Fic for ghislainem70: Kiss of the Vampire
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acdholmesfestTitle: The Kiss of the Vampire
Recipient:ghislainem70
Author:elwinglyre
Rating: R (only a gay kiss!)
Characters: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, Lestrade (mentioned), OCs
Warnings: none
Summary: When Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson investigate the shocking death of a wealthy man, Archibald Ashworth, vampires are suspect. Other family members have fallen under the fiendish spell, and Holmes must race the cause. But there are other secrets— one so deep that it threatens to entangle the great detective. What is the secret? Are the vampires real? How will Watson help his friend? All will be revealed by the great Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson. ACD after the fall.
Disclaimer: I’ve taken some liberties and nods to the great ACD in this piece— in particular from “The Adventure of the Sussex Vampire.”
Over the years of cases presented for solution to my good friend Mr. Sherlock Holmes, there have been investigations where private consequences precluded them from publication and instead consigned them to be kept only in this private notebook. There were other lackluster cases deficient in detail, drama, or too blatantly simplistic for Mr. Holmes to divert his increasingly desired resources. Since I had not his keen eye or acute reason to perceive concealed complexities, it was not unusual for someone such as myself to misidentify a case presented as too transparent for the attentions of my good and intimate friend. These reasons applied to the very case that came to our attention on a brisk October 30 evening when a slight gentleman came knocking at Baker Street.
The man seemed unremarkable to my eye. With his cap in hand, he was dressed quietly in a suit of drab grey tweed and a black scarf wound tightly about the neck. His features were average; no exaggeration of the nose or cheekbones marked a contrast to his attire or to his bland, deathly-pale complexion. The man was bent and hobbled. He introduced himself in an unobtrusive manner as Thaddeus Silas Ashworth, a civil building engineer who resided in the neighborhood of Portman Square. He was agitated and shuffled from one foot to the other like a child in a game of scotch-hop, clutching his cap so tightly that the bones in his fingers popped in distress. While his evident anxiety prodded my curiosity, it was the content of his plea for my friend’s assistance that dampened it.
His father, Archibald Ashworth, had passed on recently, and at present his younger brother, Simon, was seriously unwell with the same malady. He and his brother’s new wife had also recently become afflicted. The poor man’s agitation escalated as he told us the details, gesticulating frantically about as if half mad, occasionally clasping his neck as he expounded on the dire situation. Of course, as a physician, I saw this as something to be diagnosed in my consulting-room, not deduced by the great Sherlock Holmes and hardly a case for his remarkable mind. I was about to state such when I noted that my companion and intellectual superior had drawn from his observations and the brief description given us a far different conclusion than I. Thus I was equally surprised that it was not Ashworth’s story, but his appearance that prompted my companion to ask the man his age, at which he told us he was but 25 years old. I gasped, for the man looked to be at least 50 if he was a day. My friend, however, was not taken aback and pressed ahead.
“Could you please remove your scarf?”
I stood perplexed as our guest hesitated to do so, yet he did as Holmes instructed, slowly unwinding said scarf from his neck. I looked on at Holmes aghast as four puncture wounds upon his neck were revealed. My friend stepped closer to our guest to inspect them.
“Your father had such wounds, as do other family members?”
“Yes.”
With that reply, my companion arched his eyebrow at me, for we had not long before delved into the adventure of the supposed Sussex Vampire. That case had naught to do with vampires, but instead to do with attempted fratricide by a 15-year-old half brother, who with poison darts inflicted his jealous rage upon his younger sibling. The mother was discovered sucking the poison from the afflicted child and assumed to be the cause of her child’s affliction, when in fact, she was his savior. As for this man who stood before us, we knew little of his family’s affliction.
“What caused these marks upon your neck, and why were you reluctant to reveal them to us?” I asked.
“I think that should be obvious,” said Ashworth. “For who would believe such as cause?”
“Indeed!” I said.
“Indeed not,” Holmes said. I was shocked beyond all words at my friend, a man who had not long before this very instant called vampirism rubbish and pure lunacy. He sat in his armchair with his fingertips together as he often did in discriminating circumstances. Holmes noted my surprise immediately. “Dear Watson, do not mistake my words for belief in such nonsense, for there are no creatures of the night that suck blood from the living. Our feet stand on solid ground and on conclusions drawn from evidence, not on fantastical legends. To draw forthright a conclusion, we must hear this good man’s account.”
“Take a seat nearer the fire and tell us of how you came to our stairs,” Holmes continued, “and relate all details and symptoms of the said affliction, and how these marks were first found upon your necks. Leave nothing unsaid.”
At my companion’s suggestion, Ashworth stood and took the seat farthest from the fire’s embers. The red light gave an unnatural warmth to half of face, contrasting the cold and lifeless half. He let his long legs sprawl out in front of him, then leaned forward bent into himself and rubbed his temples as if in pain. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. I knew relating this story was hard for the poor gentleman. Suddenly he opened his eyes, exhaled and began.
“I told you a bit about my father’s death. It was sudden— within two weeks time his health completely failed him. Until he became bound to his bed, our father was a man who imparted fitness. He cycled daily and would spar often at the gentlemen’s club. His deterioration was rapid and frightful to witness. The first week that the symptoms expressed themselves, he became restless and had a distinct drop in appetite. For a man who practiced the maxim ‘early to bed and early to rise,’ he paced his room and study at all hours. It was on that Saturday of the first week of his ailment that I first spied the marks. He tried to hide them when I asked, but then relented. There were two pairs of puncture wounds upon his neck at that time, one distinctly new and not scabbed. I again asked him how these marks came to be, and he said he could not say, not because he did not wish to tell me, but because he did not know how they came upon his neck. It was two days after I confronted him that his behavior grew even queerer. He turned the house dark by day, covering windows with heavy tarps and mirrors with sheets. He swore that something came to him as he slept, yet he did not recall who or why. ”
“And that, it seems, is the same for me. For sometimes when I fall asleep or drowse, I wake with these marks upon my neck and with it my life and energy sapped from me. It feels as if someone or thing comes to me although I can not recall or say who or why. Every move I make taxes my senses. The same has happened with my brother and his new wife. I was a young, vital man, but now old and crippled.”
I had already noted that the man himself was unmarried. I wondered if it was for reasons like my good friend Holmes— out of choice—or for some other reason.
Holmes simply nodded and deduced, “This happens day or night. It matters little what time or place, only that each time you are asleep or unconscious. There is no pattern, thus you go to great lengths to remain awake as did your father before you, be it by pacing rooms or consuming stimulants since to sleep or doze results in this,” he said, pointing to Ashworth’s neck. “Also, you neglected to mention your sensitivity to light—your father covered the windows. You have come at night and have not looked at me, for I sit near the fire. You shy from the lights in the room.”
“I do not believe in vampires, but what else could this be? My life has been sucked from me! I feel as if in a trance, day or night.”
“Remaining awake for unnaturally long periods of time could cause mental confusion,” Holmes explained. “Vampires! No, that is not the cause. This is not some malignant spirit come to take your life blood.” My friend turned to me, then said, “I think Mr. Ashworth and his family need our direct assistance, Watson.”
I nodded, then Holmes turned to our guest. “What say we visit your home tomorrow and observe; then I shall have an answer.” Then, as Ashworth stood, Holmes added. “Your father kept a diary. I know that often these are personal, but this could give us insight as well.”
Ashworth was taken aback. “Thank you, Mr. Holmes,” he said. It was the most energy he’d expended since he first came into the room. “The journals. Yes, you are right that they may reveal much about my father and our predicament. Thank you, for I fear not only for myself but also my brother and his wife. We have no other relations. Our family, you see, is the last of the line of the Ashworths.”
“We shall do all we possibly can to solve this ill that’s befallen your family,” I said.
“Look for Dr. Watson and myself to call on you tomorrow evening,” my companion said. With that, our new client took his leave.
At precisely seven o’clock the next evening, we sat with Ashworth in his smoking room.
“I have here my father’s diary as you requested. He kept many, but strangely I can find only this last, single journal. They have disappeared! It is another mystery.” He handed the diary to Holmes who opened and carefully turned its pages. “I am afraid that there are few entries. You can see that after his illness, he has but two.”
We waited for Mr. Holmes to read through the diary. When done, he handed it to me, and I opened it and began to skim through the journal.
“Often it is not what’s written, but what is not written that is most telling.”
“That is an odd thing to say,” said Ashworth.
“No so odd. Watson, do you note anything amiss?”
I looked at my dear friend who anticipated an astute answer from me. I was baffled as to what he saw and I did not. Other than the obvious last entry which was a will of sorts, I did not notice anything amiss, then it struck me as I perused it again. “You read this yourself before you handed it to us?” I asked Ashworth. Holmes smiled and clasped his hands together. I always felt a certain warmth and pleasure when Mr. Holmes approved of my assessments. I never thought to be the great man that he is, but to have his admiration was a humbling sensation.
“Yes, I did.”
“The last entry. It is written by a different hand, Mr. Ashworth.”
“Thaddeus, please call me Thaddeus. But it looks to be the same to me as my father’s hand! I had not noticed any difference!”
“Ahh, do not chastise yourself for not knowing, as Holmes and I have had many an instance to compare, and although I am not schooled in the science of graphology, Mr. Holmes has been my most gracious instructor. To note the difference takes a bit of training, but see here: the F and S as well as the loops in the Ls immediately tell us that this is written in a different hand.”
“Very good, Watson! You are correct. There are other subtle characteristics, but what you need to know, Thaddeus, is this: your vampire is no vampire. This is proof. The one who wrote this was not your father. No, the one responsible for your failing health and his death wrote this. The original entry was neatly cut from this journal. One can see. There,” he pointed, “hardly noticeable, but a page has been removed. Let us read what was forged again, for that may shed light as to what was removed. Watson?”
“I will read aloud the page, but there is very little there. It seems to read as a last will.” I left unsaid that such documents often point to those who have most to gain. And that it should be his sons, was no surprise:
With my last breath, I give to those I am soon to leave behind in this world my love and property. I leave to my two faithful sons, who are so like me, all that I own in equal portion along with all that is good and kind in this world: my heart, my home, and my worldly possessions. Leave what is yours to the family.
Holmes then turned to our host and thanked him for sharing his father’s personal journal, and as he did so, I observed how my friend studied Ashworth’s response. After all this time, I still find that it is an honor to spend these hours with Holmes. All those painful years thinking him dead makes me cherish our time together with my every breath. I felt as close to him as I ever had, but I see him as more a man, not just some monument of knowledge. Yes, I still love to see his mind at work; it is a wonder to behold! Yet, I cherish these times together, solving mysteries, shoulder to shoulder against the world and life’s circumstances. I could never look away from him. He amazes me still with his keen deductions. My heart raced again to watch him unravel that which no other could unravel. His focus supreme and intense, without a doubt in my mind I knew Holmes saw something, some bit of scandal or slight or fear that Ashworth hid from us and the world. Holmes saw and would withhold it until the perfect instant to reveal his hand.
“I think we should meet your brother and his new wife,” Holmes said. “I should also like to speak to some of your help.”
“Most of the help left us after my father died. The superstitious lot feared that a vampire was in their midst and left us.”
“The help left. They were unaccosted?”
“Only two stayed with us: Our butler, Bellows, has also been afflicted, and Miss Percell, who has not been afflicted, although she does not reside here. Both have been loyal, their families have been in our employment for generations.”
“This is a large house for two servants to run,” I observed.
“My brother’s wife, Emily, has taken on much. It has been hardest on Emily. Although my father was not hers, he treated her as such and they were close. She tended to him when he was ill. Thank God, she has not been as seriously afflicted with this malady, though it is a curse for her. Without our usual help, she has had to tend to us more than she should. This way; they are waiting for us in the front parlor. They are both anxious to talk to you.”
The good man lead us to the front room, a showy space filled with the typical family heirlooms and family portraits. He introduced us to his brother and his brother’s wife, and Holmes asked them not to get up for it was apparent that they were as ill as Thaddeus Ashworth. In fact, his brother Simon was in obvious distress, nervously twisting his simple gold wedding band; his wife was pallid and weak, but continued to tend the brothers as best she could. She offered us tea, which Holmes waved away.
“It has been a hardship,” she answered Holmes after he asked about the loss of their servants. “We are so fortunate that our butler Bellows and housekeeper Miss Percell remained. They have been a godsend, to be certain.”
Holmes moved about the room, observing the family photographs on tables about the room. He stopped in front of a table that displayed wedding photographs.
“How long have you and Mr. Ashworth been married?”
“Three blissful years. Our anniversary was just last week.”
“No regrets, Mrs. Ashworth?”
“None whatsoever, Mr. Holmes. We’ve no crisis here. Simon is a most generous, thoughtful and attentive husband. Why, look at the brooch he gave me for our anniversary!” Indeed, it was a marvel: a precious oval gold pin with a large amethyst sparkling at its center. “He takes me on lovely holidays. We went to Paris last spring.”
Holmes and I listened on at length, then at last Holmes interrupted and asked to speak to Bellows and Miss Percell.
The maid was an attractive young woman. She has a sparkling smile, with a bit of mischief beneath, and her teeth were perfect and white as a babe’s. Her thick, curly brown hair was pulled back, and she dressed neatly in the simple maid’s attire. Her shoes were worn and her nails a bit more manicured than a usual maid. She took care of her appearance and held herself with confidence that one has from a family that has served in the same household for generations. She looked us squarely in the eye as she spoke, with no glint of deception in her voice or manner.
“The Ashworths have always been generous with my family,” Miss Percell said. “It was shameful how so many of those who had been with the Ashworths for years left after Master Ashworth passed on. I never knew people could be so cruel and superstitious! Some of them actually believed that this sickness has to do with vampires! Can you believe that! Why, that’s insanity if you ask me. And someone with your sharp mind, Mr. Holmes, you know that’s true as well. Like my mother always said, God takes care of those who take care of their own,” she said with a wink. Highly unlady-like for a young woman, but Holmes took it in stride.
She spoke well of the family and like any loyal servant, did not speak any ill of her employers. Of Mr. Bellows, she said little except that his father was also the butler of the Ashworths’ home, as was his father before him.
Bellows proved a man of few words, and as Thaddeus related to us before, he was indeed afflicted. I could honestly state that I did not know how the man was even standing, for he was frail and unsteady and although he was thin, one could see that he was once a handsome man with fine features and a thick head of peppered hair. His devotion to Master Thaddeus was apparent, as he looked to him before he spoke. He stated simply that he did not know how he became afflicted and had no knowledge of anyone who would want to do harm to himself or the family.
“Widower, I see,” Holmes remarked at Bellows’ simple gold band.
“Yes, it’s been ten years ago in October that I lost my dear wife.”
“Has the family had many callers after Mr. Ashworth’s funeral. Any visitors of late?”
“No one else has called upon us in two long months except the doctor,” Thaddeus answered for Bellows. “The Ashworths have always been a private family.”
Thaddeus dismissed Mr. Bellows, then showed us about the house. The second parlor was filled with old children’s toys— most probably cherished playthings of the brothers when they were youngsters. Holmes frowned when shown the room and I must say it most unsettled me. It was as if he remembered a time long past from his own childhood. He never wished for a family or children of his own— so that could not possibly be the cause of his saddened state.
“It was father’s deepest wish that this room be filled with children’s laughter again. He feared at the end when I and my brother took ill that it might never come to be. Unless you help us, my father’s fear might come to pass.”
“We will do our best,” I said as Holmes stalked around the room.
“Yes, and we have,” Holmes said. “I know what ails you, and who is responsible. But the why? Now that is a private matter— a matter of which you, your brother and father know well and have taken tremendous pains to hide.”
Ashworth’s pallid face flushed at once with color. It was the most alive I’d seen him.
“There is one detail I must attend before I can disclose what I’ve deduced. I must speak to my colleague Watson in private.”
For our conference, Ashworth returned us to the smoking parlor and Miss Percell kindly brought us tea, then shut the door. I expectantly looked on at Holmes who paced the room. In all my years I have rarely witnessed him in such a distraught state. He seemed to be warring with the devil himself as he paced about the room, the tea forgotten by us both. For a man of typically unemotional character, he was most distraught. He would never expose himself thus except to me. Ours was his only friendship, no woman walked through his door other than for a case, no other friend listened to his dreams and visions. Only John Watson. I became as distressed as my close friend. Even in his fits during his addiction, I had not seen him as such. Emotional. Tormented.
At last he stopped his march and stood before me.
“I must be frank with you, my dear Watson. When we first met Thaddeus Ashworth, I did not disclose a key piece information from you: that I had met his father years ago. The circumstances of which were most intimately sensitive, and which I am hesitant to disclose even to you, my dear Watson.”
I stood aghast, for surely he trusted me! I could think of nothing he could disclose to me that would alter my opinion of him. He read all this upon my face and at once addressed my distress.
“No, Watson. I do trust you, with my life, you know that Watson. While I am certain Ashworth is listening, that is not why I hesitate. It is the very reason that you are so dear to me that keeps me from revealing this secret to you. We have trusted each other with our very lives many times over the years.”
“Maybe you could begin with how you knew Thaddeus Ashworth’s father.”
“Years ago, there was a time when I was not as I am today. My childhood was a happy one. In youth, although often introverted, I had a thirst. Understand, this intellectual thirst pushed me to the company of others, and that is how I met Arthur Ashworth, at a gentleman’s club.”
“That’s hardly shocking or sensitive, although out of character.” To imagine a young Holmes filled with unbridled curiosity, searching out the company of other people with his heart and brain together, not separated by the quest for supreme intellect over that of human empathy, left me hopeful. I waited for Holmes to speak, for he was taken aback as to how to continue. At length he spoke, but not without hesitation.
“I do not mean that manner of gentleman’s club, Watson. And that was not the only thirst I sought. This one was a most private, a most secretive club.”
Mr. Sherlock Holmes then did something altogether irregular. He blushed.
I have seen Holmes face redden in the lusty excitement of a chase and also in a mischievous blush at a reveal, but I had never dreamt it possible for Holmes to be embarrassed by a private matter. This other possible thirst sent my senses reeling. He always took apart a case in pieces to turn over and observe objectively. For him to react to a private matter as such begged me to question what would cause such an unexpected reaction in my friend. If it were any other man, I would think that it might revolve around a woman, but Holmes does not consider women at all in that regard. Holmes never had an inclination toward, and rather abhorred, women. His unemotional state kept him from forming any new friendships and his suppression of desires any truly intimate alliances. I was his lone confidant, his lone friend, his lone companion. What thirst other than knowledge? The game?
What else was I to surmise? My own secret heart wished for another reason, but that was folly. Although he would show to me a side of himself he let few if any others witness, I never knew, I never would have believed until he told me it was true.
It was the name of the gentlemen’s club.
All at once I came to realize that my friend and I shared the same secret! In times of war when suffering and death suffocate, many a man in the dark, cold trenches will seek the warmth and comfort of another man’s arms. A man does not speak of such acts, but it is a fact of war. He returns home to marry and support his family. To be masculine was to leave behind those in the trenches and return to the light of day. You wrote letters to your dear heart far away. It meant to leave behind years of intimate times by fires. So I left my past as such. As Holmes left his in his own way.
He knew as he surveyed my face that I understood him far too well. With this unexpected turn, I wondered what other secret my good friend held close to him that he might brave to share.
“I thought you should know, dear Watson, how this may go, for the father has passed to his son’s the same ‘crisis.’ That same euphemism, to be certain, for actions polite society does not speak about or deign to acknowledge. Ha! Crisis! It is interesting that Emily Ashworth worded it as such. Therefore, Watson, she knows as well.” My dear friend said these words with such contempt that I was taken aback. It was not the tone of one who judges, but one who has been judged and resents it with all his being.
Therein lies the truth.
“I fear this may become rather messy before long,” Holmes said. “And that is why, dear Watson, I pulled you aside.”
“Thank you, my friend.”
“Ashworth!” Holmes bellowed.
He came in at once confirming that Holmes was correct about his eavesdropping. As Holmes requested, Ashworth lead us to the sitting room, and shot guilt ganders at us both.
“Why Mr. Holmes,” Mrs. Ashworth exclaimed, “I read you were a wonder! Pray tell, what have you learned? Or do you wish to question us further?”
“I have a few questions, to be sure, Mrs. Ashworth. Although through the process of this solution, it will be necessary to discuss details of a rather taboo and delicate nature.”
“We should excuse Mrs. Ashworth then,” Simon Ashworth said flatly. “She shouldn’t be exposed to such...delicate intimacies.”
“That will not be possible, since these intimacies concern her directly,” Holmes said.
“This is unacceptable,” Simon Ashworth said.
“May I remind you,” Holmes said, “it is you and your brother who called us here. We do not wish to upset you, but as you know, your lives depend on a speedy solution. Know that the sensitive details divulged will remain private. Only the perpetrator of the crime itself will be exposed, not the intimate details.”
“You are suggesting one of us did this!” Thaddeus exclaimed.
“I know what’s become of the other diaries, as do you,” Holmes said.
“I only did so to protect my father’s reputation.”
“And your own,” Holmes continued. “I knew at once it was you who burned the journals in this very fireplace, but you could not destroy this final journal because it was not in your possession. In fact, you did not find it until after you lead us into the room. You saw I noticed it on the side table and handed it to me thus. Therefore, you were not the one who ripped the final entry nor forged the final entry. If that person wishes to confess now, he or she would spare the rest hearing of the intimacies.”
And with that, Holmes looked squarely upon Mrs. Ashworth, who broke into tears.
“Do not drink that tea, Watson,” he said to me as I raised my cup.
“You are a cruel man, Mr. Holmes,” she said.
“Not as cruel as a woman who would poison the very men she professes to love, and also poison us as you tried earlier in the smoking room and now in this room.”
She shook her head and her hands covered her face.
He husband turned to her, shock and surprise on his face. “Why, Emily? Why would you do such an ill! Against me and against my father who loved you as his daughter.”
“Why indeed,” she spat out bitterly. “Our marriage is no marriage at all. It was a pretense from the start. You never loved me nor ever cared.”
“Of course I love you!”
“No, you, you both are your father’s sons,” she said as she spun venomously at Thaddeus as well. “Oh, my husband. You promised me love, companionship, a family! Emptiness is all I got in return. You are...perverse... sick...there is no space in your corrupt heart for me—it was all HIM all the time, it was HIM!”
“I don’t think we need to elaborate further in that regard,” I interrupted.
Simon vainly reached out to her, and she brushed him away, fury and contempt written in her beautiful face.
“Mercury,” Holmes said. “She gave you each a concoction of sedative to put you out, and a carefully measured amount of mercury to poison you. While unconscious, she made the marks upon your neck. She dosed herself to remove suspicion from herself. Easily enough. Miss Percell was unaffected since she does not drink tea, as her unstained teeth reveal. Your man, Bellows, was not as fortunate. I am certain that these cups contain a fatal dose.”
“Sodomites!” she shouted. “You are all sodomites! You and you.” She pointed to the brothers. “Mr. Holmes and your ‘companion,’ you are no better. I see you for what you are. Hateful. Corrupt. I hate you all!”
A knock came to the door.
“That would be Lestrade,” Holmes said. “I took the liberty of calling on him earlier in the day.”
“I would dispose of all the tea after Inspector Lestrade gathers the evidence. Sad to waste such excellent tea, but necessary.”
Later that night as Holmes and I sat before the fire, both anxious from words and deeds unspoken, Holmes revealed to me the rest of the story.
“So it was all for jealousy,” I began.
“Not jealousy, Watson, betrayal. Simon Ashworth was not the man she believed him to be when they married. She was a smart woman, smarter than the men in the house. To know the mercury poison would exhibit symptoms like that of a vampire, then to know the measured amount that it would take to make them fall slowly into sickness, why, that is a wonder. And to hide her hate so thoroughly from the world—an actress to be certain. Her fault and lack of genius was to not see her husband’s true self. What pushed her over was the knowledge of the man Bellows. Do not look at me with such shock, Dear Watson. You must have seen that Bellows was more to Simon than a butler. His ring matched that of Simon Ashworth’s. I am surprised you did not notice even when I called attention to it.”
“But why murder their father? Despite what he was, he loved her.”
“Yes, the eldest Ashworth was a kind man, a good man, but he was complicit in the deception, which sealed his fate. I am sure he wanted his son Simon to be as honest with his wife Emily as he was with his wife Evelyn.”
We sat in silence, Holmes with his pipe, smoke curling above his head and eyes probing deeply into the embers of the fire; his mind on another time, another place I was certain.
At last he spoke. “Watson, it seems as a man who prides himself in understanding human intellect, I have once again not been able to translate you as I should.”
I should have seen it myself in him. Our private first-class carriage rides, our slow lingering walks in the evening, his soft touches to my knee in private train cars. How had I not known?
I stood and neared the fire next to his chair and knelt down in front of him. “It seems we both should have seen.”
“Dear Watson, it seems so.”
It was no chance I took, reaching out and touching his cheek, for I saw permission in his eyes.
“You have always been my heart. You call me ever the romantic. I am, Holmes. It is true. What time we have wasted! Let us not waste another moment.”
With that he kissed my lips, ever so gently.
“Yes, my dear Watson,” he said, pulling away and searching my eyes with his. “I fear you have made me one as well.”
And that was how the great Sherlock Holmes and I came to be more than friends, and how he came to my bed at the top of the stairs on Baker Street. Holmes used to make merry of such things as love and hearth and home. He no longer does such. Instead he looks fondly on at our photograph together where it’s placed reverently on the table near his chair, and when he refers to me in private he whispers “John.”
Recipient:
ghislainem70Author:
elwinglyre Rating: R (only a gay kiss!)
Characters: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, Lestrade (mentioned), OCs
Warnings: none
Summary: When Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson investigate the shocking death of a wealthy man, Archibald Ashworth, vampires are suspect. Other family members have fallen under the fiendish spell, and Holmes must race the cause. But there are other secrets— one so deep that it threatens to entangle the great detective. What is the secret? Are the vampires real? How will Watson help his friend? All will be revealed by the great Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson. ACD after the fall.
Disclaimer: I’ve taken some liberties and nods to the great ACD in this piece— in particular from “The Adventure of the Sussex Vampire.”
Over the years of cases presented for solution to my good friend Mr. Sherlock Holmes, there have been investigations where private consequences precluded them from publication and instead consigned them to be kept only in this private notebook. There were other lackluster cases deficient in detail, drama, or too blatantly simplistic for Mr. Holmes to divert his increasingly desired resources. Since I had not his keen eye or acute reason to perceive concealed complexities, it was not unusual for someone such as myself to misidentify a case presented as too transparent for the attentions of my good and intimate friend. These reasons applied to the very case that came to our attention on a brisk October 30 evening when a slight gentleman came knocking at Baker Street.
The man seemed unremarkable to my eye. With his cap in hand, he was dressed quietly in a suit of drab grey tweed and a black scarf wound tightly about the neck. His features were average; no exaggeration of the nose or cheekbones marked a contrast to his attire or to his bland, deathly-pale complexion. The man was bent and hobbled. He introduced himself in an unobtrusive manner as Thaddeus Silas Ashworth, a civil building engineer who resided in the neighborhood of Portman Square. He was agitated and shuffled from one foot to the other like a child in a game of scotch-hop, clutching his cap so tightly that the bones in his fingers popped in distress. While his evident anxiety prodded my curiosity, it was the content of his plea for my friend’s assistance that dampened it.
His father, Archibald Ashworth, had passed on recently, and at present his younger brother, Simon, was seriously unwell with the same malady. He and his brother’s new wife had also recently become afflicted. The poor man’s agitation escalated as he told us the details, gesticulating frantically about as if half mad, occasionally clasping his neck as he expounded on the dire situation. Of course, as a physician, I saw this as something to be diagnosed in my consulting-room, not deduced by the great Sherlock Holmes and hardly a case for his remarkable mind. I was about to state such when I noted that my companion and intellectual superior had drawn from his observations and the brief description given us a far different conclusion than I. Thus I was equally surprised that it was not Ashworth’s story, but his appearance that prompted my companion to ask the man his age, at which he told us he was but 25 years old. I gasped, for the man looked to be at least 50 if he was a day. My friend, however, was not taken aback and pressed ahead.
“Could you please remove your scarf?”
I stood perplexed as our guest hesitated to do so, yet he did as Holmes instructed, slowly unwinding said scarf from his neck. I looked on at Holmes aghast as four puncture wounds upon his neck were revealed. My friend stepped closer to our guest to inspect them.
“Your father had such wounds, as do other family members?”
“Yes.”
With that reply, my companion arched his eyebrow at me, for we had not long before delved into the adventure of the supposed Sussex Vampire. That case had naught to do with vampires, but instead to do with attempted fratricide by a 15-year-old half brother, who with poison darts inflicted his jealous rage upon his younger sibling. The mother was discovered sucking the poison from the afflicted child and assumed to be the cause of her child’s affliction, when in fact, she was his savior. As for this man who stood before us, we knew little of his family’s affliction.
“What caused these marks upon your neck, and why were you reluctant to reveal them to us?” I asked.
“I think that should be obvious,” said Ashworth. “For who would believe such as cause?”
“Indeed!” I said.
“Indeed not,” Holmes said. I was shocked beyond all words at my friend, a man who had not long before this very instant called vampirism rubbish and pure lunacy. He sat in his armchair with his fingertips together as he often did in discriminating circumstances. Holmes noted my surprise immediately. “Dear Watson, do not mistake my words for belief in such nonsense, for there are no creatures of the night that suck blood from the living. Our feet stand on solid ground and on conclusions drawn from evidence, not on fantastical legends. To draw forthright a conclusion, we must hear this good man’s account.”
“Take a seat nearer the fire and tell us of how you came to our stairs,” Holmes continued, “and relate all details and symptoms of the said affliction, and how these marks were first found upon your necks. Leave nothing unsaid.”
At my companion’s suggestion, Ashworth stood and took the seat farthest from the fire’s embers. The red light gave an unnatural warmth to half of face, contrasting the cold and lifeless half. He let his long legs sprawl out in front of him, then leaned forward bent into himself and rubbed his temples as if in pain. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. I knew relating this story was hard for the poor gentleman. Suddenly he opened his eyes, exhaled and began.
“I told you a bit about my father’s death. It was sudden— within two weeks time his health completely failed him. Until he became bound to his bed, our father was a man who imparted fitness. He cycled daily and would spar often at the gentlemen’s club. His deterioration was rapid and frightful to witness. The first week that the symptoms expressed themselves, he became restless and had a distinct drop in appetite. For a man who practiced the maxim ‘early to bed and early to rise,’ he paced his room and study at all hours. It was on that Saturday of the first week of his ailment that I first spied the marks. He tried to hide them when I asked, but then relented. There were two pairs of puncture wounds upon his neck at that time, one distinctly new and not scabbed. I again asked him how these marks came to be, and he said he could not say, not because he did not wish to tell me, but because he did not know how they came upon his neck. It was two days after I confronted him that his behavior grew even queerer. He turned the house dark by day, covering windows with heavy tarps and mirrors with sheets. He swore that something came to him as he slept, yet he did not recall who or why. ”
“And that, it seems, is the same for me. For sometimes when I fall asleep or drowse, I wake with these marks upon my neck and with it my life and energy sapped from me. It feels as if someone or thing comes to me although I can not recall or say who or why. Every move I make taxes my senses. The same has happened with my brother and his new wife. I was a young, vital man, but now old and crippled.”
I had already noted that the man himself was unmarried. I wondered if it was for reasons like my good friend Holmes— out of choice—or for some other reason.
Holmes simply nodded and deduced, “This happens day or night. It matters little what time or place, only that each time you are asleep or unconscious. There is no pattern, thus you go to great lengths to remain awake as did your father before you, be it by pacing rooms or consuming stimulants since to sleep or doze results in this,” he said, pointing to Ashworth’s neck. “Also, you neglected to mention your sensitivity to light—your father covered the windows. You have come at night and have not looked at me, for I sit near the fire. You shy from the lights in the room.”
“I do not believe in vampires, but what else could this be? My life has been sucked from me! I feel as if in a trance, day or night.”
“Remaining awake for unnaturally long periods of time could cause mental confusion,” Holmes explained. “Vampires! No, that is not the cause. This is not some malignant spirit come to take your life blood.” My friend turned to me, then said, “I think Mr. Ashworth and his family need our direct assistance, Watson.”
I nodded, then Holmes turned to our guest. “What say we visit your home tomorrow and observe; then I shall have an answer.” Then, as Ashworth stood, Holmes added. “Your father kept a diary. I know that often these are personal, but this could give us insight as well.”
Ashworth was taken aback. “Thank you, Mr. Holmes,” he said. It was the most energy he’d expended since he first came into the room. “The journals. Yes, you are right that they may reveal much about my father and our predicament. Thank you, for I fear not only for myself but also my brother and his wife. We have no other relations. Our family, you see, is the last of the line of the Ashworths.”
“We shall do all we possibly can to solve this ill that’s befallen your family,” I said.
“Look for Dr. Watson and myself to call on you tomorrow evening,” my companion said. With that, our new client took his leave.
At precisely seven o’clock the next evening, we sat with Ashworth in his smoking room.
“I have here my father’s diary as you requested. He kept many, but strangely I can find only this last, single journal. They have disappeared! It is another mystery.” He handed the diary to Holmes who opened and carefully turned its pages. “I am afraid that there are few entries. You can see that after his illness, he has but two.”
We waited for Mr. Holmes to read through the diary. When done, he handed it to me, and I opened it and began to skim through the journal.
“Often it is not what’s written, but what is not written that is most telling.”
“That is an odd thing to say,” said Ashworth.
“No so odd. Watson, do you note anything amiss?”
I looked at my dear friend who anticipated an astute answer from me. I was baffled as to what he saw and I did not. Other than the obvious last entry which was a will of sorts, I did not notice anything amiss, then it struck me as I perused it again. “You read this yourself before you handed it to us?” I asked Ashworth. Holmes smiled and clasped his hands together. I always felt a certain warmth and pleasure when Mr. Holmes approved of my assessments. I never thought to be the great man that he is, but to have his admiration was a humbling sensation.
“Yes, I did.”
“The last entry. It is written by a different hand, Mr. Ashworth.”
“Thaddeus, please call me Thaddeus. But it looks to be the same to me as my father’s hand! I had not noticed any difference!”
“Ahh, do not chastise yourself for not knowing, as Holmes and I have had many an instance to compare, and although I am not schooled in the science of graphology, Mr. Holmes has been my most gracious instructor. To note the difference takes a bit of training, but see here: the F and S as well as the loops in the Ls immediately tell us that this is written in a different hand.”
“Very good, Watson! You are correct. There are other subtle characteristics, but what you need to know, Thaddeus, is this: your vampire is no vampire. This is proof. The one who wrote this was not your father. No, the one responsible for your failing health and his death wrote this. The original entry was neatly cut from this journal. One can see. There,” he pointed, “hardly noticeable, but a page has been removed. Let us read what was forged again, for that may shed light as to what was removed. Watson?”
“I will read aloud the page, but there is very little there. It seems to read as a last will.” I left unsaid that such documents often point to those who have most to gain. And that it should be his sons, was no surprise:
With my last breath, I give to those I am soon to leave behind in this world my love and property. I leave to my two faithful sons, who are so like me, all that I own in equal portion along with all that is good and kind in this world: my heart, my home, and my worldly possessions. Leave what is yours to the family.
Holmes then turned to our host and thanked him for sharing his father’s personal journal, and as he did so, I observed how my friend studied Ashworth’s response. After all this time, I still find that it is an honor to spend these hours with Holmes. All those painful years thinking him dead makes me cherish our time together with my every breath. I felt as close to him as I ever had, but I see him as more a man, not just some monument of knowledge. Yes, I still love to see his mind at work; it is a wonder to behold! Yet, I cherish these times together, solving mysteries, shoulder to shoulder against the world and life’s circumstances. I could never look away from him. He amazes me still with his keen deductions. My heart raced again to watch him unravel that which no other could unravel. His focus supreme and intense, without a doubt in my mind I knew Holmes saw something, some bit of scandal or slight or fear that Ashworth hid from us and the world. Holmes saw and would withhold it until the perfect instant to reveal his hand.
“I think we should meet your brother and his new wife,” Holmes said. “I should also like to speak to some of your help.”
“Most of the help left us after my father died. The superstitious lot feared that a vampire was in their midst and left us.”
“The help left. They were unaccosted?”
“Only two stayed with us: Our butler, Bellows, has also been afflicted, and Miss Percell, who has not been afflicted, although she does not reside here. Both have been loyal, their families have been in our employment for generations.”
“This is a large house for two servants to run,” I observed.
“My brother’s wife, Emily, has taken on much. It has been hardest on Emily. Although my father was not hers, he treated her as such and they were close. She tended to him when he was ill. Thank God, she has not been as seriously afflicted with this malady, though it is a curse for her. Without our usual help, she has had to tend to us more than she should. This way; they are waiting for us in the front parlor. They are both anxious to talk to you.”
The good man lead us to the front room, a showy space filled with the typical family heirlooms and family portraits. He introduced us to his brother and his brother’s wife, and Holmes asked them not to get up for it was apparent that they were as ill as Thaddeus Ashworth. In fact, his brother Simon was in obvious distress, nervously twisting his simple gold wedding band; his wife was pallid and weak, but continued to tend the brothers as best she could. She offered us tea, which Holmes waved away.
“It has been a hardship,” she answered Holmes after he asked about the loss of their servants. “We are so fortunate that our butler Bellows and housekeeper Miss Percell remained. They have been a godsend, to be certain.”
Holmes moved about the room, observing the family photographs on tables about the room. He stopped in front of a table that displayed wedding photographs.
“How long have you and Mr. Ashworth been married?”
“Three blissful years. Our anniversary was just last week.”
“No regrets, Mrs. Ashworth?”
“None whatsoever, Mr. Holmes. We’ve no crisis here. Simon is a most generous, thoughtful and attentive husband. Why, look at the brooch he gave me for our anniversary!” Indeed, it was a marvel: a precious oval gold pin with a large amethyst sparkling at its center. “He takes me on lovely holidays. We went to Paris last spring.”
Holmes and I listened on at length, then at last Holmes interrupted and asked to speak to Bellows and Miss Percell.
The maid was an attractive young woman. She has a sparkling smile, with a bit of mischief beneath, and her teeth were perfect and white as a babe’s. Her thick, curly brown hair was pulled back, and she dressed neatly in the simple maid’s attire. Her shoes were worn and her nails a bit more manicured than a usual maid. She took care of her appearance and held herself with confidence that one has from a family that has served in the same household for generations. She looked us squarely in the eye as she spoke, with no glint of deception in her voice or manner.
“The Ashworths have always been generous with my family,” Miss Percell said. “It was shameful how so many of those who had been with the Ashworths for years left after Master Ashworth passed on. I never knew people could be so cruel and superstitious! Some of them actually believed that this sickness has to do with vampires! Can you believe that! Why, that’s insanity if you ask me. And someone with your sharp mind, Mr. Holmes, you know that’s true as well. Like my mother always said, God takes care of those who take care of their own,” she said with a wink. Highly unlady-like for a young woman, but Holmes took it in stride.
She spoke well of the family and like any loyal servant, did not speak any ill of her employers. Of Mr. Bellows, she said little except that his father was also the butler of the Ashworths’ home, as was his father before him.
Bellows proved a man of few words, and as Thaddeus related to us before, he was indeed afflicted. I could honestly state that I did not know how the man was even standing, for he was frail and unsteady and although he was thin, one could see that he was once a handsome man with fine features and a thick head of peppered hair. His devotion to Master Thaddeus was apparent, as he looked to him before he spoke. He stated simply that he did not know how he became afflicted and had no knowledge of anyone who would want to do harm to himself or the family.
“Widower, I see,” Holmes remarked at Bellows’ simple gold band.
“Yes, it’s been ten years ago in October that I lost my dear wife.”
“Has the family had many callers after Mr. Ashworth’s funeral. Any visitors of late?”
“No one else has called upon us in two long months except the doctor,” Thaddeus answered for Bellows. “The Ashworths have always been a private family.”
Thaddeus dismissed Mr. Bellows, then showed us about the house. The second parlor was filled with old children’s toys— most probably cherished playthings of the brothers when they were youngsters. Holmes frowned when shown the room and I must say it most unsettled me. It was as if he remembered a time long past from his own childhood. He never wished for a family or children of his own— so that could not possibly be the cause of his saddened state.
“It was father’s deepest wish that this room be filled with children’s laughter again. He feared at the end when I and my brother took ill that it might never come to be. Unless you help us, my father’s fear might come to pass.”
“We will do our best,” I said as Holmes stalked around the room.
“Yes, and we have,” Holmes said. “I know what ails you, and who is responsible. But the why? Now that is a private matter— a matter of which you, your brother and father know well and have taken tremendous pains to hide.”
Ashworth’s pallid face flushed at once with color. It was the most alive I’d seen him.
“There is one detail I must attend before I can disclose what I’ve deduced. I must speak to my colleague Watson in private.”
For our conference, Ashworth returned us to the smoking parlor and Miss Percell kindly brought us tea, then shut the door. I expectantly looked on at Holmes who paced the room. In all my years I have rarely witnessed him in such a distraught state. He seemed to be warring with the devil himself as he paced about the room, the tea forgotten by us both. For a man of typically unemotional character, he was most distraught. He would never expose himself thus except to me. Ours was his only friendship, no woman walked through his door other than for a case, no other friend listened to his dreams and visions. Only John Watson. I became as distressed as my close friend. Even in his fits during his addiction, I had not seen him as such. Emotional. Tormented.
At last he stopped his march and stood before me.
“I must be frank with you, my dear Watson. When we first met Thaddeus Ashworth, I did not disclose a key piece information from you: that I had met his father years ago. The circumstances of which were most intimately sensitive, and which I am hesitant to disclose even to you, my dear Watson.”
I stood aghast, for surely he trusted me! I could think of nothing he could disclose to me that would alter my opinion of him. He read all this upon my face and at once addressed my distress.
“No, Watson. I do trust you, with my life, you know that Watson. While I am certain Ashworth is listening, that is not why I hesitate. It is the very reason that you are so dear to me that keeps me from revealing this secret to you. We have trusted each other with our very lives many times over the years.”
“Maybe you could begin with how you knew Thaddeus Ashworth’s father.”
“Years ago, there was a time when I was not as I am today. My childhood was a happy one. In youth, although often introverted, I had a thirst. Understand, this intellectual thirst pushed me to the company of others, and that is how I met Arthur Ashworth, at a gentleman’s club.”
“That’s hardly shocking or sensitive, although out of character.” To imagine a young Holmes filled with unbridled curiosity, searching out the company of other people with his heart and brain together, not separated by the quest for supreme intellect over that of human empathy, left me hopeful. I waited for Holmes to speak, for he was taken aback as to how to continue. At length he spoke, but not without hesitation.
“I do not mean that manner of gentleman’s club, Watson. And that was not the only thirst I sought. This one was a most private, a most secretive club.”
Mr. Sherlock Holmes then did something altogether irregular. He blushed.
I have seen Holmes face redden in the lusty excitement of a chase and also in a mischievous blush at a reveal, but I had never dreamt it possible for Holmes to be embarrassed by a private matter. This other possible thirst sent my senses reeling. He always took apart a case in pieces to turn over and observe objectively. For him to react to a private matter as such begged me to question what would cause such an unexpected reaction in my friend. If it were any other man, I would think that it might revolve around a woman, but Holmes does not consider women at all in that regard. Holmes never had an inclination toward, and rather abhorred, women. His unemotional state kept him from forming any new friendships and his suppression of desires any truly intimate alliances. I was his lone confidant, his lone friend, his lone companion. What thirst other than knowledge? The game?
What else was I to surmise? My own secret heart wished for another reason, but that was folly. Although he would show to me a side of himself he let few if any others witness, I never knew, I never would have believed until he told me it was true.
It was the name of the gentlemen’s club.
All at once I came to realize that my friend and I shared the same secret! In times of war when suffering and death suffocate, many a man in the dark, cold trenches will seek the warmth and comfort of another man’s arms. A man does not speak of such acts, but it is a fact of war. He returns home to marry and support his family. To be masculine was to leave behind those in the trenches and return to the light of day. You wrote letters to your dear heart far away. It meant to leave behind years of intimate times by fires. So I left my past as such. As Holmes left his in his own way.
He knew as he surveyed my face that I understood him far too well. With this unexpected turn, I wondered what other secret my good friend held close to him that he might brave to share.
“I thought you should know, dear Watson, how this may go, for the father has passed to his son’s the same ‘crisis.’ That same euphemism, to be certain, for actions polite society does not speak about or deign to acknowledge. Ha! Crisis! It is interesting that Emily Ashworth worded it as such. Therefore, Watson, she knows as well.” My dear friend said these words with such contempt that I was taken aback. It was not the tone of one who judges, but one who has been judged and resents it with all his being.
Therein lies the truth.
“I fear this may become rather messy before long,” Holmes said. “And that is why, dear Watson, I pulled you aside.”
“Thank you, my friend.”
“Ashworth!” Holmes bellowed.
He came in at once confirming that Holmes was correct about his eavesdropping. As Holmes requested, Ashworth lead us to the sitting room, and shot guilt ganders at us both.
“Why Mr. Holmes,” Mrs. Ashworth exclaimed, “I read you were a wonder! Pray tell, what have you learned? Or do you wish to question us further?”
“I have a few questions, to be sure, Mrs. Ashworth. Although through the process of this solution, it will be necessary to discuss details of a rather taboo and delicate nature.”
“We should excuse Mrs. Ashworth then,” Simon Ashworth said flatly. “She shouldn’t be exposed to such...delicate intimacies.”
“That will not be possible, since these intimacies concern her directly,” Holmes said.
“This is unacceptable,” Simon Ashworth said.
“May I remind you,” Holmes said, “it is you and your brother who called us here. We do not wish to upset you, but as you know, your lives depend on a speedy solution. Know that the sensitive details divulged will remain private. Only the perpetrator of the crime itself will be exposed, not the intimate details.”
“You are suggesting one of us did this!” Thaddeus exclaimed.
“I know what’s become of the other diaries, as do you,” Holmes said.
“I only did so to protect my father’s reputation.”
“And your own,” Holmes continued. “I knew at once it was you who burned the journals in this very fireplace, but you could not destroy this final journal because it was not in your possession. In fact, you did not find it until after you lead us into the room. You saw I noticed it on the side table and handed it to me thus. Therefore, you were not the one who ripped the final entry nor forged the final entry. If that person wishes to confess now, he or she would spare the rest hearing of the intimacies.”
And with that, Holmes looked squarely upon Mrs. Ashworth, who broke into tears.
“Do not drink that tea, Watson,” he said to me as I raised my cup.
“You are a cruel man, Mr. Holmes,” she said.
“Not as cruel as a woman who would poison the very men she professes to love, and also poison us as you tried earlier in the smoking room and now in this room.”
She shook her head and her hands covered her face.
He husband turned to her, shock and surprise on his face. “Why, Emily? Why would you do such an ill! Against me and against my father who loved you as his daughter.”
“Why indeed,” she spat out bitterly. “Our marriage is no marriage at all. It was a pretense from the start. You never loved me nor ever cared.”
“Of course I love you!”
“No, you, you both are your father’s sons,” she said as she spun venomously at Thaddeus as well. “Oh, my husband. You promised me love, companionship, a family! Emptiness is all I got in return. You are...perverse... sick...there is no space in your corrupt heart for me—it was all HIM all the time, it was HIM!”
“I don’t think we need to elaborate further in that regard,” I interrupted.
Simon vainly reached out to her, and she brushed him away, fury and contempt written in her beautiful face.
“Mercury,” Holmes said. “She gave you each a concoction of sedative to put you out, and a carefully measured amount of mercury to poison you. While unconscious, she made the marks upon your neck. She dosed herself to remove suspicion from herself. Easily enough. Miss Percell was unaffected since she does not drink tea, as her unstained teeth reveal. Your man, Bellows, was not as fortunate. I am certain that these cups contain a fatal dose.”
“Sodomites!” she shouted. “You are all sodomites! You and you.” She pointed to the brothers. “Mr. Holmes and your ‘companion,’ you are no better. I see you for what you are. Hateful. Corrupt. I hate you all!”
A knock came to the door.
“That would be Lestrade,” Holmes said. “I took the liberty of calling on him earlier in the day.”
“I would dispose of all the tea after Inspector Lestrade gathers the evidence. Sad to waste such excellent tea, but necessary.”
Later that night as Holmes and I sat before the fire, both anxious from words and deeds unspoken, Holmes revealed to me the rest of the story.
“So it was all for jealousy,” I began.
“Not jealousy, Watson, betrayal. Simon Ashworth was not the man she believed him to be when they married. She was a smart woman, smarter than the men in the house. To know the mercury poison would exhibit symptoms like that of a vampire, then to know the measured amount that it would take to make them fall slowly into sickness, why, that is a wonder. And to hide her hate so thoroughly from the world—an actress to be certain. Her fault and lack of genius was to not see her husband’s true self. What pushed her over was the knowledge of the man Bellows. Do not look at me with such shock, Dear Watson. You must have seen that Bellows was more to Simon than a butler. His ring matched that of Simon Ashworth’s. I am surprised you did not notice even when I called attention to it.”
“But why murder their father? Despite what he was, he loved her.”
“Yes, the eldest Ashworth was a kind man, a good man, but he was complicit in the deception, which sealed his fate. I am sure he wanted his son Simon to be as honest with his wife Emily as he was with his wife Evelyn.”
We sat in silence, Holmes with his pipe, smoke curling above his head and eyes probing deeply into the embers of the fire; his mind on another time, another place I was certain.
At last he spoke. “Watson, it seems as a man who prides himself in understanding human intellect, I have once again not been able to translate you as I should.”
I should have seen it myself in him. Our private first-class carriage rides, our slow lingering walks in the evening, his soft touches to my knee in private train cars. How had I not known?
I stood and neared the fire next to his chair and knelt down in front of him. “It seems we both should have seen.”
“Dear Watson, it seems so.”
It was no chance I took, reaching out and touching his cheek, for I saw permission in his eyes.
“You have always been my heart. You call me ever the romantic. I am, Holmes. It is true. What time we have wasted! Let us not waste another moment.”
With that he kissed my lips, ever so gently.
“Yes, my dear Watson,” he said, pulling away and searching my eyes with his. “I fear you have made me one as well.”
And that was how the great Sherlock Holmes and I came to be more than friends, and how he came to my bed at the top of the stairs on Baker Street. Holmes used to make merry of such things as love and hearth and home. He no longer does such. Instead he looks fondly on at our photograph together where it’s placed reverently on the table near his chair, and when he refers to me in private he whispers “John.”
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Date: 2017-10-13 06:41 pm (UTC)So perfectly stated. That is Watson's unique gift and you explore it beautifully here as he and Holmes investigate a case that cuts close to the both of them. Mmm, so good.
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Date: 2017-10-29 10:42 pm (UTC)But oh, the motive for the murder. Closeting is such a heartbreaking way to live, even if it's the only tenable option. I'm glad that Holmes and Watson have disclosed their secrets to each other, and I do hope they are able to make up for lost time.
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Date: 2017-11-01 11:10 pm (UTC)G xxx
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Date: 2017-11-02 09:09 pm (UTC)Thank you for taking time to let me know what you liked. It's deeply appreciated.
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Date: 2017-11-02 09:11 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2017-11-02 09:18 pm (UTC)Glad I tickled your Halloween craving with the tale and you enjoyed my OCs as well. Thank you!
Acknowledgement to MrBotanyB
Date: 2017-11-02 09:22 pm (UTC)I have to thank her since she Brit picked and checked for plot holes on this case fic. She also betas another long work of mine and to do this was an extra load.
Thank you MrBotanyB. You are the best!