Like Holmes in this story, I will never understand the ignorance some people display. The final line is taken from the play, Bent, by Martin Sherman, a poignant story of homosexuals in Dachau in World War II.
Portrait of a Couple: Purple
Holmes threw down the morning paper in frustration. It was a gesture I had seen him perform many times when nothing of interest caught his eye, but as he was in the midst of a particularly interesting case, I was surprised by his reaction. I put down my egg spoon, regarding him critically as he stood staring moodily out the window.
"What's the matter, Holmes?" For answer, he gestured to the discarded paper. When I picked it up I saw immediately what had upset him. Headlines proclaiming Oscar Wilde had been found guilty of the crime referred to in polite circles as "gross indecency" were sprawled across the front page of the Times.
"It is in every paper. How am I supposed to function when I am being bombarded by filth?" He spat. I stared in numb shock at the newspaper in my hand. Holmes turned away from the window, quickly, a look of disgust contorting his angular features. "The newsboys are crying it. All of London has lost what little capacity for rational thought it once had."
He filled a pipe at the mantle, his movements jerky and strained. I had never seen him so upset. In truth, I was having difficulty comprehending the words on the page. "Such a brilliant man," was all I could think of to say. Perhaps I whispered it, I cannot remember now.
Holmes sighed and seemed to relax somewhat as he regarded me sympathetically. "We are living in a prudishly intolerant time, are we not, Watson?"
"It is unthinkable that such a brilliant man would be punished for a nature he cannot control."
"He did very little to conceal it, he was careless." Holmes replied quietly.
"We should not have to conceal it!" I shouted. When I realized what I had said, I blushed. "I meant to say, he, of course."
"But you are quite correct," Holmes replied soothingly. "Sometimes I find the secrecy intolerable. In moments of weakness I am overwhelmed with a desire to say something scandalous in an unforgiveably public place." Holmes's expression was almost unreadable, save for the glint of mischief in his eyes.
I laughed and moved closer to him. "I have to burn practically every initial attempt at writing up my little tales of your adventures. It becomes increasingly more difficult to write about that cold logician. Nothing could be futher from the truth."
"Watson, how dare you suggest that I should be so weak as to allow emotions to cloud my intellect! I am a brain, as you know. The rest of me is mere appendix."
"That was unworthy of you Holmes," I chided, laughing merrily now. He loved to quote my own ridiculous writing back to me. The absence of emotion Holmes displayed in my stories had become something of a joke between us, for, truth be told he was almost exactly the opposite. Holmes was a man of violent passion, whether that be the love he displayed for me, or the disdain he had for the criminals he hunted. He was driven by his emotions, and his wildness was tempered by his brilliant mind.
His face fell as he caught sight again of the newspaper now lying on the breakfast table. "Unfortunately, you will never be able to correct that particularly ridiculous notion. I have no patience for intolerance." He fell into a brooding silence, blowing meditative smoke rings that dissipated above his head like faint halos. I closed the distance between us and took his pipe away, setting it on the mantle. I am not sure which of us initiated the embrace, it seems not to matter any more which of us begins it. I held him close to me, inhaling the foul smell of tobacco mixed interestingly with the vague spice of his aftershave.
"I love you." He whispered to me. "What's wrong with that? What is wrong with that?"
A/N: Ian McKellen played the lead (and spoke the words above) when Bent first opened in the West End. The part was written for him. I believe Ian McKellen would make a fantastic Sherlock Holmes.