The handrail that Sherlock Holmes and I were currently leaned against was salt-water wet. The bracing wind that whipped around us threatened to remove our hats entirely, jettison them out across the dock, or worse, over the side to float away or sink into the brine. The sky was bright, regardless, with an apologetic sun that did its best to make compensation for its sister gale. All around us was a bustle: the crowds of people on their travels, arriving or departing with fond greetings and farewells. My friend and I observed the luggage trolleys, heaved up the ramps by puffing crew and wheeled across the dampened deck. A chattering, happy family – father, mother and two scampish boys – came to stand close by us at the railing.
"Tout est mouillé, maman! Pourquoi tout est mouillé?"
"Sommes-nous près encore là, papa?"
"Soyez tranquille, ou je vais te jeter à la fois dans la mer!"
I smiled at the giggling children, their hands clasped tight by parents who, of course, had no intention of disposing of their brood in such a manner. Rather that they be treated to an ice-cream cup or lemonade if they should only find the walkway to the saloon a deck below.
The Calais-Douvres had been a proud vessel, once: twin-hulled and multi-decked, one of the faster of its kind to cross the channel with passenger load. But its glory days were drawing to a close, with whisper of retirement to the shipyard; of replacement with a modern, smarter steamer.
Unaware of its fate, the ship sat content in the hubbub. Somewhat hemmed in on all sides now, Holmes took my elbow and we set off on a short ramble, port to starboard. The way here was a little clearer, a pleasant respite, a quieter moment to think back on this past week, all we were about to leave behind on the journey home.
Home! I had given it little thought in seven days, yet now found myself keenly yearning for its familiar comforts and friendly faces. Few would know the reason for our travel. A casework, most important, Holmes might explain, with none the wiser.
A particularly vigorous gust of wind very almost did the loathsome deed with my friend's hat, his hand clapped to his head in scant time enough.
"I have had enough of this," said he, sharp-tugging at my arm. "Let us go inside."
I followed him along the deck, taking care not to place a misstep on the boarding.
"You do not wish to wave to the good folk on the dock, then," I said, knowing full well the short answer. (For all around us, still, there were hordes of fellow travellers doing just exactly that as the ramps at last drew up.)
Holmes snorted. Grasping my hand now, he led me through a narrow door and down some steps. Another corridor, a further set of doors. We came to a halt before a cabin midway along a quiet hall, the number 23 red-painted on its panel. Holmes rummaged in his pocket, waved a key. We squeezed ourselves inside and locked out the world.
"It is the approximate size of a postage stamp," said Holmes. He did not sound terribly aggrieved. Indeed, his humour all the week had been quite revelatory in its quiet bliss. With the French blood in his ancestry, and warm familiarity with more of the Paris locales than I might have given credit, we had enjoyed the carefree time together.
Our first true holiday. Our honeymoon – if we should be so bold.
(And the gemmed rings that we wear upon the third finger of our right hands do decree it.)
"It has a bed," I said. "That is good enough for me." I threw myself down upon the coverlet. Above my head, a small porthole through which a warm shaft of sunlight shone. Holmes leaned across and snapped close the thin curtain, muting the glow. He sat beside me on the narrow bed.
"And now I can't see," I said.
"You are a fibber. There is quite enough light still."
He unbuttoned my jacket and waistcoat and smoothed down my shirt. I let my eyes close, allowed the sound of the water, the seabirds outside and the soft touch of his hand to gently lull me away.
"No, you are not falling asleep," said Holmes. "I shall not allow it." He poked at my ribs. "John."
In the distance we could hear the steamer whistle, and the movement of the ship as it began its slow pull away from dock. I reached up, latching on to a wiry arm. I drew my friend down to stretch alongside me.
"Thank you," I said.
"For what?"
"For all of this. This week. For being so agreeable to everything." I kissed his nose. He squirmed.
"I... had a very pleasant time," said he, sounding surprised despite himself. "I liked the visit to the apiary."
I smiled. "I thought you might."
He pushed his head in the small nook between my neck and shoulder, snuffling in deep breaths. His lips sought my skin; the very tip of his tongue darting out, as a snake, to its target. And again, and again.
I shuddered in delight.
"Three years ago, we could only dream of this," I said.
"I certainly dreamed," he replied. "And other things, besides."
I pulled myself up despite his mewling at the sudden loss of contact.
"'Other things, besides'?" I repeated, an incredulous smile upon my face. "Holmes, do you mean to tell me...?"
"Oh, what," said he, afluster now, "as if you did not know."
"Well, of course I did not know!" I said. "How could I guess? You had always sneered at the softer passions. So what did you do, precisely?"
His lips were set. I nudged him.
"Oh, John, you are a nuisance. I was a little slow to realise my feelings. They came upon me gradually but were insistent, until I could no longer bid them go. I had never been in love before. I believed that I was ill. I have told you all this before, John. Then six months, nine months, I cannot recall, before the either of us said anything about it, I could not help just what I did. At night, I thought of you. And... and I touched myself. There. Now be quiet about it. Nuisance man."
"Yes, I am a nuisance," I agreed, the stupidest smile upon my face. "And I require more detail from you, Holmes. Tell me. All of it." I brushed my fingers lightly across his trouser front. "Now."
"Tell you what? I have just told you. For heaven's sake. Very well. I thought of how you might look without all of your clothing, and laying with me on my bed. And I would imagine this and take myself in hand, and make pretend that the hand was yours, and that it was you doing all of it to me."
"And did you come?" I whispered into his ear.
He shivered.
"Not the first few times. I did not know what I was doing. John, it is embarrassing for me to admit my absolute lack of -"
I kissed him deeply.
"I know," I said. "I know. And I love you for it, so very much. I love that I could be your first."
"You will be my only," said Holmes. "Remember that."
(The way he makes my heart soar with such words.)
We were quiet a while, lost in our own thoughts. From time to time we heard passing footsteps in the corridor outside; of clinking tea trays and faint music. The ship rolled slightly from a rougher wave, serving to push us tighter to and nose to nose. We chuckled into each other.
"The Calais-Douvres approves," I said.
"Did you do the same?" asked he, suddenly.
"Do what? Oh. Yes. Quite frequently." I let out a rueful laugh, wrapping both my arms around my friend's slender waist. "More or less from the beginning, I confess. I am still dumbfounded that you never saw through me. All those longing looks I must have given you."
Holmes's face twisted. "I did not know," he whispered soft. "I never noticed. I was too wrapped in my own subterfuge. What a fool I was."
"Never a fool," I said, "no, never that."
We entwined our fingers, then, and brought them close to pay regard: the sheer brilliance of the diamond, the shy twinkle of the amethyst.
"One day, this may not seem so strange," I said. "One day, such as we share may be considered close to... normal."
"Normal?" said Holmes. "John, I admire your optimism, but it will not be in our lifetime. Which is precisely one of the reasons why I so loathe society."
"We are taking our own stand, I think."
"Undoubtedly. We have each other, and we have our allies. We need nothing more. Anyone who would step in our way should regret it."
I squeezed his hand and clutched him tighter, thrilled by the fire and passion of his conviction.
More fiery and as passionate as the roiling channel waves that struck against our ship the stronger still. Voices from the corridor, fair querulous in their seasick-struck malaise. A stagger against a wall and a buffet against another's door; a curse, a hiccup and greater complaint.
"People do make such a fuss," said my friend. "It is barely a ripple."
I felt my doctor's duty rise, although knowing fully well that the Calais-Douvres would have its own medic.
"I have some treatments in my bag," I said, "I wonder, should I -"
"And leave me here alone, while you spring yourself around the ship handing out potions?" said Holmes. "No, you should not. Sometimes, I do declare, I would have rather you be a greengrocer."
That struck me as comical; I laughed and relented.
"I suppose that I should tend to you instead," I said. "If not with a potion then perhaps, yes, with this."
"My fantasy re-realised," said he. "Oh. Ah. Good gracious, I had better be quiet. Or pretend that I am seasick. Ah ha! See, John, how it proves its usefulness now!"
A soft curse, a hanging hiccup; a quasi-lust-malaise. The most delicious way to tarry over turbulence.
The Calais-Douvres approves.