by Miss Roylott
I nodded. "I know."
"I told the other Irregulars about you, and we thought it were time that we said hello to you, friendly like, so I come to give you this." He took out of his pocket a folded bit of paper and handed it to me.
I unfolded it and found a message, roughly scrawled, followed by the signatures of the six lads. The message was spare and to the point. "Hello, Dr. Watson. Good luck with Mr. Holmes. You'll need it."
I laughed. I thanked Wiggins for cheering me up and squeezed his shoulder.
He giggled and then got up to go, before he remembered another duty he'd been charged with. "Oh, Doctor," he whispered, "Dennis wants me to ask would you mind helping his mother when she has her next baby? It's coming in another month."
"Come fetch me, then."
"Yes, sir. 'Bye." He put on his cap and scurried downstairs again.
In Wiggins I could picture the whole lot before me. The dirty and ragged street urchins had shocked both Mrs. Hudson and myself at first sight, yet they were growing on us now. What a rascally, charming bunch of boys! No wonder they had been curious about me that first day! To them, I was the interloper in Holmes's life; I was the curious newcomer.
As I sat alone contemplating my interview with Wiggins, I became aware once more of the continued strains of Holmes's violin. Slipping the Irregulars' note in my pocket, I got to my feet and went to Holmes's door, knocking on it. "Holmes, you can come out now!"
The music stopped, and after a moment he came to the door and put his head out. "He's gone, is he?"
"Yes." I went over to the side table, looking for any remaining food.
"I suppose you won't tell me what the boy wanted?"
"No." I settled for pouring myself a glass of brandy.
"Why don't you just ring? I'm sure Mrs. Hudson put your meal aside and will be happy to know that you've regained your appetite."
His prediction was correct, and as I ate my belated meal at the table, Holmes lingered within the room, sitting on the sofa and scraping away at his violin. I suppose he was still hoping I would talk. His predicament made me think of a father finding out that he was no longer the favourite in his son's eyes. Not that I believed myself to be favourite now. Mrs. Hudson filled that role nicely, in my opinion, and I was glad that she had found someone to mother now that her beloved old terrier was gone.
I began to wonder how the Irregulars had first met Holmes and become his personal army of spies, and as I did so, a most ungenerous thought occurred to me about the nature of their relationship to the consulting detective. I tried to dismiss the abhorrent suspicion, but could not, especially considering my past experience of Holmes's deviant proclivities. He had most definitely wanted a man once, though he claimed to have since given up the vice. Might he not have acquired another vice for young boys? I desperately hoped not; it would be too disturbing to live with.
So I uneasily turned around to Holmes and interrupted his violin-playing. I had to ask, for my peace of mind. "Holmes," I cleared my throat, "about those boys, Wiggins and the rest, you don't—um? There isn't anything untoward, uh—?"
He had been looking at me with faint annoyance at my incoherence, but his eyes widened suddenly as he realised my suggestion. "No, no, of course not! I would not dream of interfering with the boys, Watson. Besides simply the indecency of it, there is the fact that they should never trust me or work for me again."
I should have known it, and I felt immediately guilty for having doubted him, but he reassured me, shaking his head.
"I cannot blame you for thinking it, I suppose, for they also checked me out rather thoroughly when we first met." He winced ruefully with the memory. "They demanded to know why I was a peculiar, laboratory-haunting bachelor with no friends."
"What did you say?"
"I told them of my complete dedication to my profession and let them spy on my cases for a while until they clamoured to take part. They are all orphans or from poor families, so they are naturally wary of the dangers of the street, especially the lurking scoundrels that scheme to enslave them into vile service. In fact, they had the beginnings of their own network when I met them, spying and watching out for one another. I recruited them for their cunning and savvy, and I am glad to think that their wages from me help in their survival."
"Ah, so your interest in them is charitable!"
"Respectful," he corrected, "and they earn their wages thoroughly by their work."
I laughed at his evident sympathy and fondness for the boys. It pleased me to think of Holmes as a kindly philanthropist. "So you are a saint, then?" I asked with amusement.
He made a face at me, then looked away with a blush. "Not entirely." He smiled slyly. I knew he must be thinking of our wicked episode in the closet; it came to the fore of my mind as well. He picked up his violin again and resumed his abandoned melody.
I could not let it go at that, however; the temptation was far too strong. I rose from the table and went to him, standing close until he could ignore me no longer.
He put down his bow and violin. "What is past is past," he whispered.
"It need not be." I caressed his face with my hand and tried to turn him to me.
He would not look at me, keeping his eyes closed.
I leaned down and kissed his cheek, as he had kissed me at midnight. Then I tried to kiss his lips, but his hands came up defensively, and he held me apart from him.
"You want me. You still want me," I insisted.
He stubbornly held me away by the shoulders, and I listened to him breathe raggedly for several moments. Finally he swallowed and told me, "Close the curtains."
I did so, quickly, and returned to him. He had risen from the sofa and stood now before our fireplace, shaking a bit. I took him into my arms and he sighed, meeting my eyes at last. He kissed me, and I urgently opened his mouth to mine. He tasted the same tobacco-laden way. "You remember?"
He nodded. We kissed, so fiercely, and I even started to untie the sash of his dressing-gown. But he broke away from me suddenly, changing his mind. "No. We must appear before the magistrates Thursday."
"What?" I clung to him.
"Thursday. You must get your rest, and read the manuscript. I must prepare my evidence. No." He pushed free of me and retreated into his bedroom, locking the door.
"Holmes? Please," I begged. I leaned upon his door, listening for him. "Let me in."
He answered faintly, "Not tonight. Not now. Another time."
I was somewhat encouraged, but still frustrated. "Why not now?"
"They'll know."
"Who? The magistrates? How could they?" I wrenched at his doorknob, wishing I knew how to pick a lock.
"Mrs. Hudson—she'll check that you are well in the morning. The workmen—they'll return to bring the new glass. Gregson and Lestrade—I telegrammed them to come tomorrow and see the manuscript from Hope's ally, to bring it before the magistrates. We shall scarcely be alone all day."
"But we are alone now," I insisted.
"There is not time. I will not recover, I will not be myself again. You could not, either."
"Don't speak of it like an illness."
"Is it not like a fever?" he asked, almost fondly. Then after a moment, he warned, "We would be ruined if anyone suspected."
"You had no compunction about that before!"
"That was five years ago."
"It was yesterday!"
I waited there for many minutes, aching for him and hoping he would succumb to the memory of what we had done in that anonymous closet. How we had groped blindly in dark for one another, unable to keep from knocking each other about as we stripped off our clothes. How I had pulled his naked body against me, thrilling in the feel of him in my arms. How we had staggered about trying to find a comfortable position.
Certainly it had not been like my later embraces with Murray—not so sophisticated, not so skilful, not so pain free. I knew that. But that brief encounter had relieved my loneliness and self-loathing for a time. I had
been able night after night to remember the tensing of his body when I penetrated him with my fingers, remember the way he swayed on his feet when I knelt before him and tasted his swelling erection. He had done as much for me without hesitation. Could I recover from him? I was never the same again.
"I cannot." This was all that he would say to me, locked behind his bedroom door.
By then I had sunk down to the floor, sitting just outside his room. It hurt me, to have to beg for what he had once given so freely to me. Sick of waiting, I got up at last and retreated to my own bedroom.
I wonder again why my life should be so miserable, but I know the answer, of course. I have always known.
Chapter 9
The Mormon Manuscript
Hope died in the night in his cell; so no Thursday, no magistrates.
Because I was angrily sulking in my bed, with a chair jammed against my door so that Holmes could not sneak in again, I did not learn the news about Hope until late in the morning, when Holmes told me and also slid a copy of the Times beneath the door as confirmation of his words. Nevertheless, I did not let him in nor speak to him; he must suffer awhile too.
Later, Mrs. Hudson came to the door, hoping to make me well with some broth. I could hardly leave her standing there, what with the workmen installing the new window glass, so I let her in.
As she tried to mother me, I told her that my constitution had been ruined in Afghanistan, and that I just needed to lie still. She seems to think that Holmes's depressions have somehow become contagious. Perhaps he really is just sulking when he lies there so immobile and vacant; about what, I do not know. Mrs. Hudson could not persuade me to eat, so she left the tray for me and departed, looking worried.
I sipped some of the broth to relieve my hunger, but remained stubbornly within my room, even after the workmen had packed up and gone. I read through the Times and then perused the manuscript, which could no longer be of any use to the deceased prisoner. According to Hope's friend, Mormons were indeed involved in the doomed romance of Lucy Ferrier and Jefferson Hope, and in his subsequent revenge upon Drebber and Stangerson, who had left the protection of their Church some years later. The tale might make for a curious footnote on the mystery, or else a nice little novel or play,[19] if it was reworked a bit.
With Mrs. Hudson's departure, I had left the chair aside as she wished, for she did not deem it healthy or wise that I should block the door, in my condition. So when Holmes soon took the opportunity to come in again, I was not surprised, but neither was I pleased. I turned away from him and pretended to be absorbed in the manuscript. I heard him lock the door behind him and in a moment more felt him climb upon my bed.
He reached over me and snatched the manuscript from my hands, throwing it on the floor. "Talk to me."
I did not.
He now lay close and slid his insistent arms around me, speaking softly behind my ear, "I was too abrupt in asking you to stop, but you have too much of a temper. Make up with me." He nuzzled the back of my neck and tried unbuttoning my shirt.
I pushed his hands away and shook my head. "It isn't that easy. You can't just have me at your beck and call, wanting me one minute, then refusing me—"
"I am inconstant," he said.
"How is that an apology?" I demanded, trying to free myself from his embrace.
He sighed, and took on his eminently reasonable tone. "You wish to hurt me, Watson? Make me suffer? Deny me your body all you want, but only you will suffer. I have made that sensual activity superfluous to me for five years, remember? You do tempt me, but I do not suffer as you do."
I scowled, frustrated that I had no way to spite him, but then Holmes continued.
"If you wish to hurt me, deny me your company. I suffer when you don't speak to me, when you shut me out. You made me suffer not just today, but yesterday too, and for what reason? I suggested that you take a lover, and suddenly you lock yourself away. You don't want to see me because I wish you to be satisfied?"
"Why not with you?" I finally turned round to face him. "Why push me from you to any stranger and make me feel unwanted?"
His face softened. "Is that what you thought?" He caressed my cheek and tried to kiss me, but I held him away.
He shrugged. "Why not me?" he spoke with a half smile. "How little did you see me when I was absorbed with my case these past two days? How unfair was I to you last night, in the heat of your lust? My work must always come first for me, Watson; no exceptions. How cold-blooded and inhuman am I? I see how you regard me at times, but I cannot be more warm, more tender, for emotions interfere with my work. How many secrets do I keep from you? Many, and I must keep them. If you really want to have that kind of a lover, Watson, you are more than welcome to try."
I blinked at him, feeling quite discouraged. "You mean, you won't tell me about your depressions?"
"No," he answered immediately.
"You won't trust me—?"
"No. I will not be open. I will not be kind. I will not be sentimental. If you can take me the way that I am, have me, gladly."
I watched his grey eyes. "I see."
He did not wait for me to think over his terms any further, but leaned down and kissed my throat with a smile. "I like you so much, Watson," he sighed against my shoulder, "and we came rather close last night, did we not?" He chuckled lightly, then shook his head. "So I cannot let you suffer more. Make up with me, and tonight, when Gregson and Lestrade have gone, I'll come and do something for you, hmm? If you wisely decide to keep looking for a lover better suited to you, I can still indulge you from time to time, should you need me to."
With that offer, he rose from my bed and straightened his rumpled clothes. Then he retrieved the tossed manuscript from the floor.
"Gregson and Lestrade?" I managed to ask. "They're still coming?"
"Yes, they sent word that they wished to see this, out of curiosity, if nothing else. We might also discuss the case a bit further, and I can discreetly give each of them my bill. If you wish to join us, Watson, please do. I should be glad of your company, and you leaving your room will keep Mrs. Hudson from worrying about your health. We can be alone more." He paused to unlock my door. "You are done reading?" he asked, indicating the manuscript.
I nodded, and he left with it. I have not locked the door again. Am I disgusting to be so weak for him?
I cleaned up and dressed, finally venturing forth into the sitting-room just in time for the tail-end of lunch. Holmes smiled at me and remarked to the maid that she should inform Mrs. Hudson that the illness has lifted. She turned around in surprise.
"Doctor, shall I have Mrs. Hudson warm yours up again?"
I nodded, and she cleared the table except for my place setting. "There's also a tray I left in my bedroom."
"I'll come back for it, sir." She bustled away with her arms full.
Holmes remained at the table with me and offered me some tobacco for my pipe. As we smoked, I glanced at the newly restored window.
"Excellent work," Holmes commented.
"You don't plan to give them any repeat business, do you?"
He chuckled. "No, I shall refrain from violent captures at home, for a while at least. I must get on the landlady's good side again, lest she be inclined to throw me out and keep charming old you at a reduced price."
"Have you read the manuscript yet?"
He nodded. "Interesting in its way, though whether any of its facts could be verified, I do not know. The account was obviously coloured by a bias against these Mormons; Hope's friend fully sympathises with him and condones his home-grown idea of justice. Unquestioning loyalty of this sort suggests to me that Hope's accomplice witnessed the original events in America, by being a close comrade or relative of Hope, or else of this Lucy Ferrier; thus he has a personal stake in Hope's vengeance. Yet these deaths occurred in 1860; any friend from that time surely would be middle-aged or older by now. How does this reconcile with the young, active man who disguised himself as 'Mrs. Sawyer'? It puzzles me."
"That does seem a difficulty indeed."
The maid returned with my reheated lunch and then retrieved the tray of broth from my room. I dined quietly and read the afternoon editions while Holmes looked on me in that puzzling way of his. Sometimes I believe he thinks of me as a fond pet, whose companionship is soothing and comfortable to him. My conversation sometimes amuses and stimulates him, though, so we are more like friends in that regard.
"I like you so much," he had said. Not that I had expected him to love me; we are still just starting to know one another, and he is clearly no romantic. But I did expect him to desire me, to not be so casual and collected about "doing something for me." When I kissed him last night, I seemed to awaken in him the same fever, connexion, and frailty that we had shared five years ago. Even his later urgency to stop our embrace and retreat behind his door, with his arguments of caution and safety, had seemed emotional and human. From his voice, I thought he was afraid of me, or afraid of losing his careful control over his passions.
I do not want him to come to my bed as a courtesy to me, because he pities my suffering. I want him to suffer and ache, to come to me because he simply needs me, as when he was literally shaking at my touch last night. He has shared so much of his work and his life with me already, so surely I can make him share his bed frankly and without reserve.
"Don't come to my room tonight," I said to him.
He glanced at me sharply, and would have protested had I not interrupted.
"Don't come; just wait for me. I'll come to your room."
"Yes, if you prefer."
It was a small point, of course, wanting him to leave his door unlocked for me. Yet it opened up possibilities.
I changed the subject. "What did Gregson and Lestrade think of the news this morning?"
"Their message did not say much," Holmes remarked, "but I believe they were wild about the death. Where will their grand advertisement be now?"
"I don't see that they had very much to do with his capture."
