock Holmes, for he had witnessed another path.

Agape

When love is given freely, without condition, it is deemed a gift.

A person may care for another, but, on occasion, there comes a person who shall love another without question, without thought and without restriction. Sherlock Holmes is my dearest friend, for whom I would lay down my own life and consider it a privilege, and I have good faith he would do the same for me. But, knowing him as I do, I suspected he would have lived out his life sagaciously, taking nourishment from objection, defiance and interrogation, and any intellectual puzzle that crossed his path.

Whether by fortune or divine management, this aspiration has not been realised, and a selfless, unconditional attachment has stolen its way across his formidable path. No man is an island, and the progression of Sherlock Holmes has seen him very gradually led into a bold and unfamiliar stance which he would never have chosen for himself, but may now never concede.

Miss Margaret Ann Hooper gives him true reason for redamancy, friendship and desire. He is unable to `read' her as he can so easily read others. Holmes can know a person's disposition within a moment of making their acquaintance, precluding him from learning about them from a more measured and palatable point of view. With Molly, it is as if a mist descends which partially blocks and obscures his inferential and deductive skills and allows him the luxury of both knowing and not knowing when she looks him directly in the eye and says:

"Because, Sherlock. Simply because."

~x~

The small crease between his eyes is just discernible amongst the dirt and early morning haze and I realise Sherlock Holmes is awaiting further colloquy from myself.

"So, " his voice carries a slight uncertainty in its timbre which is as rare as it is enjoyable. "What of it, Watson? What do you wish to say regarding love? I must warn you that I am far from qualified to offer anything useful in the way of discourse."

A rumble of laughter from the tavern momentarily tears his attentions away, but they return directly. He is satisfied that nothing has yet occurred, and since I have still not spoken his curiosity is clearly a little piqued.

I take pity on his wary puzzlement and break into a slow smile (more difficult than might be apparent, considering our less than amenable location) and clap a hand on his sodden wool shoulder.

"`Tis nothing- a foolish musing is all."

"Concluding in?" His attention is again waning, eyes darting back to the building opposite with increasing regularity, and I note a definitive tensing of his stance, as if preparing for an approaching physical altercation.

"My conclusion, Mr Sherlock Holmes, is that you show all the signs and symptoms of being an extremely lucky man, and I fervently hope you realise it."

Shouting and cat-calling from the inn, followed by a door cracking a shaft of lamp light into the gloom brings us both to our feet and into a state of readiness, giving him just a moment to concur.

"Oh, I do, Watson," he flashes a genuine smile through the darkness in return. "I truly do."

And we run.

~x~

Earlier that day

Somewhere in London

A slight, dark-haired gentleman sits behind a large, applewood desk, purporting a less than gentlemanly arrangement of highly polished brogues atop its polished surface. Another man, balding and older, sits across from him, making neither sound nor gesture as if he is merely awaiting his cue. The dark man wears an excellently tailored silk suit in the palest of greys, and his eyes are large and doleful, as if a permanent disappointment sits within him. He slowly dictates a telegram to a pale-haired woman whose delicate features are tragically ravaged by a bold, livid scar that puckers the skin about her eye and cheek.

"- stop Promises mean everything but after they are broken sorry means nothing stop"

"See to it straight away if you will, my dear. If the telegraph office is closed, there is simply no telling of how cross I will be."

His sing-song voice belies the dead look behind those jet black eyes, the colour of frozen leaves in winter.

"Straight away, sir." She cowers slightly and backs out of the room until she is gone.

"Adorable," the dark man smiles warmly to his visitor across the desk, removing his feet and reaching towards a letter knife, engraved with a small bird at the base of its elegant handle. "You should get one of your own, Moran; always so grateful."

Reaching for an apple, the smaller man begins to peel it, paring away tiny slivers of red skin in an ever increasing spiral that slowly inches its way towards the desk's surface.

"Such a disappointment that Ms Adler proved less useful than I had imagined," he continues, as the balding man nods silently in concurrence.

"But, that was then, and this is now, and so much has happened over the last few months, I am barely able to contain my exuberance." The peel is lower, nearing the desk top with no hint of a break, despite such a parlous fragility. The man nods again.

"Now that those irritating elections are done with we can really begin to make our mark upon this wondrous city, wouldn't you agree?"

Another nod, and then a moment of silence where only the scrape of knife upon pared flesh can be heard.

"Oh, hush now, Moran, I am quite tired of your ceaseless prattle," continues the dark man, grinning and inclining his head towards the door, as the peel touches the desk.

"Go on now, you must allow entry to my first appointment, then you need to repair down to the East End, where I believe you may find yourself cheek by jowl with my very favourite consulting detective and his loyal band of helpers. Do endeavour to be your usual, charming self."

Moran nods again, grasping his bowler hat in large, meaty hands with malformed knuckles, and starting, flat-footed, towards the door.

"The Right Honorable Lord Mayor of London shall see you now," he dolefully announces, in gravelly, underused tones as he holds wide the huge, ornate doors of the Mansion House`s main office.

An excited gaggle of well-dressed gentlemen surges forth in a flurry of geniality and murmurings of greeting, top hats well-polished and white-gloved hands gripping silver topped canes of varied design.

"At last," the leader of the group inclines his head as the dark man leaps to his feet, hand outstretched.

"Mr Moriarty," continues the leader, "we are overjoyed to finally meet you."

And the knife and apple lie abandoned upon the desk, a coil of scarlet peel running through the arrangement as if in silent punctuation.

THE END

Goodness, how that Napoleon of Crime manages to sneak into everywhere when we aren't looking...

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