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Chapter Text

Holmes had been angry over the letter.

That was the only conclusion I could reach. I had walked ten blocks through the heart of London rather than hail a cab; I needed the time to think. The morning was bright, the ground dry, and the people around me as cheerfully self-absorbed as city people ever are, unconcerned over one short ex-soldier with a game leg making his way down the street in considerable confusion.

On another day I might not have recognized his frustration, amidst his many moods. But that morning the early sun had shone warm through our windows, and Mrs. Hudson had left fresh roses from the garden in a vase on the sideboard, and Holmes had been in a fine frame of mind, his attention divided between half a dozen letters and telegrams of inquiry spread before him amid the plates of bread and butter and the really excellent soft-boiled eggs he refused to eat. The post had been presented to us by Billy with a particular joy which suggested he'd been promised something sweet later on by Mrs. Hudson; she turned indulgent once in a while, and spoiled us a bit. Holmes had taken up another envelope, whistling the Badinerie under his breath.

"Something for you, my dear boy," Holmes murmured. He passed across a letter made out to me in a hand I recognized.

"My God--this is from Lionel Campbell."

"A friend of yours?"

I took out my pocketknife and slit it open. "An old friend, from my army days. We served together from the time I joined the Berkshires until the battle of Maiwand. The boys called us 'the twins' because we were so rarely apart."

"How quaint," said Holmes sardonically, but his tone had sharpened; his interest was piqued. We rarely discussed my private affairs, and never my past; not through any reticence of mine, but because I assumed he had more or less deduced it all already, and didn't need details.

The Langham Hotel, London. 1st May 1895.

My dear Watson,

I'm in London at last, on my own time, under no one's command. I'm staying here at the Langham--come and have a drink with me. I've tales to tell, and I remember you always did love a good story. I'll be in town a week at the least.

Yours in eagerness,

Lionel Campbell.

I refolded the letter and put it away, and found Holmes' gaze still fixed upon me. "So, 'the twins,' then--were you so alike?"

I smiled. "Not at all. He's dark, while I am fair; his features are delicate, his figure very elegant, while I am as you see me; and he is a wonderful talker. You know I rarely have much to say; I much prefer to listen, but he can spin a tale to keep a regiment enchanted half the night."

"I see." Holmes' eyes were fixed on my face.

"The day I joined them, he asked me the odds of two Scotsmen meeting up in Afghanistan without their family tartans. It made me laugh. I was--well, I was worn down by the fighting, and rather unwell, when I joined their company, and he took me up as a sort of challenge, getting a smile out of me whenever he saw me. And then he seemed to like the way I view the world. He said it helped, how I always found something good amid ugly things. He was a hale man to have at my side in a fight, Holmes." As I returned from my mind's view of the watchfires and sweeping heights of Maiwand to our bright, sunny breakfast table, I was startled to see Holmes' expression awash in pure bewilderment. And then, as the last words left my lips, emotion, dark and deep, flashed in his eyes, and he pushed back his chair.

"I suppose you're going to see him, then," he said.

"Well, yes. Holmes, what's the matter? You haven't already deduced something wrong with his letter?"

"What? No." He frowned at me; seemed suddenly to come to himself, and smiled, which worried me more than anything; it was his public smile, the one he put on for strangers. "Certainly, you'll visit him. I expect you'll stay to tea. I'll be working out some hypotheses for the rest of the day, anyway; I'll need strict quiet here. You must go."

"I intend to," I managed, baffled. The strange smile vanished.

"Good," he said, turned on his heel and went to his chemistry set.

By the time I'd reached the broad stretch of Portland Place, where the Langham stood, I was convinced that Holmes had been angry with me--even wounded by me; but I could not comprehend the reason. He'd never known Campbell; he couldn't possibly have anything against him. He had never been a possessive friend--he would smile, seeing me return content from a dinner with an old schoolmate or a night of billiards with a cousin, and ask if I'd enjoyed myself, with a succinct satisfaction. So why on earth would he mind me going out for a visit now? And if he did, why not come out and say so? Holmes was not a man to hint. I was not accustomed to any kind of caution between us. I had a sinking feeling I'd missed something essential.

The Langham Hotel was simply enormous. I brushed at my suit, straightened my hat, and started up the marble steps, uneasily self-aware.

"John Watson, for Mr. Lionel Campbell," I told the attendant at the desk.

"He's been expecting you all morning, sir. Room 313, and the lift's just there."

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The door opened promptly on my third knock, and he was there. He broke into a broad smile at sight of me.

"Campbell," I said, stunned. It had been so long.

"John Watson!" he cried, grasping my shoulders and looking me up and down. "Look at you--you're magnificent! Hale and hearty!"

"You mean I'm not as sickly as I was," I countered, flustered. His dark eyes were alight with joy. Beside Holmes' blaze of glory I am usually unnoticed, and content to be so; I am not used to being the subject of so much enthusiasm. I may have blushed. "Look at you. Still every inch the soldier." Because he certainly was, hard and lean and lithe, scarcely changed but for the shadow of long service to duty in his eyes--but there was laughter shining in them, too.

"Not quite," he said. "I think I more resemble a retired soldier now--full of old stories no one wishes to hear, and a purposeless energy that can only lead to ill-advised billiard matches in dingy halls, and wrestling bouts with strangers, unless you take me in hand." He winked. "Suppose we go for that drink?"

The drink turned into a walk, which turned into a full day's ramble all over London, while he told me about the years since I'd left him--conveying in the varying tone of his voice and his expressive face the humor he'd always found amid the dullest days. The temerity of an Afghan chicken which had wandered into their encampment and stolen a sandwich directly from his hand; the washerwoman in Paris who'd given him five minutes' ferocious lecture over the dirt on his stockings, casting furious doubt on his breeding; the Belgian trader who'd pulled a knife from his boot when Campbell had caught him cheating at cards, only to be confronted with Campbell's much larger knife, removed with a flourish from his own boot. The man had cursed Campbell's mother, his homeland, his regiment and his horse before running away. My sides ached with laughing. "Lionel Campbell of the silver tongue," I gasped. "You'll be the death of me."

He looked at me sideways. "That would be a sad fate--to be felled by my nonsense after London's most nefarious miscreants have failed to do you in. I read your stories in the Strand, Watson. They're fantastical, utterly mad, and yet somehow I believe it all. Who'd have thought you'd be the one to earn your way with your words?"

"Not I," I admitted. "I didn't know I had it in me. I suppose I was only wanting the muse."

"You mean the man." He looked at me a bit more earnestly. "Sherlock Holmes. How is he?"

"Rather well, after having spent three years dead. I never thought--well. If anyone could survive their own murder, it would be my Holmes."

"It must have been a shock." We were just entering Portland Place again; the gargantuan shadow of the Langham had fallen across our way for blocks.

"It was. I blamed myself. I knew the danger. I should never have left him alone."

"My dear boy." He drew my arm tighter into his.

"It was intentional on his part, to let me be drawn away. The man's never been taken by surprise in his life. He wanted to spare me seeing him fall. And yet--I would rather not have been spared. I'm not sure how I managed to forgive him for it, in fact, except that--" My voice wavered, and I waited until we had finished crossing the lobby and entered the lift to conclude, "Except that one is so very rarely granted a miracle. Let alone a resurrection."

"True," he said soberly, and we rode the lift in silence to his floor.

We dressed for tea in his rooms, he placing in my arms his best waistcoat and hat and a ridiculous cravat of deep blue silk, which he insisted I wear. "Look," he said, once I was arranged to his satisfaction, pushing me toward the mirror. "See how the color brings out your eyes? How the cut of the coat shows your excellent figure? You're a well-made man, John Watson. No need to be bashful."

"I shan't be; no one will be looking at me, with you at my side," I retorted. His smile widened; his eyes danced. I swept out my arm as though performing an introduction. "The dangerously charming Captain Campbell," I announced, "lately of the East, the menace of the Langham, breaking every heart in reach with one bright look."

He offered me a bow. "It is I. At your service, Captain Watson." He held out his arm to me. "Shall we?"

The tearoom was also enormous, and glittering, and full of people whose very gloves undoubtedly cost what Holmes and I would pay Mrs. Hudson for a month's rent. Campbell took a good look at my terrified face and said, "The balcony, then."

It was quiet outside, in spite of the bustle on the street below. I felt removed from ordinary life, set down in a world in which everything was lovely and clean and good. We sat in the last of the day's sunshine, suffused with the scent of the early roses climbing from their pots to twine around the railings, at a table just large enough for the two of us. While we waited for our tea to come, Campbell got up to retrieve a paper left on another seat. He sat down and straightened it out. I saw a shadow pass over his face.

"This farcical show," he muttered, and I knew without looking what the headline was.

"The trial of Oscar Wilde," I said. "London has talked of nothing else this past month."

"And have you been following it?"

"Good Lord, no, I try to avoid all news of it. It makes me sick."

The frown on his face deepened. "Naturally, it would," he said, studying the page. "You have ever been an honourable man."

"It’s not a question of honour. It’s just that I meet with enough tragedy in my line of work, and in this one I can be of no help."

"What do you think is the tragedy?" He looked up at last. His eyes were dark with emotion. "Wilde’s sins?"

"Not his. The sins, if we must use the term, of the hysterical public, who take Wilde's alleged crimes against children as evidence to condemn the innocent, by simple association of their natural bent."

"Their bent." He stared. "You call men like that innocent?"

"What wrong have they done us? This growing campaign against inverts' private lives is all nonsense and misdirection, a scandal manufactured by powerful men to draw the public's attention away from themselves and their very real crimes. They would break men's hearts for their own benefit--our lords and judges! No, I don't like to hear of it, Campbell. I'm ashamed of our city just now, and myself, for living in it."

Campbell looked astounded. "Why, John Watson," he said, and reached over to clasp my arm. "That was quite a speech. I didn't realize you had all that in you. Of course you're right."

"The words were not my own," I admitted. "I was merely repeating what Holmes told Lestrade when he asked his opinion of the matter. But it's true. This farcical show, as you call it, is composed of pure malicious nonsense, and the less we dwell on it, the better for our hearts."

"Well said." He released my arm with a shrug, and sat back, as a waiter emerged solemnly through the French doors with a tray of miniature tarts and our tea. "On to better, more delicious things, then."

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We concluded our meal in great good humor. He had made me retell several of my best stories, insisting they sounded brand new told in person. When at last we were brushing the crumbs from our waistcoats, satisfied, he ordered me joyously to stay for the evening meal as well. I wavered, thinking of Holmes sitting alone in our quiet rooms, waiting for me. "I can't," I said, at last. "I can come again tomorrow, though."

"I'll have to be satisfied with that." He offered me a small smile. "Come up to my rooms before you go, at least? I have something for you."

I sat on his bed while he dug through an old trunk, marked with the scars of twenty years' campaigning in the farthest reaches of the Empire. He'd brought very little with him; I saw around the room a valise, a camera bag and two trunks, and the one he was searching seemed to contain only books. After he'd lifted most of them out I recognized, nestled in the bottom of the trunk, some old copies of the Strand. He opened the topmost volume to a page marked with my own name. "The Greek Interpreter," he said. "An excellent tale," and lifted from between the pages of the magazine a pendant, a square piece of copper pierced and hung from a silver chain. He sat down beside me on the bed and placed it in my hand.

"Arabic," I said, noting the characters engraved in the copper. "You bought this in the East."

"I did. Well, the pendant, at any rate. It was attached to a red string then, but I had it redone in France before I came. I thought this might last you longer."

"This is beautiful," I said, feeling absurdly pleased. "What does it say?"

"It's a prayer, as I understand it. 'Protect me against them however You wish.' I thought..." He touched the pendant where it lay in my hand. "Your work sounds rather dangerous. I thought a prayer would do you no harm. At the very least, you will be reminded that someone is glad you've lived so long."

"I didn't think I would," I admit. "That bullet in Maiwand combined with the fever in Peshawar nearly finished me."

"And me," he said. "To see you sent home--I'd thought we would go on together a long while yet."

The sorrow in his face woke in me an echo of remembered grief. "I regret that I was forced to leave you."

"I regret it too." He caressed the pendant again. "May I?"

"Yes, of course."

He took the chain from my hand. In a moment the pendant slipped down under my shirt to rest lightly on my chest. I felt the weight of the chain settle on my neck as he did up the clasp. His fingers brushed my nape, and I shivered.

"There now," he said lightly. "You're protected." His hand still lingered on my neck.

"You shouldn't worry, Lionel," I said, and turned to face him, and he kissed me.

I ought to have been stunned. I was not. I kissed him back. It felt so familiar, the tenderness of his mouth on mine, his hands fluttering uncertainly a moment around my face before coming to rest in my hair. I had been taken in hand by other boys, in school, but never one I so cared for. Now I clasped his face in my hands and met each kiss with my own, and felt his gentle certainty.

"My God," he said quietly, smoothing a hand over my shirt front where the pendant lay. "I missed you, John."

"I missed you," I said, and as I spoke I knew it was true enough, and yet--

I'd longed for him all the months I spent on shipboard, ill and alone. Arriving at last in London, I'd felt I had no certain source of hope without his steady presence by me, and spent my first weeks there drinking and sleeping under the weight of a heartsick despair I'd thought might conquer me. But then there had been Stamford, and Holmes; mad, brilliant, beautiful Holmes. Before long the ache of Lionel's absence had eased into a quiet wish, never forgotten, but no longer painful in Holmes' company.

Holmes. He would certainly see something of what had just passed in my face when I went home. He would know it had been Campbell. He would not censure us--his words to Lestrade on Wilde's trial were proof of that--and yet panic rose in me, and the sickening certainty of something very wrong, and it was only then that I guessed what I might have recognized long before.

I kissed him once more, slowly, and sat back. "I can't," I said.

He stilled, taking in my expression, but there was no betrayal in his look. "It's Holmes for you, then," he said softly. I nodded, speechless. He ran a gentle thumb over my lower lip, and let it drop. "I know, John. It's all right. I read the Strand."

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"Campbell," I said. "I hadn't--I didn't know what I felt until just now. If I had realized--"

"You wouldn't have kissed me," he said, "and I would have regretted that very much. Does he know?"

"No." I hesitated. "Perhaps." Holmes knew everything about everyone. Could he have missed this? "He's always spoken out harshly against any sentimental feeling of this kind, at least as regards he and I. He would never--that is, I don't think he would approve."

"More fool he, then," Campbell said, and his eyes glistened.

"I can't," I said again, and stood. "I'm so sorry. Evening is drawing in. I ought to go home." I could barely look at him. I was losing him again, by my own choice.

"I understand, you know," he said, in a rough voice, as I crossed the room. "You know he can't love you, and yet you can't stop."

It pulled me up short. I turned back to meet his gaze with my hand on the door. "Lionel," I said. "I did love you."

I left, coward that I am, because I could not bear to see him weep.

I kept my own tears in check until I had made it outdoors and into a cab, and would not be seen. Then the first wave of grief broke and half-drowned me; but it ebbed away rapidly, lessened by the enormity of the change that had passed through my mind in the course of seconds. How long had I loved Holmes without realizing it? How had I dared to feel so deeply for him, knowing that he would abhor the very tenderness of the instinct? But how could I not love him?--was my conclusion at the last, because he was Holmes, and he must be loved, as shining, and fierce, and lovely a thing as he was. Who else to do it but I?

I had a sudden need to see Holmes, to be sure he was there as I had left him, which was absurd. Was he still angry with me? Or had he already forgotten our conversation in the course of his experiments? Or had he been called out on a case without me? He would certainly have wired me at the hotel if he was in any danger, unless he really couldn't forgive me. He had been behaving almost jealously. Could he have known?

The cab was pulling over at 221 Baker Street. I paid the cabbie with an unsteady hand, and entered our building through the deepening dusk. There was only one course open to me which gave any comfort to my heart. I must be--I would be--entirely open. I had never essayed to deceive him before. Even supposing I was capable of it, I could not bear it, knowing the courage with which he lived his life. If he despised me, I at least would not despise myself.

At first glance the sitting room appeared deserted. The fire burned low and untended in the grate; the lamps were dim. Then I realized the untidy heap of clothes on the sofa was Holmes in his worst dressing-gown, lying half under the pillows with his face turned away. I sighed. His low moods were rarer now, but still difficult for all of us. When one came on he would be lost to us for days, buried in his own misery.

I went to turn up the lamps.

"Mrs. Hudson," he said. "I told you. Please go away."

"It's me," I said. I poked the fire. He sat bolt upright on the sofa, blank-faced and wild-haired, and stared.

"You're home," he said. I laughed, a little too loudly because of my nerves.

"That's rather obvious," I said. "You're slipping, Holmes."

"But--" He seemed to be having trouble finding words. Holmes of all men was speechless. A sense of topsy-turvydom was descending on me.

"My friend was well, and we had a pleasant visit, thank you. I thought I would come home now, though, and take my dinner with you."

"Why?" he said. "Why aren't you there with him?"

I took a deep breath and found it was simple. "Because I missed you."

"You missed me."

"Yes."

He stared a moment longer; then a stunningly disproportionate joy crept in amongst the confusion on his features. "Good," he said. "Good, Watson! You missed me. Here I am." He leapt off the sofa, looked down at himself. "Goodness. Why am I dressed like this? How can I have dinner with you in this state? Tell Mrs. Hudson you're home--I bade her go away. She'll need to put something back on the stove for us." He brushed his hands over his rumpled front without any particular effect, and beamed at me. "I'll go tidy myself until I resemble a well-bred man, fit to share a meal with you."

"For God's sake, Holmes," I called after him as he retreated into the hall toward his chamber. I'd come home expecting hurt, outrage, coldness, disdain--anything--and he was only, simply glad to see me. His giddiness was infecting me. "You've never resembled a well-bred man in your life. Don't start now! It's you I want to dine with."

The next week was the strangest I've ever lived through. Holmes was by turns perfectly ordinary in his manner, and then suddenly, shockingly kind, or remote, or again attentively courteous in an old-fashioned way that made me feel he meant to put me at my ease, but had forgotten how. He played for me every night, wild dancing tunes, and slow, sweet airs of almost unbearable loveliness, but never spoke to me after. He turned away all cases to study an obscure Celtic fertility carving photographed by an amateur in Wales. He barely ate. He paced his room half the night--the floor creaked, betraying him--at times cursing loudly enough for us to hear. Mrs. Hudson sleeps in a chamber directly below his; I am sure she was constantly woken.

Stranger still, he seemed fixated on me; watched me, not with the clear, analytical gaze I'd learned to bear with equanimity, nor yet the half-lidded dreamy stare that meant his mind was absorbed in some esoteric problem and he was unaware of my proximity, but with a furtive look, very nearly shy; he glanced away whenever I caught him at it. I could not understand what he meant by it. Every potential explanation was dangerous. Had he guessed what had gone on between Campbell and I? Or observed a telling change in my manner toward him, now that I understood my own heart? Was he curious, but unsure how to address it?--or unnerved by my feelings, or trying to make up his mind what to do about me? I reflected that this could not go on long without some kind of discussion, or one of us would land in Bedlam--whether Holmes, or me, or poor sleepless Mrs. Hudson at the very least.

He never once asked me about Campbell. I did ask myself, sometimes, at night, in the darkness of my room, thinking of the tears in his eyes as I'd left him, whether it had been cruel to tell him that I'd loved him even as I denied him any hope.

Chapter Text

The second note came a week later, when we were in the midst of sharing another languid, comfortable breakfast.

Holmes, looking through the morning's post while elucidating aloud the foolish missteps of a felonious vicar, stammered and fell silent mid-sentence. He stared at the letters; then, "For you," he said; held one thin white envelope out without looking at me.

The Lapham, London. 8th May 1895.

My dear Watson,

I leave for Scotland at noon. I would be honored if you'd come and see me here before I go. Only if you wish to.

Yours faithfully, as ever,

Lionel Campbell

I glanced up to find Holmes watching me, as I expected. He looked down quickly. I held the letter out for him to see.

"It's all right," he said.

"He's traveling north," I said. "I mean to see him before he goes."

"Naturally. He is your friend."

I stood, went for my hat and cane. "Yes, exactly, Holmes. He's a friend."

He looked up at last, frowning in confusion, as I went out.

Campbell opened the door to me on the third knock. "John Watson." He seized my hand and pressed it. "I'm glad you came." There was sorrow clear in his eyes, and still a warmth, a faint glow of laughter.

"I'm glad you sent for me. Do we have time for a drink yet before you go?"

"We do," he said, and offered me his arm.

He told me more stories of the years' far wanderings; made me laugh aloud, in spite of everything, and beamed at my delight.

Finally quiet fell between us. I studied him. He looked weary, but no less sure of himself. Ever the soldier. "Where are you going?" I asked.

"To my mother's home in Shieldaig, at the outset. After that, wherever luck leads me."

"I shall miss you," I said, and hoped it would not hurt him to hear. He smiled a little; rested a hand on my arm.

"Dear fellow. I'll miss you, too. But tell me--how are you and Holmes?"

"I hardly know." I rubbed a hand over my face. "I've not said anything to him. I know he sees something. He's distracted, and I'm afraid--I'm not sure we can return to what we were."

"But you've said nothing."

"Not a word."

"And yet he's changed toward you."

"He's uncannily observant. I just don't know what it is he has observed--my affections for you, or for him. And I cannot read his mood."

"But you know his convictions; he'd not term your feelings offensive."

"He wouldn't. I'm nearly--no, quite certain of that. I'm just frightened he'll conclude they'll start to interfere with our work."

"Watson. My dear man." He looked earnestly at me. "You love him, don't you?"

The blunt truth of the word shook me, said aloud so clearly. "I do. I love him."

"And he's guessed something of the matter. How much, you don't know, but you've said it yourself; he's almost inhumanly observant. If your stories are true, sooner or later he'll extrapolate it all from how you cheat him at cards, or the angle at which you set your hat--"

"Campbell!" I laughed in spite of myself.

"--or your tone when you bid him goodnight, or a glance, or a word. Tell him, Watson. Have it out. Even if he cannot understand, the gift of your esteem will not be lightly dismissed; not if he is your friend."

Tears welled in his eyes, but he smiled at me bravely. I could not speak. I nodded, and sat motionless until he looked away and shouted for the bartender to bring us our check.

When at last I stood on the landing outside our door I was breathless with nerves and divided in my own mind. At one moment I was sure Campbell was right; we could not continue as we had been. Holmes had been wounded enough by my reticence. I must speak, or lose his trust by my silence. The next moment I felt I could never speak unless Holmes himself invited me to. Surely he must have seen what was in my mind; if he had not mentioned it, he would not wish me to.

I entered at last, to find the sitting room a disaster of scattered papers, abandoned books and cast-about cushions. The curtains were drawn, although it was barely noon, and Holmes was pacing amidst the confusion--the picture of bewilderment. He stopped, but did not turn, when I entered. "Oh, my dear fellow," I said aloud, and my heart settled all at once into a steady courage. Holmes needed me to help him understand. "He's a friend."

"You mean Lionel Campbell."

"Yes."

"A friend. You keep saying that!" He turned on me. "Why must you keep on saying that?"

"Because you need to hear it. You're afraid."

His eyes flashed. "Why would I be afraid?"

"I don't know, but you are." I took off my hat; laid it on the table, and advanced; stopped just before him to let him study my face. "Why is that, Holmes?"

He held his ground a moment, and then his eyes fell and he said, "Because you are keeping something from me. You've never kept secrets from me before."

"No, I haven't." I looked at him. My heart was beating too quickly for comfort. Out with it, Watson. "The answer is yes, Holmes, I loved him."

He actually winced, and swayed on his feet, as though I had struck him. I drew in a breath in sympathy. After a moment, though, his gaze returned to me, sharpened. "You--'loved him,' in the past tense? You mean it ended?"

"It never really began."

"You were embarrassed by the prospect of telling him." He was staring at me.

"No."

"You were ashamed, perhaps, of loving a man?" He still spoke boldly, but his voice shook.

"Good Lord, no. I am not a moralist."

He let out a breath. "He didn't love you, then."

"He did. He does."

His eyes grew fearful. "He does?"

I nodded.

"Then--why not go and love him? Why are you still here?"

He stood before me terrified, trying not to show it.

"Because of you," I said. "I would rather remain with you."

"You mean--" He could not finish the sentence. He spread out his hands, pleading. "You mean--"

"Don't make me say it, Holmes, not when I don't know how you'll take it."

"I'd take it," he said, barely above a whisper. "That is--I'd be glad if you'd tell me. Please, Watson."

I stared, and almost shivered at the expression in his eyes--it looked like longing. Was that possible? All I knew about the two of us began to change colour again in my mind. He might deny it, but he was human; he had a tender heart, which must have human needs. For his sake, I would be shameless. I raised my chin and met his look. "Holmes, I've fallen in love with you."

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He gaped at me; took two steps backwards and sank onto the sofa. Weak with hope, I moved to sit beside him.

"Nothing need change unless you wish it."

"And if I do wish it?" His voice was barely audible.

Hope grew stronger. "Then you should be sitting nearer to me."

Color flooded his face. He moved closer. My heart rose. The ground our lives stood on had shifted beneath us and I felt nothing but wonderful relief. I nearly laughed aloud, but for his nervousness; I didn't want to startle him. I spoke gently.

"Now you should tell me what it is you wish for."

"I--I cannot think," he said. He looked stunned.

"Let me help you," I said. "May I hold your hand?"

"Yes"--with quickened breath.

I seized his hand, slender and warm and roughened with the scars of a thousand experiments; held it tightly. "Would you call me John when we are alone? And might I say Sherlock?"

"Yes--John," he whispered. "John," and his other hand came to rest atop our joined ones. Was it so simple?

"Sherlock. My Sherlock, do you love me?"

Tears sprung to his eyes. In fifteen years, I'd never seen him weep. He blinked them back. "Yes."

"You do. Oh, God." I could barely speak. "How long?"

"Always." His voice steady, his face ablaze. "I can't remember--I don't know. But you are--" He gestured to me helplessly. "I couldn't help it. I tried to ignore it, and forget that you must someday love someone else; and then--you know how I behaved when you chose Mary."

I remembered his bitter reproaches on my engagement, his sudden withdrawal from me--not disdain, then; heartbreak. "I am so sorry. I ought to have seen what it meant."

He shook his head. "You couldn't have. I made sure of that. I made some fine speeches about the pointlessness of sentiment and the superiority of the unemotional mind--transparent folderol. But even after suffering my lectures, you went on being my friend. And I repaid you by running away, because I couldn't bear it; letting you believe me dead, that I might put continents and oceans between us, John! And still, after everything ended, you came back to me." He looked at me wonderingly. "To have you here, with me, it was--and then he wrote to you, and I thought it was happening again. I thought he would have you. But you came home to dine with me instead. I couldn't understand why; I had given you no cause to choose my cold company over his. I never dreamed--" His voice faltered. "I never once thought you might already love me."

I couldn't bear that. "All I've ever done is love you."

"Oh, John." His hands tightened around mine; his eyes sought the truth in my face. After a moment, he smiled slowly. "All this week I've debated with myself whether I might fairly attempt to win your affection, prove my heart to you before I lost you, or whether I ought to leave the choice entirely to you. Whether you'd even believe me if I tried. Since my feelings are those of an invert, and therefore dangerous, I was used to behaving as though I didn't want such things. I'd thought that the wisest course, until I saw my cowardice in the light of your unabashed regard for him."

"Was I so obvious?"

"You merely had to describe him to me. I'd never guessed that your romantic instincts might turn equally toward male or female subjects, but it was remarkably clear when you spoke--your face, your voice as you told me about your enchanting, inseparable, intrepid friend. His sensitive features, his elegant form." He sighed.

"Good God. That was obvious." I gathered my courage. "You do realize that you are astonishingly lovely to me. And the farthest thing from cold company."

He was speechless again.

"Please," I said, undone, "please, Sherlock, you must know--May I kiss you?"

"Yes," he said, and I clasped his nape and drew him down, lifted my mouth to meet his shy kiss, and taste his happiness.

We make no more assumptions, now, about one another's private thoughts. If he seems worried, or lonely, I take him away with me for a while and tend to him. When a question occurs to him, he'll stop whatever he is doing to ask me about it--whether my father had been friendly with me when I was young (he had not); how I feel about middle-sized dogs as domestic animals (I approve); where my favorite holidays were taken (always by the seaside); what I liked best to be called ("my dear John," "my boy," and in moments of deep emotion, "my heart"--always said with a blush after, to hear himself speak so); how I imagine the ideal circumstances of my retirement (this last asked while standing over the illegally exhumed corpse of a long-expired fisherman, suspected murdered, in the company of the man's indignant niece). I answer them all as best I can.

I've shown him Campbell's pendant on its silver chain. I wear it sometimes with his blessing, but I put it off before we retire together for the night. We do understand how shockingly lucky we are; a widower and an ascetic, living very nearly above the suspicions of the sordid world. At home, at least, we are fearless. Mrs. Hudson has not exactly seen anything, but she is very indulgent, and quite deaf when she wishes to be.

Lionel Campbell lives now in the countryside, near Marseilles, training horses for gentlemen, in the company of Luiz Torres, a sharp-witted biologist with whom Holmes corresponds on professional points. Laughter lives in their home. Holmes and I have driven out to see them twice, en route to Cannes, where we go yearly, now--with trunks full of books, and my notes, and Holmes' violin--and stay until we are rested. We rent a private house, built amid the blue pines, and sleep within sound and scent of the thundering sea.