The Case of the Nightingale Locket

By, SfumatoSoup

Description: Holmes attempts to hide his affection for Watson, Watson discovers it anyway, and tries to figure out how to proceed.

Holmes/Watson SLASH, angst/humor/romance/mystery. If any of this offends your delicate sensibilities I may recommend that you proceed with caution or leave now.

Disclaimer: I had heard that Sherlock Holmes was public domain, but I thought I'd hook one of these on to be on the safe side. I don't own any of ACD's characters, don't mean any harm, don't intend to profit. The characters that you don't recognize are mine and they like it that way. ALSO, be sure to check out the NOTES at the end!

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I have had the distinct honour of being Mr. Sherlock Holmes biographer throughout his illustrious career. It has been a great joy to set to paper that which has brought me a more fascinating life than ever I would have had, if young Stamford had not introduced me to the eccentric chemist all those years ago! I have attempted to do my best to illustrate the great consulting Detective's many fascinating cases, which I have, as his friend and partner been fortunate to aide him with on numerous occasions.

This particular case is one in which I must refrain from publication, as its contents are quite unsuitable for the audience of this age. Written merely for my own records, notes taken not long after the original events, it is not intended to be read by anyone save for myself and Mr. Holmes.

I very much desired to chronicle this adventure, making a suitable documentary from the hash of notes not because of its particularly unusual or engaging features (although this case would happen to have such), but because it marked an important situation that was played out between my friend and I, which forever changed the nature of our relationship.

Currently the year is 1918(1) and Mr. Sherlock Holmes is retired in Sussex Downs keeping honey bees. Recently he has published The Practical Handbook of Bee Culture with some Observations upon the Segregation of the Queen.

I confess, it is a slow read, and I doubt I'll suffer it to its final chapter.

As for myself, I have remained in London having long since re obtained a position at my original practice in Paddington. Though I work very rarely, I find that it keeps me young to stay active. I shall one day in the near future relinquish the practice to one of my younger interns in favour of a permanent retirement. Occasionally I also assist Scotland Yard as a stand in police surgeon, mostly out of a personal interest in keeping updated on the crime trends in London, which Holmes has had an ebbing interest in over the years much to the chagrin of the general public and Scotland Yard, I am sure.

Recently, I visited my friend at his bee farm, and over some toast and fresh honey declared my interest in chronicling this case.

"Why should you waste your time engaged upon such a fruitless venture?"

I quirked an eyebrow and grinned, "I could say the same to you."

"We've been over this, Watson; I am not interested in moving back to our old suites in London, regardless of our recent acquisition of the property (2). I am quite content to remain retired in the fresh air of the country, than be assaulted by the smog, and harassed by a never ending slew of obnoxious clientele."

I glanced away from a couple bees swarming around my face, and attempted to make peace by attempting to appeal to his recent interests, "these bees of yours must be mating right now, the way they keep dancing about one another."

Holmes smirked.

I decided to forge on and get to my point, "Holmes, I know this case is of a rather sensitive nature to both of us. I would like your permission to do so however. Obviously it would never be published or read by anyone save you and I."

Holmes seemed to contemplate his response as he lifted out a shelf to remove the honeycomb, "I suppose if you must. You are of such a sentimental nature, Watson. It's endearing, but terribly impractical. Perhaps you might consider using your vast writing talents to assist me in sprucing up my bee studies. I am aware my writing bores you to tears."

I laughed, quite taken off guard, but didn't bother to contradict him, "how could you tell?"

"I suppose you couldn't get past the first chapter, for had you, you would know that these are drones, which are male. Their queen is preoccupied laying her eggs, as mating season is quite finished. You would have read that in the fourth chapter. Therefore, this apparent dancing you see cannot possibly be mating. They are instead, communicating with each other about the hive, delegating responsibilities and alerting warnings about the swatting stranger standing in their midst," Holmes glanced at me, "it's fascinating. They really are quite a microcosm of human society, like you and me, Doctor."

"I'm sure," I grinned, "but I think you and I, Holmes, would be more inclined to participate in the activities of what I had suggested."

Producing a rare laugh, Holmes clapped me on the back, "I miss your pawky wit, old chap," he leaned over and touched his lips against my ear, "do you intend to stay the night here? I assure you your comfort will be of utmost priority, and your needs quite attended to."

Linking arms with my friend, I picked up my bags and allowed him to lead me into the house, quite intent on seeing out his suggestive offer.

Able to convince my dear friend to allow me to write this narrative, I shall first explain that certain explanations of events are from Holmes perspective, as to better illustrate the lay out of our scene.

All this began in 1895, not more than a year after Holmes' positively remarkable return from the dead. I had recently handed over my practice in Paddington for a sum of money (3), and reattached myself to the side of my companion, even moving back into our old quarters on Baker Street.

One morning, like any other we dined upon our breakfast. Holmes sat across from me fully absorbed in reading about some case, occasionally he would emit some unintelligible utterance whilst remaining completely concealed from view by the newspaper. As I poured myself a fresh cup of tea, Mrs. Hudson entered the drawing room to deliver a message to Holmes.

Folding up the morning herald and tossing it on the table, Holmes took up his penknife and made quick work of the envelope. After blankly regarding the missive he stood up and walked toward the grate where he tossed it into the little fire. Poking at the embers, the note was quickly consumed by the blaze and withered into ash. For a time, Holmes remained standing by the fire, his back turned to me.

Clearly the note had troubled the great detective. His unresponsive behavior left me quite concerned and quite naturally, intensely curious.

"Whatever is the matter, Holmes?"

Upon turning to respond, he gave me the queerest look, "Why nothing, dear chap," quickly changing the subject he glanced toward me, "I think I'm due to visit my brother, should a client call on me during such a time, please inform them I will be back no later than seven."

"Shall I pass on this word to Mrs. Hudson? I have errands I need to see to, Holmes. I was not planning on sitting around here all day," I replied, a touch indignant.

"Of course, excuse me dear fellow, I wasn't thinking."

"Never mind. Say hello to Mycroft for me." I said, as Holmes donned his hat and coat in preparation for departure.

Following narrative as directed by S.H: (quick note, the following case is not the case that I promised, but instead a situation which occurred far prior, that we now offer as a sort of introduction — W.)

As for why I didn't explain the missive to Watson, will be made evident shortly.

After exiting the cab in front of the Carlton club, and walking a short distance, I entered the Diogenes club. Mycroft stood there with a pensive expression, awaiting my guest check in. (Yes, I was a guest, as my membership had been terminated many years ago due to improper conduct; my propensity to attract attention even unintentionally.)

Upon being ushered into an adjoining section of the Stranger's room, Mycroft locked the door and directed me to a quite decadent armchair of Persian albizia (4) which, due to my shaken nerves was notably underappreciated. Mycroft stood before me, a great towering figure, with a portentous look in his deep set eyes. He rubbed his temple and dragged a fleshy hand across his overly developed brow in an uncommon display of frustration.

It will make sense if I now explain the note. It read:

S —

Carelessness with certain personal items has led to sensitive information being obtained by one whom wishes to extort capital by threat of exposure. Come here at earliest convenience to discuss.

— M

"I'll get right to the point, Sherlock. By exceptional circumstances, which I am not at liberty to dispel, I have waylaid a list from our villain of those whom he expected a cheque from. Imagine my concern and dismay upon discovering your name in the section of this book next to an estimable sum!" Mycroft paused for a moment to catalogue my look of dismay, "Fortunately, this blackmailer appears for the time being, to be rather dormant though certainly no less clever than your old friend Milverton (5). For he is lying low, undoubtedly hiding under the guise of a more respectable position, waiting for the opportunity to strike his victims when he knows they will be more desperate and susceptible to complying with his lofty demands."

"Do you suppose he'll be informing me of his intent to collect a cheque soon?" I asked ill at ease.

"Undoubtedly. There is little evidence obtained to be able to track this fellow at the moment, let alone convict him on any charges." Mycroft sighed, "Sherlock, how could you be so irresponsible? Dare I ask what this blackmailer may have obtained, and why he should think it would be so destructive?"

"There would be no hiding such a thing from you, brother, who knows me better than I know myself. I most sincerely regret I had a moment of weakness back when I was still in hiding from Moriarty's agents. I kept a log which I wrote in frequently recording various thoughts and observations. Being melancholy and lonesome I suppose there may have been moments where I pined for my old digs at Baker Street… there may have been some instances where I had recorded a little too candidly my affection for a friend of mine. I may have at some point misplaced this, but I did not overly concern myself as I had thought I had merely stuck it in the bottom of a trunk upon my return to Baker Street. It was a negligible enough log; from all appearances the notes were terribly dry. Whoever discovered it did it a thorough turn, there were hardly many pages devoted to these romantically imbued gaffes!" I stated uncomfortably, trying to look anywhere but in the face of what I knew would be condemnation and shame.

"Sherlock. You have dealt before with victims of blackmail. How could you have taken such a chance?" Mycroft reprimanded with sharpness in his tone. I felt his examining gaze and heard him elicit a sigh. Then he spoke softly with much concern laced in his tone, "I know we have not always been close, but as you are my only kin, I will do my best to aide you and diminish this threat. You must understand the ramifications should this become known to the public. It will not just ruin your reputation and end your career but it will harm myself by association. And no matter how the Doctor may vehemently deny an indecent relationship with you, gossip will fly and inevitably ruin him."

I had been aware of the unusual nature of my inclinations from youth, though having no proper circumstance to act upon them for Mycroft and I had been privately tutored. Had I been sent off to boarding school, I cannot claim these urges would have not been explored. Due to my preoccupation with developing my mind, these feelings laid quite dormant in me.

After years of living with Watson, whom had, if not a similar personality, an extraordinarily complimentary character to my own, I noticed he began to worm his way into that part of me that I had thought long ago sealed off. The true nature of my affections only displayed itself to me when Watson announced his marriage, which became my impending doom. Though torn as I was about having to leave him, and allow him to think I had perished at Reichenbach, there was for awhile, a sense of relief, at not having to come home to an empty Baker St. knowing my Watson was giving someone else his generous loving self. I had become tortured by constant daydreams of their happy domestic bliss, while I lay with a tourniquet tied about my arm, injecting my only true friend, a dependable pain dulling 7 solution of cocaine.

Now that I had my Watson back, I was loathe to contemplate the horror he would justifiably feel of my untoward emotions. Losing him again would be my real destruction.

Only after a moment did I notice my white knuckled clutch upon my knees. I casually released my grip and smoothed the trouser fabric. With some amount of defeat, I replied in the affirmative, that I grasped this situation wholly.

"I recommend for now that you go home and await your first threat, and then begin at once negotiations."

I knew, despite having to work with utmost care about this delicate situation, that it wouldn't overly challenge me to discover the perpetrator, fish him out and retrieve my mislaid log. So as not to worry you further about this lackluster (but rather upsetting) case, I'll assure you it turned out well for me and not for the blackguard who got his grimy hands on and profited from so many a person's secrets. Not a week later I was informed that if I cared at all for my privacy, I owed a large sum of money to a certain deposit box. This is a first rate bad idea for any blackmailer, it turned out our friend was really quite careless!

Aside from quick leg work, a proficient acting job around Watson and a few moments of utter anxiety over the possibility of being exposed, the problem was wrapped up successfully.

As extortion was quite a punishable offense, one Mr. Havish, a seemingly rather dull office clerk, was now settled with a fairly sizable lawsuit and a stint in prison. This was a relief, for in the whole Milverton problem, he had been working within the confines of the law. Mr. Havish was far less clever, yet had still managed to ruin the lives of several unfortunate people.

I was hardly intimidated now, for knowing that I was behind his destruction, he would inevitably try to defame me, but now anything he would say could not be substantiated and would therefore be regarded as hearsay, particularly because he would desire to seek retribution against me, making his case even more implausible.

This is also where Mycroft stepped in to hush up any rumours, using his long arm of influence where and when necessary.

Remaining evidence of scandalous nature was sorted out and destroyed in the grate as I had done with Milverton, along with the log, the only item on this earth that could utterly destroy me. I watched it with satisfaction go up in flames.

The point of explaining this event was that for the first time, I truly had to face my bourgeoning sentiments toward my dear companion. There were many points throughout this hellish situation I thought I would break down and just tell him. It was agonizing sitting there trying to behave normally when I was in constant fear of exposure. Not only would I face possible consequences with the law and deal with my career being over but I would have to face the prospect of losing the one person whom ever really cared for me. As ill-used as Watson has been by me in the past, this would certainly be the straw that broke the camel's back.

Not long after, Jupiter descended from his orbit to congratulate me…though in the vaguest possible way. After a rather unusual supper in which he seemed more than a little preoccupied with his interest in my companion, he looked pointedly at Watson and told him to call on him in Whitehall should he ever have an issue that I couldn't help him resolve. I just nearly had a fit of apoplexy! What did he mean by such a cryptic invitation? Watson glanced over at me with obvious question in his eye.

After Mycroft departed I quirked a grin, casually shrugged and offered as explanation, "it's just his way of saying he's fond of you, and lacks confidence in me."

So that we don't ignore the chronology of events, the very next case featured the Wisteria Lodge situation. Mr. John Scott Eccles came with his "grotesque" experience, in which his Spaniard friend, Garcia had been brutally murdered. Watson has written of this and I mention it only in passing because there were certain clues I deduced leading me to conclude that the two men were involved in some sort of romantic liaison. I dutifully kept silent in order to protect my client from embarrassment, but the uncanny timing did not go unnoticed.

It felt as if the fates were conspiring to force me into some sort of action.

One particularly 'grotesque' day, I found myself hailing a cab for Whitehall. Surely Mycroft couldn't turn me away because I was calling without prior announcement. This was after all, an exceptional situation. I was quite desperate at this point to hide from Watson this agonizing yearning, yet I felt myself, great actor that I was, slipping down a fast and slippery slope.

Watson was growing increasingly concerned as my level of cocaine use was getting (as he saw it) excessive.

More than once he had called me out on it, begging for me to speak to him about what plagued me rather than harm myself repeatedly with my "infernal" solution.

At last I arrived, and was invited in.

"Ah, I had predicted you would be out to see me sooner or later. I don't recall having visited with you this frequently even as children." Mycroft commented with a note of amusement. I failed to see any humour in anything and plowed my way through his foyer.

I spun around and held my hands out in a capitulating gesture, "I need you to help me see that my feelings are irrational. I need you to help me cure myself of this addiction."

Mycroft heaved a massive sigh, and shook his head, exasperatedly waving away my hands, "first off, you need to be more discreet in your interactions. If you find it so impossible to do so then you'll need to separate yourself from the doctor post haste. I shouldn't need to remind you that should you allow this situation to get out of your control, it could do an immense amount of harm to yourself and those directly associated with you."

I nodded in acquiescence, "I do recall you saying something to that effect once."

"I cannot help you change yourself, Sherlock. That would be nigh impossible, and even if it were, I'd lack the energy to attempt such a feat."

"I am well aware, I have thusly decided on the proper course of action."

"I trust you will make the correct decision?"

"Yes. No one will ever be the wiser to my vices save you, Mycroft."

"Actually, that is not the course of action I recommend."

I must have looked a right fool, gaping as I did. I cried, "You will have to be more transparent than that!"

"I advise you to make a clean breast of it."

"And what, pray tell, would lead you to guide me to make such a rash and fool hardy declaration?"

"You should be neither rash nor fool hardy, but I don't believe such a declaration would be met with much objection. I should think it may possibly be matched and reciprocated."

"You are aware, brother, of the doctor's enviable record with the fairer sex?"

"I recall it spans 3 or 4 continents…" Mycroft suddenly shook with a rare chuckle and then quickly slipped back into his typical stoic demeanor, "be it so…he holds you in the highest regard, I do not think I need to speak the obvious when it's clear as day from his writings."

"Those writings are published in the Strand for all to read, and if it's really as clear as day, I'd be flummoxed to explain how Scotland Yard has not yet thrown both the good doctor and myself into the stocks!" I exclaimed, shaking my hands before me animatedly. Immensely aggravated as I was, I just barely managed to comport myself with enough control as to keep from knocking in his block of that infernal know-it-all expression.

"Come, come. Clear to me, Sherlock, clear to me, as it should be clear to you. Not just anyone possesses our uncanny talent for observation. As to that, I am quite sure your talents have been weakened recently due to your distracting feelings. Your work has suffered some? Of course it has, which is why the sooner you unburden yourself the better off for everyone. I regret this is all I have to give you on the matter as I find this all quite wearisome. I shall retire to the Diogenese club this evening for some roast duck and an aged scotch. You may join me if you care to, but since I know you'd rather not, Good day, Sherlock."

"You always dismiss me in this same fashion." I responded querously.

"You should rely on your own wits."

"Very well, for my sake, I hope this isn't the one time you're wrong, Mycroft, goodnight."

I let myself out, and walked the entire way home, hoping that some exercise would clear the mess currently rattling about inside my already taxed brain.

There is no way to prepare telling someone highly inappropriate to fancy that you fancy them.

"Watson, I must confess to you something," I declared taking a pull from my cigarette. I had dragged my regular chair by the window in the drawing room, and was sitting comfortably in my typical dressing gown, with my knees relaxing against the arm of the chair. I saw Watson in my periphery nod my go-ahead.

"I've led you to believe that I had no interest in the softer emotions. I would just like to clarify by saying that this is an untruth."

"Am I to understand that you're in love with someone?" Watson expostulated.

"I—" I stopped suddenly to look at my dear friend, who was currently gawking at me as if I'd grown a second head. No, this one was a secret I'd go to my grave with, "Never mind, Watson."

"Holmes…" he began, but then stopped and looked down.

For once, Watson seemed to retreat on the issue, which I was profoundly grateful for.

(Watson cont.)

I confess, in my writings I appear to be quite the dullard next to my companion. I would like to, at this time, clear this misconception and emphasize, that next to Sherlock Holmes' particular brand of genius we are all mere mortals. His sheer ability to make transparent that which to anyone else would be unobvious is truly remarkable. After living with a consulting detective for years, my sense of perception and ability to hypothesize upon cursory observation was quite honed compared to the average general practitioner of medicine.

When Holmes revealed to me the other day that he was not in fact the "automaton" I had made him out to be in my chronicling of our adventures, it stirred more than a passing interest. His unwillingness to provide any further substance to this intriguing line of conversation left me immediately hungry for more. So rarely was my friend willing to share much about himself with me on the personal level that I craved. Rather than jumping at the bate wriggling so temptingly before me, I decided to be patient, perhaps he would reveal more, if I didn't seem overwhelmingly desperate.

I had been quite lonesome after Holmes death, and even after my poor Mary passed away, I fear I had done her a disservice. I never stopped mourning for my dear companion, and everyday though I had worn the customary black band around my arm in respect for my late wife, I was haunted by images of Holmes disappearing over Reichenbach falls rather than Mary falling into a peaceful eternal sleep.

Even now, with Holmes a regular fixture in my life once more, I felt now more than ever an unfamiliar and urgent yearning to become more intimate with my dear friend. Sometimes, when he slipped into his dark moods I felt more lonesome than I had before when I thought him dead. It was frustrating that nothing I could do could make him see that he could trust me! He couldn't trust me with the knowledge of his survival for three long, agonizing years, and still after regaining my trust, I could never have his.

It was this point that frustrated curiosity dawned into a sort of suspicion. Why would Holmes bring up such a point now if at all? Was he in love? Did he refuse to speak further due to the object of such affections being an irresponsible or improper choice? Or did he simply mean to correct my perception of him as being immune to the softer emotion? Either way, I was inclined to begin my own investigation to find out.

Fortuitously, that same evening I had been invited to attend a lecture on Eugenics at St. Bart's. The lecture was unfulfilling, and I found myself to be quite disturbed at the idea of breeding out less admirable traits in favour of purposefully breeding in those deemed more desirable by society. It gave me chills to imagine humans playing god in such a fashion (6). Fortunately the conversation I had later at supper with some fellow doctors made the night quite worthwhile.

"So have any of you read the article on Sexual Inversion that was published recently?"

"I have a copy, but have not yet looked into its contents. Is it worthwhile? Or more like those other sensationalist studies based on unsubstantiated information we get all the time?"

"I find it utterly distasteful. After that disgusting lecture, I am quite convinced that Havelock Ellis is a godless heathen!"

A waiter came around to the table about this time, and served us our first round of drinks.

"What does it say?" I inquired as I sipped my bourbon and water.

"It details Homosexuality, and states that is in fact not a disease of the brain! Can you imagine such twaddle?"

The doctor at the end of the table cleared his throat. Up until now, I had barely taken notice of the chap. His spectacles sat low on his nose and his mustache was as thick as a commander in the German regiment.

"I think, it is rather well stated, this pamphlet, Dr. Fischer."

"You don't mean to say that you agree with this?" Protested the Doctor in question.

"I agree on several points, others I can't say I'm well informed enough to dispute. But I do think it is high time we move past such old fashioned condemnation, and move forward. I put to you that enlightenment is progress. We are after all, sitting on the precipice of a new century, gentleman."

"Well said, Granger."

After the majority of us had cleared out to head home for the evening, I stopped Dr. Granger just as he was about to catch a cab.

"Dr. Granger, do you happen to have that Ellis pamphlet on you? I have not yet read it, and would very much like to."

"Certainly, here, let me pull it out of my bag for you," the doctor responded accommodatingly fetching the pamphlet from his medical bag, "Dr. Watson, it was a pleasure talking with you tonight, I have for some time been interested in meeting you. I am especially admiring of your great affinity for fairness in the recording of accurate observation, as I have seen from your writings on Mr. Holmes. Perhaps you have considered composing a treatise on your medical work as criminal surgeon? I'd be very interested in reading one."

"Thank you, Dr. Granger I am certainly flattered that you think so. I must indeed consider writing one, even if only you have interest in reading it." I said utterly charmed.

"I'd much appreciate if we could speak again, as it is so rare that I find another reasonable intelligent person to communicate my thoughts with."

"I would not be opposed, my good man!" Shaking his hand farewell, we exchanged addresses of our surgeries, hailed cabs, and went our separate ways.

After reading, and then rereading the pamphlet, I felt a bit uneasy. For some reason, the article's topic struck a cord in me I was loathe to examine.

I tried with very little success to squash the anxious voice that seemed to be shouting with resonating clarity in my head that Holmes was a sexual invert! It would explain so many different elements of his peculiar personality. But it would inevitably tear away all my fundamental preconceived beliefs about the man.

A deep aching fear clung inside my chest.

What if he was? If I knew this for fact, how could I then justify continuing our current living situation under one roof? Would this now be highly inappropriate?

I replayed in my head every intimate moment, every fond word and affectionate gesture shared between us, trying hard to not allow these thoughts be twisted by my new perception of my dear friend into something less wholesome.

As sick as I felt in my gut, a strange blossoming and completely unnamable excitement also grew.

I watched Holmes more closely than I ever had previously that night, noting and rationalizing his every move. He seemed oblivious to my scrutiny, and was very much engulfed in his own studies. A simultaneous wave of relief and (disappointment?) passed through me.

That evening as I bade Holmes a goodnight, he looked up at me, and I saw for a hair of a second an amused and querying expression cross his otherwise stoic features.

So he had noticed my study of him and masked himself from me!

Truly, I must have been forming a most paranoid obsession. For days Holmes and I seemed to dance around each other; or rather Holmes seemed to parry my persistent watching of his person with extra nonchalance and avoidance.

Finally, I recalled my friend Dr. Granger, and sent out a missive that I was interested in joining him for lunch. Happily, I received a confirmative reply within a short time, and was off to meet him.

After arriving at the café, I was led to the booth, where Dr. Granger was already sipping a brandy.

"Good afternoon, Dr. Watson, it was a pleasure to hear from you today, I was very much looking forward to visiting with you again!" Dr Granger said warmly, grasping my hand in a firm handshake, "I sense for some reason, you are not doing well, my friend? If it is not imprudent of me to ask, whatever is the matter?"

"Nothing to be overly concerned about, my friend."

"Rubbish! You may be straightforward me! It may ease your mind to have a friendly ear." Dr. Granger argued.

I relented and heaved a weary sigh.

"I've been doing a lot of heavy thinking of late, and not come to a whole lot of welcome solutions, if they are in fact solutions at all," I replied in a subdued manner, distractedly swishing my Chianti about its glass.

"Are they so unwelcome, or are they perhaps unfamiliar? Occasionally the new shoe is uncomfortable, even though it's the right fit. Maybe you need to walk around in these new shoes, before you decide for sure." The doctor patted my hand reassuringly and finished down his glass of wine.

"How is it you are so perceptive?" I asked suspiciously.

"I've been there." He responded with a knowing heavy lidded smile.

I did enjoy Dr. Granger's effusive personality, as it was such a stark contrast to the usual disposition of my other companion, but I was a bit unnerved and self conscious that his heavy hand still remained closed over the top of my own. I didn't want to pull my hand away and offend the gentleman, for I respected him and didn't want to embarrass myself by looking the fool.

We remained like this at least for another minute, him quietly regarding me with his intensely warm gaze, and me withering in my chair, my face growing hot, and my hand beginning to tingle, as my brain attempted to sever it from my body so I wouldn't have to figure out how to remove it.

"I confess when first you asked me for that pamphlet, I had wondered what your interest was, but now that you are here and admitting to me… well, my friend, I am certainly here for you, if you should wish to walk around in these new shoes, for once they are worn around a couple times, you'll find them to be exquisitely comfortable, and you'll wonder how you ever tried anything else." To my immense horror, the doctor raised my hand from the table, and as he did so I felt myself unable to pull away, so instead attempted to avert my eyes from his, when I felt the touch of his lips to the palm of my hand in what could have been nothing else but an invitation to his bed.

As soon as I recovered my senses I snapped away my hand and glanced around furiously, hoping we had gone unobserved. Much to my relief I recognized we were in a booth in the back corner of the restaurant, which was largely uncrowded.

"My friend, am I mistaken…?" Dr. Granger asked suddenly, with a look of great anxiety.

I nodded, shaken, "You are, sir."

"I shouldn't have presumed upon you in such a fashion, I had just assumed that we were of sympathetic mindsets. Oh Dash! I was grossly boorish; you must tell me how I can make it up to you."

Suddenly I felt a wave of sympathy wash away my initial revulsion, as I observed the doctor looking quite upset and repentant.

"Understanding that I am most certainly not myself of such persuasion, could you perhaps explain yours to me?" I chanced, attempting bravado, when really I was a mess of rattled nerves.

Granger examined me with a look of befuddled amusement and relief, "certainly if you are indeed interested, perhaps here is not the most appropriate of places? There are still those who are brutish enough to hand my kind over to the authorities at the slightest inkling of difference."

We had made our way back to his surgery past Covent Gardens, and were now leisurely enjoying tea and conversing as we had been before.

"So there are no clear methods of determining…?"

"No, but I postulate to you this: should you attempt to kiss the man in question, were he to respond, then you would have your answer, for no man in his right senses of such inclination would not take a liking to you, Doctor."

I blushed deeply, "I really wish you wouldn't say things like that, it makes me rather uncomfortable."

"You are too modest!" Granger refuted in my defense, "but you came here seeking an answer and I will give you one. If you are speaking of your odd detective friend, which it seems you evidently are (he glanced at me and took in my look of shock, which undoubtedly confirmed his suspicions), I will say only this, if ever a man were an invert, he's your man."

I dragged a hand over my face, "Lord, but that complicates matters."

"I know how you can find out." Granger offered suddenly, stroking his moustache thoughtfully, "that Ellis pamphlet on Sexual Inversion! Why, lay it somewhere where he is bound to find it, and that he may realize it was left there quite purposely for him to find!"

Taking his suggestion, I did just that. I set the pamphlet upon his chair and sat in my own. Then, I readied myself for my friend's anger, and awaited his return.

He swooped in at a quarter past 4, tossing his hat by the door, and entered the drawing room. Immediately he noticed the foreign article insidiously resting on his chair.

"Well now, what have we here?" Holmes furrowed his brow and swiftly plucked the pamphlet from the seat and gave it a brief once over. Though his back was turned toward me I could read an enveloping discomfort by the stiffening of his posture. Holmes swung around to face me with a most peculiar and unreadable expression.

"This most certainly isn't here by happenstance! Is this an inquiry, accusation or confession?" He accused.

I refrained from replying and leaned back in my chair, steeling myself against his immense temper.

"Ha! Then you have systematically narrowed down the symptoms and arrived at this diagnosis, Doctor? Well done." He must have noticed my look of confusion, but for a minute was unable to speak, and instead began to pace a circuitous path around our drawing room.

"Allow me to clarify my praise. Aside from your audacity and apparent disregard for my privacy, I applaud your brilliant application of my methods, Watson."

With that, he turned away from me and stalked over to the mantel where with shaking hands he tucked a healthy bit of shag into his pipe.

"Holmes, I know you're a private man, and I don't ask you to tell me those secrets which might endanger you or your clients. But it pains me greatly that after so many years as your partner and friend, that you have such a great degree of mistrust where I'm concerned. I simply ask for the truth." I responded with a placating tone. Holmes glanced down at me from where he stood, with his elbow perched upon the mantel, and then looked quickly away again.

"People are hung sometimes for speaking the truth, Watson.(7)" With a chagrined frown, Holmes collapsed down in his chair and held a lit match to his pipe.

"You needn't be so dramatic. I am neither packing my bags, nor am I alerting Scotland Yard." I chuckled softly and tried to lift my friend out of his brooding. Holmes exhaled a plume of thick smoke.

"Not yet you aren't."

I was caught off guard by this fowl blow to my person. I shook my head,

"If you believe that I would do such a thing, then you can hardly consider me your friend." Holmes had coldly met my indignation with acutely hurtful words on a number of occasions. Long since I had learned to parry his attacks with calm resignation.

"Doctor, it's not uncommon knowledge that you are the very model of a law abiding English gentleman. How can one of such crystalline morality give way to the deviance in his closest companion? Could you ever again afford me the same level of easy camaraderie now that you know where my preferences lie?"

Holmes chanced a look at me that was both terrified and petulant.

A light blush rose in my cheeks just considering what he was implying.

Holmes noticed my discomfort immediately, and pursed his lips into a tight satisfied smile. He tried to mask the faltering in his voice, but a sadness seemed to soften the edge of his acid tone, "Should you now be my judge, jury and executioner?"

"Holmes, not once have I ever known you to be amoral, or do anything that wasn't fair or just."

"Moral men aren't at risk of being sent to the stocks, Doctor!" Holmes spat. There was no reasoning with him!

"Why do you remain convinced that I'm going to turn you in? Your brand of deviancy is such that it harms none and yet still remains criminal, which I have never considered fair. And you know that very well when I voiced my disapproval at Wilde's harsh sentencing back last year! You needn't collapse into a panic because of me, Holmes!"

" Regardless of your assurances that this is a trifling issue which you have no interest in turning me in over or socking me in the eye for, I had the strongest possible objections to you ever finding this out about me, and am feeling at the moment quite anxious for some space without distraction. So if we are quite finished, I must insist Doctor, Goodnight, and close the door on your way out."

I said nothing else, and turned to depart, as Holmes tapped out his pipe and picked up his Strad. I carefully closed the door behind me and left for my room to the sound of Holmes scraping away a frenetic bastardized version of Sarasate's Zigeunerweisen.

The next day after finishing with my morning ablutions, I came down stairs to find Holmes already gone. I had expected as much after the poor conclusion to last night's confrontation.

I went about my daily errands and considered stopping by my surgery to speak to my receptionist about ordering the new curtains for the waiting room she was so insistent upon. Attempting to refocus my cyclical thoughts on last night to curtain patterns was distracting enough when quite out of nowhere I was smashed into by a young man apparently fleeing from the custody of a police officer also running in my direction.

Instinctually, I whipped around and snagged the fellow by the collar of his coat. With an animated shriek, he elbowed me catching me below the ribs thereby freeing himself.

The blow had been light enough to knock the wind from me, but hardly enough to justify such an easy release of my captive. By the time the officer arrived, the young man had made an efficient getaway.

"Whoa, there! Are you alright?" The officer concernedly set a hand upon my shoulder.

"I think I shall live. Did that hoodlum get away?"

"Yes, but not for long, there's another officer circuiting the block as we speak. He'll undoubtedly nab the brat. Here you are." I smiled in thanks as he dusted off my hat that had been knocked off in the tussle and handed it back to me, "I can bet he's picked more than his share of pockets today, the little thief. Why, hallo! Aren't you Doctor Watson?"

I nodded, "I am, indeed."

"Excellent! It's quite an honor to meet you! I read your stories about Detective Holmes in the Strand all the time! How is the bloke? I haven't seen him around Scotland Yard for some time now. He must be working on some special private case!"

I hesitated at the mention of Holmes, and wracked my memory trying to figure out his most recent case, but came up dry. I had been so taken up with my own investigation of my friend that I had barely paid attention to whether or not he had taken on any new cases.

Deciding to scrap the idea of heading all the way over to my practice I decided to head back home for the day, making note to apologize to Holmes post haste. How could I have missed Holmes on a case without me? Of course I should be hard pressed to think that he would be wanting for my company after my sore treatment of him!

How could I have forced him to admit this private part of his life to me? It wasn't my business, and I acted regretfully. I know Holmes relinquished small bits of himself to me when he desired to, and I shouldn't have been so indignant about his preference for secrecy on this matter! Of course he should think he would have to! Most men of such predilection don't bandy about town alerting everyone to their lifestyle aside for the dandy's with their green carnations tucked into their lapels(the notion of Holmes as such a character was quite laughable). He had to be more careful than anyone considering his line of work.

Much to my relief I saw that Holmes was back home sitting in his chair studying some papers in his lap. He looked up when I entered with a bit of weariness, which transformed into sudden amusement.

"You had an eventful morning I perceive."

"Really," I responded with some amount of levity. It was a good sign that he was acting himself again, so I humored him, "I can't imagine what makes you think so."

"On your way to your practice, you apparently collided with a pickpocket. You had a nice chat with a kindly officer and then decided that your receptionist could wait on new curtains, because you had some sort of revelation which made you realize you needed to speak with me post haste! I should say your pickpocket pulled quite the fast one on you."

"As usual you are right on most of that account but as for the pickpocket pulling anything on me-"

"Check the inside of your coat pocket, Doctor."

"My wallet! Holmes-"

"Fear not, Watson," Holmes replied with a hint of a grin, as he tossed me my wallet.

"But how…?"

"My dear fellow, did it occur to you that perhaps I was on a case this morning? I went down to the docks early to investigate some missing crates for a young entrepreneur who has been suffering the worst luck with some valuable shipments from Africa that persistently disappear. I was disguised as a dock worker, and attempted to pick a most important note from the pocket of my man, when he spun around and just nearly caught me. Of course he immediately sent the officers after me, and they pursued me for at least 4 or 5 blocks before I could make my slip. You just happened about at the most uncanny time, and I couldn't help myself."

"Holmes, really, I just about had a fit!" I played indignant, but couldn't have been more relieved to have Holmes in a good mood.

"Do you forgive me?"

"I suppose I must, after all. Still though, the whole bit about the curtains you couldn't possibly have known."

"Nonsense, it was simple, you received a note yesterday from your receptionist complaining about the shabby state of your window dressings."

"You read my mail?" I asked, suddenly irritated.

"Really Watson, you hardly have room to be upset about a little note, when you yourself demand information of a much more personal nature from me."

"Touché. Though, now that we are on that subject…about last night, perhaps my approach was a bit imprudent–"

"It is quite put aside, old fellow. I myself said some things that were quite unworthy of you. Though I would like some further clarification on a couple details, if you'd humour me."

"Certainly," I responded curiously.

"You are not so terribly perturbed as I had assumed you'd be, so what inspired you to so fervidly extract this confession…and where now, do we stand?"

"Holmes, you are no different now than you were before to me. Nothing has changed between us."

Holmes quirked an eyebrow and leaned forward in his chair folding his hands upon his lap. I felt for a moment as a rabbit must under the scrutiny of a circling hawk.

"That's all very well, yet you have skirted around my original question which I shall rephrase: What compelled you to ask this of me? I mean, beyond my eccentricities and what you deem to be my misogynistic views on women, what on earth led you to this conclusion?"

"To be perfectly forthright, Holmes, there was little to convince me other than your peculiar statement a few weeks back. You claimed you were not in fact, the automaton I had painted you to be, which led me to believe you had been previously attempting to impression me into believing you weren't capable of softer emotions in order to distract me away from wondering about your lack of feeling toward women. At the time I was under the assumption you had at last fallen in love, but under further examination, I observed no frequent visitors, mention of anyone in particular, nor social activity suggestive of this."

"So applying my methods, you eliminated the obvious…" Holmes interjected.

"It did occur to me that perhaps you were in love with someone whom was unmoved by your advances, or perhaps even unavailable."

Holmes grinned in a queer off-putting manner, "Ah, unrequited love!"

"More specifically I thought perhaps you were going to tell me that long ago, in the Bohemia Scandal you had lost your heart to the wiles of Ms. Adler."

Holmes tossed back his head and let out a hearty laugh, "Indeed! This is quite entertaining, do continue, Watson!"

"I tossed this out because it was absurd. Had you been enamored with Ms. Adler, surely you would have pursued her, easily winning her hand from her far less compelling little chap she ended up with."

"Do you think so? I'm flattered."

"Finally, after I attended a lecture on Eugenics at St. Barts, a few of us went out to dine afterward and I became involved in a conversation about Dr. Ellis's study on Sexual Inversion–"

"That explains the scintillating pamphlet. Really, there was so much I didn't even know about myself," Holmes interjected somewhat acerbically.

I ignored this and continued, "I believed that at the time, for some unknown purpose you had resolutely decided to tell me, yet at the last moment, your nerve faltered and you lost your resolve."

"Fascinating, I shall make note to be more careful around you from now on, Doctor, you have quite picked up my knack for this sort of thing. I'm just surprised you hadn't figured me out when I made that irresponsible decision to give you that book of Catullus."

"Ahah! So there was an ulterior motive behind that choice of literature!" I accused jokingly.

Holmes missing the humour went quite ashen and responded very seriously, "Not at all, Doctor, there was never any message meant behind that, I assure you."

"Of course not, don't be daft, Holmes! I know that you have no intentions toward me." I stated reassuringly.

"None whatsoever," he responded quickly, regaining some of the color in his pallid cheeks.

"Then are we alright?

"I should think so."

"Then, we should speak no more of it. On another note, you did manage of course to outsmart Scotland Yard. And you implied that you managed to obtain this important note of yours, so your case is going well?"

"I should say it went well as it was wrapped up shortly before you arrived home. It was quite an ordinary solution and far less deserving of my attention than it had originally been presented to be. Nothing you'd be interested in chronicling, my dear Boswell."

"Very well, though, you will include me in the future…?"

"I intend to. In fact, just before you arrived home, another case presented itself in the form of an invitation to a Pemberley home in Charing Cross tomorrow afternoon. I was hoping you would accompany me."

"I'd be delighted."

I contentedly joined Holmes in having a cigarette and looked forward to the next day with pleasure.

TBC. C&C if you please. (STAY TUNED! The mystery is JUST about to unfold. Quite possibly with a dash of loooove.) I shall update asap.

NOTES:

1.) In 1918, this would put Holmes and Watson at about 66 and 64 respectively, in accordance with the Canon's chronology.

2.) Mrs. Hudson died of old age in 1917, generously leaving the famous den, in a shared lease between Dr. Watson and Mr. Holmes. The building is in actuality owned by Portman Estate since the 16th c. Holmes must be referring to inheritance of the primary lease, and not the actual ownership of the property. Therefore, they had sublet from Mrs. Hudson.

3.) It is quite a subject of interest if Holmes had a hand in the purchase of Watson's practice, via his distant Vernet relation.

4.) A variety of Iranian silk. Mycroft was rather inclined to hedonistic excess as this fabric would have been quite costly to cover an entire chair frame with.

5.) See CHAS for details of this case.

6.) Watson seems to strike on a bit of prophetic wisdom here, as Eugenics was frequently used as justification for state-wide discrimination among certain ethnicities, providing an easy gate-way rationalization to the Holocaust later in WWII

7.) Quote from Joan of Arc