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There was music, dance, and men—only men. It was a typical night of ball, except for two details; there were not enough people for that occasion to be considered a ball, and especially; there was no skirt. No man was inviting a lady to a dance, for there was no lady, which could be explained by the fact that the occasion was a ball for inverted men. And Holmes and I were there.
Well, we were not there to enjoy the party—what Holmes did not permit me, actually—but to investigate a man whose name was connected to a criminal organization. A web of crimes that continued invisible to the fools of the Scotland Yard—his words.
The house where the whole thing happened was an architectural nightmare located in an isolated place. The garden—or a ugly draft of it—was crowded with dwarf beech trees, with tortuous branches that looked like fingers pointing at us. There were many mud puddles everywhere, the result of last night’s rain. In the improvised ball-room many couples were dancing.
Holmes did not seem shocked by that. He did not care about the two men that were kissing in a dark corner of the room—or with their hands slipping by the secret places of their bodies. I also tried to remain perfectly neutral, but I am afraid that I demonstrated some astonishment.
“Watson, please, close your mouth,” said Holmes, pinching my arm.
He was running his falcon eyes by the ball-room; and when I followed his gaze—after closing my mouth—I noticed a man who, undoubtedly, was coming towards us. He seemed to be twenty-five years old, had a red-head, and the brilliantest smile that I have ever seen. I could have realised some details more if I had not been interrupted by Holmes, who for some reason put his hand into mine.
The young smiled at us, blushing, but when his eyes fell in the union of Holmes’ hand and mine, his radiant face turned into a frown. I almost asked Holmes what on earth was happening, but he abandoned my hand, and answered my question before it:
“You are attracting many glances, my dear,” he said. “We don’t want a passionate boy stalking you, don’t we?”
I raised an eyebrow. “I believe that he was glancing at you.”
“Nonsense,” he muttered, however.
After that, Holmes and I had a look at the place, and at the people, which seemed to clear his ideas. But his mouth, or even his face transmitted nothing that was walking by his mind.
As I was staring at him, he nodded, not to me, but to himself, and held my hand once more, pulling me outside of the house.
There were many couples, some of them kissing behind the pillars of the decadent house, others inclined in the horrible veranda, hand in hand, enjoying the company of each other.
“I would give,” said I while we entered in the shade of those tenebrous trees, “a pound by your thoughts.”
“Oh, Watson, I am sorry! I left you in the dark again.”
“Figuratively and literally,” I smiled, and he imitated me.
“Well, are you seeing those lovebirds going to the darkest part of the garden? I suspect that one of them is our man.” I looked at the direction that he pointed just to encounter no one. The gentlemen simply disappeared behind the trees. “Watson! I am an idiot! Where are their footsteps?” Holmes asked, but I suspected that did it to himself. “It is insane to look for that at this point of the night.” Then he threw himself on the grass, crawling to here and there, in his creature mode, holding his magnifying glass. He stopped it, however, seeming to hear something. I noticed a silhouette walking between the trees, coming in our direction. Two seconds after it, I was thrown against a dwarf beech by my friend, who glued his body on mine. By God! I wondered what the devil he was intending with that. There were two men, arm in arm, walking from the darkness. They certainly glanced one or two times at us, but I couldn’t see it. Everything that I saw was Holmes’ eyes, so close, illuminated by a spark of fun. He was laughing. I understood his plan, which consisted of pretending a romantic encounter between us at that garden, so that no man or creature had any suspicion about the nature of our presence there.
Honestly, I don’t consider myself a good actor, but as a man who lived with a drama lover for years, I’m obligated to know something about this matter.
Sherlock Holmes was so close to me, still looking me in the eyes. It happened in an instant! I inclined to him, held his handsome face, and kissed him on the lips.
What was he thinking about my performance? Was he thinking that I was exaggerating? The intensity of my desire was really very peculiar! But he did not seem to care about that, for his own mouth—his wonderful mouth—was moving against mine with an enchanting reverence. When we stopped the kiss, I looked at him. I waited for him, for a word, or a grimace, but he just stood in his place, blinking many times, all blushed.
“Holmes?”
“Watson!” He kissed me once more. “Hm! Excellent idea!”
I smiled, half trembled. “I thought that it would be convenient.”
“You’re right. But now—” He released me, to my disappointment. But why on earth was I disappointed? My friend had a look at the two men, and discreetly followed them. I put myself at his heels, still feeling the ghost of his lips in mine.
I blamed Holmes for the emotion that I felt while I was leaning against his body during that slow dance. Before it, we crossed all the ball-room, playing a hand-holding game. His delicate fingers touched mine as he hushed on my ear something about a make-believe romance. That “my dear Watson” was always on the tip of his tongue—which made me feel an absurd warmth. Our man was there, watching the dance of the couples, talking distractedly.
“If you continue to look at him this way, you will make a hole in his head,” I muttered, joining our cheeks.
Holmes held me by the waist. His delicacy of touch made a lot of sensations run through my body. Dancing with him was a thing that I never thought I would do. “I know that if I unglue my eyes from him for a second that bastard will run away.”
“Well, my dear,” I continued, feeling the Holmes’ breath against my ear. Then an absurd courage dominated me, or maybe it was that immense desire to prove my knowledge about drama again—anyway, I kissed Holmes once more. “Take care not to frighten the man.”
My friend smiled, his face winning a colour. He and I looked at each other deeply and slowly. Why were we looking at each other like that? I believed strongly that I would have encountered an answer if Holmes’ attention had not been robbed from me. Our man simply turned into smoke!
Our dance was interrupted, and after a fruitless search for the guy, Holmes stopped and laughed bitterly. “It seems that he really ran out of fear.”
When we arrived at home, my friend threw himself on his armchair. He remained in absolute silence for a few minutes, then noticed that I was also there and said: “Watson, can you see the motive which made me not call the police to-day?”
“You said that the crime web remains invisible to them, and say that they are fools too.”
He smiled slyly. “Exactly, my dear. But there is another thing.”
I thought. “The risk for those men?”
Holmes nodded. “I would hate to attract the police to that house. There a man can be who he is, without fear, although it is not a very charmed place. There a man can exhibit his heart without having the police breathing against his neck. Unfortunately, our society has a very small mind, and it is necessary that some people hide themselves from their cruel eyes.” He seemed dreamy, playing with his hat. “Can you see it?”
For some reason I blushed. “I can see it perfectly.”
My friend smiled a sad smile, closing his eyes. That matter inflamed in me an emotion which I didn’t know the name of. Naturally, my mind spinned, going back to the dark garden. Holmes’ hands on me, pushing me against the dwarf beech, his whisper in my ear, his mouth! Only these memories were enough to get me dizzy! If that was only pretending on his part, what was that after it?
My mind went back to that moment when Sherlock Holmes curled his arm around mine. We were together, going to exit like one of those couples. There was a funny bright in his eyes which I will never forget. It was a wonderful night, which kept wonderful even when we entered that ugly garden. Ah! The breeze was so cold, but I couldn’t care less; for Holmes’ body was so close to mine, and all his warmth was invading me. I would make a comment observing that dwarf beech trees are a terrible choice for a garden if my partner had not interrupted my thoughts.
“You’re enchanting to-night,” he commented. There was not an alive soul near to us who justified our pretending. I looked at him just to encounter a playful smile, the surprise certainly stamped on my face.
“Oh, Holmes,” murmured I, feeling my cheek get hot. I never thought of him as a gallant man. Yes; he was a handsome man, his manners belonged to a gentleman! But his deep indifference to romance when united that performance was very queer. However, I ignored that implication, squeezing his arm with tenderness. We walked by a small path which cut through the garden. The street was fortunately empty, only Holmes, I, and the gas light poles to illuminate us. He just released me when we entered a fiacre.
My hand missed his all the way. I was the saddest creature in the world. Why did I believe in that lie? And with that question in my brain I observed him in our living room. I asked myself if he had noticed my intensity when I kissed him. Did he suspect that I was inverted? After all, honestly, even I was considering it. And when you live with Sherlock Holmes, your thoughts are not only yours. He would not contempt me, I knew, given his compassion with those men of the ball. But he would not be reciprocal—his unromantic nature would not permit it.
“We live in a world of fools,” he replied, belatedly, taking his cigarette-case.
That night, I went to my bed very early, but before it I saw my companion in his place at the window, looking out, with his typical cigarette in his lips. His thoughtful pose so family to me said that he, in that particular moment, was not talking.
I spent some time tossing and turning in my bed, thinking and thinking, and a lot after it, I finally fell asleep. I had not a nightmare, but woke up, still during the night, feeling a sensation of being observed. I sat up in my bed just to encounter my friend there too.
“Holmes!” I cried. “You scared me!”
He ignored my censure. “Watson, don’t you mind sleeping in the same room as a lunatic, a cuckoo, an inverted, don’t you?”
“What oh, Holmes! Not a bit.” Then I realised what he said, and with an evident shock, I put my hand on my mouth. “You? Inverted?”
My companion looked at me, amusing. “Is that all that you heard?”
“That is all that surprised me.”
“You— you— but it is obvious, Watson! Did you really not know? By Jove!”
“How would I know?” I asked, abruptly.
“I have always been single. I told you many times about my disinterest in women.”
“I thought that you were disinterested in romance!”
He raised his eyebrows. His surprise turned into worry. “Our kiss in the garden— well, you surely would not do it if you knew.”
“I would have done it. I would have done it long before.”
A little smile appeared on his lips, and he blushed. “And now? Would you do it?”
He did need to say nothing more. I threw myself against him, and kissed his mouth. Holmes’ hands nervously grabbed my hair, pulling it softly, which sent a shiver through my body, and made me realise that the nature of my feelings for him was a lot deeper than I imagined. I also noticed that Holmes seemed to know about kiss art, but I did not stop our moment to ask about that. I should put a limit on my curiosity, however, there I was, untying the knot of Holmes’ dressing gown. I libertad his neck from that wear, and I kissed every inch of his skin. He groaned, and my pulsation suddenly beat in many places of my body—
“Watson?”
“Hm?”
“Don’t you mind sleeping in the same bed as a lunatic, a cuckoo, an inverted, don’t you?”
“Not a bit,” I replied, kissing his handsome mouth again.