Illustrated Fic for flawedamythyst: The Case of the Brown Paper Package

[methylviolet10b]

Title: The Case of the Brown Paper Package
Recipient: flawedamythyst
Author: stardust_made
Artist: fabelschwester
Beta for the story: Many thanks to the wonderful kate_lear.
Rating: NC-17
Characters: Holmes/Watson.
Warnings: Implied Victorian attitudes to (homo)sexuality.
Summary: Holmes’s unexpected early return home leads to a few small but interesting observations. What’s in the brown paper package Watson brought home with him and whatever happened to his gloves? A trail is set on fire leading to a shocking surprise and a mystery that seems almost beyond Holmes’s ken.
Disclaimer: This is a fanwork of love and appreciation for Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s creations Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson.

It doesn’t take exceptional powers of observation to mark any change in my Watson’s mind or heart. I have often told him that he is like an open book to me, but for a long time I didn’t share with him that the comparison went further. The reasons to keep it a secret were too confounding even for my own “devilishly discerning” mind—Watson’s words, not mine—so I let them make my choice for me. The mysterious power of silence was at play again, as it is wont to be. How many times have I entered homes heavy with the unspoken? And while in my case it was exactly the opposite, on most occasions I found the minds of the occupants of those homes filled with visions and notions most wicked. Or worse, vague and formless, yet all the more sinister for that.

I digress. Again, it is Watson whom I should blame for this particular weakness. His stories have been the subject of enough of my remarks to leave no doubt as to my opinions on their exaggerated focus on the romantic, their sensationalist nature, their disorganized prose that serves to highlight nothing but the mystery. No, I stand corrected, for truth is my Mistress. His stories do highlight all of the above, but their focus is always on my person too.

Yet it appears his writing style has affected me. Watson has affected me; oh, in a more profound and lasting manner than any effect his turn of phrase may have had on me. But the former is true nonetheless—I have found myself at times unable to keep to a straightforward narrative, even in my own head. Those times always have something to do with the good doctor.

My thought was this: Watson is an open book to me, but for years I omitted to tell him that I never stopped turning the pages over and over again with the greatest pleasure, unfailingly thrilled and touched by the contents. I, who have no interest in any literature that is unimportant to my current case, have found the one book that contains not a single fact of direct use to my work, yet is brimming with data entirely relevant to me. Without Watson by my side, my work will no longer manage to produce anything but the outline of a world interesting enough to have me live in it. Thanks to Watson, the space inside fills with colours and smells and sounds. Watson brings an illogical, soothing promise to a feverish brain like mine—that in the absence of work the world could still be bearable. Why, with him by my side, a new case becomes the very embellishment of life.

I flip through this precious book’s pages daily, dwelling over paragraphs re-read countless times, smiling over sentences that I’ve forgotten, frowning over chapters that exclude me. And on occasion, I come across something on Watson’s face that puts me on the alert, convinced that I have once again uncovered a new storyline to my friend’s character.

In the case of the story I confide to these pages, in an ironic twist that I hope will become evident when I am done, there is yet another example of how even the smallest detail can ripple with tremendous power; the kind that affects a fellow only once or twice in his lifetime.

***

This narrative begins with something small indeed, as well as very unreliable. Mud and ash and clay one can interpret fairly securely—they have a quality of objectivity about them that makes them the best source of certain data. But three days ago I was faced with their opposite, something as elusive as it was subjective—an expression on Watson’s face.

My friend and I had spent the previous four days inseparable. The combination of a trifling indisposition of mine, which he promptly exaggerated beyond all proportion, and his promise to Mrs Hudson to be available at all hours until her niece was in town, consulting a specialist for her unborn child, had Watson bound to Baker Street without a break. I had nothing particularly alluring to get me out of the confines of our abode. But Watson and I are used to sharing quarters so closely; we are used to being in each other’s presence constantly, parting only after we retreat to our respective bedrooms.

I have just managed to refrain from embarking on a very interesting diversion after that last thought, so I am not beyond hope.

In retrospect, I discovered that there was something unusually anxious in Watson’s manner during those four days. But it is typical of him to worry about any threat to my health, no matter how small. He also has the most sympathetic heart that easily goes out to young women and their unborn children, particularly if they happen to be the relatives of someone like our esteemed landlady. No, I am certain any woman in any way distressed would have Watson’s concern. So I read him as I normally would, forgetting that the same behaviour could often have two very different sources.

On the fifth day I received a telegram from brother Mycroft, inviting me to spend an hour in his company at a particular location, and reminding me to bring with me his umbrella.

He had lent it to me, his best umbrella as he pointed out at the time, which was some six weeks earlier. I did not find anything suspicious in his request to have it back, not in the middle of November. Another omission on my part, for Mycroft rarely does anything that doesn’t deserve the closest scrutiny. I sometimes wish we were not related, and he was of a more lithe stature and more excitable countenance, not to mention inclined toward a life of crime. I could have hardly wished for a more formidable opponent.

Nothing overthrows any physical indisposition in me like the promise of a new conundrum. No matter what Watson says, my body heals best when my mind is fully engaged. I succeeded in getting myself ready to go out in an example of excellent balance between speed and propriety, and in thirty minutes I was at the door, bidding Watson goodbye. Although Mycroft knows Watson and is fond of him, inasmuch as Mycroft can be fond of any person, the place he had asked me to meet him decided against inviting Watson with me. In turn, Watson did not sport his typical eager look—the one where he charmingly follows my motions about the room with the eyes of a dog hoping for a whole afternoon out, but not wanting to be a nuisance. So I left him without any qualms and headed out to meet my brother.

The morning developed in a singular fashion. Half-way to my destination, the hansom was attacked in broad daylight by a number of individuals—four as I recall—clothed from head to toe with what can only be described as the typical attire of those groups of criminals that populate the American Wild West. I would have thought them actors in costume had I not heard their accent in their cries. Additionally, I have had the chance to encounter enough American criminals in my career so far, to induce me to inquire about the particulars of the criminal world in that big country. I felt the need to be prepared if its contingent continued to migrate over to England, adding a most welcoming variety to the local criminal classes.

Amidst the noise and the scuffle, I found myself scratched by a bullet. This occurred just as the whole affair was quickly drawing to a close, thanks to my modest effort and that of the hansom driver, who was later revealed as a most capable individual in service of the Crown. The proximity of the gun and the location of the scratch—my lower abdomen—made for excessive bleeding, so I required some medical assistance. I refused anyone else’s but Watson’s.

Yet upon arrival at Baker Street my friend was nowhere to be found. Mrs Hudson explained that as soon as I had left, Watson appeared at her doorstep. He was hastily dressed, she said—people remember a lot when you press them—and informed Mrs Hudson that he was out because he needed to take the air. He had promised to be back in no more than a couple of hours, and had assured Mrs. Hudson nothing in her niece’s condition suggested she should need him during his short absence. Then he had rushed out.

Another doctor was speedily sent for. I shall always cherish the amusement the whole situation provided in the sight of my brother who, against all the grandeur of his bodily appearance and his sanguine temperament, was forced to move and speak with urgency.

I should perhaps clarify that the umbrella turned out to contain a thin slip of paper of some vital importance for something or other—state affairs continue to hold no interest for me, especially ones that do not require solving. Mycroft had left the slip in my possession unbeknownst to me, as means to ensure both its and my protection. I found the deception in no way offensive. I understand the sentiment: what needs to be done must be done, and I imagine that the involvement of a third party may require keeping secrets from them for their own protection, sometimes at a very high cost.

I was attended to by another physician, who provided his unnecessarily long-winded assurance about my full recovery. The room was beginning to settle when there was the sound of conversation downstairs and in a few seconds, a rush of steps up the stairs. Then Watson burst in, wide-eyed and gaping. His chest was heaving with exertion. The tip of his nose had to have been pink because of the chill in the air, but the colour had transformed into a sickly greyish purple amidst the pallor of his face. His top hat was slightly askew. His hands were bare and red; the right one absently clutching at a thin package wrapped in brown paper and tucked in under his left armpit. He rushed to my side, but I am sad to say that at that point the room spun in front of my eyes. I lost consciousness, my last thought a grudging respect for the other medical fellow, whose claims that my blood loss was serious might not have been exaggerated after all.

***

Later in the evening, when I had restored my faculties and all visitors had finally departed, Watson and I felt it was time to fortify ourselves with a glass of brandy. We were both sitting in our chairs, having drawn them closer to the fireplace first. I was drowsy; undoubtedly exhausted by the lengthy argument I had had with the good doctor over the matter of my abstinence from tobacco for a day or two. He had won. I had let him win, for the sight of him worried and self-repentant on account of his absence was too much for me to endure. Adding defeat to his features would have turned the taste of the finest tobacco bitter.

I can’t remember what I wished to say to him that made me seek him out with my eyes. Perhaps there was nothing in particular—looking at him is one of the very few occupations I’ve ever discovered that have no other purpose than the one contained in the actual act: to look at him.

Upon turning my face in his direction, or rather rolling my neck, for my head was resting on the back of the chair, I found Watson gazing at the flames. His glass appeared forgotten in his hand and his expression was most difficult to read. That, however, was not the moment I thought that there was an event taking place in my friend’s head, to which I wasn’t invited. It was when I addressed him that his face transformed in a start, something furtive passing over it.

He turned to me in an instinctive response to my voice, and there, in a momentary flash that another would have missed, I saw his eyes jump away from mine before coming back.

To anyone else that wouldn’t have meant much. From anyone else it would have meant even less. But Watson’s eyes are as earnest as they are bright and blue; they are one of the best advantages with which nature has provided him, and by extension me. I am convinced that if I should ever be so extremely fortunate as to grow old with my friend still by my side, when all my mental faculties betray me knowing Watson’s mind with one look in his eyes will remain the last vestige of my old self.

I knew something was afoot, and from that moment on I set out to find out what.

My mind organized itself in its customary fashion when presented with a mysterious occurrence. I distractedly replied to Watson’s enquiries as to why I’d addressed him. I was busy calling upon all my recent observations of him. These hadn’t been purposeful. My mind gathers data with the same inexorable inevitability with which surfaces gather dust. It is sifting through it all and selecting the relevant details—that’s what requires supreme focus and time. It requires the kind of methodical precision that years ago inspired the Science of Deduction.

To Watson I must have appeared as I often do: frozen and absent. While all the while I was examining my memories of his very person in the most conscientious manner. Step by step I was able to single out the following data that held the promise of usefulness.

Watson had shown signs of restlessness around the second day of our forced home imprisonment.

He had shown signs of agitation on the third day. The agitation had persisted, changing only in intensity—that was to say increasing. I was able to recall that on the previous night Watson had tried putting his cup in his saucer twice before succeeding. He had also excessively touched the right end of his moustache—a tell-tale sign of his, if there ever was one. The fact that he’d removed his hand each time he realized he was doing it was interesting in and of itself. This was a territory that was highly speculative, but I was cautiously weighing in the possibility that it suggested some heightened self-consciousness. Still, nothing certain could be either concluded or inferred from that.

In hindsight, I realized that Watson had responded with some well concealed excitement when I’d informed him that I was going to leave the house to go to brother Mycroft. (At least well-concealed by his standards.) At the time I had let that slip past me or rather had found it insignificant, because I had been too excited myself at the prospect of doing something that promised at least a modicum of distraction.

Watson had then left the house very shortly after my own departure. He had informed Mrs Hudson that he would be back within two hours, managing to return only after one and a half. That firmly proved he had intended for his absence to fall within the portion of time during which I should have been out.

Finally, there was his appearance when he returned, but before I addressed that, I singled out another highly significant detail. When he’d rushed to me, kneeling down by my side, I had registered the vaguest whiff of a scent. I was able to identify it as a particular kind of opium that shouldn’t have been too difficult to trace. As to his appearance, it was obvious that he had walked some of the way back home if the effects of the cold on his face were any indicators. He had walked extremely briskly, possibly breaking into a run on occasion, judging by his breathing. He had returned home well within the margins of my own expected absence, yet he had still been anxious enough not to take any chances and be seen by me. If anyone knew my powers, it was Watson—if anyone knew he should fear them, it was him again. Why that would be the case was the biggest question, and I allowed myself a moment of undiluted thrill at the prospect of solving a mystery right under my nose.

Watson had looked severely shaken, but while I had no doubt that some of it was on account of his concern about me, there was something that had preceded it. Watson’s hands had to have been exposed to the cold air without gloves for anything between ten to fifteen minutes for the skin to acquire the colour and dryness that it had.

“Watson, have you lost your gloves?” I asked him, making him drop the box of matches he was holding.

“For God’s sake, Holmes, you startled me!”

It wasn’t a first to make Watson drop things or even swear under his breath when I spoke to him after I’d sat by his side for an hour, giving “a most convincing impression of a wax figure,” so I didn’t add his nervousness to my list.

“Your gloves, Watson,” I insisted. “Have you lost them?”

He frowned at me but replied. “No, I haven’t. Why?”

I debated with myself whether to tell him directly that I’d observed him not wearing them upon his return earlier, then to proceed to question as to the reason for that peculiarity. But I chose not to speak. In part it was pure selfishness: I love a mystery and I love my Watson, so why would I pass up such an excellent opportunity to indulge myself? But there was something else too. Honesty with oneself should never be a cause for pride or shame—it is what we all owe to ourselves and our unique ability to think—so I can honestly say without shame that I was influenced not by logic but by sentiment. My instinct told me that my enquiry would not only upset Watson, but bring back the furtiveness in his eyes. I wished to unravel the reasons behind it, not see it again. So I let my eyelids droop again and didn’t reply to his question as was sometimes customary for me. And as is always customary for him, Watson watched me for a few seconds in anticipation, then gave up and resumed his activity of lighting a cigarette.

In turn I resumed the formation of my list. It was safe to conclude that some event had taken place before his return home that had shaken my friend to a point where after he had taken off his gloves, he’d forgotten to put them back on again. That also suggested that he’d had needed the use of his hands.

I then focused on visualizing with the greatest precision the splatter of mud on his coat: density, colour, pattern and location. It informed me of his journey with some considerable accuracy. Like I said, mud is extremely reliable.

The last element I put on the list was perhaps the most ominous one—the package wrapped in brown paper to which Watson’s hand had gone upon his entry in the room, finding it full of people, one of them myself. I was going to examine that most intriguing clue later. My brain was busy putting together a string of images that retraced Watson’s steps.

He had left the house and walked a distance of about three hundred yards. It was impossible to determine in which direction on account of him going around on foot four times in the course of his journey. I would have had to touch his coat and examine it with my magnifier if I wished to establish what patch had been damp last, what spot preceded another, and so on. The importance was not whether he had started his journey by walking north or south—it was in the very fact that he had chosen to walk some of the distance, before continuing in a hansom. He had then travelled to King’s Cross, where he again passed at least four hundred yards on foot, getting to his destination. He spent there not more than fifteen minutes, before returning once again on foot to the main road, taking another hansom back, and getting off at Oxford Street, from where he’d rushed back home.

The only reason for the removal of his gloves that readily presented itself was that he had wanted to go through the contents of the brown paper package while in the hansom. Its dimensions as well as the choice of wrapping suggested that there were papers inside. Evidently, important enough to Watson to keep them dry—he had protected the package from the drizzle by keeping it tucked in under his coat.

As to the place he had visited, it was not hard to deduce it was the kind of establishment that offered gentlemen some recreational activities. The opium smell would have been suggestive enough, but Watson’s focused effort to avoid being tracked down to that place was sufficient to confirm its dubious reputation. The good doctor hadn’t made use of the opium or any of the other substances such a place undoubtedly offered. He hadn’t been there long enough to take advantage of the services such an establishment offered to relieve the flesh, but beyond that, I had other reasons to believe he had abstained. This meant his only purpose of visiting it was to procure the papers he had brought back with him. There must have been some sort of arrangement for them, judging by Watson’s restlessness and agitation. He had possibly feared some exposure—perhaps a delivery to our home, if he failed to collect the papers?

A suspicion that made me both distracted and uneasy had already begun forming in my mind, but I was entering muddy waters; besides, it was wrong to theorize without enough data, no matter how personally important the case was shaping up to be. So I resolved to physically retrace Watson’s steps as soon as I was able to leave the house.

I bid my friend goodnight. He tried to fuss but I waved him off. He told me he would spend the night on the sofa in order to be closer to me if I needed his assistance. Habitually, I refrained from proposing a more immediate and far more desirable method of observation over my person, and disappeared into my room to spend the night plummeting into the sickening chasm that was the sleep of the injured body and the unsettled mind.

***

By the early afternoon on the following day I was brimming over with impatience, zealous to bolt out of the house and investigate the mystery of Watson’s brown paper package. The man at the heart of the mystery was also the one who kept me homebound until the despicable hour of two o’clock in the afternoon. I explained to Watson in no uncertain terms that he was a selfish man, who put his peace of mind over my actual well-being, adding that his continuous mothering managed to achieve the rare feat of actually making me feel more ill. There was a brief exchange leaning to the quarrelsome, then Watson shut himself upstairs in his room, his expression on departure both hurt and exasperated. I assuaged my discomfort by getting myself ready and finally setting off on my mission.

I didn’t particularly wish to waste time in retracing Watson’s steps one by one. It was a grey, wet day, and despite what I had told him, my condition did not quite permit exertion. In all honesty I was likely well enough to leave the house only due to the sense of ebullience at the prospect of lifting a veil to a more intimate side of Watson—the only man I have ever felt inclined to notice of possessing a more intimate side.

But that didn’t mean I was to take leave of my senses. In the morning I had already established communication with an old acquaintance of mine by the name of Terry Jones—a notorious rascal and a useful person. I refer to his encyclopaedic knowledge of any place in the city that catered to the needs of those who the world considered possessing moral turpitude. In some cases quite justly, but then again who am I to judge? I may have never engaged in any unlawful acts of the sort; I may have felt drawn to one single man in my entire life, drawn in the privacy of my own being, no less; but surely the mere existence of the feeling counts as depravity in the eyes of my fellow men. I read the philosophers when I was young. If there is no one to hear my yearning for Watson, does it mean it does not exist? It exists, therefore it is judged, no matter that the judges never point at me directly or that I’ve never spent a day in prison.

I digress again, but in this instance the cause is natural—the topic is too close to home, if I may be allowed the whimsy of a word play.

One of the Irregulars had tracked down the dubious character that was Mr Terry Jones and sent him my message. Thus I was soon sheltered in a hansom conversing with Terry face to face, and making my enquiries. One of the benefits of having years of experience in my line of work is that none of my old acquaintances cares to examine with any scrutiny the questions or requests I may have. I described to Terry the kind of establishment I had in mind, giving him all the data that could help him identify it, then waited while he frowned his conspicuously thin eyebrows and chewed on his shapely bottom lip.

“I think I know the place you’re after, Mr Holmes,” he said slowly in a moment. “But it’s a gentlemen’s place, so you better watch out not to be seen going in there.”

I was torn between pondering the ironies of life captured in Terry’s warning and thanking him for his concern. In the end, I settled on discreetly placing another coin in his hand, while asking for the exact address.

Watson’s decision to walk some of the way to the place had been one of the main clues to help me identify its nature, but as I did exactly as he had done, I found myself gladder for his choice of action. It would devastate me to have to spend years behind bars, but for Watson to bear the shame and the grim consequences of such exposure would destroy me completely. Such was the relief I felt at the thought of his sensible precautions that I ignored another thought: what I would find in the ‘gentlemen’s place’.

Naturally, I found nothing particularly interesting at first in the sense that it was nothing I hadn’t already expected. It took me a while to negotiate my way to someone who could offer me the information I needed. Other offers were placed my way abundantly. I declined, my choice dictated not by virtue but by lack of inclination. Now that I was there, the heavy unease from the night before returned to my chest. The scents and sounds of human baseness—the sights as always hidden from view in such an establishment—the presentation of something that very much appeared like a menu of services and…goods, the lack of personal space perhaps more disturbing than the actual whisper in my ear which had necessitated the closeness—they all gathered to slam into the image of my Watson in that place. It made me shiver inwardly, recoil, but then I called on my trusted ally: my singular focus. Nose on the job at hand, Holmes; the rest is irrelevant.

Fighting all questions and anxiety, I turned to the short, thin man in front of me. I had finally been led to him upon being subjected to a rather unpleasant search. The two search men had frowned at my fresh wound, but I am blessed with a face that for all its peculiarities wouldn’t be out of place at the back of a coin. At places like this, belonging to the upper classes serves as the most powerful credentials. I had no weapons hidden on my person, so eventually I was brought to my new companion and left alone with him. No introduction had taken place, of course. The man just looked at me through his thickly glassed spectacles and politely bowed his head to indicate he was listening. He looked a lot more like a bookkeeper than a debonair man about town. It was obvious I had come to the right individual.

“I am here to make enquiries about the literature one might purchase through your assistance,” I said suavely. “A gentleman in the acquaintance of another gentleman who is a friend of mine recommended you for your discreet service.”

The man blinked quickly. Obviously overdue for his eye exam. “Indeed, sir. We pride ourselves on our discretion.”

I nodded gravely in approval. “And what of the rest?” I asked.

He blinked again, then almost disappeared behind his large desk. We were sitting in a small room packed with heavy furniture, most of it perfect for concealing hidden compartments. So not only had I found the right man, but had been brought to his nest, too. My companion reappeared, handing over to me a sheet of paper. On it, there was a price list for a most varied assortment of printed materials: short stories or novels, illustrated or not, original drawings or copies, photographs, lithographs, sketches, and so on and so forth—it was all there.

I pretended to study the page for much longer than it had actually taken me to peruse its contents, then lifted my eyes, making them shine in subtle excitement.

“Spoilt for choice,” I said, the compliment haughty but nonetheless high in my voice. The man allowed himself the briefest smile. “I believe,” I continued, “I shall place an order for a few items straight away.”

“You won’t be disappointed, sir.”

“What I have in mind are these,” I said, leaning over the desk and pointing at three items on the list. Two were among the most expensive, and one was of average price—I didn’t want to be ostentatious. Besides, any conman worth his trade would confirm that the perfect act depends as much on not overdoing it as it does on appealing to the other person’s particular greed. “If they turn out to be good, this could become a regular arrangement,” I finished.

I knew I had struck the right balance in my performance when I observed from close proximity the pulse point on the man’s neck come alive.

“Very good, sir.”

I leaned back in my chair, contentment playing over my features. I tilted my chin, then lifted my hand to brush an invisible spec from my shoulder, allowing the gesture to convey the impression that I naturally belonged in opulent surroundings. The peek at my most expensive cufflinks—a gift from a European person of the highest rank—did not go amiss, either.

“What arrangements do we need to make?” I asked.

“We expect a small deposit of ten percent of the order, sir. Your chosen items will be delivered here the day after tomorrow. We expect you to collect them in five days. If you fail to do so, we would be forced to return them to their point of origin.” The man leaned forward. His entwined fingers tensed up—he’d clearly reached a point where there was a danger of an impasse. “I hope you understand our position, sir. We really try to avoid keeping items here for too long.”

I was too busy fitting the new pieces of data in the rest of the picture to respond immediately. It must have played to my advantage. My face tends to be quite blank when my brain is occupied, or so I’ve been informed. It would have been a suitable expression under the circumstances.

At that point there was only one piece of the puzzle that was missing—the most important one. I prepared myself for the final act.

“I understand,” I said at last, nodding seriously. “And I accept your conditions. Let us arrange the payment of the deposit.”

I had anticipated this particular detail so I was prepared. Money exchanged hands. I got up to leave. I confess that the actor in me delighted at being given the opportunity to play a part which required such subtlety and precision of timing. I was at the door, my expression awkward and far-off in equal halves, when I stopped and hesitated for a long moment. My companion’s eyes were on me. I bowed my head, pressed the door handle, distraction even stronger over my features. I pushed the handle all the way down and kept it there under pressure for a few seconds, then released it and turned on my spot. My eyes found those of the other. I gave him an uncertain smile.

“Can we help you with anything else, sir?” he asked on cue.

“As a matter of fact—It’s a point of great discretion, you understand. I am not sure whether…”

“I can assure you that we have catered for extremely distinguished clientele for years, sir. So far the identity of none of our clients has been compromised even in the slightest. And if it is a matter of a more unusual taste…” It was his turn to leave his sentence suggestively unfinished.

“Perhaps I can trust you,” I said slowly, scanning him scrupulously. I was pleased to see him straighten up on instinct. “After all,” I added, “no names need be mentioned.”

He bowed a little. “That will be for the best, sir.”

I nodded firmly to myself, signifying my coming to a decision. “Very well,” I said. “I have an acquaintance whose friendship I very much desire to win, but there seems to be another party trying to make the same claim. Yesterday, a gift purchased here was offered to the person whom I hold dear. I would not ask you to expose the identity of the man who made that purchase, nor would I enquire of any other arrangements he may or may not have with you. I merely wish to know what the gift contained.”

I could see by his expression that I was making progress, but that more work was needed. Fortunately, I was nowhere near done.

“One wants to have some small advantage,” I continued in a low tone, “when one is in competition for the friendship of a distinguished person. I would be most happy to order a similar item like the one purchased yesterday. Or indeed, one of the same variety but of better quality and higher value. You won’t find me ungrateful,” I finished with a pointed gaze.

The bookkeeper shuffled. “This is most unusual, sir,” he said quietly.

“Unusual but not unreasonable. I am merely trying to procure some information about an item purchased here. Surely this qualifies as a detailed enquiry into your catalogue?”

My hand had already gone to the place where my companion had seen my wallet disappear.

“Well,” he said, eyes jumping back to my face. “When you put it like that. Just the item, no other details?”

“None.”

“Very well.” He returned to his desk but stopped abruptly, not before giving away where he kept the key. He looked up at me with eyes that appeared much smaller and colder. It gave him a bit more personality at last.

“If I may ask you to wait outside, sir,” he said. “I shall be with you in just a moment.”

“Of course,” I replied agreeably, turned on my feet and left the room.

Less than thirty seconds later the man opened the door. He had a small folded piece of paper in his hand. I had prepared a small piece of paper in my own—we exchanged them without a word, then nodded at each other, and he closed the door.

I turned on my feet and suddenly, I was overcome with dizziness. I had felt my wound bleed when I had stood up to leave, but beyond that, the mere odours of the place seemed too oppressing to bear. The paper burned through my glove. I stared at it through the thin pale fog that filled my vision, then quickly drew a breath in and unfolded it. My eyes ran over the words again and again, in a helpless attempt to shake my mind from its complete stupor.

The Clandestine Adventures of Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson, the small, square letters said.

***

I have no recollection of my journey back home. I was entirely absorbed in the fruitless, haphazard examination of the new evidence. In my entire life, never had I felt myself having so much in common with a fly trapped in a room with large windows.

I was at a loss how to interpret Watson’s choice of literature. I wasn’t more successful in my attempts to wrap my head around the fact that such literature existed in the first place. Then there was the suggestion that this item, although not featuring on the main price list, had been in some circulation. Men around the country read stories about myself and Watson engaging in erotic acts. Maybe we had already been in the house of a man who had read such a story! The odds were extremely small, but their very existence threatened to bring my mind to a halt again.

Then another thought occurred to me, and one with which I had no idea what to do. Maybe women read these stories too. Maybe women wrote them!

Who was to say the authors of the texts were men? What if there were illustrations? How anatomically accurate were they? Were our appearances embellished? Well, mine—no doodle could do Watson’s discreet, manly beauty real justice. How detailed were these drawings? Did they depict us in scenes that were subtle or obvious? And what of the texts? Were they realistic in how such relations may develop between two fellows? Or were they grotesquely titillating and completely untruthful?

I would have ordered a copy or studied the one in our house, then deduced all the answers to my questions. I would have started on them straight away, had my mind not returned perpetually to the same matter that aimed and fired at all my attempts to reason, blowing my thoughts up in disarray like the feathers of a shot bird.

What did Watson want with a collection of erotic stories about the two of us?

Was he curious? It stood as a sensible enough reason. After all, it was his original stories that had sparked the imagination of a selected public, both authors and readers. Was vanity at the heart of his actions? Watson seeing this as a tribute to his skills as an author? To copy someone was to pay them the greatest compliment—even when in this case the copy stripped us of our clothes and real worth. This explanation held well under scrutiny, too, because I doubted the actual content would have prevented Watson reading the stories as indirect praise to his writing. I knew my friend—he had a tolerant nature and an open mind, and he wouldn’t have found it in his heart to scorn others for their…transgression. I could imagine Watson being uncomfortable by the imagery of two men in sexual congress but not appalled or morally offended like the rest of humanity.

Of course, there was the possibility that his own inclinations were in synchrony with his choice of literature.

I had long concluded that in his past Watson used to love women often and well. It had been a matter of some pondering on my part why this had ceased after he’d started living with me. Once or twice only in the course of several years I’d suspected that my friend had indulged his flesh in that particular manner. I had looked into some medical research and found that this was next to nothing for the average healthy male in his prime. Watson was additionally a man who attracted the attention of the fair sex. He attracted the attention of our sex as well, on permanent basis in his own home, and occasionally outside of it. I concealed myself well but others did not, yet their interest was met with the same complete oblivion on his part.

There was no conclusive evidence to suggest why Watson should cease to be interested in such activities. I had caught his eye appreciating a woman’s bosom. I also remembered the alarming flush that rose to his face when we finally managed to open Lady Havisham’s locked drawer and discovered a photograph of a young woman in a complete state of undress, holding a piece of fruit in a most suggestive manner. If it hadn’t been for my swift intervention, Watson might have lost a finger in his clumsy effort to slam the drawer shut.

So he was still stirred, but why he had ceased to practice eluded me. This would have bothered me, and I would have dug around it like a dog unearthing a bone, if I hadn’t been so extremely glad for it. I had resigned that I would never have the fellow for myself, but the thought of someone else having him was loathsome.

His ordering “The Clandestine Adventures of Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson” suddenly opened a brand new possibility. Perhaps Watson was interested in his own sex as well and over time this had prevailed, until it had started dominating his preferences. I knew little of how this sort of thing worked. I had never been interested in either sex, or in sex itself—my Watson being a unique white swallow in this as in everything else.

But how had he managed to hide something like that for three years? Well, it wasn’t impossible. It went to show that when one was sufficiently motivated, one could do wonders. After all, if it were true, Watson’s was arguably the greatest disgrace for a man. A big portion of society found an invert as deformed and worthy of damnation as a murderer. But while the collective head offered reasonable explanations for the latter, such as greed, resentment, or a feeling of betrayal, the actions of an invert would be at the utmost best justified by the reasoning that he was a poor freak of nature. Why would anyone wish to reveal himself as loving his fellow man a little too literally?

It disturbed me that Watson should think me capable of such harsh judgement. It showed how little he knew me after all, for there couldn’t be any judgement on my part. Firstly, there might have been a crime in the eyes of the law, but there was no criminal mind, therefore I was not interested. Then, resulting in the same but stemming from a different root, what consenting individuals did in their own time was the sort of thing about which I could not care less.

In retrospect, I must own up to a sad possibility. Very likely the state in which I arrived at Baker Street was due to the fact that in all my frenzied reflections, the biggest portion of my energy had gone into the suppression of my hopes that the simplest explanation was the real one: Watson had bought these stories, because he’d wanted to read them for his own pleasure. The implications of that were too complex for me to address them wholesomely, and hardly while doing my best not to lose consciousness for the second time in two days.

***

He must have waited for my return by the window, because I had just managed to drag myself down from the carriage when he flew out of our front door, his arms around me in an instant. We made our way up to our living room with Mrs Hudson’s anxious noises following us. Watson said a few sentences only, two of them of the ‘For God’s sake, Holmes’ variety and one asking Mrs Hudson to bring up the hot water immediately.

Upstairs the fire was roaring in the fireplace—a bright orange spot in my dimming vision as Watson’s arms prevented me from collapsing on the sofa face down. He lowered me into a sitting position and I leaned my head on the backrest, closing my eyes. For several long moments I was barely conscious of some things: Mrs Hudson’s hushed voice, the curtains being drawn, the sound of a closing door, the rim of a glass being pressed to my lips, the burn of liquor down my throat. My heart sped up, making me feel nauseated, when hands began removing my clothing. I knew it was Watson, and his gestures were as always remarkably gentle for his sturdy, strong form, but I still felt the scrape of each peeled off layer. When he made to take off my shirt, my eyes snapped open.

His face was hovering close to mine, worry and focus the only two emotions written on it. Countless times I have envied Watson’s keen, uncomplicated way of experiencing things, and so I did then. I also found that I longed to touch him worse than I had since the first months of our acquaintance. He met my eyes and some small relief softened his.

“Holmes,” he said questioningly.

“Let me help you,” I responded, my voice close to a hum.

We both took off my ruined shirt, and I am still unsure whose wince was worse—mine at the pain or his at the sight of me. His lips tightened and I knew he was restraining himself from scolding me. I doubted I would be saved the lecture when I was well enough, though.

In the next half hour Watson removed the soaked old bandage, cleaned the wound and the area, examined my stitches and decided new ones weren’t necessary, before finally putting in place a new bandage that wrapped around my whole torso. He made a few remarks under his breath, more to himself than to me, where bitter comments on my obstinacy and carelessness mixed with self-reproach. His voice soothed me. The brandy helped too, just as the proximity of the fire did. I felt myself relax even more with the awareness of our living space around us, offering the familiarity of a shell that had never failed to hide me. I ventured to open my eyes again and saw Watson washing his hands with his back to me. His white shirt’s creases held me captive as they danced with the movements of his body. His head was bowed so I could only see his hairline at the back, mostly my secret favourite—the drooping, pointed wisp of hair right in the middle.

He straightened and turned around, his eyes immediately resting on me.

“How are you feeling?” he asked, wiping his hands thoroughly.

“I’m fine,” I said in a moment. He just bit his upper lip and shook his head, then came closer. He crouched in front of me and examined my face, fingers lifting my chin a bit.

My mind was blissfully void of any thought. My eyes roamed his face, savoured the sight of slight dampness that had curled the hair at his forehead, then I let my gaze travel down his throat to where his shirtsleeve’s top button was open. The patch of exposed skin was glowing and flushed. My jaw hurt with the spasm from the abrupt gathering of saliva in my mouth.

Watson’s Adam’s apple bobbed and my eyes shot to his. I couldn’t read him; I only knew I had been caught staring at him in a rather unequivocal manner. His fingers had dropped from my chin and now the spot burned, hot and cold. He didn’t move, and neither did I—we just looked at each other for a few long moments. Finally he shifted, about to get up.

“Watson,” I said with urgency, my action entirely unplanned. He froze in his spot, a little line appearing between his eyebrows as he peered at my face again.

“What is it?” he asked. “Is it weakness?”

Well, it had certainly crossed my mind that it was just that, but in general I accepted it as something that was a part of me, like my hands were, or my nose. The good fellow wasn’t enquiring how I felt about him, however, so I lied.

“Yes.”

He kept looking at me with a frown of concern. He was right there, crouching at my feet, his shirt still open, his face still close, his moustache still perfectly shaped, and his very existence, the effect he had on me still flummoxing. I was at a loss what to do. I wished to suspend this moment indefinitely, until I understood it; until I understood myself.

Watson’s hand went to my chin again and he brought his face closer. I swallowed and my thighs began to tingle, the feeling exciting beyond comparison. His eyes flicked between the two of mine with the kind of sentiment that suggested the imminent perusal of his doctor’s bag or at the very least some steps towards the provision of nourishment.

I surged forward and pressed my closed lips to his unconsciously parted ones, then instantly retreated.

He stared at me with a stunned expression. “Wha-?” he managed at last, voice lost of all properties of sound.

“I went to King’s Cross,” I offered as a manner of explanation. My mind has the useful habit of cutting to the chase when the circumstances demand it.

I could see the words sink in, then Watson’s face opening wide, his features unfolding like the blossom of an orchid to speak of panic, confusion, more panic, and some sharp, beautiful search of my own face.

He dropped on his knees and sat on his haunches, hands in his lap. He then bowed his head and shook it. “Naturally you did,” he said.

I watched the shining golden blond in the brown of his hair.

“Was I right?” I asked in a beat, my voice joining my thighs in their tingling.

He looked up, bewildered. “You mean, to go there?”

“Of course not,” I answered with small irritation. I would die for the man and probably die without him, but he really is slow sometimes. “Was I right?”

The blue of his eyes intensified as they flashed. “Of course you were,” he said.

I swallowed again. “It pains me to admit it, my dear fellow, but your assumption that I would naturally be right is not justified in this case.” I paused. “I never suspected you were inclined that way.”

He was shaking his head before the final words had left my lips. “You were right to suspect nothing. I’m not.”

“Then…how?” I asked, genuinely puzzled.

He snorted softly, shaking his head again. “It’s only you, Holmes. I have never—It used to be women, never men. Then I met you, and there was no one else.”

A part of me wished to question him until the break of dawn. I wanted to know how exactly such extraordinary thing had occurred, when he had known; I wanted to know why. Although with the latter, I suspected that while more capable of putting into rational thought his regard for me, Watson would fail more spectacularly to explain the causality of his feelings. I also suspected that my expectation of him to do so would have resulted in bringing that specific look on Watson’s face indicating he wished to whack me over the head with something light and blunt.

“Lock the door,” I told him instead, then watched in hungry anticipation the tendons on his neck and the hardening of his arms as he pushed himself up to do as I asked.

He returned at my feet shortly, dropping on his knees again but not leaning back. I opened my thighs on instinct—it seemed his body would fit between them quite naturally, and it did. His face had turned close to crimson, the sight and his renewed, improved nearness pushing me forward. I was eager to kiss him again, determined to feel his mouth this time—my whole body had been quite numb during the first perfunctory touch of lips. But Watson pulled away and looked at me seriously. His hands came to rest on my legs, careful.

“You’re not well, Holmes,” he said.

I rolled my eyes.

“I’m perfectly fine.”

“No, you’re not. Even the smallest—”

My hand darted to his neck to hold his head in place, while I pressed my lips to his again.

My touch was clumsy and soft, but it made his mouth open immediately, lips moving in slow kissing contractions against mine, caressing them and gently increasing the pressure at each turn. Soon his tongue peeked out and licked at my bottom lip, then retreated, came out again, but I was ready and met him with my own. The long brush of our tongues produced such jolt of delight that my legs tightened their grip on Watson’s form and I gasped in his mouth. His hand buried in the hair at the back of my neck and his kiss deepened, became wetter and fleshier, as his own breathing grew louder.

We kissed for a while and I can only describe myself as swimming in a river of bliss, but soon I surged forward—to the sea, my poetic doctor would say. What I say is that I just needed more points of contact with him. My arms pulled him into an embrace and my upper body bumped against his, the impact making me hiss in pain. Watson detached himself from me before I could curse my involuntary reactions.

“No, Holmes,” he said. Stupid man, thinking that he could say anything with his mouth glistening like that, and have me pay attention to his words. I sneaked an arm around his waist, trying to pull him closer. Unfortunately I chose the arm on the side of my wound. His stubborn body created unexpected resistance, resulting in more pain in mine. I managed not to hiss this time, but Watson’s face grew grave nonetheless.

“Holmes, stop that,” he admonished. He does have a way of being very mulish when he believes himself to be in the right; twice so when his conviction is about what’s right for me.

We were both still close, breathing heavily. My eyes lingered on his lips, then travelled down his torso until they stopped at the front of his trousers. I reached out and gently brushed the backs of my fingers there. It was a tantalizing touch: the hint of shape there, the promise of hardness, the sound that Watson made—like a burning log that was finally splitting into two.

“Let me,” I said to him, my voice low and deep without any nefarious intentions on my part. “I’ll be careful.”

He placed his hand over mine, taking it away but not letting go of it.

“No,” he said. “Let me.” He shifted closer again. “The only way I’ll do anything tonight, Holmes, is if you lean back and do not exert yourself. Just let me—” He seemed to stumble, eyes suddenly hooded. “I don’t quite know what I should be doing, but…But I’m sure I’ll manage just fine,” he finished, my staunch soldier.

I wanted to tell him that his plan was flawed, that I’d managed to climax only once in my life, despite trying to do so a few times in my youth. I had needed to have at least a basic reference point for an experience that seemed to play a significant part in human behaviour. So having read up on how to do it properly, I had taken my slicked hand to myself, but my actions had resulted in a release just once, and after a very prolonged stimulation. The sensations were pleasant but mostly amounting to the kind of relief one experienced after one’s foot was released from a cramp. I had not been impressed and had not repeated the experiment, even when many years later Watson’s proximity had managed to produce a rather noticeable effect on my body without as much as a touch.

How was I to explain to him the above in a sentence or two? I did not wish to converse at length about anything, most of all about subjects that were related to sentiment and all its obscure implications. I was physically weak, emotionally wrung out—a condition supremely rare and therefore demanding in and of itself—and I simply wanted Watson as near as possible. So I just leaned back silently and left myself in his hands.

He blinked at me, startled by my obedience. His tongue darted out and wet his upper lip, the tip calling me under the shadow of his moustache. His gaze moved quickly over my chest in the loosely fitted shirt, and it occurred to me that this turn of events would have benefited greatly from my previous stage of undress. Watson met my gaze and I could swear he was thinking the same thing, for there was a twinkle in his eyes seemingly reflecting the one in mine. But then he looked down once more, this time directly at the front of my trousers. I saw his nostrils widen again. He lifted his hand and placed it over my genitals, then lightly groped them.

It was the most pleasurable touch I had experienced by that point of my life. I must have uttered some sound to that effect, because his eyes shot to my face, and he repeated his action again, then again. My head tilted back and my eyelids falling shut, all sensations abruptly magnified and concentrated between my legs. I felt my member fill up with remarkable speed, nothing like it had under my own touch. The harder I grew, the firmer Watson’s touch became as he cradled me and rubbed me through my trousers. I could hear his exhales, harsh and damp, and I knew he was breathing through his mouth. I peered at him beneath my heavy lids and saw his own drooping just like his mouth had slackened. Our eyes met and he let out a silent choked sound, then made quick work of opening my trousers.

My member sprang free, engorged and flushed like nothing before. The tip of it shone; Watson gathered the moisture with his fingers and wrapped them around me, squeezed firmly, and tugged.

Let me say it was a good thing I hadn’t told him about my previous experience—suddenly I knew this was not going to be half as long as I had feared.

I didn’t see much anymore. All my focus, all my being poured into that point of burning, wonderful friction. No shot of any substance came close to the rush I was experiencing. It was as if the tips of hundreds of fingers were running over the soles of my feet, their touch electric, spreading and setting on fire muscle and sinew alike, the sensations overwhelming and yet insufficient. The build up, swift and palpable, made me tense up, then strain, until a powerful eruption united the frantic chaos into order, bringing enormous pleasure and sweeping any crying need away.

I shook and moaned quietly, and felt Watson’s breath somewhere near my open mouth. His fingers remained clasped around me for some time after the last shockwave, then he gently let go of me and disappeared. I didn’t have the energy to crack my eyes open, nor did I feel the need to—I knew he would return. He did, and a warm, wet cloth was moving with extreme care over my lower abdomen.

At that I finally looked down my nose to discover him wiping the traces of my release with a dazed expression. I caught his wrist and he looked up. I uplifted myself with some effort.

“Watson,” I said, or rather tried to. I cleared my throat. “Watson.”

He just stared at me, the living embodiment of a besotted man. I made a mental note to flog myself for my unforgivable blindness, then kissed him. He responded with fervour that betrayed he was on the brink of forgetting I was injured. It spoke about his need louder than any words or actions. I pulled away, leaving a few inches between us.

“Watson,” I murmured. “That was quite remarkable. I’m completely incapable of replicating it. I want you to do it to yourself, while I observe.”

He swore under his breath and fumbled with his trousers, not widening the distance between us. In a moment, I felt the ripples from the rhythmic movement of his hand. I was fascinated to feel it but not see it; mesmerised by the way his lips trembled and formed circles, by his unfocused eyes not leaving mine. He sped up and groaned, spat quickly in his hand, then went on, and I still did not look down, still stayed close, our noses not three inches away from brushing. His fingers were slapping against my inner thigh with exquisite randomness, but it was not enough. I finally shifted closer, and now felt every frantic stroke.

I had to look, so I did. My breath caught with the added force of sight, as I watched the round tunnel of his fingers with the peeking and retreating crown of his member.

“Oh, Watson,” I whispered, and he gasped, then started climaxing, a number of breathless ‘oh’ and ‘ah’ rolling from his beautiful mouth straight down to the pit of my stomach.

He swayed forward at last. I offered my safe shoulder for his forehead to bump against. I cradled his head for a moment, playing with the strands of his hair and vaguely registering their texture and length. I don’t know how long we stayed like that, but eventually he resumed control over his faculties, pulled away and looked me in the eye. There was unprecedented contentment on his features, yet there was also some faint familiarity. I was sure I had seen a distant version of this face on some mornings. It prompted a rather satisfying train of thought.

Watson cleaned himself up with far less care than he had shown me, then for a minute moved around the room doing goodness knew what—he often insists on straightening this or that up. Neither of us said anything; the silence was the comfortable kind we were both accustomed to, now only strengthened by our mutual reason for temporary muteness. I felt that we both needed it, too, if the slight light-headedness I was experiencing was anything to go by.

When he was done, Watson returned by my side.

“Do you need anything, Holmes?” he asked softly.

I thought about it for a moment. “I suppose tobacco is still out of the question,” I said, turning up my rounded eyes to him in small hope.

“You suppose right,” he replied, completely unaffected.

I sighed. “Fine. Perhaps some dinner, and then some more of that brandy.” Watson did an appallingly poor job at restraining his beaming grin. He made to move but I stopped him, my fingers marvelling at the liberty to hold his.

“I wonder if I could ask you to do something for me first, Watson.”

“Anything, my dear fellow.”

“Could you fetch “The Clandestine Adventures of Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson” for me?” I asked, then added musingly, “I’m rather curious how wrong the authors managed to get it.”

***

Let me draw this account to an end by adding one final new observation I have had the chance to make over the person of my dear companion. I suppose it was to be expected that in reading he will be just the same as he is in writing. There is a distinctive tendency to favour form over accuracy, not to mention to exaggerate the romantic side of things. Since last night we have read two stories from that questionable piece of literature, and while I was busy pointing out the numerous inconsistencies in them, Watson was equally busy ignoring me. I believe he is enjoying these pieces of fiction greatly, and I fear the day when he puts his pen to paper to author one of them himself is not far.

Then again, I would rather he occupied himself with gathering plenty of material for those kind of stories. Perhaps then he would leave my cases alone and finally let them be confined in the appropriate forms of monographs and studies.