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The Letter	By : Spike119 Category: Titles in the Public Domain > Sherlock Holmes > Slash > Slash Views: 6633 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: This is a work fiction, based on the Sherlock Holmes series by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

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I have long grown accustomed to all manner of odd deliveries at our Baker Street rooms, at all hours of the day or night. Dangerous firearms, noxious poisons, and the occasional explosive charge arriving in the small hours of the morning can give a man a careful outlook when dealing with his correspondence, to say the least. At the risk of sounding blasé, after that one unforgettable afternoon spent with a live panther as our dinner guest (actually well-behaved and chaperoned by a charming young woman, whose unusual story I hope to make public some day), there is little that will unnerve our household. Consequently, the arrival of a large steamer trunk stamped with the seals of far-off and exotic ports, accompanied by a large stack of musty antique books bound in a battered leather strop, seemed positively mundane. As Mrs. Hudson was away on holiday, I signed for the delivery myself, only half-listening to Peterson’s drawled explanations. I had just awoken from a well-deserved sleep; we had returned early in the morning from assisting Lestrade with a dangerous manhunt in the East End, and so I had little patience for something as trivial as Holmes’ lost luggage.

“It’s a funny thing, doctor,” said the commissionaire, his hand resting upon the doorknob. “It should’ve been delivered with the rest of Mr. Holmes’ things six months ago, but these were left behind at the depot.”

“Yes, thank you, Peterson, I’ll –” I stopped in mid-sentence, the import of his words finally hitting me. “I’m sorry, would you repeat that?”

“These were left behind at the depot from when Mr. Holmes returned, sir. You know, from when we all thought he was dead.”

“Yes, I remember,” said I, a trifle sharply. “Good day.” I turned away as Peterson left, not daring to move a muscle until I heard his quick tread descending the stairs. I made a mental note to apologize to him when next I saw him. I had been needing to make mental notes like quite often of late; I had been brusque to Mrs. Hudson, gruff with the new chambermaid, and positively vicious to that poor young constable who had sprained his ankle during the arrest last night. In fact, there was only one person in my life whom I had not insulted over the last six months.

Six months, I thought bitterly. Six months, and still the wounds had not yet healed. I tried to tell myself that Holmes had acted for the best, and to my friend I had presented every outward sign of goodwill, gladly falling once again into our old routine. And yet Holmes’ blithe and cavalier attitude still rankled; my companion gave no indication that our separation of three years had affected him in any way other than the inconvenience of losing his biographer and sounding-board.

I, on the other hand, had been deeply affected by the separation. For three years, I had walked around London as if dead myself, seeing nothing, hearing nothing, feeling nothing. Even as my sweet Mary lay dying, I had been in mourning for Holmes. Then six months ago, he had come back into my life, indeed had brought my life back to me. When I awoke that April day from my faint, it was as if I had been reborn into the only life that had ever held any meaning for me.

That fateful awakening had been weighing heavily on my mind. I had come to my senses gradually, and my impressions of the experience were jumbled and confused: while emerging from the dark embrace of Morpheus, I felt gentle arms caressing me to consciousness, while the touch of what must have been the brandy bottle to my lips became a soft kiss, the trickling liquid a flickering tongue deliciously rousing me from oblivion. Then I had opened my eyes and found Sherlock Holmes hunched over me, his grey eyes wide with concern.

That moment had come to haunt me for the past six months, as had my subsequent actions. Without any thought as to my future livelihood, I had thrown in my lot with Holmes, selling my practice and moving back in to my bachelor digs, following my companion like some spaniel, even to the point of barking at anyone who came too near him. I had taken his scant apologies and accepted his thin explanations, giving him no complaint nor asking any questions, content simply to be once more by his side.

What had I become? Was I really his Boswell, or was it something else? Even Samuel Johnson’s famed biographer had chronicled the actions of other notables of his time. I do not remember reading of Boswell sharing rooms with Johnson, either, nor did he follow his friend everywhere as I followed Holmes. And certainly neither of those great authors, those stolid pillars of their society, would have had the feelings that I had been having …

I pulled myself away from this dangerous train of reflection, and then my eyes lit upon the steamer trunk and the stack of books.

The books, of course, I recognized, though it seemed odd to me that they would have been part of Holmes’ missing luggage, being the very set of props he had used in his disguise as the old bookseller. I smiled despite myself as I read the titles, idly wondering where Holmes had procured them. Here, sure enough, was Origins of Tree Worship, The Holy War, and British Birds, as well as the Catullus. It was this last volume that brought me up short.

“Catullus,” I murmured aloud, my face suddenly burning as dim memories of my boyhood in Australia surfaced from the mists of time. I had been a scholarship boy at the school in Ballarat, awkward and shy, but I always enjoyed my literature classes, particularly the ancients. However, the finer meaning of the poet Catullus had escaped me until one of the older boys explained the meaning, complete with a demonstration I shall never forget. I blushed hotly as I remembered the secret pleasures of the dormitory nights, those strange, forbidden embraces we enjoyed in the dark. The words of this Roman poet who celebrated the love of his own gender had fuelled an entire summer term of furtive kisses and caresses that even now made my cheeks flush with the memory.

That had been a mistake of youth, I thought, the passing indiscretions of two lost and lonely boys, best forgotten in the wisdom of adulthood.

Without my bidding, my fingers thumbed through the yellowing pages until I found the passage that had sparked such passion. Before I could read the lines, however, a slim white envelope fell from the leaves of the book, fluttering to the floor, two sheets of plain writing paper slipping from the open flap. As I bent down to retrieve the pages, I saw my name upon both them and the envelope. My mouth went dry as I realized what I held in my hands.

Holmes had mentioned once, almost in passing, how he had undertaken to write to me many times, but, in his own words, he had been afraid that my affectionate regard would tempt me into some indiscretion that would threaten his secret. At the time, I had nodded and agreed; lately, the memory made my fists clench and my jaw tighten. After all these years, Sherlock Holmes did not trust me with his secrets.

And yet, here I held one secret in my hand. This, apparently, was one of those un-sent missives, describing his life away from me. My heart went to my throat and I found myself unable to keep from reading the words in that so-familiar hand:

June 15, 1891
Naples, Italy
My dear Watson:
It is now over a month since I removed myself from your presence and still the loss of your company is a bleeding wound tearing at my heart. I wonder what you would think, my old friend, if only you knew, you who have called me ‘a brain without a heart,’ the true depth of the feelings I have so carefully hidden from the world and from you. Would you be disgusted and turn away, ending the friendship I treasure beyond anything else upon this Earth? Or would you understand, would you reach out as I dare not, would you gladly share this passion with me as you have shared my adventures? It is this burning hope that has sustained me and tortured me for ten long years, it is this hope, my dearest Watson, that has forced me to flee from your side before my desires destroy us both.
I have betrayed you, old friend; I brought this exile upon myself deliberately. I could have easily stopped Moriarty before he apprehended me at the Reichenbach Falls, but I chose instead to use this opportunity to leave you and the damnable lie my life has become. Like Orpheus of old, I was cursed to have my beloved walking just behind me, knowing that to turn and reach for you would be to lose you forever.
If only you knew, my sweet Watson! If you only knew how this emotionless reasoner pines for you, how this nonexistent heart keens for you, how these cold, observant eyes do not care what they see because you are not in their ken. I sit here at this sidewalk café filled with murmuring couples, a heartbroken wreck amongst a garden of blooming romance, and as I listen to their sweet love-talk, my mind is drawn to what it would feel like to have your lips tickling at my ear, your hand gently squeezing mine as you tell me the words I long to hear. Then my imaginations grow even more heated, and my fevered brain summons up the sensation of your moustache brushing against my neck, your strong arms encircling my body, your velvet skin beneath my lips. What pleasures I should like to give you, my darling! Church and Queen may deem it a perversion, and yet I cannot bring myself to feel shame when I consider entering into a carnal embrace with you. The idea of giving myself to you totally, completely, within and without, only excites me beyond all reason, and when I contemplate the sensation of our bodies so intimately joined, I find I lose the ability to think clearly.
And yet, my dear, sweet friend, my affections for you are not limited to simple lust, for although your admirable physical characteristics did indeed bring the blood to my loins at our first meeting, it is your inner nature which garnered the respect out of which has grown my love. I have been captivated by a handsome face before, but never has anyone else of my acquaintance shown me such a warm, devoted spirit seasoned with such endless patience. You, my dearest Watson, have been my anchor and my safe harbour, my salvation and my sanity, the one fixed point upon which I may depend in my dark world of criminals and danger.
And now I have lost you, my love. I leave you to your beautiful wife and your practice. Mary is a fine woman who shall give you the normality, the stability –

Hot tears welled up from inside me, and I closed my eyes, my hand of its own accord touching my lips, as my other hand clutched the letter to my pounding heart. The man I had come to revere above all others loved me.

He loved me.

Unbidden, a memory surfaced again: a gamin smile under a thatch of tousled red hair, a gleam of mischief in a pair of bottle-green eyes …

Go on, John. Touch it. See? I’ll touch yours – it’s all right, I won’t hurt you. There, doesn’t that feel good? Yes, that’s right. Yes, John, like that. Oh, yes …

I was shocked back into reality by Holmes’ voice at the bottom of the steps.

“Now, Inspector, I need not insult your intelligence by outlining the connection between the extra barrels of salt and the missing jewels. When I found out that the harbourmaster was in Westmoreland during the period in question –”

“By Jove, you’re right!” Lestrade’s voice answered, as two pairs of feet ascended the steps. Still I could not move, my feet rooted to the floor, and I stared at the door as a rabbit stares at the hunter raising his rifle, listening to the detective’s voice upon the stair: “So the clerk had to be the one who’d taken the ledger! And then he framed himself in such a way as to draw suspicion to his superior, eh? Nasty bit of work, that,” the professional chuckled as the door opened.

“I must confess he had me almost convinced in his innocence. Of course, he made his fatal error when he –” Holmes swept in the door and immediately stopped short, taking in the trunk, the stack of books, and the letter in my hand, and instantly deducing the meaning of it all. His questioning eyes held my gaze, and at that very moment, my treacherous memory brought a sneering voice to my ear:

Did you hear about Worthington and Smythe? Caught in flagrante delicto behind the stables! Absolutely disgusting, that. Father’s expelled them both, of course. Those types might be tolerated up north, but we can’t have that sort of thing happening here, can we, Watson?

“Watson?” Holmes whispered, his hand still on the doorknob. Behind him, Inspector Lestrade frowned over his shoulder.

“I – I have to leave,” I stammered, looking down at the floor. I let the letter drop from my fingers, fluttering unheeded to my feet.

Silently, Sherlock Holmes stepped aside and I barrelled through the door, not looking at either man, only pausing to take my coat and hat from the hook before plunging down the steps and out into the street.

I walked without knowing where I was going for some time, and my steps led me to the neighbourhood of the hotel I had lived in before first moving to Baker Street. And just there, across the street, was the Criterion Bar, where Stamford and I had met that fateful morning. I sighed as I remembered our conversation.

He was bemoaning himself this morning because he could not get someone to go halves with him in some nice rooms which he had found, and which were too much for his purse.

By Jove! if he really wants someone to share the rooms and the expense, I am the very man for him. I should prefer having a partner to being alone.

I stared blankly at the familiar façade. At the moment, I had no idea what I was feeling; the shock of my discovery had blunted my reactions.

I could not fathom it; I had followed Holmes all these years with absolute devotion and reverence, never knowing if my affection was returned, or to what degree, never even considering that he had any love to give.

With a leaden finality I realized that there was no question as to what must happen next. I could not, even now, contemplate a life without Holmes. If he wanted me, then he would have me. After all, I was the very man for him; I always had been, and always would be, totally, inexplicably, his.

I just wished I knew how I felt about it.

I gazed across the street at the Criterion, feeling no disgust, no exaltation, no fear, no joy, just absolute, mind-numbing shock. I slowly realized that the shock came not so much from knowing that Holmes loved me, as that he had failed to deduce what my reactions would be to his love. He thought me an innocent, a normal red-blooded English gentleman with no hidden desires.

Oh, I was no stranger to the love of my own gender. I knew the pleasures well. But I also knew the dangers, and I knew now why he had run away. After all, I had just run away myself … and I was not ready to go back, not yet.

I needed a drink first. Then we would deal with this together, Holmes and I. Together … the beginnings of emotion began wearing through, and I was relieved to find that I was content, at least, with my decision. There was no other choice to be had, really, but still I would need some liquid fortification. Breaking the Offences Against the Person Act was not something to be taken lightly.

I entered the bar, sliding onto a well-worn stool and ordering my usual ale, before patting my pockets and realizing that I had left my billfold back at Baker Street.

“That’s all right, Watson,” said a voice at my elbow. “You never paid your way before; why start now? Barkeep, tonight this man drinks on me.”

I turned and gaped in astonishment. My anxiety had conjured the memory of an old enemy’s voice, driving me away from my home; now cruel Fate had brought forth the man himself as my rescuer. The youth had been achingly beautiful; maturity had turned the headmaster’s son into a marble sculpture, just as handsome and just as devoid of feeling. I heaved a weary sigh.

“Penrose Fischer! What a pleasant surprise!”

“Little Johnnie Watson, the charity boy from the third form! But now you’re Dr. John H. Watson, MD, the well-known author, of course! Who would have thought, eh? Though you always could spin a tale,” he said, guiding me firmly by the elbow to a table. “Really, Watson, you can’t tell me that that Holmes fellow is really as clever as you make him out to be.”

“Sherlock Holmes,” said I with some coolness, “is indeed the most intelligent man I have ever had the honour to know.”

Fischer shot me a penetrating look. “Indeed. Well, I won’t argue the point. Say, I don’t suppose you heard what happened to Albertson, did you?

I admitted I had not. Silently I reflected upon why I had found Fischer so appallingly hateful at school; he knew – and told – every unpleasant rumour about everyone in his acquaintance. I wisely kept silent, not daring to think what he would tell the rest of London if he knew my predicament, as he catalogued the latest half-truths and slander of a dozen souls, most of whom I had not seen or heard from in well over two decades. I nodded and made noncommittal noises at the appropriate junctures in his hateful monologue:

“… and so Roswell’s daughter is marrying a man whose family is simply inappropriate. Jews, you know …”

I bit the inside of my lip. The man had not changed; he was still the most intolerable bigot. Holmes and I had travelled to many dark places in London, and there I learned that the rudest ghetto held a nobility that this so-called “proper” gentleman could never achieve. My adventures with Holmes had taught me many things, and I knew myself to be a better man for the experience. Only half listening to Fischer’s monologue by now, I began to feel a strange sense of warmth steal over me. I recognized the feeling; it was the same mixture of joy and fear I had felt when Mary had agreed to be my wife.

“… I must say I was relieved when I heard you’d gotten married, my boy, even though you had to settle for a governess. Still, we take what we can, eh? You had to get out of there, after all. Two bachelors living together for so long – people were beginning to talk, you know.”

I coughed on my drink.

“There, there, Watson,” Fischer laughed, clapping me painfully on the back. “So how is the little woman?”

“She died last November, in childbed,” I told him with an ice-cold stare. Even though I had left the house in haste, I still wore the black armband that declared my mourning. Some people simply do not observe, I thought angrily.

Fischer did not even have the decency to look embarrassed, but merely nodded in a transparent affectation of sympathy. “Of course, dear fellow, I’m so sorry. I remember reading about it, now. Well, at least you’re better off than old Worthington,” he finished with a sickening laugh.

I started guiltily. “Worthington?” I echoed. I tried to keep my demeanour as casual as possible.

“You mean you haven’t heard what happened to that nancy-boy Worthington?”

“I never saw him after he was expelled,” said I. Strictly speaking, this was not true, but I was not going to share the details of my last conversation with my disgraced hero of that turbulent summer.

“Somehow – I don’t know how – he got into London University and got all the way to his final year before they caught him this time. This time he did the right thing, though I hear the fellow he was with went away to India or some godforsaken place. Good riddance, eh?”

“‘Did the right thing?’” I repeated. A sickening pit in my stomach had begun to form. Fischer, gratefully, did not notice, but took another pull of his ale and smiled as he continued to destroy Worthington’s reputation with all the relish of a man enjoying a fine cigar.

“Well, he rid the world of a pervert, anyway. Hung himself. Should’ve taken his ‘wife’ with him, but I suppose the darkies won’t mind another sexual deviant in their midst. India’s just the place for that sort of thing. From what I hear, they’re bang alongside any perversion out there. Comes of not being decent Christians, I suppose.”

I bit my tongue, bleakly wondering what Our Lord would think of such blatant hatred and intolerance. My sexual deviance might be a sin, but I could not think that such venomous disgust was any less a sin than the love I had found with Worthington in that darkened dormitory room so long ago.

And now no less a man than Sherlock Holmes wanted to share a similar love with me. I shivered involuntarily as I half-listened to Fischer’s tirade against perverts, foreigners, the Prime Minister, and various other annoyances of modern society as he saw it, while I contemplated being in love with Holmes.

I knew, all too well, how such love could harm me. Worthington had not only taught me the pleasures of love, but also the pain of heartbreak and infidelity.

I don’t know why you’re so upset, John. It’s not like I ever said you were the only one. Come on, you know you enjoy it, so why not enjoy it with everyone you can?

Somehow, I did not think I was likely to come home one day and find Holmes in a passionate embrace with another man. He barely tolerated the company of others; I was his only constant companion. Fidelity would not be one of our issues. But what of discovery? We certainly risked more than simple expulsion from a backwater private school in Australia, and I feared that India would not be far enough to escape the inevitable scandal should we be found out.

Suddenly, I realized that I needed to discuss this with Holmes. I had flown out of Baker Street without informing him of my own feelings; if he truly did not know that my heart was already his, what might he be thinking of my retreat, even now?

He did not know that I returned his love. I myself had not realized the depth of my affection for the man. And yet, clearly the measure of my devotion could be told in that not once through this entire affair had I even considered the possibility of leaving him. Instead, there was a solid inevitability about the whole thing; although I had not told him so, I already considered myself his. It was only a matter of explaining that it had been fear and shock that had made me run …

“I say, Watson, what’s the matter? You look as if you’ve seen a ghost, what?”

I had risen without realizing it.

“I have to get back to Baker Street,” I muttered.

“Baker Street?” Fischer scowled. “You mean you’re still playing detective with that odd boob of a crook-hunter?” Holmes and I had run into Fischer once, years before my marriage. Holmes had not been impressed, and had treated the man to all the withering sarcasm he could muster. Fischer, on his part, had tried to engage the great detective in a battle of wits, and, of course, found his armoury sadly failing.

I could not help but smile at the memory, even now. “Holmes and I just assisted Scotland Yard in locking up a dangerous murderer last night, yes,” said I.

“But you’re not sharing rooms with him again, are you?” Fischer jeered.

“As a matter of fact, I am. Our cases might come at any hour of day or night, so it is decidedly more convenient –”

“Any excuse to be with your darling love,” Fischer sneered.

I had had enough. My readers will know that I am a long-suffering individual, but there is a line, and once it is crossed, my temper can become quite violent.

I hauled off and belted the man across the jaw. Fischer recovered almost instantly, barrelling up into my stomach, fists flying. Soon we were brawling across the tables, and then something (a chair, by the feel of it) broke over my head and I knew no more.
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The Letter