A/N: This is part one of four (or five) and in no way connected to my other Holmes story "Confessions of the Master," of which this will not be nearly as long. Rating for descriptions of M/M sex. Enjoy and review!

"A Scandal of No Importance"

I was right, of course. Some may think me presumptuous or boastful to state this first and above all else that happened in the fall of '97, but the fact remains that I was correct in my assumptions from the day the letter arrived. It is my business to deal with facts-that is to say, to take the accusations and suppositions and to then turn them into workable facts. It is the skill of a logician, a skill rare enough in its own right, but to successfully employ such a skill in a useful occupation is unprecedented. Somehow, I managed this Herculean feat, and to some success, I may say.

However, in the course of any career, whether great or insignificant, one is bound to land themselves is some difficulty. Difficulty, that is, in a man's professional life. And if he is especially unlucky, he may land himself in the worst sort of difficulty known to human-kind: personal difficulty. The kind that prevents one from carrying on any semblance of normalcy; going about the typical routines, even when one is admittedly atypical in said routine. It begins to gnaw at one's mind, controlling their thoughts, preventing serious examinations of life. In short, it takes over one's very soul.

There is this word that is created for it: love. How many hours I have spent detaching my mind from the Hellish glow of our own sitting room fire, curled in the warm wicker, the shag smoke seeping into my every orifice, thinking. Analysing. Dissecting. But never could I arrive as a satisfactory conclusion. Except this. The affectation I had acquired had no cure. I continued to suffer in silence, hoping only that I could change the very nature I had seemingly been cursed with.

I knew of course, long before the letter arrived, that never could I breathe a word of these unfortunate feelings to the one they were directed at. Coincidentally, (a word I rarely use because most incidents of coincidence are easily explained), the doctor and I had once discussed such feelings two years previous-in the spring of '95, during a time when the results of a trial at Old Bailey were on the lips of everyone behind closed doors. It was a conversation I recall as one of the most painful of all my years.

I remember it to be a leisurely morning in late spring. There was nothing pressing in either or our lives, as I had been without a case for some two weeks, and Watson had seen fit to shadow me wordlessly for the same period of time. Never questioning or commenting, always presenting himself with a silent loyal decorum. I knew he was suspicious, however. He may not have learned the trick of logic as completely or as happily as I had hoped his assistance would allow him to, but he had certainly his own gifts that were to be prized. One of which was the rare ability to read my moods, and to make himself more or less available as I needed him.

In these recent years, I fear my need of him had only increased. It could only increase.

On that particular morning, I was sprawled lacksidaisically on our settee with a few remaining bits of the early edition of the Times. The paper, with a few allowances-the agony column, for example, had usually no interest for me, for their was little sense in wasting valuable space in one's brain with information he is bound never to need to know. What are football scores, Her Majesty's guest lists or even the endless disputes of Parliament to the logician? But I admit, on that particular morning, I had a specific reason to acquaint myself with the headlines.

Watson was still about his breakfast. Over the years, I had on many occasions familiarised myself with every available facet of information on his habits, and irregular as they were, they were far more conventional than my own. He would rise late, ordinarily later then myself, especially on the occasions I dispensed with the dreaded ritual of dreaming and sleep all together. He would take his leisure about his toilet, but he usually appeared downstairs completely immaculate-washed, shaved and dressed with military tidiness, while I myself only bothered to change out of my dressing gown if there was a specific purpose in doing so.

Our kind and considerate landlady, Mrs. Hudson, always prepared a considerable breakfast tray, plentiful for two men (given Watson's more than healthy appetite) and given that I myself rarely took with morning nourishment other than two or three pipes, a cigarette or so and the occasional cup of coffee. Watson was allowed as much or more than he could possibly want.

He was a veracious eater. This surprised me when first we met for he was not ferocious by nature. If anything, the complete reverse. Idle, when allowed, more than willing to squander away an afternoon dozing in front of the fire or reading a common book. I soon surmised that his manner in respect to how he ate was a direct result of his time in the Army. One has no difficulty inferring that when one is faced with possible death at any hour of the day, one must learn un-gentlemanly eating habits. There is certainly no time for leisurely luncheons.

He sat the morning in question scrapping viciously at the china with his knife and fork until every speck of rasher, egg and toast had gone. Only then did he sigh, cross his legs and straighten the second edition of the Times. I said nothing, but listened completely with my entire being.

The paper crinkled as he adjusted it. He read the front page first and then usually the football and rugby scores. He sipped from his coffee cup several times, each time returning to the saucer with a loud tinkling sound.

And then, for nearly one entire minute, silence. A brief snort. "Well…" he mumbled.

"Doctor?"

"Hmm?"

"Something of interest?"

"Oh, well…not to you, I should think."

"Now, now…should you really be so hasty?"

He cleared his throat, making me smile in spite of myself. He will be remembered, if for no other reason, as the most perfect gentleman I shall have ever known. I waited in silence for him to continue.

"You are aware of the trial at Old Bailey?"

I had a sudden image of Oscar in a lavender suit and stockings, a distraught expression that one such as he should never wear, even if the Heavens threatened to fall and crush him. Two masked executioners led him away into a dark hole completely devoid of light. His head fell forward with tears in his eyes. He was defeated.

I shook my head in surprise, I must confess, for I was not usually considered a fanciful man. So much astonished me of late concerning my self, however, that this slip was only another of those little idiosyncrasies I hardly understood but apparently possessed.

"I seem to have heard something of a celebratory trial…the details escape me, however." I waved it off.

That was, of course, an outright lie, however necessary. It felt odd to do such a thing to him, in such an obvious way. It was something I swore to myself never to do again after Reichenbach. He deserved so much better from me…

"It's the playwright chap, Holmes. Oscar Wilde. He's been sentenced to two years hard labour."

I swallowed deeply, sitting up straighter. "Yes, really…what for?"

"Gross indecency." He cleared his throat.

Everyone with eyes to see in the whole of the city knew what those words meant. His entourage of rent boys and royalty were a constant site-the poor and the rich pink-faced darlings that clung to him like fluttering cherubs.

"You're the very definition of discretion, my dear Sherlock," said Oscar to me before kissing me hard upon the mouth. It tasted of the brandy. I found it more than a little difficult to remain standing when he was looking at me so. As if he wished to devour me-body and soul. "It must be so lonely for you…"His words stung at my ear. "Come into the light…come…with me…"

Watson was going on. "It's a shame really. He was brilliant. Everyone thought so. Of course, you know that. I nearly forgot we went together. Surely, you remember. It was only six months ago, I think. 'The Importance of Being Earnest.' My God, how does one go about creating one witticism after another such as he did?"

We had been to the Haymarket, the doctor and I, to see another example of Oscar's brilliance. When the final act was complete, we stood and clapped joyfully along with the packed house. The cheering was nearly deafening. He loved it; sucking it all in as if oxygen.

"Bravo!"

"Brilliant, Brilliant!"

"Author!"

"Author!"

Watson looked at me, stunned. Or perhaps stunning. "I say, surely the man's a genius. Even you must agree, Holmes."

He knew that I hated the theatre. I had no desire to live a life other than my own, and to sit for hours on end examining a fictional world was beyond my threshold of tolerance.

Only for Oscar.

And then he appeared, large and garish and sycophantic, radiating his charm and Irish nature over the common lot like a wave from his eyes or mouth. He was at least dressed in black, although his magenta buttonhole was visible from our top box. He dangled a cigarette and stood with a smug expression, lips parted slightly, nodding in response and encouragement.

"Good Lord, is he smoking?" Watson asked into my ear.

I smiled at the doctor. I was sure that, of all the people there, the brilliance was for me, and only me.

"Siete il nostro re, o quella grande1!" I called to him, although I am sure no one, save Watson heard. He dismissed it without a question. It is of no importance. He speaks no Italian.

"I remember of course," said I to Watson, who I am sure was starring in confusion at my sudden bouts of inattention.

"I cannot honestly remember when I enjoyed a play more…" he sighed. "I really do think it a shame." He opened the paper and I heard the sounds of a third cup of coffee being poured. To him, the matter was at an end. He had no reason to dwell on the fate of Oscar Wilde a moment longer.

"Do you really?" I asked after a silent moment.

"Hmm? Do I what?"

"Do you really think it a shame?"

The paper was dropped and the coffee cup was set down roughly. I listened as it wobbled off-balance dangerously before clicking into place. "I am going to suppose you have some deep-rooted, intrusive reason for asking such an odd question?"

"Curiosity, Watson, curiosity only." And of course it was curiosity. In as much as the guinea defined my desire to become a consulting detective.

"Is it now?" He was not convinced. "Well then, I do think it a shame. In fact, rarely do I state something so specific and mean the complete opposite."

I glanced over my shoulder. He was smiling, and his voice suggested banter. He was a most subtle gentleman. I myself was discreet and he subtle. I knew that flying to the sun was for more manageable than anything I may hope for in the recesses of my soul. Yet, still, I had to know how he felt. Generally, of course.

"So it is a shame, then," said I. "A shame for the public to never be treated to his genius again. A shame to Mr. Wilde, no doubt. Shameful, anyhow."

"Well, of course, his behaviour was shameful, Holmes. To break a law is one thing, but to flaunt it…with no regrets, or even regards to one's family. You were aware he had a wife and children?"

Aware. Yes. I was indeed aware…

The desk was magnificent. It was a French cylinder, done in Louis XV style made with the highest quality mahogany. The lid was carved with a female form surrounded by a garden of roses. To my trained eye, I could not help but think this creature looked like Oscar as a female. Cherubic angels of gold fluttered over the top bracket and intricate bronze flowers grew up the legs of the desk. It was nearly garish in design, however original and perfectly suited to this man.

I thought briefly of Watson's small roll top, made of manly English oak, stationed in the corner of our room. They could be no more different.

But it was what was on top of this desk that most interested me. Two photographs. One showed two lovely young subjects, a boy with a jubilant grin and flowing locks and his mother, who wore a slightly lesser grin and a thick bun. They were intimately cheek-to-cheek, wearing dark outfits in a sea of white. No one else appeared to exist in the world to them.

"Constance and Cyril," said Oscar, coming silently up behind me. "Two rays of light in a vacuum of space. Well, three, actually." He pointed to a slightly more recent photograph, framed in exactly the same ornate silver. This one was the same boy, grown longer and with his curls, a golden brown, I imagined, cut far shorter. He stood with another boy, slightly younger and with dark hair flipped to the side. His face wore a clearly superior smirk and I would not have hesitated for a second as to his parentage. Both wore clad in matching sailor suits.

"Vyvyan. Cyril's brother."

"They are angelic," said I, trying to not to be overwhelmed with guilt by the innocent martyrs. "The younger of them is far more his father's son. I should think that a career writing awaits him. Yet you clearly favour the elder. He is the more athletic of the brothers and the more ill-tempered. Vyvyan has clearly spent more of his young life ill a-bed."

"You are most impressive, my dear." Oscar starred into the faces of his sons. "Tell it to me."

"I see the same light in the younger boy's that is in your own. His mind thinks the same way. He has the faint scars of German measles and his musculature is far less developed than his brothers, which indicates sickliness, given they are only a year to year and a half apart and should be similarly along. The elder boy has the broad shoulders and large hands of a rugger. You favour him with two photos that he is clearly smiling in. He must worship you."

"They will grow up to despise me, I fear."

"Never! Your name will still be celebrated hundreds of years from now. Future generations of Wildes will toast to you in parties to come, owing their inherited geniuses to you." He was very close to me now. His scent swirled into my brain. His lips were surprisingly soft.

"Then we are equals, Sherlock," he said into my neck. "Among equals what we will do is a sin." His breath felt like it was burning the hairs of my body. "Are you willing to commit a sin with me?"

He grabbed me hard and my answer came out as a moan. "Yes…"

We surrendered to the sin…

"Holmes? Holmes, what on Earth? Why the deuce are you so distracted today?"

I spun in my seat to see it was still the doctor before me, and no one else. I cleared my throat and my mind and perhaps even my body. Remembering it seemed nearly as real as it had once been. "Do you not think, Watson, that a law can be unjust?"

"Well"-

"Think for instance of slavery laws that existed for thousands of years and continue to exist in lesser civilised countries. There have been people unjustly convicted of every crime ranging from witchcraft to stealing to prevent starvation. Nearly every religion that exists today has at one point been banned and people have been hung for practicing."

"Alright, Holmes. After all, I am not a schoolboy. I needn't a lecture. Certainly I am aware that unjust laws have-and still do-exist." He was tense with curiosity now, I saw as he came to sit across from me in his chair. We had both lit our after-breakfast pipes, and in a matter of seconds, a halo of smoke encircled us. "I suppose the only real debate is whether the law Wilde broke, er, the motives behind this so called 'gross indecency' is unwarranted." He paused, sucking several times on his pipe before freezing mid-inhale as a realisation overtook his mind. His eyes, usually deep with altruism, hardened as they came into mine. "Do you, Holmes?"

"Do I?"

"Do you think laws of gross indecency…sodomy, that is, are unjust?"

I watched him as he spoke. He spoke softly, as if confused. But that word. That one word. He spoke that one with conviction and aggression.

And so I could do but the same. "Indeed, Watson. I think they are." I cocked my head slightly and felt my eyes widen. I must have looked quite unbalanced to the doctor.

He expected to have misunderstood. Certainly, there was no way a man such as I, a man who scorned the softer emotions, would take such a lenient stance on a crime. A sin. They were calling it homosexuality. Of course, he did not comprehend it all. He would never know the entire story. But he suspected more than I'd ever intended at the time.

He cleared his throat of nervous tension. "I'm quite unsure as to what to say. Never would I have suspected…well, perhaps 'never' is too definite a word. It would only seem natural to me that you would stand against such an…unlawful thing."

He said 'unlawful.' Not unnatural, not sinful. I could take unlawful. I had broken laws in the past. Watson had as well. But there was no need to remind him of that. "Whenever a man such as Wilde, an indelible credit to our race, whom many would call a genius, is punished because of a nature he has been cursed with due to no fault of his own…" I was leaning far forward, my voice filled with a passion I had not realised I possessed. I stopped.

"I…wasn't aware that you knew him so well," said Watson. And I knew in an instant that suspicion was not becoming of him. He rose rather quickly without looking at me, heading for the door, where at he paused. "You were speaking of Wilde, weren't you Holmes?"

The good doctor never does himself justice in regards to his own abilities.

1 You are our king, o great one!