I never thought it’d happen, but it has. I have fallen in love with him. My dear Sherlock. I never meant for it to happen, but it happened. I have fallen in love with a man who cannot love me back.
It started a year ago. Holmes had not been busy with cases lately, and when he does not have a case to occupy him, he will, of course, turn to the cocaine-bottle. He had been using it more and more often lately, so that for weeks on end, he was either under the influence or suffering from its withdrawal. If it went on too much longer he would destroy himself. I had tried everything I could think of to distract him: concerts, lectures, police reports. I scoured the papers every day, looking for crimes and puzzles that might interest him. I even went so far as to have newspapers mailed from America, in the hopes that the wild young country might provide what England could not, but to no avail. He would look them over contemptuously, toss them aside or into the fire, and retreat into his needle and bottle. His health was deteriorating rapidly. He would neither eat nor sleep. Instead, he would lie on the sette for hours, almost days at a time, wrapped in the cold embrace of cocaine. It was breaking my heart to see such a great man reduced to such a state. I knew that he could easily die within a year. In desperation, I tried the only distraction left that I could think of: I offered myself as a lover.
I had long known that Holmes’s disdain for the fairer sex was a cover for his true attractions. Ever since I caught him staring at the muscular buttocks of a young workman who had come in to fix the drains, I could tell that his predilections were for his own gender. It is a common enough subterfuge; many men profess such a disdain for females in order to hide their true affections. Others, like myself, hide within a reputation for being ladies’ men, or go so far as to marry and produce children. If only the laws of England were different…but I digress.
One night, as Holmes was about to begin another round of self-abuse, I made my proposal. “Holmes, have you ever made love to another man?”
He stared at me blandly. “My dear fellow, you know very well that is against the law.”
“Yes, I know that, and I also know that you have flouted the law on many occasions when you believe that a higher justice can be served. I believe that you may also flout the law when you think it is unjust, such as the law prohibiting relations between males. So I repeat, have you ever made love to another man?”
“My dear Watson”-a long pause-“Yes. I have, on numerous occasions. Why do you ask?”
“Holmes, I find that I am of similar mind to yours, but my experience is more limited. In fact,” I paused, afraid to go on, “I have no experience at all. But I wish to learn. Will you teach me? I do not wish to give my body to a stranger, and you are the only man I trust not to betray me to the authorities. Please, Holmes, will you teach me?”
Holmes stared at me, the cocaine forgotten. “That is probably the most unusual proposal I have ever received, and one of the most refreshingly honest. At least you do not falsely proclaim your love for me, declare how entranced you are by my physical appearance, or shout some crude remarks such as ‘C’mere, guv’ner, wanna fuck me arse?’ Certainly I will instruct you, if you are certain you wish to learn.”
“I am.”
“Then let us proceed.” With those words he rose from the couch, gathered up a lit candle, took me by the hand, and led me upstairs.
That first night, he was very patient. I was not exaggerating when I said I had no experience. In fact, I was afraid of what might happen, how I might be used, how it would hurt. I almost expected the police to come bursting through the door to arrest us both. But Holmes was patient and gentle, and I daresay that I was a willing pupil. The night ended with myself, exhausted and content, sleeping in his arms. Over the next few months, Holmes taught me the ways of male sex. I learned every position I could imagine, and some I have never imagined before. I learned how to both take and give pleasure, and how pleasure could be mingled with pain. I learned that I could bring Holmes screaming to fulfillment within minutes of my touching him, and that I could also keep him on edge for hours at a time. I learned how it was to go blind with joy at the feel of a man’s mouth on my member, and what it was to collapse in ecstasy at the touch of a man’s tongue on my balls. All this Holmes taught me. One month passed, then two, then three. Between his tutoring of sex, and the new cases that inevitably came our way, Holmes found no need for his syringe, and it lay dusty and forgotten in the Morocco leather case. My teacher was fast becoming healthy and strong again. Then it happened. I learned I was in love.
The time was somewhat incongruous; it wasn’t during a night shared in bed, or an evening in front of the fire, dinner at Simpson’s, or an afternoon at a concert. It wasn’t even during a dangerous moment in a case, where one of our lives was in danger, and we suddenly realized how precious we were to each other. No, it was during a cab ride on a wet afternoon when I looked at Holmes and realized that he owned my heart. It was a bittersweet moment; Holmes had just finished another lecture on the foolishness of love and people in love. I was tempted to tell him that one of the biggest fools in love was sitting across from him, instead I buried my face in the paper, so as not to betray my tears.
I made love to him that night with desperate intensity, trying to convey the depth of my emotions with actions instead of words. We made love for hours, tumbling across Holmes’s four-poster bed. It was near dawn when we collapsed, sweating and spent, the bed sheets twisted and our clothes in tatters. “You are certainly coming along, Watson,” Holmes remarked after recovering his breath. “You will not need me as a tutor for much longer.” His remark chilled my heart. Did he mean that he would soon leave me for another man? Or worse still, push me out of his life altogether? Some of my distress must have shown in my face, for he frowned in concern. “Watson, are you all right? You’ve gone pale.”
“I’m all right, Holmes. Its just…might I sleep here tonight? It’s not long until morning, and I…would like some company tonight.”
“Why certainly, dear Watson, if it will make you feel better. You are certain you are all right?”
“Yes, of course, Holmes. I’m just fine. I’m just…lonely tonight.”
We settled down to sleep in each other’s arms, but even after Holmes drifted off, I could not sleep. I lay awake, trying not to imagine life without Holmes. Visions of a cold, lonely future without my friend and lover kept intruding into my mind. But what could I do? I could not declare myself; Holmes had said time and time again that love was an abhorrent notion, that he has never loved, that love detracts from logic and reasoning. I would not incur his contempt by declaring my love for him. I could move out, but why? Aside from my foolish emotions, there was no reason to move. We were friends and partners. Holmes had said many times that I was useful to him in his investigations, and I was always eager to join him in his work. I wrote many stories based on our adventures together, and our investigative practice has improved immeasurably as a result. No, there was no logical reason for me to move out, nor did I truly want to. 221b Baker Street had become home to me; I could not imagine living anywhere else.
No, the only thing to do was to go on as before. It would not be all bad, I suppose, at least not for Holmes. He would still have his partner and friend. When the time came, we would cease being lovers and go back to being friends. The police would be none the wiser for having worked with a pair of homosexual lovers. Holmes would have his regained health, I would have my friend and home in Baker Street, and England would have her celebrated detective. And the only damage done would be to my inconsequential heart.