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I had hoped, when I at last set pen to paper to tell all of what I have to now reveal, that the world would be a different place than the one I see now through my study window. To my dismay the turn of the century has seemingly brought even less tolerance to folks of our ilk, and so I have chosen to put it all into record now, lest I lose the opportunity altogether. Perhaps a day will yet come when this story, too, can be brought to publication, and I can only pray that it will not be posthumous.
But I am barging ahead of myself. Facts, as Holmes would say, facts and data, and keep the romanticism tucked away at the back of the stage. I fear however that this is nothing if not a romantic tale, and I must not allow her palpable stare over my shoulder to stop me from telling it as it ought to be told. It is chiefly, after all, my story, and she is free as she ever is to tell her version of events if she likes.
I feel I should begin by saying—and I ask the gracious reader not to place judgment upon me until I have told all—that I have several times committed illicit acts against the Crown and, I will say, feel no remorse for them. For what is a young woman to do, orphaned at the age of nineteen and with no support from her destitute (yet even now beloved) elder brother, except to either find a man to marry or try to make it on her own?
I chose the latter.
To walk this earth—or, at least, the smoggy streets of London—as a man in disguise, as I was in my early public life, is not nearly so complex a ruse as one might expect. As in any position in society, there are rules to be considered: those with which one may have their fun as well as taboos to be entirely avoided in the cold light of day. One only has to parse which rules are which, and I believe any grown woman whose eyes are open and who has not spent her life alone in a shack by the sea is likely to do very well in this regard. I will not insult the reader’s intelligence by claiming that men are simple creatures, easily emulated and easily fooled; as a good friend of mine might say, we are all easily fooled by our own perception of what ought to be, versus what actually is. I could not have made it as a man in the world for more than a day if I were not capable of fooling men and women alike.
So it was in this manner I became Doctor Watson. An illegal and invalid title, some might say, earned by deceit, and to these people I have nothing to say and no further mind to pay them. I learned and studied and practiced as well as any of my classmates and shortly after graduating medical school I found a place in a clinic, apprenticing a surgeon, before the war arrived at my doorstep in the form of a red-sealed envelope.
I can tell you that there were more women in disguise in the Queen’s Army than most people will ever know. Most of us were running away from something, although I knew of only one other who had been hidden for as long as I, whose disguise existed back in the green fields of England, in a world beyond the sandy mountains. We gravitated towards each other, I think, in those bloody, dusty valleys, and taught one another how to survive.
Though I still sometimes curse my damaged knee, I have always been grateful that the nature of my injury did not reveal my secret. When I returned to London, my family now entirely gone from this world and my future horribly blank and endless before me, I saw no reason to drop the ruse which had become my only safeguard. Even after all I had seen in the war I still loved medicine, and wanted to learn all I could of it, to continue my apprenticeship and someday have a practice of my own.
There are those out there who would balk at the prospect of dressing themselves as another person each morning and going about with a different name, only to take it all off again and redress the next day, understandably so, though I confess I had never had many qualms about it. There was a security which came from my disguise, a well-worn comfort in Dr. Watson’s clothes and manner and voice. Even the application of the facial hair was no hardship, once one was used to it. It was quicker to apply than make-up.
But man or not, with my measly pension I lacked the funds for rent, and my injury and my subsequent illness had taken its toll on my health so that I could not work, and—and I have written all the rest already.
Holmes was a spark in the dull landscape of London. Terribly Bohemian, utterly without regard for societal conventions, and lacking any kind of patience for, as she put it, “the nonsense of it all,” Holmes had my devotion and understanding almost at once. Never before, not even in the army, had I met someone with such conviction and surety of herself. I had thought myself bold to train in the art of medicine in the guise of a man, and yet Holmes was proud to practice chemistry, botany, policework, martial arts, and any number of seemingly unrelated hobbies which were decidedly not womanly, and she did so under no name but her own. It was almost humbling—except that she would not have me humbled by anyone, least of all herself.
She saw me immediately, and not only in the superficial manner one might expect; from our very first conversation she gleaned that I was deeply unhappy in my present circumstances and I was in want of not just capital, but freedom, the sort that I did not yet know how to put words to. She saw all of this and, mindful of the presence of the loyal but ignorant Stamford, mentioned nothing of it, instead inviting me to share with her the rooms on Baker Street and in doing so swept me entirely up into the unique world she inhabited—or I should say, the world she had created for herself.
Just as Holmes had snatched a bit of freedom up for herself when she declared herself the world’s only consulting detective, I broke off a large piece of my own. I will always be indebted to her for that. Even if none of the rest of it had happened, and I had left her for ever in 1889, I would have never forgotten this monumental goodness she did me.
With her, I was always Watson. The world could have the doctor, a fine, upstanding young man with short sandy hair beneath his bowler hat, a thick mustache obscuring his face, his professional coat always donned. A gentleman’s gentleman, as far as anyone could see, or cared to look. But with her there was no need to be one thing or another, no need to obscure or pretend—only to enhance, to discover, to become more than one thought oneself to be. But yet again I am getting ahead of myself—I did not fully realize any of that until much later.
Holmes, as I have written a little about in my memoirs, had a revolving closet door of various disguises of her own, and would wear gentlemen’s clothes whenever it was useful to her—or whenever it struck her fancy. What I have never before placed into writing is that she encouraged me to do the same, and indeed, more than once I slouched into my accustomed armchair at the end of a long day of rounds to find I was quite unwilling to change out of my male costume. Whether it was a matter of my disguise being so well-practiced, or something deeper I cared not to examine, I deeply enjoyed playing the part alone with Holmes sitting across from me, her slippered feet dangling off the edge of the settee, her dressing gown askew, carelessly revealing a pair of men’s pajamas.
The flat was not as two well-bred women ought to have kept it; my military years had ingrained in me such restraint that my room was nearly as sparse and colorless as the hospitals I frequented, while Holmes’ room and eventually our common room was cluttered and chaotic and often smelled strongly of either tobacco, brandy, or some strong chemical from one of her experiments. Though I admit the mess was a little beyond the pale for my taste, I appreciated the freedom it represented to Holmes, whose past was as yet a mystery to me, though I could guess at the battles she had fought and won to gain this little corner of the world; I had fought much the same, and not all in India.
We were not rooming together long before I began to join her on her cases as her Boswell (her word, not mine—though I confess I never denied it). I went about with her as a woman, with my Christian name, and I believe my faithful readers will be pleased to know that all that I wrote of her was as true as I could make it. Of myself, I said as little as possible, describing myself as a nurse with some training rather than the doctor I was. If anyone connected the Dr. Watson of Kensington with the Watson who published the thrilling stories of herself and the great Miss Holmes, then I never knew of it.
Always in the back of my mind was the danger of discovery by the police we worked so closely with. We had a reputation for being helpers to the helpless—women deemed hysterical, the destitute, gay girls, Uranians, immigrants—we turned no one away who had not the law on their side, and thus we were always vulnerable to those who did. I do not believe Holmes has ever feared the law for herself, for she has never taken to hiding her proclivities, as I was always so careful to. However she was concerned for me and so kept Scotland Yard at arm’s length for my sake. On the many occasions a client or policeman came to see her while I was out, she always made sure to lock my bedroom door before allowing them into our rooms.
In our early days together, when I was more unsure of her, I found myself deeply touched by this consideration she lent me. I had until that point in my life lacked such a comrade in arms, someone who I knew would not betray me no matter what the offer, or the danger; a truer friend I had never had, before or—yes, I will say it, for it is the truth—or since. That I had found her so serendipitously felt to me a minor miracle.
It would occasionally become convenient for the sake of a case that the both of us would don men’s personas to gain admittance to a club or gambling den, or other even less savory places where so-called decent women dared not tread. On the first of these occasions we went in disguise to a ball, as man and wife; myself as the husband (though I did not use the name Dr. Watson) and Holmes as the lady on my arm; she was skilled with make-up, and so was able to hide her features as to appear as another woman entirely. This was quite early on, perhaps the second year of our acquaintance, but I can still recall with clarity the sensation of her arm in mine, leaning ever so slightly against me as we walked the floor. By then I had regained much of my health and weight from before my illness and so I was proud to anchor her, to be a solid presence by her side as she guided us here and there, listening covertly to conversations the intrigue of which, along with my old notebooks, has long been lost to time. What I can remember still is the cloying scent of her perfume, the shine of silver necklaces against the fine pale column of her neck, the way her sharp, scarred knuckles felt against my lips when I bent to kiss her ungloved hand. So too can I remember the way this all sent my heart beating like a nervous maid’s, though a maiden I was certainly not, but being with her on such outings seemed always to have that effect on me.
She would not have tolerated me saying so then, and indeed might not entirely appreciate it now, but Holmes was beautiful. She was beautiful as a force of nature is beautiful, yes, but she was also beautiful as a woman is, or as the case may sometimes be, as a man is. I admit I took every opportunity to linger upon her, in disguise or out, though of course when we were disguised it was easier. As her husband or, occasionally, her wife, I could drink my fill and we could both pretend it was part of the ruse. We never spoke of it, of course, not then, and I myself barely knew what I would have said of it at the time. I did not understand why the sight of her should be so desirous to me, except as aesthetic admiration. Neither did I understand why she should look at me so, in those quick, furtive yet dark glances of hers, when my disguise was hardly as impressive.
I cannot now recall the precise moment in which I decided to remain on Baker Street with Holmes for as long as she would permit me, but it must have happened soon after that ball. I was by then making a good living working at the clinic, so there was no practical reason for me to stay, except for the fact that it was intolerable to think of living anywhere else. A life in a singleton flat would be lonesome, and the idea of marriage was entirely out of the question. Moreover I had found within the homey walls of that flat what must surely have been the source of all adventure in London, perhaps all of England, and one of the most fascinating companions therein. To my relief Holmes never broached the subject of altering our arrangement, and seemed as content as I to remain a pair in 221b.
I should hope that my narratives have served to illustrate, if nothing else, that Holmes is not so callous and uncaring a person as she would like some to believe. However she has always guarded fiercely her independence from those with the power to take it from her—the police, the Crown, and most especially the occasional clients who have come to us with maligned intentions. There was nothing she despised more than being treated delicately, with which I deeply empathized, for I did not enjoy the treatment either—as a woman or an invalid, for I had been both. Still there were times, even early on, that I longed to lend a soft touch to her, provide a kind word and a shoulder to lean on. I wanted to give her a bit of care, as she had had precious little of in her life.
I did not fully understand the nature of this feeling, nor its source, until the summer of 1885. It was thanks to, of course, a case; not one intriguing enough to ever be put to press except for this remarkable, singular moment which occurred as we were cornering the criminal on a darkened London street.
We had both been chasing him across the cobblestones, the Yard too slow as usual and far behind us. We managed to herd him into an unlit alleyway, whereupon he did something not even Holmes could have prevented and pulled a pistol from his belt, half-turning to empty it in our direction.
My reaction was immediate and automatic, borne from my time in India—having no time to draw my own revolver, I lunged to the side to shove Holmes out of the way, shielding her with my body, as the bullets struck the cobblestones where we had just been standing. Her back collided with the brick wall of the alleyway and then I collided with her, producing a grunt of pain from both of us. For a moment we could do nothing but stand there, breathing hard, absorbing the fragility of our mortality, as the criminal’s footsteps echoed further and further away.
Gradually I became aware that my arms were wrapped around her in a kind of embrace, and my front was flush to hers. I could not catch my breath; the adrenaline was making my heart pound damnably fast and hard. My eyes were level with her chin and I raised them to meet hers.
I do not know what I must have looked like at that moment, but I saw her expression change as she stared down at me, her sharp eyes widening, her thin lips parting in silent surprise. For what felt like several moments we stood and stared at one another, my arms still locked protectively around her, pinning her to the brick wall at her back. Rather uncharacteristically Holmes did not try to pull away, though I knew she loathed being touched and surely she must have resented my manhandling. Instead, I felt her gloved hands come up to lightly hold my arms as though to steady herself as she leaned against me. Dully I felt the discomfort of my wounded knee from our collision, but it was a small thing compared to the elation which had suffused every nerve within me.
To have saved her—I had never done such a thing before, not for her, who was so reckless with herself, and not in a capacity beyond my trade. I had of course saved myself as well, but such a fact seemed inconsequential in the face of her open, shaken countenance, blessedly safe in my arms. In my convalescence I had not been certain to ever be at full strength again, to be able to use my body for physical protection, and yet there was I, and there was she.
It was a euphoric feeling, almost revelatory, which rose up within me then, as I realized that I would risk almost anything for the sake of this woman. I would stand before the muzzle of a gun for her, inhale poison for her, follow her in mad chases across the city towards murderers and thieves and worse. To be permitted to be her guard, her protector—this was all I wanted in the world.
I stared up at her and longed to tell her this, and perhaps I might have gathered the strength to if it were not for the police whistle which rang out at just that moment. We both snapped to attention and Holmes darted out of the shadows to shout that their man had fled down the opposite way. I followed shortly after, still somewhat stunned by what had just transpired.
When all was done with that night—the Yard did manage to capture the fiend, so all was not in vain—the two of us tiredly fell into a cab which would return us to our rooms. It was not a long drive but I found myself nodding off anyway, until Holmes, entirely hidden in the dark beside me, said, “I must thank you for your rescue tonight, Watson.”
My heart stuttered in my chest at the mention of it, from nerves, I suspected. ”I am only grateful I was quick enough. My reflexes are not what they were.”
“You were quick as a viper,” she said, then paused. “Well, perhaps not a viper. I shouldn’t like to compare you to such a loathsome creature. As a cheetah, then—you observed those in India, did you not?”
I laughed. “They are not native to India, no, but I have heard of their prowess and speed. I will gladly accept the comparison.”
“As well you should,” said Holmes. Her hand was upon my arm, and I could not say for certain when it had landed there. “You were very extraordinary.” It was then the conversation ended, for we had arrived at Baker Street.
The incident occupied my thoughts for many days after. I told myself repeatedly that while Holmes might need to be minded in domestic life, to be kept fed and watered and away from her damned needle, she who practiced a breadth of martial arts surely did not need a bodyguard. Yet after that incident it seemed to me that, although we did not discuss the matter any further, there was a shift in Holmes’ manner towards me. She who had once spurned any contact began sitting near to me, hovering close by my shoulder when I wrote and bringing me to stand close by her side when she was looking over the scene of a crime. She would take my arm when we walked together, and would even on occasion come to lay her head upon my lap when we rested in the evenings.
My heart sang at this proximity; she had gifted me the rare and precious thing that was her trust, and I was at once humbled and proud to have it. Yes, I was proud; proud to be her chosen companion, her biographer and her witness, to be a quiet, impartial presence when she suffered from black moods and stupors, to be an anchor when her mind was flighty and her hands could not still, and proud most of all to be her defender in all things. I was reminded of the medieval knights of old, and of their code of chivalry; for although Holmes was certainly no damsel or royal maid I was content to be her Galahad, to give her the honor and respect that she was due. So few in her life, it seemed, truly appreciated her extraordinary powers, and even fewer appreciated her humanity. Most were far too eager to use her or to look upon her as a quaint oddity, to laugh when her back was turned or to balk at her unusual behavior. When I wrote of her I did my best to deny such people any satisfaction, to show them what I saw of her: a sharp and marvelous creature, utterly unique in this world, and as human as anyone has ever been. A higher honor I had no capacity to give.
In turn there was no one else Holmes entrusted with the more delicate sides of herself, with whom she shared her weaknesses, perceived or actual; and there was no one else she took such joy in, whose presence she tolerated above my own. I had little experience with friendships of such an intimate kind, but even I could see that she was as terribly fond of me as I was of her. I did not yet know, then, what that meant, but for the time, it was all I could ask for in the world.
For many years all was well with us, until the spring of 1889 when a man, at last, caught my wandering eye.
Mr. Morstan, despite the unfortunate circumstances of our acquaintance, was an unexpectedly welcome presence in my life. He had a bright, lively countenance and a soft voice, and he seemed perpetually in awe of Holmes and myself throughout the oblique business which I would eventually title The Sign of Four . He was a kind man, and these were unfortunately rare in my experience, witness as I was to the crimes of some of the worst men in England. At first I was most concerned he would discover my double life, and so kept him at great a distance as I dared, but when he visited us on Baker Street and had no qualms about Holmes’ choice of dress I found myself brave enough one night to show him all that was hidden in my wardrobe.
Strangely enough it was not that which ended things between us; in fact he was much supportive of my decision to become a doctor despite all. Nor, I hasten to say, was it Holmes’ disapproval of the matter, which was palpable. At first I had thought she disapproved of Mr. Morstan in specific, but it became clear that she was quite upset at the idea of me leaving Baker Street for a married life that the both of us had long ago denounced. Yet she said not a word aloud about it to me, bearing it all with an uncharacteristic graciousness I did not fully recognize until later.
Perhaps I did love him, after all, if only for a time. To think upon it now, with the retrospect of many years, it seems so obvious that of course I was not in love with him—but I was still young and I cared for him deeply, and when you are young and care for someone deeply you often jump to the wrong conclusions.
And it was true, too, that I was afraid. With every passing day in that haven of 221b a suspicion in me grew that it was not to last, that it could not last. The two of us felt beyond the world, somehow, within those second-story walls, and just as window glass shatters if shaken in too rough a storm, I felt that something was going to give.
The last few weeks before my wedding day saw Holmes and I cold and distant towards each other. We rarely spoke, and when we did we snapped, like two disagreeable dogs. It pained me to live with her in such a way, yet half of that coldness was mine, for I had begun to feel the trap which I had so long avoided closing in upon me, and though I could admit it to no one, especially not to myself, in truth I was terrified. I had spent my life in pursuit of something more than marriage, and now here I was, stepping into it willingly, in love or no.
We finally had it out the night before the wedding, as I was gathering my things to leave 221b for the last time. All evening she lay supine on the settee by the window with her violin in her lap, plucking it restlessly. It had been almost impossible to extricate all of my belongings from the flat, for we had shared the space for many years by then and there was no telling which books belonged to whom, if my blanket had been left on the settee or on her bed, which pipettes and vials had begun in my medical bag and which had begun in her chemistry set. All the while I searched I could feel her eyes following me as I went from room to room.
At last I brought my last valise into the sitting room and idled in the doorway, wondering if it might be better or worse for me to go to her to say goodbye. I longed to shake her hand, or perhaps even put my arms around her.
It was she who broke the silence. “You will visit, I expect.”
“As often as I can, Holmes. At least once a week, perhaps more, if you will have me—I will only be as far away as Kensington.”
“That will do nicely,” she said, but her voice held no inflection. There was a pause, and then, softer, “I will miss having you here at Baker Street.”
“I will miss you too, Holmes. Very much.” I could not keep the strain from my voice, as pressure built behind my eyes. “I wish—”
But there was nothing to say. I could not admit now that I did not want to go, that I did not want to be a wife, no matter what affection I might have held for my fiancé. It was too late, it was already done, and I was powerless to halt the progress of the train I had boarded long ago.
Her eyes were upon me, bright sparks of flint in the darkening light. “Stay, Watson,” and her voice was quiet and a little desperate, “stay here, with me. Your armchair should not be empty.”
Suddenly I was blindingly angry. How dare she ask me this now, I thought, when all she had done for weeks was mope about and avoid my gaze, how dare she offer an olive branch when the hour for rescue had already passed. “I cannot,” I said to her, every word venomous in my throat, “remain here on Baker Street, with you, for ever. I cannot continue going about in disguise and spending my week-ends bounding across the countryside at your behest; I cannot flee from the inevitability that is the fate of any woman who wishes to live in this world without derision and suspicion.”
“And what of myself?” came her bitter voice. The room was so dark now that I could no longer make out her expression. “Am I also doomed to eventually bend to the demands of polite society, or else doomed to be ostracized? I am as much a woman as any, am I not, and thus equally fit for the inevitable taming of marriage?”
“You are—” My voice caught, and my hand fluttered in the air, half-reaching. “You are—unique, Holmes. You are something special, and beautiful, and—I cannot be that. God help me, I have pretended, for a time, but I cannot be that.”
“Watson, you are—” But then she seemed to stop herself, as though realizing there was no point to arguing any further.
How to tell her, that I longed above all else to be her equal, that I envied how easily and well she knew herself? That I wanted to know myself in just the same way as she seemed to know me? How certain she was, of us both, and how dearly I wished to see what she saw, to know what obvious clue I had missed which was hiding in plain sight.
But there was a world beyond our curtained windowpanes, a world which must capitulate to that old villain practicality, a world I had to somehow inhabit.
“The holiday is ending,” I said to her, turning from the darkness of the room, and picked up my valise to go. I half-expected to hear her protest, to have the final word, but there was silence.
I paused in the doorway, and by some instinct I cannot name even now I felt the urge to turn to look at her one last time. There is another world, another life, in which I did not do so and simply stepped through the door, and that is a life I care not to imagine. For when I turned back I saw the shadowed, dear line of her silhouette against the yellow window-light, her hair mussed at one side and the careless dip of the violin held loosely in one hand, her head tilted away so that she would not see me as I went. It was a beautiful, impossibly sad sight, one that I can even now envision with perfect clarity as I close my eyes, and in the manner of the thaw of icicles in spring something hard in my heart snapped then, and broke away.
I dropped my valise at the threshold and she started at the sound, turning to look but I was already at her side, placing a hand at her waist and on the nape of her neck, feeling the strands of hair that had come loose from their bun, relishing for just a moment the look of genuine surprise upon her face as I leaned down to press my lips to hers.
It lasted only for a second before I pulled away, some semblance of fear emerging from deep in my breast, and we spent a moment looking at one another across a gulf of centimeters, our eyes darting back and forth. She still lay in a heap upon the settee and I was half-sat awkwardly by her hip, my hands still upon her. My knee protested vehemently but I did not move. I had taken perhaps ten breaths before I thought to open my mouth to beg her forgiveness but I had barely gotten out one syllable before she sprang forward and captured me.
All at once her hands were eagerly at my sides, round my shoulders, in my hair, and her lips, dry and unpracticed, were rough against mine, and everything was bliss. The violin lay upon the floor and I could not even spare a thought for its safety. I’d no idea she felt so passionately, for indeed a passion like that must have been festering silently for a long time, and my head was dizzy with how she clung to me, her long, thin fingers entwined in my lapels, in my hair, in my own hands, as if she, too, had been starved of the warmth of the two of us together. Oh, how my engagement must have weighed upon her, and how I regretted every moment of that suffering. Hang the world, I thought, hang practicality and conventionality, hang expectation and propriety, hang the Crown and all its enforcers, and I kissed her back with all the love I could express without words, with all of the apologies I could not make.
I had not known, until that moment, who or what I was; but lying half-atop her on that settee it all became marvelously clear.
“You will stay with me?” Her voice was breathless and close, there in the dark.
“I will stay with you,” I said to her, and indeed in that moment I could not imagine the thought of leaving her again.
I will not say that Mr. Morstan took the annulment of our engagement happily, but he took it as graciously as could be expected. For after all and in the end he was a decent man, and bade me farewell and good luck when all was done. We did not speak again until many years later, when he had found himself a wife who, I hoped, would give him what I could not.
Meanwhile Holmes and I—Holmes and I. We went on, I suppose, just as we had, and yet not. I kept my practice, I kept notes on her cases, I kept rambling about the city with her arm in my own, I kept chasing criminals across London, my knee be damned. She kept her fine silver eyes upon me.
The depth of her affection for me I could never have guessed at before, and indeed I would have been surprised if anyone else could have, for she kept her feelings quite to herself until we were alone, out of sight of the prying eyes of the world—at which point she reserved nothing.
Holmes set upon me with the same enthusiasm she set upon the most intriguing of cases, with ardor equal and perhaps even better than that she gave her chemistry experiments. I was examined as tobacco ash was examined, I was as coveted as a rare poisonous herb. Such comparisons I fear she might chide me for —The work is the work, and you are not work to me, Watson, I can hear her saying even now—but I find them to be not only accurate but flattering. It is a privilege rare and precious to be the center of Holmes’ attentions, to pull her gaze from a commonplace book by merely entering a room. I would gladly share an association with the catalogued soils of London if she were the one doing the cataloguing.
Then there was the matter of physicality, which to Holmes is a matter best left undiscussed and instead swiftly acted upon. If I made it to my armchair before she roused herself in the morning, she would take her cup of tea in my lap, her dressing gown languidly draped over my thighs with her sharp nose fitted against my collarbone. My figure was a good deal bulkier than hers, and it gave her great pleasure to immerse herself in it, as it gave me pleasure to place an arm around her waist or have her lean against me in the privacy of a hansom.
As such she was not at all reticent to share a bed with me, and all that such an arrangement entails. I was rather more experienced in such things than she, but I had never before been with a woman and so we both had much to learn. I will say, without detailing too much of our early, experimental trysts, that Holmes and I both proved to be passionate researchers.
I loved her as I had loved no other, man or woman, and though the nature of that love was new to me its ferocity was plain enough. It did not reach its pinnacle, however, until one evening when by happenstance we went to bed while I was in my masculine disguise. It had been a tiring day at my practice and I did not feel the need to change before we shared our usual nightly brandy, and as the night wore later and later I was less and less inclined to rise and change into my nightgown and slippers. So it was that when Holmes rose slowly from her chair and placed an indicative hand upon my lapel, I saw no reason to delay our intimacy with the business of appearing as a woman again. I had not thought it would make much difference, since our clothing would swiftly be rendered moot—and it was naught but clothing, after all.
I was quite incorrect.
Never before had I felt such fire in my blood. It was an almost incomprehensible pleasure to be with her in that way, as a man was with a woman, to place certain and guiding hands upon her—and yet it was not that, for I knew that if I were a man she would not give herself so eagerly to me, that she would not cry out and writhe under my adoring touch, that she would not grasp back hungrily—and yet it was my suit jacket that was removed, my trouser buttons that were undone, my cravat that was loosened—and it was my mouth that was soft on hers, and my broad palms which clasped her own thin ones, and my hair that came loose from its knot and fell tumbling onto her thigh, and my false mustache that we had to pause, laughing, to remove . . .
Never before had I felt so privileged to be hers, to be so heightened by her pleasure. When it was over I almost wanted to apologize, for I had never been so presumptive with her before, but she would have none of it and clung to me the rest of the night. Loath to be a selfish lover I was timid to suggest a revisitation, though my heart craved it so, but I needn’t have deliberated—three nights later when I came home from my practice she begged me to do it again. I had to stop her from kissing me in my doctor’s coat for fear of the transfer of germs.
It was soon made clear to me that we did not always have to appear in a certain way to achieve this ultimate of all pleasures, for our manner towards one another was far more significant to our enjoyment. Whether we were in trousers or slips, she liked very much for me to take charge, as it were; my captain’s voice proved nicely effective. In particular it came as no surprise to I who had seen her flush with pride at my effusions at her talents, that she was quite responsive to praise, and I was glad for the opportunity to compliment her in a more colorful fashion. In tandem with this she loved being held tightly and close, all the better to be underneath me. Holmes in turn was quite, and I say this with complete affection, a vocal and demanding bedmate, who liked to tell me precisely what I was doing wrong and how I might correct it—until I did something marvelously right, and then she could not quite manage to find the words.
I was not a wife and I knew I would never be, but I have scarcely known a pair of newlyweds to be as happy as Holmes and I were during that time. We had not quite two halcyon years together, and then—well, I have written all the rest already.
I do not like to speak, even now, of the years she was away from me. My writings sufficiently express, I feel, the pain I felt at her absence and the relief at her return, and so I will say little of it here, save which is pertinent to this account.
The guilt I felt for her demise was crushing and complete, for I knew that I had failed her. I had sworn to lay down my life for her, or else to fight for her until my last breath, yet I was not even present when she was in the greatest need of me. Not since my discharge had I felt so useless. To myself I was as a disgraced knight, a guard who had failed his duty to his charge, and I had not even the catharsis of punishment—unless the guilt itself was to be my punishment, and the cold, empty space by my side that had once been hers.
I mourned her dearly, as a spouse, and though I dared only to don the mourning black for a fortnight I could not remove from my heart the blackness that had settled there, which I had thought to carry for the rest of my days. I attempted to continue to live at Baker Street for perhaps a month before I could bear it no longer, for it was yet full of her clutter and bric-a-brac, which I had so often chided her for and was now at once a cherished memory and a punishing reminder.
My savings were significant by then, so it was no fiscal hardship to purchase a one-bedroom flat nearer to Dr. Watson’s offices in Kensington. I was of course still appearing as a man at my work, and had grown quite accustomed to it after so many years. At some undefined point it had ceased to be a disguise, and had simply become another item in my wardrobe. Yet there was sometimes a twinge of sorrow when I would don my work clothes, when I remembered what it had been like to wear those clothes alongside her, to be able to go about in public as the man on her arm. No longer, I thought, would I be that to anyone; for I expected never to love or be loved in such a way again.
Yes, there were women who took an interest in the unmarried and soft-spoken Dr. Watson, whose private life was a mystery and whose hands leant a soft and understanding touch; and there were men who saw the aggrieved, lonesome Miss Watson who sat day by day at her writing desk and spoke very little; but neither would have wanted the other half of me.
For there was, by then, another half of me. That long three years served at least one great purpose, for it was in my solitude that I began to discover more of myself. I had reached a revelation that first time I had been with Holmes, but I had not known another was all the time sneaking up upon me, like a jungle-cat in the brush.
Of the women I have met, chiefly in the army, who have worn the guises of men, I have known it only to be either a burdensome necessity to them or an amusing game of play-acting. My experience was unlike either; Dr. Watson was neither burden nor flight of fancy, but rather like an old friend, and then, in time, a facet of myself. I cannot say if I became more like him or he became more like me. Perhaps there is no meaningful difference between the two.
I began to go about in public in my bowler hat and suit without the pretense of my work, merely as a gentleman roaming the city. I had never appeared as a man before without purpose, and the ease of it was shocking to me. I bowed to ladies and nodded at fellow gentlemen, held open doors and doffed my hat. It was not pantomime—I felt as a man would have felt. Perhaps even moreso, for I doubt someone who had lived as a man his entire life would have felt so honored to be called “sir” by passersby without a second thought. I was not merely accepting of it; I was joyous of it. And though it would seem to follow that I should feel utter discomfort when I went about as a lady again, this did not prove true. I still answered to “miss” when I wore my hair long, and this was no pantomime either.
The practice of rising in the morning to choose the mode of the day became something of a joy, a spark of brightness which I had never expected to grace my days again without Holmes by my side. It was true that I could not dress as a woman when I went to my practice, and there were some days when I itched to get out of my stifling trousers, but when my time was my own I was free.
Still, my newfound joy was a solitary one. I kept few acquaintances. Our Irregulars would visit me asking for work or, more often, a bit of company, both of which I was only too glad to provide. Mrs. Hudson and I shared dinner every Friday night like clockwork—at my new flat, for I would not walk Baker Street again for some time yet. Lestrade, who had proved to be a worthy ally to us in our work, would sometimes join these dinners, and the three of us would toast to her memory.
Writing of her was a great solace during those dark years. I would often be up long after the candles had been lit going over my old notes and newspaper clippings, sometimes scribbling away with my pen but equally often simply fondly reading, and remembering her.
There was one incident which I have never written of, and which stands clear in my memory. Perhaps a month after the third anniversary of her disappearance, a time of year which always saw me particularly low, I stepped into my flat after a day of long hours and little patience to find a bouquet of red and white roses had been left upon my dining table, in a fresh vase. I had thought at first that it had been delivered by one of my Irregulars on behalf of a client, but none confessed to know anything of the matter. My landlady had not known anyone had even been in my room while I was away.
No one I spoke to could guess, at the time, who could have been so brazen as to covertly gain entry to my flat, take nothing, and leave only flowers. They were very lovely, of good quality, and I kept them watered and on my windowsill. Whenever I glanced at them my chest would ache, for I could not prevent myself from entertaining, however briefly, that unthinkable idea of who might have left them there. It was pain and elation at once, to consider such a possibility.
The rose petals had not quite begun to brown at the edges when Holmes at last returned to me, her extraordinary form standing before the sunlit windows of my study. It was as two men that we embraced, and anyone who might have happened to look between the eaves of the oak trees into the second-story window of my practice would likely have been quite scandalized to see the reputable Dr. Watson consorting so readily with a common beggar.
I had never known Holmes to shed tears, in fact to this day I have witnessed her do it only thrice, and the first was that day when we saw each other again. I held her fast as we both surrendered to equal parts joy and sorrow. The feeling of her in my arms again, my purpose returned to me, my strength renewed and my heart again complete, must have been as close to heaven as we mortals may experience on this earth. I swore to her then that I would never again let her go, not caring a whit that such a promise was impossible to keep, for in that moment I felt that I could keep it—that I could defy the world entire and guard her as my own for the rest of time.
Of course I could not. But she is with me now, still, and that is all that I have ever wanted in the world.
It should come as no surprise that our time away had irrevocably changed us both. I believe Holmes had hoped we might resume precisely where we had left things, and though my publications might have given the impression that this was so, it was not quite as neat as all that.
Though we resumed our cohabitation on Baker Street almost immediately, we were not intimate again for some time. There was a cautious distance between us now as we relearned one another’s habits. Holmes was more world-weary than she had been, more trepidatious. There was an exhaustion in the lines of her face and the hang of her shoulders, and I probably seemed much the same. She had also begun to wean herself off of the cocaine, a project which she brought to me with great humility and foresight, and for her confidence I was speechlessly grateful.
My newfound self-discovery was surprising to her. She had always understood Dr. Watson as a means to an end, or at best a set of attractive costumes, but when I explained to her that he and I were one and the same, and that I felt at times as much a man as I did a woman, her eyes widened and she nodded very sharply, placing a finger upon her lip as though I were a puzzle to be solved.
“It is a very extraordinary thing, Watson,” she said later, after several minutes of thoughtful silence.
I took my pipe out of my mouth and said, “It is odd, I know, but it is what I feel.”
“Not odd, no—extraordinary. The branches of human experience are varied indeed. You must tell me more about it, Watson, if you’ve the patience for me.”
I did not have to tell her that my patience for her was infinite. I did so anyway, and I told her all I could of the matter, which I have described here in words much more refined. As I spoke I watched, quietly thrilled, as her eyes grew bright and her expression took on that look which I knew and craved so well: the hound upon the scent, the cat with its claws extended. Though she did not once speak I could almost see that wonderful brain of hers whirring and sparking with life. When I was done, she sat up and looked at me, and there was never a sight so beautiful as her face alight with the excitement of discovery. With a toss of her skirt she went to me and drew me into a kiss, one of the first we had shared since her return, and I had barely enough time to respond before she broke away again.
“Wait here,” she said, breathless, already shrugging into her coat.
I glanced around me. “What—here in the flat?”
“Yes! Don’t go anywhere, I shall not be long,” she said, with a tip of her hat, and then she was out the door.
I busied myself with my writing, nonplussed as to what she could have found so urgent that she had to run out immediately. Not quite two hours later Holmes returned, her cheeks and nose flush with the brisk autumn air and a smile upon her face. With swift, decisive motions she shed her gloves, coat, and hat and tossed them carelessly in the direction of the settee—not all of them made it—and came to kneel next to my desk chair, where my pen had ceased to move.
“Holmes—”
“My dearest Watson, I must apologize for my swift exit but I could not wait another second. I had to be alone, you see, in complete silence and solitude, and I could hardly ask you to vacate the flat on a cold day which has already been troubling your knee. I went to my brother’s club where I could sit and think unbothered, and I am very pleased to report that your account has been quite illuminating to me, and borne a fruitful hour or so of contemplation.”
I looked down at her, at her flushed face and pleased expression, which always meant an answer sought and found.
By inches, I began to smile back at her. “Holmes,” said I, “you are . . . ?”
Her fingers closed around my shirtsleeve. “I believe I am. You are not angry with me, are you? For robbing you of your—your revelation?”
I laughed. “Holmes, I fail to see how you could have robbed me when nothing has been taken. This is wonderful, joyous news—though I must say I envy you the speed of your conclusion.”
“Were it not for your own hard-won findings, Watson, I would perhaps have never come to mine. Once again you have proven yourself my invaluable conductor of light.” Her voice was hushed, and I understood the depth of her appreciation.
“I had thought,” I said to her, her chin still upon my knee, “that your whims of costume were only that. I did not realize you—felt, as I feel, the joy of embodying them. Of becoming them.”
“I do. I have. There are days when I am loath to be womanly at all, and days when I cannot think to be anything else, and yet other days when neither is appealing to me. For so long I had thought it was—a pathology, of some sort, another eccentricity among so many others of mine, not one I cared to examine. To know that my Watson, so impeccably sane and steadfast, shared such thoughts—you cannot know the relief I felt, my dear.”
“I am glad,” I said, through misty eyes, “I am very glad to give it to you, Holmes.” And I bent to kiss her brow.
I have never had a greater privilege than to be at Holmes’ side after her revelation. Though I had known us to already be a complementary pair, there was now an even deeper thread of understanding which connected us, a commonality which I had never thought to share with another human being. It was yet another gift she had given me, which I was happy to repay with a devotion matched only by the look of gratitude in her eyes when I expressed it to her.
Once again we began to walk about the city arm in arm, and lie together innocuously in the evenings. There was always the promise of more, a future point at which we would know one another once again, but we did not hurry it. After all the love had not died between us, only changed its shape, and there were perhaps two months of careful orbiting about one another in our crowded rooms, watching the other’s movements and eyes, before gravity drew us together once again. No—I should not call it gravity, a dumb thing which cannot have intention or thought. When we met again we met deliberately, with our eyes open.
I suppose my loyal readers would not be surprised to know that the catalyst for our rejoining directly followed the singular events which I have described in The Devil’s Foot. To Holmes’ later chagrin, I could not stop myself from devoting a paragraph or two to Holmes’ heartfelt reaction to my rescue of us both from her experiment with the horrible, noxious gas, and the depth of my feeling for her in that moment. To leave out such an exchange would have been to obfuscate an important moment in the case, but there was of course no narrative reason to mention the grateful kiss she placed upon my lips afterwards, as we lay recovering in the grass.
Nor was there cause to describe what transpired between us when the case had reached its conclusion and we returned to our little Cornish cottage, Holmes still at her triumphant height and my blood still singing from mere association to her brilliance.
“You meant it, didn’t you?” she said to me as we removed our coats by the door.
“Meant what?” Holmes had a habit of continuing without preamble conversations which had long since been dropped, and so I struggled to recall what we had spoken of earlier.
“That it is your greatest joy and privilege to help me,” she said, a softness in her voice, and I turned to look at her, touched that she had recalled my words so exactly.
“Of course I meant it,” I said, a little incredulously, for how could she not know? But, I realized then, I had never told her, had I? Not in words. Though Holmes was a master of observation she often failed to see things which I thought were obvious—the discomfort of a witness, the frustration of a client. She knew I loved her, yes, and that she had my utter respect and loyalty, but had she any idea of that revelation which I had come to all those years ago in a darkened London alleyway, pressing her up against the harsh bricks of a wall, having just saved her life for the first of so many times?
Carefully I set aside my scarf and hat and went to her where she stood at the cold fireplace. Perhaps she had been intending to stoke it, or light a pipe, but now she only looked at me curiously. I took her hands—mottled and scarred, and every inch beloved—placed a kiss on each of them, and said to her, “For almost a decade I have known I would defend you to the death, and gladly so. I am grateful we have not yet reached that point, that my rescues of you have not required a sacrifice, but if that day should ever come, I would be honored to be your shield and sword. To be your—yes, to be your knight, your Galahad. You are mine to care for, do you see, and that care does not end when we pass the threshold of our lodgings, nor when there is blood shed or poison inhaled. Beyond my work, there is no higher cause I have ever had, and as a soldier never a more worthy charge.” I cleared my throat, for I had raised my voice a little with the strength of my conviction, and I went on more gently: “I am sorry you did not know before, my dear; I should have told you, but I had hoped my actions would suffice to show you the depth of my loyalty.”
There was silence for a long moment, as Holmes’ eyes stared into mine, our hands still clasped between us. At last she said, her voice a low murmur, “Watson, you keep surprising me. This cannot go on. For the sake of my heart, if nothing else.”
The corner of my mouth twitched into a brief smile. “Apologies, my dear. That is a very precious organ.”
“Perhaps I should not be so shocked. But I do not believe anyone has ever loved me so well.”
“I am honored to be the first and only.”
“But I should not like you to die for me, Watson.”
“Then do not make me,” I said, unflinching. Our faces were very close now. “Live, my dear, and neither of us will have to lose the other.”
“My dear Watson,” she murmured slowly, “I will do anything you ask,” and then her lips were on mine. What occurred shortly after I do not think I need to describe here, or in any other publication; I am sure the reader can surmise the general points.
We returned to Baker Street newly rejuvenated and life, as they say, went on. Holmes took cases, I took patients, and around us the city churned and teemed with equal parts beauty and horror, life and death. Things were as they had always been and, it seemed, would always be.
Yet something in us had changed, and this was that we no longer roamed London in disguise. For it was not a disguise to appear as ourselves, however multifaceted, in any manner that befit. Sometimes we were two black-clad, top-hatted gentlemen out to dine together, and sometimes two ladies with painted fans attending a concert, and sometimes in St James Park one might spot a tall, darkly-dressed woman on the arm of a shorter, sandy-haired man who carried a cane, the two of them rambling over the grass, speaking quietly and sweetly to one another, in the manner of lovers. And then, if one were to somehow peek between the curtains on the second story of 221b Baker Street, one might see two persons of indeterminate nature, pressed close to one another upon the settee, the shine of two half-empty brandy glasses upon the end table and the haze of cigarette smoke in the orange firelight.
One would not see that if they went to Baker Street now, of course. There is only one place in the world where one still may happen upon such a sight, and it is nowhere in London.
As I said at the start of this missive, I had hoped that with time, the incidents described here would no longer be remarkable, or indeed incriminating, as they were when we were young. I had hoped that they would become so commonplace that a working Londoner, at the newspaper stand or over his morning tea, might read them with the same unimpressed and implacable expression with which he took note of the results of a horse race he had not bet on. I had hoped we might have, in this decade so early in the century and yet so late in my life, risen beyond our immature fears and petty prejudices. Naïve of me, perhaps, to think things would turn so quickly—and indeed they have turned, but not in the direction I had wished for. On dark days it sometimes seems to me that things are worse than they have ever been.
We are trying. The young people, as Holmes calls them, give me hope, that we may hand off the world to their conscientious and eager hands, and see good things done with it. Perhaps not all will be set right, perhaps it will take their children and their children to see it done, and perhaps this letter may not be read for many years yet, but it will be here, when the time comes, even if Holmes and I are long passed on—though I pray we will yet live to see it.
She is here at my side now, fresh from the garden and still smelling of honey and roses, squinting at my pen as it crosses the page. My dear, your reading glasses are on the dining table. There, now she goes, with a huff of indignation and a proud toss of her head. I expect she will read all of this later, red pen in hand, to tell me all of the things I have missed or unnecessarily lingered upon, but I think she will not dislike it too much. There has always been room in her heart for a bit of romance, after all, and some things never change.